inspired by obsessed by olivia rodrigo

Every time Olivia closes her eyes, she can see her.

Her beautiful hair, sunset-golden shining against brown. The perfect sculpt of her brows, naturally beautiful. How her eyes proportion with her full lips, with her sharp angular chin. The way that bikini tops, loose t-shirts, anything hugs her curves. 

Olivia see her when she opens her eyes, too. An array of photos on Google, from every possible angle. The harsh glare of the red carpet, the blurry smear of unexpected paparazzi, the golden hour glow of her latest project. It's ridiculous, isn't it? No matter what angle she's taken from, no matter what lighting or setup, she always looks flawless. Even in her lighter makeup looks, the stuff that's meant to exaggerate her natural face.

There's articles, too. A big name like hers doesn't spend that many years in the spotlight without page after page about her dating life. Chase, Zach. Oh, Zach. 

There's pictures of them kissing online. And she tells herself it doesn't matter, they don't even talk. They look happy, her and Zach. They look so fucking good for each other, too. Zach and that nonchalant look in his half-lidded eyes, every black strand of his partially-shaven beard standing out in stark overexposure. Madelyn and her beautiful, lush lips, porcelain skin kissed by the sun, and the way her eyes aren't so dark that they can still gleam in the light.

She wants good things for them. She really, really does. But laying in his bed....

He's out for the night. It's common for him: if there's a party, he's turning the discs. Head nodding to the rhythm, keeping time with the sounds that pull everyone in. He's nearing on ten years of his sleek fingers deftly swapping between songs, controlling the mood of a place. He knows how to lift someone's spirits, for sure.

But now he's not here. It's just Olivia and this king-sized bed.

The evidence is nearly long gone. The sheets have been washed and mussed by many nights sleeping by his side. But when she peels aside the tossed blankets, there's an indentation in the mattress, almost the same shape as Olivia, but not quite. 

She lies down in it, back arching to settle into a hip depth that's lower than what she's used to. And when she closes her eyes, she imagines the long lashes, full lips, and curvy hips that lied in this bed before.

What would it be like to be her? Slightly taller, much prettier, effortlessly so. Zach would have been younger then. Would he have clumsily caught his belt on its hooks as he struggled to undo it? Would she have laughed and assisted him?

Her photo is still up on Olivia's phone. Head tilted back in laughter, smile controlled so as to seem friendly, seductive. Brows painted on with precision. She makes it look so easy.

And her lips look so beautiful. What if they were Olivia's? If Zach's lips pressed against Madelyn's, and Olivia could feel it.... His stubble, rough and ragged against her skin. Madelyn's breath intensifying, the slope of her chest rising and falling. Just at his touch. The clamminess of his fingers, cold and shocking, gripping her long, golden locks, fingers digging between each wavy strand.

Olivia's own breath tightens. She grips the satin of her boyfriend's bedsheets and squeezes her eyes shut.

Phantom hands trace down her body. And her phantom hands reach back, expertly finding all the places that Olivia never could, the places that make Zach's own body stiffen, make his movement slow for a bit as he reacts. Then his own force intensifies, and his chest is pressed against hers and his breath is so so hot against her perfect manicured lips that have to be botox, right?

His own fingers fumble for cloth, nothing like the plain t-shirts and mini-dresses that Olivia gravitates to. No, she's wearing that bright blue bikini, a color that has never been flattering on her but somehow works, when her skin is golden and bright and her hair is the color of whisky. And his hands are undoing the straps of it, reaching to the skin beneath it, and oh.

Madelyn's body is beautiful. Each breast is a perfectly round shape, even with the other. Her pink nipples stiffen at his touch, goosebumps lifting up the flesh. There's a heat in Olivia's body, picturing Madelyn's body cast over her own, with that perfect naked form.

The image is maddening. Olivia can't shake it. She wants to know what Madelyn Cline looks like naked. More than anything in the world. If only she could watch Zach have sex with Madelyn, then she'd know what to do. 

Or would she? That expert touch, that experience. Olivia is six years his junior. She'll never be able to catch up. She thinks of the awkward pecks she shared with Josh: lips puckered as they slowly leaned in, eyes squeezed shut, nearly missing the mark. The cold trail of saliva beading on her red lipstick. It brings a sick feeling to her stomach.

Maybe Madelyn was bad in bed. That's got to be it. Olivia can't get Zach off, no matter how she tries. She can hardly get the man's trousers to tighten around his waist. Kissing him on his thin lips, she always feels so small, so sloppy. 

He likes to recline in his chair. She'll crawl on top of his lap, perched right above his stiff, muscular legs. He lets her touch his chest, the broad planes sculpted and strong beneath her fingertips. Then she leans in, working his lips, closing around his lower lip, sucking and tugging, and when they pull away he frowns slightly and points out that she's not very experienced, is she?

But if she were Madelyn... If she had those curves, pressed against his thighs, if her fingers were deft and long and traced warm trails up and down his chest, if her long hair brushed his exposed neck. If her lips were deft with years of practice, sparking electricity with her touch. If his neck arched back and she kissed a trail down it, leaving marks with her teeth like some kind of vampire. And the scrape of her incisors would quicken the rate of his pulse, throbbing in his neck. 

Wouldn't that be nice?

She lets the reverie take her further. Fingers slipping underneath her waistband, meeting warm air, and the smell hits her a few seconds later. Would Madelyn smell like that? No, she'd wear a perfume that would mix perfectly with the scent, clouding his vision, pulling his jaw slack as the blood rushes from his head. Then his lithe fingers would trace down the angle of her jaw, smudging her full lips with his thumb. 

He'd smile, sly and nonchalant, eyes sparking, maybe. Yeah, his eyes would spark. Then his lips would crash against Madelyn's, and warmth pools in Olivia's gut. He's wet and sloppy in her mouth, but she knows how to ride it. She expertly moves around Zach's mouth, hands tangling in his hair as she pushes him further onto the couch. Then she'd feel something brush against her wide, curvy thighs, and she'd frown and say this won't do.

So they move. She's tearing off his clothes. He fumbles for hers, but he's not as experienced as her, is he? No, she knows what she's doing. Nothing she does is a mistake. He's lying naked on the bed, and oh, so is she. Skin against skin, the room is cold but they're both thrumming with warmth where it matters. She lies in the blankets, scattered and mussed from their passion, and her skin shines in the lighting. Her eyes are dark; his are darker. 

He wants her. It's clear with his posture, the heaviness of his breath, the stiffness in his dick. He likes blondes, Olivia can see it in his lingering gaze, scanning over the parties he does invite her to. But now his gaze is locked on her. He grasps her blonde hair in his fingers, his disc-jockeying fingers, and he would ask, right? He would, because he needs her. She looks up at him, ice-blue eyes filled with need, and he tugs her head into his groin. 

Olivia's fingers hit moisture, and her breath shudders. Her lips part as she pictures it: his cock fills her mouth up, restricting the back of her throat. But this one doesn't restrict her airflow, no. Her mouth opens wide as it can go, saliva pooling on her tongue. He thrusts into her, and she claws her own fingers upwards.

Sensation ripples up her spine, and a gasp clears Olivia's lips. "You like that?" Zach's voice is a phantom ringing in her ears, but she nods anyway. She can't speak, not around all the work that her tongue does. Madelyn laps along the underside; Olivia's own tongue pushes out her mouth, and her hips buck, pushing harder onto her fingers. 

"Let me help you with that," Zach's own fingers trace over hers, her fingers that are overlaid by Madelyn's perfect French manicure, the one that she grew naturally. Zach is familiar with Madelyn's body: he knows exactly which movements work, which swirls and motions elicit a ripple in her muscles, and Olivia's fingers become his own, pushing up into her. 

Their pace speeds up, and Olivia's vision buzzes at the edges. The sound of skin against skin, sweet moisture, Madelyn's moisture, Zach's fingers over her own, his dick in her beautiful lips, his hand on her beautiful hips, her round tits, her blonde hair scattered all over the pillow, her button nose and round eyes and porcelain skin and-

Olivia's body rocks as she comes down. She can't hear anything for a moment, only the rush of pleasure as her hand freezes and her walls spasm. Then a high-pitched sound fades in, and Olivia realizes she was screaming.

Olivia lies there for a moment, chest heaving, trying to recover what little breath she has. Her hand is soaked, as are the sheets beneath her. His sheets.

Olivia's pulse is pounding in her ears. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to shake out the image of the blonde girl. 

Fuck. Fuck! Zach is out at a party, working, DJ'ing, and she's lying in his bed, drenched in the scent of her own reverie. She has to get up. Make the bed before he comes home. 

What is wrong with her? Why is she so obsessed with his ex?