Hello! First off I love your writing its amazing!
secondly I was wondering if I could request rival!idol!reader x rumi smut where reader and rumi have always had a strong rivalry since huntrix first developed and during one of readers shows the whole time she is basically flirting with rumi with her body language and being very suggestive and at the end of the show rumi somehow comes backstage and confronts reader saying things like "what the hell was that?" "in front of all these people?" "you're an idiot" and eventually reader just kisses rumi and they just take out all their anger and past resentment out on eachother ifykwim.
Also if reader is a guitarist and part of a alternative rock band i think that could add a lot to the spice
coming right up
rival!idol!reader x rumi
18+ as this contains smut
The house lights dimmed.
And the roar of the crowd was deafening.
You stepped into it like a flame catching wind—wild, unstoppable, and fully aware of the eyes on you. Your ripped black jeans clung to your thighs. Your cropped tank left your tattooed stomach bare, the strap of your guitar slicing across your chest like a war weapon. You were soaked in red stage lights and sex appeal, and you knew exactly who was in the VIP balcony tonight.
Rumi.
Of course she was here. Her girl group, Huntrix, was in Seoul for a promo cycle—and when your band, Deadlights, booked a headline spot at a sold-out festival just one block away from Huntrix’s agency building, she couldn’t not show up.
She was watching you now. You could feel it. Same as she always had since day one—when your band got big enough to rival Huntrix’s pristine girl-power empire. The tabloids said it was creative differences. Style clash. East meets West. But the truth?
You just couldn’t stand each other.
Or maybe… you could never stop thinking about each other.
The music hit. Your boots stomped the platform. You curled into your mic and dragged your fingers down the fretboard of your guitar in a way that wasn’t just about playing—it was suggestive, teasing, a dare.
Your voice tore through the first verse. Sultry. Mocking. It was a song about an obsession. A dangerous crush. A girl with too much power and too much control—and you let your eyes drift up to that VIP balcony every time you hit the chorus.
Your tongue slid across your lower lip. You leaned into the mic and moaned the last note.
Right into her fucking soul.
From your peripheral, you caught her expression. Stone-faced. Fuming. But her thighs had pressed together, and she gripped the railing a little tighter.
By the bridge, you dropped to your knees and arched your back while you shredded a solo. The lights pulsed behind you. The crowd went feral. Your shirt had ridden up. Sweat slid between your breasts. Your eyes never left Rumi.
And by the end of the set, you were high on it—on her—and when you blew her a kiss just before blackout, you knew exactly what you were doing.
The second you ducked behind the curtain, you didn’t even make it to the greenroom before a slap echoed down the hallway—Rumi shoving the dressing room door open so hard it slammed the wall.
“What the hell was that?” she barked.
You turned slowly, towel slung around your neck, still glistening with sweat, your chest rising and falling from the rush. “Missed you too, Rumi.”
“In front of all those people? In front of the media?” She stalked toward you, jaw clenched, nostrils flared. “You’re such a goddamn idiot.”
“You liked it.” You smirked, stepping closer. “I saw your face when I hit that solo on my knees. Did you get wet, or just mad?”
Her hand twitched. Her eyes blazed. And then—
“You’re so—fucking—infuriating.”
You dropped the towel. “Then do something about it.”
She did.
She grabbed your face and kissed you like she wanted to kill you with it—teeth, tongue, frustration, years of tension igniting all at once. You slammed her back into the wall, guitar still slung behind you as you devoured her mouth. She gasped into you. You swallowed it. Your hands slid under her blazer, gripping her waist, yanking her flush.
"You think you're so smug,” she breathed, grinding against your thigh, nails dragging down your spine. “Parading around like a slut in front of me.”
You growled, teeth grazing her jaw. “Maybe I wanted you to see.”
“You wanted me to lose it, huh?” Her voice was low, furious. Her fingers yanked at your belt. “Wanted me to fuck the brat out of you?”
"Do it,” you hissed into her ear. “Right here. I dare you.”
You didn't even make it to the couch. She had you push up against the vanity, makeup clattering to the floor. You kicked your guitar off your back and let her ruin you right there, right where everyone could hear—if they walked too close to the dressing room door.
Her breath was ragged against your neck. Your moans were bitten off into your hand. It was filthy. Aggressive. Perfect.
Rumi held your throat with one hand and shoved your hips higher with the other, pressing you open like she was making a point.
“This what you wanted?” she rasped. “All that teasing—just for this?”
You smirked over your shoulder, voice wrecked. “No. I wanted more.”
And oh, she gave it to you.
The moment your mouth met hers, everything else vanished.
There was no band. No stage. No reputation. No years of venom spat through interviews and backstage glares.
Just the crash of her lips against yours—fast, brutal, and needy.
You moaned when her tongue forced its way into your mouth. She tasted like mint and rage. Her fingers curled in your sweat-damp hair, tugging until your head tilted back, exposing your throat. She kissed it like she hated you, nipped at the delicate skin until you whimpered.
And then she bit.
Not hard enough to bleed—but enough to mark.
“Oh, fuck—Rumi—”
“You liked teasing me out there?” she growled against your skin. “Grinding on your guitar, staring right at me while you moaned into the mic?”
You gasped when her thigh slid between yours and pressed up, right against your aching heat through your jeans.
“Thought you were being cute?” she sneered. “Thought you could fuck with me and just walk away?”
Your answer was a shaky breath as she rolled her hips up. The friction made your knees buckle.
“I was waiting for you to snap,” you murmured, eyes fluttering. “Guess I won.”
“Oh, baby,” Rumi smirked darkly, “you lost.”
She grabbed your belt and yanked you forward, lips crashing back to yours. You could barely keep up. Everything was hands—her hands—rough and hungry and unrelenting as she shoved your jacket off, slipped beneath your crop top, and palmed your tits through your bra. You hissed, back arching into her touch.
“Sensitive,” she teased, voice dropping. “Let’s see how long that cocky attitude lasts.”
Your top hit the floor.
Then your bra.
She cupped your bare breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked under her touch. You tried to keep quiet, but a whimper escaped—and Rumi’s eyes lit up.
“You’re so fuckin’ loud,” she muttered. “I should stuff something in your mouth.”
You grinned, breathless. “Why don’t you?”
That was all it took.
She spun you around and bent you over the vanity. Lights blazed around the mirror, catching every inch of your bare skin. Your eyes locked with hers in the reflection—flushed, wild, lips kiss-swollen.
Rumi stood behind you, gaze devouring you like prey.
“You wanted to be on display?” she whispered, undoing your belt slowly. “Let’s give them a show.”
You gasped as she tugged your jeans down, your soaked panties clinging to you before peeling away.
“You’re dripping,” she said, voice smug. “Just from a kiss and a couple insults?”
You growled, frustrated. “Rumi—shut the fuck up and—”
She slid two fingers between your folds, and your whole body jerked.
“Is this what you wanted, you little brat?” she murmured, fingers circling your clit in slow, taunting strokes. “You wanna be fingered like a slut in your own dressing room?”
You could barely breathe.
“I—yeah—fuck—”
She plunged two fingers into you, fast and deep, the wet slap of it echoing in the small room.
You choked on a moan, hands flying to the vanity for support.
“That’s it,” Rumi grinned, her other hand grabbing your throat from behind, forcing your eyes to meet hers in the mirror. “Look at yourself. Look how wrecked you get for me.”
You whined, grinding back against her fingers, eyes glassy with pleasure. She was ruthless—curling her fingers just right, pressing into that sweet spot that made you cry out.
“Shh,” she whispered, brushing her lips against your ear. “Keep it down. Or do you want your band to hear you getting fucked like a needy little bitch?”
You bit your lip so hard it nearly bled.
“That's what I thought.”
She fucked you harder, faster. You were trembling now—legs weak, vision blurred. Her hand left your throat and wrapped around your waist, pinning you down as you arched, thighs shaking.
“Rumi—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”
“Go ahead,” she breathed. “Come on my fingers. Let me feel you.”
With a final curl of her fingers and her thumb grinding against your clit, you shattered.
Your orgasm ripped through you, white-hot and unrelenting. You sobbed her name, body jerking beneath her as she kept going, dragging it out until your legs nearly gave out.
But she didn’t stop.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” Rumi chuckled, still pumping into you. “We’re not done.”
You thought it was over.
You thought Rumi would let you ride the high of that orgasm, let you collapse into her arms in sweaty triumph.
But she just smiled down at you in the mirror—feral and mean—and pulled her slick fingers out with a loud squelch, making you whimper from the raw sensitivity.
“Poor thing,” she cooed mockingly. “Already shaking?”
You were trembling, chest heaving against the vanity, the cool surface fogging under your shallow breaths.
“I can’t,” you gasped. “Too much—”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She crouched behind you, lips grazing the curve of your ass. “You’re the one who started this.”
Your knees nearly buckled when her tongue slid between your folds—flat, deliberate, greedy. She moaned like she loved how wrecked you tasted. Her hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into your skin to keep you open.
You grabbed at the vanity light bulbs, trying not to scream.
“Fuck—fuck, Rumi—please—”
But she didn’t stop until you were crying.
Tears dripped onto the glass. Your face was ruined. Mascara smeared. Lipstick smudged. She licked and sucked your clit until you came again, this time shaking uncontrollably, a broken moan clawing from your throat as you slumped forward.
Then—you heard it.
A soft, terrifying click.
You blinked the sweat out of your eyes, looking over your shoulder in panic.
Rumi was holding a compact silver vibrator in her hand—hers, sleek and powerful, pulled casually from her jacket pocket like this was always the plan.
“Oh, you didn’t think I came unprepared, did you?” she said sweetly.
You tried to move, but she was already back on you—spreading your legs and pressing the vibrator flush against your clit.
You screamed.
Your hands slapped the vanity. Your body went rigid.
And she just laughed.
“You’re so cute when you cry,” she purred, voice dark and low. “All that attitude on stage, gone the second I touch you right.”
The toy buzzed mercilessly against your swollen clit. Your hips bucked, but she held you down, trapping you between her body and the vanity as your next orgasm slammed into you too fast, too much, too raw.
You sobbed into your elbow, choking her name.
“Rumi—nngh—Rumi, I can’t—I can’t—!”
“Yes, you can,” she whispered. “Be a good girl and take it.”
Then—another click.
The vibrator got louder.
You wailed.
Your thighs quivered as your slick dripped down onto the floor, your body hypersensitive and thrashing—but she didn’t stop. Rumi wanted you messy. She wanted you to break.
And you did.
You were crying, twitching, moaning shamelessly against the mirror.
“Look at yourself,” she said, dragging the toy in tight circles. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? All that teasing—so I’d fuck you stupid like the desperate little brat you are?”
You nodded. You didn’t even try to fight it.
“Say it.”
“I wanted this,” you sobbed. “Fuck—I wanted you—to ruin me—!”
She moaned softly behind you.
“I knew you did.”
Then came the softest sound of a zipper being undone.
You turned your head and saw it: the strap-on she’d pulled from her overnight bag.
Your eyes widened.
“Rumi—”
“You said you wanted more,” she growled, pressing it against your entrance. “Now take it.”
She sank into you with one brutal thrust.
You screamed.
Your vision went white.
She held you there, fully sheathed, your walls stretched wide around her as she leaned over your back and bit your shoulder hard.
“You look so fucking pretty stuffed full,” she growled.
Her hips pulled back—then slammed into you again. And again. And again.
Each thrust knocked the breath from your lungs. Her hand gripped your throat, keeping you upright, making you watch your own reflection while she destroyed you from behind.
The vibrator buzzed between your legs, now sandwiched between your clit and the base of the toy, sending constant shocks of stimulation through your core.
You were babbling now—nothing but broken moans, hiccups, whimpers of her name. She was relentless. Her strap hit deep, angling perfectly inside you, wrecking your insides like she owned them.
“Fuck—fuck—please, Rumi, I—I—”
You shattered again.
You sobbed through it, body spasming under her, the overstimulation dragging the orgasm out so long you saw stars.
Only when your legs collapsed completely did she slow down.
Only then did she whisper, “Good girl.”
You were slumped against her chest now, arms trembling, body sticky and spent. Rumi gently turned you around, kissed your damp cheeks, and reached for a water bottle.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she whispered. “And then you’re gonna sit on my lap while I tell you exactly how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
yeehaw
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