within my stomach, scraped off my knees.
maybe you were imagining it. maybe the built-up lust and shame you'd felt about whitney for years were finally coming to a head. maybe you'd fully slipped into psychosis. who could say. all you know is, night after night, whitney went on stage and performed, and you went back to the bathroom of whatever sketchy bar you were in and fingered yourself until you came.
pairing: m!whitney x f!reader wc: ~3k tags: blanket dol content warning, whitney. throatfucking, basically. the tiniest smidge of pet play at the end. notes: started writing this months ago, had a breakdown, put it on hold. finished my breakdown, now i'm back. 18+ only.
it's two a.m. in some podunk town in new jersey and whitney's got his cock shoved down your throat.
let's back up.
two months ago, your band started touring the northeast u.s., an idea brought to your by your manager and approved by whitney's ever-present need to get into fights. you were barely popular enough to justify doing a tour at all, but your manager insisted this was the "next step" to "build up your brand." whatever. what that meant in real life was a series of shows in shitty, falling-down local venues followed by nights you don't remember and days you slept through. and this entire time, while whitney plays his guitar onstage and picks fights with fans, you've been getting hotter and hotter under the collar.
it started in manhattan. you all got up in front of a small but violently invested crowd and hit them hard and fast with your setlist. after a couple songs and a few more drinks, whitney started getting handsy. you say "handsy" - to anyone else, it would look like he's just playing his guitar. but to you, something about the twist of his wrist as he finished a measure put your mind straight into the gutter. every time his fingers twitched on the neck you felt them in your cunt. you swore he did more moaning than singing.
maybe you were imagining it. maybe the built-up lust and shame you'd felt about whitney for years were finally coming to a head. maybe you'd fully slipped into psychosis. who could say. all you know is, night after night, whitney went on stage and performed, and you went back to the bathroom of whatever sketchy bar you were in and fingered yourself until you came. the worst part was, you were almost sure he was doing it as one of his weird mind games, which meant the other shoe was about to drop. whitney never led you on without making sure to punch you once you were down. he'd pull you by the leash and grind your nose into the ground once you revealed your mess. however fun it might be to fuck yourself to the thought of someone you could never, ever have, that fun was inevitably going to end. whitney's games never did feel good for long.
you were at a in atlantic city nursing your third (fourth?) drink. your thoughts were going in circles. was whitney doing it on purpose? did he know how bad you wanted and wanted and wanted? or was it just some kind a coincidence? and the worst thought of all - was it not about you? did he have someone else on the mind? you were sure he wasn't helping your manager with some social media schtick - whitney would probably kill him if he suggested that. which meant he was doing whatever this was out of his own free will. which meant he had some kind of tormenting agenda. which meant you'd better watch your back.
maybe it was all in your head. you prayed it was all in your head, the culmination of years spent fucking yourself to sleep at the thought of whitney's voice, his smirk, the exact tilt of his eyebrows when he played a riff. any alternative was even more embarrassing.
the next sip of your drink almost choked you. whitney grabbed the back of your neck, just this side of friendly, and slid into the seat next to yours. "how's our girl?"
you can feel the flush splashed across your face. you know it isn't from the alcohol. it's whitney's proximity, the closeness of him making your body fight between flight and freeze. you want to run away and never see him again. you want to show him the soft parts of your neck.
"what did you think of the show tonight?" his smile is mean. he's never looked at you another way.
"it was good," you manage. it's an effort to keep your voice steady. "good crowd."
"yeah, i bet you had to fight 'em off after, huh, whitney?" tom's voice was grating in your ears. you hadn't noticed the rest of your bandmates coming over.
"sure." whitney's eyes linger on you. "they were begging for it."
you want to cry. you want to escape to the bathroom. you want to grab whitney and eat him whole, never let him go. you want to let him claw your heart out.
you take another sip of your drink.
the next stop is the aforementioned podunk new jersey town. it's in some friend-of-a-friend-of-tom's basement, a house party spilling out of all floors into the yard. whitney does his new usual routine of begging someone to fuck him through the hour it takes you to finish your show. you do your usual routine of pretending you aren't soaking through your underwear. once your set is up, you make a beeline for the tub of jungle juice, some bright red monstrosity mixed together by a roommate. it doesn't matter what's in it because tonight you've finally hit your limit. tonight you're going to get stupid drunk and fuck the next person who looks at you.
three drinks later, you notice the cups they have here are unique, blue instead of the customary red.
you're stalling.
normally you aren't shy about trying to find someone if you're in the mood, but the last two months have had you all out of sorts. of course whitney would make you suffer like this too, somehow cockblocking you from….yourself?
what is it about whitney that makes you so crazy? is it the knowledge that he has sex? you know he fucks, it would be hard to miss. he always shows up to practice with bruises on his neck or peeking through the torn knees of his jeans. this new routine isn't out of character; it's really the most whitney-like thing he's done all tour. you'd know, you've been pining after him for years.
fuck, the amount of times he's brought people back to your shitty hotel rooms or shittier van, you know the exact, precise sounds of sex with whitney by heart. you've memorized it, fucking freak that you are, which is maybe why his new routine has you up in arms. you recognize the foreplay motions he's making, the exact tilt of his grin when he knows he has someone on the hook.
(or at least you think you do. this could, after all, be a figment of your imagination, a grand delusion birthed by your inability to have sex with the one person you want. maybe your desire has finally driven you mad, made you hallucinate signs and actions that aren't there.)
your drink is watery in your mouth. you see that grin now, just this side of mean, looking at you from across the room. whitney's had you, hook line and sinker, since you started making music.
the poor guy next to you never stood a chance.
he's passably cute, a little too sweet to scratch the itch you need now, but his lips are soft on your neck in the bathroom of this stupid house. he's doing nothing to work you up, pawing gently at your waist and chest like he's afraid to touch you, but you've been so keyed-up the last few weeks it almost doesn't matter. you can pretend for now, get your fix and go home without this fucking weight on your chest. you let your animal brain take the lead, let your higher-order human mind go blank so you can rut yourself against this guy's thigh like a dog. you're already sticky; this won't take long.
it doesn't, but not because party guy switches gears. the door of the bathroom slams open and there whitney is in all his frontman glory.
"thought i'd find you here," he says, and that's what makes your hips twitch harder than any of this heavy petting. party guy blinks dumbly, mouth open to stutter something out. whitney doesn't give him a chance. he grabs him by the collar and all but throws him out of the room on his ass.
the door shuts behind him. you hear the lock click.
"what's our bassist doing in here with some fucking wannabe?" whitney's tone is light. you hear the danger looming under it; you decide not to care.
"god forbid i try to make my own fun," you scowl, or attempt to. whitney always makes you weak in the knees. "it isn't fair you're the only one who gets their dick wet."
whitney snorts. "please. that fucking guy? you'd be better off humping your pillow back home."
your face, already hot from the alcohol, flushes more. "how do you know?"
"i know what you are," whitney pushes closer to you. your back thuds against the wall. "you need something a little stronger, yeah?"
all the frustration punches out of your chest. "i'm not your fucking groupie, whitney," you snarl, shoving at his chest. he falters for a second before grabbing your arm and twisting, just enough.
"you're right," he breathes. "you're worse."
whitney pulls you in for a kiss hard enough that your teeth clack together. it feels like heaven. you moan without thinking, the curve of whitney's lips with just the right amount of bite. "i've seen you," he says, kissing down your neck. "on stage, you look like you want to cry." he bites down hard, sucking to make sure he leaves a mark. you do cry out at that, half pleasure, half pain. it feels good to finally get what you want. you're still nervous he's going to pull it away.
"god, i've been wanting to do this all tour," he mutters, half to himself. you feel his fingertips rubbing you over your leggings. he's still able to find your clit, teasing the promise of fucking you through the fabric. "wanted to corner you in the green room and push you down on your knees every time."
"do it," you moan without thinking, fingers scrabbling to find purchase in his hair, his shirt, his belt. whitney's hands still, just for a moment. he pulls his face off your skin long enough for you to see his expression - he looks like he's been given a million bucks. then, quick as a flash, his smirk is back and his fingers are in your hair, pushing you down 'til your knees hit the linoleum. you're face-to-face with his dick, the outline of it visible through the fabric of his jeans. on instinct, you lean forward to nuzzle against it, tongue laving a wet patch in the denim. you can tell he's hard. you want him rock fucking solid. you can almost suck the head of his cock into your mouth if you really try.
whitney pulls your face away from him. you look up, whine already in your throat, when you see his face. he's panting, face red. "i knew you were a freak," he says, voice awestruck. "not even five minutes in and you're already drooling for it."
"please," you let a whimper out. it's pathetic, you know it is, but you've wanted him for so goddamn long. it hurts to get what you want; your cunt aches with it.
"you want it?" he shakes your head a little. it feels like he has you scruffed like a dog.
you're actually crying now, little pinprick tears at the corners of your eyes. "please whitney, please."
he smiles, then pops the button of his jeans. his cock slides out, thick and heavy enough to push the zipper down with its weight. you're on it in a split second, laving your tongue around the tip. you make little kitten licks against the length of it, trying to hold yourself back from just shoving the entire thing in your throat. you want him to think you're good at this, like you're a cool kind of person who's sucked a lot of dicks before. whitney has other plans.
he puts his hand on the back of your head, easing his cock further into your mouth. you get about halfway down it before his tip his the muscles at the back of your throat and you fight the urge to gag. he lets up, rocking your head back and forth so your mouth slides along his length. you can feel yourself drooling, little strings of spit dripping onto your folded knees. you're in heaven.
above you, whitney's moaning out little uh-uhs in time with the movement of your mouth. you take a quick glance up at his face to see him flushed. he grins with all his teeth when he sees you looking. you want this to be good so bad. you want him to come back after this is over.
he works your head like that for a minute or two, enjoying shallow little thrusts into your mouth. then, he pulls you off him so you can catch a breath. his eyes are glittering. you only take a couple gulps of air before you pounce back on him, this time licking and sucking at his balls. they're soft. you hear him bite off an "oh fuc-k" as you pull one into your mouth, nuzzling it with your tongue. he doesn't let that last too long, taking a fistful of your hair and tearing you off him. he's panting like he just ran a marathon. you're doing the same, and you're sure your face is bright red.
"you like when i fuck your mouth like that?" he asks, giving you another shake. you moan in response, voice a little rougher than before. "tell me how much you like it."
you feel like crying. "i love it whitney, please, been waiting for this for years, please-" you think you are crying by the end of the sentence, so desperate to have him back in your mouth.
"years, huh?" he pulls you back from where you've been inching closer towards him, fist tight in your hair. "if it's been that long, i should give you the full experience."
you're babbling something almost incoherent to yourself, your mind laser focused on his cock and how it's not back in your mouth. "please, please fuck my mouth, my throat, do whatever you want, i'll do anything-"
his grip on your hair loosens just a bit and it's enough for you to get him back in. you bob your head up and down his shaft with renewed vigor, stroking your tongue alongside it. you can feel his tip hit the back of your throat, your mouth still not able to fit his full length inside. you want that desperately to change, trying harder and harder to fit another millimeter of his dick inside you.
whitney has the solution. he puts his other hand on your lower jaw, tilts your head down and like magic, his cock pops into your throat. he lets out the loudest groan you've ever heard in your life. you think you black out, seeing stars, riding the purest shot of pleasure you've ever felt. you keep him in your throat for a moment, nose nestled against his patch of pubic hair, doing nothing but feeling him inside you.
then you start sputtering, drool dripping out of your mouth, stretched wide around him. he keeps your head pressed up against him, muttering "stay there, stay there." it's all you want to do, to be good for him. you'd sit here all day, suffocate yourself on his cock if it meant doing whatever he wanted.
he pulls you back, allowing you to spit out thick wads of saliva and catch a breath of air. you look up at him, stars in your eyes. you think you're in love.
he fucks your throat like that for another couple rounds, enough that your neck and chest are covered in your own spit. you can tell he's walking the line between coming down your throat and holding off, pulling himself back every time he gets too close. you're wet enough that you've soaked through your underwear, maybe even your pants. you might have already cum.
finally, he has your face pressed up against his stomach and his hips start to move, little thrusts, trying to get himself further down your throat. please, you think for the thousandth time that day, please please come down my throat, make me yours, make me yours.
"fuck, 'mgonna cum, i'm-" you can hear him whining over the static in your ears. you want him to fill you up so bad your teeth hurt with it.
he does. you can feel his cum spurting down your throat. there's so much some mixes with your spit and drips out of your mouth. he stays like that for a second, grinding into your throat one more time before he pulls you off him with a pop. you're gasping for air in great big gulps, doing your best to swallow down all of his cum and not choke. whitney slides down the wall until he's on the floor next to you, looking as fucked-out as ever.
he reaches over and gives your head another shake. you feel like you're glowing. whitney snorts. "i can see your tail wagging."
that sends another frisson of lust through you, tired as you are. whitney doesn't miss it. he smiles, still mean. "good dog."
you both sit there for a second, catching your breath. eventually whitney pulls himself up, even reaches to help haul you up. your legs are shaky from adrenaline and sitting with them folded for so long - you wobble out the bathroom door like you've been fucked. whitney slings his arm around your shoulder and doesn't move it even once people start looking. not that anyone cares - this late into a party no one will remember what they saw in the morning. he maneuvers you up the stairs and into a bedroom, where you gratefully flop down on the bedding. you're exhausted, so tired you barely notice the mattress dipping down next to you. you fall asleep quick, lulled by whitney's even breathing and your own exhaustion.
