AIN'T SWEET — Bf!nettspend x Gf!reader
information: After too many bad fan interactions Gunner is left pissed off and decides he needs to let off some steam. (terrible description ntm on me) cw: Smut!, angry nett, rough sex, yelling/arguing (not at eachother), masterlist taglist
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You could tell from the moment you woke up next to Gunner that something had already been bothering him in that suffocating kind of frustration that clung to him when sleep hadn’t been enough and everything around him had started to feel like it was pressing in too harshly.
It was in the way he moved through the morning without really speaking unless he had to, in the way his jaw stayed set like he was holding something back even when nothing was being said, and in the way his eyes carried that tired, sharpened edge that meant he had already been pushed too far too many times and was now just trying to survive the rest of it without snapping in front of everyone.
The mix of back-to-back shows, managers constantly on his ass, expectations stacking higher and higher with every city, every interview, every performance, and the lack of sleep that had been catching up to him for days had finally started to settle into his bones, and even though he was trying — genuinely trying — to keep himself composed, you could see the cracks forming in the smallest details.
Even on stage, under the flashing lights and roaring crowd, where he was usually untouchable, completely in his element as if nothing else in the world could reach him there, you could still see it if you were paying close enough attention, the way his movements carried just a fraction more force than usual, the way his expressions flickered between performance and irritation when something in the crowd didn’t sit right with him, the way he kept pushing forward anyway because stopping wasn’t an option when people had paid to see him, when real fans were screaming his lyrics back at him like it meant something to them.
The crowd tonight already hadn't been particularly good, not because they weren’t loud, but because something about the energy had been off from the beginning, with two fights breaking out earlier in the set that had pulled security into motion and disrupted everything long enough for the flow of the show to fracture, and then an attempted stage rush that had forced everything to halt in a way that left a bitter taste hanging over the rest of the performance, but still Gunner kept going.
For almost half an hour, things had settled into something close to normal, and from your spot behind the barricade you had finally started to let yourself relax again, watching him move across the stage with that familiar intensity that made it look like he was built for this, smiling faintly to yourself as you followed the way he moved, until it felt like the night might actually hold itself together after all.
And then it happened so fast it almost didn’t feel real at first, a sudden motion from the front of the barricade, a flick of plastic, and a split-second later a full splash of water flying through the air and hitting him directly across the front of his shirt, soaking through the white fabric immediately so that it clung to him and he completely stopped in place.
He took one step back, slow and controlled, like he was forcing himself not to react too quickly, and then his head lifted, eyes scanning the front row before dragging toward backstage where he made a single sharp motion with his hand that cut through everything like a blade, and when he spoke into the mic his voice was so controlled it almost felt worse than if he had yelled.
“Yo,” he said, and the entire venue seemed to tighten around the sound of it, “cut the fuckin’ music.”
The change was immediate, almost violent in how fast the sound disappeared, the production dropping out so suddenly that all that was left was the distant roar of confusion and scattered boos from the crowd, and in that sudden silence Gunner stood still for half a second longer before stepping forward again, his eyes locking onto the exact section where it had come from as if he had already memorized the face of whoever had done it.
“You,” he said, pointing directly at the guy still holding the half-empty bottle, his voice low and sharp as he tilted his head slightly, the kind of movement that carried nothing but disbelief and anger, “you think that shit sweet?”
Whatever the guy said back was lost in the noise of the crowd, but it was enough to make something in Gunner’s expression shift instantly, the calm snapping into something far more volatile as he let out a short, humorless laugh through his nose and shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, before he suddenly moved forward and without hesitation jumped down off the stage.
Your stomach dropped the second he did it, because even though you knew him well enough to understand that he rarely backed down from disrespect, there was still something about the speed of it, the certainty in the way he moved, that made your chest tighten as he landed infront of the barricade, immediately surrounded by security but still pushing forward like they weren’t even there.
“You think he gonna hit him?” one of his friends asked from behind you, voice low with uncertainty, but you didn’t answer right away because your eyes were locked on Gunner and the way his entire body looked like it was vibrating with contained anger that was just barely being held together.
“I don’t…” you started, then hesitated as he got closer, the air around him visibly shifting as people instinctively stepped back, “I don’t think so.”
But even as you said it, it didn’t fully sound true.
Because watching him get disrespected like that, after everything he had been dealing with lately, after every fan interaction that had crossed a line and every night he had forced himself to keep going anyway, made something in your own chest burn hot and protective in a way you didn’t even fully know how to process.
He stopped right in front of the guy then, close enough that there was barely any space left between them, the mic still in his hand as he leaned forward just slightly, eyes narrowed with something sharp and dangerous that didn’t need volume to feel loud.
“You tryna fucking apologize now, pussy?” he said, voice cutting clean through the air as he gestured slightly with his free hand, his expression twisted in disgust, “you thought that shit was sweet?”
The guy started talking, hands moving too fast, trying to explain, trying to fix something that had already broken the second he decided to throw that water, but Gunner didn’t even give him the satisfaction of finishing, instead scoffing into the mic like the entire thing was beneath him, rolling his eyes hard before stepping back with a final shake of his head.
“Get the fuck outta here.”
And just like that, he turned away.
Still angry, still tense, still carrying that heavy, suffocating energy like it had nowhere to go, and as he started walking toward the end of the barricade, he spotted you instantly and something in his expression shifted just slightly, not softer exactly, but focused, like you were the only thing in the room that wasn’t irritating him.
He walked straight toward you, fast enough that people moved out of his way without thinking, the red of his hair falling slightly into his eyes as he shook his head like he was trying to physically shake off the situation, and when he passed you he didn’t stop, but he motioned for you to follow him with a sharp tilt of his head that left no room for question.
You followed immediately, heart still racing as you tried to speak.
“I can’t right now, ma,” he cut in instantly, dragging both hands over his face as he walked, his voice rough and tight with restraint, like he was holding himself together by a thread.
“He’s a fucking loser for that shit,” you said anyway, stepping closer behind him as he pushed through the backstage entrance, “but don’t let it ruin your show.”
That made him stop only long enough to drop heavily onto the couch, his head falling back as he exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes shut like he was trying to block out everything that had just happened, the anger didn’t disappear, it just sat there under his skin, restless and burning.
You moved toward him carefully, sitting yourself in his lap without hesitation, one leg sliding over him as you settled in close enough to ground him, and when your arms wrapped around his shoulders you could feel how tense he still was beneath you, like his body hadn’t decided yet whether it wanted to calm down or keep fighting, and you pressed soft, steady kisses along his neck in an attempt to pull him back from the edge of it.
“You don’t have to continue the show,” you murmured against his skin.
He nodded once, but even that felt strained, like his mind was still somewhere else entirely, and one of his hands slid under your shirt, not in any rushed or heated way, but in a grounding, almost absent motion as his palm moved slowly up and down your back like he needed something real to hold onto before he did something reckless.
“You should still do a quick meet and greet though,” you added after a moment, quieter now, “it’s behind a barricade.”
A long, heavy groan left him at that, his head tipping slightly as if the idea alone was exhausting, and he shook his head once without even opening his eyes.
You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the way his chest still rose a little too sharply with leftover adrenaline, at the frustration still carved into the lines of his face, at the way he was trying so hard not to let the night completely ruin him, and after a beat, his eyes met yours.
There was a pause, thick and loaded.
The word came out low, reluctant, but final, and even as he said it, he was already shifting, already pulling himself back into motion, still angry, still tense, still not fully over what had just happened as he stood and looked down at you for a second longer than necessary.
The quick meet and greet had been set up behind a reinforced barricade, something meant to be “safe” and controlled, but even as the crowd started forming outside, screaming and pressing forward with phones already raised, it didn’t feel controlled at all.
You stayed close, watching him as he exhaled once through his nose, rolling his shoulders back slightly like he was physically forcing himself to reset, and when he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your lips before stepping forward, it wasn’t soft in the usual way, it was like he needed something familiar before he went back into the noise.
And instantly, the crowd shifted.
Phones went up higher, voices rose louder, people screaming his name in overlapping waves that blurred together into something almost deafening, and Gunner, still visibly tense, forced himself into the role anyway, grabbing the first phone offered to him and snapping a picture without much emotion, his face set in a way that made it clear he was present but not entirely there.
You watched from a few steps back as he moved down the line, repeating the motions, signing things, nodding slightly when he had to, but never fully loosening, never fully slipping back into the easy charm he usually had, because tonight had already worn him too thin for anything to feel effortless anymore.
And then it happened again.
A hand reached too far past the barricade.
A girl leaned in, smiling too widely, like she thought she was entitled to more than she was getting, her hand had found his face, fingers brushing along his jaw like she had known him for years, like there was no line there at all, and then she slid her hand messily into his hair.
Everything stopped in you before you even moved.
It wasn’t even a thought.
You stepped forward so quickly it almost felt like your body moved before your mind could catch up, the sound of your own voice cutting through the noise sharper than you expected.
Security reacted at the same time, hands moving to slow you down, but you were already pushing forward, eyes locked on the girl as Gunner’s entire expression shifted into something disgusted and immediate, his head jerking back slightly as he pulled away from her touch.
“Yo—what the fuck is your problem?” he snapped, stepping back fast and pushing the girls arm away from him, his jaw tightening as he wiped his cheek once with the back of his hand like he was trying to erase the contact, “don’t fucking touch me.”
The girl looked startled now, suddenly smaller under the weight of his reaction, but you didn’t care about that part, not when your chest was still tight with anger, not when you could still feel how casually she had crossed a line like it meant nothing.
“Go touch someone else’s man, bitch,” you said before you could stop yourself, voice sharp with irritation as you pointed vaguely in her direction while security finally stepped fully between you and her.
Gunner turned immediately at the sound of your voice, his hand coming out instinctively to your waist before you could move any further forward, pulling you back just slightly like he was redirecting you out of instinct more than anything else, his grip firm.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, still visibly annoyed, still shaking off what had just happened, “just—come on.”
You were still looking at her as he guided you backward, still breathing a little too fast from the spike of anger, and you didn’t even realize how tightly he had pulled you into his side until he started walking, his arm locked around your waist in a way that wasn’t gentle as much as it was protective, like he was already done with the entire interaction and wanted distance from everything immediately.
“You got no fucking right to touch people you don’t know,” you snapped over your shoulder one last time before fully turning away, your voice echoing slightly as the crowd noise swallowed it up.
Gunner didn’t say anything for a moment.
Like the entire night had finally hit its limit.
His jaw was still tight when you finally reached the backstage exit, his hand rubbing once over his face again like he was trying to physically push the frustration out of his system, and even though he wasn’t speaking, you could feel how much it was still sitting with him, how the anger hadn’t disappeared, just changed shape.
“I fucking hate that shit so much,” he muttered finally, voice rough and low, more to himself than to you, his shoulders rising and falling slightly as he exhaled hard through his nose, “like what the fuck is wrong with people.”
“I know,” you said quietly, reaching up to press your hand gently against his cheek as you both walked toward the bus, grounding him in a way that slowed him down just slightly, “I know, baby.”
He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head again.
“Pulling my fucking hair and touching my face like it’s cute,” he continued, voice sharper now, anger flaring again in small bursts, “like I’m not a person or some shit.”
“I shouldn’t have told you to do the meet and greet,” you added quickly, guilt slipping in under your voice as you reached the bus door, “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t answer that part.
He just pushed the door open and gestured slightly with his hand for you to go first, tapping your butt as you stepped inside, and the second the door closed behind you both, the noise from outside disappeared so completely it made the silence inside feel heavier than it should have.
The air in the bus was still and thick.
Carrying everything he hadn’t fully let go of yet.
Gunner stood there for a second, just looking at you, breathing a little heavier than usual, eyes still sharp with leftover frustration, before he finally spoke again, voice low and controlled but still carrying that edge that hadn’t gone anywhere all night.
Your body stills for a second — a flicker of surprise lighting in you, but the tension shifts into something more familiar, something you’ve been craving.
Your hands grip the bottom of your shirt and tug it over your head, the fabric catching on your hair before you toss it aside. He watches you, his eyes dark and fixed, and the air between you thickens.
He steps forward until you feel his breath ghost across your face. His eyes lock onto yours, daring you to look away. You don’t. His hand reaches around behind you, fingers brushing your spine as he unclips your bra. The straps slide down your shoulders, and the lace falls to the floor.
His gaze drops to your chest, watching the way it rises and falls — quick and desperate patterns. He lets out a slow breath, then grabs your hips and spins you around. His palm is hot through the thin fabric of your pants as he walks you forward, his body pressed close behind you.
The tour bus hums beneath your feet. He nudges open the door to the private room at the back and once inside he closes the door behind him with a soft click, sealing you both in.
You lay back on the couch, the fabric cool against your bare skin. He stands there for a moment, his breathing rough and uncontrolled, his chest rising and falling. His eyes travel from your face down to your thighs, lingering where your panties still cling to your hips. Then he moves slowly until he’s standing tall above you, his figure covering the light.
His hands unbuckle his jeans. The sound of the zipper is loud in the quiet. He steps out of them, kicking them aside. You follow his lead, wiggling out of your pants, leaving you almost completely naked in front of him. He discards his shirt, and for a second you let yourself stare — the hard lines of his torso, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, the way his boxers strain against his cock.
He kneels on the couch, his thighs bracketing yours, and reaches down to cup your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone, and his voice drops low.
“I respect the fuck outta you, ma, and I want you to remember that.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “Why are you telling me that right now?”
The smallest smirk crosses his face. “Because you might forget that fact in a second.”
Before you can ask, he pulls himself over you, his weight settling against your body. His fingers slide under your panties, tracing through your folds. You whimper softly, your hips twitching into his touch. He doesn’t rush. He circles your clit slowly, watching your face as your lips part and your eyes flutter shut.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
You force your eyes open. He holds your gaze as his fingers dip lower, gathering your wetness. Then, with a quick, sharp motion, he tears your panties off — the sound of ripping fabric sharp in the quiet.
He pushes his boxers down, and his cock springs free. He slaps it against your clit, once, twice, and you jolt, a moan catching in your throat.
“Please,” you whine, the word ragged.
He grabs you from under your thighs, lifting your hips slightly. You feel the head of his cock press against your entrance, teasing, not pushing. He holds there, letting you feel the pressure.
“Please what?” he asks, his voice rough.
He doesn’t make you wait. In one hard thrust, he buries himself deep inside your pussy. Your gasp turns into a loud moan as he gives you no time to adjust — his hips already slamming against yours, his rhythm brutal and unrelenting. Your eyes start tearing up immediately.
The stretch burns, the pleasure drowns it.
“Oh fuck!” Your eyes roll back, your fingers digging into the couch.
Gunner grunts, his breaths hot against your neck as he fucks into you. He sits up and picks your legs up, pressing your thighs together, and swings them both over his left shoulder.
The new angle drives him deeper, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white. He holds your legs tight enough to bruise, his grip firm and possessive, as he continues fucking you senseless.
Your vision blurs. Sobs leave your throat from the overwhelming pleasure, the way he fills you completely, the way his cock pulses inside you with every thrust.
“I can’t! It’s too much, baby,” you cry out, your head snapping forward before falling back against the couch.
“Take it, ma. You got it.”
His words push you closer. The knot in your stomach grows agonizing. Your breathing becomes ragged, your chest heaving as he fucks you, the soreness spreading through your thighs and hips, only adding to the sensation of his cock pumping deep inside you.
“It was so fucking hot watching you yell at that girl,” he groans, his eyes shutting momentarily as he loses himself in the feel of you.
You hum, your mind too blurred for words. You nod, your head lolling, absolutely dumb from the way he fucks into you.
“You the only girl I ever want touching me. Only girl I’d ever want like this.”
He leans down and kisses you — but first he pushes your legs down toward your chest, folding you nearly in half. You scream out, a high, broken sound, before his lips crash onto yours. His tongue slides into your mouth, tasting you. He places your legs down, and they immediately wrap around his hips, pulling him deeper.
His hips roll against yours — slower now, but harder. Each thrust grinds against your clit, and your mouth falls open, your throat dry from moaning. You can barely breathe.
“You gonna cum for me?” he asks, his voice strained.
You nod fast, desperate. “Yes, Gun. Please.”
He chuckles softly, his speed picking up again. Your eyes roll back. His hand finds your lower abdomen, and he presses down hard, adding pressure to the ache building inside you. You scream again, your throat raw, your voice cracking.
“You fucking love this cock, don’t you?”
You whimper, your words coming out in a broken whisper. “So much.”
The knot in your stomach tightens to the max. You feel your legs start to shake around his hips, your toes curling. “I—I’m gonna cum,” you gasp, and then the coil snaps.
Your body shakes violently. Your ears ring. You feel yourself release around him and you cry out, your fingers clawing at his back as waves of pleasure crash through you. Your pussy clenches around his cock, milking him.
“Oh fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering. He drives into you one last time, burying himself deep, and you feel his cock pulse as he comes inside you — hot ropes filling you.
He falls against you, his weight heavy and welcome. Sweat slickens both your bodies, your skin sticking together as you catch your breath. Your heart pounds against his chest, matching his.
“Holy shit, Gun,” you laugh softly, the sound breathless.
He chuckles into the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your damp skin. “I know.”
You cover your face with one hand, embarrassed by how thoroughly he wrecked you. He kisses your cheek softly, then your jaw, then your lips — gentle now, tender.
“You did so good for me, baby.”
Your fingers lace gently through his damp hair. You feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, slowing, calming. A smile tugs at your lips.
“You should get mad more often.”
He rolls his eyes humorously, lifting his head to look at you. His gaze is soft, fond. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
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