a bad idea (but a real good time)
fran blackburn x griffin reign. 3.7k. smut, phone sex, mutual masturbation. click here to read on ao3.
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In hindsight, Griffin giving Fran his phone number was probably a stupid fucking idea.
If Viktor found out, he was dead. If Victoria found out, somehow, he was doubly dead. And if the paparazzi found out? The two of them, both him and Fran, would be completely and utterly fucked. They’d be so dead that it was like they were never even alive in the first place. Which, in all honesty, might be nice.
But what else was he supposed to do? He needed a way to talk to her when they weren’t filming. The past few times he had just asked whatever BOTB goons he thought were particularly tired of Cory’s shit to slip notes under her hotel room door, but eventually someone - either Cory herself or a pap - was going to find out and wave enough money in front of their nose for an exclusive tell-all, and the two of them would still be fucked. So giving her his number was the best option. The smartest. The safest. And he was doing it all for her benefit, not for his own. It was probably the most selfless thing he’d ever done when it came to her.
And if his dick got hard when he returned from the bathroom to find his phone vibrating on the table and her name flashing on his screen, well, it wasn’t his fault. That thing had a mind of its own.
Before answering, he bent down to check his reflection in the mirror behind the desk and swept his hair out of his face. It wasn’t a Facetime call, to his disappointment, but he wanted to look good anyway, just in case. Besides, just knowing that she was sitting in her room thinking about him made him nervous; he was fiddling with one of his rings even as he picked up the phone and held it to his ear.
“Missed me already?” he asked, hoping his lighthearted delivery would disguise how badly, how desperately, he needed her to say yes.
“No,” she replied. It was the most serious she’d ever sounded. He felt the smile on his face instantly drop. “I’m calling because I have an - an urgent question for my mentor.”
“Oh. Uh…” He cleared his throat, pushed his hair out of his face again, and sat down on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t that he planned on being unhelpful. Obviously he wanted her to stay on this fucking show - at this point he had no idea what he would do with himself if she went home at the end of the week - but he’d downed three shots as soon as he got back to his room and wasn’t sure he was in the best headspace for a nitty-gritty industry talk. Then again, it was Fran. So. He was sure as fuck gonna try. “Alright,” he said. “Lay it on me.”
“What do I do when I’m so wet that I can’t sleep?”
He was so far gone for her that even that knocked the wind right out of him.
Then his instincts kicked in and he glanced over his shoulder at the door like Victoria was going to walk through any minute even though he knew for a fact she wasn’t going to. She’d been whisked away by a car with tinted windows as soon as her mic and the cameras were off, headed to a dress fitting or an interview or a who the fuck knows, he certainly didn’t, and her industry things always lasted longer than they should’ve; longer than he should’ve wanted them to but couldn’t bring himself to be bothered by. After all, if she was here, or if he thought she was coming back anytime soon, he wouldn’t have answered the phone. He would’ve downed another three shots and mindlessly humped the mattress until he either came or fell asleep.
“Well…” He cleared his throat again and stood up, heading for the window to double-check that the curtains were closed even though it was the first thing he did when he got to his room 15 minutes ago. “A good mentor - y’know, like me - would probably help you try and figure out what the problem is.”
“Oh,” she said sweetly, “I think you know what the problem is.”
He ran a hand over his face.
This was old hat by now. Not the - what he suspected, what he hoped, what he fucking prayed would probably end up being - phone sex, but sitting in his room after a long day of filming, dick hard, thinking about her. It was difficult to do much of anything else these days. “And, uh… how long has this problem been bothering you?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s bothering me.” He flopped down in the centre of his mattress, almost laughing at the innocent-schoolgirl, blushing-virgin act she was putting on. “But it’s been a while. A couple of weeks. Or - well. It’s actually been going on a lot longer than that.”
Every time he thought about how long she’d been following him and his career, how long she’d admired him, he felt like a very bad man for indulging in this. In whatever their relationship had turned into. As numb as he was to most things, there was a part of his brain that rallied hard against it, that insisted over and over and over again that he was taking advantage of her. Because why wouldn’t he take advantage of her? He was Griffin Reign. He wasn’t a good guy - he was a rockstar. Taking advantage of the most beautiful woman on this fuck ass show, maybe the most beautiful woman in America, was exactly the sort of thing he would do. Cheating on his wife was exactly the sort of thing he would do.
But another part of him, a smaller part, kept reminding himself that he knew for a fact it was about more than just the sex. It was about more than just the secrecy. It was about the music and the way it made him feel. The way she made him feel.
That being said… the sex was definitely a bonus.
“I don’t think I’ll know how to help,” he said, keeping his voice as measured as he could despite his throbbing dick, “until I find how wet it is for myself.”
“Alright.” He could hear her smiling this time. “Do you want to hear it, or do you want to see it, too?”
He slammed his head back into the headboard and didn’t even care how much it hurt. Jesus. Christ.
He knew what room she was staying in. Even now that he didn’t have to resort to slipping her notes, he liked to know anyway, just in case. And he knew most of the camera crew would be turning in for the night. As long as there were no roadblocks or distractions, it would take him a minute tops to reach her, two if he took the stairs instead of the elevator, and fuck, was it tempting. The idea of leaping out of bed and running to her and burying his head between her thighs like he’d dreamed of doing every night since he first did it a couple weeks ago… it was tempting.
But it wasn’t the right time. Obviously, because none of this was the right time.
“Let me hear it, first,” he replied, reaching for the button and zipper of his jeans. “Maybe, if you’re good, I’ll let you show me.”
There was the sound of shuffling on the other end, like she was bending down or reaching over, and then he heard it: the sharp, squelching suction of her fingers in her pussy.
“Oh, shit.” As soon as he had finished trying not to black the fuck out, he made a sympathetic noise. “It would be hard to sleep with a… a pussy that wet. Poor thing.”
“Yeah, it’s really… oh, fuck… it’s really bad.”
“It sounds like it.” He lifted his hips up from the bed and shoved his jeans and underwear down to his knees. The silk sheets of the hotel were cold on his ass, which made it all the more jarring when he felt how hot his dick was as he took it in his hand. “What are you doing? To solve the problem, I mean. How many fingers are you using?”
“Mmm… I’m using two fingers. But I - mmf, fuck - I don’t think it’s enough.”
“Go ahead and use a third one, then.”
“A third one?”
“Yeah.” He squeezed his eyes shut as he swiped his palm over his head and then starting working his fist up and down his shaft. “C’mon, Fran. Your mentor is telling you to do something, so just… just do it, alright?”
She made a sweet, sing-songy noise in response to his instruction. He just about came at the sound.
Fran had a nice, deep voice. It wasn’t the type of voice he was used to hearing from a female singer, and it was part of why he had been so drawn to her in the first place. She wasn’t forcing herself into falsetto for the hell of it; she was unapologetically embracing the gift that she’d been given. That said, hearing all her high-pitched little whines and moans over the phone, a type of noise that he knew only he could draw out of her… Two minutes was too long of a trip for how much he wanted her. He was convinced that at this point he could reach her hotel room in thirty seconds flat.
“Ohhh, it’s so… mmf… I feel so full.”
“Good. You should be. You, more than anyone I know, deserve to be full of yourself.”
“I am, I am, I - oh, God…”
The sound of her pumping her fingers in and out of her pussy was making him grit his teeth so hard he was convinced they were going to shatter, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He could listen to this forever. Which meant that maybe he was wrong - maybe it was about the sex as much as it was about the music. Or maybe it was just about her, in general, the sound of her, like that small part of him believed whatever noises she wanted to make could restore harmony to the world and everything in it. Which made her sound like a fucking superhero instead of a singer, but she had saved him, in a way. And he was finally starting to realize just how much.
“Hey, hey.” He rested his hand at the base of his dick and tried to catch his breath a little. “Slow down for a sec.”
“What?”
“Slow down. I gotta tell you something.”
He didn’t know what drove him crazier: the fact that she was holding her phone so close to her pussy that he could hear her slow down, or the fact that she actually did it in the first place.
“You gotta ask permission before you cum,” he said. “So when you’re - when you’re getting close, you have to tell me, and when you’re ready, you have to ask permission. Okay?”
“Yes, Griffin.”
“Fucking Christ, Fran.” He exhaled hard through his teeth. “I didn’t know you’d be so fucking obedient.”
He really didn’t. By nature, their situation meant she was breaking rules that she probably shouldn’t want to break with her private life on blast the way it was. Not to mention that she was always shooting the shit, always pushing the envelope a little farther than all the other people who were trying to make it big but were terrified of fucking it up. She didn’t play other people’s games. Not Viktor’s. Not Cory’s. No one had power over her the way they had power over him. And he envied her for that. He envied her and admired her and lately he had been constantly hard for her after figuring out that she did let one person have power over her, and that person was him.
“I can be bad. If you want me to be, I can - I can be bad.”
This is already bad, he felt like saying. We’re already bad.
“Nah,” he replied airily. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”
Another one of those high-pitched, keening noises and thirty seconds went to fifteen seconds. A fraction of a minute and he could be in her room, using his dick to make those filthy noises instead of making her do it with her own fingers, sucking the wetness off of them as he did, not letting a single part of her go to waste, not letting a single part of her go untouched. And the worst part - or maybe the best part - was that he could imagine fucking her so clearly, because when it came down to it, she didn’t look much different from Victoria. He could picture what her red hair would look like between his fingers; he had a good reference point for what her weight would feel like on top of him; he knew how much of her ass he could grab in his fists at one time to spread it apart or knead it or do whatever he fucking wished.
“I am,” she replied. “I love being good for you, Griffin. I only wanna be good for you. No - god damn - no one else.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank fuck.” He started jerking his dick again, but slowly. He wanted to time it right. He wanted to time it so that they could come together, so that even though they weren’t in the same room, couldn’t be in the same room, they were still connected by something. “Because I - I chose you, Fran.”
“I know.”
“Before I even knew you. Before we even… You were - you’re -”
“I’m what?”
He didn’t answer. He knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t do it, so instead he let out a groan and asked, “Are you close?”
“Um, I’m… I’m getting there.”
“Getting there!?”
“It’s hard for me sometimes. I do get really… really wet. So there’s less - oh, fuck - l-less friction. And… and so sometimes it takes me a bit longer.”
“Well... I don’t mind.” What was he going to do after they hung up anyways? Sit alone in his room, drinking himself into oblivion? He’d be thinking about her regardless, so why not prolong both of their pleasure as long as they could?
“You don’t?”
“No. Why the fuck would I mind? It’s more you.”
“Some guys…” His nostrils flared at the insinuation that she had fucked other guys, and he jerked his dick particularly hard to stop himself from getting distracted. “Some guys have told me that I get too wet.”
“They’re fucking idiots. That’s like complaining that your water is too refreshing.”
“So it really wouldn’t bother you?”
“Bother me? Of course it wouldn’t bother me. It’s like I said: the more of you I get, the better.”
“Oh, Griff…”
“Did that get you closer?”
“So close. So close, I’m - I - fuck, I can feel it - in my clit, I can - fuuuck -”
“You haven’t asked permission yettt,” he sing-songed.
“Griffin.”
“You said you were gonna be good for me. So… so be good for me and ask.”
“Not fair, not fair -”
“Nothing is fair. You know that. Ask.”
“Griffin,” she gritted out, “can I cum?”
He grinned wolfishly, swiping his tongue across his teeth, tugging on his dick. If he wasn’t a bad man before, he certainly was now. “Say please.”
Another one of her perfect, high-pitched whines. It was enough to push him right to the edge. He dropped his head back against the headboard and jerked himself as hard as he could, thinking about her hands, her fingers; thinking about her gorgeous pussy, how stupid he had been not to ask for a picture or a video.
“Please?” she asked.
He shook his head even though he knew she couldn’t see it. “Not good enough.”
“Griffin, you -”
“Fran.” He heard himself growl into the phone and was surprised by the ferocity of his own desperation, his own need. No, he wasn’t surprised about the need itself - he knew that well. He’d been feeling it ever since he watched her audition tape. But he was surprised that he was being so up front with it now when he’d done such a good job at pretending he was unbothered. “Just - just say it.”
“Griffin,” she breathed, catching his drift, “can I please, please, please cum for you?”
“Yes,” he answered as he felt himself careening towards the edge, “yes, please, cum for me, all for me, fuck -”
She beat him to the punch, keening loudly into the phone as she came, but he followed right after, spilling hard onto his hand and his thigh and the silk sheets underneath him. It’d been a long time since he came like that, so blinding that it felt like he’d been flashbanged, and even though he was sure he had wrung out every last drop and there was nothing left to give, he kept jerking himself through the aftershocks to make the moment last a little longer, as long as it could. Eventually, when his dick was too sensitive to keep touching, he dropped his hand into his lap, but he still didn’t feel done. He was panting the way he did after a sold-out concert, head tilted back against the headboard, while the last stars of his orgasm were bursting behind his closed eyelids.
After a minute, he realized that he felt bizarrely content. He shouldn’t have, because he was sitting on his bed in an empty hotel room with his cum drying on his hand while he listened to the woman he was having an affair with pee and brush her teeth and gargle mouthwash on the other end of the line, things he couldn’t do in person because it would’ve ruined both of their lives and their careers, hers before it had even really started. But still, he felt… calm. Grounded. He felt very, very sober, despite the shots he'd taken earlier, and for once he didn’t hate it.
“Alright, well, goodnight!” Fran chirped.
Griffin nearly choked on his spit. “Wait - what???”
She was laughing before he even realized that he had fallen for her trick. “Ohhh, fuck you,” he grumbled. “That was mean.”
“I was just joking.”
“That’s twice now tonight that you’ve fucked with my feelings.” He wedged his phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he leaned over to grab tissues from the box on his bedside table. “It’s mean, Fran, it really is.”
“Twice?” she asked. “When was the other time?”
“When you told me you didn’t miss me.” Even after a mind-blowing orgasm, he couldn’t forget it. Obviously she rejected him for the bit. That he understood. But hearing her answer had given him a taste of something that was still sitting bitter in his mouth. Griffin Reign didn’t get rejected. And even if he did, he certainly didn’t want to be rejected by her.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
“I didn’t. Although -”
“Wh- not the ‘although’!”
“No, no, listen. I do miss you. But also… it’s hard to miss you when I think about you all the time.”
That made him pause. How could she say shit like that without a hint of irony? How could she say shit like that and make him feel like she was being real and honest? Another woman would say it as a line, as a way to win him over, a way to try (and fail at) getting in his pants. But she was saying it after she had already gotten in his pants, when there was no other reason to besides the fact that it was what she felt. She was saying that because she did think about him all the time, and she wanted him to know.
“Anyway,” she said, “this did actually solve my problem, so I’ll be going to sleep now, if that’s alright.”
“You don’t have to ask permission anymore,” he replied, balling the tissues up in his fist and tossing them across the room into the garbage can beside the dresser. “You can just go.”
“Now who’s being mean?”
“Sorry.” He switched his phone to his other shoulder and stood up, stumbling through the darkened hotel room to the bathroom. “I wasn't trying to be. You should go to sleep. And I’m saying that as your mentor, not… you know. Whatever else.”
“Alright. I will.”
“But hey,” he said as he flicked on the bathroom light, “maybe next time, you can let me see her.”
“Her,” she repeated, then scoffed. “I can’t tell what you like more: me or my pussy.”
“Come on, Fran.” His voice was softer than he’d intended it to be, but he didn’t bother to course correct. “You know the answer to that.”
She huffed into the phone. He could tell she was smiling, though, and it was enough to make him smile, too. “Goodnight, Griffin.”
“G’night, Chosen One.”
As soon as she hung up, he tossed his phone onto the counter and stared at his reflection.
What he wanted to say earlier but stopped himself: You’re mine. I want you all to myself, forever. I want to keep you locked in a room with me and me only and never let anyone bother us again. We can eat barbecue for every meal - I know it’s your favourite, I did my fucking research - and watch shitty fucking movies - of which I’m sure you know a lot more than I do. We can fuck and smoke and drink and sing and talk about things that we’re not supposed to talk about, especially not with each other, especially not right now. If I had my way you’d be around me forever, on top of me forever, underneath me forever and hell, if you let me, you could be inside of me forever, buried deep under my skin like ink.
That last thing wasn’t something she could give him permission for, though. She was already buried deep inside of him. Because now that he’d heard it, he would never be able to forget what the sound of her voice did to what little of a heart he had left. And he was starting to think he’d be willing to blow up his life in order to keep it.
