"Guts World Tour" with Olivia Rodrigo

[TheLW]

Guts World Tour
With Olivia Rodrigo
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Blowjob, Rough Sex
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

Another city, same story. We’d been on the road for weeks now, running on fumes, barely sleeping, and working our asses off around the clock just to make sure every detail of this goddamn tour didn’t fall apart. The crew was up at the crack of dawn hauling equipment, setting up lights, testing sound, fixing problems Olivia would never even know existed because we handled it before she ever bothered to drag her entitled ass out of bed.

By the afternoon, we were all sweating through our shirts, neck-deep in cables and rigging when she finally showed up, late, again, surprise surprise. Rolling in with her overpaid entourage like she owned the fucking planet. Wearing designer sunglasses indoors, iced latte in hand, and that usual look on her face like she smelled something rotten, spoiler alert... it was her attitude.

Then, just like clockwork, the tantrum started. One of the tech guys accidentally brushed against her while hauling a flight case. Just a bump, nothing serious. But that was enough to light her fuse. She spun around, sunglasses sliding down her nose, and shrieked.

“Are you fucking blind?! Watch where you're going, asshole!”

Then she doubled down like a complete tyrant, “The only reason you still have a job is because I haven’t had your sorry ass fired yet!”

Everyone froze. That poor guy looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. But the rest of us? We were too used to this shit to be surprised. Olivia had been on a power trip since day one. Screaming at assistants, making last-second, impossible demands, treating crew members like human garbage. She once made someone fly cross-country to get a specific brand of water because she decided, out of nowhere, that it "tastes more aligned with her vocal frequencies." What the fuck does that even mean?

And don’t even get me started on rehearsals. She’s always late, sometimes doesn’t show at all, and when she does, she can’t be bothered to run through a full set. Meanwhile, we’ve already gone over the cues, the timing, the lighting sequences, all of which revolve around her. So when she changes shit on the fly during the actual show? Yeah, guess who has to scramble to cover her diva ass.

The worst so far? That was last week. Right after the show, one of her personal assistants, a sweet girl, honestly just trying to help, said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Olivia didn’t just yell, she threw a full cup of coffee right in the poor girl’s face. No hesitation. No apology. And then she had the nerve to say, “She deserved it for being a fucking idiot.”

No consequences. No reprimand. Management just shrugged. Because as long as she keeps selling out arenas and trending online, no one wants to rock the boat. But those of us behind the scenes? We see it all. We live it. And we’re the ones cleaning up the mess while she keeps acting like a goddamn queen in a kingdom of unpaid interns.

Olivia’s fame didn’t just go to her head, it devoured her, turned her into something toxic. And we’re the ones choking on the fumes every single day.

I’d had enough.

After the blow-up during soundcheck and Mark walking out, the crew scattered. Some went to cool down. Some stayed behind to fix the mess she left. Me? I marched straight to her dressing room, fists clenched, vision tunneled. I wasn’t going to let this fester another second. She needed to hear the truth, uncut, unfiltered, and in her face.

Her door was closed, of course. The little star-shaped nameplate on it looked smug somehow, like even the door thought it was better than the rest of us. I didn’t knock. I didn’t give her the courtesy.

I shoved the damn thing open.

She was sitting in front of the mirror, phone in hand, legs crossed, sipping whatever overpriced bullshit her assistant picked up from that boutique café down the street. She looked up with that fake-ass expression, half annoyed, half amused.

“Do you mind?” she snapped, already rolling her eyes.

“Yeah,” I growled. “Actually, I fucking do.”

She blinked. Probably not used to anyone stepping into her private bubble without groveling first. I shut the door behind me hard enough to make her jump.

“Let me make this real clear, Olivia,” I said, stepping forward, voice low but shaking with fury. “We’re all done tiptoeing around your ego. You think you're untouchable because you can sing a few damn notes and have a million TikTok stans jerking off to your selfies?”

She opened her mouth, but I didn’t give her the chance.

“No. Shut up. You listen. You walk around like everyone owes you something. Like we’re disposable. You humiliate people, you scream like a toddler, you throw drinks at assistants, Jesus Christ, you think that’s power? That’s not power, Olivia. That’s weakness dressed up in Gucci.”

Her face started to twist, like she was about to fire back, but I kept going, voice rising.

“We’re the ones busting our asses day and night while you show up late and treat us like dogshit. You wouldn’t last a day without us. And today? Mark walked out. He’s gone. Gone, because of you. And if you don’t pull your head out of your overinflated ass, more of us will follow. And this tour? It’ll crash and burn.

Olivia stood up now, finally, arms crossed, chin high, like she was trying to hold on to that high ground. But I could see it, the look in her eyes. Doubt. Fear. That little crack in the armor.

Silence. Just the low hum of her vanity lights and the distant buzz of a dying tour outside the dressing room.

Finally, she spoke. Voice quieter than I’d ever heard it.

“Is that all?”

“Oh, honey. That’s just the beginning.” I laughed, dry and bitter. The kind of laugh that says you have no idea what’s coming.

I pulled my phone out of my back pocket, tapped the screen, and held it up.

The first video played. Grainy, but clear enough. Olivia on stage at last night’s rehearsal, hurling insults at the stage manager because her monitor levels weren’t “right.” Screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Are you fucking deaf?! I said I wanted more bass, not this amateur garbage!”

She tensed. But I wasn’t done.

Swipe.

Second video. Backstage, caught through a cracked door. Her throwing a coffee cup at her assistant. You could hear the impact, see the assistant flinch, then Olivia’s voice loud and clear.

“You’re useless. I should’ve had you replaced with someone who knows how to fucking listen.”

I watched her jaw clench, her arms fold tighter.

Third video. This one got real quiet, real fast.

It was her berating the promoter's wife after the last show, completely unaware someone nearby was recording. Slurring her words, drunk and furious, yelling.

“I don’t care who the fuck you are, get out of my space. I don’t talk to people who wear discount perfume and Walmart shoes.”

I paused the video. Let the silence stretch. Let her feel it.

Then I looked Olivia dead in the eyes.

I waved the phone like a loaded gun. “I send these to the press. TMZ, Perez, People, Twitter, hell, even TikTok. Don’t think I won’t. Your reputation’s hanging by a thread.”

I slipped the phone back into my pocket, let the tension hang in the air like a guillotine waiting to fall.

She just stood there, silent, pale, shaken for the first damn time on this tour.

I turned to leave, hand on the door. But before I could take a step, I heard her voice, tight, rushed, almost cracking.

“Wait.”

I paused, not because I cared, but because I wanted to see how far she’d sink.

She took a breath, tried to collect herself, like she was bracing to perform again, except this time, the stage was her own damn mess, and there was no crowd to fake it for.

“Look... I know I’ve been difficult lately,” she started, voice suddenly soft, eyes wide like she was trying to fake sincerity. “This whole tour’s been overwhelming. The pressure, the stress, the expectations, sometimes it gets to me, and I take it out on the wrong people.”

I tilted my head, arms crossed.

“You finished?”

“I just want to make things right,” she added, reaching out like she was going to put a hand on my arm. I didn’t let her. I took a step back.

“You’re full of shit, Olivia.” My voice didn’t raise. It didn’t need to. It cut deeper calm. “You’re not sorry. You’re cornered. You know damn well if those videos get out, your career takes a nosedive off a cliff.”

She looked rattled, but only for a second. That’s when the switch flipped.

The apology mask cracked, just a flicker. And in its place came something colder. Calculating. Her eyes dropped to the floor, then slowly dragged up to meet mine again, this time with a different kind of intent.

She walked closer. Real close.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “If you won’t take the apology… maybe I can offer something else.”

Then Olivia reached out again, this time not for sympathy. This time her hand grazed my belt.

“You delete those videos…” she murmured, voice low and dripping with poison, “and I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll get on my knees and show you how grateful I can be.”

And just like that, the last shred of respect I might’ve had for her curled up and died on the spot.

In one seamless, snake-like movement, her hand unbuckled my belt, and my jeans dropped to my thighs. She didn’t look up for permission, didn’t even pretend this was anything other than leverage, her painted lips parted, and she spat, wet and hot, right onto my cock. The cold-eyed calculation didn’t waver for a second, even with saliva stringing from her tongue, she was all business. There was no lust, no pretense of seduction, just the pure, transactional ugliness of it.

I half-wondered if she’d ever done this before, no, stupid question, the answer was in the way she handled me, no hesitation, no effort to pretty it up.

Her mouth wrapped around me, tongue swirling in practiced arcs, like she was ticking off a list in her head. Every move mechanical, efficient, designed to finish the job as quickly as possible so she could get back to her pretty little kingdom, crisis averted. She bobbed her head, keeping rhythm like a metronome, one hand bracing at the base, the other curled around my thigh.

Slurping noises were heard, as Olivia deepthroated, hard, swallowing with a click of her tongue, and I felt the sharp edge of her back teeth drag along the underside. She didn’t once break eye contact with my cock, didn’t look up at me, not for connection, not for any sort of validation.

Olivia gagged herself on purpose with a little choke at the end of every pass, spit pooling at the base. She worked my dick over, focused and impersonal. Every second she spent on her knees was a second Olivia wasn't running her mouth, and truthfully that was the closest thing to peace, while being around her.

I gripped the back of her head and caught a fistful of her hair. She made a sound, not a yes or a stop.

My hips jerked, hard and steady, and I watched the way her lipstick smeared up the shaft and left streaks on her chin. Olivia planted her hands on my hips, maybe trying to push off, but she didn’t try very hard. She knew the score. The wet sounds grew louder, obscene and echoing in the dressing room.

I curled my fingers into her hair and yanked, hard enough to tilt her face up, hard enough to make her eyes finally meet mine. I drove my hips forward, burying myself deeper into her mouth.

Every time I bottomed out against the back of her throat, her eyes watered, smeared mascara running down. I almost laughed. All that perfect stage makeup, now ruined, made her look more human than she ever had standing on a million-dollar stage.

When I finally finished using her mouth, she spat on the floor and coughed, stringing saliva between her lips, not even bothering to hide the disgust.

“There. You satisfied?” she sneered, bitterness scraping out every word.

“Not yet,” I told her.

I gripped her hair in my fist and gave it a tug, hard enough to make her gasp, and used the leverage to walk her across the floor on all fours, towards the couch that was in her dressing room. I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to. Every step was a punishment, every clench of my hand in her expensive hair shoving her further past the illusion of control. I felt the little shakes in her neck, the way she tried not to whimper, the quick, shallow breaths against my wrist.

Moments later, we were both naked as the day we were born, with the exception of the boots and fishnet stockings Olivia still had on. I grabbed her legs, pulling her to the edge of the couch, before getting in position and burying my shaft into her sex hole. She was wet, hotter than a fever, tighter than I would have guessed for a girl who used her mouth as a weapon and her body as a shield.

My cock split her, inch by inch, while she glared at the ceiling, refusing to give me the satisfaction of a moan. I drove into Olivia, as her hips jackknifed at the edge of the couch, ass pressed to my thighs so hard I knew she’d have bruises tomorrow. I grabbed tighter at her hips, bruises already blooming, and pounded in and out of her pussy.

There wasn’t a hint of affection in the way I fucked her. No preamble, no softening at the edges, just raw, and relentless. I slammed into her with the same ugly frustration she’d put us through every day, every rehearsal, every damn time she humiliated someone who was just trying to do their damn job. As hard as she tried not to moan, and she really did try to to moan, no doubt not wanting me to have that satisfaction, unfortunately for Olivia though, she let one out.

“Ugh, fuck”

The sound ripped out of her like she was disappointed in herself for letting it slip. I didn’t slow, didn’t grant her the mercy of a softer angle, if anything, I doubled down, grinding her pelvis between my hips and the ridge of the couch. Her breathing grew ragged, little inhalations, caught between gasps and silent swears.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the combination of our bodies in a frenzy creating an intoxicating aroma.

“You like that?” I spat, voice meaner than I’d ever heard it. “You like being used? Or is it just that you can’t stand not being in charge for five fucking seconds?”

She tried to talk back, but it came out as a gasp, then a curse.

“God, fuck… you’re such an asshole…”

Olivia twisted, almost managed a snarl, but I could feel it, the tremble in her thighs, the way her hands clawed at the sofa for something steady, anything to hold onto. Her fishnets long since torn, ladders running up the length of her legs, and with every thrust her boots dug deeper into the arm of the couch, leaving black smudges.

My cock pistoned in and out of her, fast and hard, until I felt myself pulsate, before my baby batter surged through her well fucked pussy.

Once I caught my breath, I got dressed again, and looked past her, and for a split second, I saw something flash in her eyes, a cocktail of shame, nausea, relief, and the secret pride of someone who never loses, no matter what they have to do to win.

“Videos,” she demanded.

I scrolled through my phone, thumb hovering. Her gaze tracked every twitch of my finger. When I hit ‘delete,’ she actually unclenched, her whole body folding inward the way people do when the threat passes.

“Don’t ever fuck with my crew again,” I said.

“Only if you promise to keep fucking me like that,” She answered back.

I left her there, legs still splayed, makeup ruined, hair a rat’s nest of knots and humiliation. The star on her door looked less smug on my way out.

The hallway felt brighter. I passed the tech guys, huddled around their phones and Red Bulls, the same as always, except this time there was a charge in the air, the faint ripple after the bomb went off. They looked at me, and I looked back, and in that silent exchange, I realized how quickly a story travels in a place like this. They didn’t need the details.

The End

[NikMorningstar]

This was amazing!

I hope you do more of Olivia.