inspired by obsessed by olivia rodrigo
Every time Olivia closes her eyes, she can see her.
Her beautiful hair, sunset-golden shining against brown. The perfect sculpt of her brows, naturally beautiful. How her eyes proportion with her full lips, with her sharp angular chin. The way that bikini tops, loose t-shirts, anything hugs her curves.
Olivia see her when she opens her eyes, too. An array of photos on Google, from every possible angle. The harsh glare of the red carpet, the blurry smear of unexpected paparazzi, the golden hour glow of her latest project. It's ridiculous, isn't it? No matter what angle she's taken from, no matter what lighting or setup, she always looks flawless. Even in her lighter makeup looks, the stuff that's meant to exaggerate her natural face.
There's articles, too. A big name like hers doesn't spend that many years in the spotlight without page after page about her dating life. Chase, Zach. Oh, Zach.
There's pictures of them kissing online. And she tells herself it doesn't matter, they don't even talk. They look happy, her and Zach. They look so fucking good for each other, too. Zach and that nonchalant look in his half-lidded eyes, every black strand of his partially-shaven beard standing out in stark overexposure. Madelyn and her beautiful, lush lips, porcelain skin kissed by the sun, and the way her eyes aren't so dark that they can still gleam in the light.
She wants good things for them. She really, really does. But laying in his bed....
He's out for the night. It's common for him: if there's a party, he's turning the discs. Head nodding to the rhythm, keeping time with the sounds that pull everyone in. He's nearing on ten years of his sleek fingers deftly swapping between songs, controlling the mood of a place. He knows how to lift someone's spirits, for sure.
But now he's not here. It's just Olivia and this king-sized bed.
The evidence is nearly long gone. The sheets have been washed and mussed by many nights sleeping by his side. But when she peels aside the tossed blankets, there's an indentation in the mattress, almost the same shape as Olivia, but not quite.
She lies down in it, back arching to settle into a hip depth that's lower than what she's used to. And when she closes her eyes, she imagines the long lashes, full lips, and curvy hips that lied in this bed before.
What would it be like to be her? Slightly taller, much prettier, effortlessly so. Zach would have been younger then. Would he have clumsily caught his belt on its hooks as he struggled to undo it? Would she have laughed and assisted him?
Her photo is still up on Olivia's phone. Head tilted back in laughter, smile controlled so as to seem friendly, seductive. Brows painted on with precision. She makes it look so easy.
And her lips look so beautiful. What if they were Olivia's? If Zach's lips pressed against Madelyn's, and Olivia could feel it.... His stubble, rough and ragged against her skin. Madelyn's breath intensifying, the slope of her chest rising and falling. Just at his touch. The clamminess of his fingers, cold and shocking, gripping her long, golden locks, fingers digging between each wavy strand.
Olivia's own breath tightens. She grips the satin of her boyfriend's bedsheets and squeezes her eyes shut.
Phantom hands trace down her body. And her phantom hands reach back, expertly finding all the places that Olivia never could, the places that make Zach's own body stiffen, make his movement slow for a bit as he reacts. Then his own force intensifies, and his chest is pressed against hers and his breath is so so hot against her perfect manicured lips that have to be botox, right?
His own fingers fumble for cloth, nothing like the plain t-shirts and mini-dresses that Olivia gravitates to. No, she's wearing that bright blue bikini, a color that has never been flattering on her but somehow works, when her skin is golden and bright and her hair is the color of whisky. And his hands are undoing the straps of it, reaching to the skin beneath it, and oh.
