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xblackreader · 4 days ago

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MUSICIAN!CARMY X JOURNALIST!SYDNEY

thank you bruce springsteen movie for this idea this is just a drabble!!!!! i may turn it into a fic but idk

WC : 1.1k

"No I don't have a ticket." Sydney murmurs after being pulled to the side by security, her hands fish into her side bag. Pushing through pens and full notebooks, she drags out a lanyard and hands it to them, "And his manager should have told the venue I'm coming, I'm Sydney Adamu." Looking up at the unphased man. His lips are curves down, nostrils pushed out as he breaths. He doesn't say a word to her, grabbing a walkie-talkie and mumbling something into it. She barely catches anything, only hearing descriptions that sound scarily like her.

'Braids— Yup. 'bout 5'5— Alright.' He slips it back into his pocket and finally looks at her, his head cocks towards a door labeled 'STAFF ONLY' she raises an eyebrow, but he just repeats the action. "I need my lanyard." She perks up, he hands it to her. Slamming it into her hand. She nods and moves towards the door, pushing through. Eyes dart towards her.

Shes convinced herself that she's not a journalist. That she's snuck in, made a fake ID. She can feel the sweat dripping down her back as she wanders, completely unsure where she's going. "Miss Adamu!" A voice rings through, a man who couldn't be taller than 5 feet wanders towards her, a grin plastered on his face as he grabs her shoulder. "We was starting to think we'd never see ya'!" He laughs, Sydney mirrors it as best as she can, Her laughs dry and short.

He drags her forward, bringing her to a room with people dressed nicer than her. She knows it now, it's the cops. They're taking her out and she's losing her job at the Chicago times. Her breathing is labored as they finally stop, "Miss Adamu here is your place! Watch, drink, enjoy. Write down on your little notebook and tell us how it all is." Her breathing returns back to normal, almost at a snap. "I was only supposed to be here for an interview." She finally says, scratching her neck. She can see his manager scrambling, his tongue darts out before he begins. "He ain't do interviews." He shrugs, and it's so blunt that Sydney doesn't believe it. "You said I could do an interview. I drove an hour for an interview, not to watch his show."

She heats up a little, a free concert is nice but she's not sure "Our Music Journalist saw a Concert!" is a front page show stopping title, he's scrambling again. "I'm just the manager, not the man." He says, and Sydney can feel the eyes back on her. Yet these ones are dressed much nicer than the rest of the staff. She's sure he'd give them an interview. She sighs, "If I'm not getting the interview I'm leaving." She sternly says, and his hands fly up. Muttering defenses, he's stumbling. Words lace together in his panic. And in the blink of an eye the lights dim down and a voice rings through the speakers. "Welcoming our own hometown hero.. You know him! You love him! Carmen Berzatto!" Cheers erupt, so loud they could probably break the glass separating them from everyone else.

She takes this opportunity to leave, pushing through doors until she reaches the street. She zips her jacket up and begins away, she wanders.. and wanders. Deciding it's futile to waste a night in town, and plus. She hasn't eaten since this morning.

She walks past restaurant after restaurant, scanning for a while. After several failed city blocks she leans against an illuminated building, pulling her phone out and scrolling through for a second. The door opens beside her.

"Hey Miss?" Someone perks up, it drags Sydney right out of her phone. The man's much older than her, but his concern makes her ignore that. She mumbles so he knows she heard her, "You hungry? We fucked up some meat. It's not bad it's just not up to standard." He laces sarcasm into the last four words, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, "It'd be on the house." Sydney just nods and moves towards him, he adjusts himself and holds the door open for her.

She knows this place, knows it well. Her dad would take her here when she was a kid. The man tells her to wait patiently. For the first time she's tall enough to stare at the pictures on the wall, scanning through them. A poster sits poorly up there on the edge, stuck there by a ball of sticky tac, 1 push pin and some tape covered in dog hair. She giggles a little.

'CARMEN BERZATTO COMES HOME! PATIO THEATER JULY 27TH 2025'

Huh.

She's overthinking it, they're pretty close together. Wouldn't be too crazy to imagine the venue just asked them to put it up. "Misses!" The same voice peaks through, holding a wrapped sandwich.

"Lookin'at that poster like you lost him at sea." He chuckles as he pushes it closer, she turns around. "Stupid question. They talk so much about the him growing up here— Is that true?" She grabs the food from his hand and stands infront of him.

The only noise that the question illicts is a small giggle, "He grew up here. He's the owners younger brother." He explains, shaking his head, he cocks his head and questions her motives. "Doesn't matter." She responds, poorly hiding her new found excitement. "Bullshit." He bickers back, squinting at her. She gives up. "I was supposed to interview him. But his manager pulled me out of it last minute."

The other guy nods slowly, hand rubbing at his mouth as he thinks, "How do I know you're not lying?" Sydney just looks at him, face flat in both disbelief and irritation. His eyes widen and his nods speed up for a second.

"He comes here after his shows. After hours most times, if you wanna wait we won't kick you out." He says, shrugging and walking away.

She stands in the lobby alone. Surveying her options, and despite her lack of faith. Thanking god for her luck. She pulls herself away from the lobby and wanders towards the back room. Finding a mostly clean table, she patters against it with her nails.

Shes in disbelief, she doesn't believe him. But oh well. It's worth a shot.

3 hours pass as she sits there waiting, several people wandered through and left. She sat there paitently.

"There you are Bear!" A new voice rings through, she hears mumblings of a conversation. Despite her nerves, she pulls herself up and peaks around the corner. He's standing right there, sweat contouring his hair. She can see the hesitance in the other man. It wasn't the same one she saw before.

His gaze drags off Carmen and over towards her, cocking his head. "The other guy told me I could stay." She was timid, the man's eyes squint. Glaring at her, "I promise." He immediately pushes through the back door. Her hand moves and offers an awkward wave towards Carmen. He mirrors it.

The man comes back out, immediately focusing back onto Carmen. His finger points towards her. In a comical motion, she turns and looks around her. When she looks back she sees Carmen approaching.

"You got kicked from an interview with me?" He asks as he walks past, plopping down across from the chair where she was just sat. She drags herself towards it, nodding. "Your manager said you don't do them." She replies, smiling awkwardly back at him.

He laughs dryly, looking down at the table. "I told my manager I get anxious post shows, he took that as 'no one talks to me ever'" He explains.

She's interviewed a million musicians, and yet this one felt different. She wanted to know more about him than the music, she wants to know why he strums his strings like that. But she can't ask that, and even if she could she's not sure she would.

"So.. can I interview you?" Sydney says, swallow as she reaches for her notebook and pen, he shakes his head. Her face drops at the drop of a hat, lips parted. "Yes you can." He quickly corrects himself, she breathes. Clearing her throat as she scans at the scratched notes sitting on the desk.

Shes interviewed fucking Beyoncé. And now she's sitting in-front of some guy who hasn't made it past the top 50 on billboard and it feels like she's talking to the creator of the universe. Her nerves are making it seem like that anyways.

ADAMU: I'm glad you could make time for me tonight, even after that big show.

CARMEN: Post show is the perfect time to interview me. I'm too tired to lie and too lazy to cover myself up when I do slip.

SYDNEY: Perfect. Let's start, I know you play guitar in your songs and live, do you play any other instruments?

CARMEN: Concert Piano.

SYDNEY: What?

CARMEN: [Laughs] I grew up catholic. Was an alter boy, did choir. I lost my voice for a few weeks when I was 15, Pastor put me on piano duty—I was almost too good. They never made me sing again.

SYDNEY: Did you enjoy choir?

CARMEN: I was good. When I was younger it was nice, I had a stutter. But when I sang it was smooth, sounded right. People never asked 'What?' I really loved that feeling. But once I hit middle school and got a speech therapist, I didn't want to be understood anymore.

SYDNEY: Do you want to be understood now?

CARMEN: Through my music, sure. But people understand what I give them, and I think in a way the beauty is people rarely do understand it. Atleast in the context of me, they get it. They apply it to themselves, that's what I like.

SYDNEY: That's really beautiful.

CARMEN: Thank you.

The interview strings on for several more minutes. It flowed like a conversation, small praises littered in about her questions. A smile was plastered on his face as they spoke.

As they finish off, Carmen stands up, offering his hand to Sydney. She grabs it and shakes his hand. "Thank you Miss Adamu." He says, dropping his hand, "Sydney." He cocks his head, "Call me Sydney." He nods and repeats her name. She crouches down and fills her bag back up. As her eyes move she sees his feet planted in the same spot. She shrugs her bag on and looks towards him.

"Do you have a way home?" He questions, it's genuine. She nods, adjusting her bag anxiously. "Is it an Uber?" He questions. She nods again, he cocks his head the same way the owner did. She complies and wanders behind him.

They step outside, staring at beat up dodge dakota. "I can take you home." He says, unlocking his car, "It's an hour away." He just shrugs. "That's fine."

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xblackreader · 4 days ago

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Kitty’s Back - Rated E

Ariel Ecton x Bruce Springteen smut??? as requested YES. DLDR.

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Bruce sat across from her, still half in his sweaty clothes, curls damp with post-show adrenaline and mischief glinting behind his eyes.

“You always start with the hard stuff?” he asked, voice low and raspy.

Ariel blinked, fingers tightening on her pen. “I… um, well, I figured we’d talk about the tour first, and then your… your latest album.” She cleared her throat, determined not to blush At his antics.

Bruce smirked, leaning forward to grab a water bottle from over her shoulder and locking eyes with her when he breath hitched at the proximity, “You’re from the Chicago Times, right? They usually send the old guys. you’re a little easier on the eyes.”

“That’s—” Her voice cracked, and she coughed. “That’s very cute. But I’m here to do a job.”

“Sorry, honey,” he said, eyes twinkling. “What’s your name again? Ariel?”

“Yes.”

“That’s real pretty. Like the mermaid.”

“Like the journalist.” She met his gaze, proud of the snap in her tone—until he grinned, wide and slow like honey.

“You always get this worked up, or is it just me?”

Ariel felt her cheeks go hot. “I’m not worked up.” She slightly whines out.

He leaned back with a chuckle at her pout, “‘course you’re not.”

And damn it, her pen did tremble just a little as she scribbled, “Interview began at 10:42 PM. Subject: insufferable.”

That flannel shirt he had shrugged on over his sweat-slicked tee was still unbuttoned, sleeves pushed to his elbows. Her eyes caught the edge of a faded tattoo on his forearm.

“You writing something flattering?” he asked.

“Something accurate.”

“Mm.” He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees now. “Let me guess—you’re new at this, but you’ve got something to prove. You dress like you don’t want anyone to notice you, but your questions say otherwise.”

Her brows lifted. “Are you interviewing me now?”

Bruce grinned. “Maybe I just like getting to know a pretty face when it’s sitting in front of me.”

Ariel laughed—an awkward, startled sound that made her cover her mouth. “You know this is wildly inappropriate, right?”

He nodded slowly. “And you’re still sitting here.”

She hesitated, then raised her pen, trying to regain footing. “Fine. New question. What keeps you coming back to the stage after all these years?”

Bruce scratched his jaw, thoughtful. “Hmm. There’s nothing like being wanted, is there?”

The air tightened.

Ariel looked down at her notebook, then back up at him, heat behind her eyes now. “So… you stay for the applause?”

He tilted his head, gaze lingering. “Nah. I stay for the ones who show up with real questions. Real hunger. Makes me feel alive again.”

A beat. Then, softer: “You didn’t answer my questions.” He says almost pouty.

“F- fine.” She huffs, “What?”

“You ever done this before?” His voice dropped just slightly, velvet over steel. “Or is this your first time?”

The heat flushed her face instantly, too fast to hide. “You mean—what do you mean?” she asked, feigning confusion, already knowing damn well what he meant.

Bruce grinned slow. “Interview. Or…” He gave a lazy shrug, letting it hang between them. “This.”

Her throat tightened. “I—I’ve interviewed people before.”

“Yeah?” he said, eyes narrowing like he didn’t believe her, or maybe just wanted her to squirm a little longer. “Anyone who looks at you like I do?”

Ariel blinked. “Mr. Springsteen—”

“Bruce,” he corrected smoothly.

“Bruce,” she echoed, firmer now, even if her voice did a little dip at the end. “I’m a professional. I came here to get your thoughts on your music, not to…”

“Fall for me?” he teased, smirking.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, more to herself than him, scribbling nonsense on the edge of her notebook. “This is so far off the rails…”

But Bruce just chuckled, eyes never leaving her. “You can ask your questions, darlin’. I’ll behave.”

And despite every nerve in her body telling her to get back on track, Ariel glanced up at him through her lashes and muttered, “Good. Because I’ve still got twenty minutes. And you haven’t answered mine, either.”

Bruce leaned back, arms stretched along the top of the couch like a lion giving her room to pounce—or run. “Baby, I’ll stay here with you all night.”

“I don’t need all night,” she replied, trying for sass but landing somewhere between breathless and brave. “Just enough to get the story.”

He grinned, slow and wolfish. “Then ask it.”

So she did.

“Why’d you stop writing love songs?”

That made him pause. His fingers drummed lightly against the armrest behind her, and the light in his eye dimmed just a touch—still warm, but quieter now.

“I didn’t stop,” he said after a moment. “I just got better at hiding ‘em.”

Ariel scribbled the words down, even as she felt them settle in her chest like a whisper. “Why hide them?”

Bruce shrugged, looking at her in that way again—like he saw things she hadn’t said aloud. “got sick of pretty girls like you with big brown eyes taking advantage of my big heart.”

She sighs heavily, exasperated, “Oh, spare me.”

“I’m serious, Ms. Ariel!” He smirks, “People get real funny when you show ‘em your heart. Either they take it or they drop it. That’s how I used to feel anyway.”

Her pen slowed.

“And now?” she asked.

“Now?” His eyes flicked to her lips. “I think I might be ready to let someone hold it again.”

Ariel’s breath caught.

The air in the dressing room suddenly felt too tight, like it belonged in a different kind of scene entirely. He looked at her notebook, then back at her. “That on the record?”

Her face falls back into a scowl he finds cute, “Will you be professional?”

Bruce smirked. “Depends. You gonna quote me? Or kiss me?”

Her jaw dropped open for a split second—long enough for him to laugh, deep and rich.

“I’m joking,” he said, not joking at all.

And Ariel, cheeks on fire, finally cracked a smile. “You’re a menace.”

He winked. “Yeah, but I’m your exclusive.”

And damn it, she really did forget her next question.

——

Ariel tucked a loose curl behind her ear and clicked her pen shut with a definitive snap, trying to reclaim her pulse and her pride all at once. “Well,” she said, standing and smoothing down her slacks, “I think that’s everything.”

Bruce leaned back against the couch like he’d just played a second round. “You sure? I could talk all night.”

“I know,” she muttered, collecting her things into a neat little stack like armor. “But some of us have deadlines.”

He watched her with that same lazy, amused interest, like she was an unsung lyric. When she crouched to zip up her bag, she felt it— that stare. She straightened, slinging it over her shoulder. Her notebook, the last thing left on the coffee table, fluttered open slightly.

Bruce reached for it.

“Hey—” she started, stepping forward, but it was too late. He had it in hand, flipping through her sharp scrawl and highlighted lines with an infuriatingly smug grin.

“‘Subject flirts shamelessly. Denies nothing,’” he read aloud, brow lifting. “That true?”

“Give it back, Mr. Springsteen.”

“Bruce.”

“Bruce,” she said, reaching for the notebook. “Give it back please.”

But he held it just out of reach, grinning wider now, the two of them caught in a ridiculous little tug-of-war.

“I like when you say please.”

She reached again over broad shoulders, standing on her toes this time, and that’s when it happened—

His hand wrapped around her waist and tugged her tightly to his solid torso.

She froze and turned. Their faces were suddenly close. His fingers still curled around the notebook, hers curled around his bicep. His cologne hit her first—cedar and sweat and smoke—and then the heat of his body, and then—

“I can have a kiss now, Ms. Ariel?” He whispers, dark brown eyes taking in the curve of her lips, “I behaved.”

“No, you didn't. Not even once.” She responds, breathless.

The notebook dropped between them with a soft thud, forgotten on the floor and their lips meet.

He kissed like he performed—intentional, hungry, practiced in how to build heat without haste. His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, fingers splayed, anchoring her like he was afraid she might slip away.

She should’ve pulled back. She knew that. She was a professional. This was her first major piece for the Chicago Times. She should be thinking about ethics, integrity, boundaries—any of it.

But all she could think about was the taste of his mouth, the faint rasp of stubble on her chin, the way he’d said Ms. Ariel like it was something precious.

When they finally parted, barely an inch remained between them. Her fingers were still curled into the sleeve of his flannel, and his forehead bumped lightly against hers.

“You always kiss your interviewers?” she whispered, voice husky.

“Only the ones who make me nervous,” he murmured back, eyes half-lidded and wrecked with want.

Ariel’s brows lifted in disbelief, breath catching. “You’re nervous?”

Bruce gave her a crooked grin, dimples flashing. “Baby, I haven’t been nervous in fifteen years… ’til you walked in here with that notebook and those big, pretty eyes.”

She bit her lip, unsure if she wanted to laugh or melt.

His hands wander until they settle themselves under the thick fabric of her sweater, pressing hot kisses over her neck as she lets his hands explore the expanse of her skin.

“You smell pretty too, all uptight and clean like flowers.” He says reconnecting their lips until she can see her tinted lip balm over his nose.

Her laugh escaped in a breathless huff. “S–shut up.”

He nips at her bottom lip, “Speak like a lady, Ms. Ariel.” He grumbles, groaning when she tugs his hair in retaliation. “Oh, you like it rough, huh?”

He bends to tug her up by her waist, catching under her thighs as she wraps her legs around his waist and carrying her over to the dresser mirror.

“This is so—,” she whispered into the crook of his neck as he carried her across the room. “You are so fucking ridiculous.”

He stopped only when they reached the tall dresser mirror, its surface streaked slightly from time and fingerprints. The reflection was almost obscene—her flushed face, sweater hiked up around her brassiere, thighs clinging to his sides, and Bruce, hair wild, mouth parted, looking at her like she was the last verse of a love song he’d never dared to write.

He leaned her gently back against the dresser, his hands never leaving her. “I’m just a man,” he said, gaze dropping to her lips again, voice low and hoarse. “And you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Liar,” she muttered, half-laughing, half-melting, “Y- You’re gonna get me fired.”

“I won’t tell, if you don’t, baby.”

He made quick work of her slacks, tugging them down her long legs with her assistance in lifting her slender hips. His fingers play with the hem of her underwear, before tugging his flannel and undershirt off and returning to the object of his gaze.

The dark patch in the apex of her womanhood enraptured him.

His eyes dipped lower, drinking in the wet spot blooming at the apex of her underwear like it was some kind of reward. Ariel couldn’t look at his eyes—not when her sweater was bunched up around her ribs, her bra shoved beneath her breasts, and her thighs clinging to either side of a man who’d been famous longer than she’d been writing book reports.

She felt so naked and so easy…

Bruce looked at her like she was sacred. Then he grinned like he was about to ruin her.

“You sure you want this, sugar?” he rasped, voice low and frayed. “’Cause once I start, I don’t know if I can stop.”

She nodded, or maybe she whimpered—she didn’t trust her voice. Not when he was rubbing his nose along the side of her neck like he had all the time in the world.

“Say it for me,” he demanded softly, but there was steel in it. One hand still anchored her by the waist, the other slid beneath her panties, fingers brushing heat and slickness. His brows twitched in satisfaction when she gasped, knees shaking.

Ariel swallowed, then gasped as his fingers found her clit. “I want it. Please?”

“Yeah?” he breathed, dragging the fabric down her legs and tossing it somewhere unseen. “And i got it for you, baby.”

He didn’t undress completely. Didn’t need to. She heard the clink of his belt, the soft drag of denim as he shoved his jeans down just enough. His hips pressed forward, cock heavy and hard against her thigh, and Ariel swore she lost her damn mind right then and there.

Bruce nudged her chin up with a single knuckle, forcing her to look in the mirror. “Don’t hide,” he whispered. “Look how fuckin’ pretty you are.”

Her sweater slid further up as he adjusted her, spread her wider, dragged her to the edge of the dresser until she felt the cool wood bite into her ass. Then he pressed inside her in one slow, deep thrust that made her eyes roll back.

“Oh—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he grunted, head bowed against her forehead. “Pretty tight pussy, fuckin’ heaven.” He roll his hips in a circle and she whimpered, pushing at his hips with one trembling hand,

“Don’t run from it, baby.”

Ariel tried to stay quiet—tried to be quiet—but he was merciless. Each thrust angled just right, each slap on her hips deliberate, and when she squirmed to shift the pace, he caught her hands, threaded his fingers through hers and pinned them above her head against the mirror.

“Keep still,” he murmured, brushing his mouth over her cheek. “Take it. You can take it.”

She didn’t know if she moaned or sobbed.

“Thought you were gonna stay professional?” he teased, hips slamming into hers. “You came in here all buttoned up and bossy… look at you now. Makin’ a pretty little mess on my cock.”

His hand slid from her wrist to her throat, fingers wrapping around gently, holding her gaze in his own.

“You like that?” he asked, voice rough, eyes glued to hers. “Want a little more?”

Bruce’s rhythm deepened—harder, rougher—planting both hands on the dresser beside her hips like he needed the leverage to drive deeper. The mirror rattled behind her with each thrust, and Ariel’s breath caught in gasps she didn’t recognize as her own.

“Goddamn,” he grunted, eyes flicking down to where they were joined. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this, baby. Fuckin’ soaked.”

Her hands scrambled against the muscles of his back before slipping up, around his neck, and into his hair again, playing with his ear lobes. He groaned into her collarbone when she tugged at the curls at his nape, but it wasn’t until she brought her lips to his ear, voice low and filthy, that he shuddered. Hips faltering.

“You like fucking pretty little reporters in dressing rooms, Mr. Springsteen?” she whispered, breath hot and sinful. “Like turning them out, stuffing them full while they wear their sweaters like good girls?”

With a wet grunt, he gasped, “F- fuck.”

“Bet you never had one talk b- back to you while you did it, huh?” she continued, teeth teasing the lobe of his ear. “You like when they talk back, don’t you?”

He cursed again, rougher this time and thrust up so hard her back arched off the dresser, one hand flying back to brace against the mirror. She groaned, breath stuttering, loving the way his control collapsed beneath her words.

“You gonna cum in me, Bruce?” she whispered, leaning back to pick his jaw up, holding his eye, “Gonna lose it inside a girl you tried to tease all night?”

His hips jerked at the sound of his name on her tongue, like it short-circuited something in him. He reached down, gripped the back of her hips hard enough to bruise, and thrust up again, again, again until she was a mess in his hands, sobbing and gasping into his neck.

“F—fuck,” he hissed, hand tightening on her hip, voice cracking, “Ariel, cum for me, honey.”

His fingers whipped around to rub gentle circles at her clit, playing her willing body like he plucked the string of that guitar watching them in the corner.

Her threshold broke, she gasped once and loudly, her eyes crossing and thighs trembling. Her mouth fell open against his neck as she cried out, soft at first, then louder when the wave hit her full force.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that.” She heard him coax, hips continuing to rsvish her at his chosen pace.

Bruce groaned at the sound of her falling apart like it unraveled something primal in him. He didn’t stop rubbing, didn’t stop thrusting—until her nails clawed down his back and she whimpered, overstimulated and too full, panting hot into his skin.

“Bruce—“ she begged, raw and desperate, “Please!”

That was it.

His whole body stilled for a fraction of a second—like something sacred breaking open—and then he groaned, deep and raw, spilling into her with a trembling curse and her name punched out of his chest.

Her reflection was ruined—sweaty, wild-eyed, mouth swollen and pink. Her sweater was tangled beneath her arms, and Bruce looked like some beautiful disaster out of a dream: hair wrecked, eyes blown wide, his jaw dotted with bruises from her mouth.

“You okay?” he murmured, brushing the tip of his nose along hers.

She could barely nod. “Are you?”

“Yeah…” He leaned forward to peck her lips again, once then twuce. “That was off the record, right?”

“Shut the hell up please.”

“I like when you say please.”

⟢ ⟢ ⟢ ⟢ ⟢

so yeah. sorry.