#lost and found music studios imagines

[multifandomsimagine]

Imagine John confessing to you through song

Standing on the Bull Pen's stage, John's grip tightens on his guitar and he looked at everyone begin to surround the stage. It wasn't like he was getting stage fright. He had performed many times before in front of all the members of Lost and Found and he enjoyed being on stage. No, the reason he was nervous was because of the song he was about to perform. The one he had written for you.

He had been in love with you ever since the both of you joined Lost and Found and the interactions the two of you had only cause him to fall deeper and deeper. You had taken over his every thought and had been the inspiration for the last ten songs he had written. So what better way to confess to you than through song.

Seeing you stand in the front row, smiling encouragingly as you tried making him feel better, thinking that nerves had got the better of him, only made him feel more nervous. Taking a breath, he adjusted his grip before beginning the opening notes of his song.

"I slept alone in the van

You brought me breakfast in bed

I wrote it down in a song."

[aleksatia]

What would the LaDS do if MC just had enough of the whole secret keeping/manipulation/stalking/controlling behavior and ran away? Like she made sure all of the ways they're keeping tabs on her don't work anymore, secretly leaves to live elsewhere, and never comes back? Like she's GONE gone and can't be found.

Thanks so much for the question and the idea — it made me spiral beautifully into angst territory. 🖤 At first glance, this is how I imagine things would unfold in my headcanon.

Every LaDS reacts differently, and honestly… some of them never really recover. I poured my heart into each of their perspectives, so if you see it another way, I’d love to hear your take. Always open to different interpretations — especially when it comes to pain like this. 😌✨

UPD: Requested continuation is here:

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne (coming soon) | Xavier (coming soon)

🦅 Sylus

(He doesn’t lose things. He takes, he keeps. But this—this is loss. A slow-rotting, world-tilting, soul-gnawing kind of loss.)

The Moment It Hits

It’s a shift in the air. An emptiness where something vital used to be. His breath catches, fingers tightening around the crystal glass of whiskey.

He calls you. Nothing.

He tracks you. Nothing.

He tears the city apart—contacts, satellites, underground networks. Nothing.

Then it hits. You’re not hiding. You’re beyond reach.

Does He Blame Himself?

At first, no. You’re just being difficult. Testing limits. He trained you too well in the game of power.

Then the days stretch. The silence rots in his gut.

Maybe he pushed too far. Held too tight. Loved too hard.

But if he had been softer, would you still be here? No. You were always going to run. He just never thought you’d win.

First Day

He sits in his study, staring at the last glass you touched. His fingers hover over the rim, but he doesn’t pick it up.

The Nest is in chaos, men scrambling for orders, but he says nothing. Just listens to the empty resonance where you used to be.

He doesn’t sleep. He barely moves. And when dawn breaks, he realizes—you’re still gone.

First Week

The silence is unbearable.

He smashes a mirror. Then a chair. Then an entire fucking room. But the noise doesn’t bring you back.

Music. That’s the answer. The organ swells under his fingers, but the sound doesn’t fill the void. It just makes it worse. The walls of his mansion tremble with the weight of his grief, but no one dares to stop him.

The first time he says Kitten, it’s barely a whisper. The second time, it’s a growl. The third—it’s a plea.

First Month

He kills a man just for saying your name. He kills another for looking at him wrong.

The city learns to be silent.

The organ plays every night, each melody heavier, darker—until one evening, he simply stops. Because music is agony now.

He thinks he hears you sometimes. A shift of fabric. A sharp inhale. But he turns, and there’s only the crushing weight of absence.

Five Years

People say he’s gone mad. That he talks to ghosts. That he’s lost his edge.

They don’t understand. He hasn’t lost it. He just has nothing left to prove.

He still feels you. Somewhere distant. Beyond his reach but never truly gone.

New Relationships? Don’t be ridiculous. He fucks, maybe. But no one’s ever allowed to touch his soul again.

He doesn’t chase anymore. Because one day, the universe will break in just the right way, and you’ll be within reach again.

And when that day comes—you’re not running anymore.

🌊 Rafayel

(He always smiled through pain. Painted beauty over grief. But when you disappeared, not even art could hide the collapse.)

The Moment It Hits

He waits three days before admitting to himself that you're really gone. Not late. Not upset. Gone.

Your studio key still sits on the shelf. The mug you always used — untouched. He tries calling. Messaging. Pretends he's not panicking.

Then he checks every port, every passage, every gallery, every alleyway where your soul might've left a trace.

You’ve vanished. And he knows—you didn’t want to be found.

Does He Blame Himself?

Every minute.

He retraces every word, every joke, every lingering glance he didn’t take seriously enough.

Maybe he should’ve said it clearer. Or sooner. Or not at all.

Maybe if he hadn’t tried so hard to keep it light, you would’ve known how deep he really felt.

First Day

He draws you. Over and over. Not from memory — from guilt.

He tries to remember how your mouth looked when you smiled through frustration. How your eyes dimmed when you thought he wasn’t watching.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t sleep. Paints until his fingers bleed.

First Week

He keeps thinking he hears your voice in the wind. That you're just out of frame.

Sits by the harbor, waiting for a boat that never comes.

Finishes a canvas. Stares at it for an hour. Then sets it on fire.

Tells himself he’s fine. He lies beautifully.

First Month

People ask where you are. He says you're traveling. Or healing. Or chasing a dream.

But the gallery knows — there’s a new collection in the works. All unnamed. All in shades of drowning.

The walls of his home are covered in your outlines. He keeps the lights low. Pretends it’s intimacy, not absence.

The world starts to lose its color. For a man who once saw millions of shades, everything dulls. Muted. Grey.

He stops using yellow entirely.

First Year

He vanishes beneath the sea. A whole year. Gone.

They say he swam through old ruins, sang to coral reefs that didn’t sing back.

He gathers shells—perfect, fragile—and crushes them into powder, making pigments no one's ever seen.

But they all come out grey.

When he finally resurfaces, his skin is colder. His voice is softer. His art—wordless grief on stretched canvas.

When asked what inspired them, he says: “Nothing. She’s not mine anymore.”

And when no one’s looking, he traces your initials into wet paint. Every time.

Five Years

He exhibits a piece called "When Silence Learned to Scream." It sells for millions. He doesn’t show up to the opening.

He no longer draws faces. Only fragments—lips that look like yours, fingers that used to hold his brush.

He’s touched people. Kissed some. Loved none.

He still sets a second cup of coffee. Still leaves the balcony door unlocked. Just in case.

The color never comes back. He just learns to fake it.

He doesn’t wait. He just… exists beside the ghost of you.

✈️ Caleb

(You were the only thing that made him feel human. Now, he’s just another machine built for war—functional, efficient, and dead inside.)

The Moment It Hits

He notices the silence first.

Your messages stop. Your routine shifts. Something’s off, but he tells himself you just need space. You’ve always needed space.

He checks on you through the usual systems—his eyes, the satellites, the passive trackers he swore weren’t invasive, just precautionary.

Nothing. Not disabled. Not broken. Gone.

His knees hit the floor before he can stop them. His hand wraps around the metal tag you gave him—the one he swore never to take off. It digs into his palm so hard it leaves a mark.

Does He Blame Himself?

He doesn’t even need to ask. Of course, it’s his fault.

Maybe if he had held you a little looser, if he had let you breathe, if he hadn’t always been watching, waiting, bracing for the day you’d run.

Maybe if he had been less Caleb and more someone you could love without suffocating.

But it’s too late now.

First Day

His body stops feeling like his own. Like his mechanical arm, the rest of him loses sensation.

He moves, eats, speaks, salutes—out of habit, not need.

But sometimes, when no one is watching, the pain surfaces.

And when it does, it swallows him whole.

First Week

He takes every mission no one else wants. The more dangerous, the better.

Tells himself he’s just doing his job, but deep down, he’s testing fate. Daring it to take him.

It never does.

He always comes back. And he hates it.

First Month

He stops cooking. No more spices, no more warmth, no more shared meals.

Only bland, military rations. Fuel, not food.

He doesn’t touch your photo albums, but he doesn’t throw them away either.

Let them rot with him.

First Year

He hasn’t eaten apples since the day you left.

Too sweet. Too alive. Too much like you.

The dog tag you gave him is still around his neck. A brand. A wound. A curse.

He tries. Once. With a woman from the med bay. She was kind. Gentle.

But when she reached for his hand—his jaw locked, his throat closed, his stomach churned.

He excused himself. Never tried again.

Five Years

His name is legendary. His rank? Higher than anyone imagined.

The man who never dies. The ghost pilot. The one who walks away from wreckage without a scratch.

He used to hate attention, but now? Now his inaccessibility makes women chase him more. He lets them. But never sees their faces. Never lets them touch his scars. Never lets them hold him the way you used to.

Because pain is all he has left of you. And he’s not ready to let it go.

🧊 Zayne

(Some men burn in their grief. Some men drown in it. Zayne? He freezes. The world still turns, the city still moves, and he walks through it like a ghost wearing a doctor’s coat. Precise. Detached. Functioning. But never living.)

The Moment It Hits

He finds out through absence, not presence.

You were always predictable in small ways. The way you fidgeted when nervous. The way you always texted before vanishing for a few hours. The way you left traces of yourself in his space, even when you didn’t mean to.

But one day, all of it stops.

Your number disconnects. Your bank account closes. The security cameras catch nothing. Too clean. Too final.

You didn’t just leave. You erased yourself.

Does He Blame Himself?

No. Not at first.

Because blaming himself would mean accepting that he miscalculated, and he does not make mistakes.

He spends months analyzing. Running simulations. Mapping out every logical reason why you left.

None of them make sense.

Then, one night, while sitting alone in his office, he makes the mistake of asking himself the one question he’s been avoiding—

What if it wasn’t logic? What if it was just pain?

That’s the first time he doesn’t sleep.

First Day

The hospital is quiet. Too quiet.

He operates. He consults. He performs at peak efficiency because the alternative is stopping, and stopping means thinking.

At the end of the day, he unlocks his apartment and stares at the empty space where your things used to be.

He stands there.

Just stands there.

First Week

His routine doesn’t break. Not once.

5 AM runs. 12-hour shifts. Research until 2 AM.

No deviations. Because deviations lead to cracks.

The first time someone mentions your name, his scalpel slips.

It never happens again.

First Month

He starts closing doors he once left open.

Stops looking at his phone. Stops checking messages.

Your coffee order is deleted from his usual café’s system.

He doesn’t erase you. That would be emotional.

He simply moves forward.

First Year

He doesn’t say your name anymore.

When people ask, he says you’re gone. No details. No elaboration.

But his residents whisper.

How their attending stopped smiling. How he works more than sleeps. How his precision became ruthless.

They never mention the fact that he never, ever, takes cases where patients have your eye color.

Five Years

The rumors are true. He has a daughter.

No one knows the mother. No one dares ask.

He never talks about it, never brings her to the hospital, but he leaves every shift at exactly the same time—always back before she falls asleep.

He teaches her to count constellations on the ceiling. Reads her anatomy books like fairy tales.

She has your eyes. People notice. Whisper. But no one asks.

And when she laughs—it’s a sound that shatters something in him.

When she asks, “Was Mommy like me?” He pauses. Looks at her. Then, softly: "She was... the part of you I’ll never be able to explain."

He never married. Never will.

And sometimes, when the room is too quiet, and she’s asleep in his arms—he looks at her face and wonders if loving someone this much was ever ethical.

🌌 Xavier

(He doesn’t fall apart. He folds in. Quietly. Gracefully. Like a dying star still casting light no one realizes is already gone.)

The Moment It Hits

It starts with your resignation.

No dramatic exit. No farewell. Just one line in the system: “Resigned. No forwarding information.”

You, who lived for the Hunt, for duty. You, who said this was everything.

He tries to message. Silence.

Asks around. Friends. Colleagues. Command. They say you just… vanished.

Then one day, he walks past your old apartment—someone else lives there.

Your scent, your presence, your trace in the universe—gone.

Does He Blame Himself?

He tries not to.

Tells himself you were always drifting, always meant to disappear.

But the silence between you, the things he never said— “Stay. I need you.” “I was never calm, I just didn’t know how to show it.”

They echo in his mind louder than any explosion.

He doesn’t hate himself. But he never forgives.

First Day

He stays on duty longer than needed.

Doesn’t take off his coat. Doesn’t go home.

Doesn’t even speak, unless the mission demands it.

At night, he stares at the ceiling and wonders if you’re staring at the same stars.

First Week

He starts bounty hunting again. Harder. Deeper into uncharted zones.

He sleeps more—but worse. Dreams flicker like static.

When he returns, they say he’s become faster. Colder. Lethal.

No one dares ask why.

First Month

He stops wearing light colors.

White fades into grey. Grey fades into black.

He says nothing about the change.

But those who know him realize: he’s mourning.

And it’s a mourning that will never end.

First Year

Women try. Of course they do.

He’s distant. Beautiful. Untouchable.

He lets a few in—physically. But only when the emptiness claws too loudly.

He never sees their faces. Never lets them stay the night.

One once whispered, “I could love you, if you let me.” He didn’t respond. Just walked away.

Because you never had to ask. You already did.

Five Years

He’s still hunting. Still tracking the lost, the dangerous, the damned.

He walks through warzones like a shadow of starlight.

No one has seen him in white in years.

They call him a myth. A legend. A ghost.

But he’s just a man who would trade eternity for one more day with you.

Just one day.

Just once—to see your face again.

[hoshifighting]

Producer!Woozi x Celebrity!Reader

— Synopsis: You and Woozi have admired each other's work for a long time. Now, he has the opportunity to produce an album with you. Working on an album for a worldwide artist like you brings him immense joy... and turn-ons. — WC: 4.8k — WARNINGS: Smut, studio sex (Universe Factory), oral (f.receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, fingering, clit stimulation, g'spot stimulation, aftercare, reader fangirling over Woozi shirtless in Ruby's M/V mentioned.

Your name is splashed across big screens from Times Square to the Grammy Awards. Music didn't just enter your life; it crashed in, loud and powerful, sweeping you off your feet. It became your everything. 

You went from singing in front of millions of people to strumming your guitar alone in a poorly illuminated room, lost in your own world. Music was your passion, your escape, and your purpose all rolled into one.

With that passion came endless opportunities. You were constantly on the move, traveling from one country to another, meeting people you once only dreamed of being in the same room with. You found yourself breathing the same air as your idols, sharing stages with legends. 

Friendships blossomed, some fast and fleeting, others deep and lasting. The world knew your name. Your songs played in every state, on every continent, bridging gaps between different cultures and bringing people together.

Those cultures left a mark on you too. 

You soaked in the richness of each place, each new experience shaping your music and your perspective. You remembered your early days, the hunger for inspiration, the late-night searches for new artists. 

One night, you stumbled upon a webcam live stream with a bunch of boys in a neon green melona room. You laughed and loved watching them, their energy infectious even through a screen. You became a fan, following their journey as you built your own.

But here's the thing about being a superstar: time is never on your side. Your schedule was always packed, and despite being in contact with some of the Seventeen members through DMs and mentioning your admiration for them in interviews, meeting them in person was a challenge. You were in Seoul for a tour once, and they appeared on your show, but there was never enough time to truly connect.

Now, after years of hectic schedules and fleeting encounters, you finally had a moment to breathe. You were working on a new album, and for the first time in a long time, you had the opportunity to switch things up. Your usual producers were fantastic, but this time, something different was calling you. An opportunity was waiting in South Korea, and it had your heart racing with excitement.

You, your manager, and the company representing the group had been in talks for months, working out the details. The goal was clear: to collaborate with Woozi, the musical genius from Seventeen, on your new album. 

When your team informed Woozi that you had just arrived at HYBE, his palms began to sweat. He never imagined he’d get to work with someone of your caliber. The fact that you specifically wanted to work with him made it all the more surreal.

As you walked through the HYBE building, your assistant and one of the staff members gave you a tour. You were almost giddy with excitement. The walls were lined with photos and awards, the air buzzing with creativity. When you finally approached the recreation area and spotted Woozi, his cheeks turned a shade of red. He was nervous, but seeing you smile so brightly at the sight of him sent a sense of relief through his system. 

You were genuinely happy to see him.

As you step into the recreation area and see Woozi standing there, your cheeks flush a deep red. You can’t contain your excitement. "Woozi, I'm so happy to see you," you say, extending a hand, unsure if a hug would be appropriate.

He senses your shyness, and, in a moment of genuine openness, he breaks through his own reserve and gives you an awkward hug. It's brief and a bit clumsy, but it’s sincere. As you pull away, you swear this is the happiest moment of your life.

"I’ve admired your work for so long," you say, your eyes sparkling with genuine admiration. "Your music is incredible."

Woozi shakes his hands in front of him, a shy smile spreading across his face. His long hair swings slightly as he responds, "Oh, no, really, it’s nothing compared to what you’ve done. I'm honestly just honored to be here with you."

You laugh softly, feeling a bit more at ease. "Are you kidding? I still remember hearing your solo for the first time and just being blown away."

Woozi's cheeks tint pink as he looks down, scratching the back of his head. "Thank you, that means a lot coming from you. I remember when we all watched your first big performance. We were in our green room, and we were all just in awe."

You grin, recalling that exact moment you first saw them. "I remember that! I was so inspired by you guys. It’s amazing how things come full circle, isn’t it?"

He nods, his eyes meeting yours with shyness "It really is. I never thought I’d get the chance to work with someone I looked up to so much." Woozi chuckles softly, breaking the silence. "By the way, I saw your post on Twitter about wanting to visit the Universe Factory—my studio."

Your eyes widen in surprise, and you cover your face with your hands. "Oh my God, you guys see my tweets? Oh nooo!"

He laughs, a sound that's both comforting and infectious. "Yeah, they're hard to miss," he admits. "And I may have received a few screenshots of your reaction from 'Ruby'." 

You gasp, mortified as memories of your tweets flood back. You remember typing frantically about needing a defibrillator when Woozi appeared shirtless in the music video. "Oh no, those tweets. I can't believe you saw those."

He’s grinning. "It's okay, really. It was kind of sweet to be honest. We all had a good laugh about it."

Peeking through your fingers, you sigh. "Well, now that my embarrassment is out in the open, I guess it’s only up from here, right?"

Woozi grins, a twinkle in his eye. "Absolutely. Besides, it’s nice to know we have mutual fans of each other’s work. It makes this collaboration even more special."

You nod, recalling how your fanbase and Seventeen’s had always gotten along so well. “Our fans really hit it off, didn’t they? It’s like they’ve been rooting for this collaboration all along.”

Woozi smiles and gestures for you to follow him. “Come on, let me show you the Universe Factory.”

Walking into his studio, you’re immediately struck by how incredible it looks. Purple lights cast a calming glow over the space, and the view from the windows is breathtaking. Everything, from the colors to the high-tech equipment, is perfectly arranged. You can tell he put a lot of effort into making this place special.

“Wow, Woozi, this is amazing,” you say, your eyes wide with admiration. “I always saw photos of your studio, but in person, it’s even better.”

“Thanks, but it’s just a studio.” Woozi’s shy smile returns, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes. “I wanted it to be just right for when you got here. I spent the whole week cleaning and moving things around. Even used some scented sprays.”

You laugh, feeling a snugness in your chest. “You didn’t have to go through all that trouble for me, but I appreciate it.”

He shrugs, his smile widening. “I wanted everything to be perfect.”

Woozi shows you some of the instrumentals he’s been working on, and they’re incredible. The beats blend seamlessly with the lyrics you sent him, and you can already hear the potential for something amazing. He’s practically buzzing with enthusiasm to hear how your voice will mesh with his music.

“Let’s get you in the recording room,” Woozi says, leading you to the booth.

You put on the headphones and glance through the glass at Woozi in the control room. As you start warming up your voice, he watches with a small smile. You can see him scoffing lightly, clearly amused by your funny warm-up techniques.

He presses the intercom button. “I’m definitely going to use that later.”

You sulk playfully, giving him a pout. “Come on, don’t make fun of me.”

He laughs, the sound filling the control room. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just cute the way you warm up.”

Rolling your eyes but smiling, you turn your focus to the paper in front of you. Woozi cues up the beat, and you start with a rough draft, feeling your way through the melody. Even in this initial take, Woozi can’t help but feel impressed. Your voice is powerful, yet it fits perfectly with the track.

You glance up occasionally, catching Woozi’s eyes. He gives you a thumbs-up, his appreciation evident even through the glass. As you continue, you find yourself getting lost in the music, and Woozi’s focus never wavers. When you finish, you look up to see him grinning widely.

“That was just the warm-up?” he says, pressing the button again. “I’m really excited to hear the final version.”

You laugh, feeling a rush of confidence. “Yeah, just the warm-up. Wait till you hear the real thing.”

Woozi nods, eyes gleaming with joy. “I can’t wait. Let’s do this.”

You start to sing for real now, fully immersed in the music. The lyrics flow smoothly, and your voice dances effortlessly over the instrumentals. When it comes to a tricky melisma, you frown slightly, pausing to ask Woozi through the intercom;

"Which tone should I use for this part?"

Woozi, equally focused, listens intently as you demonstrate two different versions. Both sound amazing to him, and he takes a moment to think. He taps his chin thoughtfully before pressing the button. "Try the second one, but start a half-step higher and then slide down smoothly."

You nod, absorbing his suggestion. You take a deep breath and try it his way. The moment you hit that melisma, sliding down effortlessly, the note hangs in the air. Woozi’s eyes light up, and he gives you an enthusiastic thumbs-up from the control room.

As you're in the middle of recording, Soonyoung suddenly appears in the studio, his presence bringing an unexpected burst of energy. You catch sight of him through the glass and wave enthusiastically, a big smile spreading across your face. Soonyoung returns the gesture, his excitement palpable even from a distance. He settles on the couch behind Woozi, watching the two of you work with keen interest.

Woozi presses the intercom button and gives you a nod. "Try going a bit higher for the adlibs."

You nod and sing the section, hitting the high notes while looking at Woozi for confirmation. He listens intently, his gaze dark in focus. “You did so good. That was perfect.”

You can hear Soonyoung’s voice from the back. “He never praises us like that.”

Woozi turns in his chair, giving Soonyoung a deadly glare. 

Soonyoung, unphased, grins and stretches as he stands up. “Alright, alright. I know when I’m not wanted,” he says dramatically, walking toward the door. Just as he’s about to leave, he pauses and turns back. “But after you’re done recording, we’re taking you to dinner Y/N. No excuses.”

You give him thumbs up. Feeling the warmth of their camaraderie. Woozi shakes his head but smiles, turning back to you. 

“Ignore him. Let’s finish this up. You’re doing great.”

After skipping through some tracks, you find yourself sitting in Woozi's incredibly comfortable chair, fiddling with his equipment. The buttons, dials, and sliders are all so intriguing, and you can’t help but feel like a kid in a candy store, discovering new settings and features.

Woozi watches you from a few feet away, arms crossed, a smile playing on his lipsㄧHe knows you’re no stranger to studios and equalizers, but he loves seeing the joy in your eyes as you explore his setup like it’s the coolest thing in the worldㄧHe wonders if your producers ever let you have this much hands-on control.

“Hey, Woozi, how do you tweak the master mix settings here?” you ask, looking up from the console.

He steps forward, moving behind you. His arms come to rest on either side of the chair, effectively caging you in as he leans over to type on the keyboard. 

“You just need to go into this menu,” he says, his voice low and calm. He types swiftly, his fingers dancing over the keys. “Then, adjust the settings here. See?”

You nod, trying to focus on his explanation, but the closeness is overwhelming. You can feel the warmth of his body, his head so close to yours. 

It’s hard to concentrate when you’re not even breathing.

His voice is soft and steady, his breath warm on your skin. You watch his hands move expertly, typing commands and making adjustments with practiced ease. Your heart is pounding so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it.

“And here, you can add some reverb” he continues, “See how that changes the sound?”

No, not when he’s this near.

You nod, feeling a bit dazed. He tells you to try it yourself, and you reach for the adjustment, your hand hovering uncertainly over the controls. Woozi lets go of the mouse and places his hand over yours, guiding it to lower and raise the equalizer. His skin is soft and warm against yours, and the contact almost makes you melt on his chair.

“Like this,” he murmurs, gently moving your hand with his. “Just a little adjustment here and there.”

You can hardly concentrate on the settings, your mind fixated on the sensation of his hand over yours. 

You turn your face slightly toward his, and he looks at you, the proximity between you almost intolerable.

Your eyes lock, and for a moment, the world outside the studio fades away. His gaze is intense, filled with something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Woozi’s hand squeezes yours lightly.

You can feel your pulse quicken. His eyes flicker to your lips for a brief second before meeting your gaze again. The moment stretches, neither of you moves, both caught in the electric current that seems to have taken over the room.

Finally, Woozi clears his throat, breaking the spell but not the connection. "There," he says softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You’ve got it."

As you try to focus on adjusting the settings, Woozi leaves your hand on the side of yours, allowing you to make the changes yourself. You manage to make the adjustments, and as the sound fills the room, Woozi's voice breaks through the silence. "That's it. You're doing great." he praises.

You swear if he praises you again like that, you’re going to fucking wet his chair. You don’t even notice that you’re biting your bottom lip, too lost in the horniness.

Woozi’s words echo in your mind as you try to focus on the task at hand, but it's hard to concentrate with the way his body looks in the black shirt he's wearing. The fabric clings to him in all the right places, emphasizing his toned physique.

Every movement he makes with his hands, seems deliberate and calculated, and you can’t tear your eyes away.

You force yourself to push the distracting thoughts aside, but it's a losing battle.

Your gaze remains fixated on his hands as he places them on the border of the desk, supporting his body. His shoulders brush against the back of your head, and you can feel his presence looming over you. It’s as if he knows exactly what’s passing through your mind.

He brushes a hand over your shoulder, the sensation lingering even after he presses it between his hands in a gentle massage. You feel his lips tentatively brush against the corner of yours.

Caught off guard, you melt into his touch, your fingers intertwining with his as you lean into the kiss. His lips are soft against yours, a perfect match to the warmth of his touch. But when he catches you melting against his hand, he doesn't pull away. Instead, he turns the chair to face him, his hand sliding behind your neck to pull you closer.

His kiss deepens, and you respond eagerly, your hands sliding to each side of his face before tangling in his hair at the back of his neck. The kiss is desperate, as if you’ve both been holding back.

But when you finally break apart, gasping for breath, you realize that you can’t resist any longer. You get up from the chair, his hands desperately grab your waist, pulling your bodies together 

The way he holds your waist makes your tank top bunch up between his fingers, his palms feeling your belly's bare skin. You whimper against his lips, "Hmm, Woozi..."

He pulls back slightly, "Jihoon," he corrects gently, "Call me Jihoon."

Your stomach flutters at the intimacy of calling him by his real name. "Jihoon," you repeat softly, savoring the sound.

He smiles, a soft, almost shy smile that makes your heart skip a beat. Then he leans in again, kissing your cheek, your jaw, and your neck. Each touch of his lips sends you on cloud nine, making you arch against his chest, your hands gripping his bicep for support.

"Jihoon," you murmur again, the name feeling more natural on your lips each time.

His hands move up your sides, sliding under your tank top, his fingers warm against your skin. He pulls the fabric up, and you lift your arms, allowing him to remove it completely. The cool air of the studio contrasts with the heat of his touch, making your nipples harden.

He takes a moment to admire you, his eyes roaming over your body "You're beautiful," he whispers.

You blush, feeling a little shy under his gaze. "You too," you reply, reaching up to touch his face, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw.

He smiles and pulls you closer, his lips finding yours once more. This kiss is deeper, more urgent, as if he's trying to pour all his feelings into it. You respond with equal fervor, your hands exploring the planes of his chest, and the muscles of his back.

Jihoon’s hands move to your waist again, his fingers brushing the waistband of your jeans. He pauses, looking at you for permission. You nod, your breath hitching in the process.

He unbuttons your jeans, sliding them down your hips and letting them pool at your feet. You step out of them, standing before him in just your underwear. He takes a moment to admire you again, his eyes dark with desire, a little hidden under his long bangs.

You reach for the hem of his shirt, lifting it up and over his head. He helps you, tossing it aside. Your hands explore his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his milky skin, the steady beat of his heart.

This time, his hands roam more freely, exploring every inch of your body. His touch is gentle, yet possessive, as if he's trying to memorize every curve, every contour. After all, he doesn't know when he'll be able to touch you like that again. That is, if there is a next time.

You respond in kind, your hands moving over his body, savoring the feel of his muscles flexing under your fingertips.

He guides you toward the couch, his lips never leaving yours. You lie down, pulling him with you, your bodies molding together perfectly. He kisses his way down your neck, your chest, his lips leaving a trail of saliva in their wake.

"Jihoon," you moan, your hands tangling in his hair as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking gently. The sensation numbs your mind, making you arch against him.

Jihoon makes you relax on his couch, but you suddenly become very aware when his fingers slide your panties to the side, moistening his fingers with your lubrication. He opens his eyes to watch you squirm as your pussy sucks his finger inside without effort. His cold finger fits perfectly inside you, and you can feel him teasing to put another one. You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle your moans.

He laughs softly, taking your hand off your mouth. "The studio is soundproof. You can moan as loud as you want."

You mentally thank him because with his fingers now perfectly entering and leaving you, a loud moan escapes your mouth, and the sound of your wet pussy isn't discreet. You're loving the intense gaze he has on you, like you're about to be devoured. He tries to kiss you, but you can only moan as he fingers you.

Jihoon curls his fingers on your g'spot, repeating the motion again and again. You let out a strangled moan, squirming under his touch. "Don't do that, or I'll mess up your sofa," you warn, your voice shaky with pleasure.

He looks at you from under his bangs, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I don't care about the sofa," he murmurs, pressing a hand on your lower belly to intensify the curl of his fingers.

The added pressure makes you scream, "Please, please!"

Jihoon smirks, his fingers moving faster inside you. "Please what? Tell me what you need," he demands, his voice commanding.

"Please, Jihoon, I need more," you gasp, your body arching against his hand.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "More of what? My fingers? My mouth?" he asks, his tone teasing.

"Both," you whimper, feeling desperate for more of his touch.

Jihoon chuckles, his lips brushing against your ear. "Greedy, aren't you? But I'll give you what you want," he promises, his fingers curling and pressing against your g'spot with relentless precision.

You cry out, your body trembling. "Jihoon, I'm going to—"

"Do it," he whispers, his calm raspy voice making you bite your bottom lip. "Come for me."

Your hands clutch at the couch as Jihoon's head moves from above you to between your legs. The moment his tongue touches your clit, you can't hold back, and you come almost immediately. 

He stops for a moment, just to admire the sight of you arching your back on his couch, his fingers deep inside you, all wet as you roll your hips on them, moaning in his studio, naked. He never thought it would happen, but he isn't complaining.

You discover he's stronger than you thought when he holds your hips down to keep you in place before he devours your pussy. You roll your eyes at the sensitivity and the sight of his fangs tickling your skin, making you giggle between moans. 

The scene is completely sinful. You prop yourself up on one elbow and hold his hair up to see his face, flushed but with closed eyes, all concentrated on giving you pleasure. You find it incredibly cute, and you can't help but praise him.

"Jihoon, you're doing so good," you murmur, your voice trembling. "You're so focused, it's amazing."

In response, he sucks your clit inside his mouth, making you pull his hair a little. He hisses softly, and you quickly apologize. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

He looks up at you, a playful glint in his eyes. "It's okay," he says, his voice slightly rough. "I like it."

You can't help but moan louder as he resumes his attention to your clit. His fingers continue their relentless rhythm inside you, and you feel the pressure building again.

"Jihoon, please," you gasp, your hips bucking against his hold.

You gasp, and Jihoon stops, making your head fall back as you whine, your orgasm interrupted. He kneels on the couch, lowering his sweatpants and underwear to his thighs. You shake your head, saying, "I want you to take it all off."

He smiles, obliged, then comes completely naked over you. You spread your legs for him, wide, and he slides his cock between your folds, eliciting a whine from you. Still supporting yourself on your elbow, you grab his hair, pulling it slightly, earning a moan from him.

As your tongues wrap around each other, his cock slides inside you, and you open your mouth in a silent moan, your back plopping on the couch. He moans at the sensation of your gummy walls wrapping his cock, sucking him in welcomely. He also smiles, finding your reaction endearing.

Jihoon rolls his hips slowly, letting you adjust to the fullness of his cock. The slow stimulation draws moans from your lips, and you gasp, "Not only do you make amazing music, but you fuck so damn good too."

Jihoon lets out a genuine laugh, his breath warm against your skin. He hides his face in the crook of your neck, so shy, and you pull him back, wanting to see his eyes. He glances at you, amusement shining in his gaze.

"You really know how to flatter a guy," he chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

You laugh with him, the sound mingling with the intimate atmosphere around you. "It's true," you say, your voice lighter. 

Jihoon shakes his head, still smiling, but the moment of levity shifts as he feels your walls tighten around him. His smile fades into a look of intense pleasure, his face contorts, and he starts to moan, the sound vibrating through you.

"Oh, God," he groans, his hips picking up a rhythm that makes your breath hitch. "You feel so good."

The sounds of skin slapping, your moans, and the low hum from the computer rendering the music become the backdrop to your intense session with Jihoon. Your breasts bounce with every thrust, and your hair spreads wildly across the couch. He can feel your wetness around his cock, spreading to his thighs and the couch. You brace yourself with one hand on the couch's arm, your lips plump and sensitive from the kisses and bites.

Jihoon closes his eyes, focusing solely on the sensation of your pussy. If he keeps looking at how much pleasure you're experiencing, he might come too soon. But you can already sense his cock throbbing inside you.

"Open your eyes," you urge him, catching on.

He opens them, sulking a bit, and you give him a devilish smile. You lick your fingers, sliding them down your body to circle your clit, doubling your pleasure and his. His mouth falls open at the sight.

"Fuck, nooo..." he mumbles, watching your every move.

You revel in the sight of his abs flexing, showing that his orgasm is near. Sensing his impending climax, Jihoon pulls out, giving himself a moment to regain control. When he's ready, he slides back in, making you arch your back and curl your toes, triggering your orgasm instead.

You smile at his audacity, and he grins, seeing that his tactic worked. "F-fuck you… I'm cumming, Jihoon," you warn, closing your eyes as the pleasure builds.

He speeds up his hips, making you stop breathing for a second before a deep moan escapes from your chest. You feel yourself clenching and unclenching around him, your body shuddering as you reach your peak. Panting hard, Jihoon pulls out just in time, spilling his cum on your belly as he strokes his cock. His body trembles, and his eyes lock with yours, his bangs falling over his forehead.

Jihoon takes a long look at your spent body, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "How about a nap before dinner?" he suggests softly.

You close your eyes and nod, feeling the exhaustion settling in. "Right..." he murmurs, getting up from the couch.

You miss the warmth of his body immediately and let out a small whine. He chuckles, "I'm coming back," he assures you as he grabs a box of Kleenex and brings some tissues to clean you up. Gently, he wipes your belly and between your legs, his touch tender.

"I'm glad we finished some songs," he teases, his eyes twinkling. "You don't look like you could continue... at least not today."

You scoff, too tired to come up with a witty response. Jihoon starts dressing you, carefully slipping your top back on, your panties, and leaving your jeans off so you can nap comfortably. Once you're settled, he dresses himself quickly.

From the corner of the studio, he fetches a thin blanket draped over a poltrone. He covers you with it and then lays down beside you, pulling you close.

"You really wore me out," you murmur, a hint of amusement in your voice.

He grins, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Likewise," he says. "But it was worth it."

You let out a contented sigh, feeling more relaxed than you had in a long time. "I can't wait to hear how the songs turn out," you confessed, your voice growing dreamier with each passing moment.

Jihoon hummed in agreement, his fingers resuming their soothing motions on your back. "Me too," he murmured. "But for now, let's just enjoy this."

And so you did. Wrapped in each other's arms, you drifted off into a peaceful sleep, you snuggle into him, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling you towards sleep. 

[the-californicationist]

Solomon's Seal

John Price works hard to maintain his self-discipline, but sometimes he loses his grip on that fiery temper of his. When he needs help to feel in control again, he turns to you and your impeccable rope skills. You try to keep things professional, but that proves challenging for both of you. After all, John is just a friend, one of your best clients… so why do you keep imagining him as more?

TW: rope bondage, femdom, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, female genitals. Please check AO3 link below for full tag list.

Big huge thank you and kudos to the amazing and beautiful @gemmahale for her ideas and support on this one! Love you, bestie.

You had cleared your schedule the moment you hung up the phone with him. His voice had sounded so strained, like he was struggling to say the words. You knew that, sometimes, John Price’s work asked too much of him, but this time, he seemed so far beyond his usual level of need that you decided it was better to play it safe and cancel all of your other clients for the week. 

As you cleaned your studio, you made additional preparations. Something in your gut was telling you to prepare for the worst. You did your best to remember what he liked. No music, low lights, a soft fan for a bit of a breeze, and jute ropes — none of the synthetics in sight. You eyed your collection; eight hanks should have been enough, but you grabbed four more from the back room just to be sure. 

You never really pried into his life during his visits, knowing there was probably much he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell you. He had given you just enough information for you to understand the basics, and you had scoured the internet with those small clues to uncover the rest. At best, he was a soldier, handling the expected dangers and stressors of the job. At worst, he was a literal weapon, aimed and fired at His Majesty’s darkest enemies; a demon hunter meant only for darkness and secrets and pain. 

When he had come to you last November, bruised and battered, craving your particular set of skills, you had surmised that it was the latter. Sometimes, when you caught a glimpse of the news, you looked at the bombed buildings of Urzikstan for a sign of him, hoping you wouldn’t see one. When there was a battle lost or won, plastered across the front page of the news, you wondered if he had been there in the thick of it, protecting the world from the monsters that ravaged that land, keeping them from your privileged doorstep. 

You checked your clock. He’d be in from Heathrow within the hour. You got to work in the wet room, digging around for the soaps he liked best. His favorite bathing oil was a complex, spicy mix of coriander, basil, and bergamot scents. You’d never admit it to him, but you used it when you found yourself thinking about him, unable to get your equally complex, spicy warrior out of your mind.

John was so different from most of your clients. Many people who came to you were usually seeking something other than what you were prepared to give them. Half of your customers came for sex, for which you added them to your blacklist. The other half was a mixed bag seeking humiliation or reassurance, trying to use you and your art as an alternative to counseling or as a way to explore their kinks. They usually didn’t return after they experienced the level of your craft. You did have a handful of repeat clients who appreciated the practice itself, but they usually had their own partners to play with. You were just a novelty to them. An escape. 

Working as a traditional Bakushi was no fleeting hobby, not for you anyway. For you, it was a spiritual calling. John was one of the only clients who understood that and actively wanted to learn more. He had asked for stretching routines, breathing exercises, and advice on meditation. Your soldier was the real deal, even if he couldn’t remember any of the terminology to save his life. You were just happy he had managed to adopt the word shibari into his vocabulary. You could forgive the rest. He didn’t need to know the names of the knots or the positions of the body in order to benefit from his practice. 

Your doorbell rang. You took a breath to calm yourself. You needed to be centered for John. Yes, you were excited to see him, but he needed you to be his rock right now, and you needed to push your own desires out of your mind.

The door cracked open, and there he stood. He was just as you remembered him, but he looked like he’d been through hell. Those bright blue eyes were sporting a dark, purple shiner on his left orbital bone. He had cut his lip across the top and bottom, a red line still marring the sensitive flesh. John had cut down his beard to a more manageable level, but his hair was long and unkempt. What worried you most were the dark red welts he wore around his neck. It looked like ropeburn. 

“John,” you smiled softly, “So good to see you again. Please come in.”

The formalities of such a polite greeting seemed silly to you after what you had been through together. Sessions with John were always… intense. 

He stepped into your foyer, looking at you like he had missed you, but you didn’t allow yourself to give in to the fantasy. He needed you to be professional, and you had a job to do.

You took his hand and led him into your sitting room, offered him a glass of water, and sat beside him. He held your hand in his, refusing to let go, playing with the small bones in your middle finger absentmindedly. You smiled at him, enjoying the quiet of his presence, letting yourself take in these silent moments, unwilling to break the spell of peace until absolutely necessary. 

He seemed content to bask in the tranquility as well, happy to rub your delicate knuckle back and forth with his thumb, letting his eyes explore you, lingering on your long, silk robe, his gaze burning into your sternum at the join of your breasts. 

“How can I help you, John?”

He took a long breath through his nose, his eyes diverting back down to your connected hands; shame, regret. 

“I lost control, again.”

You had heard those words from him before. When he first found you, he told you about his temper. He hadn’t given you any details, but apparently he had hurt an enemy beyond what was necessary. Something he had done had changed him. He wanted to be different, to be more even-keeled, so he’d come to you for help. 

“The same as last time?” You asked, hoping it would be better than you suspected.

“Worse,” he looked up at you and flashed a tight-lipped, bitter smile. 

You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. 

“Tell me what you need,” you ran your other hand across his wounded cheek, watching as the shine of his eyes gleamed in the low light. 

His emotions were at war all over his face. His wet lashes, the twitch of his lip, his darting, avoidant eyes; you could almost hear him fighting in his mind. You put a stop to it, scooting closer to him on the deep sofa, holding his stubbled chin in your hand, 

“Hey, you know you can tell me. If it’s within my power to give it to you, you know that I will.”

“I know, love,” he nodded his head, “I think you might try to talk me out of it, is all.”

You stayed silent, waiting for him to work it out. Rebuilding your trust together after some time apart wasn’t something to be rushed. Finally, after a few moments of thought, he studied your face and admitted his desires,

“I want it all. Just like last spring, but more. I need more.”

Your eyes widened before you could stop yourself. You remembered last spring. Vividly. In fact, you had thought about that appointment more times than you would ever admit. He had pushed himself so far, he’d trusted you so deeply, and you’d watched him heal from his wounds. He’d found a new kind of peace. You remember holding him, still bound, both of you sprawled across the floor, sweaty and grinning, your foreheads pressed together, sharing in his joy. 

But, you also knew that him wanting more meant that you would be restraining him from head to toe. He’d done arm and chest bindings with you, and in the spring, you’d put him in a single-leg frog tie. But, you’d never done full body work with him. For all of his progress, John still had issues letting his power be taken from him. He wanted to be in control, almost to the point of obsession, and it was only when he was in your ropes that he was able to practice internal control over himself without threat of judgment or danger. He could examine his temper in your safe setting, testing it like a scientist, finding new strengths within himself, mental hurdles to overcome.

However, you worried about what his mental state would be like when he was fully at your mercy. Had he ever been at anyone’s mercy? You doubted it. 

He could see you rolling over the problem in your mind, watching as you thought it through, imagining the possibilities. 

“What d’ya say, love? Think we can try?” His eyes met yours, and you nodded. 

“Yes, let’s try.”

“I might… uh,” he hesitated, clearly unsure of how his next request might be received, “I’m not sure how to say this, but I might need you… after. I know that’s not what you do, but after last spring, I thought you might make an exception.”

You were fully aware of what he meant. Last spring, laying there sweaty and swimming in euphoria together, you had broken your own rule. You’d let your body slide over John’s naked, tied form, and you’d rubbed his cock across your belly and on top of your pussy, sharing an orgasm together. It was reckless of you, and fully outside of the scope of your role, but it was what was right for you both at the time. He hadn’t asked for a repeat performance, always the perfect gentleman, until now.

You nodded, 

“Thank you for asking. We’ll see how it goes, and I’ll check in again at the end. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You moved to leave the comfort of the sofa, but he caught your hand,

“Can we start now? Just a bit. If that’s alright.”

“Alright,” you agreed, “Any new injuries I should know about?”

His face stretched into a boyish smile,

“Too many to count.”

You shook your head, ducking into your studio to grab one hank of rope,

“You’re the only one who gets a pass on that, you know.”

You watched his eyes dart to your hands as you untied the bundle, looping the rope end over end, making your first bight. His energy was electric, but you could see something dark slithering underneath. 

“I’ll start now, but you need to talk to me. What makes it worse now, John?”

You stood in the middle of the room, watching as he moved into position in front of you. You waited patiently, not needing to give him instructions. John knew what you wanted from him. 

He avoided your question, going through the motions of preparing his body for your work. He tugged off his coat and tee shirt, raking it over his broad back, and you tried to ignore the aching red marks that littered his scarred skin. Then, he unbuckled his belt, letting the metal tip clatter and clang in the quiet room, dropping his jeans and peeling off his shoes and socks. Naked, he folded his clothes and lay them to the side. Then, he found his neutral position, kneeling at your feet, palms flat on his thighs, head bowed as if in prayer. 

“Hands behind your head, palm to palm,” you spoke your first command, listening to the timbre of your voice and knowing it was different. You were changing into the person that he needed; someone strong, unyielding. 

He complied, but he looked a little surprised. You’d never asked him for this position before, but you knew it would get his attention. He would feel the vulnerability of it immediately, his sensitive ribs and armpits exposed. 

You started your work, tying his wrists carefully, making sure to leave the proper amount of room, running the rope, rubbing between the soft jute and his hairy skin to check and double check it for safety. As soon as you had one wrist bound, you moved to the other and heard him begin to talk. 

“I nearly lost one of my men last week. Good bloke. Took a bullet for me, so I broke the rules.”

“Which rules?”

“All of them,” he looked up at you, rueful and yet unrepentant.

“Would you do it differently,” you admired the smoothness of his wrist, watching as his pulse beat just under the thin skin, rushing through blue veins, “If you could go back in time?”

“No,” Price’s voice was like that of a beast. A dragon. It was a short, simple word, but within it, you understood exactly the feeling of vengeance he was carrying within it. No, he would not go back and change his actions. He would repeat them. That much was clear. 

“It doesn’t sound to me like you were out of control, then,” you looped the knots of his wrists around a temporary harness, simple and quick. This was just for now. You had bigger plans for him after you bathed. 

John’s mouth turned up into a wry smile, thinking about your assessment, then he said,

“You might be right, love. But, I’m here. I needed this. Needed you. There must be a reason I feel so bloody lost.”

“Let’s find your way back, then. Stand up.”

You led him by the end of the rope to the wet room. The off-white tiles glowed yellow in the candlelight you had prepared, and as you turned on the tap, the room filled with steam. You watched John’s face become indecipherable as you untied the ribbon of your robe, letting the silk pool at your feet, stepping into the shower before him. 

You pointed to the small stool in the middle of the wide shower, 

“Sit.”

It was a huge installation. During the build process in your renovated space, you’d asked for two large rainshower heads and a massage wand with a flat drain in the center. John knelt in between the two heads, but well within reach of the wand. You switched it on, watching the water jerk and flow through the metal hose, holding it towards your chest and out of his eyes. 

You started with his feet, washing them with only warm water first before moving the wand up his legs, wetting his body in stages. You didn’t use your hands yet, but you were eager to. John was quite the specimen, and you felt yourself flush as your eyes explored his body, lingering on places they really shouldn’t. 

You were adamant that you were a sex worker who didn’t have sex. You tried to make it abundantly clear that your clients were paying for shibari practices only, and that you did not do… happy endings. Other than your encounter with John, your clients orgasmed alone, and you went to great lengths to ensure it remained that way. But, here was your weakness, asking you to wash him while he was in your knots, warning you that he might crave a sensual aftercare scene, that he’d been thinking about you. It made your skin flush, and even though you were comfortable in your own skin, his obvious desire for you in such a carnal way made you hyper-aware of your bare flesh. 

The wand sat back in its hook, water paused, and the only sounds were the quiet drippings against the tile, a slight sucking from the drain, your breathing. You scraped the soap into your palm, making sure to lather it into a rich, thick foam. You stood, walking around him to his back, and began with his bound hands and arms, rubbing his warm, swollen muscles with your palms, spreading the suds over him liberally. 

A long, animalistic groan shuddered through John’s lungs, echoing in the bath. It set your nerves on fire to know that you were giving him such pleasure. You wanted more. 

You moved to his back, massaging the scented soap into his body, working his skin firmly to promote his bloodflow. As you made pass after pass, his moans became steady and breathy, his mouth hanging open, unable to fight the relaxation he was experiencing. 

You washed his legs and feet, needing to bend over him in order to reach the length of his huge thighs. In doing so, your bare breasts came in contact with his back, only light tapping at first, swaying forward as you washed him. You could tell that he could feel you, and he froze, his noises of pleasure turning into hitched breaths, shocked and inaudible. 

Your clients usually washed themselves, but John had asked for special treatment, and this was a new experience for you, too. You tamped down on your excitement, but you couldn’t hide your nature. As you leaned forward to wash his knees and shins, ankles and feet, you had to press your soft tits and contrastingly taut nipples against him, over and over, like two inkless stamps, leaving impressions on his wet skin. 

Standing again, you waited to give yourself a minute to compose your emotions. The tips of your hair were damp, and your chest was shining from his soapy torso. You tried to wipe the shine away, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. He needed to be looking inwardly, finding his deeper meaning. Staring at your gleaming, sensitive tits was not what he was paying for, no matter what your biology might have wanted. 

You stepped around to his front, and you marveled at how big his frame truly was. While sitting, even though the stool was low, his eyes were directly in line with your furry mons. If he only tilted his chin up a little, he could lick…

Your mind clamped down on that thought like a vice. You breathed steady, kneeling before him and reapplying the soap to your hands, trying to refocus yourself on your work. 

That was proving more difficult by the moment. Washing his broad chest was like something out of a dream. His nipples were so responsive, and now you could see the way his face twisted with pleasure as your hands massaged your serums into his skin. Every swipe over his pink nubs make him gasp in a new pitch, his brow furrowed with desperation, but his eyes stayed pinned to the tile, just like he was meant to. You expected all of your subs to avert their gaze, to concentrate on their mind, and you made it clear that the practice would stop if they lacked the discipline to do so. 

You had never been more grateful for that standard, because if John’s sharp, pale blue eyes found yours right now, you might not be able to keep yourself from losing your own control. 

You stepped out of the shower for a moment, grabbing the tie from your robe, slipping it out of its loops. Then, as a way to anchor yourself, you wrapped it tightly around your wrist, twisting the knots you made so that they would face inwardly, the discomfort reminding you of your duties as his dominant. It would work for now, you hoped. 

Already, you could feel yourself coming back online, as if someone had splashed cold water in your face. That was, until you turned back to John and saw the last part of your process.

You peered down into his lap, hands full of creamy suds, ready to wash his belly and his nethers, only to discover that he was as hard as steel. His cock flagged tall and curved, tapping on his abdomen, far beyond his bellybutton, giving you a reminder of what was plaguing your dreams. It was beautiful. The uncut skin of his shaft folded around the rim of his ruddy head, eager to be slicked down so that you could tease the tip of him. His balls were round and full, hanging as he sat on the edge of the bench, and all you could think about was what delight was stored within them, ready to burst.

You focused on your knots, letting your one ribbon keep you grounded, and you finished the job. Your hands rubbed soap along his belly, fingers dancing through the thick happy trail of his lower abs. He was built like a workhorse, and although he was fit, his body was well-fed and wide, his core wide and protruding with his strength, thicker as he sat on the stool. There was no bodybuilder’s trim waist. He was all power, heavy and built for unimaginable destruction. You’d never seen his equal, nor a man even close to his immense form. If someone had told you John was one of Zeus’ many bastards, roaming the earth immortal and inhumanly large, you might have believed them.

“I’m going to wash the rest of your body. Remind me of your safeword so that I know you can use it,” you commanded softly, hearing your own voice bounce around the hollow room. 

John did not meet your eyes, fully committed to his submission, but you could see his cock pulse with anticipation. He spoke quietly but clearly, 

“Red.”

“Louder,” you instructed. 

“Red,” he obeyed. 

“Again.”

“Red.”

“Again.”

“Red.”

“Good. Stand up.”

You needed to make sure he was ready to proceed. John, experienced as he was, could get stuck in his sub-space just like anyone. So, you made him practice, let his mouth feel the word again and again, primed and ready to be used. 

Finally, you reached for his genitals, washing his cock and being mindful of where you spread the soap, scrubbing ever so gently down his ballsack, and then swiping across his cleft, washing through his legs to clean every last bit of him. 

Then, trying to be almost clinical about it, you washed him off, cleansing his lower extremities to ensure his comfort before hosing down the rest of him. 

Finally, you shut off the water and began to towel him dry, wiping at his dripping skin, trying to ignore how his body’s heat seemed to radiate onto your bare body, inviting you to lean just a little closer, to press into that lovely burn. 

But, you didn’t. You discarded the towel and untied your wrist cuff, leaving it with your robe. You reached behind John’s head and unbound the center knot of his ties, allowing him to bring his wrists to the front of his body like handcuffs. You used the end to lead him like a prisoner through your space, parading him to the studio quickly and quietly, eager to begin the main event. 

Once inside the studio space, you finished untying his wrists, setting him free once again. He looked down at them, running his fingertip across the raised ridges left by the ropes before dropping his arms to his sides, waiting for your instruction and guidance. 

You knelt next to your basket of rope, retrieving a hank from the stack and unwinding it. His eyes darted to your hands, watching you prepare it just for him, like a dog expecting a bone. 

“Lay in the center, arms at your sides,” you told him and watched as he followed your instruction. He was less hard now, more relaxed than before, but before long, as he lay there letting his excitement build, he strengthened again, his prick bowing up onto his stomach, flushed and full. 

You got to work. Your first goal was to put each of his legs in an advanced frog tie, turning his body on its side so that you could bind his ankle to his thigh, first one leg and then the other. Once his initial ropes were in place, you checked their tension, moving two fingers around and around, trying not to notice his mounting enthusiasm every time you brushed along his inner thigh. Then, once you were satisfied, you helped him into a kneeling position, pushing a thin buckwheat pillow under his knees for comfort. 

He shook his head, 

“Don’t need it, love. I wanna feel the floor. The pain… helps.”

You eyed him, turning your lips into a soft grin, 

“If this were a normal session, I would give that to you,” your tone got his attention, and he did look at your face now, needing to see your intent, “But, what I’m about to put you through is something different. Trust me, John.”

“I trust you.”

He settled into the pillow, returning to his meditative position. You took his hands in yours and held them between your two palms, squeezing them tight, binding them without rope for a moment. Then, you began to breathe in deep, cyclical patterns, over and over. He breathed with you, and you saw the tension leave his face. Whatever had happened to John on this last tour was plaguing him, and you slowed things down to give him a chance to control himself again. 

He breathed in with you, and his air rushed out with yours, washing over your skin like a summer wind, keeping your body responsive to him. Every now and then, as you meditated together, you caught his eyes fixed on something other than the floor. He was staring into the darkness between your legs, shadowed by your body and covered with curly hair, hidden from him in plain sight. It was hard for you to focus, knowing he had his mind on your body, but eventually, he averted his gaze, focusing inwardly again. 

Finally, when you felt his heart rate slow, you used another hank of rope to create a short waist belt, applying more tension than usual as you fed it along his hips, knowing his thick ass and thighs could take the pressure. Still, you were adamant about safety, watching him every moment for discoloration or discomfort. 

He was fidgeting now that the tighter straps were on him, and you saw him closing off his stance, bringing his knees closer together. You caught him, and used one of the loops on his thigh to pull his legs apart again,

“Spread them. Let the pressure flow through your belly and out of your center.”

“Aye,” he sighed, settling into the pain and doing his best to spread his knees wider, concentrating on the feeling. His cock was leaking now, leaving little dark marks on the canvas of his knee bolster, bobbing between his legs as he spread them wider, shining and wet. 

You grabbed another rope, trying to hone in on your work,

“I’m going to bind you in almost the same style we practiced last spring, but it will be modified to provide more of that challenge you’ve been looking for. Place your hands behind your back, palms on your elbows, if you can.”

Not every sub had the flexibility to obey, but John did. He’d been doing his stretches. As he assumed his position, his arms’ placement made his chest broad and high, stretching his pecs open while his back was pinned, the skin folding in on itself as his shoulder blades folded back like featherless wings. You threaded your rope over his shoulders, centering the bight at the back of his neck for an anchor point. It was essential that no pressure was applied to the front of his throat, and you were ever-mindful of the fresh injuries that marred his neck. 

“What happened here?” You asked, letting your finger pass under a rope that lay on his injured skin, making sure it was loose and gentle. You would give him tightness elsewhere. 

He was hesitant to answer you, but he shrugged,

“Bastard came up behind me. Before I could react, he had the wire around my throat.”

“Did you escape on your own?” You pried, trying to keep him talking as you started the long process of his arm binding. 

“Aye. He was so busy trying to choke me, he forgot I still had free hands and plenty of bloody knives in my belt.”

You praised him for his openness,

“Good.”

“Is it?” Now, you heard the doubt in his tone. It made you pause, but you simply continued with your ties, not allowing him to know that you were challenged by his cynicism or regret or whatever darkness was making him lean on his fear and anger instead of his peace.

You left his question unanswered, allowing it to hang in the air between you, forcing his mind to dwell on it. You needed him to answer it within himself before you went opening more portals to other emotions and struggles. 

You added more and more rope to his binding, and when you finished, you pulled the cord forward across his chest, resting it below his nipples, making sure to graze them as you checked your tension, enjoying the trembling shudder that came from him as your reward. It was the most advanced harness you had performed in a long time. This one was unforgiving. He couldn’t twist left or right. His shoulders were forced down and back, shrugged tight against his body, and his arms were completely powerless. He could pull and heave to try and move his hands away from his back, but there was no escape.

You sat across from John once more, holding his chin up so that he would know you expected him to look at you, and you asked him,

“Do you have any pain or tingling?”

“No.”

“Say your safeword to me one time.”

“Red.” 

“The next step will be the final rope, and then we can sit together for as long as you need. Do you want to continue?”

His eyes stared into yours with a bright clarity, and he answered softly, 

“Yes.”

You could tell that he was slipping deeper into his sub-space. His eyes softened, but his body shivered. If you brushed your fingers along his ribs, his muscles would kick and jerk. Anything harder, like a deep tissue massage against those huge thighs and he whined for you, smokey and gravelly, full of feral need. 

You moved behind him, taking a rope and placing it across his forehead, using your hand to tilt his head back until his eyes were staring at the ceiling. Then, you carefully crafted a face harness, making sure there was not too much pressure on his more delicate bones while still limiting his range of motion so that he was forced to keep his chin pointed up. 

You connected the rig to an anchor point on his wrists, and then you took your position in front of him again, staring at his bearded jaw and injured neck, watching his body struggle to relax into a very uncomfortable pose. 

“Breathe for me, John,” you knew it was a lot. 

Controlling someone’s body was one thing. Even Price had experienced tight knots before, but when you took control over the head, that animal instinct all humans keep deep within themselves tended to come alive. It was a primal fear. You watched John’s chest rise and fall, his stress tumbling around in his breaths as he tried to stay calm. 

You reached out both of your hands and rested them on his chest, feeling the way he jerked at your touch, overstimulated and sensitive. You pet his fur, the thick brown hair that dusted his body, soft from the oils you had used. As he breathed, you felt it moving in his lungs, and you let your fingertips ghost over his nipples, rubbing them with the backs of your knuckles, admiring the way they perked up at your attention, puffy and swollen from the unforgiving rope that made them bulge outwardly.

“Mmf–fuck,” he coughed, his eyes knitted into a worried sort of agony.

You smiled, bringing your own nipples towards his chest, letting your soft peaks brush against his hard ones, moving your breasts up and down, drawing little circles and crosses over his chest. 

You knew he couldn’t see what you were doing, but he could feel it. He knew, instinctively, and it was sending him into a drunken daze. The pleasure of your touch combined with the pain of your ropes pushed him beyond where he had been before, and perhaps it was past where you had dared to go as well. 

“Control your breaths, John. There is nothing else you are responsible for. I’ve taken it all from you. You need to breathe and to spread your peace through your mind. Focus.”

He didn’t respond, but his breathing stilled, and his eyes closed. You removed your touch from him and let him bask in the sensations he was experiencing. 

Minutes passed, then more. It had been almost an hour, and you were admiring the way he stayed strong, at first. You reached out to him to anchor him when he seemed like he needed help, caressing his arms and back, massaging the muscles that must be burning white hot by now. He was much more determined than any other sub you controlled. If anyone could handle this difficult position, it was him. But, he was not invincible. You saw the way his breathing became labored, and his cock, which was losing and regaining its hardness as time went on, throbbed from its struggle. 

“Do you want to continue?” You asked again, touching him as you had before, moving your hands from his chest to his belly, petting him rhythmically, avoiding his phallus but touching everything else around it. You knew it must have been teasing him, forcing him to imagine how your hands might feel if they reached just a little further. 

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice strained due to the position of his jaw, and you watched the bulge in his neck bob up and down.

More time slipped by. Your hands had wandered down his legs and across the soft pads of his feet. His body was buzzing with the energy he was spending in order to stay the course. He must have been far beyond simple pain at this point. You remembered a similar scene you’d experienced, and this was much longer than you ever expected to be in it. If John was anything, he was stubborn. 

But eventually, you heard him speak, 

“We knew it was a trap before we went in. I was reckless, and angry, and I wanted my fuckin’ revenge.”

He paused but you just kept up with your massage, rubbing him down, letting him know you were still there. He continued,

“That bastard was gonna shoot me,” John’s voice cracked from his despair, and you saw shining tears stream down his temples and into his hair, “It was me that he wanted. Then, my… one of my men, he jumped right in front of the gun and took the bullet for me. I thought he was dead. I thought I was, too. But, after… I left my team. Charged in alone. I did things to those men that I'll have to think about for the rest of my bloody days. I became… something else. Something… “

You wiped the tears from his face, petting his cheeks, letting your thumbs brush over his lips gently. He sighed, and you could feel his breath on your fingers,

“It wasn’t right. I knew better, I just wanted them to bloody pay. Wasn’t sure if I was going home with a fuckin’ medal or my papers. Didn’t care.”

There was a long pause, and then, his voice became small. His eyes were still fixed on the ceiling, but they were wide, full of fear and uncertainty,

“Am I a monster? Is that… Is that the real me? Who am I? What am I?”

You leaned forward and planted delicate kisses across John’s stretched neck, licking and sucking at his skin in very light, careful touches, tasting his wounds and trying to heal them.

You sat back, removing yourself from his body, letting him sit alone for a moment before you said,

“You are a human being. You are capable of love and hate, pleasure and pain. You might feel like you need to answer for some of your violence, but your own humanity is not defined by your actions. You believed that was the path you needed to take. You destroyed dangerous men before they destroyed you. That is not a monster. A monster destroys the innocent. Were those men innocent?”

“No,” he snarled, full of spit and ire.

“They made their own choices. They controlled their own lives. Your perception of your own control is too broad, John. You couldn’t save them. They didn’t need saving. You did. It was you who needed to be saved.”

“I should’ve been able to stop… to stop… stop killing. I couldn’t. I needed them to burn for what they did to my fuckin’ soldier. To my friends! Fuck!” 

John was gasping now, too full of emotion to control his breath, releasing his stress in deep, bellowing grunts. You unfastened his head harness immediately, freeing him. The instant he could move, he let his head fall forward and placed his cheek on your breast, stretching himself as far as he could, hoping you would be there to catch him. 

And you were. You held him in your arms, wrapping your own across his many knots, feeling the fibers of his ties and the smooth warmth of his body, separate but unified. You could feel his wet cheek upon your skin, his anger rolling off of him in waves. He was letting out each breath as an exhaled hiss, the fire in his eyes at full peak, a blazing rage that seemed like it would suffocate him. 

You picked up his head in your hands, resting your forehead on his and told him, 

“Let it go. Just like that. Scream. Let it out of you, John. Forgive yourself.”

He let himself go for a moment, howling like a wild boar, full of unnatural rage and pain. You heard his shouts and tucked them away from your heart, keeping them for later, choosing to just let him express it and have his crashing waves of feeling wash over you, but you refused to drown in it. He still needed you. 

“Do you forgive me?” His plea was that of a boy, innocent and achingly pure. 

“I forgive you,” you replied without hesitation, “Forgive yourself, now.”

He shook his head back and forth, rubbing his face on yours, bitter and despondent, 

“I can’t…”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m telling you to,” you barked, grabbing him at the base of his skull by his hair, forcing his head back into that same bent position, holding him by force, “Trust me, John. Say it out loud. I forgive myself. Say it. C’mon.”

“I… forgive...” 

“C’mon. I know you can do this,” you used both hands to hold his head under your control, your chests pressed together, your breathing equal and ragged, both of you pulled to the end of your abilities.

“I forgive myself.”

“Again!” You gasped. You tugged at his nape, forcing him to arch his back with what little movement he still had access to.

He grunted in response, breathing heavy, each exhale a guttural shout,

“I forgive myself.”

“Good. So good. Let it out. Use the pain; let it wash you clean.”

You let his head come forward, and you saw a new man staring back at you. Before you knew what was happening, you felt your lips crash together with John’s, sliding along his mouth, tasting him and being tasted by him. His tongue slipped into the hollow of your palate, folding and twisting for more and more control, taking you into him as much as he could manage. Then, he pulled away abruptly, resting his forehead against yours again,

“I’m sorry. I just… I feel…” You watched him search for the words, “I feel like I’m back. It’s been so long, but I can feel myself again.”

“What do you need?”

“I need you,” he tilted his head, exhausted, sitting back on his heels, his face a serene picture of peace, “I need you to touch me, like this. Please.”

You looked at him for a moment and then moved your hands between his legs, finding his warm rod waiting to be held. As soon as your fingers touched him, his whole body convulsed, and he cried out at the sensation. 

You began to rub his shaft with long, slow strokes, avoiding his head for now, finding a nice, easy rhythm, encouraging John to match your breathing. He did, stealing kisses when your faces were near one another, and eventually, you were nose to nose, sharing your breaths again, listening to the rush of air and the wet slick sound of his tacky precome being spread all over his length. 

You reached behind him and grabbed another bolster, putting the soft pad behind his back. Slowly, you helped him lay down onto it, knowing his arms would be crushed by his weight, but making sure the stress was something he could stand. His legs were spread wide, fully pliant and open to you, and you sat between them, bringing your hands back to his center, working his curved shaft up and down, watching as his belly filled with air, expanding from his breaths, only to collapse again, the muscles within him clenching and releasing in an undulating pattern of lust and need.

“Oh, fuck,” he bit his lip, wrenching his eyes shut, “Please… I need… Bloody hell, I need you, love. Please.”

“Are you sure, John?” You tried to check in with him, ignoring your own desire to immediately fulfill his wish, your pussy swollen and dripping in anticipation. 

“Yes. I want you to take me. Please.”

His eyes looked up at you, his body bent and bowed, sweet and desperate for you, looking to you for his pleasure.

Carefully, you straddled him, feeding his head between your legs, sighing with joy as his tip slotted into the soft divot of your hole. He couldn’t thrust up into you. In fact, he couldn’t participate at all. You were the only one who could bring him pleasure or bring him pain, and that thought made your head rush, making you dizzy with desire, knowing that this man, a ruthless killer, mysterious and brutal, steady and kind, all of what he was — he was helpless beneath you. 

As you sank down onto his girthy tip, your body ached from the stretch. It was an effort to fit him inside of you, and you breathed through it, wanting to push yourself flush to his hips. When you met his warm root, you shared a loud moan together, the relief overwhelming you both. 

Then, you used your hips to make grinding, wide circles, churning his cock within your core, making yourself even more soaked, feeling your movements sending repeated signals to your cunt to make more and more slick come. It seemed endless, and it pooled out of you, matting his hair and drowning his dick in hot, sticky fluid. 

He was grunting softly at the apex of each circle of your hips, his voice hoarse and full of want. You heard him wanting more, wanting you to hump him up and down, to slide yourself along his cock from root to tip. But, you were in charge, and you set the pace. So, you continued, around and around and around in an impossible spiral, using your hands to play with his nipples, pinching them cruelly, positioning them under the tight rope to make them ache to be free. 

“Ungh, fuck! You’re fuckin’ soaked, love. Feels so bloody good.”

You smiled down at him, refusing to take his bait, knowing he was beyond ready for more. 

Sure enough, he began to beg you, his skin flushed and his heart beating hard from being edged by your grinding,

“Will you fuck me… please? Just… I need… fuck, I need more. Fuck me, please! Oh, fuck…”

“Shh. Be good for me, John. Trust me.” 

You stayed the course, rocking your hips around his base, never letting him thrust in and out, just winding yourself around him like a tight spool, pushing him to his breaking point. He felt so good inside of you, and his cock was so deep, you could feel the turgid body of his shaft if you pressed down on your lower belly, your fingers finding his outline through your skin and muscles and fat, your hands making indentions in your flesh, teasing him from the outside. 

“Cut me out,” he snarled, straining against his bindings hard enough to hurt himself.

You peered down at him, slowing your hips to a glacial pace,

“You know your safeword, John.”

“Cut. Me. Out.”

His eyes were vicious when he looked up at you now. He was like a hungry wolf; his gaze held within it a dark promise that — if you cut his leash — he would destroy you. 

On one hand, your body celebrated that realization. It was eager to be devoured by this monster of a man, but you had worked hard to control your primal urges, and you decided to put your hound back in his cage. You let your hand snake around his throat, squeezing where it was safest, digging in your nails for him to feel your threat more vividly, knowing it would hurt him against his healing wounds,

“If you want to stop, say the word.”

You waited, watching his tortured face, panting and wet from tears and sweat, but he remained silent. You licked your lips, 

“You came here for a lesson in self-control, and I am your teacher.”

For the next half hour, you made sure John Price understood who was in control of his pleasure. You sat on his cock, rocking back and forth until you felt his body tense up, and then you pulled yourself off of him, leaving his throbbing prick out in the cold, tapping at your ass cheeks, begging to be let back in. 

You ignored him, touching yourself with your fingers, using the chubby flesh of his lower belly to rub against your cunt, smearing your wetness all over him as you played in your hole. 

Then, you would put him back inside and start the process all over again, grinding and stopping, grinding and stopping, until your mighty sub was whimpering for release, his balls tight against his core, ready to flood you with his come at any moment. 

Finally, when you saw how fuck-drunk he was, coming in and out of consciousness like he’d been drugged, you decided to relieve him of his burden. You caught his eye and made sure he knew what was coming. Immediately, you had his full attention. He began to chant, hoarse and rasping under his breath,

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck…”

You let the anticipation build, slipping your pussy over his head in feather-light swipes, letting your folds tickle his cockhead mercilessly. Then, you began to bounce your hips on his cock. 

“Ungh– love, I’m —” he growled, his words breathless and broken, unbridled. 

“I want your come,” you confessed, getting lost in your own pleasure, “I want it in me… Deep. In. Me,” you changed your tone, tightening your grip on the nape of his neck as much as you dared, “And I’m going to take it from you.”

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours, shining with fresh tears, overstimulated and raw. 

Then, you saw the relief smooth across his brow, and you waited for a breath before you felt it, spearing yourself on him to his hilt, plugging your cunt so that his come would be plugged up inside of you, filling your emptiest parts, making them warm and swollen with his spend. 

You felt him bursting inside of you, his girth stretching you every time he throbbed, spraying inside of you over and over, dumping his load into your soft hole. When you felt him finish, you began your grinding circles again, causing him to roll and twist, aching from the pleasure and pain. 

“Nngh… love, please… can’t… I can’t…” 

You yanked the slip tie out from under his shoulder, and suddenly, he had control of his arms again. You did the same to his legs, freeing him from your ties, ending his captivity. 

Like a flash, he erupted upwards toward you. His hands went to your hips, sitting up to hug himself around your body, crushing you to his chest and forcing you down into his lap, spearing you on his sensitive rod as if you had planned to pull him out. His mouth savaged your breasts, biting them cruelly, his fingers holding you tight enough to leave you bruised. 

You grabbed his face, holding his bristled cheeks in your hands again, bringing him up to kiss you. You pressed your lips to his as delicately as you could manage, trembling from your bliss. He kissed you back, and that’s all you did for what felt like an eon. Your mind swam through a blank, glittering cosmos, and the only thing that was real was the feeling of John’s mouth on your mouth and his sex on your sex, his hands on your body and your hands on his body, his pain and your pain, his love and your love. You and he were muddled together like pigments on a palette, jonquil and fuschia, no longer existing as one or the other and yet both smearing together, mixed and inseparable, ready to paint a bright, endless sun. 

You had melted, it seemed, under John’s sweating, heaving body. His ribs bullied into your belly every time he took a breath, and his cock had softened so that it slipped away from you. Your body ached for its comfort again, every nature-made part of you punishing you for losing it, coaxing you to do anything to get it back, to fill the space left vacant. You were tucked into his chest, folded and hiding beneath his chin, rubbing at the flat of his sternum with the back of your hand. 

His finger brushed a stray curl from your brow, touching your hair with respect, staring down at you in awe,

“My hero,” he purred. 

You smiled, kissing the stubble on his chin,

“Am I, now?”

“My head…” He stared up at the ceiling again, going to it for comfort like a long lost friend, “It’s so quiet. So clear. You’ve done that for me, and I’ll be thanking you for the rest of my days.”

“I’ll always be here for you, John. You are my muse in more ways than I’ll ever admit,” you laughed breathlessly, a little sad. It was bittersweet, falling in love with a man you couldn’t have. But, you found yourself in him and now you would need to work out how to live without that mirrored reflection. You felt linked to him, two unbroken cords looped together like Solomon’s seal, inseparable and yet laid on two disparate paths. 

“Don’t…” He said, his tone sounding even more sorrowful than yours.

You sat up on your elbow, bringing your face up to his to look at him, to see his emotions, 

“What?”

“Don’t make me hope.”

“What do you hope for?” Your voice fell into a whisper, your heart not having the strength to ask your question aloud.

He matched your tone, purring out his confession with a tired but cheeky grin,

“For a woman who can bring me to my knees,” then, his expression turned serious, and his eyes traced his finger as he played with the stray curl he had found, studying its winding path, “For a healer. Someone who can remind me of who I am. Everytime I stop to catch my breath, I’ve been hoping for you.”

Your heart stuttered, knowing that he was not a man to settle down in one place. You looked down at his chest rising and falling with his breath, matching your rhythm, unable to meet his eyes,

“How long can you stay?”

He put a thick finger under your chin, just as you had for him during his session, making you meet his gaze, 

“Let’s start with tonight…”

He planted a soft kiss on your left cheek.

“...then tomorrow…”

His lips kissed your right cheek, dragging hungrily across your skin, 

“...and all the tomorrows that you’ll give me. I’ll take them all, if you let me.”

John placed his final kiss on your open mouth, lips parted, concentrating on what he was saying. You smiled, kissing him back in earnest, 

“Tonight, then. And tomorrow.”

“And tomorrow,” he nodded, smiling brightly, rolling himself over you to shield you from the chill of the room, folding you into his darkness, safe, bound to him without a cord, knotted together without a bight, tangled for however long the strands would hold.

AO3 Link --- Thank you for the kudos!

[starsjulia]

shattered dreams // leah williamson

a/n : i long angsty one i wrote a while ago, enjoy!!!

warnings : angst, pregnancy, essential tremor.

Essential tremor, also called benign tremor, familial tremor, and idiopathic tremor, is a medical condition characterized by involuntary rhythmic contractions and relaxations of certain muscle groups in one or more body parts of unknown cause.

---

The early summer sun streamed through the open window of their cozy London flat, casting warm rays across the room. Y/N sat at the piano, her fingers dancing over the keys as she played a melody she’d been working on for weeks. The notes filled the room, rich and vibrant, each one flowing seamlessly into the next. It was a song she had written for Leah, capturing the love and joy they had found together.

As she sang the chorus, Y/N’s voice soared, filling the space with a sound that was uniquely hers—strong, emotive, and full of life. She could hear Leah moving around in the kitchen, humming along to the tune, and the familiar rhythm of their daily life brought a smile to her face. This was her happy place, where everything felt right with the world.

But as she reached the final verse, something strange happened. Her voice wavered, the note faltering as if it had lost its strength. She frowned, adjusting her posture and taking a deep breath before trying again. But the same thing happened—her voice quivered, not with emotion, but with something she couldn’t quite place. Frustration bubbled up inside her, but she pushed it down, chalking it up to a rare off day.

Shaking her head, Y/N moved her focus back to the piano, her fingers gliding over the keys. But now, the familiar movements didn’t feel as smooth as they usually did. Her hands seemed to tremble slightly, causing her to hit the wrong notes. She stopped playing, staring down at her hands as if they belonged to someone else.

“What’s wrong with me?” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head as if to clear away the strange sensation. She flexed her fingers, trying to rid them of the slight tremor that seemed to have taken up residence there. But after a few moments, it faded, and she convinced herself that it had just been her imagination.

Later that night, as they lay in bed, Leah noticed the frown on Y/N’s face and the way she kept flexing her hands as if they were bothering her. “Everything alright?” Leah asked, her voice full of concern.

Y/N hesitated, unsure if she should mention the odd experience from earlier. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said finally, forcing a smile. “Just a little tired, I guess.”

Leah gave her a look that said she wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached over and took Y/N’s hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “If something’s bothering you, you know you can talk to me, right?”

Y/N nodded, feeling a rush of guilt for not being completely honest. “I know,” she murmured, squeezing Leah’s hand back. “It’s nothing, really.”

But as the days went on, the symptoms didn’t go away. The tremor in her hands became more frequent, and her voice seemed to waver more often when she sang. There were times when she couldn’t hit the high notes that had always come so naturally to her, and it felt like her voice was slipping through her fingers like sand. She started to avoid singing certain songs, fearful of hearing the cracks and wobbles that had begun to plague her.

Y/N tried to hide her growing anxiety from Leah, not wanting to worry her. But Leah noticed the way Y/N would stare at her hands in frustration, the way she hesitated before picking up her guitar or sitting down at the piano. Y/N’s passion for music, which had always been the most vibrant part of her, seemed to dim slightly, and Leah’s concern grew with each passing day.

One afternoon, Y/N was in the studio, recording a new song she had written. As she strummed her guitar, she felt the now-familiar tremor in her fingers. She tried to ignore it, focusing on the music, but when she went to sing the chorus, her voice cracked and wavered so badly that she had to stop.

“Damn it!” she cursed, yanking off her headphones and tossing them onto the console in frustration. She sat there, breathing heavily, her mind racing. This wasn’t just nerves or tiredness—something was wrong, and she couldn’t deny it any longer.

Leah had been listening from the control room, watching through the glass as Y/N’s frustration boiled over. She pushed open the door, walking over to where Y/N sat, her face pale and her hands trembling.

“Y/N,” Leah said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We need to talk.”

Y/N looked up at Leah, her eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. “Leah… I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t control it… my hands, my voice… it’s like they’re not mine anymore.”

Leah knelt beside her, taking Y/N’s hands in hers. “We’re going to figure this out,” she said firmly, her voice steady even as worry gnawed at her heart. “But first, we need to see a doctor.”

Y/N nodded, too overwhelmed to argue. Deep down, she had known for a while that something was wrong, but hearing Leah say it out loud made it real in a way she hadn’t wanted to face.

---

The visit to the doctor was tense, both Y/N and Leah filled with a mix of dread and hope. The doctor ran a series of tests, his calm demeanor doing little to ease their anxiety. Y/N sat on the exam table, Leah’s hand firmly in hers, as they waited for the results.

When the doctor finally returned, his expression was serious, and Y/N felt her heart drop. “Y/N, the tests show that you have what’s known as essential tremor,” he said, his voice gentle but direct. “It’s a progressive neurological disorder that primarily affects your hands and voice. Unfortunately, it’s likely to worsen over time.”

Y/N stared at the doctor, her mind reeling. “My hands… my voice… what does that mean for my music?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor sighed, clearly aware of how devastating this news would be for her. “It will become increasingly difficult to perform fine motor tasks, like playing instruments or writing. As for your voice, the tremor can affect your ability to speak and sing clearly. We can explore treatments that may help manage the symptoms, but there’s no cure.”

The room seemed to close in around Y/N as she struggled to process the information. Her music—her life’s passion, the thing that had always been her solace and her joy—was being stolen from her, piece by piece. She felt Leah’s grip on her hand tighten, but it couldn’t chase away the growing despair in her chest.

“And the pregnancy?” Y/N asked, her voice breaking as she placed a hand on her stomach. “Will it… will it affect the baby?”

The doctor shook his head. “The condition shouldn’t have a direct impact on your pregnancy or the baby’s health. But as the tremor progresses, it may affect your ability to perform certain tasks, like holding the baby or caring for them in the way you’re used to. It’s something you’ll need to consider as you prepare for motherhood.”

Y/N felt tears welling up in her eyes, the weight of the diagnosis crashing down on her all at once. “But I… I won’t be able to hold my baby? Or sing to them?” she whispered, her voice filled with anguish.

Leah’s own tears finally broke free as she wrapped her arms around Y/N, pulling her close. “We’ll find a way,” Leah said, her voice shaking but determined. “We’ll figure it out, I promise. You’re not alone in this.”

But Y/N couldn’t hold back the sobs that tore through her. The future she had envisioned—of playing lullabies for her child, singing them to sleep, holding them close—was slipping through her fingers, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

---

In the weeks that followed, Y/N and Leah tried to adjust to their new reality. Y/N began working with a therapist to manage the tremors and explored different medications to help control the symptoms. But it was an uphill battle. Every day brought new challenges, new reminders of what Y/N was losing.

The joy of their pregnancy announcement, which should have been one of the happiest times of their lives, was overshadowed by the relentless progression of Y/N’s condition. As her hands grew more unsteady and her voice more fragile, Y/N found herself retreating from the things she had once loved. She avoided the piano, left her guitar untouched in its case, and stopped singing around the house.

Leah watched Y/N’s light dim, her heart breaking for the woman she loved more than anything in the world. She did everything she could to support Y/N—attending every doctor’s appointment, helping her with daily tasks that had become increasingly difficult, and constantly reassuring her that they would find a way to make it through this.

But no matter how hard Leah tried to be strong, there were moments when the weight of it all became too much. Late at night, when Y/N was asleep, Leah would slip out of bed and sit alone in the living room, her head in her hands as she silently cried, overwhelmed by the fear and uncertainty of what lay ahead.

---

One evening, as Y/N sat on the couch, absently rubbing her belly, Leah joined her, sitting down and taking her hand. “How are you feeling?” Leah asked softly, her thumb brushing gently over Y/N’s knuckles.

Y/N sighed, leaning her head against Leah’s shoulder. “I’m scared,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared that I won’t be able to be the mother I want to be… that I won’t be able to hold our baby, or sing to them, or… or be there for them the way they need me.”

Leah’s heart ached at the vulnerability in Y/N’s voice, and she wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. “You’re going to be an amazing mother,” Leah said, her voice filled with conviction. “You’re so full of love, Y/N, and that’s what our baby is going to need more than anything. We’ll figure out the rest together, I promise.”

“But what if I get worse?” Y/N whispered, her fear breaking through. “What if I can’t… what if I lose my ability to even hold them?”

Leah’s grip tightened, her own tears spilling over. “Then I’ll hold them for both of us,” she said fiercely. “We’ll adapt, we’ll find ways to make it work. You’re not alone in this, Y/N. We’ll do this together, just like we’ve done everything else.”

Y/N nodded against Leah’s shoulder, though the fear still lingered, a dark shadow that refused to be banished. But Leah’s words, her unwavering support, were a lifeline Y/N desperately needed. She wasn’t alone in this, and maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to help her find a way forward.

---

As the weeks passed, Y/N and Leah began to find a new rhythm, though it was far from easy. Every day brought new challenges, new reminders of what Y/N was losing, but they faced it together, holding on to each other through the darkest moments. Y/N started working with a therapist, learning how to manage the tremors as best she could, and finding new ways to express herself through music, even if it wasn’t the same as before.

One day, after a particularly difficult session with her therapist, Y/N came home to find Leah sitting at the piano, softly playing one of Y/N’s old compositions. It was a song Y/N had written early in their relationship, filled with the joy and hope of new love. Leah’s fingers moved clumsily over the keys, and Y/N could see the concentration on her face as she tried to play the familiar melody.

Y/N stood in the doorway, watching Leah’s awkward attempts to recreate the music she loved. And despite everything, she felt a small, fragile smile tugging at her lips. Leah looked up, catching sight of Y/N, and immediately stopped, blushing slightly.

“I was just… trying to learn,” Leah said, looking a bit sheepish. “I know I’m not as good as you, but I thought maybe… if you couldn’t play, I could learn and play for you and the baby.”

Y/N’s heart swelled with emotion, and she crossed the room, sitting beside Leah on the piano bench. “You’re amazing,” Y/N whispered, her voice thick with gratitude. “Thank you for this. For everything.”

Leah smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple. “We’re a team, remember?” she said softly. “We’ll find our way through this, no matter what.”

And as they sat there, side by side, Leah’s clumsy notes filling the air, Y/N felt a glimmer of hope return. Their future might be uncertain, and there were still so many fears to face, but they had each other. And for now, that was enough.

---

As Y/N’s pregnancy progressed, the reality of her condition became more and more apparent. Her voice grew increasingly unreliable, and the tremors in her hands worsened. Simple tasks, like cooking or writing, became difficult, and Y/N often found herself needing Leah’s help. It was frustrating and heartbreaking, but Leah never once wavered in her support.

One evening, as they lay in bed, Y/N felt the baby kick for the first time. She gasped, grabbing Leah’s hand and placing it on her belly. “Leah, did you feel that?” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

Leah’s eyes widened as she felt the tiny movement beneath her palm. “I did,” she whispered back, her voice full of wonder. “That’s our little one.”

The baby kicked again, and Y/N laughed through her tears, the sound filled with a mixture of joy and sadness. “I just… I want to be able to hold them, Leah,” she said, her voice breaking. “I want to be able to take care of them, to sing to them… but I’m so scared I won’t be able to.”

Leah wrapped her arms around Y/N, holding her close. “You will hold them,” she said fiercely. “You will take care of them, and you will sing to them, even if it’s not the way you imagined. We’ll find a way, Y/N. We’ll do this together.”

Y/N buried her face in Leah’s shoulder, clinging to her as the reality of their situation threatened to overwhelm her. But Leah’s words, her unwavering support, were like a beacon in the darkness, guiding Y/N through the fear and uncertainty.

---

As the months passed, Y/N and Leah prepared for the arrival of their baby. They attended birthing classes together, decorated the nursery, and talked about their hopes and dreams for their child. But beneath the surface, the fear of the unknown lingered, a constant companion that they could never quite shake.

Y/N’s condition continued to progress, and there were days when the tremors were so bad that she couldn’t even hold a cup of tea without spilling it. Her voice, once so strong and beautiful, had become shaky and unreliable, and she struggled with the loss of something that had always been such a fundamental part of her identity.

But through it all, Leah remained steadfast. She learned how to care for Y/N in ways she had never imagined, adapting to their new reality with a determination that only made Y/N love her more. And in those quiet moments, when it was just the two of them, Leah would remind Y/N that they were in this together—that no matter what happened, they would find a way to make it work.

---

The day finally came when Y/N went into labor. It was a difficult and exhausting process, but Leah was by her side every step of the way, holding her hand and whispering words of encouragement. When their baby was finally born, the sound of their tiny cry filled the room, and Y/N felt a wave of emotion crash over her.

The nurse carefully placed the baby in Y/N’s arms, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Y/N stared down at the tiny, perfect face of their child, her heart overflowing with love and awe. She had been so afraid that she wouldn’t be able to do this, but in that moment, all she could think about was how much she loved this little person in her arms.

Leah sat beside her, tears streaming down her face as she looked at their baby. “You did it,” Leah whispered, her voice filled with pride and love. “You’re incredible.”

Y/N smiled through her tears, looking up at Leah. “We did it,” she corrected softly. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Leah reached out and gently stroked the baby’s cheek, her heart swelling with love for her family. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re going to be an amazing mother, Y/N. I know it.”

As Y/N held their baby close, she felt the weight of her fears start to lift. Yes, her condition would be a challenge—there was no denying that. But in that moment, she knew that she could do this. They could do this, together.

And as she looked into the eyes of their child, Y/N made a silent promise. No matter what the future held, no matter how hard things got, she would be there for them. She would love them with everything she had, and she would find a way to be the mother they needed.

Because at the end of the day, that was all that mattered. And with Leah by her side, Y/N knew they could face anything.

---

Time passed, and life with their new baby became a mix of joy and challenges. Y/N’s condition continued to progress, and there were days when it was incredibly difficult. But they found ways to adapt, to make it work. Leah learned how to support Y/N in ways that allowed her to be the mother she wanted to be, even if it wasn’t exactly how they had imagined.

And through it all, Y/N never stopped singing. Her voice wasn’t as strong as it used to be, and there were times when it would shake or falter, but she sang anyway. She sang lullabies to their baby, softly and gently, her love for them pouring out with every note.

Leah would often join in, her voice blending with Y/N’s in a harmony that was imperfect but beautiful in its own way. And in those moments, as they sang together for their child, Y/N knew that they had found a new kind of music—one that was born out of love and resilience, one that would carry them through whatever challenges lay ahead.

They faced their future with hope and determination, knowing that no matter what came their way, they had each other. And that, in the end, was enough to keep them moving forward.

Together.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Judy Garland (Meet Me In St. Louis, A Star is Born, Summer Stock)— Judy is the GOAT when it comes to classic movie musicals. The voice of an angel who deserved so much better than she got. She can sing she can dance she can act she's a triple threat. Though she had a turbulent personal life (her treatment as a child star by the studio system makes me mad as hell like Louis b Mayer fight me ((she was made to believe that she was physically unattractive by the constant criticism of film executives who made her feel ugly and who manipulated her onscreen appearance by capping her teeth and using discs in her nose to change its shape and Mayer called her "my little hunchback" like imagine hearing that as a child and not having damage)) she always goddamn delivered on screen and in any performance she gave. She began in vaudeville performing with her sisters and was signed to MGM at 13. Starting out in supporting parts especially paired with mickey Rooney in a bunch of films (she's the best part tbh) she eventually transferred to the lead role. She is best known for her starring role in movie musicals like the iconic Wizard of Oz (somewhere over the rainbow still hits hard and is ranked the top film song of all time), meet me in St. Louis (Judy singing have your self a merry little Christmas brings tears to the eyes she is that powerful), the Harvey girls (she looks like a technicolor dream and sings a catchy af song about trains), Easter parade ( dancing and singing with Fred Astaire), for me and my gal, the pirate, and summer stock ( with pal Gene Kelly who she helped when he was starting out and he helped her when she was struggling). But she also does non- singing just as well like the clock ( her first movie where she sings no songs and is an underrated ww2 era romance), her Oscar nominated a star is born ( like the man that got away she put her whole soul in that and I have beef with the fact she lost to grace kelly ((whom I love but like still not even her best work)), and judgement at Nuremberg (a courtroom drama about the nazi war criminal trials). Outside of film she made concert appearances to record-breaking audiences, released 8 studio albums, and had her own Emmy-nominated tv series. She was the youngest (39) and first female recipient of the Cecil B DeMille award for lifetime achievement in the film industry. Girl was a lifelong democrat and was a financial and moral supporter of many causes including the civil rights movement (she was at the March on Washington and held a press conference to protest the 16th street Baptist church bombings). She was a friend of the Kennedy family and would call jfk weekly often ending the calls by singing the first few lines of somewhere over the rainbow (she thought of them as Gemini twins).She was a member of the committee for the first amendment which was formed in response to the HUAC investigations. Though she died far too young and tragically she remains an icon for her work and her life. As a girl who didn't feel like i was as pretty as everyone else I have always felt a connection to Judy and I just really love her.

Natalie Wood (West Side Story, The Great Race)—She went through so much shit which I know can be said for all these women but Natalie really was a star and her death often overshadows her career and life. She could make you cry, but she also had the capacity to be incredibly funny which I think is lost on people.

This is round 4 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Natalie Wood:

Judy Garland:

Judy's voice alone qualifies her for at least top ten hottest HOT VINTAGE MOVIE WOMEN. She was a truly incredible swing singer, with a stunning voice on top of her technique. Her short dark hair looked incredible in just about any style. Have I mentioned her swagger? I can’t do it justice with words. She had swagger. She was funny as hell, and clever too. Incredibly charming and cool. I adore her.

Her eyes, her voice have bewitched me

I mean how can you beat the one and only Judy? She's beautiful, her smile is contagious, the way she sings with her whole body. You can't help but love her.

Beautiful woman, love her singing voice. And she can do everything between happy or silly and angry or heartbroken

[bvidzsoo]

Love Me Like A Rockstar (Epilogue)

ー☆ Epilogue

Author: bvidzsoo

Pairing: Song Mingi x female reader

ー☆ Warning: suggestive language, cursing, smut ー☆ Word count: 8.7k ー☆ Genre: university!au, enemies to lovers!au, rockstar!au ー☆ Rating: mature ー☆ Summary: Love. You wanted none of it. You had already been heartbroken very badly once, you didn't wish to go through that ever again. But the Universe works in intricate ways and, somehow, you found yourself webbed up in a local rockstar's life, Song Mingi. He was everything you expected him to be, yet nothing like you imagined him he would be. What happens when you find mutual understanding and have heartful conversations? Will he be able to break down your walls? Will you be able to chase away his darkness?

A/N: I chose no song for this chapter, so everyone is free to listen to whatever or not listen to anything at all, however, while doing the moodboard I was listening to Power and I actually started sobbing, so uh, you can give it a listen if you wish to! I won't yap here, so see you at the end of the chapter! <3 I hope you enjoy, and as always, let me know what y'all thought of the last chapter of my beloved series. divider

Taglist: @orshii @or5i @lovely-red2 @scarfac3 @juicy-red

@sunaswifes-blog @voicesinmyhead-rc @teez-the-time @maru-matt @kyeos4ng

@deathbyyeekies @chicksmoothie @mjlbn01 @xhexy @tmtxtf

@hwashiningstar @thatfavouritesong @ateez-atiny380 @xciiiomwliah @vixensss

@catchingskzzzs @tesssaurrr @ginger-mingi @mingisbbg

⟨Series M.list ↭ Previous Chapter⟩

♫Playlist♫

3 months later

            Spring was finally approaching, the weather having turned less harsh and warmer in the span of a few weeks, slowly painting nature in its vibrant and gorgeous colors that I would never get enough of. And we were lucky the air was warmer now outside, because in the confines of the limited space of my little studio of my Arts Club at university—which is more of a storage room to be fair—the smell of fresh dye and incense mingled together almost in a nauseating way, leaving me no option but to crack open the small window of the studio. Well, since it was so high up, I had to ask Mingi to open it as I didn’t want to get on a chair as I would have had to walk to the front of the room, and I was too lazy to do that. Music played quietly in the corner from Mingi’s portable speaker as he hummed along the melody of the song, typing away on his phone as his shoulders were slouched over, head lowered.

My eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as I bit my tongue, making sure the dye spread out evenly at the back of Mingi’s head, not wanting to leave spots of his previously platinum blonde hair. Around a week ago, he and Seonghwa hung out under the pretense of watching movies and having a boys' night in which they would drink beer and maybe compose some music, however, the next day when Mingi came over to have lunch with my mother and me, his hair was short. The long strands that curled prettily against his nape and ears were gone, replaced by short spikey hair that stuck up against his head, giving him a punkish look. My mother had squealed when she saw him, touched his hair, and then cradled his cheeks, gushing about how handsome he was, making me glare at the two as they forgot about my existence. Instead, I went and set the table and left them to their usual gossiping, shaking my head when my mother told him all about the new hot doctor at work she had her eyes on.

At times, those two would get lost in their own world and forget about my existence, amusing me, but also prompting me to give them a side-eye. Don’t get me wrong, I was beyond the moon that my boyfriend and mother got along really well, but at times it almost felt like I didn’t even exist—and before you would be like Mingi and say that I am dramatic, the fact that my mother seemed to love Yunho just as much as Mingi, definitely sent me into an existential crisis after the first time she confessed she loved the two as if they were her own sons. And about Yunho, well, yes, we’ve worked out our differences—which involved a lot of explaining, invoking buried memories, and a lot of apologies from Yunho’s side—so now we were all a big happy family—family as in not to be misunderstood, we all loved each other and had a nice bond. To be honest, I felt no mal-intent towards Yunho when after a month of dating Mingi we finally decided to sit down and discuss everything with his best friend, and I even found myself now confiding in him and asking him for advice in areas Seulgi—and Wooyoung—couldn’t help, because, after all, Yunho knew Mingi best. And Yunho’s girlfriend was an absolute angel and sweetheart, I took a liking to her quite quickly and found her love for literature rather adorable as she’d often quote her favorite characters from her favorite books.

Mingi snickered as I playfully pushed his head forward as I was done dyeing his platinum hair to a regular, darker, blonde with pink hues in it. I tried to look over his shoulder to see what he found so amusing but he cradled his phone to his chest and made me roll my eyes as I walked to the sink to wash the small bowl and the brush I used to dye his hair. Mingi changed the music to something more upbeat and a lot noisier than the music he, Wooyoung, and Seonghwa made, and I came to realize the speaker was playing Limp Bizkit. I couldn’t say that I enjoyed their music too much, I preferred something more indie, but I still appreciated some of their songs. I turned on the faucet and started washing the brush first as Mingi approached me and leaned against the counter, lips pursed as he tried to hide his cheeky smile. I threw him a questioning look as I rinsed the bowl out, applying a little soap in it to wash out the dye completely as Mingi finally spoke up, “Check this out, ‘Your face is a work of art, my legs should frame it.’”

My eyebrows furrowed as I gave Mingi a confused look, quickly making him pout, “Oh, come on! It’s ‘art rizz’!”

I snorted as I placed the bowl and brush aside to dry, peeling the gloves off my hands carefully to not stain my clothes or skin, “You’ve had better ones Mings, besides, shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

“I mean,” Mingi’s eyebrows furrowed as he pocketed his phone in his light pink jeans, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He wore a white loose sleeveless tank top today, his biceps bulged from the action and I tried not to let my eyes linger on the well-defined muscles, “I definitely like the idea you’re suggesting—”

“As if we haven’t done that already.” I interrupted with a pointed look and Mingi just rolled his eyes.

“That’s beside the point,” And then he was smirking, leaning into my space as I rinsed the soap off my hands, “wait, are you suggesting something right now?”

“I just dyed your hair, Mingi, no, I’m not suggesting anything.” I sighed, unimpressed, as I shut the faucet off and grabbed a small towel to dry my hands off in it. You see, Mingi is rather…vocal with his needs and quick in executing them, so, I cannot say we haven’t been… active, if you know what I mean.

“Pity.” Mingi pouted for a second before he moved on to the next subject, his brain sometimes moving too fast for me to be able to keep up with him, “You remember that well-dressed woman from our last gig at Outlaw?”

“I sure do, she looked rather out of place with her pencil skirt and blouse.” I hummed as I leaned my hip against the sink, facing Mingi. He grinned and then fished his phone out of his pocket again and unlocked it, clicking on something I couldn’t see. Then, he cleared his throat and raised it to a higher pitch that was definitely mocking the woman’s voice.

“Mr. Song, I am delighted to let you know that Horizon Records would love to work with Noir Zenith, and we’d like to set an appointment as soon as it fits you and your bandmates' schedule. – Hong J.” Mingi bit his bottom lip as my eyes widened, prompting me to hold onto his wrist in excitement.

“Wait,” I said, eyebrows lightly furrowing, “isn’t this that super famous and huge record everyone dreams of getting signed to?!”

And when Mingi’s smile grew into a hug grin, I felt joy and excitement fill my senses as I grabbed both of Mingi’s hands, jumping up and down as he giggled and followed along, the two of us jumping in small circles like little kids. I couldn’t believe my ears, this was even bigger than the last record they agreed to sign with for half a year—the one Hongjoong helped out with—and once their contract was over, they could sign a new one with Horizon Records.

“That’s fucking amazing, Mingi!” I exclaimed loudly as we finally stopped jumping around, my heart beating fast as Mingi nodded in excitement, his teeth visible as he couldn’t stop smiling.

“I know, Wooyoung started running laps while screaming and Seonghwa cried clinging to me for half an hour when I told them.” I chuckled at the image in my head, but quickly realized the message wasn’t fresh. Before I could go off on him for hiding something so important from me, Mingi beat me to it, a knowing glint in his eyes, “Mrs. Hong sent the text yesterday afternoon and I only didn’t tell you about it because I knew we’d meet today and I wanted to see your reaction, so, don’t be mad, please.”

And how could I be mad at him when his plump lips were jutting out and his eyebrows raised in a manner that made him look adorable and heartbreaking at the same time? I huffed and squeezed his hands before I released them, trying to play off the fact that he already knew me so well, “I wasn’t about to get mad, I’m very happy for you and the rest of the boys, my love.”

Mingi giggled and looked away, the high of his cheekbones slightly flushed, and I grinned because I could never get over the fact that calling him ‘love’ or ‘my love’ turned him into a giggling and blushing mess. It was adorable, cute, and somehow still sexy, and before I would let any stray thoughts enter my head and distract me from the plans we had, I cleared my throat, “We should eat that pizza we ordered, it’s probably already gone cold.”

Mingi hummed but didn’t speak up as I went to walk towards the white sheet we had laid on the floorboards to sit on, pizza, black nail polish, Mingi’s pink beanie, and my sketchbook scattered all over it. However, before I could take another step, my feet suddenly weren’t touching the ground anymore as I was lifted by the waist, a squeal leaving my lips as I clutched onto Mingi’s bare arms, “Mingi! Put me down!”

“No.” He giggled against my neck and I felt his warm lips press a small kiss against my nape as my hair was in a bun, then he was running towards the sheet as we both laughed, the song playing through the speaker drowned out by our loudness. He finally placed me back down on my feet when we reached the white sheet and I sat down in a crisscross position, opening the box of pizza as Mingi took his seat across me. I grinned as I grabbed a slice, my stomach growling in hunger once again, and then I took a bite of the cheesy pepperoni pizza, making Mingi chuckle as he looked less hungry and less eager to devour our lunch for today. I extended my hand for his phone and he gave it to me without a word, I typed in his password before I looked through his playlist, taking bites of my pizza in the meantime. I found a slower beat that I liked and switched the currently playing song to that and then handed his phone back after I locked it, smiling as Mingi was flipping through my newest sketchbook which had mostly drawings of him.

I didn’t expect him to flip to that particular page and I almost choked as the pizza went down a little array, making Mingi smirk as he pulled the drawing closer to himself, dark eyes inspecting his sleeping form in the drawing. Well, the drawing looked completely innocent unless you knew what happened before it, and I couldn’t help but blush harder when Mingi bit his lower lip, pizza in his hand forgotten as he traced the blanket that hung low on his naked hips, torso on display and face serene as he had been in a deep slumber. When he looked up, he didn’t look much too smug, but there was a glint in his eyes that I had become accustomed to too well. He was in awe, but he was turned on, and I couldn’t help but stuff my face more with pizza, satiating my hunger as a means of distraction from the fact that I drew Mingi post-sex not even four days ago.

“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a talented songwriter and composer but a good hell of a painter.” His voice was deeper as he mumbled, taking a bite of his pizza as he glanced back down at the drawing, “I want to draw you too, to capture you in all forms and commemorate you for an eternity.”

Well, what a way to make me blush harder. I grabbed another slice as I had finished the first one as a means to stall for a second, ponder over my answer, “You’re good with your words though, unlike me. I always struggle to express myself concisely, yet to you it’s easy. You create beautiful lyrics and you never fail to capture my true nature in your songs, so I think I’ll always live on in your music, Mingi, you have already commemorated me for an eternity.”

That made Mingi blink in surprise as he hadn’t even realized that before, and I smiled as he gave me a lasting look before he flipped the page, the drawing of him playing with a kitten I had found outside my porch. Now, she was our kitten and she, obviously, loved Mingi more than me—just like my mother, I didn’t try to complain about this too, “You inspire me like none other.”

“You inspire me too, Mings.” Mingi’s smile was shy as he continued flipping through the sketchbook, less filled than my other ones as I decided to dedicate this one only to him. He’d seen the older sketches plenty of times before, yet he never failed to become shy when looking through them.

I finished my slice of pizza, dusted my hands off and made sure my cheeks weren’t greasy as I leaned towards the black nail polish, shaking it in front of Mingi with a grin, “Ready to get your nails painted?”

He nodded excitedly and handed me his left hand as he still held his slice of pizza in the right one. His thick fingers were smooth and decorated with rings, much like mine, and I flipped my left hand around to place his palm in mine. After having arrived at my humble studio once we were finished with our classes for the day, Mingi got to work and painted my nails. He had bought some new nail polish a week ago and convinced me to surprise me with them, so, the nails on my left hand were now almost neon green and the nails on my right hand almost Barbie pink. Sometime along, painting each other’s nails became a habit, something we both enjoyed doing and now we could confidently call it our thing.

I concentrated hard to not smudge the skin around his nails, eyebrows furrowed and teeth clamping down on my bottom lip as Mingi’s eyes were either on me or his nails, bobbing his head along to the rhythm of the song playing. He usually chewed loudly and I was thankful he kept his mouth closed this time, knowing that it would only irritate me if he started chewing on his slice of pizza aggressively—it wouldn’t be the first time he does it just to annoy me. As I finished doing his middle finger, his phone rang and Mingi reached over to his left side as he bit on the crust of his pizza, picking his phone off the floor as the music cut off. He accepted the phone call and put it on speaker as I chuckled and watched him take out the crust from his mouth so that he could talk.

“Hey! Song Mingi!” It was unmistakably Wooyoung’s voice as he screamed into the phone, making me concerned that Mingi would lose his hearing if he had just normally picked up the phone without putting it on speaker, “What’s up, bro?!”

Mingi snickered, shaking his head as I finished painting the nails on his left hand, “I told you yesterday that I would hang out with Y/N after classes.”

“Ah, right,” Wooyoung hummed as I leaned down to press a kiss against Mingi’s hand, making him grin as he finished his slice, eagerly handing over his right hand to paint his nails, “And where are you two lovebirds?”

“In her studio,” Mingi answered as I got to work, careful as always as I painted his pinkie’s nail.

“Now that you mention, Seulgi said something about not being able to work on her assignment in the studio because of you two.”

I scoffed and before Mingi could answer, I spoke up as I leaned towards the phone, “I told Seulgi to do her assignment not two days before the deadline, and I also told her a week ago that I’d be hounding the studio with Mingi today.”

“Heard that babe?!” Wooyoung’s voice was distant just for a second, then he snickered, “She says you’re lucky she loves you, otherwise she would’ve kicked you out of your studio.”

“My own studio.” I huffed and applied another coat over Mingi’s forefinger’s nail to even out the texture, “What a bitch.”

“A bitch that is forced to listen to her best friend’s constant bitching, who’s the bitch now, Y/N?” Everyone snickered and I rolled my eyes as there was the unmistakable sound of a kiss pressed against a cheek through the phone, Mingi and I shared a look of mild disgust as I went to paint his thumb’s nail.

“Don’t start making out while you’re on the phone with me, Wooyoung.” Mingi’s voice carried disgust but there was a hint of amusement, “Anyways, what’s the purpose of your call? You never call unless you need something or I ask you to remind me of something.”

“It’s neither this time,” Seulgi chuckled through the phone, and then there was shuffling and I knew she walked away. I finished Mingi’s nails and closed the bottle of nail polish, sitting up on my knees to kiss Mingi’s cheek as he bit his lower lip, grinning at me as he wriggled his fingers happily.

“Do not be late to Aurora’s opening tonight and wear something extra fancy, Hongjoong will have our heads if we don’t honor his fiancé for God’s sake.” Wooyoung sounded mildly annoyed but it was no secret that he loved Hongjoong probably almost as much as he loved all of his friends, however, he’d never admit that to anyone. Aurora became the name of Seonghwa’s studio and small gallery, and tonight was the grand opening. Everyone was excited about it, with Seonghwa being a nerve wreck as he feared people wouldn’t show up. After having talked to both him and Hongjoong, they agreed to display a few of my paintings in the front lobby and I was giddy and curious about everyone’s reaction to them. Nobody knew what I had handed over to Seonghwa, and he had beamed when his eyes took in the paintings, he getting emotional instead of me and making me chuckle as I hugged him tightly and thanked him for the opportunity.

“You should worry about yourself, Woo,” Mingi teased with a chuckle, “Y/N and I will look impeccable, as always.”

“That is for sure,” I muttered as I sat back on my ankles, watching Mingi with a grin as we had decided to match our outfits for the night.

“Talk to you later, we’ve got some business to attend to with Y/N now.” And then Wooyoung said his goodbye and they hung up as Mingi pointed towards the pizza with a pout, “I’m still hungry, will you feed me?”

And even if I said no and rolled my eyes, five minutes later Mingi had a teasing glint in his eyes as I fed him his third slice of pizza, smart enough to remain silent or else I wouldn’t have continued feeding him or helping him drink water while his nails dried.

            Barely an hour later, when Mingi’s hunger and thirst were satiated and his nails were dry, we replaced the white sheet with a huge flat canvas that we would paint over. We had agreed on painting a scenery, something similar to the creek we so much liked to visit when the weather allowed it, but sometime along my attempts at making it look like the actual creek, Mingi’s not so painter skills came into the mix and created a—whatever that did not look like the creek. He refused to admit that what was supposed to be the water now looked like the sky, making the whole painting look like it was upside down from our standpoint, and he also kept on vehemently denying that he tried to paint a dick over the trunk of the tree I spent at least fifteen minutes on to make it look as realistic as possible. All in all, I concluded that without Mingi here I would’ve been able to finish the painting in a maximum of three hours, however, now there was no future for finding a vision in whatever we have created.

But I didn’t mind, because this was Mingi’s and my work, something we created together while laughing and talking about whatever came to our minds, the atmosphere light and joyful. I had also washed out the dye from his hair and we towel-dried it, making it look spikier than usual. I couldn’t lie, this new hair made Mingi look incredibly hot, and it took me some willpower to not jump him as he looked at me with those sharp eyes and a knowing smirk, the asshole.

“But you’ll dye it back to black soon, right?” I asked while painting clouds over the once creek turned sky now. Mingi was behind me, crouched down, and his clothes still somehow miraculously not stained. I wore my old overall knowing that I’d stain myself the second I opened a can of paint, and I wasn’t wrong at all as the edges of my pants were already stained green and white.

“I mean, do you hate this color?” Mingi asked from behind me as he dipped his brush into black, terrifying me of whatever he had in mind to do with the color once I saw him.

“What the hell do you need black for?!” I exclaimed as I grabbed his wrist, making his eyebrows shoot up in amusement.

“Aren’t artists supposed to just go with the flow?” His lips jutted out as he playfully leaned closer, my eyebrows furrowing as I was ready to oppose his idea, “You’re making me question your working etiquette, doll, I don’t find you creative enough—”

“As if!” I exclaimed only mildly offended as I knew Mingi was only teasing me, “Going with the flow and trusting your instincts is one thing, love, but having no vision or idea in mind is plain terrifying.”

“I was going to sign the top of it, but never mind—”

“Fine,” I groaned, gripping his wrist to stop Mingi from twisting away. His voice was whiney and he was pouting, not even looking at me as if he was offended. I knew he wasn’t; he was just acting up to get what he wanted. And unfortunately, it was working embarrassingly well on me, “Sign it.”

“Great!” He beamed as he leaned forward, mindful of staining his pink jeans with paint and I sighed as I shook my head, making curved lines before I colored them to make them look more like clouds. I had no idea what would become of the painting, but I certainly was eager to find out.

“Back to your hair,” I spoke up as Mingi carefully drew his ‘fix on’ signature onto the canvas, “I don’t hate the blonde but I miss your natural color, it suits you more, makes you look cuter and softer.”

“Aw,” Mingi turned back to give me puppy eyes—which he learned from Yunho, no doubt, “you like your boyfriend to be all soft and cute? I thought you like it when I get all wild and destroy—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Song Mingi.” I threatened as I sat back, brush pointed threateningly towards Mingi.

“Or what?” His crooked teeth showed as he grinned, quirking an eyebrow to annoy me further. I huffed and tried to think of a good comeback, but came up empty-handed for once so I gave him a pointed glare.

“I’ll stain you with paint.”

“Bet.”

“Bet.”

And I know Mingi didn’t expect me to actually follow through with my childish threat, but as I jerked my wrist in his direction, the remaining paint from my brush flew off and, well, stained his white sleeveless tank top. Mingi’s mouth fell open as he gaped down at himself, and I laughed, giving him a smug look.

“What, did you think I was fucking around?”

“Oh, I’ll make you wish you never did that!”

And before I could prepare myself for whatever attack he had planned, he pressed his hand against his brush and coated it in black paint then sprung towards me, making me gasp as his thick fingers drew a cold line against my cheekbone. Mingi grinned as I stared at him in surprise, but I reacted soon quickly as I pressed my fingers into the fresh paint on the canvas and returned the favor, the only difference being that I drew a circle on his forehead with white paint. Mingi blinked once, then twice, and a mischievous grin spread onto his lips which told me that I was in trouble.

I quickly scrambled to my feet, but Mingi was fast as he dug his whole hand in green paint and slapped my ass painfully hard, making me cry out as it stung even through the fabric, making me give him a deadly glare, “Song Mingi! That fucking hurt!”

“You’re a pussy.” He stuck his tongue out and I tsked, leaning down to push my whole hand inside the red paint. Mingi’s eyes widened as I gave him a victorious smirk, eyes narrowing as he jumped up to his feet, holding his arms up in defeat.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to start a war—” But his futile attempts at saving his ass fell on deaf ears as I cackled and took off towards him, making him yelp as he tried to duck and run away, making us run around the canvas. We were both barefoot and as Mingi tried to jump over the canvas, he miscalculated where his long legs would land and landed on his freshly painted signature, making him yelp again as it was no doubt cold against his feet. I laughed as I easily caught up with him and felt up his chest, biting my lower lip as Mingi’s eyes widened.

“Oh, no, your white shirt is all stained now.” I fake pouted as Mingi froze, incredulous eyes looking between me and his shirt. I chuckled and clapped my hands together, deciding that my job was done here, but then Mingi was stepping back and leaving foot marks all over the canvas on purpose. I scoffed but didn’t care much, the poor painting had been long ruined. I crossed my arms in front of my chest in defiance as he dipped both of his hands in pink paint and then gave me a grin as he beckoned me over with a finger. I huffed in disbelief as if I’d hand myself over willingly to him. And he knew that because I dipped both of my hands in light blue paint and faced him again. Our stare-off was intense and calculating as we both tried to guess the other’s next step, and thinking I’d have the upper hand, I stepped in the middle of the canvas just as Mingi moved too and I raised my hands to dirty his tank top even more when he cupped my cheeks and made me squeal.

The paint felt cold against my skin and I knew it would dry it out once it started drying itself, but I was far too amused to worry about something so insignificant right now. Wanting revenge, I grasped his hair and massaged my hands well into the freshly dyed darker blonde strands, making his hair look like cotton candy due to the pink hue mixing with the light blue of the paint.

“My hair! Y/N!” Mingi whined loudly slapping my hands away, but I wasn’t finished as I dirtied his jaw, neck, and tank top too. Mingi was pouting hard and glaring at me at the same time, already sharp eyes turning sharper and full of revenge as he flushed his body against mine and cupped my ass over the fabric, gripping tightly and kneading the flesh.

“Mingi!” I exclaimed, content with being so close to him, but also annoyed that he kept going for my ass, “Leave my ass alone, you idiot!”

“You ruined my hair!”

“I told you to dye it black and not a different shade of blonde.”

“I thought you were a firm believer in people doing whatever they want.”

“I am, but you’re my boyfriend and I find you hotter with black hair.”

“Well, you’re my girlfriend and I find you hotter with my dick down your throat.”

We both paused as my eyes widened and Mingi caught himself a second later, cheeks flushing as he looked sheepish, finally releasing my ass as his hands settled around my hips instead, “Oopsie, that went too far but it’s the truth—”

He cried out as I whacked him over the head, giving him a fierce look, “Yeah? I also find you hotter gagged around my fingers—”

“We only did that once!”

“Are you afraid it makes you less masculine?”

“I agreed to let you peg me, bro.”

“I know, bro, and you fucking enjoyed it.”

“So, what’s the issue here?”

“That you keep slapping and kneading my ass, leave it alone.”

“Okay, princess, my bad.”

“You’re the princess, Mingi, not me. You’re always whining.”

“And you’re always beating me up, Y/N.”

“Am not!”

“Yeah, you are!”

I scowled at Mingi and pushed him back by the chest, by no means aggressively or harshly, but his dramatic ass pretended to stumble and then he fell back, splaying out across the canvas. I huffed and pinched the bridge off my nose as he made fake crying noises, blinking up at me slowly, “See? I’m huwt.”

I closed my eyes to compose myself and control the need to kick him in the balls for being cringy, “Don’t talk like that, oh, my God.”

“Do you hate it?” He grinned evilly as I walked off the canvas, and to look at me, he turned onto his stomach as he cupped his chin and raised his legs to swing them in the air. He looked like a mess with the paint all over his hair, face, and body, some having gotten onto his pants too now that he was laying on the canvas. I chuckled and shook my head as I eyed my boyfriend, knowing that I looked probably just as messy as him.

“I do, actually, you’re only cute when you’re not trying to be cute.” I deadpanned and Mingi huffed dramatically, letting his arms fall as he pressed his forehead against them. Eyes falling on his round ass, I knew it was my time for payback, and I moved swiftly before he could realize what I was aiming for—it wouldn’t be the first time—so I quickly kneeled next to him and leaned down, baring my teeth as I opened my mouth wide. At first, Mingi jumped when my teeth made contact with his jeans and then when I bit down hard, he yelped, soon turning into loud cries as I continued to bite his left ass cheek harder and harder. He started flailing around and I pulled back with a cackle after I made sure my teeth had sunken in deep enough. But, I had no time to react as he quickly turned around and leaped onto me, landing on top of me as I fell back onto the canvas, no doubt smudging even more whatever paint hadn’t dried yet.

Mingi got on top of me, sitting on my hips as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, pinning me to the floor. I smirked as I raised my eyebrows tauntingly at him, watching his eyes slowly rake over my body to take me in.

“That hurt.”

“Fair enough, it hurt too when you slapped my ass.”

“Well, you have no right to whine so much about it anymore.”

“I do if you keep slapping it, and I also have the right to bite your ass as revenge.”

Mingi’s eyes narrowed and I giggled as he slowly leaned down, placing his hands on both sides of my head to prop himself up, effectively caging me between himself and the floor. I continued looking at him challengingly as he bit his bottom lip, eyes never settling as they searched my face for even a fraction that showed that I would back down. But I wouldn’t, and he knew that by now as he suddenly smirked too, leaning so close our lips brushed against each other.

“I think I won, doll.”

“I didn’t know we were in a contest, love.”

And then he sealed his lips against mine, shutting up the both of us in the most effective way as our lips moved slowly, savoring each other’s taste and lips. Mingi shifted above me and I eagerly opened my legs to let him settle between them as I hugged his torso, hands raking up and down his back slowly as his hips pressed firmly against mine. I smirked against Mingi’s lips when his breath hitched in the back of his throat due to my fingers tangling into his short strands now a little crusty from the red paint in it, it was no secret that Mingi liked it when I pulled on his hair. He cupped my chin with one hand as he pressed his weight on his left arm, the only cue I needed to open up my mouth to grant him access. We both sighed in contentment as his tongue slowly glided against mine, my legs coming up around his hips to lock Mingi’s body against mine.

Mingi moaned when I tangled my fingers just a little harder into his hair, letting him lap at my tongue as he explored my mouth, my body growing hotter as the seconds passed by, hands slipping under his loose tank top to feel up his warm skin. The skin of his back was smooth and I pressed my nails into it as I slowly racked it up his back, feeling Mingi shiver against my body as he jerked his hips forward, making me hum against his mouth as he pulled my bottom lip between his teeth and clamped down on it, sucking hard. I groaned and dug my nails into his shoulders, pulling my head back to be able to lean up and press kisses against his lean neck, his cologne mixing with the paint that was smeared all over us. My lips were hot as I parted them to press wet kisses against his flesh, sucking in the areas I knew Mingi was sensitive to, making him groan and jerk his hips forward again. With a hand slipping down to his hips, I gripped him firmly and prompted him to grind against me, Mingi’s head buried in my hair as I continued to press kisses until I reached his collarbones, gripping the hem of his tank top. He wasted no second as he pulled back just slightly, slipping the fabric off his torso, leaving it bare for me as I grinned at him, feeling his chest and abs up as he worked at the clips of my overall.

I kissed the skin between his pectorals and then pressed up on my elbows as Mingi made quick work of slipping the overall down to my waist and ultimately out of them as goosebumps covered the bare skin of my legs. We threw the overalls off to the side and Mingi was then moving back, down between my legs as he hovered above my thighs, eyes boring into mine as he pressed a feather-like kiss against my left thigh. I gulped and fisted my palms as heat pooled in my lower stomach, his lips always featherlight as he advanced higher up on my thighs with nips and kisses, sometimes licking at the skin teasingly. I knew my cheeks were flushed as I felt hotter by the minute and I shuddered when his lips pressed against my core through the fabric of my panties, making the breath hitch in the back of my throat. Mingi smirked and did it once again before he licked a slow strip upward, closing his eyes to hum, and I let my fingers tangle in his hair as he tapped my inner thigh, moving away from where I wanted him most.

He sat back to undo the buttons and zipper of his jeans, and I watched in anticipation as he slipped the fabric off his thick thighs and ass slowly, in a teasing manner, bottom lip between his teeth as he was half hard already, eyes hooded once he was done with his half-assed striptease. I chuckled and he was all over me again, hips flushed against mine again as I wrapped my legs around his hips, eager to feel his heavy body press me down into the floor. Mingi’s fingers gingerly traveled from my waist up to the hem of my blouse and then he brought it over my head and arms, landing in the pile of clothes to the side. And then his lips were over mine again, licking into my mouth and biting my lip messily as he slowly ground his hips against mine, making me hold onto him as it was easy to feel him in just our underwear. One of my hands went to tease at the elastic of his boxers and, despite him talking shit about it, I knew he liked it when I kneaded his ass, the skin sensitive for him there.

Mingi moaned and ground just a little harder against me, making me burn for him more as he cupped one of my boobs through the bra, pinching the bud as our tongues moved messily without much purpose or goal, too focused on how our bodies felt with the ministrations done to it. As he pressed himself up on his elbow, the hand that grabbed my boob traveled lower on my body until it was inside my panties and rubbing circles against my clit, making me moan out his name loudly, his length grinding up against my thigh as he bit my collarbone, making me screw my eyes shut as I was throbbing for him. But he was a little shit and he only teased, rubbing but never quite letting his fingers slip inside as he chuckled against my ear, making me grit my teeth at him as I gripped his wrist to keep him pressing against my clit as my hips kicked off the floor.

“You’re wet, doll.”

“And you’re not doing enough, love.”

Mingi chuckled again and I moaned as he teasingly slipped just the tip of his finger inside, his rings cold against my burning skin, my nails digging into the flesh of his ass. Mingi groaned and pulled back, making me groan in frustration as I glared at him, but he quickly silenced me with his lips as I felt him pull down my panties, I shimmied my hips to help him get over with it faster. He grinned and nipped at my bottom lip as I pushed his boxers off too, grabbing his dick to teasingly rub at his slit, making him hiss against my lips as our eyes fluttered open.

“What? Only you can tease?” Mingi’s eyes were dark and narrowed as he bucked against my hand, my pace awfully slow in jerking him off, “I could tell you to get off me and I would go on with my merry day—”

“Sure,” Mingi grinned, lips ghosting against my ear as his voice had dropped lower than usual, grabbing my wrist to stop my movements, “but you love my dick too much to pass up on it.”

I scoffed but said nothing, perhaps a little too desperate to have it inside me finally. I hated it when he teased me too much, and because Mingi knew this, he never passed up on the opportunity to get on my nerves even when we were having sex. He enjoyed it perhaps a little bit too much. But the teasing was finally over as he had gotten enough of it, eager to push in as he lined himself up with my entrance, pressing a kiss against my lips.

“I don’t have a condom.” He whispered, eyes searching mine.

“Just pull out, I’m fine.” I circled his shoulders, embracing myself as my core throbbed, eager to have his size expand my walls. Mingi hummed and then pressed another kiss against my lips as he slowly pushed inside, having to take it slow as he didn’t stretch me out with his fingers first, the burn insistent despite our active sex life. I still haven’t gotten used to it, but I didn’t mind as it only made me wetter for him, more eager to take him. Mingi’s bottom lip was between his teeth as he kept his breath labored, concentrating on not hurting me and taking it slow until I said so. I let my fingers run through his hair as I sighed, trying to relax my muscles and just melt into his arms, pressing a kiss against his cheek when he paused abruptly, shuddering.

“You’re so tight,” His voice was barely above a whisper and strained, “I’m about to burst.”

“So soon?” I asked with a chuckle, teasing as it earned me a sharp glare, “And whose fault it is I’m so tight? Your fingers are there for a reason.”

“Shut up.” Mingi groaned and then pressed in fully, a gasp leaving my throat at the sudden move, eyebrows scrunching up as he pressed in deep, making me feel fuller than before. My walls clamped down against his dick and Mingi pressed his forehead against mine as I embraced him, letting my fingers tangle in the short hair against his nape. I nodded, eyes boring into each other, and then Mingi was moving, slowly at first, pulling out only halfway before he was pressing back in, sighs leaving my lips as the pleasure was slowly building up, my hips moving in an attempt to meet his thrusts.

He secured his knees better against the canvas and pressed up on his elbows, hovering over me as his cross necklace dangled in my face, and the image was way too good and hot, knocking a moan out of me as he started thrusting faster, hips slamming back against mine as our pace got faster and more urgent, our breathy moans falling against each other’s lips as I nipped on Mingi’s bottom lip. I hooked a finger against the silver chain as his nose scrunched up, hips slamming back against mine with more purpose, more power, and eagerness as he looked down between our bodies, a grunt leaving his lips as he enjoyed the view. I hooked my legs tighter around his hips and prompted him to move faster, most of my moans were swallowed as we had to remember that we were at university still, in my own studio, so we couldn’t be too vocal. The walls here weren’t soundproof like in Mingi’s studio, yet staying quiet proved to become harder and harder as Mingi started pistoning his hips, grunts turned into low moans as he slammed his lips against mine, our breaths getting swallowed as our teeth knocked together, saliva gathering in the corner of our mouths as I pressed my hands against the small of his back, my own arching off the floor for an even better angle, keening his name when he finally reached the spot that had me seeing stars.

But Mingi was a diligent man who took his time in everything he did, even sex, and if he could prolong our orgasms, then he certainly would, so I had no doubt we’d be at it for a while, subsequently making us late to Aurora’s opening. And we couldn’t have that happening, but our brains were too fogged up and busy with something else to notice Wooyoung’s insistent texts on Mingi’s phone or my mother’s call to remind me I had to be home in fifteen minutes to start getting ready. Oh, well.

            Turns out, we got there just in time and nobody screamed our ears off—I’m looking at you Wooyoung—and Seonghwa was certainly overwhelmed when he saw the number of people that showed up for the opening. It was a mix of all age groups and people who knew Seonghwa and Hongjoong from different places, like Hongjoong’s employees or Seonghwa’s colleagues from his major, and there were even more fans of Zenith Noir that showed up, surprising all three of the guys. Seulgi and I stood to the side with grins on our faces as their fans swarmed them and gushed about the beautiful designs Seonghwa had displayed, some put behind glass to protect the expensive material Hongjoong’s team had worked on, and some even put out to be tried on and bought if someone desired to do so.

Seonghwa’s speech had been an emotional one in which he thanked everyone for their support and Hongjoong for believing in him and offering him opportunities he thought were real only in a far-fetched dream, and then I got teary-eyed when Seonghwa’s family surprised him with cake and hugs and praises, making me extremely happy for being able to chase his dreams. The matching rings Hongjoong and he had on their ring finger were eye-catching to those who didn’t know about their engagement, and it was Hongjoong who proudly announced it to the whole room while Seonghwa flushed and tried not to hide behind Hongjoong despite being taller than his fiancé. It was a sight to behold and I wasn’t surprised to feel Mingi cuddle up into my side and sniff loudly as he watched his friends with a proud smile on his lips, Wooyoung amusingly quiet for once.

When everyone was done appreciating Seonghwa’s efforts and creations, he announced with a cheeky smile that the next time anyone visited, the front lobby would be decorated by other artists’ works, but because I had a special request, tonight my works were displayed in the room adjacent to this. I felt my heart in my throat as Seonghwa led us towards the dark room, then our eyes met and I nodded with a small smile, biting my bottom lip as the light switch was flipped on, coating the room in light. I turned to look at Mingi in anticipation as his eyes widened, and he broke free of the crowd, hurrying inside to take in the entirety of the room, from being incredulous to teary-eyed and then looking like the happiest man on Earth, I couldn’t help it but let my heart swell in happiness and pride as I watched him chuckle and look at me with eyes filled with pure and honest love.

The soft sage green walls were decorated with two portraits of Mingi I had sketched out right at the beginning when I had met him, when I wasn’t so familiar with all of his features yet. Then it progressed to the moments I had captivated as our relationship slowly progressed into that of friendship, us sitting in his car, Mingi driving, Mingi laughing at making me flustered, Mingi’s sharp eyes watching me in a faceless crowd, Mingi up on stage shining like the star he is, Mingi gazing at me with yearning in his eyes, Mingi hugging me warmly into his chest, Mingi chewing on his bottom lip in concentration as he sat in his chair in his studio, working on his music, Mingi looking upset because I rudely disregarded everything that’s happened between us, Mingi angry because I was too stubborn to admit my feelings for him, too afraid to move on from Yunho, and at last, Mingi smiling so widely his eyes disappeared, nose scrunched up and his front teeth showing a little more than usual, pure happiness painting his face.

There was a low murmur amongst the crowd as everyone took in the sketches, drawings, and paintings, but I was only focused on Mingi and his reaction to seeing the stages of our relationship displayed through my eyes, my feelings, and my thoughts. And then, more towards the end of the exposition, there was an old sketch of Yunho I had done while still mulling over the failure of our relationship, and right next to it was a painting of both Yunho and Mingi as they sat next to each other, laughing about whatever was funny at that moment. I had captured the moment when Mingi, me, Yunho, and his girlfriend had gone out for dinner, and then I decided I wanted to paint it twice and gift it to Mingi and Yunho for Christmas. I suppose Mingi would get his sooner than Yunho, I’m sure neither would mind.

Seonghwa announced that I was the artist behind the creations and the room erupted in cheers and claps as people complimented me on my talent, but my eyes were on Mingi only as his blazer was glittery underneath the white light, matching my floor-length glittery black dress. He opened his arms and I didn’t waste any more seconds to approach him and let him crush me in his arms, his embrace warm and reassuring as he pressed his face into my hair, exhaling loudly as I embraced him back just as tightly, closing my eyes as my heart was racing. These past three months I spent next to him had been the best time of my life ever, he made me happier and feel safer than anyone else ever. He helped me get better at controlling my explosive emotions and he helped me slowly break down the walls I so defensively built up after Yunho’s departure. He made me unafraid to love and to receive love, he made me want to spend the rest of my life with him.

I wanted a forever with him.

“I love you, Mingi.” And it was the first time I voiced those thoughts, voice clear but quiet so that only he’d hear it. I felt Mingi freeze, a gasp leaving his mouth as he pulled back, holding me at arm's length as I smiled at him softly, “I love you.”

Mingi gulped as his eyes suddenly turned teary, and he cupped my cheeks as he lowered his head to press his forehead against mine, inhaling deeply as he nodded his head. He’d said those three words to me before, unafraid and unashamed to let me know how he truly felt towards me, and I finally found the courage to say it back. I finally was ready to let him know just how much I felt for him, that I loved him just as much as he loved me.

“I love you, Y/N, so much.” His voice trembled and he kept his eyes closed out of fear of having the tears escape them, and I hummed, resting my hands on his shoulders as I gently rubbed the skin of his neck in an attempt to soothe him.

“I love you just as much, Mingi.”

And he smiled, pressing his warm lips against mine with the unspoken promise that this would last forever, that this was what we both had been searching for. Safety, contentment, honesty, friendship, and freedom, a love that was honest and unafraid. It seemed like our future was rather promising, next to him, I could take on anything. We won’t forget to look at the moon tonight.

I love you, Song Mingi.

A/N: So, hello once again, I am so-so grateful if you made it 'til the end. I cannot believe I'm actually finished with this story and it's a really bittersweet feeling actually, because I am as happy as sad, no joke I kinda cried a little bit. I absolutely love the character and personality I have created for Mingi in this story and I love MC and his dynamic so much, that I find it so freaking hard to let go of them omg, what's happening to me?!

I just really really want to thank everyone who stuck around from start to finish, or from the middle of the story, or showed up as we neared the end of it, I am so so grateful to you all for being patient with me and showering me with love and making me look forward to posting. I was always so excited about a new chapter because I wanted it to be the best, and when I felt like it wasn't, you reassured me that it was and it made me really happy.

I started this story nine months ago, back on the 15th of December, which is funnily enough my sister's birthday so now I will never forget the date I posted it lol, and I find it so freaking crazy that this whole story came from a random brainstorming with my best friend in my car (@orshii), right as we finished our classes at university, brains fried off and ready to end everything, and yet, here I am, trying not to cry again ffs because of how much I grew to love every character in the story.

A little insight: the story at first started out as a random plot that was somewhat similar to 10 Things I Hate About You (which is one of my favorite movies) as Mingi was inspired by Patrick's character and our MC by Kat's, but as time went on, the story and our characters became their own and thus this is how Love Me Like A Rockstar was created. Back at that time I was also obsessed with this song, which played a part in the story becoming a rockstar!au beside Mingi acting like a whole ass rockstar during Crazy Form era lol, and even the title is inspired by the censored version of the song.

I think I made this note already too long, so I'll try to wrap it up. I really want to thank absolutely everyone who reads the whole story, to my loyal readers who were here for every chapter and for all of your thoughts and theories and for making me smile, really. Those who stumbled upon this when it's already finished, I hope you enjoyed each chapter and had fun exploring the world I created (this applies to those too who stuck around while it was still on-going) and I always appreciate your feedback, it's never too late! Thank you everyone, and I hope to see you back for my other stories! <3

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[alastorsfuckassbob]

We'll Meet Again

Alastorxfem!reader

Part two to "you're never fully dressed without a smile"

Plot: You're down infamously bad for Alastor. You work for a shift for Valentino and somehow you end up at everyone's favorite hell based hotel! I swear to god you will make physical contact with deal Al by chapter 3.

A/N: OH GOD THIS IS A LONG ONE, and honestly for an Alastor fic really Valentino and Angel Dust focused- but like any good story there are more than two characters so we should develop them✨

As always, minors DNI-

Somehow we got spicer and a bit more angsty so read the warnings and think critically if its something you really want to read

⚠️WARNINGS⚠️

-Domestic Violence, Abusive Relationships

-Swearing

-Valentino (has to be its own warning)

-Smoking and Alcohol use

-Sexual Innuendo

"Y/n"

"Y/n, please let me hear you. Your voice lights a fire within me that I cannot ignore"

The static popped, heartfelt and genuine, the phrase echoing throughout the dimly lit room and deep into the pits of your soul. It reminded you of those late nights spent at the studio with him. Of the memories you had created with him, you spent the least time mulling over your time at the station. It was just too much to handle, you would sit for hours talking about whatever fancies fit the time, swaying to the complex chords and swing of the music. No matter what mood you walked in with, it vanished the moment your frame entered his arms. Your hand grazed the edge of your cheek in the mirror imagining how his hand traced the outline of your face as it so often used to do. The show had hundreds of listeners, you were speaking to the world so it would appear, but anything and everything you said or played was made strictly for each-other.

Here you were, lost in time once again. You had missed those little moments, far more than you anticipated. You had always been one to get lost following the tracks of memory. but this..this was different, your body felt as if it was buzzing. His honey lined transatlantic accent reverberated throughout your skull. Sickeningly sweet, holding desperation but still not depravity. It lacked the typical Sadism and savagery, a commonality in your hellish experience. The wicked pair usually found itself wrapped around your arm and caught against your throat. You had become accustomed to those feelings of desperation, but somehow his was different. He hadn't said much of anything and it felt like he had bottled every sweet nothing and loving whisper he had uttered in your direction throughout your life, and poured them into his tonality all at once. The static grew heavier.

"Y/-n y-y-N"

his voice became distorted and crackled. He kept speaking but the words were mangled and malformed. You couldn't quite make out what he was attempting to get across. You couldn't lose him not another time, even if you hadn't really "had him" again.

It was enough to send you into a fit of desperation.The incoherencies faded out, only deafening static remained .

"Alastor"

your wavering voice filled with alarm. You rushed to the radio nearly falling of the counter as you did so. You feverishly tuned the knob hoping for just another moment with him, even if it was just audibly. The electricity crackles, and dark grey smoke erupts from the small box and into your face. You cough rapidly upon contact. The fire sparks, promptly melting the exterior of the radio.

"shit fuck shit fuck shit"

You rasp between coughs. Something ablaze was not entirely out of the ordinary, yet you remained panicked. you thoughtlessly unplug the radio, scalding your hands in the process. Not knowing what else to do, you throw the newly aflame radio into the tub. It wheezes out another plume of smoke before sinking down into the water.

"well that isn't..ideal"

You decide its a tomorrow issue and head off to sleep. Still slightly shaken up, you throw on a silky nightgown and plop into your bed. You wouldn't find peace in your sleep, you never did. You closed your eyes unready to face your demons but too exhausted to care.

The next day comes to pass sooner than you'd care to admit. You don't feel well rested, but you can't find it in yourself to go back to sleep. Your thoughts are still so dreadfully plagued with Alastor. The way his lips felt on your own, the soft gentle curl of his hair. Everything aspect of him was so fundamentally perfect. Even his so called flaws. He may be an attention seeking idiot, but he was your attention seeking idiot. That was all that mattered. You'd be happy to do most anything to supply him his attention fix. You looked at the clock across from your bed, it was already noon. You had told Angel you'd be at the club around one. Unhappily, you rolled out of bed grabbing another outfit from your closet to change into. You applied some simple mascara, and tied up your hair. You could finish getting read with Angel Dust like you usually did.

You arrive at the club meet Angel, you liked to arrive a few hours before your call time just to talk with each other. You had vastly different schedules but you made it work. You walk through the lobby watching other scandalously dressed demons go about their daily life. You could have sworn you saw a flick of shadow watching you from behind the other inhabitants. You shook it off, you didn't sleep well, its possible you're just seeing things.

You arrive at your dressing room, and knock at the door. Its a calm and quiet environment. The eye before the storm working tonight will plunge you both into.

"the fuck do you want, can't a guy do his eyeliner in peace"

you roll your eyes before opening the door, he glances back at you.

"oh hey toots, didn't expect you so soon- you're not late"

"Fuck off angel"

you sit down in your chair and begin brushing out your hair. Val was very particular about the image you portrayed, even if your hair was already curly he'd want it to curl differently, If it was straight, he'd want it consistent coiffed to his liking.

If you didn't have hair he'd probably get you a wig of some kind. You glance down at the black porcelain mask on the counter. It was delicately painted with small golden roses. It was the only thing between you and an army of horny fans. Angel finishes his eyeliner with a small flick of a wing.

He stands up and takes the brush from you. He combs through the ends making sure there aren't any tangles left before grabbing the curling iron. To be quite honest, you both absolutely sucked at doing your own hair, so you did each others. It was nice, and he always made you look good. You had known angel for quite some time, you felt like you knew who he was but nothing about him.

He was always rather private about the details of his life before hell. You had gathered he was Italian by his sound, and that he had been involved with the mob from small anecdotes he sometimes shared.

It didn't really matter who he used to be, he was your friend and you loved him.

"I mean this in the nicest way possible y/n, but you look like shit" He grabbed a strand of your hair wrapping it around the wand.

"oh gee thanks" you deadpan

"long night?" he asks releasing your hair from the curling wand scrunching it slightly.

"something like that, how about you, you look shockingly well rested, and i doubt its just the concealer"

"I'm staying at a new place" he continues working his way around your head.

"Val let you leave?" a hint of shock permeated your voice

"he can't dictate where i stay when i'm off the clock babe" He grabs a smaller curling want and begins with some small face framing pieces.

"does he know?" you ask hesitantly. You didn't want to upset him.

"I don't think he's caught on yet, probably figures I'm just out getting drunk and high off my ass"

"to be fair you often are"

"you're no angel either y/n" He rolls his eyes, he picks up the larger wand again and re-curls a few more of the back pieces.

"where did you move off to?"

You were lucky to have your own apartment. Most souls under contract with Valentino stayed in the complex....Your situation wasn't much better but it was enough. To be completely honest, you only lived about a ten minute walk from here. It wasn't much of a distance, but it was far enough Valentino would rather call upon some other, closer, unlucky soul outside of work hours to do his bidding. It was good enough. It was shocking to hear Angel had managed to find someplace with his cocaine habit and how little Val payed us.

"Its that rickety hotel on the edge of the Pride ring, I know it doesn't sound like much but its free" You almost visibly buffered from shock. How did he manage that? Then it hits you, he's probably sleeping there for free because he's sleeping with someone.

"who'd you have to fuck to get a room there"

"y/n" he groaned, slightly annoyed by your antics.

"No angel I'm serious, its hell people don't just give things out for free" you mused at his reaction.

"I didn't have to fuck anyone, its run by the princess, shes trying to rehabilitate souls"

"is that even possible" your mind began to swim with possibility.

"i dunno, i don't really care. It gives me a space to just exist..as myself..away from all of this"

your hand finds his way into one of his.

"i understand what you mean" your voice comes out no more than a whisper.

He continues curling your hair silently for a bit. Angel had his issues but he was a good person. He just found himself in a bad situation. Unexpectedly, he broke the silence. You two had a lot in common, including your tendencies of avoidance.

"you should live there too y/n, its free, and theres a bar, the bartender isn't too bad looking either."

You smile at the thought, it would be nice to get away from it all. Thats all it could be though, a thought. You were already on such thin ice with Val.

"Angie dear it sounds nice, but we both know I'm already Val's least favorite sinner. I shouldn't aggravate him more" you say with a defeated huff. Angel wraps another tendril of your h/c hair around the wand

"You can't let his life be your only life. I'm not stupid doll, I know you've been spending a lot more time around here." He's visibly and audibly frustrated.

He stays quiet for a minute picking up another strand of your hair.

"you're more than what you can do for Valentino okay? you were a person before you're still a person after, don't let him take everything from you." his voice becomes quiet, almost unrecognizable. Its velvety in a way, he speaks almost as if he's telling you just as much as he's telling himself Its the realest you've ever seen him be.

He quickly shakes it off

"his ugly mug cant be the only thing you see, I swear to god every time I look at him I throw up a little" He releases your hair from the curling iron stepping back to admire his work.

"now don't you look riveting" A jokingly seductive tone takes hold of his voice.

Your mind sparks with an idea, why complain about Val when you can just straight up mock him?

You stand up, rushing to the clothing rack, sift through the items before finding a long cherry red robe. Naturally its angel's. Its far too long for you, the second set of arms gets a little confusing, but eventually you slide it on. You sit back seductively on the counter mocking good ol Valentino.

"angel dust! you slut! you're fucking 20 guys before lunch! " You cross your arms dramatically before standing up on the counter. You strut across, being careful not to step on any of his things, but still maintaining the destructive energy Val usually carries.

A wild smile courses through your features, you grab the magazine Angel had been reading before you came in and throw it back into his face.

"Heres the 40 page shockingly kinky script about some kidnapping scene in France you have an hour to memorize, ignore the syntax errors and improvise!" He looks up at you baffled. I mean, you were right-He starts laughing uncontrollably,

"y/n what the fuck" he sputters out

You laugh along with him. He reaches up placing his arms around your waist, putting you onto the ground with very minimal effort. For a second you feel a bit like a house cat hopeless dragged off the counter. Angel was shockingly strong, for such a lanky guy he certainly wasn't flimsy or weak

A smug look overtakes his features

"let me show you how its really done"

He takes the robe off of your body and dawns it himself. He whips out a pair of bedazzled pink sunnies. Tilting them down, he gives you a cheeky wink. Once the knot of the belt is tied he is fully into character

"My siren! Y/n."

"oh god" you roll your eyes as angel begins his display. He walks across the room dragging you with him before twirling you into his arms. You cant help but be a little dizzy at the sudden motion.

"y/n, baby! You have made much so much money with that truly bodacious rack" He swings his arm around your waist. You both stifle a laugh as he drags his second set of hands across the shape of your body in the air in front of you.

"Angel I don't think Valentino would ever utter the phrase "bodacious rack", at least not in this existence" You form your fingers into little air quotes playfully rolling your eyes at him

"shh toots i am working on a real character here"

"Angel" you sigh

"shh" he hushes you again placing his finger against your lips.

Your collective antics go on for a little over two hours, stopping only briefly for you to style his fleecy hair. He looks at the clock before letting out an aggravated sigh. He pulls his body up from his chair.

"I gotta go doll, Val has me shootin yet another new movie before we shoot the scheduled "film", perks of being Hell's best actor" He grumbles grabbing his robe off of the floor leaving you alone in your shared dressing room.

You continued getting ready, expertly styling your newly curled hair and applying a thick coat of deep red lipstick. It wasn't too long after the door swung open. The suffocating smell of lust filling your lungs.

"My dear sweet y/n! how about we lose the mask for tonight?" Valentino burst into the room as if he owned the place. To be fair, he did. You still found it a bit off putting he didn't knock. Despite your profession, you valued privacy.

"Val-" You began, he cut you off.

"I don't believe I was asking." a smirk decorated his sly features.

"Respectfully, sir. It's not within my contract to appear as I truly am."

This shit again. Val was always on your ass about this. He always wanted more. Usually after a few minutes of arguing, he'd give up. There was nothing else he could do, so you don't think much of it. You pull out a cigarette, flicking the lighter, the small white stick begins to blaze.

You blow a cloud of hot red smoke in his direction. He rolls his eyes gritting his teeth in frustration. He takes a deep breath, sordid displays of force didn't work the best on you. You'd be frightened, but your stance would rarely change. Not unless he got physically violent, and quite honestly he was not in the mood today. You were not the most important thing to deal with. Its not that he didn't want to hurt you, he didn't want to waste his time. He tries a lighter, more manipulative approach.

"Think of how much success your beautiful little face would bring us. Sinners and Hell born alike already get off to your body, its just revealing a little bit more"

"No, I won't do it" your voice is small but resolute. He didn't have the patience for this. As soon as the word "no" left your lips Val had begun to lose it. "Wasting time" became a lot less important. Members of the Ars Goetia family would be present in tonight's audience. You had to look your best, so he could look his best.

"You are going to out there without that fucking mask and give all of hell a good show. You won't like what happens if you don't listen." He growled through gritted teeth

"Its breaking the contract. Val" You take another lazy puff from your cigarette. He ripped the cigarette from your hand, throwing it on the ground. He was done with your shit.

"I own you. Did you forget that, I own your body and your voice. you speak only when i want you to. You fuck who I choose. The only thing you technically have a right to is your name, isn't that right my little siren?"

His voice is sleazy to say the least, the tone makes you shudder. You couldn't help but think,

...was he right? you had asked to be anonymous, you never thought to specify how. He continued before you had a real chance to observe your thoughts. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, snakelike and seductive. He was getting tired of this, tired of you.

"the mask is getting old, hell will get tired of you if you don't give them more. you won't like what happens if they deem you all washed up.."

You attempt to move away, His grasp on your arm grows tighter. You flinch slightly from the pain, but not enough for him to notice. He wants to elicit a reaction in you, perhaps if you stay calm he'll give up.

"I have some very specific clientele coming to tonights show I need you to wow them"

You could hardly believe the audacity. Sure, Valentino was always kind of a prick but this complete and total discount of your previously agreed terms was relatively new. He had suggested removing the mask before and brought it up countless times, but this level of disregard was new. Screw being calm you weren't about to be this fundamentally disrespected.

"No I won't do tha- " his hand waves cutting you off. your voice caught in your throat the sigil on your hand marking his ownership glowing a dull faded pink.

"I can do whatever I please. I've let you forget that, I've been going too easy on you. Rereading our little contract brought me the enlightenment I needed. Those who bite don't get to speak" he pauses moving away from you taking in your figure.

"it looks like you'll just be dancing tonight, and what a wonderful performance that is going to be."

The click of his shoes taps against the stark white tile as he walks towards the clothing rack in the edge of the room. He hums, picking out a dark red burlesque outfit. He exchanges it for the mask from the table and breaks it in his hand.

"I think a more revealing number will compensate more than enough for your silence..don't you?"

Your last defense had been shattered. The last ounce of your personage robbed for the sake of pleasing some sleazy unsavory high end customer. You tried to speak but the words stayed nestled inside of you. You wanted to scream or talk honestly you'd take a whisper at this point, still, nothing. The anger in your heart welled its way up into your throat and without an outlet, your frustration took root in your tears."Great" you thought, "just what i needed to look respectable, yet another crying fit."

He grabs you by your shoulders, it had never registered how small you were in comparison. You knew he was tall, but in ten years, you'd never noticed how much taller he was. Usually the moth hunched over in some way to communicate better as his eyesight is less than superior...Yet here he stood a good three or four feet taller than you, anger almost visibly steaming off of his purple fur. two of his hands grasped firmly on your newly bruised shoulder, the other on your neck, and the last raised and ready to strike you. Closing your eyes you accept your fate. the contact comes and as soon as it does you are sprawled on the floor. Unable to move, unable to run. You had never been strong enough to fight. After all you were still the same person you were in 1936 and long after that. Your nose gushes blood, splattering droplets onto the tile as he abruptly jerks you up from the floor.

"maldita cabrona! quién se cree que es?"

he tuts clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It sounds oddly like the loading of a gun. Every aspect of his body was drenched this newly violent attitude. His moth like horns lined with anticipation, twitching with every rigid breath.

Valentino had gotten rough with you before but not like this. This time, it felt more real. He leans in closer, his face directly in front of your own. From another angle perhaps the pose looked sweet,loving even. The thought made you sick.His arm rested against your shoulder, just forceful enough to cause you pain but not so harsh to send you tumbling to the ground again. The sharp talons tipping his long fingers traced the edge of your face, deep red blood madly racing after it. He would have killed you then in there if you weren't such a "valuable asset".

"Next time you'll learn to listen, I've killed fuckers for less than this shit you're giving me. If I don't have the patience with angeldust I certainly won't have it with you, even if you're named hell's favourite pequeña pecadora." He pauses glaring deep into your eyes

"I made you y/n, i can take that away and kill you myself whenever i please. try not to forget that again"

His inflection is wickedly sweet, but not sugary enough to hide his true malice.

He grunts in frustration, throwing you against the dressing room table, the back of your head shatters the mirror. An all too familiar feeling. He laughs viewing the position he's put you in, it is a dry, heartless, and dirty sound. The silence after is chilling. You close your eyes bracing for another impact that just doesn't come. He must have gotten bored with you, he usually did after a while. The door finally slams, the lights of the dressing room flicker and then click off. You slide down onto the floor, all you are left with is the small pool of blood and regret.

The performance that night felt like an eternity. Your skin practically peeling off as lustful eyes burned holes through your skin. You had drank a few more than too many cocktails. It wasn't nice to refuse a gift, and it kept you a little less than fully conscious. stumbling through the hallway you arrived once again at your dressing room. you sat down hopelessly viewing the dark purple bruises formed from your previous alteration through the shattered remnants of your mirror. So much for not "damaging the merchandise" as Val would so often say.A soft knock rattles you from your thoughts. the door creaks open and Angel Dust slides in. You silently look at each other's exhausted frame and scratched faces. Angel was the closest thing you had ever had to a friend, and just about the only person who could ever understand what you're going through. After all, your experience was modeled after his.

"Whats wrong y/n? cat got your tongue?"

Despite his exhaustion he kept up his usual performance. You didn't respond, you couldn't. The tears so expertly rimmed in your eyes threaten to fall. His expression falters and he walks up to you hugging you tightly. You didn't need to say or do anything to explain. He knew exactly what you were going through. For just a moment you relax into his arms.

A minute or so passes and you break the contact. You figure a little context wouldn't hurt. You motion to the glowing sigil on your wrist and then to your throat, hoping he understood the signal.

"You can't speak can ya doll?" He asked softly his hand ruffling your hair. You shook your head no.

"God i hate that fucking prick, he can't just play fair. Maybe if he did that sorry fuck wouldn't be making shitty porn and running washed out clubs for a living". He angrily paces around the room. As he speaks you grab an eyeliner pen and the back of some flier someone left taped to your door. It seemed like the easiest way to communicate. You messily scrawl the words

"Can I stay with you I promise its just for one night"

He takes the page from you a smile taking root.

"damn toots what happened to not mixing personal and professional life?" he joked. You sat there motionless, tears threatening to spill. He takes the hint and grabs a coat off of the rack wrapping it around your shoulders.

"I thought you'd never ask-I've been dying to hang out outside this shit hole. Let's head out, Its gonna rain soon and these boots are too hot to be messing with that acid bullshit"

He posed albeit dramatically earning a smile from you. He tilts his head towards the door and the two of you leave the messy dressing room behind. It was one of the few things you didn't have to worry about. After all, Valentino values appearances, any mess you had made would be gone in the morning. In one way or another, you could fuck up any way and make any mess, and Val would have it cleaned up. The only messes he wouldn't fix were the ones he made himself. The cuts on your body always lasted longer than your reflection in a broken mirror. Unlike you the mirror could be fixed.

Not long after you arrive at this so called "Hazbin Hotel"..you didn't have much to say other than it...seemed fitting. You walk up a few flights of carpeted stairs. His hand calmly connected to yours. He continues down the long winding hallway before reaching a large wooden door at the end. He unlocks the room, and it is exactly what you'd imagine it to be. An embodiment of everything "angel dust".

A few hours and a pack of cigarettes later, the rain starts. The acid falls from the sky burning sinners and generally..most everything in its path. The sizzle on the sidewalk almost sounds like the crackle of a record player. Leaning further back into his bed, you pull out yet another cigarette. Your hand waves, gesturing towards the box and Angel takes the last of the pack. He lights the end of yours first and then clicks the lighter again in an attempt to get his own fix. However the lighter had other plans, it pops and ticks before sputtering out completely. He strikes it a few more times to no avail

"Shit what does a guy gotta do to get a decent lighter in this shit hole"

His arms raised above his head in some odd exaggerated performance of anger. Despite the lack of necessity, you found the fake drama to be amusing. It reminded you of Alastor in some strange way. It was different than the usual drama you found yourself viewing. Hell is full of overdramatic assholes, at least Angel isn't.. cruel. You take the first hit of your newly lit cigarette. The pink smoke fizzling into your lungs, giving you a sense of calm you cant really find anywhere else.

"What you aren't gonna share?" he deadpans before he presses the edge of his previously unlit cigarette to yours.

You look at him as if to say "Angel you dumb bitch that never actually works you're just going to put mine out and then we'll both be miserable"

He rolls his eyes with his signature smug look. He presses his cigarette a bit closer to your own. Shockingly it lit up in a hot pink flame.

"Working with Val sucks but at least you learn a few useful things",

He deeply inhaled from his own newly lit cigarette, puffing the strawberry coloured smoke into your very clearly unamused face. Still. you couldn't help but laugh.. or you tried to anyway, not that it would have worked. You took another long delightful drag and sent the smoke his way. A fit of giggles ensued, at least on his part. You were just happy it worked and he didn't end up pissed off.

The action made you wonder, what if you weren't just meant to hurt others. perhaps you could light them up instead of burning them down. You sat there for about another hour, listening to Angel's sleep deprived rambles. It wasn't too much long after that your own exhaustion finally carried you safely into a well deserved slumber. It was peaceful, the most restful night you'd had since your fall into this desolate shit pit known as hell..For once you didn't "dream." You weren't haunted with his face. His shadow didn't suffocate you. The ghost of your past stayed simply that, a ghost.

The night passes swiftly. Almost as quickly as the stars had appeared they retreated deep into the hazy maroon sky and bright carmine clouds. The rain had stopped, somehow the damages caused weren't entirely discernible from the average look of things. It was then you heard radio static again.

Familiar and soothing, his gravelled voice broadcast to the denizens of hell.

"Good morning to all of you lovely listeners ! Today's broadcast is brought to you by hell's favourite sinner, what isn't to love about that little starlet. Tune on in dearest, I've been hearing so much about you."

the music started softly carried by the wind and into your ears. You felt intoxicated.

We'll meet again

Dont know where, dont know when

but I know we'll meet again some sunny day

Keep smiling through, just like you always do

til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away

It was irrevocably, unmistakably unquestionably him.

Alastor, your Alastor.. was in hell. Not to mention an overlord (shocker there). Despite that fact, you were evidently on his mind. He was speaking to you and only you. There was nothing you could do to respond.

So you listened, to his voice, the instrumentation, the melody, everything. Maybe it would somehow bring you closer to him...

Unbeknownst to the both of you, you were no more than a few rooms apart, enjoying your stay at the Hazbin Hotel.

a/n: I SWEAR I PROMISE YOU, ANGEL, AND ALASTOR ARE GONNA WRECK THAT LITTLE FUCKERS SHIT, dw

[broidobe]

𝔰𝔩𝔦𝔭𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔩𝔲𝔡𝔢

requested! the reader is dating all of them!!

⁎⁺˳✧༚nu metal masterlist

corey was obsessed with your voice from the moment he first heard it. he loved how powerful and raw it was, yet how you could make it sound so delicate when you wanted to. he’d sit in the studio with you for hours, watching in awe as you recorded vocals, grinning when you hit a note that sent chills down his spine.

joey was the biggest fanboy in the band when it came to you. he would always be at the side of the stage during your sets, watching with a smirk as you commanded the crowd with your voice. “that’s my girl,” he’d brag to anyone who would listen. if you ever had a rough show, he was the first one backstage, wrapping you in his arms and pressing a sweaty kiss to your forehead.

paul loved writing music with you. he’d sit with you late at night, bass in hand, as the two of you pieced together melodies and lyrics. he’d hum random basslines while you tested out different vocal runs, smiling when you found something that clicked. “that’s it, babe,” he’d say softly, nodding his head. “that’s the one.” he never missed an opportunity to remind you how talented you were.

mick acted like he didn’t care, but everyone knew he was secretly obsessed with your voice. if anyone talked shit about your singing, he’d immediately shut them down with a death glare and a low, “you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” if you ever sang to him in private, he’d get all quiet, trying to play it cool—until you caught the pink tint on his cheeks.

jim had a way of grounding you whenever you were nervous before a performance. he’d grab your hand, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “you’ve got this,” he’d say, voice steady. if you ever lost confidence in your abilities, he’d be the first to remind you just how incredible you were. “you don’t even realize how powerful your voice is, do you?” he’d ask, shaking his head with a grin.

craig wasn’t the type to shower you with words, but his support was always there. you’d catch him standing quietly at the back of the venue, arms crossed, watching every one of your performances with an unreadable expression—but you knew he was proud. he collected recordings of your shows, storing them neatly on his laptop like prized possessions. if you ever got anxious about how you sounded, he’d simply hand you his headphones and let you listen to a past performance, proving just how good you were.

shawn was your biggest hype man. he’d jump on stage during your performances just to scream into the mic with you, causing absolute chaos. off-stage, he was constantly bragging about you. “yeah, my girl’s a fuckin’ beast,” he’d say in interviews. “her voice? unmatched.” he made sure everyone knew just how talented you were.

sid was your chaotic partner in crime. he’d run up behind you mid-performance and spin you around, laughing when you nearly lost your balance. if you were ever feeling insecure, he’d smother you in kisses and say, “fuck that. you’re a goddamn rockstar, baby.” he loved watching you take control of the stage, his energy feeding off yours in the most electric way.

if you tour at the same time as them, they will lowkey get competitive about who has the crazier crowd.

but if you ever tour with them? oh, it's wild. you end up with an army of 9 masked men making sure you're taken care of.

clown makes sure your stage production is next level—dude has a vision for your set.

corey would totally hop onstage with you at some point. duet? screaming battle? yeah, it's happening.

the boys cause absolute mayhem backstage at your shows. imagine them hyping you up before you go on, just yelling and shaking you by the shoulders like it’s a wrestling match.

sid is the one who insists on a ridiculous secret handshake before every show.

the moment some journalist, fan, or industry dude says something remotely negative about you? oh, they’re done for.

corey will absolutely roast someone in an interview if they disrespect you. “next question. actually, no—go fuck yourself.”

if a creepy fan gets too close, expect sid and jay to be up so fast. sid's already in their face like, “you got a problem?”

mick and jim don’t say much, but their presence alone is enough to intimidate people into behaving.

clown is the type to film people being rude to you just so he can post it and destroy them online.

they’re especially protective if you do heavy music—people love to gatekeep, but not when slipknot’s your personal security team.

it’s just pure, unconditional love and chaos. you get so much affection in different ways from each of them.

corey is your emotional rock, always making sure you're okay mentally and physically.

mick and jim are the chill, grounding presences. they’re the ones rubbing your shoulders after a long day.

joey and sid are constantly making you laugh—expect pranks, dumb jokes, and random bursts of energy.

clown is so proud of you, like a proud dad, but also a total menace.

craig... just exists silently in the background, always knowing what you need without saying a word.

they love watching you do your thing on stage. even if they’ve seen you perform a hundred times, they’re always in awe.

if you ever express wanting to collab with them, they’re on it immediately. no hesitation.

the idea of you and corey doing a song together? absolutely.

if you're into heavier music, mick and jim will gladly work on riffs for you.

if you ever do an acoustic set, expect corey to crash it and harmonize with you out of nowhere.

they’re just so proud of you. they treat you like the biggest rockstar, even if you’re just starting out.

[leeknowlover99]

Skz as love tropes

found it in my drafts ;)

warnings: fluff, suggestive content

masterlist

Bang Chan - coworkers to lovers

you and Chan spent way too much time in a studio. working late nights, eating takeaway pizza, testing new ideas, leaving in the mornings when sun was already high up in the sky. you spent countless nights falling asleep on couch in small studio room. ever since you started working together something between you clicked, you understood and inspired each other. two lost souls trying to find peace in music, stressed overachievers trying to create something perfect. it should not come as a surprise that one day when nothing was working as it should in a heat of the moment you shared the most hungry passionate kiss you could imagine, changing your dynamic forever.

Lee Know/ Minho - neighbors to lovers

your relationship grew slowly. from passing each other on the corridor to saying shy hellos in the elevator to meeting in the coffee shop near by to taking care of his cat when he was on a business trip to going on long walks and talking about life together. Minho with tough and unreadable exterior turned into the softest person you knew. his kindness amazed you with each day. in a span of months from the total stranger he became your comfort person. the change in your relationship seemed so natural. you didn’t even realize when it turned from shy glances to getting railed in his sheets.

Changbin - exes to lovers

you tried to stay away from each other, you really did. it was not working out between you, work forced you to be separated more time than you would like. character differences caused loud arguments. but without each other you were even more doomed. stress piling up in your bodies, minds clouded with too many thoughts, sleepless nights when you missed each other way too much. so when one day you bumped into Changbin in a party next thing you knew you were pressed against him in someones bedroom, hungrily trying to make up for all the lost time. him whispering “i’m not gonna let you go ever again” against your lips.

Hyunjin - soulmates

nobody could replace Hyunjin. nobody could come even close. you have never met someone as passionate, gentle and unreal as him. the way you completed each other could only be described by word soulmates. you understood each other without any words, always knew what the other one needed, could sense emotions like you lived inside each others heads. one look at you two and everybody could see that. your eyes beamed with love when you were together, face glowed. lips curled into most gorgeous smiles. you just had that effect on each other.

Felix - fake dating

it started as an innocent lie but became so much more. the arrangement worked for both of you so you kept going with it. as time passed it was becoming more and more challenging to create that narrative. but neither of you wanted to end it. so you started going on dates, hanging out with your families, posting each other on social media, sleeping in the same bed. the line between the lie and reality was becoming blurry until one day of just vanished. you were no longer pretending, you were no longer keeping the act only when people were around. you were kissing in the loneliness of Felix’s room and although none of you said it you both knew that it became something more.

Han/ Jisung - fwb to lovers

Jisung was never the best when it came to any kind of relationships. one drunk night out with his pretty best friend and all he could think about is your perfect body and those plump lips. he needed you. you seemed to have the same idea. you also seemed to have the same problem with relationships. so after that one night neither of you talked about this. you just silently communicated when you needed each other. expressed your desires and feeling through gentle touches and passionate kisses. way too intimate for only friends. it took a long time for both of you to understand and admit that. but when you did you were two happiest people on this planet.

Seungmin - rivals to lovers

it was always the competition between you two. Y/N vs Kim Seungmin. you were both good, way better than everyone else. but neither of you liked sharing the spotlight. so you constantly tried to either beat the other one or mess with them. after all only one person could get the dreamt internship. this week has been particularly intense, electricity basically sparkling in the air when you were both in the same room. you needed to relax during weekend, that’s how you ended up at Chan’s party already drunk. what you did not expect was to find Seungmin here as well. the look he send your way when he saw you in the flimsy black dress made you weak. from that look only you knew the only competition you will be having tonight is who cums first.

Jeongin - childhood best friends to lovers

stolen glances, shy smiles, late night talks. you and your childhood best friend Jeongin were always more. but you were both too timid and unsure to act on it, so you loved each other in silence. spending all your precious days together, enjoying small moments, but deep down longing for more. and more did come. Jeongin gathered all his courage. “will you go to prom with me?” one day he appeared at your front door with a bouquet of tulips. “as friends?” you asked hoping for a negative answer. “as boyfriend and girlfriend” he responded quietly, cheeks blushed. you provided your response by connecting your lips in a shy kiss which quickly became more passionate when all your suppressed feelings could be finally released.

[sleepy-fiction]

Batter Up!

ganji gupta x gn!reader 4.5K WORDS

syn: ganji gupta moved in next door to you, and after a curious while of pining, you finally have him. Now that he's your boyfriend, you might as well edge him for taking too long to love you back; just hope he doesn't punish you for it.

tags: NSFW, gn sex terms for reader, bottom reader, ganji calls read "priya" (the nickname), a lot of plot to this porn, edging ganji, raw sex (don't do this), fluff and smut

snpt: He's hot, scorchingly so. His bronze skin radiates in the sunlight, pouring in from his sheltered blinds. His chest is heaving, chiseled and structured, and broad shoulders drooping longingly. The sound of his panting breath, how he reacts to every little movement, it was driving you mad.

You couldn't pinpoint what caught your eye about your new neighbor. Ganji Gupta moved into your city in the summer. He was the sort of brooding guy you'd normally stay away from. He walked around with a heavy-set brow, badgered and heated. He was always by himself, and it was rare that anyone would ever see him around. Despite that, the sounds of him you'd hear radiating from his apartment were so estranged from his persona. The whooping joyful cheers, the bitter tears, the scorching screams, you've heard it all.

You remember the nights unable to sleep, you'd find yourself in the bathroom to smoke, and in the ear-ringingly quiet early mornings, you'd hear the softest of whimpering cries pouring out from your fan. How he'd hiccup and pitifully suck up his snot until he couldn't take it, and blew it all away. As sad as it was for you, you couldn't help but laugh, just the tiniest.

Or the nights you'd come home from a tough shift to your quiet world to lay on your couch, only to hear the yells of a loyal fanatic, shouting sports buzzwords through the wall behind you. His voice spiked like a prepubescent child, filled with voice cracks mixed with both terror and delight. And how he'd scream, "Give it some aaair!" Ever so childishly. And the victory, "Woohoo"s he would launch out, or the losing "Maaderchod" that would gouge his system. Whenever his team lost or won, he still laughed a booming one, it was too addictive to your ears. You often found him more entertaining than the book you just so happened to want to read in the living room, for no particular reason…

Rare and few, on those particularly bad days, you'd find yourself awake, unable to sleep, something that came close to your normal nights. You'd hear silence as you read your book. Only for it to be interrupted by a horrid call. A sound rivaling the most widowed banshees, a yell deep from his belly. You recall the first time you heard it, the way your heart spiked, and how you heard him pant and weave. The heavy thumps as you could only assume were him rolling out of bed. As the months went on, you came to learn whenever his nightmares got bad, he'd go squat in his bathroom and cry in the little space. And for some reason, you'd be in there too, playing your most comforting songs, for no reason at all…

All of these things intrigued you the most about Ganji Gupta.

But Ganji Gupta knew just as much about you as you knew about him.

He liked you because you were so quiet. When he first came here, he was so annoyed at the idea of having neighbors, let alone a studio apartment with thin walls? He could imagine the sounds he'd hear, the noises that would keep him up at night, it irritated him so deeply. But, he was met with silence, all the time. Well, all except in the bathroom. You always had the fan on in there, and through the spinning, he could hear you so clearly. As if you were talking to him on a windy day.

You always talked to yourself in there, it was ridiculously funny. Always trashing some coworker as if you're on a phone call, yet he never hears another person's voice. Or yelling at your boss in the mirror, only to go dead silent when you've worn yourself out. How you took long showers blasting your music, music he never knew he could learn to love. How you'd sing, swearing you could be a singer if you tried hard enough. Or how… whenever those bad days happened, he'd always find himself in the bathroom, and he'd always hear you playing a little song. So he started going there, subconsciously, and no matter the hour, he'd always find you would always be playing a song in there.

Let's not forget the more explicit days in the shower for you, but always-- always-- he left to go shopping during that time, even if he had just come back.

He's seen you around town a lot. You're popular with everyone, working down at a restaurant with good favor. Apparently, the old folks love you cause you're polite, and the younger folks love you cause you're understanding. He hoped you'd never notice him, just like the rest of everyone else. He was content with just prying into little glimpses into your world every now and again. He was okay with being a shut-in.

He thought so, at least.

He didn't know how impossible doing that could be, he suddenly had a hit out on his back.

Whenever you went out, you played Where's Waldo for him, and the more you started looking for him, the more you swore he started to appear. The more you started asking around about him, the more you started to see him. The aunties and the old folk loved to gossip, they knew the most horrid things about everyone here. How the infamous Ganji Gupta used to be a Royal Cricket player on the British team until that team went up in smokes. How he and one other are the only survivors, and humors say he started it. How he's vicious and nasty, wintery and bitter, brooding and angry; but the grannies always called him polite…

So much heresy on Ganji Gupta, just who is he?

Ganji, on the other hand, started noticing how the grannies would suddenly flock to him more. He's always been kinder to them, but they started doing a 360° on him randomly. Always asking of him or about you… He didn't understand it at all. He wasn't a gossiper. He wasn't friendly, yet they always had a story about you they wanted to share. How you wouldn't hurt a fly, how you're as prissy as an angel, yet Ganji Gupta's heard all the vicious things you say about your coworkers whenever you're angry… It was comical.

Just who were you, really?

Besides, he wanted to improve his health (for no reason at all) so he started to go on walks. That was another mistake he made.

You definitely should not have asked the grannies about Ganji Gupta. You remember the day they flocked over to you, telling you all the responses Ganji made whenever they told stories about you. It was so embarrassing! You ask them for help one time, and suddenly they've made it their mission to pit you together. But they also told you about them seeing him more around sunset for a couple weeks. So… For no reason at all, you decided to go on walks for your health… That just so happened to be at the coolest time of the day… which just so happened to be sunset… For no reason.

A new world was opened up for you.

It was just like the grannies told you. Every day at sunset, Ganji Gupta took a sweaty jog in the hot summer heat, drenched from head to toe, shirt clinging onto his tall and broad frame. His bandana was drenched in his sweat- he was handsome. You'd never seen him so close (despite you being on the opposite side of the street), you'd never seen him so consistently either. He had dark eyes, bronze skin that rivaled gold, fluffy dark curls, and was littered with scars here and there. You decided, (for no reason at all!@) to really take your workouts seriously, just like him!

But unfortunately, when you tried. Ganji Gupta would look right at you. His face pinched, brows deep set. A judging look that would scream, "What the fuck are you doing?" You never knew greater embarrassment. So… You just… Started jogging early mornings instead.

For Ganji, it only made sense that he started seeing you more often when he started going out more. Sunset was perfect for jogging, all the old people were put away for bed, and it was just early enough for the wild nightlife to be asleep, and plus the summer heat wasn't so vicious. But, after a while of his workouts, he started seeing you not once in a while but, everyday. Not just you but other younger people his age. Everyone suddenly, and he means everyone, wanted to start working out at sunset and you were no different.

It was pissing him off. Was he a trendsetter or something? Why did everyone start copping him? Even that guy William started walking, no, not just walking, running up to him to chat, it was missing him off. Plus seeing you so much while he was sweaty, uncomfortable, and unprepared wasn't ideal. Why were you here, what the fuck were you doing? He looked at you, he was seeing you so much-- Too much it was too much for him. So you can imagine the day he finally looked over, just as you two were crossing paths, the day your eyes both met, the day he reeled back in frantic aggressive embarrassment, begging for the moment not to happen. Accidentally throwing on a face too mean, and seeing your face quirk in disappointed disbelief, and then he never saw you at sunset again.

God. He crushed his spirit for days after that. He gets mean when he's nervous like a bad dog. He'd take it back if he could. So… He started going out even more… For no reason at all. Besides, that William Ellis guy was becoming a friend to him anyway, the annoying kind that would drag him along to everything.

The day you started hearing about Ganji Gupta from your friends was the day you thought pigs were flying. Slowly by slowly, everyone started having their own stories about Ganji Gupta. How he used to be a batter, how he's really funny, how he's so grateful and polite, how he's so good at sports, too many personal things about your Ganji Gupta. It was aggravating to you. He looks at you like your scum and hates talking to people, but suddenly he's everyone's best friend. You hated it. You hated it even more when you went out to bars to have fun and you'd see him there. You never saw him anywhere. The bar was your safe space from him. You hear him so Intimately at home, and you can't escape the reality that you might not be as important to him as he is to you.

God you couldn't even go out partying cause he started showing up there too. He was everywhere and he was always looking at you. If he hated you so much he should learn to stay at home.

Ganji started really having fun again, he didn't know life could feel so good. He joined the local football team, and he was surprised to know he was good at it. He was always with his team. They were dumb as rocks so he always had to take care of them, making sure they were not drinking too much (aka viciously scolding them), making sure they got home, and bringing them liquid IVS. He was the dad in the group and honestly, he was pretty unhappy about it, but I guess he'll keep playing the part, for no reason at all…

But he started seeing the people you were with all the time now that he was active again. Turns out they were pretty funny and genuine people, so it only meant you were that kind of person too. God, you were like a little flower to him, so far out of his reach but he could see it bloom every day. He liked you so much, it was weird. So weird he had to talk about it with William. Then William really started hounding him around everywhere. William knew who you hung out with, what you loved to do when you were out, the bar you liked to go to, everything. And the more he started going to these locations, seeing you in it even when you weren't there, the less nervous he became. He started seeing you a lot more, and he liked it.

He'll, when he went to parties he had the pleasure of bumping into you and having your first conversation.

"Oh sorry," you cried as you continued to brush past him.

"You're fine," He said, but you didn't stop to hear him.

….

Yes… He felt victorious. But he needed more. After months of pining only for that to be your one conversation, he felt stupid. And maybe it was because he was tipsy, but he followed you out the door.

"Going home?" he asked, suddenly appearing next to you.

You were clearly drunk, hobbling down the road at night, wearing the nicest of outfits. You looked too cute. But you looked at him annoyed, as if you were deeply inconvenienced by his presence.

"Duh…" You said.

He smirked. That was the you that he knew, the snippy one who barked at mirrors.

"It's dark, and you're walking by yourself," he said. "I'll just walk you home."

Your eyebrows furrowed, but you didn't protest him.

And he walked you all the way home. He left you at the door, and you got the courage to peek through your eyehole. But oddly, instead of going home too, you watched him walk back over to the elevator and go down. Did he? Did he just leave the party to escort you?

Ganji Gupta… You really were getting a crush on him now.

After that day, you noticed how rare it was to hear him cry or yell out at night. Unfortunately, in return, you heard multiple voices yelling in his house on game nights, but that's something you could easily settle for. It made you smile.

God, you wanted him bad.

And luckily for you, that one conversation turned into two. Then three and four, then it turned into a group chat. Your friend group had mixed with his, and now it was impossible not to be anywhere without Ganji. Then… It was that inevitable message from Ganji Gupta. Then it was the doorbell rang, and he got to be invited into your lively home, and you to his barren one.

You learned he liked competitive video games, especially Mario Kart. You learned he never goes easy on anyone, and you learned how satisfying it was to take wins from him. You heard his victory cries and loser shouts in person, close up, one on one. You saw his smile, you heard his laughs. When you went away on trips you made him a spare key to look after your plants, and when you came back you never asked for it back, so there he was whenever you got off work, sitting in your living room all moody. The day he asked you out, your favorite flowers in hand, all dressed up neatly. How could you say no to that shy face?

You were so happy.

But.

You wanted to see that face he makes when he loses just one more time.

And that all led you to today:

He's hot, scorchingly so. His bronze skin radiates in the sunlight, pouring in from his sheltered blinds. His chest is heaving, chiseled, and structured, and his broad shoulders drooping longingly. The sound of his panting breath. How he reacts to every little movement.

You lick him up from the base to his tip, watching him grunt in confusion, with eyes that read, "What are you doing to me," but with moans that beg for more. You carefully grab his base, his cock is on the longer side with a thick head, and the color is lively. You take him into his mouth and he sighs out, looking over at his watch.

"We'll be- ah… late, priya…" He whispers into the air, laying his hands down by his sides and letting his back rest against the wall. The two of you were just about to leave for a small get-together with William and the friends, but you have other plans.

You stare brazenly up at his pretty face as you stuff your mouth with more of him. He lets his jaw fall slack, not shy at all to privy you to his pretty sounds, "Aah… Wa-- ahh… More, mera pyaar," he calls. He knows how extra sensitive you are with that nickname.

You squint your eyes trying to keep your composure. Your free hand wraps also around his glisteningly wet cock, pumping him with both hands as you slurp up his head. He moans deeply, jaw falling slack and staring down at you with overtaken eyes.

Despite your bullying of his cock, he keeps his composure too. He didn't buck into you, nor did he grab chunks of your hair. But instead, he moaned proudly, not shy to his deliciously intimate sounds. His vulnerability hung in the air, body completely at will to you, it was driving you crazy.

He kept his composure as you sucked at his thick head, your hot mouth combined as your swirling tongue familiarized itself with his equally piping hot anatomy. The way you curled your tongue along his ridges and circled his tip, bullying the tip of your wet muscle into his hole only to plunge him back deeper in your mouth; your hands jerking him down.

"Aah! Mera pyaar," he gasps sharply, "I'm g-gonna cum." Your eyes narrow, and you slowly down on him immediately, pulling him out of your mouth and dropping one hand to lay on his thigh. He cries out in surprise, his moan turning into a deep, unsettled grunt. "Priya," he curses your pet name, his eyebrows furrowed deeply.

God, he was so handsome, so weak in the palm of your hand. You grinned at him.

You ask, "What's wrong?" As you lick a stripe up from his base to his tip again, his body sensitively shivering. "Upset you didn't get to cum," you ask again, your tone teasingly erotic.

He leans his head back with a jaunty laugh, disbelief drowning in his eyes. You immediately soak it up, watching the way his neck is beautifully revealed to you.

You wanted to devour him, completely.

You knew asking him to beg wouldn't do you any good, he'd just do it anyway. He's never afraid to hide sides of himself from you, so there wouldn't be any power in it… But still, you had to hear him say it, your heart wouldn't move on if he didn't.

"Beg, my prince," you mutter as you pepper kisses on his shaft.

"Please, my heart… Suck on me, j-just a bit more… Please," he begs, and you sigh out, his words leaving a wake of tremors down your spine.

He never asked you to let him cum.

You took him back in, only this time you only held him with one hand. You guided him deeper into your cavern, taking as much of him as you could and leaving your hand to warm the rest.

"Agh, mera pyaar," and he rewards you handsomely with a chasmic pant.

You slurped and bobbed on him, looking up at him from between his lap. Watching his chest heave deliciously, the breaths leaving his agape lips. Pretty two-toned lips that looked so lonely without yours. You clenched your eyes close at the thought. You really were going to go insane.

You could smell and taste the bitter juices he leaked out in your mouth. You could hear his moans every second, and feel his scorching heat fire at your mouth. You could feel him hit the back of your throat as you bobbed, a feeling you didn't know could be so addictive. Chasing your own high to see how many times you could make yourself gag, and there he was, moaning and shivering, being so good to not grab at your head or anything.

He was driving you insane.

Ganji Gupta was all yours, all yours.

"Haa, I'm cuming," He gasps sharply. You pull right off him. "P-Priya!" He curses.

His eyes glared angrily, yet he cupped the back of your head and smashed your face against his base, his penis leaning against your cheek. You giggle, desperate to avoid her stern glare. "But you're so cute my love…" You purr, desperate to get yourself out of trouble.

"We're going to be late," he barks.

You pepper apologetic kisses against his shaft, kitten licks as you suck in the smell of him. He's so hot against your face. You slurped up the side of up, pulling off yet again to look into his eyes.

"I need you inside me," you pant tiresomely.

"Then we might as well cancel on William," he huffed, furrowing his brow, but his eyes were drunk with pleasure.

"No, no. We should go," you giggle, still kitten-licking his dick.

"Then act like it or you won't be going anywhere," he grunts, grabbing chunks of your hair. You moan happily.

"Ganji… Let's just be fast about it," you whisper as you rise up onto your knees, pushing yourself into him and resting your head against his belly. You could feel his dick poke against your chest. And you wanted it in so many places but there.

"You're bad, priya," he scowls, but he doesn't refuse.

A smile instantly overtakes your face as you stand up, grinning ear to ear. Embarrassment covers his face as he stands up after you. He slings you over his shoulder, despite your giggles of protest, to drop you on your back in the middle of his bed.

The light of the sunset pours in from the window blades, coating you in brilliant orange hues. His heart skips a beat. It only makes him even more angry, but he can't even keep it, his chest is too warm. He can feel his dick twitch, suddenly so cold without you.

He digs into your neck, nipping you, sculpting its movement with his tongue. Any other day and you'd be bitten, but you two had places to be, and appearances to make. He hears your breath moan, the sound tantalizing in the air.

"Mmh, Ganji… Forgive me, I'm sorry," you pant as he pulls your clothes off your body.

He laughs, "Don't defame the word, it'll lose its meaning. You know you're not sorry," it's within seconds you're almost fully naked, and he's next to undressing himself. As soon as he finished he hops back onto you, caging you between his arms and sliding his hands down your body. Everywhere he touches is hot and weak, his large palms stirring up a wake of desire. You're incredibly aroused by this point, he's aware of the bed of fluids by your sex.

He giggles sweetly to part your legs, kissing your sex with no problem.

"We gotta go," you whine, and he grunts stiffly.

You were right, but damn you started it.

He sucks his fingers into his mouth and presses them against your hole, "Dammit," he hisses.

"Raw?" You gasp as his finger slips inside of you, twirling and spreading you to prepare you for him. Your breath hitches, chest begins to heave. He grabs your leg with his free hand, propping up your knee.

He stares up at you with piercing eyes, licking a stripe up the inside of your thigh to the middle of it. "No time, remember," his eyes lidded dangerously.

You clench around him, "f-fuck," and mewl as he pulls those fingers out.

His thick head meets your entrance, no time to give it kisses** as it rudely plunges straight into you. You arch and cry at his fullness, as he laughs and sinks down to lay his lips against your ear. "Too much for you, mera pyaar," his tone is teasing, his breath mingling against your ear.

"Mmh, go crazy, my love," you stammer and wrap your arms around his shoulders.

Ganji slams into your body, and your body is shocked from your head to your toes. You call out his name, but it's nothing under the relentless fucking. "F-Fuck-- I'm so mad at you," he groans into your ear, his eyebrows pinched, his words filled with heavy pants. His hands grip your hips intensely, his moans raggedy and jaded in your ears. His thrusts are scolding, hard, and quick, the desperate sounds of your sexes mingling drown in the air, as you try your best not to dig your nails into his flesh.

If he keeps it up, you'll cum in no time. But you're sure that's what he wants.

"G-aanji! Aah," you moan.

"Shh… Haa, keep it d-down… Aah… You'll upset my neighbor," he cackles, leaning up out of your body to stare at you, he adjusts his hold on your hips, holding your body up by it. His muscles radiate with gleaming sweat, his bronze form, his handsome face, and the delicious scars that cover his body in random places. You clench onto him, trying to stop your high from reaching you so soon. Your moans spike, and he laughs airily. "What am I kidding- my neighbor's already so loud. So annoying… so rude and-- f-fucking beautiful… my priya-- ah I can't be without 'em, I need you… I love you. I wanna be with you e-everyday, mera pyaar," he cries as he begins to hand his head back. His moans get higher, his thrusts sharper, no longer worried about hardness but about quickly pumping himself full of you.

"I'm gonna cum, mera pyaar… Gonna' cum m'pyaar," he rolls out, and your legs tighten around his waist, you were just about to cum too.

"Yes, I love you, my love," you moan, clenching down on him. Your highs are met with an intense wave of pleasure, one that locks your back into a deadly arch, and causes him to buck messily into you as you're drenched deep with his fluids. Your orgasm is long as you reach out for his forearms, and he leans down and buries himself into your neck, "M'pyaar.. My life-- mere dil ka pyaar," he hums into your ear as he buries your neck with sweet kisses. His touch is so gentle as he caressing your sides, pulling out of your neck when he hears your moans turn into stable breaths.

"My life, my life," he repeats, his warm chocolate eyes gazing so intimately into your soul. His hands reach and cup your face, his thumbs caressing your under eyes as he takes you in for a kiss. "I lov'ya," is all he can manage under your relentless kiss, the sounds of a song ringing in yo--

"Fuck! Ganji your phone!"

He snaps out of your body, his head messily turning to gaze front door. William was calling, and the abrasive ringtone was blaring in the space. "Maaderchod," he hisses, and he sneaks back into your neck, peppering kisses.

"No-- Ganji! We gotta go!"

Okay, so you were 2 hours late, big deal…

**okay so this made me imagine. Fredrick's about to put it in, but before he does, he pokes your hole with his tip going, "mwah mwah mwah" and then laughs to himself, "sorry darling," and finally slides in. That's absolutely sexy and charming

[pxnsneverland]

Heartbreak Hotel | austin!elvis x oc (part 1)

(gif source: theresalwaysep)

plot summary: Angel Casteel is a small town girl who lucked into working as a costume designer at a film studio. Unfortunately, her confidence in herself wavers as she is assigned to work with Elvis on his latest motion picture. Overcome by his star power at first, she slowly starts to realize there is a man behind the fame, a man she understands. But as they grow closer, the world grows more turbulent, especially Elvis's world. Will this Angel be able to save Elvis from himself and the people around him? Or will getting mixed up in his word prove to be her downfall as well?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

pairings: austin!elvis x oc

word count: 2741

warnings/notes: N/A

Chapter 1: The Costumer's Dance with The King

As Angel Casteel strolled along the winding pathways of the bustling studio, her mind was consumed with a whirlwind of thoughts. Each step she took brought her closer to her latest assignment, igniting a sense of anticipation within her. The air was thick with creative energy, as fellow artists immersed themselves in their respective projects. The vibrant atmosphere seemed to fuel her imagination, as she pondered the task that lay ahead. She found herself transfixed, her gaze locked upon the delicate piece of paper that had been handed to her by the front office. A sense of apprehension coursed through her veins, causing her to momentarily freeze in her tracks. It was in that very moment that the realization struck her like a bolt of lightning, electrifying her every nerve. As fate would have it, she found herself bestowed with a remarkable opportunity - a chance to be a part of the mesmerizing world of Elvis Presley's latest motion picture. The sheer magnitude of this moment was not lost on me, for she was entrusted with the task of personally adorning the legendary icon with his costumes for the big screen. Angel found myself staring at the assignment card in her hands as if hoping to uncover some hidden mistake. As she carefully examined the photograph, her eyes were immediately drawn to the bold letters inscribed on the back. ANGEL CASTEEL. It was as if the air had been violently expelled from her lungs. In that instant, time seemed to stand still, as she struggled to regain her composure. In the grand tapestry of music history, there emerged a man whose brilliance outshone all others - Elvis Presley. With his magnetic charisma and unparalleled talent, he ascended to the pinnacle of stardom, becoming a celestial figure in the realm of entertainment. The world, captivated by his mesmerizing voice and electrifying performances, bestowed upon him the title of the biggest star to ever grace the stage. The weight of his authority hung heavy in the air. Angel knew that one wrong move, one ill-chosen word, could spell disaster for her future in this place. The thought of crossing him sent shivers down her spine. The consequences were clear - a swift and merciless termination, her dreams shattered in an instant. The disapproving whispers of her parents echoed in her mind. The prospect of facing her family, her head held low in defeat, was a bitter pill to swallow. It seemed as though the world was determined to prove her parents right about her ill-fated choice to forgo college and embark on an uncertain journey to the land of dreams. The allure of California, with its promises of opportunity and adventure, had once beckoned her like a siren's call. But now, as reality set in, the weight of her decision pressed heavily upon her conscience.  She felt her body physically tremble at the mere notion of it.

With resolve hardening in her chest, Angel took a deep breath and forced her feet to move forward. She mustered the courage that had brought her from her small town to the heart of Hollywood, reminding herself of the countless nights spent sketching designs by the dim light of her old desk lamp, dreaming of a moment like this.

As she approached the opulent dressing room marked with Elvis Presley's name adorned in glittering gold, her pace slowed. Her hand hovered over the door handle, the cold metal feeling like a threshold to a new world. Taking another steadying breath, Angel pushed the door open.

The room was lavish, befitting a star of Elvis's magnitude. The air was scented with a mix of leather and aftershave, and the walls were lined with mirrors and photographs of famous movie scenes. At the center, seated in front of a vanity mirror, was Elvis himself, his back to her, engrossed in conversation with an old man who appeared to be his manager.

Angel cleared her throat softly, announcing her presence. Elvis turned around, his legendary smile warming the room instantly. “Hey there, darling. You must be the one behind my wardrobe for this film.”

Flustered but thrilled, I shook his outstretched hand, but was unable to make any words spill from my mouth. The old man Elvis had been talking to placed both hands on the top of his cane with a smile that seemed slightly forced. “She’s a pretty one, my boy. Don’t go getting yourself distracted here.”

Elvis glanced back at the man laughing. “Ah, don’t scare her, Colonel.” He turned back to Angel. “Don’t listen to nothin’ the Colonel says. He likes to make jokes. I’m Elvis and this is my manager Colonel Tom Parker. What’s your name, darlin’?”

Angel took a deep breath, her nerves momentarily calmed by the congeniality of Elvis's tone. "I'm Angel Casteel, Mr. Presley," she managed to say, her voice steadier than she felt.

Elvis chuckled softly. "Well, Angel…ain’t that just a fitting name for a beauty like you? And just call me Elvis. Mr. Presley is my Daddy. I ain’t that old yet.”

His laughter was infectious, and Angel found herself smiling, the tension easing from her shoulders.. “You don’t look old at all, Elvis.” His name felt foreign on her lips but she found a strange comfort in it.

“You’re bein’ too nice.” Elvis gestured towards a plush, velvet couch. "Come on over here and show me what you’ve got.”

Angel moved gracefully toward the couch, clutching the portfolio that contained all her carefully crafted designs. As she laid the sketches out on the low coffee table, her hands trembled slightly, betraying her nervous excitement.

Elvis leaned forward, his keen eyes scanning each design with an intensity that made Angel's heart skip a beat. He paused at one of the sketches, a sleek, black leather jacket paired with a high-collar, white silk shirt. "Now, this is something else," he remarked, his voice laced with genuine interest. "Tell me about this one."

Gathering her thoughts, Angel explained, "I wanted to combine traditional rock 'n' roll elements with a touch of modern flair.”

Elvis nodded appreciatively. "I like that. It’s got edge but still classy.”

"I was thinking something vibrant for the dance scenes," Angel said, pointing to a sketch of a shimmering gold jacket. "Something that catches the light and complements your dynamic movements."

Elvis picked up the sketch, his eyes lighting up. “You’ve got a real talent, Angel."

Flushed with pride and relief at his approval, Angel continued to show him other designs, each receiving thoughtful consideration and encouraging words from Elvis. Colonel Parker observed quietly from the side, occasionally interjecting with practical considerations about fabric choices and stage logistics.

As the afternoon wore on, the initial tension that had cocooned Angel upon her entrance gradually dissolved into a comfortable camaraderie. Elvis seemed genuinely interested in her thoughts and ideas, often asking for her opinion on other aspects of his wardrobe beyond the immediate needs of the film. It was a collaborative atmosphere that she had only dreamed of, one where her visions and suggestions were not only heard but respected.

“Angel, you’ve got an eye for this stuff,” Elvis said as he stood up to stretch his legs, “I think we’re gonna make a great team.”

Angel nodded enthusiastically. “I think so too.”

Elvis grinned, clapping her lightly on the shoulder. “Great! Let’s keep this momentum going. Maybe after we wrap up here, we could grab some dinner? There’s a little place not too far from here that makes the best Southern fried chicken you’ll ever taste.”

The casual invitation sent a thrill through Angel’s heart. Dinner with Elvis Presley? The very thought was almost too much to fathom. Hesitantly, she accepted. "That sounds wonderful, Elvis. I'd love to."

Elvis's smile broadened, lighting up his face with a boyish charm that few could resist. "Fantastic! It’s a date then," he said, a playful tone in his voice that made Angel's heart flutter with excitement.

Walking out of the dressing room together felt surreal to Angel. The movie crew, like a swarm of bees, descended upon him, their eager hands guiding him towards the sound stage to finish out the filming for the day. Silently, Angel trailed behind, her eyes fixed on him as he came to a halt. He engaged in conversation with the main actress, the one who portrayed the female lead and served as Elvis's love interest in the film. She stood before him, a vision of beauty. Her face adorned with carefully applied makeup, enhancing her features and accentuating her natural charm. Her luscious blond locks cascaded in perfect curls, framing her face with an air of elegance. Clad in a swimsuit that showcased her long, slender legs, she left little to the imagination. As he flashed a warm smile in her direction, Angel’s heart skipped a beat, and a sudden realization washed over her. It was a truth that had been lurking. Elvis only wanted to be kind. With her jet-black hair and eyes, the color of a moonlit sea, she was nowhere near attractive enough. Her skin was too pale, and her clothing was simply thrift shop finds that suited her well. In the vast expanse of the universe, their souls resided on separate solar systems, as distant from each other as the stars. With a heavy sigh escaping her lips, she trudged forward.

Angel's thoughts churned as she watched Elvis interact with the stunning actress. The way he laughed, the casual touch of his hand on her arm, it all seemed so effortless, so perfect. A pang of jealousy twisted in her stomach, not because she wanted Elvis for herself—she was too practical for such fantasies—but because she feared that their budding professional friendship might suffer from his divided attentions. The stark contrast between their worlds couldn't be more pronounced in her eyes; where he shone brightly, she felt dimmed by her own perceived ordinariness.

Yet, as she lingered by the edges of the bustling set, a soft hand touched her shoulder, startling her from her reverie. It was Elvis, who had extricated himself from the crowd and come over to find her. His smile was still present, but his eyes held a hint of concern. "Hey, you alright?" he asked gently.

Angel forced a smile, nodding unconvincingly. "Yes, just... overwhelmed," she managed to say, gesturing vaguely towards the chaos of the film set.

Elvis's expression softened, a mixture of understanding and empathy crossing his features. "It can get a bit much, huh?" he said, drawing her slightly away from the throng. "But you, Angel, you belong here just as much as anyone else. Look at me. Just a hillbilly who lucked into all this. Most of the time I don’t even really know what I’m doin’.”

His words, warm and sincere, were a balm to her jangled nerves. “You’re doing wonderfully, Elvis. Everyone can see that.” Angel’s voice was soft but firm, her belief in him evident.

Elvis shook his head, his hair brushing against his forehead. "Nah, it's all smoke and mirrors, darlin'.” He chuckled, then his gaze fixed more intently on her. "But you — you’ve got real talent, Angel. Don’t ever doubt that. This stuff,” he gestured broadly to the hubbub surrounding them, “It’s fleeting. But creating something? That’s forever.”

“Thank you, Elvis,” she said, her voice steadier now.

Elvis grinned, the light catching in his eyes in a way that made them sparkle mischievously. “Now, don’t let me keep you from shining today. We’ve got some more scenes to shoot, but how about we meet by the wardrobe when we wrap? Don’t forget about our dinner plans!”

“I won’t,” she promised, feeling the flutter of butterflies in her stomach at the thought of spending more time with him outside of work.

As Elvis headed back toward the set, Angel watched him go, her heart still racing from their interaction.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur for Angel. She busied herself with final adjustments to the costumes, her hands moving mechanically as her mind replayed the warmth in Elvis's voice and the sincere look in his eyes. The movie set, usually a place of overwhelming noise and activity, felt strangely muted to her ears, as if she was hearing it all from underwater.

As the hours ticked by, the set began to wind down from the day's hectic schedule. Crew members started cleaning up, actors removed makeup, and the buzz of activity slowly diminished into a quiet hum. Angel tidied up her workspace in the wardrobe department, folding fabrics and organizing her materials meticulously.

As promised, Elvis was waiting for her by the wardrobe racks when she arrived, his presence commanding even in such an ordinary setting. He was dressed casually now, in slacks and a simple button-up shirt that did nothing to hide his charismatic aura. "Ready to go?" he asked with an easy smile.

Angel nodded, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. "Absolutely, I just need to grab my things," she replied as she reached for her jacket.

Walking out of the studio together, they found themselves stepping into the cool evening air. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow that seemed almost magical. As they approached Elvis's car, a vintage convertible that gleamed under the fading light, Angel couldn't help but feel like she was stepping into a scene from one of those glamorous old Hollywood films.

Elvis held the passenger door open for her, and as she slid into the soft leather seat, he flashed her a grin that could have melted hearts across continents. "Ever ridden in one of these before?" he asked as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

"No, I can't say I have," Angel replied, her voice slightly shaky with excitement.

Elvis chuckled as he started the engine, the sound rumbling softly beneath them. "Well, you're in for a treat," he said, his eyes twinkling with excitement as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the open road. The wind began to pick up, sending Angel's hair fluttering around her face, and she laughed, feeling a surge of freedom she hadn't expected.

The drive was filled with a comfortable silence initially, as both seemed content to simply absorb the moment. The landscape blurred past them, a mix of city lights and twilight shadows painting the journey in hues of blues and oranges. Elvis finally broke the silence, his voice thoughtful. "You ever think you would be here in LA?" he asked, glancing her way.

Angel pondered the question, her fingers tracing the leather seam of the seat. “No. I grew up in a one-horse town in Alabama, workin’ as a waitress in the one of the two restaurants the town had. I always wanted somethin’ better, somethin’ different. So instead of savin’ up money to go to college, I saved up money to move to California. My parents thought I was crazy; my friends didn’t really believe in me either.”

“But here I am,” she continued, her voice lifting with a newfound strength. “And every day on that set, even with all its chaos and uncertainty, I’m grateful. Grateful for the chance to be part of something bigger than just serving coffee and pies back home.”

Elvis nodded, his expression a mixture of admiration and understanding. “That’s something we share, you know? I didn’t come from much either. Just a little shotgun house in Tupelo, Mississippi. Most folks thought I’d end up pumping gas or working in the fields.” He smiled softly, his eyes reflecting the streetlights as they passed.

"But here we are, right? Chasing dreams in the city of stars," he continued, his voice tinged with a hint of wonder.

Angel smiled, turning to look at him, the wind still playing with her hair. “Right. I never imagined I'd end up here, and definitely never thought I'd be riding alongside Elvis Presley." Her laugh was light, carefree.

Elvis's smile widened at her words. "I'm glad you're here with me, Angel. It feels like this was supposed to happen. Like it’s part of a bigger plan or somethin’." He turned his gaze back to the road, focusing on the weaving path of headlights before them.

The conversation drifted then to lighter topics — music, favorite movies, and anecdotes from their respective childhoods. Each story shared was a thread that seemed to weave them closer together, bridging the gap between their worlds with laughter and mutual understanding.

Stay tuned for part 2!! Click HERE to view!

[whereforarthur]

Musicians want to be the loud voice for so many quiet hearts

Request: Can you do George Clarkey imagine where reader is a famous singer and he basically follows her on tour and fans speculate they’re dating. he also gushes about her on the podcast and with Max about her songs and the shows fuelling the rumours

Pairing: George Clarkey x Musician!Reader

Rating: PG-13

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 3k

Italics= Flashbacks

*****

"So, what's new on the music scene, George?" Max's voice boomed through the podcast studio speakers, setting the tone for another episode of The Useless Hotline.

George Clarke leaned into the microphone, his eyes twinkling with excitement. "Well, Max, you know how much I've been into indie rock lately," he began, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "But I've stumbled upon an artist that's absolutely blowing my mind."

Max raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Oh, really? Who's this mysterious talent that's got you all riled up?"

George paused for dramatic effect before dropping the name. "Y/n."

Max's eyes widened in surprise. "The Y/n? As in the Y/n whose debut album just hit the charts like a meteor?"

"The very same," George affirmed, nodding with an unmistakable glint in his eye. "Her voice is like nothing I've ever heard before—raw, soulful, and with a range that could shatter glass."

Max chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "And it's not just her music that's got you all hot and bothered, is it?" He winked at the George, who turned red. "I've noticed you've been following her tour pretty closely on social media. Care to share any juicy details with us?"

George's cheeks burned as he shuffled his notes, trying to regain his composure. "What? No, no, it's all professional, I assure you," he stammered, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. "I'm just keeping tabs on the industry, you know how it is."

Max leaned in, his tone teasing but with a hint of seriousness. "Oh, I know how it is alright. The way you gush about her tracks, the endless retweets of her concert clips, the heart-eye emojis—it's like you're her number one fan, or something more."

The studio filled with laughter, but George's blush deepened. He cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "Look, she's just incredibly talented, and her live performances are nothing short of mesmerizing. It's all about the music, Max."

*****

In his mind, George replayed the moments he'd spent following Y/n's tour. The show began with a dramatic opening, lights dimming to a pulsing beat before exploding into a cacophony of sound and color. y/n strutted onto the stage, her voice soaring over the cheers of the audience. George watched from the wings, his heart racing. He'd heard her sing countless times before, but there was something about seeing her live that sent chills down his spine. He couldn't help but think about all the times he'd played her music for his fans, hoping they'd feel the same connection he did.

As the night went on, George found himself getting lost in the performance. The way she moved, the emotions she conveyed through her lyrics, it was all so mesmerizing. His phone buzzed in his pocket, notifications from fans bombarding his screen with questions and comments about the rumored romance. He ignored them, not wanting to break the spell. He was living in the moment, and the moment was all about her.

The whispers had started after the third show. Fans had noticed his frequent appearances, and rumors began to swirl. He'd felt a thrill at first—the idea that he could be linked to someone so incredible, so gifted. But as the whispers grew louder, so did the weight of his secret.

Finally, after the encore, the lights dimmed and the applause died down. George took a deep breath and waited for his chance to meet her. His palms were sweaty, his heart racing like it was about to leap out of his chest. When the moment came, she emerged from the dressing room, a vision in a glittering outfit, and their eyes met. For a brief second, the world around them disappeared, leaving only the two of them standing in the harsh glow of the backstage lights. He managed a nervous smile, and she returned it with one that was equally as shy. "Hey," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Great show."

Her smile grew, lighting up her eyes. "Thanks," she replied, her voice just as soft. "I've heard a lot about you, George." His cheeks flushed at the mention of his name, and he stumbled over his words, trying to form a coherent response. Before he could say anything more, a handler stepped in, guiding her away to meet more fans and press. But in that brief exchange, George felt something shift. The rumors didn't seem so ridiculous anymore. Maybe, just maybe, there was something real between them after all.

The attraction was undeniable, a force that drew him in like gravity.

Their eyes had lingered a beat too long, and the air between them had crackled with an undeniable electricity. The whispers grew into a murmur, and the rumors began to take on a life of their own. Fans took to social media, posting photos of them together, dissecting every shared glance, every accidental touch. The media picked up on it, and soon, their faces were plastered across tabloids with headlines that made George's heart race.

As the tour progressed, the connection between George and Y/n grew stronger. Stolen moments backstage turned into lingering glances from across crowded venues. They'd share whispers and smiles, their bond a secret language that only they understood. It was love at first sight for both of them, a connection so profound that it seemed to transcend the noise and chaos of the music industry.

In the quiet moments between shows, they'd sit together, sharing stories about their lives, their dreams, and their fears. Y/n spoke of her rise to fame, the sacrifices she'd made, and the solace she found in her music. George, in turn, revealed his own aspirations, his love for podcasting, and the joy he found in sharing his thoughts with the world. Their conversations were a symphony of shared passion and understanding, a respite from the relentless glare of the spotlight.

*****

"Earth to George," Max's voice echoed through the podcast studio, pulling him from his reverie. "You still with us, mate?"

George blinked, snapping out of his daydream. "Yeah, sorry, Max. Just lost in thought about the tour."

"Oh, I bet you were," Max said with a knowing smile. "But come on, George, don't hold out on us. You've got to admit, there's more to it than just her music."

George's cheeks grew even redder as he stumbled over his words. "I-it's not like that, Max. I'm just…supporting her career."

Max chuckled, not quite buying his friend's protest. "Sure, George, sure. You're just 'supporting' her career." He winked at their podcast audience, the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Max, George's co-host, had been equally as thrilled for him, egging him on during their podcast episodes. "Come on, mate," Max would say, his grin audible through the microphone, "spill the tea! What's it like being backstage with the hottest singer in the biz?" George had been playing it cool, but the listeners could sense the excitement bubbling just beneath the surface. They'd been shipping George and y/n since the first time he'd played her song on their show, and every little detail George shared just added fuel to the fire.

George took a deep breath, trying to balance his desire to protect Y/n's privacy with the thrill of being part of her world. "Okay, okay," he conceded, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Let's just say that I've had the privilege of seeing a side of her that not everyone gets to. She's not just a rockstar; she's also incredibly kind, and her dedication to her craft is inspiring."

Max leaned in, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Ah, so you're saying there's some backstage magic happening, huh?"

George chuckled, playing along. "Well, let's just say that there's definitely a connection," he teased, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But you'll have to tune in to my vlog for the juicy details."

Max slapped the table, grinning. "Ah, the plot thickens! You're killing us with suspense, George!"

George couldn't help but laugh, the energy in the room contagious. "Alright, alright. I'll admit, we've become…close." He paused, searching for the right words. "But it's all very respectful and professional, of course."

Max leaned back in his chair, his smile widening. "Respectful and professional, huh? That's not what the internet's saying."

George rolled his eyes, playing it cool. "The internet says a lot of things, Max. You know how it is—fans get a little carried away."

But the more he talked about Y/n, the harder it became to keep his feelings in check. Her music had become the soundtrack to his life, and the thought of her made his heart swell with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.

The podcast went on, the conversation shifting to other topics, but George's mind remained firmly on Y/n. He'd never felt so alive, so invigorated by someone's presence. Her music had become the score to their budding romance, a secret symphony played just for them amidst the cacophony of the tour.

The banter went on, but George remained tight-lipped about the details of their conversation. He didn't want to jinx it. The rumors grew wilder, and their listeners were eating it up. Fan art began to flood their social media pages, depicting the two of them in various romantic scenarios. It was all in good fun, but George couldn't help but wonder if there was more to it than just a backstage meeting.

*****

Days turned into weeks, and George found himself backstage at more of y/n's shows. Each time, their interactions grew longer, more intimate. They'd share quiet moments between the cacophony of the tour, discussing music, life on the road, and their shared love for London. The connection grew stronger, and the line between fan and friend began to blur. Yet, George remained respectful, never crossing the boundary, not wanting to ruin the magic of their budding relationship.

One night, after a particularly emotional performance, y/n sought him out in the crowded backstage area. She looked tired but exhilarated, her eyes searching his face for something he wasn't sure he could give. "You know," she said, her voice low and serious, "I've been thinking a lot about what you said on your podcast. About my music, about us." George's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?" he asked, trying to keep his cool. She took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his. "I think there might be something here, George. Something real."

The room seemed to hold its breath, the noise of the venue fading away as she spoke. George felt his entire world shift, and he knew that whatever happened next would change the course of his life. He looked at her, this incredible woman whose music had captured his heart, and he knew he had to be honest. "Me too," he murmured, and she leaned in, closing the distance between them. As their lips met, the cheers of the crowd outside seemed to crescendo, as if the universe itself was applauding their newfound love.

*****

After the podcast wrapped up, George sat in the quiet studio, his thoughts racing. He knew the rumors would only grow stronger, the paparazzi more relentless. He didn't want to cause her any trouble, didn't want to be the reason she was hounded by the media. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and typed out a message to her. "Let's keep it low-key for a bit longer," he wrote. "The music's all that matters right now."

Y/n's response was almost instant. "You're right," she texted back. "But it's getting harder to hide this."

George couldn't argue with that. Every time they were together, the chemistry between them was palpable, a magnetic force that seemed to pulse in the air. It was like trying to contain a raging storm in a teacup—eventually, something was going to spill over.

The next few concerts were a dance of restraint, their hands brushing together backstage, the lingering hugs that were just a little too tight, the stolen kisses when they thought no one was looking. The tension grew with every passing day, a delicious agony that only served to deepen their connection. Y/n had become his muse, her every move, every note, inspiring his own creativity.

But the whispers grew louder, the glances from the sidelines more pointed. The pressure mounted, a silent crescendo that seemed to crescendo with each show. Y/n leaned into his ear one night, her voice a breathless whisper. "I don't know how much longer I can keep my hands off you in public," she confessed, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

The words sent a jolt of electricity through George, his heart racing. He knew what she meant; the desire between them was a living entity, pulsing with every beat of their hearts. In the privacy of her dressing room, they'd come close to giving in more times than he could count. But the fear of ruining her reputation, of being the tabloid fodder that could overshadow her music, kept them from crossing that line.

Yet, the anticipation was killing them both, a thrill that only grew with each secret glance and stolen touch. The rumors had spun into a tornado of speculation, and it was only a matter of time before they were caught in the storm. So, after weeks of careful deliberation, they decided to take control of the narrative.

*****

One evening, after the final notes of Y/n's breathtaking performance had faded into the night, George took to the stage. The crowd roared with excitement, not expecting the podcast host to make an appearance. With a shaky smile, he gripped the microphone, his heart hammering like a drum solo. "Thank you all for being here tonight," he began, his voice carrying over the hushed whispers of the audience. "I know you're all here for the music, but I have an announcement to make."

The air in the venue grew thick with anticipation as Y/n joined him, her hand slipping into his. She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with excitement and nerves, and he knew this was it—the moment they'd both been dreading and craving. "We wanted to share something with you," George continued, his voice growing stronger with each word. "Something that's been brewing between us for a while now."

The crowd held its collective breath, the anticipation so intense it seemed to hum through the air. Y/n leaned into the microphone, her voice clear and steady. "George and I have become more than just friends over the course of this tour." The stadium erupted in a mix of cheers and gasps, phones rising like stars in the night sky, capturing every moment.

"Yes," she said, a playful smile curving her lips, "I've officially taken George Clarke off the market." The crowd went wild, their screams a testament to the love and support that had been growing alongside the whispers and rumors. For George, it was a moment of pure exhilaration and terror, his heart racing as he felt the weight of their secret lifted from his shoulders.

They stepped closer, the stage lights casting a warm glow over them as they announced their relationship to the world. Y/n leaned in, her breath warm against his cheek. "Thank you for being patient," she murmured, her voice lost in the cacophony of the crowd.

George swallowed hard, his heart hammering like a bass drum in his chest. "Thank you for trusting me," he whispered back, his eyes never leaving hers.

The crowd's applause grew deafening, their cheers a cacophony of love and excitement. They leaned in, their faces inches apart, the moment stretching out like a chord in one of Y/n's soulful ballads. And then, as if propelled by the very music that had brought them together, they kissed. It was a kiss that spoke of passion, of hope, and of a love that had been simmering beneath the surface for too long.

The news of their relationship spread like wildfire across the internet, setting social media ablaze with reactions. Fans, thrilled by the revelation, flooded their comments with congratulations and well-wishes. The media, ever hungry for a good love story, feasted on the details of their whirlwind romance. Yet amidst the chaos, George and Y/n found refuge in each other's arms, their bond stronger than ever.

In the days that followed, the tour took on a new energy. The chemistry between them was no longer hidden behind the guise of friendship; it was a living, breathing force that electrified the air. Every shared glance, every touch, was met with an appreciative roar from the audience, who reviled in the authenticity of their love.

The rumors had become reality, and George Clarke, the YouTuber with a crush, was now George Clarke, the man with the world's most enviable backstage pass. But it wasn't about the fame or the gossip; it was about the connection, the shared passion for music, and the undeniable spark that had drawn them together. And as they navigated the highs and lows of a very public relationship, they'd learn that sometimes, the most beautiful melodies are the ones that unfold when you least expect them.

Their relationship didn't just survive the spotlight; it thrived in it. Y/n's music grew more intimate, her lyrics now echoing the depth of their feelings, and George's podcasts grew more personal, his voice resonating with the joy he found in supporting her. They became the ultimate power couple, a testament to the idea that love could bloom in the most unexpected of places.

*****

Taglist~

@gvf23

[sinning-23]

Publicity Pt.4

Hey everyone sorry for the wait! It's here now tho! Enjoy!

Link to:

Introduction

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

PART 5 UP NOW! (WARNING: Contains smut)

Warnings: language, suggestive content, 2D and y/n are awkward, it’s complicated?

A yawn pushes past your lips as you take a breath and place the headset over your ears, listening to the track Murdoc, Noodle, and Russel had come up with while you were on your outing with 2D.

The instrumentals aren’t exactly how you imagined the night prior but it was damn good regardless.

It’s easy when you’re alone. Singing was easy, and playing instruments was easy, but damn it if there was one person in the room you’d fall apart.

It wasn’t like this when you started out.

Making music was a hobby and career you’d come to thoroughly enjoy. Your father gifted you any instrument you could ever want. He told you that you could be an amazing artist one day, making music that makes people want to move. And you did for years. Sold out concerts and tours alike.

Until he got sick.

The music wasn’t for fun anymore. Or to bond…it was for money to keep him alive. And all the encouragement and energy he put into making you a star…wasn’t for you. It was for him. He’d been sick for a while and just needed you to get comfortable in the limelight.

Unfortunately for him, it was all for naught. The virus spread and only tore him apart. How dramatic of him to die as you’re performing in a concert HE made you show up for. It was like the world stopped when you got the news, people in the audience calling out to you as your reaction was projected onto jumbo screens.

“You could have just told me…I would’ve done everything to…to keep you from…”

The words are thick in your throat as you squeeze his cold hand. He looks pale, the sight making your stomach turn.

“Dad…”

That was a long time ago though.

You sing through the lyrics 2D had written that day, each word slipping off your tongue with such desire and passion you’d almost forgotten how long it’d been.

Speaking of which, this wassss a rather suggestive song. When the hell did he have time to write like this?! That liar.

“This is more your caliber.”

Bullshit.

Especially not with the way he had you last night. A shiver shoots down your spine and into your core. The hazy lust in his eyes had you reeling, the lyrics feeling heavier now.

You don’t hear the door open, your eyes squeezed tight as you flow into your own verse, hot and heavy, and heavenly into the microphone like some reincarnated Donna Summer.

You could imagine his voice melting with yours, the song intimate but dance worthy. This would definitely have babies being made.

Another shiver with the ghosting feeling of his lips on your skin, the slow drag of teeth and his palm pulling you’re body down into him.

The instrumental loops again as you open again, the same sound echoing through the studio. You’re finding it again, the voice you’d lost so long clawing its way out of your throat and manifesting in siren-sweet tones.

The track stops and your head snaps just to find you'd been watched for a while now.

Noodles' got her hands covering her mouth as Murdoc simply grinned and nodded almost in approval.

“Now thas’ the sound we needed yesterday darling. Something change overnigh’?” He chuckles, seeing you swallow hard.

“I’ve got serious chills! I mean your albums before sound amazing but hearing that in person?” Noodle beams, greeting you at the door of the booth.

It’s impossible to fight the smile that rises to your face. Maybe you were just being too hard on yourself? Your confidence had come back just like that???? No, you were still nervous and had no idea you were being watched, but…the positive reinforcement was nice.

“Thank you. Think I found my voice again and we can really get to work. But um…I need to talk to 2D first.” You admit, feeling guilty about last night.

It wasn’t his fault you backed out like that, god no.

And you needed him to know that, no matter how hard the conversation would be.

“He left earlier with Russel, but forget ‘im. We got more work to do if you can sing like that! Tracks for this will be done with righ’ on time.” Murdoc schemes, Noodle rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, before that let me just- c’mon!” She huffs, pulling you to the side.

She’s got this knowing look in your eyes you try to avoid but you’re failing.

“Something did happen last night…WITH-“

Your eyes widen and you slap your hand over her mouth, immediately retracting and apologizing.

“Well, yes but no. I…I panicked and pushed him away. I’m screwed. I can’t keep ruining whatever this is.” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

She does the same, looking behind her briefly to see if Murdoc was listening near by.

"2D is pretty simple. He's not hard to read and since you got here he's been happier I suppose?" She explains, hands resting in her pocket now.

"Props though, you work fast. Day 5 and you're already after our lead.." She giggles, wiggling her eyebrows and you wave her off.

"Seriously though, talk to him when he gets back. And you better sort it out 'cause this whole ordeal is gonna make the album suffer if you don't." She warns, stepping away to go manage her guitar.

She was right though.

You tap your pocket for your phone, hoping to check the time. Speaking of which, you haven't checked your phone since you'd gotten here really. Too much had happened you'd damn near forgotten about the thing.

Upon pulling the device out of your pocket, you're met with thousands of notification

Text messages, missed calls, and likes and comments across all platforms swarm you. Was all of this still over the video you made? Opening up the app your heart sinks to your stomach.

Rumors spread like wildfire, and it's only natural that people come to their own conclusions and observations when they don't have the full story.

The first post you see includes a photo of you and the blue-ette running out of the airport hand in hand. The caption speculates that the two of you are hiding some kind of secret relationship. Well, not too far off the truth if you could figure out what exactly is happening between you two.

The real shocker was the photo that was somehow captured at the pier.

You're facing he ocean, 2D staring directly at you with this content smile on his face. The caption reads,

"Santa Monica Romance? papazarri speculates lead singer of 'Gorillaz' 2D and artist/musician Y/N have been concealing a secret relationship which will be showcased in the new collaborative album!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re pacing, breathing heavily as you try to explain to your media team the misunderstanding that wasn’t really a misunderstanding. Your panic is cut short when the front door opens with the sounds of 2 familiar voices.

A sprint is more accurate to say how you’d left your room and just standing outside your door was the man of the hour himself, face heated and eyes wildly searching for something.

“We need to talk." You huff, grabbing his shoulder with furrowed brows.

He sort of pulls away, a look of concern and slight irritation now flooding his features.

What the hell was his deal?

"Wha' abou'?" He huffs , hands shoved in his pockets with his lips pressed into a firm line.

"THIS!” You grunt, shoving the phone in his face as his eyes widen with each word he reads. His face is bright red,

"So are you gonna keep acting like you don't want me near you or?" Your attitude is coming off in waves now, Russel retreating to the kitchen whilst you both talk.

"Oh thas' rich coming from you." He mumbles, your expression now guilty.

"The fuck are you talking about?!” You whisper shout, stopping briefly when you catch Noodle out the corner of your eye.

She slows for a bit, before shooting you a look, shaking her head, and moving right to the kitchen with Russel.

“You…every time we…you just don’ want me around you. You shu’ down on me.”He struggles to explain, nervously scratching the back of his neck.

Damn, you were definitely guilty right now. No matter how bad you did want him you just wouldn’t let yourself. You didn’t want to risk not only loosing the opportunity, but the trust of the band and…his friendship.

It all meant too much to you to throw away over some stupid feelings you’d developed.

“And that’s on me?! I-I just didn’t want to mess things up!” You explain, eyes focused on his.

2S scoffs, shaking his head as he makes his way up the stairs, you’re close behind. His strides are long and purposeful, your legs moving as fast as they can up the steps.

You reach for him, missing again before catching his wrist just before he can hide away in his room. He freezes, eyes narrowing at you, soon going soft the longer he watches your genuine state of hysteria.

"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry every time you get close to me I freak out. I'm sorry about..last night. I...I can't afford to fuck up and I'm not trying to drag you down with me." You explain, releasing your grip as he hand sort of stays midair for a beat.

He's silent, hand returning to his side and then shoved right back into his pocket.

"Can we just..try again? I finally got comfortable in the studio, we can record if you want?" You offer, trying your best to extend this shitty little olive branch.

"Yeah..tha' be nice." He agrees, sort of shuffling as you nod back.

Yeah, it was a little awkward but the conversation sort of happened? Right? Have you addressed the social media post? No. Did he seem indifferent to it? No, not really.

Sooo problem solved? Your media team had the post taken down and suggested you lay low for the time being. Maybe avoid lil outings with the lead singer. Were you good at following instructions?

Hell No.

"About the post, uh my team got it taken down." You explain, seeing his expression shift for a fraction of a second.

"Ah, that's uh good I suppose." He responds, the energy still awkward as fuck..

Its your turn to nod now, slowly backing up down the hall. He swallows, stepping into his room as you sigh heavily and retreat down the stairs.

You groan still not quite settled with how that ended but you shake it off. It'd have to do for now.

The walk to the kitchen was fine but entering, not so much. Murdoc's got this look on his face and Noodle isssss judging you? Russel proceeds to mind his business, but not forgetting to give you a slight side eye.

"What's fucked now?" You sigh, Murdoc smirking and shooting you a wicked grin.

"Not tha' tosser upstairs thas' for sure." He chuckles, your eyes rolling so far back you were sure you'd see your brain.

"Offered to record with him later, hopefully, we can get the vocals done and I'll be out of your hair." You explain, searching the fruit bowl fr something that wasn't spoiled.

Apple it is.

"No no no, studio it-

“Off limits at night? Unless it's you?" You finish, biting into the fruit with and raised brow.

Okay so maybe it was spoiled.

You force yourself to chew and swallow, grimacing a bit at he taste before continuing.

"D told me. But unless you want me here longer than I'm supposed to be and an unfinished album I suggest you let this happen." You argue, awaiting a response.

Murdoc only squints, remembering your final warning to him. He was already in a bad spot with you so, maybe he'd swallow his pride and let you have the illusion of running shit before he gets his lick back.

"Fine." He scoffs, standing and passing by you with a nudge of his shoulder.

As soon as he's gone Noodle pipes up with her own questions.

"So? What happened?" She whispers, like the situation was some kind secret.

"Nothing, it was really awkward and I apologized and offered the studio for us to finally work in together." You explain, still not feeling content.

"Somethings still bothering you." Russel points, taking a seat at the table.

You swallow, silently cursing yourself for being so easy to read.

"W-well it doesnt matter. What matters is were arent on..bad terms?"

"Nah that's stupid as hell." Russel grunts, shaking his head.

After confiding in him about your feelings for the lead a while ago he was more than aware of your current situation.

"You two better figure it out in that studio, otherwise this album...ain't happenin."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's only empty for a moment, your voice echoing against the walls again, even better than earlier. You pause momentarily when the door opens, but soon relax upon seeing who it is. Just as you discussed, 2D had joined the session, not really bothering to speak, only putting the headset on as the trach looped.

You give a brief thumbs up, still singing as you try to steady your heartbeat. Part of you was anxious to hear him sing in person, knowing good and well the sound was gonna give you literal chills.

And the minute his mouth opens to harmonize with you, you can feel yourself melt. God his voice is so pretty...And how the hell does it blend so nicely with yours?! It's like the two sounds are perfect.

You lean into the mic, eyes long fluttered shut as you leave countless, perfectly timed adlibs. The song in itself is full of tension, the lyrics dripping with poetic inuendos as you let each note fall from your glossed lips.

It goes quiet though, only your voice echoing off the walls now much to your concern. And when your eyes open he's already locked on you, chest steadily rising and falling, gaze pointed at your lips.

"What?" You whisper damn near, hear beating wildly in your chest.

"Nothing 's just.." His face is flushed, a slight red tint to his cheeks.

"W-What?! You wrote it I'm just singing what you wrote!" You ramble, that same heavy feeling from the last time filling your tummy.

"i know tha'! I-It's jus' you uh..." He's at a loss, the instrumntals looping again.

“You sound really good.” You sigh in awe, completely removing your headset now.

He copied you, smiling and nodding. That gap tooth is adorable.

“You too.”

You can't help the grin that rises to your lips and you try to focus the fluttering in your heart and stomach on something else. Tugging the headset back on, you catch up in time with the instrumental, taking note of his 2D, which hadn’t done the same.

“You okay?” It’s more of a question to yourself but hey who’s really paying attention?

He blinks once, twice, and thugs the headset back on.

The studio was alive with the sounds of two angels and sirens from 7pm to 12am

A/N: hey you guys sorry this chapter ok so long again! I suppose I’ll spoil yall and do like a double upload situation? Chapter 5 coming in hot! I hope you all are enjoying so far!! Thanks for the love and support :)

[ginxyy]

The beat of our hearts

My soulmate Vernon

It’s funny how love can creep up on you, like a quiet melody playing softly in the background Our story doesn’t begin in the usual places no cozy coffee shops or sun-kissed picnics. Instead, it starts late one evening in a studio filled with the scent of old records and the glimmer of fairy lights. I was there sitting on the edge of a plush couch, absorbed in the warm glow of creativity, the sounds of Vernon and his friends swirling around me like a sweet serenade. I never imagined that night would change everything, but a chance encounter with the boy whose laughter became my favorite sound was about to become something extraordinary.

Vernon had just finished recording a new song when he caught me in his gaze, a playful grin stretching across his face. “Hey, do you want to hear the first draft of my rap?” he asked, mischief sparkling in his eyes. Little did he know that I had secretly been hoping for this moment. “Of course!” I replied, barely able to contain my excitement. My heart raced not just because of the music, but because it was Vernon asking me to share in something so personal.

The moment he began to rap, I could hardly suppress my laughter. His lyrics were funny, borderline cringy, and so adorably awkward. He wove ridiculous puns about how I was “the cream to his coffee” and declared dramatically how “rapping was harder than washing a pet cat.” His voice was melodic yet playful, and I could see him getting more animated as he performed. Each line was laced with a touch of his unique charm, and my heart swelled at the sight of him lost in his element. I found myself captivated, hypnotized by the rhythm of his words and the twinkle of his eyes as he poured every ounce of his playful energy into making me smile.

After his impromptu performance, he plopped down beside me, breathless and beaming, the soft glow of the studio lights framing his features. “Did you like it?” he asked, his cheeks flushed with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment. I couldn’t help but chuckle, nodding enthusiastically. “It was perfect, you’re an absolute goof!” I replied, and he laughed, the sound echoing in my heart.

From that night, an extraordinary journey began. Our connection evolved with every stolen glance and shared inside joke. I would often find him in the studio, rapping personally written verses to me, each one more ridiculous than the last. Each performance drew me closer to him as he incorporated silly references to our clumsy moments and our inside jokes. It felt like we were composing our love song, each simple word pulsating with affection and teasing banter.

In the evenings, we would often sneak away from the bustling world around us, seeking the soft glow of the city lights. We found ourselves exploring hidden corners of the city that only locals knew, places with art-covered walls and street food that ignited our senses. One night, as we wandered down a narrow alley, we stumbled upon an abandoned little garden filled with wildflowers, their bright colors almost glowing in the moonlight. With a sparkle in his eyes, Vernon pulled me into a little dance, holding my hands in his and twirling me around as if we were the only two people in the world. With every step, I felt the world around us fade; it was just us, tangled in laughter and an unspoken promise.

His spontaneity extended to our quiet moments as well. On lazy weekends, he would surprise me with a new song he had written, his face lighting up with pride as I listened. Each melody was like a love letter, pouring his heart into every lyric. My favorite, though, was the goofy songs he would create on the spot. One time, he spontaneously started rapping about “our adventures of finding socks that match.” As ridiculous as it was, it was in those moments that I realized just how deeply I had fallen for him the way he let his guard down and embraced his quirks only made me adore him more.

Vernon’s sense of humor became one of the many layers of our love. We could spend hours just teasing each other, trading silly impressions and debating whether pineapple belonged on pizza. He was nothing short of charming, and even when he tried to show off his serious rap skills, I couldn't help but pull my phone out to capture the moment, knowing I would want to remember his playful attempts forever.

Through every moment spent together, I discovered the depths of his heart a balance of lightheartedness and genuine consideration for those around him. He was kind, thoughtful, and always made time to listen to my dreams and fears. During quiet nights, we would lay under the stars, our fingers intertwined, sharing our thoughts about the future. With every conversation, I realized that this wasn’t just a fleeting romance; it was a connection unlike any I had ever known.

In this beautifully imperfect tapestry we were weaving together, I came to get lost not only in the sparkle of Vernon’s laughter but also in the glow of his heart. Every day felt like an adventure, each memory crafted from laughter and love. As I look back, I realize how this romance became more than just about silly moments; it transformed into a love story bursting with laughter, small surprises, and an unspoken bond that spoke louder than any words could ever convey.

Our love isn’t defined by grand gestures but by the beautiful chaos that comes with sharing our lives together a tapestry of laughter, rap battles in the dark, and little moments of pure magic that ignite the soul. The simplistic and joyous connection we found to love and to be loved, wrapped snugly in our own universe will forever remain the sweetest melody in my heart, the one I dance to with my Vernon, my heart's rhythm, forever and always.

[mahuhumaling]

JATP Season 2 Wishlist

that i wrote in my notes app back in:

and realized i never posted it here? tbf i'm rarely on tumblr. but because i really miss them rn i want to share my ✨ brainrot ✨ that i had back when i thought they were getting a renewal.

Carrie Wilson

she was my biggest flaw in Season 1. I wish her "redemption arc" is fleshed out more in Season 2; give her either more context & backstory to validate her reason for unnecessarily antagonizing Julie, or screentime to properly address how she's just projecting an emotion completely different into bitterness and anger into Julie's recovery

show particularly her earlier dynamic w/ Flynn and Julie? Maybe as Flynn calls her out, we'd get flashback glimpses prior to Rose's death (maybe even Double Trouble temporarily being Triple Threat 👉🏽👈🏽)

for some reason i'm picturing a scene where she's in her dance studio (she has one in their mansion, of course) practicing some of her Dirty Candy routine when she keeps messing up and not in the right mindset to keep dancing. i feel like the best (maybe easiest but whatever) way to guide the audience into her artist mind is to make her be a perfectionist. in frustration, she blows up for a minute before slumping onto the ground and reminisces her fun times with Julie & Flynn

also when you have her develop, please don't make her lose her femininity and the bubblegum pop music, it's great

Old Songs Resurfacing

it'll prove how detailed & thorough you are as a screenwriter if you pay off the songs mentioned in Season 1 in passing to be actual songs in Season 2

Unreleased: Get Lost, Long Weekend, Crooked Teeth, My Name is Luke, and if that riff from the scene in EP. 5 that spurred on the Bobby reveal isn't from one of these songs, add that too

Demo Album: Late Last Night, Lakeside Reflection, In Your Starlight

Willex

imagine your queer couple gets to have their first kiss first than your het main couple, not only will that settle Madi & Charlie's statements about being uncomfortable in doing a kissing scene and maintaining the priority of Juke's emotional over physical relationship, it would also make an powerful statement

Reggie's Character Arc

i know that he initially had an arc that involved a romance with Flynn but because of the ages of who they casted, they scrapped it and didn't have time to rewrite the scripts for him as filming neared, so they have time to adapt to how jeremy portrayed him for season 2: a lovable dork who craves familial love

since there's a possibility that lifers can now see the boys, maybe some found family trope for Reggie and Ray Molina?

he has pretty much formed a parasocial relationship with him at this point

so why not instead of a love interest, Reggie can have his character arc develop & we see his family before thru flashbacks and paralleling those in the current times because he sees Ray as a father figure

picture this: it's raining, Bobby opens the garage door to the sound of knocking, the boys find Reggie soaking wet and out of breath when he tries to say he doesn't know where else to go then the boys immediately figure out another fight in the Peters household happened. Reggie tries to talk again when Alex (because even though they're the airhead-sarcastic duo, they know they love each other) runs up to hug him and tells the other he doesn't have to say anything

cut to a freshly showered Reggie, quietly watching tv with Bobby, Luke, and Alex in the garage, eating whatever

also a solo acoustic country song, pls. just to make him happy

The Aftermath of the Deaths

for both the boys and Rose

we get parallels about how Bobby dealt with trauma and grief to Julie

like, the reason why the clothes are still in there (are to have costume changes for the boys) is because Bobby immediately moved out of the house (therefore also the garage) and left the clothes there because he couldn't bear to burn it, or visit the boys' houses to break the news to their families and return the clothes, or donate it somewhere so he just...left it. it would make for a more solid reason (for costume changes) and an emotional context as to how Bobby really tried to forget them because it was "easier."

it would also make sense why Carrie and Julie ended up friends. Rose probably was there for Bobby when they discovered what happened at the alleyway, so they stayed friends over the years and had their respective families but still kept in touch, (bonus points if absolutely nothing romantic happened between them! yay to normalizing platonic male-female relationships) and why Rose would immediately think of Bobby's three late bandmates to send for Julie when she was on her deathbed

Bobby never really "moved on" (because grief is a really complex thing). it's showed that he has a therapist and everything, and this could definitely have some aftereffects on his daughter. Carrie growing up seeing her father be this amazing rockstar but a negligent father and only showing love in ways she doesn't need (like riches and fame and connections to the music industry) because he's actually a really lonely man on the inside and no one can see that except for Bobby's spouse and Carrie. it'd explain why Carrie is spoiled, and other negative character traits that Carrie has on the surface

it's even why Bobby changed his name to Trevor: 1) Bobby is so closely associated to Sunset Curve and it's an absolute pain to be reminded of that every day, 2) it's a stage name and artists really do get that

More Worldbuilding

they already had some pretty creative concepts/ideas in the first season, so why not expand/expound on them a bit more

the instruments are attached to their souls that's why the boys at first can only touch them, like how Willie's skateboard and helmet are attached to him

which is why when they attach themselves to the world of the present, they gather up energy and focus on touching tangible things like the picture frame

this may follow the logic toward the end where they are finally able to touch Julie because she has become attached to their souls. emotionally.

More Creative Collaboration

i believe in the principle that when a story is finally released/published/told to the world, the world shares it. this is also visible in film/tv where when the scripts are finished and actors receive them, the story becomes part of theirs to work on. which means that they have some sort of autonomy over their characters' motivations, a chance to be heard of their ideas and pitches, and why some certain scenes wouldn't work, etc etc. it doesn't just become the director's story nor the screenwriters'.

the actors' ideas such as Perfect Harmony and their solos from Nothing to Lose are great because they let them in. they took risks, and it paid off incredibly well. more of that please. have them be a part of the writing process, (also the story), but never forget what made the music production great in the first place. be coherent and don't be like others that let too many hands work on one piece—it will lose its sound, its identity.

Julie Knowing

that Nick is possessed by Caleb. ohmygOD. hear me out.

the same S1 ending will play somewhere in 2x01, but it will be revealed that Julie was watching through the window the entire time and when she opens the door to receive the flowers, that last look she gives him is actually her scheming.

determined to get Nick back, imagine The Promised Neverland's level of mindgames Julie could play with Caleb because we already know our girl's smart

Free Willie Willie's Freedom

since the boys feel indebted to Willie's help, they insist on helping him too with getting rid of Caleb's stamp

maybe through his connection with Alex? or maybe Willie's family or friends who are still lifers (which is unlikely but either way). he needs to be saved !!

Song Sequences Ideas

juke counter melody duet like Rini's "Even When/The Best Part," Shane & Mitchie's "Wouldn't Change a Thing," or dodie & Jon Cozart's "a love song/a non love song"

emotional carrie ballad paired with lyrical hiphop choreo

willex song - i absolutely have no idea where this could go directionally but maybe alex on an acoustic guitar with a really soft sweet tune

reprises of S1 songs but in the complete opposite of their original style (the fandom's lonelier All Eyes on Me version, i see u)

nick guitar solo - just because Sacha actually plays, idk how it'd fit in to the plot yet but hey

Nothing to Lose (Reprise) - back in the '90s, a producer manipulates Bobby to sign a record deal to become a star but on one condition: disassociate himself with Sunset Curve, to which he first declines until he slowly gets persuaded. (sort of like Todrick Hall's So Lucky to Be You meets Lyn Lapid's Producer Man)

"So how about it, Bobby Shaw? Do we have a deal?"

"Trevor."

"I'm sorry?"

"Call me Trevor Wilson."

i'm pretty sure someone made an animatic with this idea too but i cannot for the life of me find it !!

7. Season 2 starts the same way as Season 1 does before the opening song plays

Black screen that reads a text "Hollywood 1995"

a pan down to the Orpheum's overhead sign that reads "SUNSET CURVE SOLD OUT"

cut to the interior with Rose finishing up her cleaning when a stage manager calls out: "Sunset Curve!" to which Bobby abruptly stops his pacing back and forth to look up. he and Rose look at each other. music swells until...

cut to him running onto the alleyway, "are they still not finished eating? those gluttons are dead to me i swear—" he cuts off his own words when he sees the boys getting dragged onto stretchers. but we, the audience, don't see it. just a close up of bobby as the ambulance lights reflects his face. rose comes up behind him, still clutching their t-shirt.

[i honestly have no idea if Bobby should get on stage because it just proves Luke's theory of The Orpheum's opening bands eventually becoming big & successful so it'll explain the Trevor Wilson fame even though at first he only did it for the boys, or if he shouldn't because according to the article Julie googled he ran away immediately after they were pronounced in the scene] but either way, this is how the opening starts.

then it progresses to Rose and Bobby respectively having children so they could parallel each other blah blah

8. Julie plays a simple song on the piano while the guys watch her in awe

Storytelling through Props

let's dive deep into Rose's luggage/suitcase and use the props to head for Julie's emotional attachment with them

they already did it with the wardrobe: Rose wears the black leather vest in the pilot while Julie wears the same thing in EP 6

add depth to the characters' relationships like us finding out Julie's multilayered necklace is actually a gift from Carrie or something

SOYON ANN YOU'RE A GIFT FROM GOD. Bobby's necklace is present in both young and old!him

**Rose in flashback scenes should be wearing clothes we've already seen Julie in Season 1 just for greater effect.

The Bobby Conflict

definitely needs to be brought up again by Season 2; they only discarded somewhere in the middle because more pressing matters like the boys' existence blipping away was pushed to the forefront of the story

however, The Bobby Conflict changes. it'll be cleared up that he was offered a record deal as a solo artist by a manipulative producer. and given that the poor boy is only 17 (too, maybe), he agrees. what he doesn't know is the contract's fine print: giving up Sunset Curve's royalties

that information clears it up to the audience and the band, so the conflict becomes this: Bobby's Survivor's Guilt. god wouldn't that be so good tackling that in a kids'/family show.