Hiii!!! I loveeee your writing and I've been following you for a while but been too shy to askš
would you consider a scenario where the protagonist and the antagonist are in a boyband together? The antagonist has a bigger fanbase or something. When they argue, its accidentally revealed that the hero is also the villain's fan and the villain is amused and is like "all my fans want to kiss me. Do you too?" Or something along those linesš
"I'm not your fan," the protagonist protested, wishing he could take the last thirty seconds back. he would have sold his soul to take it back. "I am literally the opposite of your fan. I hate you."
"Mm." The antagonist's eyes were bright. "How passionate you are about me. It's quite enticing."
The protagonist's face burned. "If I was your fan, I wouldn't want to quit the band, would I? And you wouldn't be blackmailing me to stay in the damn thing. To - to -"
"Mm," the antagonist said, again. His gaze moved, with some false pretence of idleness, from the protagonist's face to the - evidence - that had come tumbling out of a back drawer and back again. "If you say so."
"I do. Also," the protagonist jabbed an accusatory finger into the antagonist's chest, "you shouldn't go through my stuff. Why the hell are you going through my stuff? It's not like you need-"
"Do you want to kiss me?"
"What?" It came out a squeak.
The antagonist tipped his head, in that famous way of his, with that equally famous smirk. Fanbases were literally built on that smirk. On the way his jawline caught even the cheap dressing room light so dashingly. On the way his eyes smouldered, like he was was an ice sculpture with a core of molten lava hiding deceptively below the surface. (Oh god oh god oh god.)
"All my fans want to kiss me." The antagonist took a step closer, backing the protagonist up a step into the dressing room table, a step more until the protagonist's knees colliding with their chair and he flumped to sit. "Do you?"
The protagonist shook his head, mutely, not trusting himself to speak.
"I think you do," the antagonist said. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair, bracketing the protagonist in. "I see you staring at me sometimes."
"Only because you're evil." It came out a whisper. Raspy. "Have to keep an eye on you." The protagonist's gaze flickered down to the antagonist's lips, only inches away, and then off them like he'd been scalded. "You use people. You-"
"I think you secretly enjoy me using you," the antagonist said. "I think you'd enjoy it if I did it more, in some less artistically driven ways. Maybe I should..."
The protagonist was trying really hard not to picture that, but the purr in the antagonist's siren voice made it impossible. He had the best voice in the whole band, but the words...the sweet and painful words full of longing, the words of the many love songs that had made them so successful...those words had always been the protagonist's. He was the lyricist. Together they were magic. Everyone said so.
The protagonist twitched in the chair, but there was nowhere he could go, and -
Then there was that devastatingly lovely voice, softly singing some of those lyrics in the protagonist's ear.
You've signed your autograph, on my heart
Lyrics, songs, that the protagonist had once (stupidly, stupidly, stupidly) written thinking only of him.
The antagonist laughed softly at the helpless hitch in the protagonist's breath. His finger rose, tracing his initials on the protagonist's chest.
The protagonist closed his eyes.
There was clearly no denying it. Because the protagonist had been a fan. When they had started working together, first, he'd admired the antagonist so keenly that it almost hurt. Creatively, of course, but...not just in that way. And yes, of course, of course, learning what a monster the antagonist was should have made all that admiration, all those feelings, go away.
"Get out," the protagonist said. It wasn't, after all, like the antagonist liked him. It was all a wicked game to him. Everything was. And this...
"Admit it," the antagonist said. "Tell me."
"Will you get out if I do?"
There were other things, probably, that the protagonist should have bartered for, but the antagonist was so close that he felt dizzy. He couldn't think straight. All he could focus on was the antagonist's hand not quite touching bare skin, the slight tickle of his breath, the closeness.
What if someone walked in, and saw them?
The protagonist swallowed. It was just words, after all. He said words, he bloody duetted the songs every night on tour, even if it killed him a bit every night. What did it matter now? The antagonist was already smug and unbearable, so it wasn't like he could make it worse. Right?
"Yes," the protagonist gritted his teeth. "I'm a fan. You're very talented. You know this. We have the grammy's to prove it. Would you like me to stroke your ego some more, you narcissistic-"
The antagonist caught his chin and squeezed.
The protagonist's eyes flew open. Their gazes locked.
"Admit," the antagonist said. "That you want to kiss me."
Oh, hell. Hell might have had more mercy.
The look of pleading that must have crossed his face only seemed to please the antagonist more. His eyes were doing that impossible smouldering thing, like the protagonist was the only thing that mattered in the world, like everything except the two of them could burn.
The protagonist tried to look away, but couldn't. He felt hot all over. It should have been - it was awful, of course it was, but - the antagonist's free hand dropped, cupping the protagonist over too tight jeans. Bastard.
"Yes," the protagonist said, "I want you to kiss me."
He really didn't expect it when the antagonist did. The antagonist kissed him like everything he'd ever hoped for, everything he'd imagined in song, until the protagonist had no air. No words left. No nothing. Only more and please and his name.
"For inspiration," the antagonist bit their lip, hard enough that the gossip commentators would no doubt have opinions on the matter. "For the next hit you're going to write me."
The protagonist's chest cleaved.
The antagonist looked like a conquering hero, some victor in the field of battle, wild-eyed and powerful and triumphant.
"Because you know," the antagonist said. "I'm a big fan of yours, too. Which is why, you are never, ever, leaving this band."
And then, he was gone. Just as promised.
And all the treacherous parts of the protagonist's heart wanted was for him to come back and finish what he started.
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