Blackmail (Patreon)

Could you continue your latest Tumblr snippet? (The one about the boyband) 

Part 1 included below for ease of reading.

"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

Your name on my lips

With your kiss

Forever mine.

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.

It didn't.

It hadn't.

"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?

"For now."

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," he said.

"Yes...what?"

"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.

***

“Got your new lyrics. You missed the meeting."

The last time the protagonist, Robin, had missed a band meeting, the antagonist, Andrew, had ended up blackmailing him. The mere memory was enough to make him tense.

He’d been panicking, after weeks of shows, overwhelmed by the sudden fame of it all. He’d managed to keep the anxiety attack staved off until he was off stage, but…he’d ended up breaking down in their (then, still) shared room after not enough sleep because he was finishing the new song. 

Andrew, brilliant and intimidating Andrew, had sat on the bed next to him and petted his hair so gently, so soothingly. He’d confessed that he was going to quit the band. That he couldn’t do it anymore. Andrew had told him, in the same encouraging voice he'd been using since he found Robin like that, that of course he wasn’t going to leave the band. His soft, gentle fingers had turned fierce and unforgiving in Robin’s hair.

“I had a headache.” Robin kept his eyes closed and the duvet pulled up over his head. “Can we talk about this later?”

The sound of Andrew’s footsteps moved closer, before he brutally ripped the bedsheet away and Robin’s eyes snapped open in shock.

“H-hey.” He began to turn.

Andrew straddled him in one swift movement, grabbing hold of his wrists.

Robin froze.

Andrew had been blackmailing him for some time, but it had always been professional. It had been about staying with the band and continuing to come up with lyrics that would win them more awards. It hadn’t been…well, Andrew had never demanded any more personal favours.

Robin’s brain flashed back to the kiss. To Andrew’s smirk. His gaze flashed, inevitably, to Andrew’s mouth and treacherous want punched through him.

“I’d like to talk about it now, seeing as you weren’t at the meeting.”

“I had a headache.”

“You look fine to me.”

“That’s because I am fine,” Robin gritted his teeth, “after some sleep and some painkillers. You know, like how a normal person deals with a monster of a headache. What do you want?” It occurred to him to try and physically throw Andrew off, but then that would lead to potentially thrashing beneath him and…heat flooded his face.

No. Staying perfectly still was the much safer option to this madness all around.

Andrew’s head tilted, observing him.

“You think I was lying?” Robin demanded.

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’d try to squirm your way out of your obligations because you’re feeling shy.”

Robin hated talking about the lyrics. It felt like walking naked in front of people. The band themselves could be okay about it, but inevitably there would be interviews and inevitably the interviewer would ask about the inspiration for their new song. Everyone would stare expectantly at him. And he’d have to sit there, agonised, desperately trying not to glance over at Andrew because even when he loathed the man, the songs were still for him. He’d tried writing something else, something entirely new, but then his stupid brain kept going back to that kiss, back to Andrew crowding him up against the dressing room chair. And what had ended up on the page was…

Andrew hadn’t done anything like what he’d done in the dressing room since. At least, not until then anyway.

“I would pay a king’s ransom before I told you, told you…” Andrew’s gorgeous voice was not quite singing, not quite talking the lyrics, already in the process (as ever) of finding the perfect catchy tune for the words. “All the ways I love you, love you.”

Robin cleared his throat, face burning. “I was—”

“Blackmail. Interesting title, too.”

“It’s not about you,” Robin said desperately. “It was just – I got in my head about someone denying their feelings. The fact that they could be blackmailed because they don’t want their crush to know so badly-“

“Did you get that in your head, now?” It was a purr.

Robin swallowed. “Get off me.”

“If it’s not about me, why avoid the band meeting?”

“Because. I had. A headache.”

Andrew’s head tilted the other way, a terrible knowing in his eyes. 

“I like the song,” he declared. “Delicious. It will sell. It inspired me to want to work on the new album and not inspire you some more.”

Andrew’s smirk really was as insufferable as it was hypnotic, but his eyes…

His eyes weren’t as teasing as the rest of him; they were bright, but it was with a genuine love of what their brains could come up with together. What he could spark and expose and it made Robin’s heart do unforgivably stupid things, even when Andrew had already shown what lengths he'd go to continue having his hits.

As a lyricist, he’d always been his best with Andrew. They worked so damningly well together when it came to music.

“I’m not writing a song about you pinning me to the bed,” Robin managed. “It will alienate our demographic.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think at least some of our fans would love to hear about me pinning you to a bed. I’ve seen fan art.”

“You’ve-“ No. No, he was not being distracted. Robin turned his head away, not that there was anywhere to feasibly hide. He felt hyper-aware of the heat of Andrew’s body.

“What other crimes could we utilise?”

Robin could see where he was going, with the thought, and he hated that it made sense, as a theme, as a concept. He hated that Andrew didn’t even need to finish the thought for him to get it. He hated that, even when Andrew was the villain of his story, he refused to stay black and white.

“Murder,” he said, with distinct pointed grumpiness. "He had it coming."

Andrew laughed, but the look in his eyes…

Oh, damn it. Damn him to hell. Damn them both. Was there nothing about Andrew that was willing to let him, his brain, his heart, go free? Live a quiet life somewhere maybe?

Andrew must have sensed some shift, because he let go of Robin’s wrists as his hands scrambled haphazardly for his phone.

I didn’t know I loved you, until you were already in the getaway car

Kicking up dust and kicking up us,

Back to bar where we first met.

Andrew shifted to lay, with such devastating casualness and sudden quiet, on the mattress next to him. Watching him work. Refining, occasionally, what was raw and messy and difficult to swallow.

Within the hour, brain on fire, heart running some kind of fever, Robin had another song.

And Andrew…Andrew gripped hold of his wrist a second time, yanked him in, and kissed him.