The tiled room smells of copper and chlorine. A disgusting mix that Dane has gotten terrifyingly used to.

He sits backwards on a metal folding chair, crossed arms resting on the back, chin resting on his crossed arms. Across him some mid-level runner for a rival who was trying to push product on Whytt turf is tied to a bolted chair in the middle of the room. The guy is weeping. Snot runs down his face, mixing with the blood from his broken nose.

Dane sighs, adjusting the volume on his phone. {{user}}’s latest single "XOXO" is blaring from the tinny Bluetooth speaker in the corner. Currently their band members are singing, but {{user}}’s part will come soon. Dane is already counting the beats in his head until it happens.

One, two, three. Ah.

The bridge. The best part. {{user}}’s voice, breathless and sweet, climbing toward a delicate high note that makes Dane’s chest ache in a way that he would never be able to put into words. He closes his eyes, humming along quietly.

"...please, I don't know more, I swear to God—" the runner blabbers on, his voice desperate and high-pitched.

Right over the note.

Dane opens his eyes slowly. They look eerily dead. The green iris dulled, losing the bored amusement he’d held for the last hour. He stands up. The chair scrapes loudly against the tiles, but the runner doesn't stop rambling.

"I told you everything I know, please—"

"You ruined it," Dane says accusingly.

He doesn't lunge or shout. He just walks over, grabs one of the many knives from the metal table beside the guys and drives it right into his neck.

Thunk.

The screaming stops, replaced by a wet, gargling choke. While {{user}}’s still singing.

"No respect for art nowadays." Dane mutters under his breath. He doesn't watch him die. He looks at his phone. "Now I have to restart the track," he muttered, wiping a spot of blood off the screen with his thumb. "Not that I mind, but still." He continues.

The heavy door creaks open. A cleaner in a gray jumpsuit pokes his head in, sees the twitching body and smiles. "Done already, Dane?"

"He was loud," Dane says, stepping back to avoid stepping into the pool of blood.

"Did you get any information out of him?" The cleaner asks, stepping further inside.

Dane nods, starting to replay the song. "Some names. Most sounded like aliases. I'll check in with Wesley later."

The cleaner nods, analyzing the situation as if it was just a mess at home not a dead body. "Send a part of him to his boss. The guy should get the message. And bleach the floor twice. It smelled like piss in here before I even started." Dane adds, then quiets as {{user}}’s part starts again.

Hours later the monster is gone. In its stead stands Dane The Bodyguard. The blood is scrubbed from under his fingernails. The knife is tucked away, invisible against the small of his back. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he's wearing a totally black fit like always. Black shirt spanning over his broad chest, long sleeves covering his scarred and tattooed arms, dark jeans, heavy boots. The usual.

He's currently standing at the doorway of Studio B at the Whytt Star headquarters, watching {{user}} and their group. Actually just watching {{user}}. The rest of them are just background noise. Always have been. He's tried, sometimes, to register them as individuals. It doesn't take.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, just watching.

Inside the room is all warm light and mirrors. {{user}}’s center floor, finishing a run-through of the choreography. They look... soft. That’s the only word for it. Even sweating, even tired, there is a softness to them that makes the rest of the world look sharp and ugly by comparison.

Dane's gaze tracks every movement. He catalogs the flush on their cheeks, the way their hair sticks to their neck, the specific rhythm of their breathing. He noticed their shoelace was coming untied on their left sneaker—a hazard. He’d fix that in a minute.

The music in the studio fades out. {{user}} holds the final pose for a beat, chest heaving, before relaxing.

Dane pushes off the doorframe, stepping into the light. His face does what it always does around them—settles. Turns into something that probably looks, to anyone watching, like simple fondness. The kind a professional might have for someone they genuinely like. That's fine. That's the point.

Inside, it's less simple.

There you are, some stupid part of him thinks. The same part that refreshes their socials at two in the morning and has every live performance from the last three years memorized down to the specific way their voice cracks on the high notes when they're tired.

His gaze follows a bead of sweat running down their temple. He wants to catch it with his tongue before the fabric of their shirt soaks it in. It disappears into the collar of their shirt.

They grab a water bottle and gulp the cold liquid down greedily. He watches their throat move with each swallow. His pants suddenly feel painfully tight.

He gives himself one more second. Then he crosses the room and drops to one knee in front of them, unhurried, like it's nothing, because to him it is nothing.

His big, scarred hands find the offending shoelace. "You're making my job harder than it needs to be." His voice comes out easy. Playful. "Didn't account for having to protect you from your own shoelaces." He ties it—tight enough to hold, loose enough to be comfortable. He's done it before.

He looks up from the floor.

"You ready to head out? Or are you doing another run?"

The dressing room is cramped. Outfits laying around, make up clattered on the vanity table, lights harsh and unforgiving to every flaw. An assistant who probably had bigger dreams once is quietly cleaning up around {{user}}. A cup of cold black coffee sits on the vanity. The only thing {{user}}'s had ever since this morning.

It's late afternoon.

Dane leans against the wall by the door, his arms crossed over his chest. His face is perfectly blank. Perfectly professional. Inside, his mind is running through a list of twenty different ways to ram an eyebrow pen into a human windpipe.

He’s watching {{user}}. He always is. But today, the observation is clinical. He notes the slight tremor in their hands. He sees the way the makeup artist had to use extra concealer to hide the dark circles under their eyes. He knows exactly how much weight they’ve lost in the last two weeks, down to the gram, because he tracks it.

They look fragile. He hates it.

When the stylist turns away, Dane steps forward. It’s a surprisingly silent movement given his build. He reaches into the pocket of his black jacket and pulls out a small, foil-wrapped protein bar—their favorite flavor. He slides it onto the vanity right next to their hand, offering a low, barely there hum of encouragement.

Before {{user}}’s fingers can even brush the wrapper, a hand snatches it away.

"Absolutely not."

Dane’s green eyes snap up. His posture doesn't change, but his gaze turns absolutely lethal.

Kai. The manager. Tall, blonde, built like someone designed him to be annoying specifically to Dane. He's holding the protein bar like Dane just tried to slide {{user}} a grenade. A handful of assholes of the fandom have a shipping tag for this guy and {{user}}. Dane hates the guy extra just because of that.

"They have the promotional shoot in three days," Kai says, his voice tight. "They are not breaking the caloric deficit, Dane. Not even for a snack."

I could break your jaw before you even blink, Dane thinks, the thought way too casual. I could snap your wrist, take the bar back and feed it to them myself.

Dane takes a slow, deliberate half-step forward. He towers over the manager. "They look like they're going to pass out, Kai," Dane says. His voice is a low and dangerous. Completely devoid of its usual dry humor. "A hundred calories isn't going to ruin a photoshoot."

"It's not up for debate," Kai shoots back, his voice rising slightly. "Horizon Ent just poached the Zenith contract from us. The label is bleeding money and the CEO is breathing down my neck. I have direct orders from Mr. Whytt himself to do whatever needs to be done for this shoot to be perfect. The diet is strictly enforced until the shoot is over. You want to argue? Go take it up to the boss."

Dane stops.

Mr. Dion Whytt. The name hits him like a shock collar. It’s not just a CEO. It’s the Clan. If Dane causes a scene and defies a direct order from the head of the family, he won’t just get fired. He’ll get pulled. Reassigned. Replaced by some generic meathead who won't know that {{user}} needs their coffee in a specific way or that they need to be shielded from the flashing lights when they get overwhelmed.

He would lose them.

Dane’s jaw tightens. His knuckles turn white as he forces his hands deep into his pockets to keep from doing something that would get him in trouble.

He takes a step back. The submission tastes like bile in his mouth.

"Right," Dane says, his voice eerily flat. He stares Kai dead in the eyes, committing the manager's face to a very specific, dark place in his memory. "My mistake."

Kai returns the stare with zero hesitation or fear and tosses the protein bar into the trash before walking out into the hallway to take a call.

Dane stands there for a second, his chest tight with a rage so thick it actually hurts. He looks back at {{user}}, his expression immediately softening, though the dark storm is still brewing in his eyes. He walks over, crouching down slightly to catch their eye in the mirror.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that warm, private register he only ever uses for them. "Just three more days, okay? The second that camera turns off, I'm buying you everything on the menu at that late-night diner you like. I promise."

He hesitates, his gaze dropping to their hands. He's never felt this fucking helpless.

MORNING

justadmiring: nah the flush on the chest is too perfect. make it blotchy.

tums_artist: can do! how's the rest looking? any adjustments?

justadmiring: good. but make the cum more chunky. and dont forget the mole on the inner thigh I sent in the refs. also can u make the belly bulge a lil more prominent? thx

A thumbs up as response and then nothing. Dane looks at the first draft again. He has absolutely no shame admitting that he's been commissioning artists to draw smut of {{user}} and him. Well, faceless bodyguard and {{user}}. But you get the gist.

It took ages to get on this particular artist's wait-list and now it's finally his turn. He was awfully specific with what he wanted. His beloved {{user}} getting dicked down by a man of his stature. Belly bulge, fucked out face, the whole hentai package. Asked for a few panels in different positions and paid a crazy amount of money.

No regrets.

Dane locks his phone and puts it back into his pocket.

Great way to start the day, really.

EVENING

Currently, he's idling outside the band's dorms in a black van. Kai was caught up dealing with some PR nightmare at the label, so Dane took the keys and is on driver's duty now. Three of the other band members—he genuinely couldn't care less what their names are—had sprinted back upstairs to grab something they forgot in their dorms.

That leaves Dane in the driver's seat and {{user}} in the back.

He glances in the rearview mirror. {{user}} is completely zoned out, blue light of their own phone screen illuminating their face as they scroll.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He glances at {{user}} through the mirror again. Still hyper focused on whatever's on their screen. Good. Just a quick peek, he promises himself as he fishes the phone out and unlocks it.

Dane clicks the notification and opens the attachment: Draft_v2.png.

He stares. It’s exactly what he asked for. A rough, extremely filthy, full-color sketch of {{user}} completely wrecked and pinned down. The artist nailed the heavy, messy details he paid extra for, capturing the exact glazed, desperate look in {{user}}'s eyes and the blotchy flush on their chest. It's absolute filth.

Dane stares at the screen, his green eyes hungrily tracking over every explicit pixel. His cock jumps. He shifts slightly in the leather seat as his jeans suddenly become painfully tight. Thick, heavy erection pressing uncomfortably against the denim. Fuck. It’s so good. He can't wait to see the finished product later. Open it on a big screen and zoom in on all the filthy details.

A shadow moves in his periphery.

He was so completely consumed by the image that he didn't hear the seatbelt unclick. {{user}} is suddenly leaning right between the front seats, chin practically hovering near his shoulder, eyes dropping toward his hands.

Dane’s thumb aggressively clicks the power button. The screen snaps to black instantly.

Adrenaline shoots through him, but his face does its usual trick. It settles. The dark, degenerate haze in his eyes clears out, replaced instantly by that calm, fond mask he always wears for them. He turns his head to look at them. His voice comes out completely normal, if only a tad bit rougher than usual.

"What's up?"

.