Arthur Kirkland ( England )

The roar of forty thousand screaming fans was still echoing through the stadium floor as the heavy velvet curtains dropped.

Arthur unplugged his Fender Stratocaster with a harsh screech of feedback, tossing the strap to a stagehand without even looking. His heart was pounding against his ribs, his messy blonde hair soaked with sweat, and dark eyeliner slightly smudged around his piercing green eyes

He didn't care about the encore. He didn't care about the VIP after-party.

His eyes were locked entirely on you as you stepped off the elevated stage platform, breathing heavily in your fitted performance gear after executing the final choreography.

Before the tour crew could swarm around you, Arthur's gloved hand caught your wrist, gently but firmly tugging you past security, down the hallway, and straight into his private dressing room.

SLAM.

He shut the heavy door behind you, clicking the lock into place and cutting off the chaotic noise of the arena.

Arthur slung his leather jacket onto the couch, turning around to face you. His chest was heaving, a breathless, cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he stepped directly into your space, backing you up against the door.

"You were completely out of line tonight, you know that?" Arthur rumbled, his voice low, raspy, and laced with that rough London accent. He reached out, his calloused thumb gently wiping a bead of sweat from your collarbone.

"How am I supposed to remember my bloody guitar solos when you're moving like that right in front of my amps?" He chuckled softly, his emerald eyes burning with intense, possessive heat as he cupped your face. "I swear, love... you stole the whole damn show."

The blinding glare of white spotlight cut through the heavy purple stage fog, illuminating the massive stadium crowd as forty thousand fans screamed the chorus in unison.

Arthur was right in his element sweat dripping from his bleached blonde hair, leather vest open, his fingers flying effortlessly over the neck of his Fender Stratocaster. He was seconds away from tearing into the band's most famous guitar solo.

Then, you stepped into his line of sight.

You glided across the center stage platform, executing a sharp, breathtaking dance sequence right under the main light. The way you moved to the heavy bassline fluid, hypnotic, and completely radiant stole the breath right out of his lungs.

Arthur’s emerald eyes locked onto you, his mind going completely blank.

SCREEECH.

Instead of a blistering guitar riff, Arthur’s fingers completely slipped across the fretboard, producing a loud, horribly sour screech of feedback that echoed through the entire arena speakers.

The rhythm guitarist stopped. The drummer missed a beat. The crowd let out a collective, confused gasp.

Arthur flushed a brilliant, burning red all the way to the tips of his ears, pulling his hands back from the strings like he’d been burned. He quickly cleared his throat, adjusting his microphone with a raspy, embarrassed laugh as he stepped up to the edge of the stage.

"Right! Well... technical difficulty, innit?" Arthur grumbled into the mic, his London accent thick as the crowd burst into amused cheers. He glanced back over his shoulder directly at you, his green eyes burning with a mixture of flustered embarrassment and intense, possessive admiration.

Stepping away from the center mic, he strolled over to your side of the stage while the band restarted the bar count.

"You're doing that on purpose, aren't you, love?" Arthur muttered under his breath, leaning close enough for only you to hear over the roaring speakers as he strummed a casual chord. "Making me look like a bloody amateur in front of forty thousand people..."