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Chapter Text

In the silent kitchen, with the white marble countertops – you’ve just come in for a cup of coffee on your half hour break.

On the island, a small puddle of coffee left by a mug. The caramel-colored ring is still fresh. You narrow your eyes. New musicians to the studio always leave messes for you to clean up.

You walk over to a roll of paper towels in the corner, your heels clipping against the floor causing an echo in the barren kitchen. You rip off a sheet and chew on your lower lip. “Spoiled,” you say under your breath.

It doesn’t help you’re having a bad day already; the session you’re sitting in on is feeling lazy and uninspired and one of the musicians has car trouble and still hasn’t made it in. To top it off, last night, you got into an argument with your ex-boyfriend about picking up the stuff he left at your place, another in a string of exhausting landmarks in the demise of your relationship.

You throw the paper towel on the spill and watch the coffee spread gracefully across it.

You hear the seal of one of the heavy doors down the hall being broken and studio noise pours out. Someone noodling on a guitar, someone else shouting over him, and then riotous laughter from all. You find yourself envious of, what sounds like, a perfect Tuesday rehearsal session.

You whisk away the paper towel and toss it in the bin and go to the coffee maker so you can speedily get your cup and go shut yourself in your office until your break is over.

But as you lay eyes on it, your stomach drops. You approach it with dread and pull out the pitcher. Empty. “You’ve got to be fucking me,” you grit your teeth and yank it out. Not only had they left a mess, but they also hadn’t bothered to start a new pot for who was next. It was clearly labeled on the cabinet above the pot in bold red lettering. You had even laminated it. Kill a pot, brew a pot.

You go to the sink and start to fill up the pot with water, beveling into your left hip and tilting your head back in defeat. The faucet always takes too long. Your face is hot with the ire built up over the day you’ve had; the empty pot is just the icing on the cake.

“Excuse me?”

You jump, losing your grip on the pot in your surprise. It tumbles into the sink and you swear despite yourself.

“Oh no, I’m sorry I – “

You turn around. The man needs no introduction, you know exactly who he is. It’s why you had been avoiding Studio 1 the past two days. Of course, on your worst of days you would run into him.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says across the island from you. He’s smiling apologetically and has his hands tucked into his pockets.

“It’s alright, I’m – I’m – hi, we haven’t been properly introduced yet,” you cast off your embarrassment quickly, circling around the island. “I’m Y/N.”

You hold out your hand toward him and he takes it. His hand is soft, with ridges and wear of age. He gives yours a firm shake and smiles, “John.”

It takes everything in you to stop yourself from saying, I know.

John Paul Jones, in the flesh. You almost hadn’t believed it when your business partner, Rex, had told you that John and his new supergroup were going to be using your studio for a week-long rehearsal while their normal space was under major plumbing repairs. At first, you had been excited, but that excitement turned into terror the night before they were going to start working in the studio. The first day, when Rex had asked to introduce you, you said you had too much work to do, and locked yourself in Studio 3. And now, halfway through the week, you still were finding excuses to avoid the rehearsal studio.

You’ve only heard good things about him. That he’s always incredibly polite and complimentary. The quiet one, sure, but dry humored and quick-witted. “John’s a funny guy, I didn’t expect him to be so funny,” Rex had said. “He’s sharp.”

And now, before you, you have the chance to form your opinion. He looks good for his age (what that age is, you could only guess at, but that would be pathetic or insulting). Hair cropped shorter than his Zeppelin days; his eyes, dark blue, and watchful, although not intense; and, of course, a plaid dadcore button down. Very age appropriate.

“You’re Rex’s partner, hm?”

“Yeah, yes. That’s me. The partner,” you reply. You’re talking too much, you know it.

“That’s lovely. You know, it’s always so nice to see more women in studios. It used to be such a boys club.”

You smile. “Still is, in some ways,” you say offhandedly, walking back to the sink and starting to refill the pot. “I hear things are going well, Rex can’t stop talking about the work you’re doing.”

“Oh, that’s nice of him,” he replies with a humbleness in his voice. “I think they’re going well.”

“I can’t wait to hear. I’ve been meaning to stop by,” you say and pour the water into the coffee pot. You turn back to him. “Sorry, can I get you something? Water? Coke? Beer?”

“Coffee?” John gestures to the pot, playing off of you.

“Coffee! Yes! You want some coffee?”

“I actually was looking for some tea, if that’s alright.”

“Oh, of course, let me –”

“I can do it, if you just send me in the general direction,” he assures and steps around the island toward you a bit.

But your words are coming quicker than you can think. “No please, I insist, let me –”

“Really, it’s alright.”

Get a grip, you tell yourself. “I’ll just get the kettle boiling. Mugs are in the cabinet here,” you say, pointing to the cabinet above the coffee maker, “And there’s a drawer of tea—” You pull out the drawer to the left of your hip. “Here.”

“It’s like you run the place,” John says, walking toward the drawer and casting an eye on the assorted sachets your office manager has arranged by color.

“It is like that, isn’t it?” you smile. You put the kettle on and quickly get to work making the coffee.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see John’s long fingers flipping through the tea bags, like a row of records. “I don’t know how you expect me to decide with such a selection,” he says.

“Take your time.” And you mean it. He terrifies you, but you knew that once you were in his orbit, you wouldn’t want to leave. To be so close to greatness, even just in the kitchen with the white marble counters, making tea and coffee, is thrilling.

With everything set to go, you clap the lid shut, the machine begins to gurgle. You let out a sigh.

“So, someone didn’t follow the directions, hm?”

You look at him confused a moment. His eyes flit over to the sign above the pot. You can’t help but laugh, “Um…yes, I – it happens all the time.”

“Can’t imagine how. It’s laminated and everything.”

You laugh. “Yes! Exactly. It’s laminated.”

At least someone appreciates you.

“It was probably Dave,” John says clandestinely. “Seems like he drinks a pot at a time.”

Of course, it was Dave. You’ve met Dave a few times before. A puppy of a person: incredibly kind and lacking in self-awareness. “I don’t blame him,” you shrug and lean against the counter. “I probably could drink a whole pot now. I’m on my last leg of executive functioning.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Waiting for a cup of coffee,” John says with a lilt in his voice.

“That I will drink with a splash of disdain,” you smile

John chuckles and fishes out a tea sachet in bright red packaging, “Sounds delightful.”

The kettle starts to whistle. You move for it, but he stops you, “No, please. I’ll get it.” He slides the drawer shut and shuffles past you.

You’ve always been quick, quicker than you like, and, noticing he’s gone without a mug, you fetch one and hold it out to him before he can turn around. When he does, about to laugh at himself for his error, his eyes widen slightly and then dart up to yours. “Thank you,” he says, taking the cup.

You nod. You don’t have any more words and you’re grateful for that. Your case of foot in mouth has exhausted the both of you.

In the wake of silence in the kitchen, you both pour your respective drinks. You swear you can hear the steam from your coffee. You pour a second cup and turn to John who watches you curiously. You suddenly feel like an idiot. “Um. For Dave. Figure he could use it.”

“You’ll make me look more like a hero than I am.”

You shrug, “Take the credit, I don’t mind.”

“Too kind,” he replied, accepting the mug from you. “Although now I’m going to have to deal with trying to open the door with two mugs.”

You didn’t think of that. “I’ll open the door for you, here –” you start to go to the hall.

“I’m only kidding, please. You’re too accommodating.”

You’re literally John Paul Jones. I would die for you. Not entirely true, but not not entirely true.

“Cheers then,” John says, lifting one of the mugs toward you.

“Yes, nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” John replies and starts to go. He turns back quickly, eyes scanning the kitchen and then, he smiles. A quiet and humble sort of smile. “Just making sure I didn’t leave a mess.”

You feel yourself blushing and you’re not sure why. “Spotless.”

He gives you a parting glance and a small nod before turning back down the hall.

To be continued...

Chapter Text

The next day. In the silent kitchen, with the white marble countertops – your session has just ended and you need a cup of coffee before the long night ahead of you.

You barely slept last night. Life has its way of sneaking into your night hours: the consequences of your actions (the consequences of other people’s actions), wrongs you’ve done (wrongs done to you). It’s not just the breakup that echoes, but every failure you’ve felt before that too, all compounding. You can spend whole nights cataloging and categorizing various regrets.

The island is clean. You’re grateful for that.

But the coffee pot. Empty again. You let out a sigh and go toward it. However, before you reach it, you hear footsteps scuffing rapidly down the hallway.

You turn just in time to find Dave frenziedly stopping himself on the island.

“Don’t touch that coffee pot,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Good to see you, too, Dave.”

“I finished off the pot,” Dave says emphatically. “It was me.”

“Is this a confession?”

“Yes. Yes, I –“ he points at your laminated sign. “Kill a pot, brew a pot. I killed it, I gotta brew it.”

You aren’t sure what to say.

“So. Walk away from the pot,” Dave orders, rounding the island and waving you off.

The timing is all too impeccable.

“Dave, it’s fine, I am happy to – “

“No!” he cuts you off. “Uh-uh. Nope. You…” Dave stops and pulls out one of the stools at the island. “Sit. You sit,” he demands.

You laugh. Dave’s way, everything done with passion, even pots of coffee. “Alright, I don’t mind,” you say and perch yourself on the stool, crossing your legs. “We can talk about getting you a pot just for the rehearsal studio, if you like.”

“You’ve got the real ideas around here,” Dave smiles. He’s not wrong, although you wouldn’t say that out loud. Rex is the engineer brain, you’re the management brain. Dave grabs the pot and runs it to the sink. He’s moving at a completely different pace than you’re used to around here. “I mentioned it to Rex, but he laughed at me. I guess I was sort of joking, we’re only here for the week anyway.”

“That doesn’t matter. We’ll get it sorted for you,” you say.

He grins at you. “So, where’ve you been, Y/N? What have you been up to?”

You sigh, “You know. I’ve had some cool projects to work on.” You pause and then add, “Been trying to get a new group off the ground. Working on an EP now, actually.”

“Seriously? That’s awesome.”

“Yeah,” you say, looking away. It’s a bit of a lie. Not a group, just you this time. You don’t like to talk about it. You’ve had enough bands and gigs fall apart in the past that it’s time to just do what you want to do for the sake of it. But you won’t dare say it out loud yet.

“You got a timeframe for release yet?”

You shake your head, “Trying to keep the pressure off. It’s been so long since I’ve gotten involved in something like this so…baby steps.”

“Totally,” Dave replies. He’s so genuine, you can’t help but smile. “You get the right people and it’ll be great, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, till then, it’s all this shit.”

“All this shit. You don’t mean us, do you?”

“You’re part of the shit,” you say, not meanly, but honestly. “This place doesn’t run itself and I’m behind on – well, it doesn’t matter, I just hope I can get home as soon as possible and crash tonight.”

Dave laughs, setting the pot to brew. He looks back at you with his hair in his eyes. “You out late last night?”

You sigh, “I’m just exhausted. It’s been a long week.” Long week, long month, long life.

“Well, if you’re done early, you should stop by. I know Rex would love your opinion. And I’m sure Josh would love to take a look at you,” he says with a smirk.

You gasp, your mouth spreading into a smile. “Dave!”

“I’m kidding!”

“I don’t flirt with married men.”

Dave rolls his eyes, “No one means to flirt with married people, it just happens,” he says plainly.

“Well, maybe you should be more concerned with the married person rather than me.”

“I can only do so much with Josh, so you’re gonna have to help me out.”

“I heard my name!” you hear a voice from down the hall.

Josh: you’ve met Josh, although you doubt he would remember you. It was at some afterparty and you were both drunk. You said some stuff, he said some stuff (what that “stuff” was you can’t even remember) and then you were whisked away by your then boyfriend who did not look pleased on the way home. But you definitely don’t flirt with married men.

At least not on purpose.

“Perfect timing,” you chirp, sitting up straighter.

Josh enters the kitchen and as your eyes meet, you can tell he has no recollection of you. Thank god. “Hi, you’re…” he points at you casually.

“Y/N,” you say.

“Right. Josh,” he says and rolls over to the fridge with a swagger as if he owns the place. “So, was he talking shit about me or what?”

You laugh and look to Dave who gives you a clandestine wink. “He was just saying how much he thought you and I would get along,” you say.

Josh’s eyes narrow at you, “Are you covering for him?”

“No, of course not,” you say.

Your lie apparently doesn’t pass his litmus test. “Not fair you’ve already got her on your team,” Josh glares at Dave.

Dave excitedly jumps, “She’s talking about getting a coffee pot just for me.”

“Okay, now you’re just playing favorites,” Josh teases with a smile over his shoulder. He’s a charming guy, you have to admit.

“I don’t do favorites,” you say and get up, going toward the fridge. “Bad for business. ‘Scuse me, Josh,” you sneak past him and grab a carton of strawberries.

Josh chuckles and fishes a beer out of the fridge, “Smart gal.”

Dave goes on, “Well for now, I’m the favorite and I’m getting my own coffee pot.”

“Our own coffee pot,” Josh corrects.

You go back to your stool and take a strawberry. “Let me check with Rex first, it’ll be his call,” you say.

Dave reaches over your shoulder and grabs a strawberry from the carton. “Well, maybe you can convince him.”

“Or convince him,” Josh repeats with a licentious tone. You knew he’d be the type to have only one thing on his mind (or pretend to, as part of his mythos – you wonder if it’s just very obvious or that you’re smart enough to see through the guise).

“If he swung that way, maybe,” you shrug. “Although to be honest, I wouldn’t be willing to lay down my body to get you a coffee pot, I’m sorry.”

They both laugh. Behind the laughter, you can hear more footsteps coming down from the rehearsal studio and a low, pondering conversation.

“Okay, well then what would you lay your body down for?” Josh asks.

You look at him and raise your eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, that’s why I’m asking,” he replies slyly.

Dave quickly chastises him but you can only laugh, knowing you’re going red in the face. Maybe you do flirt with married men. But they always start it.

“Well, the gang’s all here,” Josh announces as Rex and John emerge from the hallway. They’re a funny pair, with Rex, a tattooed, beanie-clad lank, and John, who could easily blend in with a crowd should he choose.

You feel your mouth grow hot and your heart starts to race. You aren’t sure why; you’ve met plenty of musicians over the years and you can’t remember the last time you got butterflies. It’s only reasonable, though, given who he is.

“Shit, look who’s come out of her cave,” Rex says, his eyes zeroing in on you tightly. He’s pissed at you for your withdrawnness and has been for the past few months, with you preoccupied with the dismal end of your relationship and consequential moping.

“A cave? Didn’t know we had a crone in our midst,” Dave says.

You laugh, “A not so wise one, unfortunately.”

Rex clears his throat and gestures to John, “I don’t know if you’ve met, this is –“

“Oh no, we have,” John interrupts coolly and meets your gaze. “Nice to see you again, Y/N.”

You smile at him, “You as well. Tea?”

He returns the smile, “Please.”

Rex frowns, “Oh. Good.”

“Contrary to your belief, I do sometimes leave the cave,” you say and go to fill the kettle with water.

“And she does a very nice job setting water to boil,” John adds.

“Don’t flatter me, I could get used to it,” you say; you’re thankful you’ve turned away because even though he’s talking about a skill an amoeba would be capable of, you’re blushing.

When you turn back to them, water to boil, the aroma of coffee now permeating the kitchen, you see Rex’s lips curl up, watching you curiously. You try to ignore it and preoccupy yourself with finding the best strawberry you can. “How’s it going in the cave then? Good?” he asks you.

“Fantastic,” you say. You note the aggravation in his shoulders at your lack of detail. Dave puts a cup of coffee in front of you. “Oh! Thank you.”

“Thank John, he’s the one who gave me a hard time about the pot being empty,” he says, off-handedly.

A warm delight flutters in your stomach; you look at John whose eyes quickly roll away from yours. You’re about to thank him, but Dave interjects before you get a chance, “Y/N mentioned maybe getting a pot just for the studio; what do you think Rex?”

Josh pulls out the stool beside you and sits, his knee accidentally (maybe) knocking against yours in the process, “Don’t throw her under the bus, Dave.”

Rex’s eyes flash to yours, “Oh, did she?”

“I default to you, of course,” you say and innocently bring another strawberry to your lips. Your eyes land in John’s by accident as you take a bite. You swallow the strawberry without tasting.

Rex clears his throat and leans forward on the island, “Sure. We can get a pot for the studio.”

You would think it was V-Day from the one-man celebration that follows. As it quells, they start in on a conversation that you partake in sparingly. You could jump in more if you wanted, but you revel in being a fly on the wall and languidly eating your strawberries.

At one point, John slinks behind you and Josh to ready his tea. His hand brushes your back as he mutters “Pardon me” almost under his breath.

The hair on the back of your neck stands up and you have to wonder for a second what the fuck is happening to you.

You’re so far out of it, your thoughts spiraling in confusion, that it takes you a minute to realize Rex is trying to get your attention.

“You good, Y/N?”

Your eyes shoot up and you find the room all looking at you intently. “Um, yeah, I’m fine.”

“You were dissociating again.”

You glare at him. Your friendship is in a period of destruction, something that happens every three or so years; you suddenly become embittered to one another, like a married couple, incensed by every breath the other takes. “I don’t think you know what that word actually means,” you say with dullness. You shift in your seat and try and put on a comfortable smile. “I have to get back to work.”

Before you can get up, Josh taps your arm with his beer bottle and asks, “So when are you coming to give us a listen, hm?”

“Me?” you ask. Your heart pounds.

“Last I checked, the rest of us have already gotten an earful,” John remarks wryly, walking back to his post by Rex, tea in hand.

You try and shrug it off, “I’m no one special.”

“New set of ears, that’s special enough,” Dave says.

The avoidant part of your brain is pushing you to make some sort of excuse. Before you can, though, Rex huffs, “Don’t bother, she’s too busy.”

Now you’re angry. “I was actually going to say how about tomorrow.”

Rex’s mouth forms into a tight line. “It’s up to the guys.”

“Sounds great,” Dave answers with excitement.

“Now, hold up, I want a bit more warning than a day,” Josh quickly says. “How about Saturday?”

There’s a short back and forth between Josh, Dave, and Rex. John watches them wordlessly, taking a sip of tea in the process. Your eyes meet and he smiles at you. “Musicians,” he mouths with a roll of his eyes and you grin, nodding back vigorously.

It’s clear this is a normal procedure at this point: them bickering as he stands by, the silent partner. But his silence is full of a potential energy, ready to strike with some sort of wit just when the moment suits him.

“I really want to try out that lizard thing I’ve been thinking about first,” Josh says.

“No, come on, I don’t want to do the lizard thing,” Dave says and Rex follows up quickly with a quiet, “I kinda like the lizard thing.”

You can’t help but laugh and return the carton of strawberries to the fridge, “Look, you just let me know when and I’ll make the time.”

“Then Saturday. Afternoon,” John says before anyone else can speak. “Give us time to sort out ‘the lizard thing.’”

Dave bows his head and says, “John Paul Jones has spoken, ladies and gentleman.”

And indeed, he has. The guys don’t protest any further. There’s no doubt a certain amount of power John holds simply by virtue of who he is and the way he carries himself. There’s also a noticeable softness, as if he lacks an awareness of that power.

Makes it all the more dangerous.

“Perfect,” you say and give Rex a smile.

He’s unenthusiastic and that’s a fairly generous assessment. “Okay, I’m gonna head back in, so whenever you guys are ready.” Rex stalks off down the hall.

The four of you are left in a momentary, uncomfortable silence. John is the one to break the tension. “We better hurry and use the time we got,” he says first to Dave and Josh before looking at you with a small smile. “I can tell she’s a harsh critic.”

You feel yourself flush. “Oh no, I’m sure I’ll love it,” you say, but the voice that comes out of you doesn’t feel like your own.

“That’s what they all say,” he cheekily replies, then takes a sip of tea and starts down the hallway after Rex. You watch him go and feel like you can breathe normally again.

“Dammit, well if he’s going, we have to go,” Josh says. He shoves off the stool and walks past you to the hall, bumping you with his hip on the way. “Saturday then. Or see you when I see you.”

“Looking forward to it,” you say as Josh goes.

You can see Dave trying to hide his amused smile behind his coffee cup. “Wipe that look off your face,” you whisper.

“’I don’t flirt with married men’, you’re full of shit,” he replies, making his way past you to follow the rest of them without giving you a chance to defend yourself.

“Dave!”

“Looking forward to that coffee pot!” you hear him shout down the hallway back at you before disappearing into the rehearsal studio.

You’re left alone in the white kitchen, more silent than ever before. You lean against the fridge and cross your arms and your thoughts leap from Josh’s obvious flirtations, to Dave’s warning, and the undeniable anxieties you feel when John walks in the room.

It can’t be more than nerves, right?

You can’t stand here too long and wonder about it. You decidedly abandon your work and head back to grab your car keys. The rehearsal studio needs a coffee pot.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Later that night. You’re not sure what time, you’ve lost track. After you left the rehearsal studio, you started finishing up for the day, but suddenly had a surge of inspiration to go back to work on a song you had left unfinished a few weeks ago. You’ve got your guitar upright in your lap and your cheek resting against the neck gingerly as you try and do work on the board in front of you.

Despite being blessed with all the equipment and unlimited time, you’re miserable. You can’t find a single thing you like in this song anymore, can’t help but criticize every part of what you’ve created; your voice is inauthentic, your guitar playing is lazy, the lyrics are melodramatic, the song lasts too long. You could find any number of ways to abuse yourself and your creativity in this moment.

You take off your headphones and rub your eyes. You’re exhausted. And you’ve been in these clothes since 7 this morning; you’re no longer put together, makeup melted off and hair tied up messily. But you don’t want to go home because all that’s there for you is insomnia and the echoes of a failed relationship.

Maybe it’s time to stop feeling sorry for yourself.

Your phone starts to buzz wildly in your back pocket. You slip it out quickly and feel your heart sink when you see it’s series of text messages from the automated security system for the studio.

Main door. Failed passcode entry. 9:46:08pm.

Main door. Failed passcode entry. 9:46:25pm.

Main door. Failed passcode entry. 9:46:40pm.

Main door entry. 9:46:52pm.

The color drains from your face. Usually, you wouldn’t have cause for concern. But you know it couldn’t be Rex or someone else on staff with three failures like that. And it’s late on a Saturday. The place is usually a ghost town.

You jump out of your chair, clutching your guitar, and rush out into the hallway. The lights are off, except for the red glow of the exit sign at the end of the hallway. And it’s silent, save the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

“Hello?” you call out.

You weren’t made for bravery, at least not under these circumstances. You take a few tentative steps down the hallway, but stop when you hear the seal of one of the doors separate, the hollow and sweet plastic sound.

“Who’s there?”

You stand there for what feels like the longest moment of your life. The silence is playing tricks on you; a creak from behind, a rustle from the side. You can’t believe you’re really considering wielding your beloved guitar over your head like a weapon in case you run into an intruder.

Shuffling steps at the other end of the hall. Coming toward you.

Your eyes go wide. You back up and you press a hand up to your mouth so your breath isn’t heard.

The steps stop and all you can hear is the thumping of your heart even though you’re desperately trying to concentrate on where the intruder will move next.

Fight or flight is kicking in. If you can get to the kitchen, you can circle the island toward the knife drawer.

There’s a sigh from the end of the hall and the footsteps start again tentatively. You have to act fast and quietly. You slip off your high heels and skitter down the hall on the balls of your feet, turning into the kitchen and running your hand across the cabinets as a guidepost. You get to the drawer and slide it open quickly. The utensils clatter forward in your haste. Fuck.

Simultaneously, the lights come on and a familiar voice asks, “Is someone there?”

You scream and turn, in the process knocking your guitar against the counter. The strings resound angrily at you. “Oh god,” you whine, clutching the neck.

John stands opposite the island in the hall and his words overlap yours, “Oh my god, no, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to – “

“What are you doing here?”

“I had to find – I’m sorry, I –“

“You scared the shit out of me, what the fuck were you doing in the dark?”

“Is it alright?”

In your panic, you hadn’t even registered that he was approaching you. He’s only a foot or so away, his hand hovering over your guitar, not daring to touch.

You look down at it without seeing and shake your head, “It’s fine. It’s…” Your heart is thumping wildly. “Holy shit, you…” you look back up at him. His eyes are wide and mouth open helplessly. Your fear turns into laughter, an uninhibited cackle at the ridiculousness of the situation, “What the fuck!”

John half-laughs, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Of course, it would be him. “What are you…what are you doing here?”

“I left my keys behind in the studio,” he rolls his eyes and holds up a set of keys with a blue tag before dropping them on the counter. “I swear, jet lag lasts weeks for me these days and then I’m leaving things everywhere. A mess.” John leans on the island and you get a good look at him, at the lightweight, gray jacket he’s wearing and the exasperated look on his face. “Drove all the way back to my place, in traffic, mind you. And no keys. So had to come back all the way, still in –“

“Traffic,” you finish his sentence. You clear your throat and shut the drawer. “Fucking L.A., right?”

“Is that what it is? Well, remind me to avoid it next time.”

You smile and let out a sigh as you attempt to redirect yourself from terror, “If you had let me or Rex know, we could have brought it out to you.”

“You run a courier service too, hm?” John replies. God, he’s sharp. “No, would never ask that of you. Besides, I know the door code. Thought I’d just slip in and out.”

“But you scared me to death instead.”

John chuckles, “I am sorry about that. I really thought I had the code, but…” He hooks one of his fingers around the handle of the drawer and pulls it open. His eyes widen. “Thank goodness I turned on the light when I did.”

You feel yourself go red, “It made more sense than ruining my guitar.”

“Yes, can’t have that,” he says, cocking his head. “What are you doing here alone in the dark?”

It’s the innocence that confuses you; John simultaneously seems so oblivious and so calculating. “It’s not dark in Studio 3,” you say.

“The studio, hm? You working on something?”

You say uncertainly, “Yeah, something.”

“Oh, don’t say it like that,” John admonishes you.

“Well, I, uh – “ you look away. “You know, I’ve been working for a few hours and I’m tired and nothing sounds right, so.”

“Mmm…all too familiar.”

You go on, “I should probably call it a night anyway.”

John is quiet a moment. He pulls the keys back off the counter; they jangle together, the flick of blue retreating into his pocket. “Can I have a listen? Before you call it a night?”

You feel like you must have blacked out between standing across from him in the kitchen and sitting next to him at the board in Studio 3. Your protestations didn’t mean much. John was insistent.

“It’s not finished,” you had warned. “I’ve only done the guitar part and the vocal.”

“That’s alright.”

“And it’s, you know, some of the lyrics aren’t final. A bit…drippy, if you ask me.”

“I understand.”

“And –“

John took the headphones from you and kindly said, “Let me listen to the damn song.”

It’s been four and a half torturous minutes. If you were nervous before, just standing with him and making his tea, this is something else entirely. You press your hands between your knees to stop from shaking as you watch him, John Paul Jones, listening to your track. His eyes are closed and he’s leaned forward on his elbows. Every so often, his serene expression falters. It would be imperceptible if you weren’t absolutely transfixed.

John lets out a breath and removes the headphones, “Well.”

You impulsively say, “Oh my god,” several times under your breath and fold your hands over your eyes.

“You alright?”

“No, I’m not,” you groan. “That was terrifying.”

“More terrifying than when you thought I was breaking and entering?” John teases.

“Yes!” you reply. “Much worse.”

“You haven’t even heard what I think.”

You drop your hands and look up at the ceiling. “I think I will die if I hear what you think.”

“I’m not worth all that.”

“You are literally –“ you can’t keep your thoughts entirely straight. “Do you know who you are?” The nerves are getting to you and any sort of even keel you had tried to preserve for him in your previous exchanges completely escapes you.

John shakes his head and you can see he’s blushing a bit. “We’re not talking about me, right now. We’re talking about you. And your track, which,” he leans over and touches your knee gently, “is lovely.”

Lovely is careless word in your book. Glib and shallow. Something you say to people you don’t want to hurt the feelings of. But from his lips, it doesn’t sound all that bad. Perfect, in fact, especially with his hand on your knee. “Really?” you ask, your voice coming out small. You don’t mean to be jejeune, but his compliment has made you woozy.

An endearing smile crosses John’s face, “Yes. It’s fresh and it’s very thoughtful. I can tell it means a lot to you. Especially with your hands shaking like that.”

You look away. He probably says that kind of thing to everyone. He’s so polite, after all.

“The…I wouldn’t have expected it coming from you, to be honest. Although, that’s a bit naïve of me, no one ever looks like how they sound,” he says almost to himself. “You’ve got quite a range.”

“What’d you expect?” you frown.

John shrugs, “Um…I don’t know if I have the words. You manage to paint quite a vivid picture between your lyrics and sort of, I guess, elegiac phrasing. It’s expressive, but more understated than I would expect, I suppose.”

“Do I overstate in real life?”

John hums in thought and his eyes roll up to snatch words from the ether. “You’re direct. Droll. And that’s here, but it’s more cyclical. Like circling the drain,” he says. He stops short. He repeats the phrase quickly and then picks up the headphones.

“Oh, please, not again,” you say.

But he ignores you, pressing one of the ear pieces to his ear. “I think that…” he trails off, relistens to one of the parts over and over. “Let me see.”

You watch him, now completely enamored by the way his brow knits together and his lips part as he tries to connects words to his thoughts. You don’t even care that he’s dissecting your song anymore.

“You mind if I laid something down?”

“Excuse me?”

“On the track?”

You go numb.

“You’ve got a brilliant framework and I think it just needs a little fleshing out. Then you won’t quit on it.”

You shake your head, “Um…”

“Only if that’s alright with you,” he says with such gentleness in his eyes you swear you must not be awake.

“No, no, it’s more than alright, I just – you don’t have to do that.”

He smiles.

“It’s late, you must be exhausted. All the traffic,” you feel that word vomit coming on and you’re gesticulating wildly.

John manages to take your hand from the air easily and you feel yourself relax, your shoulders unlocking and the jumble of thoughts dissipating. “If you’re exhausted and it’s the end of your night, then fine. I don’t have to do anything. But if you’re trying to get me to leave because you’re afraid, I don’t think I should go.”

Oh, you’re certainly afraid. And you aren’t sure he’s talking about laying something down on the track anymore. But your hand is in his, resting on your knee. You can’t say no.

“Okay. What were you thinking?”

John’s smile turns to a grin. He gets up and slings his coat over the back of the chair. “Follow me.”

You follow him into the booth without question. It turns out, John has a lot of ideas, many of which are lost on you in the moment. It’s not that you don’t know the words he’s saying, even the order. You just can’t believe that from your little song, he’s begotten what you have to assume is brilliance.

The mere fact that he is who he is keeps hitting you as you help him set up, as you watch him mess around on the keyboard, as he gives a subtle nod to himself and then murmurs, “Alright, let’s give it a go.”

You listen from the other side of the glass, your eyes trained on him intensely. You’re no longer trying to hide your fascination. The sound of keyboard keens from his fingers, emphatic and unfussy. You hear how it easily slips into the crevices of your song that he must have heard clear as a bell. When John finishes, his eyes meet yours and you are filled with wanting for him. From the half-cocked smile he gives you before he quickly rolls the sleeves of his button down to his elbows, you wonder if he notices. Then, he sets in on something else.

Each idea he tries, builds, creates this aching feeling of ‘circling the drain’, as he had mentioned. You grow fonder of him by the moment; you watch frustration beat across his face in moments, other times see him getting lost, inhabiting the music itself. When all is said and done, it’s late. You’re not tired, though, you’re both abuzz as you listen back to what you’ve recorded. It’s your first session in the middle of the night on a Saturday, but it’s a good one.

“For fun”, as John puts it, you start putting together a rough mix. At first, you’re both very serious, sorting through the different takes, but given the late hour, it’s only natural that you find yourself getting chatty and giggly. Eventually, you’ve abandoned the mix in favor of conversation.

“You’re exaggerating,” you laugh.

John shakes his head, “I’m not, I swear. It was another whole hour of this back and forth about this song concept– and mind you, I haven’t said a word – and they’re just arguing and it’s the same thing and –“ John sighs and leans against the lip of the counter, extending his legs out and gazing at the tips of his shoes, “We have a lot of fun. We make good music and…it’s symbiotic and –“

“It’s good,” you say with a smile, almost as if you’re 15 and telling your friends about the CD you want to play on your joyride.

John can’t help but smile back at you, “Very. And yet, you know, we spend all this time talking about this and that that we don’t even end up playing. And not to sound arrogant, but I don’t need to talk for ever and ever without end, I get it right.

He brims with confidence and an undercurrent of ire that mesmerizes you. “Not arrogant,” you say.

“Well, that’s it, isn’t it? Let’s stop talking and let’s play.”

“Sure, they can talk a lot.”

“Oh, you’ve noticed?” he asks sarcastically.

You nod and think about all the passing conversations you’ve had with them and the obvious flirtations, “Yes, I have noticed.”

“That’s a very loaded…noticing.”

“Yours was too,” you cross your arms and lean back on the board to match him.

John laughs quietly; you watch his smile fade as he thinks of what to say next. It’s late, you won’t hold it against him. Although, you’re not sure if he can’t think of what to say or is deciding if he should say something. He clears his throat and then says, “They’ve certainly taken a shine to you.”

“Oh,” you flush. “Well, Dave and I’ve worked together before, so there’s a rapport there, and Josh is…” you trail off and try to find the right thing to say.

“Evidently defies words,” John interrupts with a slight tease.

“No,” you say too quickly and too firmly. “I mean, not – he’s very flirtatious. And I, despite my best efforts, am very flirtatious and that can get me in trouble.”

John seems to perk up at that. “Oh really? What kind of trouble is that?”

This kind of trouble. “You know, I try to be professional. I am, most of the time,” you reply. “But artists are tricky. The lines of business and pleasure are blurrier. It’s different for everyone, isn’t it?”

“What’s the line for you then?”

It feels like you’re leading each other around like ribbons on a maypole; the trick being eventually one of you will run out of ribbon.

You look away from him to his hand that rests on the counter, the long and dexterous fingers that sent you spiraling earlier. You can feel his watchful eyes taking stock of your every move. “I guess that depends on who is asking,” you murmur.

The silence that follows is deafening. You watch his hand slide down the counter behind yours, your arms now crossing. He’s waiting for you to look at him. It’s an unspoken demand. But he will not rush you, will not press you. He can wait. He knows what’s worth waiting for.

You draw your eyes up to John’s and there he is, closer than before, blue eyes so steady you feel like you could fall over.

“I’m asking,” John says.

He’s begging you to bridge the gap. You shift into your hip, toward John, your arm brushing his. Your faces closer still now, like on the couch this afternoon when you were trying to be subtle. “If you’re asking,” you echo, “there may as well be no line.”

That’s it. A swollen and tortured confession.

John’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well,” he replies lowly and, with a calm resoluteness, places his hand on your waist; you can feel your blood coursing through you. “That makes it very easy to cross, then.”

Your breath seizes in your chest. “So, Josh and Dave aren’t the only ones to take a shine to me then, hm?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘shine’. That’s a bit…juvenile,” John says, inching the gap smaller, “considering the absolutely filthy thoughts I’ve had about you.”

You have run out of ribbon. No more clever things to say, no more cagey flirtations. All you have left is what you know: if he asked, you would do most anything in this moment. “Oh my god,” you sigh.

John takes a finger and traces it down the buttons of your blouse to the place it puckers between your breasts. “In fact, I would happily bend you over right here, if you like.”

You cannot wait. You lunge for him, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling his lips to yours. The tension which the two of you have built over the past week, even in the last few hours, is explosive. You rake your hand through his hair, kissing him as deeply as you can. As if there is nothing else in the world, the room around you is silent and vacuous. All that exists is the broken seal of anticipation.

John’s hand shifts from your waist to your ass, pulling you to him; you’re pleasantly met with his erection laboring through his jeans. A budding, dull euphoria creeps in between your legs. John curls his fingers around the tense material of her skirt and inches it up your legs. You only have one thing on your mind. You break away from his lips and whisper, “Your fingers.”

“Yes?”

“Inside me. Please.”

John’s jaw drops slightly as he searches for words.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” you confess.

“All day, my god,” he laughs, a disbelieving look crossing his face. “How will you wait a moment longer?” John presses a hand against your now bare bottom, slipping his thumb beneath the lace of your thong.

You whimper, “I can’t.” You grind your hips against his, relishing in the groan that escapes him. “Please, I’m even wetter for you than I was this afternoon.”

John exhales, “This afternoon?”

You smile; he’s thrown off, his usual composure interrupted with tenseness around his eyes and lips. “Just watching you play,” you say. “Couldn’t stop thinking about your fingers inside me.”

John twists the waistband of your thong around his thumb. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I was so turned on,” you add and bring your lips up to his ear. “I had to run out and touch myself.”

“God, you’re…” he tries to manifest a cogent thought, but trails off, now pulling your thong down your hip.

You can feel his heart thumping wildly against your chest. “And then I had to sit next to you like I hadn’t just cum to the mere thought of you.”

It all happens so fast now; John grabs onto your knot of hair and tugs your face away from his. “Take them off,” John demands. He forces his hips against yours, pressing you up against the board. “Now.”

There it is, the beginning of his thrall. Someone so in control has to have a darker intuition. You follow his instruction and remove your panties as he watches stoically. All you want to do is please him. You are willing to follow every demand without question if it means that he will please you in return. With your panties now on the floor, John’s aggression softens and his eyes meet yours, “One, two, or three?”

You frown, unsure of his meaning.

“Four?”

“I don’t know what – “

“We’ll start slow, then,” John says before you finish. He reaches under your skirt and delves one of his fingers between your lips. Your breath catches as he begins to explore you, his eyes not leaving yours. He’s so collected and unhurried. “You are very wet, my god,” he murmurs. “You must have been hysterical earlier, then.”

You nod, that untethered euphoria starting to take root, “I was.”

“Tortured, even,” John continues. A second finger finds its way inside you.

You moan, head falling back and your feet coming up off the ground. With each undulating motion of his fingers, warm pleasure spreads from your core. He chuckles a little and then leans in closer, “You’ll find I like a certain amount of control in matters such as these.”

Your heart leaps and you sigh.

“Is that alright with you?”

“Oh, yes,” you nod fiercely. You’re intoxicated by him; his fingers which deftly prod your sensitive pink center, the way he coolly asserts his dominance, the hope of what’s to come.

The corner of John’s mouth twitches upward, “Good.” He leans in and starts to kiss your neck, his teeth dragging against your skin gently. Your breath becomes shallower. “You let me know if it’s too much and I’ll stop, I promise,” he murmurs and then inserts a third finger inside you. A tremor leaps up through your core now you’re even fuller. You curse and throw an arm around him, pressing your hand against his back. He’s slow at first, each pulse of his fingers stretching you. Quickly, any discomfort has shifted to bliss. His fingers slide deeper, pushing against your most sensitive point and making you light-headed.

“Fuck, that…feels so good, John.”

John sighs and brushes his lip up against your ear, “Oh, my name sounds so good in your mouth.”

The heat is building inside you with his continued, elegant motions. But you want more. “Four,” you say.

John hums into your hair, “Mmm, I don’t know. I’m worried if I do any more it might be too much. You’re so swollen.”

“I can take it,” you reply frantically.

“Are you sure?” he taunts and pushes his fingers full to the hilt inside you and his thumb against your clit. You squeal into his shoulder, shock jumping up through your middle. He lets out an almost cheerful laugh, but modulates it by pressing his free hand to your lower back. “You know, I am very partial to begging.”

Your eyes widen. And so, you do. You plead with him, but his eyes implore you for more all while he continues his motions. You feel crazed, trying to demand to be filled more when your words come out tense and choking. All you receive in return is a pitying look.

You reach out and wrap your hand around the bulge in his jeans. John shudders against you. He grabs your wrist and traps your hand against the table, “Don’t distract me.”

“Please, I need it,” you strain, feeling your eyes watering.

Actions are louder than words – much louder. And so are you when he slips a fourth finger inside you. You whine sharply and lock your free hand around his arm. His fingers are so direct and yet so tender, purposefully driving the blazing sensations inside you. It’s unrelenting now, the pressure, and you’re about to tip over the edge. “John…” you reach for his name, repeating it until you slam up against the scorching wall of an orgasm, pushing a shriek from you. The heat pulses through you intensely.

“Good girl,” he says quietly, skimming your overstimulated clit with his thumb. You jolt forward into his chest and cling to him. You stay there trying to catch your breath and return to reality. You catch his scent in your nose; so clean and crisp like a wicker chair in a greenhouse where you could lose hours of your time.

John nudges your forehead with his nose; you draw your head back and he finds your mouth with his. His lips feel so warm and vibrant pressed up against yours and you keep him there as long as possible before he breaks away, leaving you aching. He’s examining your face, reveling in your dilated eyes and flushed cheeks. “I shouldn’t have doubted you,” he says plainly, as if the two of you had been talking about the weather.

Words elude you. You shake your head.

“And you beg very nicely.”

You nod.

John laughs and removes his fingers from you all at once. You sigh heavily. You’re having trouble making sense of what’s just happened.

“I want to try something else,” he says, tracing his fingers along your thigh.

Your stomach flips at the thought of what he’ll do next. “Whatever you want.”

John gives you a look of caution, “You should be careful saying things like that.”

You can’t help but laugh, collapsing at your chest. “I mean it, John. I’ll do whatever you want.”

He has a very unassuming smile on his face, the pockets of his cheeks drawn tight. “You’re very sweet,” he comments innocently. “Okay, come on,” he jerks his head to the booth. “I want you to sing.”

You’re confused. “What?”

“Let’s leave those there,” he looks down at your thong on the ground between you. “And get you a little more…” John mumbles, pulling your skirt down to its former shape. “There.”

“I don’t understand.”

He takes your hand and starts to lead you into the booth, “Your track. Your song. I’d like you to sing it.”

“But John –“

“You said ‘whatever I want’ didn’t you?”

You trip over your words, “Yes, but I thought – I meant –“

“Later, Y/N, later.” Any time you try to protest, he redirects, setting you up in front of the mic and handing you a pair of headphones. You are frozen in place, almost feeling drunk, while he titters about the studio as if nothing has transpired out of the ordinary. You don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. It’s not until he puts his hands on your shoulders that you’re thrown from your trance. “Just sing, it doesn’t have to be special.”

“I don’t sing in front of people.”

“You may have picked the wrong art form then,” he says and gives your ass a squeeze before going to the door.

You squeal, “And I especially don’t sing in front of John Paul Jones, so – “

John rolls his eyes, “You’ve got to get over that,” and shuts the door behind him.

You stand there, waiting for what feels like a thousand years, in the cold solitude of the booth. “You ready?” John’s voice comes through your headphones.

“No,” you say, unable to help glaring at him through the glass.

He grins and gives you a thumbs up. You hate him a little, especially because you are still desperate to fuck him. The track starts in your headphones, but you can’t even hear it, you’re so frustrated. You cross your arms and call out, “I’m sorry. You know you were just fingering me, right?”

John looks down his nose at you and recycles your words, “You know you’re recording, right?”

“Is this what you do? Rile people up and then make them perform for you like – like –“

“Well, I usually only use three fingers, so,” he replies matter-of-factly. He restarts the track and casts his gaze down away from you, “Just forget I’m here.”

Easier said than done. You close your eyes and listen to the track with fresh ears, John’s parts coming through clear and fresh in the rough mix, transforming something you thought you knew too well into a mysteriously inviting landscape. With no other choice, you sing. Perhaps it’s because you’re relaxed after John’s work between your legs or perhaps it’s hearing the song anew, but it feels good. It doesn’t always, singing. It hasn’t for a while. But it does now that you have this image conjured of circling the drain, wondering if you’d be better off if you just let it take you. Would it actually be so bad?

The track bends to an ending. You look to John; he’s pleased with himself. His voice comes through your headphones, “See, was that so bad?”

“Not so bad,” you shrug.

“Come out and give it a listen.”

You keep your eyes on his through the glass and twist the first button of your blouse open, disobliging his request. You watch him laugh and his voice bubbles back through your headphones, “Are you getting back at me?”

“Is it working?”

John starts to say something and then shakes his head, “Come out here.”

You undo another button which exposes your lacy bralette. He leans forward on his hand and watches you. You undo the rest of the buttons slowly, reveling in John’s gaze. He looks away eventually and runs a hand over his eyes in exasperation before popping on mic again, “Are you done?”

You grin, “Are you getting impatient?”

“You’re the impatient one. I was looking forward to doing that later,” he huffs and starts the playback.

You strip off your headphones and practically float out of the booth. For a moment, you stand and listen, trying not to wince at listening to your singing voice. It’s only natural, the feeling of unease at hearing your disembodied voice. “What do you think?” he asks.

You sound good alongside the raw, newly formed track, “How’d you know I’d sound better?”

“I didn’t. I just thought you should sing,” John watches you. “Thought your, uh, state could lend itself to the track.”

The artist is always creating. The artist tends to see everything as art. The artist will make you dance when it feels wrong to. And while you feel like you should be angry at him, you’re not. “I feel like I’m naked when I sing.”

“Ironic, all things considered,” he raises an eyebrow.

“Emotionally naked. Anyway,” you blush and look down at how your blouse hangs open, exposing your bralette and bare skin. “It’s different. Less fun.”

John runs his forefinger against his lower lip, leaning back, and considers what you’ve said, “No, I know what you mean.” You notice his ability to focus on the gravity of a moment whilst you’re standing before in a state of undress, a mark of maturity. “If it makes you feel better, you sound beautiful when you’re naked,” he adds cheekily. He holds out his hand to you, “Come.”

You smile at him and take his hand, letting him pull you into his lap. Between his legs, you feel him stir. “Hello,” you say, nestling yourself deeper into his lap. John doesn’t respond, but blushes around his nose. He rests his chin on your shoulder and spreads his hand out against the bare skin below your breasts. The warmth and breadth of him feels so intimate and safe at once. The two of you listen to the rest of the song like this, lightly entangled together.

The moment a song ends, the universe seems to expand.

“I think it’s rather good, actually,” John says as he pushes your blouse to the side and plants a kiss on your bare shoulder. His fingers brush the top of your breast. “You sounded very relaxed.” He begins caressing your breasts while trailing kisses up your neck languorously as if you really did have all the time in the world. Your nipples harden to his touch, sending gentle waves of arousal through you again.

You suddenly become very self-aware: not only that you’ve had this impromptu late-night session with John Paul Jones, but you’ve also decided to make it known your desire for one another. “This is ridiculous,” you accidentally say aloud.

He pauses, “I’ll stop if you want.”

“No, no, please,” you reply quickly. “Don’t.” You run your hand along the inside of his thigh, earning you a pleased and knowing moan from him.

John sighs into your ear and returns to his work, “Good, because there’s still so much I’d like to do to you.”

“Right,” you say. You quickly resituate yourself on his lap to face him now. He looks up at you with adoration, the blue rings of his irises barely visible. You run your hand along the side of his face, tracing the prominent blue vein that was pulsating earlier as he enthralled you. “Those filthy thoughts you’ve had.”

John laughs and runs his hands up your back, “Not enough time for all of those.”

“All?”

“I have a lot of free time when I’m out here,” he says with a sigh. “And a very active imagination.”

You reach down to the straining button on his pants and smirk, “And you say you’re pure of heart.”

John watches as you undo the button. He replies hungrily, “Pure of heart? Yes. Mind? Questionable,”

“So that’s what got me in trouble,” you reply. From there, you easily unzip his pants and take a hold of his swollen cock. John’s eyes flutter shut and he lets out a groan while you restrainedly begin to stroke him, a small temptation. “I guess the question is then…what would you like to do to me?”

“Oh, well…” he murmurs. “There are many options.”

You slide your thumb on the underside of the head and John shivers in response. “Well how many of them involve you inside me?”

John’s entire face flushes. He looks askance, trying to maintain some sort of composure. “Many.”

You tilt your head, smiling sweetly, “Is something the matter?” You slip your finger against the budding tip of his cock, garnering a sharp intake of breath and clenching of the jaw from John. “Something distracting you?”

John moves his hands from your back to your thighs spreading his fingers against them and threatening your pink center with his thumbs; not touching you, only hovering to give you pause. “You act as if earlier you weren’t absolutely writing with my fingers inside you,” he says, his confidence starting to come through again. “Now, we can do that again,” he warns with a small pet of your outer lips, “or you can listen to my instructions, alright?”

Instructions. This should be interesting.

“Keep touching me, I’ll manage,” he gives you an uneven smile and presses his hips into your hand.

You eagerly start again on him and give him a shy nod.

“Here’s what’s going to happen –“ John begins. His breath is labored, but each word is clear and precise. “You’re going to get off me and get entirely undressed.” His hands catch your shoulders, inching the blouse off of you. “Then, you’ll walk yourself to the kitchen and bend yourself over the island and wait for me to come fuck you.”

You have no words. John’s eyes in yours make you feel like you’re on fire.

“Is that clear?”

You nod.

“Good,” he says.

When you don’t move at first, his eyes dart over to the door. He smiles at you. He doesn’t need to give you the directions again. You just need to follow them. Gracefully, you dismount him. You let the blouse fall from your arms to the floor and unclasp your bra as you go to the door, discarding it easily. John chuckles, but you don’t turn around, can’t interrupt your task.

You open the door and, as it closes with in its sluggish way, you let him watch you undo the zipper of your skirt.

By the time you get to the kitchen, you are fully naked, which you can’t help but laugh at. The scenario is at once ridiculous and divine. You see on the microwave that it’s already almost 2 in the morning, and here you are. In the silent kitchen, with the white marble countertops, except now, you’re on the countertop. The marble is frigid, especially against your tits, which immediately break out in goosebumps. Although, you know that will be your saving grace as soon as John joins you.

He lets you wait in it for a moment longer than comfortable. You almost think about going back, follow the trail of your garments to him. But just as you start to raise yourself up, you hear the seal of the door break and his confident, even steps down the hall. You peak over your shoulder in wait, your heart leaping in your chest.

John rounds the corner carefully and a pleased smile crosses his face. “You’re such a patient girl, aren’t you?”

No. You blush and roll your head to the side. John laughs at your bashfulness. He takes his time, admiring the view, and you get to as well. The man defies age, obviously in his virility, but also how his body and face has taken to time, like they are companions rather than enemies. He’s collected himself, tucked away again in his pants, no doubt wanting to do things on his terms. And you are happy to oblige.

When John meets you, he runs his hands around the roundness of your ass and slides them into the pockets of your hips. “Christ,” he says under his breath. “You know, I just thought it would be so spectacular,” he goes on. You hear the sweet zing of his zipper. “To take you here where you act so ‘professional’ and so…” The shuffle of his pants gives way to his cock which you feel brush up against you. “Accommodating.”

You press yourself back against him and whimper, “John…”

“Are you ready for me?” he asks, teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock; his voice is like fog rolling over you. “Because once I start, I won’t be able to stop.”

Wordlessly, you reach around and catch his unfurled pants in your hands, yanking them toward you. You want him and you’ve waited for him now all day. Your center is aching for him.

“Use your words, darling.”

Your clutch tightens on his pants and you groan, “Yes, I’m ready. Please.”

You can almost hear John’s satisfied grin that spreads across his face; he wastes no time pressing inside your entrance. You gasp at the exquisite feeling of fullness. He rolls his hips tentatively at first, easing you open. “I’ve wanted to do this all week, my god,” he murmurs. “Could barely think straight watching you walk around like you don’t know what you do to people.”

You let out a low laugh, “I can’t help it.”

“You are really asking for it,” John says through grit teeth.

As he picks up speed, you feel a sparking in your core, a sensation of fire starting. John is enjoying you: the view from behind, your clutch, the circumstance all colliding. “You feel even better than I imagined,” he seethes.

The feeling is mutual. His cock hits you just right at this angle. It stokes the embers at your core. But you want a blaze of fire and you want it fast. You aren’t here to be coaxed and coddled. “Fuck me, John,” you say and firmly force yourself back on him.

John curses, inadvertently gripping your hips tighter sending a pinching sensation down your legs. “If I wasn’t desperate for you, Y/N, I would stop for that kind of behavior,” he growls. You feel his hand swirl around in your hair before he grabs and yanks your head up off the marble. “Fucking brat.”

You cry out as your scalp sends a singeing feeling down your spine. Even with his small punishment, he takes your direction. His speed increases, each stroke pressing against the deepest spot of you. With your neck bent back, your breath strains through your throat. It’s a vicious heaven to be in his grasp.

John lets go of your hair and spreads his hand out against your back. “Down,” he commands.

You lay yourself flat against the marble again, his palm pressed tight against your back.

“Better,” he compliments.

Now, he is unremitting with his thrusts. You reach around the island and grab onto the counter and your mouth gapes open as shocks of electricity build quicker and quicker on each other. “You feel so good, John.”

An unfettered moan erupts from him, the loudest you think he’s ever been in any context around you. “My name. Say it,” John says. His words are clipped short.

You push the balls of your feet into the floor and rock back into him. You whimper, “Fuck, John…”

A hum of approval.

“John, I –“ your words turn to a gurgle as you’re struck by a feverish swell deep inside you. You’re close. “God, I’m –“

“Oh, Y/N, that’s it.” His name in your mouth is just as stirring, just as invigorating. You’re going weak, brain turning to mush, the only thing on your mind is the friction between you. John manages to slip his arms beneath your chest, slinging your slack body up with a strength reserved for only these moments. This new angle he’s created drives you to absurdity. You latch your hands to the counter, pouring your weight into your arms. Your whole body shakes. “You’re going to cum for me, hm?”

You affirm him with a nod accompanied by a tremulous breath.

John’s hands find your breasts; he pinches your nipples between your fingers. “Let me hear you,” he whispers raggedly.

Somehow, he manages to pound into you harder and quicker just moments long enough for the electric current to snap inside you, setting off a cascade of shocks down your body. The screech that comes out of you could be described as terrifying, but you can’t help it. John’s not long after you, your show clearly spurring him onto climax. He bursts inside of you to your delight, the warmth of him only adding to your fever. He presses his face into your back and a stuttering moan resounds against your skin.

The two of you pant in tandem, still woven together. John is the first to stir, one of his hands traveling to your hip bone and giving you a gentle squeeze. An unexpected aftershock of your orgasm hits you and you tighten around him. You both seize in surprise. You give him a reflexive apology, not meaning it, neither of you wishing for it not to have happened. John’s hands tenderly caress your shoulders; he gives you a merciful kiss to your shoulder blade before slipping out of you. You swear and keel over into your hands while he collects himself somewhat. The cool marble welcomes you back into its depth, each inch of your naked body blessed with respite.

John sighs heavily and leans against the counter beside you. You peer at him from your fingers; his complexion is ruddy and his forehead beaded with sweat. His eyes catch yours looking and he attempts a smile, but he’s still caught up in steadying his breath. In only a moment, the two of you are both laughing despite yourselves, the post-coital haze enveloping the room.

“Oh my god,” you say, returning to your hands.

“I know,” John replies.

You shake your head, “What the fuck, John.”

“Me?” John says, taking playful umbrage.

You straighten up and push your finger against his chest, “We aren’t supposed to do that.”

“You’re probably right about that.” And despite your admissions of guilt, his hand snakes around your front and pulls you by the waist to him. “You’ve made this week very hard for me, though. Would have been a shame not to.”

You smile in silent agreement. You can’t believe that the man who demands your submission has such a pleasant countenance now. That his eyes are so soft again, like he’s pleasantly surprised you’ve put the kettle on. “You are a gorgeous, gorgeous girl,” John murmurs to you softly.

It’s like when he called your track lovely, except now you’ve shared an intimacy two times over with unexpected ease and ferocity. This time, you can’t question the sincerity. You kiss him, a kiss unadulterated by the frenzy of passion and lust. The expectations do not call for this, rather, they frown upon kissing a man you only mean to sleep with once (if you meant it at all). But somehow, it’s the only right thing to do.

When you pull away, John looks around at your surroundings as if he didn’t realize he had demanded to take you here. “Do you often find yourself naked in the kitchen?”

“Oh, constantly.”

He grins.

The next half hour, the two of you, like slugs, try to clean up the hurricane you’ve created, from the equipment in Studio 3 to the aura of sex in the kitchen to your clothes (John gently does up the zipper on your skirt and you swoon). You’re shy around one another again, distance increasing as you reset the mess.

It’s 3am when the two of you walk out, his car to the left and yours to the right.

“Got your keys?” you smile.

John’s eyebrows jump. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls them out. “Thank god. Would have come all the way out here in traffic just to…” he trails off; you can fill in the blank.

“And that would have been embarrassing.”

“Right, terribly embarrassing.”

The two of you stand on the sidewalk, not terribly sure what to say. There’s a breeze that whistles past you. You’re struck by how far away the rest of the world has felt all night; all the things have been aching had completely disappeared. You brush your hair out of your face, “Well, thank you. I don’t know what to say, the work you did on the track was – well, it was much too generous, but it was brilliant.”

“It was nothing. I was happy to.”

“Not nothing to me,” you say. “Um…” you reach out your hand to him. “Thank you.”

John eyes your hand. “You’re giving me a handshake?”

“I guess.”

“Oh, come on,” he snorts, takes your hand and, pulls you into a kiss. That sliver of current still running through you sparks at the base of your skull. Your hands find purchase on his back and bring yourself deeper into him. When he breaks away, he asks, “Will I see you tomorrow? It’s our last day in the studio.”

You don’t come in on Sundays. “Yes, I’ll be here.”

“Good. That’s good then.” His embrace drops, his hand trailing down your arm. You start to pull away, but you feel him pull on you slightly, urging you closer. John notices your resistance and suddenly speaks quietly, “Let me take you home.”

Shock passes over you, “No, my car – “

“You can get it tomorrow.”

You’re taken aback by his insistence. “John, that’s very sweet –“

“Just want to make sure you get home safe. That’s all. No base desires, or anything,” he says.

“Thank you, but I’ll be alright. I’ll…see you tomorrow,” you say.

John nods. He looks down, his heavy lids hiding what his eyes could be saying. It is only a second, but you consume his hawkish features ravenously. Then, he loosens his grip, his eyes land back in yours and he smiles. “Tomorrow,” he repeats. He doesn’t let your hand from his, not yet.

“Goodnight, then,” you say with a smile.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

You turn to go, John giving you one last fleeting tug back to him, but you go on walking to your car. You think about turning back to look, but you’re too afraid that if you do, you’ll run back to him. You have a feeling you wouldn’t end up home if you did.

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