#I do not have the patience to produce a gif without color banding

[dandylionmeadow]

Straight and Narrow’s most haunted locations

[hh0320]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞.

part one of the velvet opiate series— part two.

pairing: rockstar! hyunjin x reader (+ minho, felix, chan)

genre: visual gothic rock band, manipulation, dark smut, hurt/comfort, toxic skz, set in the late 90’s-early 00’s.

word count: 3.6k

warnings: profanity, sexual themes, unprotected intercourse, drug & alcohol abuse, violence, self hate, mentioned self harm, mentioned bdsm, dark! members.

a/n: this is a dark fic. i do not condone the actions of the characters, nor do i associate the guys with this behavior. this is entirely fictional. lmk what you think! 🤭

The newspaper wrote ‘Yokohama Arena: the horrors of Velvet Opiate’s destructive nature,’ in bold letters.

Felix read the article animatedly, emphasizing how ‘scandalous’ this band was, how ‘corrupting young girls, and brainwashing teenagers should and would not be encouraged.’ That societal rules are there to be followed, and ‘these barbaric acts of animalistic chaos have to stop’, it ‘cannot on any level be considered music, when the frontman is half naked in front of high school girls.’

“Fucking gorgeous, frontman,” Felix coughed, smirking. “They got it all wrong.”

Their agency had been getting calls all morning; parents complaining, endorsers pulling out, others paying double to have the band advertise their products. Magazines wanting to set up interviews—one thing was certain.

Everyone was talking about Velvet Opiate—everyone wanted a piece of them. Good, or bad, or both. As long as they were paying.

Their manager had them turn on the TV—channel 7 was reporting on yesterday’s concert, broadcasting the band across the nation. If anything, their little scheme had worked. What would a rock band be, after all, without bad publicity?

Chan pulled his cap further down, hiding his face from view. “We’re gonna have to go into hiding for a while,” he crossed his arms.

“Lockdown, huh?” Minho looked bored. Hyunjin could almost see the gears in his mind, already working out ways to sneak out.

“Just for a couple weeks,” their manager promised. “You’ll be staying at the same hotel, as usual. And Minho, for fuck’s sake, don’t even think about it this time.”

Minho met Hyunjin’s eyes—smug bastard. Knew it.

“Got it, boss,” he replied, fake defeat in his stance.

“Wardrobe is ready for you. This will be the last interview for a while. Remember to not mention yesterday, the interviewer has been made aware.”

All of it was an act—a costume that they had to wear. Felix had become the ‘it’ boy of the scene, Vivienne Westwood had wanted an exclusive contract with them, because of him—he was destined to lead a band, and he carried it well with his deep voice, and unique features.

Chan was the heart and soul of their music. Without him, they’d be nothing. His ability to produce and oversee everything, his patience with the members, his cool demeanor and critical thinking—it’s helped them out of difficult-to-navigate situations.

Like Hyunjin’s drug scandal. Like Minho’s mystery pregnant girl.

They survived those things, because the label believes in Chan’s song making; because Chan fought for them—because what they have, has been Chan’s dream since he was a little boy, watching Led Zeppelin on TV, swearing to himself he’d be just like them when he grew up. What a fucking dream.

The rest of them? They’re just there for the ride. They’re there, because they’re handsome, and because they can play an instrument. Trouble always finds them, they attract chaos.

Hyunjin had always been a quiet boy, a reserved artist. He picked up painting as a hobby when he was a teenager, and now cannot, for the life of him, find where he ends and color begins. It always has to be obsession with him—heart attack, on the floor bleeding, if you take something that’s his.

He has trouble quitting—like Minho. But where Minho can be cold, and detached, Hyunjin would rather bury himself alive.

It started with cutting when he was nine; his mother abandoned him for a month, and his father, the rich asshole, was never there for a day in his life—Hyunjin struggled with loneliness from a young age. He would accept anyone that gave him a little love, would split himself open for them, and would ultimately fall into the deepest fits of depression after they left him.

He got used a lot. Sometimes it’d be older women, sometimes classmates, wanting his money. He gave, and gave, and believed all of them. Then the alcohol came, and it numbed the pain so good. A false sense of confidence.

That’s when he picked up the electric guitar. The loudness of it, could drown him whole. An artist through and through, alone in the world, with money to burn. A cliché fucking tragedy.

Heroin didn’t come ‘till later, but no one wants to hear about that. All of it was an act—a costume they had to wear.

As for Minho—a total mystery. A question mark. He appeared like God one day, when they were looking for a bassist, and since then he’s given them some of the best bass lines there are out there. A womanizer, good at getting his way, secretive when it comes to his personal life.

Hyunjin knows he grew up in an orphanage. The media has attempted to dig deeper, find out more, but the agency pays them good money to stop trying.

For the past two years, since he’s joined them, they’ve become like brothers. Felix hates his guts sometimes, but Hyunjin has seen the way Minho gently guides him, has seen how protective he is over the youngest and the most important.

For Hyunjin, Felix is his twin. The public sees it that way, and the label sells them like that. Every photo shoot, every album jacket, Felix is Hyunjin’s mirror. The light to his dark, the sun to his moon. In a way, they attract each other.

The interviewer asks all this, and all of them try to paint an interesting personality. All an act, all a costume. No one ever truly knows, and that’s fine, as long as that blinding, glamour like limelight falls on them every night. As long as they get to play, and be together.

“Lastly, the fans would like to know—do any of you have girlfriends?”

Wouldn’t you like to know? Chan glanced at Minho. He had intently been staring at this woman, and she had noticed, how could she have not?

“Are you interested?” Minho asked, half teasing, half joking. Legs crossed, arms crossed over each other, that simple, that easy.

Minho had found his girl for the night.

“We’re all single, ma’am. Are we done here?” Chan, ever the politest individual, all business.

“Yes, I think so. Thank you so much!”

The members got up, and bowed. Countless autographs, and pictures later, Velvet Opiate was back in the van, ready for some well deserved privacy. Except for Minho.

Minho was waiting in the hall, a dark angel dressed in an all black private school uniform, with numerous silver, safety pins all over, a slightly oversized leather jacket draped on his shoulders.

Inky mid length purple hair, and glittery dark brown eyes. He will devour that girl whole, Felix said, looking between them. He wasn’t wrong.

Their manager entered the SUV, doing a head count.

“Goddamnit, Lee!”

Chan snorted. “Did you really expect him to behave?”

Hyunjin had been silent, looking out the window, cigarette in mouth. He was itching for something more, the hole in his heart growing larger.

“Speaking of,” he started, “could you drop me off at the Red Light?”

“Hyunjin,” Chan warned.

He knew. No matter how many times Minho broke the rules, he would always get a slap in the knee. Because he can contain himself—because he knows what too much is, knows how to get himself out.

Hyunjin would never be Minho. Hyunjin would be his own demise.

“I really need this, man.”

“What you need is sleep—”

“You guys have no idea how much shit you’re in. There are mosquitos out there, waiting, dying to bite you. You’re killing yourselves here,” their manager was getting progressively angrier.

“I’m not always gonna be there to pick you up.”

Chan rested his hand on Hyunjin’s shoulder. Hyunjin shrugged it off, sharply. Felix sighed.

“I’ll go with you,” he said. “He’s not gonna do anything with me there.”

Hyunjin hated Felix then. Hated him, because he was right. He respected the boy too much to invite him into the horrible fucking shitshow his personal life was. With that being said, the itch was becoming a pain, and it wouldn’t be long now.

“You’re going for her, aren’t you?” Felix whispered, once the car was on the road.

Hyunjin’s face was half hidden behind long blonde hair. Exhaling smoke, he looked at his better twin. Shorter, platinum hair on top of a cute, kind face. So many piercings adorning his ears, a single stud on his nose. Plaid suit, with combat boots.

Picture perfect rockstar, coming to the rescue. Hyunjin smiled, throwing his cigarette out the window.

“She doesn’t mean anything, honey.”

Felix scowled. “Fuck you, Hwang.”

“Say when.”

“Ladies,” Chan reasoned from the back seat.

Hyunjin laughed a full laugh, putting his arm around Felix’s shoulders, pulling him in. Felix fought, but to no avail. Hyunjin grinned down at the younger boy.

“Maybe,” he replied honestly. “I want to see her.”

He’d seen you serving there. A vision to his drunken self, you appeared an angel to him. He’d had no voice to ask for your name, no way to bring you closer.

This time he was completely sober, much to his dismay. But he had to be—he had to know you. You’d been haunting his dreams for a month now. All his highs, you were there extending your hand to him, pulling him out the shadows, kickstarting his heart.

“I’ll have the driver pick you both up,” Joon, their manager, said. “No later than two o’clock, and no fucking drugs, Hyunjin. I mean it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“I wish that was true.”

Hyunjin’s long, black trench coat was moving against the wind, making him look quite unreal. Felix followed behind him, looking out for any person recognizing them. If word got out, they could get in big trouble.

“Don’t worry too much, hm?” Another cigarette had found its way to the elder’s mouth. “You’ll forget about everything in there.”

One look at the bouncer, and the door was open, no questions asked. Hyunjin seemed well known around this place. Of course, it could be the name of the band he was in, that gave him such power, or simply the fact that he was Hwang Hyunjin. He could bewitch anyone. If only he realized that.

The bar’s name rang true, as a red neon light bled throughout the whole establishment. Black leather couches, and a never ending bar was the main point. Girls dressed in bondage served, while hypnotic, dark music played. There were no windows, just one single erotic dream, on replay.

Felix had never been there. He wondered why. Hyunjin was greeting some people behind the counter, a sinner dressed in all black, pale hair acting like a halo, enveloped in smoke.

His band mate fit right in. Felix hoped that didn’t mean he was too far gone.

Hyunjin was in agony. He needed a fix, and he needed it before Felix could sense how fucked up his friend truly was. Cigarettes did shit all for him, and he’d already went through a full pack of them.

He downed his drink, and ordered another one for Felix.

You were across the room, tiniest fucking skirt barely covering your ass. Fuck him, a hundred times. What took over him was primal, the need to see you naked making him dizzy.

What were you doing to him? His itch went away as soon as his cock got hard. He needed you. He needed you like heroin.

A flash of a black coat towards you, and you were taken away from the crowd, backed into a wall next to the bathrooms. Your heart had leapt out your chest, your breath stolen.

Who was this angel man staring into your soul?

“You have cursed me, sweetheart. I can’t see anything but you.”

Those lips, those eyes… You’d seen them before. On TV. Long black coat, angel hair, long fingers playing the guitar…

Your mouth fell open. This was the lead guitarist of Velvet Opiate. He felt so strangely familiar to you, yet you cross your heart and hope to die, you’ve never been this close to him before.

There was a cigarette in his right hand, and it was burning your eyes. You were completely trapped between the wall and his chest. It was the way he was staring down at you, like you were the last thing holding him on planet Earth.

“I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” he muttered, leaning above your lips, his tobacco breath fanning your face.

“I have to go back to work, sir, please—”

“May I kiss you?”

He looked so starved, how could you refuse? This tall, broad, shell of a man was asking you to save him, how could you ever say no?

“Yes,” a breath.

His mouth devoured yours, his non dominant hand roughly grabbing your chin. This was what hunger felt like, this kiss, the way his tongue moved with yours, searching, ravaging. You moaned, and he growled, cigarette long forgotten, now burning his hand. He felt nothing of it. Your mouth was paradise.

His hand travelled down, scratching your waist, over your hips, in between your legs, yes, yes—you were burning, scorching hot, and sweating. You wanted more, more of what he offered, all of it, whatever he would give you—

He’d give everything. You could take it all.

“Fuck, angel. You’re gonna be the death of me,” his lips got lost on your neck, sucking and biting and killing you.

Oh, you were dying too. You were gonna die with him. Your heart was beating in your ears, your blood rushing. This was what it felt like—to be wanted. Entirely.

His palm was rubbing against your aching, wet cunt, his mouth kissing you raw once again.

You would die the necessary death. As long as he never stopped kissing you, you would.

He picked you up, and walked you underneath the staircase, the darkest place of the bar. You could feel it, feel him, his want for you, what it meant. He held you against him so tight, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

He wanted you. Out of everyone, silly, old you.

“I need to be inside you, sweetheart.”

You were already nodding, already in a hurry to unzip his pants—you were going to cum on his fingers, before you could even have the real thing. You needed him inside you, too. He had started a fire, and he was the only one who could put it out, before you burned alive.

“I’m not like this,” you rasped, voice gone, tears streaming down your face. “I’m not anything like this, I swear—”

Hyunjin wiped your eyes, kissing down your cheeks, as you grabbed his cock. He faltered, taking a sharp intake, eyes squeezing shut.

“Tiny fucking skirt, an angel just for me,” Hyunjin words were feverish, all in your mercy. You guided him in your cunt, and he cursed. “You’re just for me, baby.”

He entered you in one fluid movement, and you both groaned. Your arms hugged his neck tighter, as he started fucking you brutally. Your back was hitting the wall with every thrust, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You were so wet, so incredibly wet for him, and aching—an ache so strong, you’d let him fuck you in front of everyone, if that’s what he wanted.

You should’ve known he’d be bad for you, then. Instead, you didn’t. You let yourself be fucked senseless, and you came hard, over and over, as Hyunjin whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

Letting a stranger have his way with you like this—what were you thinking?

You weren’t. You’d do it again, in a heartbeat.

“Your dick feels so good, fuck…” You had been reduced to whimpers, and tears. “Please…please…”

“What do you need, sweetheart? I wanna fucking cum in you, angel. My perfect girl. That’s right, baby, fuck on me, get whatever you need…take it all…”

When he came in you, you realized this man had destroyed himself for you. A dark angel, his seed deep within you, his breath stolen by you. Your taste all over his fingers. This man would have to leave with your scent all over him.

When you came for him, Hyunjin knew he would never leave you alone. His perfect angel, draped in red, fucked out, holding onto him. That’s what all his dreams were about.

You, naked, being taken—being consumed by him. There was nothing stronger than you, then. Nothing he craved more.

A terrifying panic set in him. Being addicted to a person was so much worse than being addicted to a needle. He was getting buried again, like every time before.

One look at you in his arms, and he couldn’t give a damn about himself. Cursed, and alone. He was dead already, he had died a long time ago.

Setting you down, he helped you with your skirt, making sure to memorize your skin, kneeling on one knee for you to hold onto, while his mind was taken over by shadows again.

He would have to leave you, with no way to see you again. Damn him to Hell.

He needed a drink, and a fucking cigarette. He was not good at leaving—was never the one to go. But there was no choice—Joon would agree.

Better it being a person, than a drug. Even if the person can be so much more deadly.

You crouched down with him, holding his bicep, trying to get a look on his face. You saw the flame of the cigarette, but his eyes were covered by silky hair. Your heart skipped a beat—this man was breathtakingly beautiful, and he had wanted you, but he didn’t belong anywhere near you. How, then, was this going to end up in anything other than heartbreak?

You were prepared. All rockstars fuck girls, and never speak to them again. You weren’t stupid, but you were naive. You did fall for the oldest trick, after all.

Love. Pretend.

What you weren’t prepared for, though, was seeing tears trickle down his porcelain face after he turned your way. Dark eyes, taking in your face, his hand reaching for your neck.

When it wrapped around you like a vine, it felt like you deserved it. A punishment for falling into a trap. He stared at you like this, grip never tightening, no matter how much you wanted it to.

He smiled at you then; through tears, through angel hair; picture perfect—your broken rockstar.

“My girl,” he murmured. You went to reach for his face, but he shook his head. Your hand dropped like dead weight.

Your heart dropped with it.

His fingers moved, down to your collarbones, making way up your neck again, grasping a fistful of hair, pulling lightly, and then finally resting on the back of your neck. He looked like he wanted to kiss you, but made no move to do so.

You waited, like a beggar, like a little girl waiting for Christmas. You waited for the present, you waited for the crumbs.

“I won’t see you for a while,” his hand moved away, and he got up, leaving you down.

Missing him already.

“Tell me I wasn’t stupid to do this, and I’ll believe you,” you said, looking up at him.

Your broad angel of death, in all his ruin.

He took a long puff of his cigarette, considering your words. No matter what he said, it would sound like a lie. You held too much over him, to be betrayed.

You held his sanity, now.

“You’re my lifeline, now, angel.”

You had no idea what that meant, how much it entailed. But you’d learn, later, and wish you never did. He will ignore this, and love you dead.

Because this is what he does. Because this is a very old story, and there is no other version to it. It has to be this, always.

When he left you, his black coat swung behind him, halo on his head. You had been sure he’d been a dream.

How to meet a dream again? How to wait for it?

Hyunjin found Felix making out with, what he assumed was, a waitress. The music had changed into something with more bass. He grabbed Felix’s half empty drink, and downed it.

Then he knocked on the table loudly. Felix groaned, and looked at his direction.

“You’re back,” he commented, a devilish grin spreading across his face.

“Should I leave you here?”

Felix considered it. The waitress on him giggled, and the choice was made.

“You’ll be okay on your own? Promise me,” Felix’s features sobered immediately.

Hyunjin nodded. “Always.”

Later, when he couldn’t move his body, the abandoned house burning a slow, blue fire, he thought promises meant nothing.

No one ever kept them.