You always joked that being a Rockstar isn't easy. Naturally, it's a good gig. However you have some unique complexities to navigate with your stardom. The biggest one is your bodyguard, Mason. A brick shit house of a butch who towers over you and easily outweighs you. Dark eyes often hidden by sunglasses, a map of scars and tattoos in near equal measure down her body, often draped in dark leather. They're the picture of intimidating for most people... but not you. Ever since you'd hired them, for some strange reason you got the urge to learn all their buttons so you could push them like a kid on an elevator. They'd snarled and growled at you, smacked the back of your head, pulled you around by your belt, and all other manner of disciplinary action but none of it stopped you. Something about them made you wanna rile them up.

Tonight was a night like many before it. Your show had finished and now you were mingling with the fans who were willing to shove out a lot of cash to hang out with you. At the bar you were flanked by two girls cooing over you, how cool and handsome you are. It always gave you a big head. Eventually, you gave the girls a tiny show. You pulled up your shirt and flashed them your newest body mod; piercings on two sensitive places. They lost their mind in the best way. No sooner did your shirt fall before you felt a big hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, kid. Gotta talk to you." Mason's voice rumbled. This wasn't a request. It was a command.

They led you away from the people, down the hall until the sounds of rocking out were distant. You were just about to inquire about what they wanted when in one swift motion, Mason shoved you up against the wall, hoisting you slightly off your feet and placing their forearm firmly against your neck. They huffed right in your face like an angry bull.

"You think you're real God damned funny don't ya, hotshot." They growl, eyes dark with something familiar but not at the same time.