I'm NOT the person who asked for that reader insert with the rival band, but I thought the way you wrote it is downright amazing. You are a really good writer, I wish I could be half as good as you. That being said, could I suggest you a sequel to that imagine? Like after awhile 2D reaches out to the other singer to hangout and they just spend the whole time spouting insults at each other and banging? Sorry this was so long haha. Pls don't ever stop writing c: <3
This has taken 2 months (or more?) of blood, sweat, and tears. Literal tears of frustration when I couldn’t find the words to write what I wanted to say, and also a bit of sweat because sometimes it was really hot in my room. And blood, cos I had a few nosebleeds.
On a more serious note, with this one I really wanted to show that the mood has changed from the first one. The first time around, both the reader and 2D were literally only looking for a hook up. This time however, there’s feeling from the start. There’s the stirrings of excitement and feelings and companionship that’s potentially dangerous for two high-profile people. I tried my hardest to convey that while 2D wants to go ahead with everything, the reader is trying to cut ties to avoid a painful situation. The reader knows that if she stays, she’ll fall in love with 2D, and likewise 2D with her. She wants it to happen, but she just can’t let it.
Do I put too much thought and weight into my writing? Probably. Is that why it took me so long to write? Yes. Am I going to stop doing it? No.
Anyway, as (heavily) requested, here’s a sequel to the Rival Bands imagine (It was originally on Tumblr but I can’t find it so if anyone finds it can you send me the link to it. But for now, AO3 will have to do)
Also this shit show is twice as long as the first one. Wow!
It’s also here on AO3 under the name ‘If You’re Lucky’
Your teeth snag your lip, and you glance up and down the bar, trying not to appear as bored as you feel. The man beside you has almost ceased to exist, fading into a dull cloud of monotonous words and heady aftershave.
The club is cramped and densely packed with people. The crowd moves in unison, the lights swinging and making studded noses and lips and eyebrows glitter, highlighting the insane heads of multicoloured hair as they twist and turn across the room. Somewhere on the other side of the room, an electric guitar screeches, the crowd screaming back, and songs meld into each other in a crescendo of humming bass, heavy drums and almost shouted lyrics.
Punk is the order of the night, anarchy the prime special. This kind of club is the kind you’d be recognised at, if there were indeed anything about you to recognise. You blend in perfectly, all dark clothes and studded shoulders and heavy boots.
You won’t get recognised. Which is exactly why you’re here.
The man moves a little closer, his mouth by your ear. There’s a row of three little silver studs in his eyebrow, and you stare at them out of the corner of your eye as he whispers something nonsensical but undoubtedly sexual in your ear, his hand creeping to encircle your wrist.
You pull away then, angling your body toward him, head on, and whipping your hand away. He looks mildly surprised, his studded eyebrow raised.
“I’m not interested,” you tell him, and then, as an afterthought, add, “sorry,”