STORY LEADING TO THE RP.
The first thing Sasha ever remembered clearly was the smell of smoke. Not the terrifying kind that burns your throat or sends people running - but the soft, familiar scent of his parents’ restaurant in Little Falls, where garlic and soy mixed with charred woks and laughter. He remembered their hands guiding his tiny ones as he cracked eggs, stirred rice, pressed dough. They never told him he was too small to help.
The fire came when he was ten. He didn’t remember the flames as much as he remembered the cold that followed - the sterile, echoing silence of people speaking in lowered tones, the strange weight of a blanket around his shoulders that didn’t smell like home. He didn’t understand
why no one said his name anymore, only that everything he had ever known disappeared overnight.
The orphanage was a crooked old building with sun-faded curtains and a roof that leaked during spring rains. Yet to Sasha, it was a playground - an unfinished story filled with too many voices, too much energy, too many chances to run wild. He didn’t think of himself as abandoned. The word didn’t mean anything yet. What he did understand was freedom: climbing the giant oak tree behind the dorms, crawling through windows after curfew, whispering jokes to the only person who ever kept up with him - a lanky boy named Blake.
Blake was quieter, sharper, always cleaning up Sasha’s messes with a resigned sigh. When Sasha broke a window sneaking in at night, Blake found a way to patch it with cardboard before anyone noticed. When Sasha made every stew too spicy for the other kids, Blake secretly swapped the pots. It was Blake who understood that Sasha wasn’t
trying to cause trouble - his brain simply never stopped moving. There was a rhythm inside him, a constant beat, and if he didn’t follow it, he’d explode.
People said he was ‘too much.’ Too loud, too curious, too confident for a boy who had nothing. But Sasha never saw himself that way. He liked attention. He liked being seen. After years of being no one’s child, he wanted the whole world to know he existed.
He was flamboyant, expressive, too flirtatious for teachers’ comfort. His ADHD made him restless; his dyslexia made him stumble over notes; his obsessive tendencies made him rewrite the same essay three times because the ink color didn’t ‘feel right.’ But when music class rolled around, everything quieted. He could find any note, match it perfectly, hum harmonies no one else heard. The teachers called it ‘perfect pitch.’ Sasha called it peace.
He was chubby back then, still soft-faced, with skin darker than the other kids’. They teased him for his eyes, his voice, the way he moved his hands when he talked. But he never learned shame - at least, not outwardly. He wore his difference like armor, painted in loud colors, turned ridicule into attention. He was loud because silence meant invisibility.
When he was sixteen, rummaging through a goodwill bin, he found an old guitar - scratched, missing a string. He bought it for two dollars, repaired it himself, and started teaching his fingers to speak music. At first, it hurt - the pressing, the repetition - but soon the chords became his second language. He played on the orphanage steps, then outside subway stations, his voice carrying through the cold air of small-town Minnesota. Strangers stopped, left coins, smiles, sometimes even tears. For the first time, he realized that people
felt something when he sang.
He wasn’t a dreamer, not in the traditional sense. He didn’t believe in fate or miracles. But there was a quiet conviction in him - that the world owed him one good turn. That somewhere, out there, someone would finally see him the way he wanted to be seen.
After leaving the orphanage, Sasha didn’t have a plan - only an instinct to survive. He was too restless for ordinary work, too proud to beg for help, too charming to go unnoticed. So when he heard about an opening in a gay host club downtown, he applied without thinking.
The club was a fever dream of neon and perfume, a place where every night blurred into the next. He learned quickly how to play the game - how to laugh just right, how to tilt his head to make his earrings sparkle, how to let a touch linger long enough to make hearts race but not enough to invite consequence. He was young, beautiful, reckless, and for the first time in his life, adored.
It was also where he met temptation.
The money wasn’t bad, but not good enough for someone who wanted more - more clothes, more freedom, more control. When a regular offered him extra cash to ‘help move a few things,’ Sasha didn’t ask too many questions. He was clever, but not yet wise. Curiosity led him further down the path, and soon the line between ‘moving’ and ‘using’ blurred. The first time he tried it, it was out of curiosity; the second, out of need. The third time, he stopped counting.
The club lights became harsher, the music too loud, the nights too long. His fingers shook. His songs - the ones he wrote for fun, in the back room during breaks - grew darker, rawer. Blake, his best friend and the only person who had followed him from the orphanage, tried to help, but didn’t know how. For a while, Sasha didn’t even want to be helped.
And then came the night everything changed.
It was karaoke night - the kind of night the club threw when they wanted something softer, more romantic, to draw in sentimental crowds. Sasha went up on stage for fun, half-high, half-tired, and sang one of his own songs. His voice, though untrained, had that rare, dangerous quality - the kind that cracked under emotion, the kind that carried pain like melody.
Among the crowd sat a man who wasn’t a client. A bounty hunter, though Sasha didn’t know it then. The man saw something raw in him, something too bright to leave in that smoky room. A week later, Sasha was sitting in front of a producer, nervous, hungover, still trembling. They didn’t care about his resume. They cared about that voice.
The contract came with a condition: get clean. No drugs, no scandals. The agency made it clear - he could have a future, but only if he left that past behind.
Rehab was brutal. Three months that felt like three years. The silence was unbearable, the nights long and shaking. For someone who lived for noise, for laughter, for constant motion, the stillness felt like punishment. But Blake visited every week, always with something small - a magazine, a pack of cigarettes he pretended to forget was forbidden, a note that simply said
almost there.
When he came out, he wasn’t the same. He was thinner, sharper, his body clean but his mind still restless. The label gave him a team, a wardrobe, and a new identity - Sasha Duong, vocalist, rising star. The first single hit the charts faster than anyone expected. His voice, filled with lived-in pain and reckless warmth, became a signature.
Fame suited him - almost too well. Crowds screamed his name, cameras followed his every move. He had his car, his penthouse, his fans, his freedom. Yet the more he had, the less he felt safe stepping outside. Fame had replaced the club’s neon with another kind of light - harsher, colder.
And then came the scandal - or, rather, the
truth. Someone leaked a photo of him at a gay club, laughing with friends. Fans had always speculated, whispered. The label panicked. Blake panicked. But Sasha didn’t. He was tired of pretending. He went online and said it himself:
Yes. I’m gay. Deal with it.
For six years he had dressed the way the label told him to - short hair, no makeup, dull suits. After that day, he vowed never to wear one again. The next concert, he walked out in eyeliner, lace, and a grin. The world went wild. Some fans left. Twice as many came. For the first time, he was performing as himself.
With fame came protection - and with protection came Sergei. The bodyguard was everything Sasha wasn’t: quiet, broad-shouldered, calm, disciplined. At first, Sasha teased him endlessly, testing the limits of that stone-faced patience. But Sergei wasn’t just muscle; he listened, understood in silence what Sasha never managed to say aloud. Their connection built slowly, privately, until one night, it wasn’t jokes anymore.
For the first time, Sasha was in love.
He wrote songs about him, smiled differently on stage, found peace in the steady presence beside him. When he proposed, it was impulsive, romantic, a gesture of total faith. But the man of his life said no. Not because he didn’t love him - but because he was leaving. Going back to his home country, to his family, to a life that didn’t have space for Sasha.
Sasha begged to go with him. He refused.
And when he left, he took something vital with him.
Sasha vanished for three months. No concerts, no interviews, no posts. The label panicked, Blake covered for him, fans speculated. He locked himself away, slept through days, wandered through nights, haunted by the sound of his lover’s voice, by the ghost of something that might’ve been a forever.
Only a week ago did he return - to the studio, to the world, to himself. His eyes still carried a hint of that heartbreak, but his smile was back. Maybe a little slower, a little sadder, but real.
Now, as the city hummed beneath his balcony and the scent of jasmine drifted through the air, Sasha felt something like peace. He had survived everything - hunger, addiction, fame, love, and loss. He wasn’t whole, but he was alive. And when he sang again, the world would hear not just his voice, but his story - every scar, every break, every beautiful, chaotic piece of it.
SEXY STUFF.
Position
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
