The Study
a Lovetown x Mostro collaborative story told in words, music, and image.
Note to the reader:
This one’s a little different.
It started with a piece of music Gio Mostro sent me. I didn’t expect to write anything from it, but it got under my skin in that way certain things do. So I offered to write him into a story—not as himself, exactly, but through the version of him I’d picked up on from the way he writes, what he posts on Beautiful Monsters.
He made the track. Then the cover.
And I gave him a story I’m not sure either of us expected.
We’re calling it Lovetown × Beautiful Monsters, but it was never really about the branding. Just two people making something together they couldn’t have made alone.
So here we go. A bespoke story for Gio Mostro with No Safe Word …
The house was quiet, but not silent.
There was a hum from the old radiators and something low from the speakers—ambient, moody. The kind of music that doesn’t distract but keeps you inside your own head. I liked that about him. He made spaces you could feel without being told how.
He hadn’t expected me to be in the study. But that’s where I was. Legs curled on the leather chair, barefoot, thumbing through a book he thought no one would ever notice. A film theory monograph, annotated in pencil. Pages soft at the edges from how many times he’d gone back.
He paused in the doorway.
Didn’t say anything.
I didn’t either.
Just held his gaze and let my thumb drag slowly across the paper one last time before closing the book.
The air had a weight to it now. The kind of gravity that makes people move more carefully, as if the moment might tip.
He came in under the pretense of finding something. A cigarette? A pen? It didn’t matter. He crossed behind me and opened the top drawer of his desk with a deliberateness that reeked of distraction.
I didn’t look at him.
But I let the hem of my dress ride higher as I shifted in the chair.
Thighs, soft and crossed, knees angled toward him.
He stood too long at the desk. Too long to pretend it wasn’t deliberate.
I could feel it.
The effort.
The watching.
He moved behind me again, this time slower. I thought he might leave. Instead, he reached past me to slide a framed photo slightly straighter on the wall.
Aesthetic instinct, maybe.
But the back of his hand brushed my shoulder.
Not enough to startle. Just enough to notice.
I didn’t flinch and he didn’t apologize.
Then, a second time—on his way back—his fingertips barely grazed the back of my arm.
Too much.
Too long.
Still, neither of us said a thing.
When he finally came to stand in front of me, I looked up at him.
Eyes steady. Lips parted, just slightly.
I didn’t shift. I didn’t move.
He studied me with the care of someone used to being seen, but rarely returned.
Then I felt it: that moment.
The mutual stillness.
No request.
No command.
Just air holding still around us.
He reached down—calm, careful—and tugged at the tie holding my dress closed. Not rushed. Not rough. Like he was unwrapping something too delicate to open all at once.
I let it fall.
The neckline softened. My chest opened.
Still, he didn’t lunge.
Instead, he pulled the dress slightly from my shoulders, until it caught at my elbows, trapping my arms loosely against the leather. A kind of makeshift restraint.
The implication was clear.
You’ll stay where I left you.
His hands ran along my collarbones, then lower, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts before he leaned in, finally, to take one between his lips.
Slow.
Too slow.
Then—his point made—he sank to his knees.
His breath against my thighs was warm, but his hands were colder. He spread me gently, licking once.
Not to tease.
To mark the beginning.
I gasped—not dramatically, just sharp, involuntary—when his fingers slipped inside me and curled just right. My hips bucked before I could stop them.
He smiled against me.
Not arrogant or smug.
Satisfied.
As if he’d been waiting to prove something.
He flattened his tongue and dragged it up, slowly from base to clit. Just stayed there, breathing against it, mouth firm, waiting.
I squirmed and he pinned me with his hand flat on my belly, holding me down.
There.
Stay there.
I did.
Open. Needy. Silent.
He started working his tongue in slow, rhythmic pulses.
Over.
And over.
And over.
He built me like a song—layer by layer, with restraint and ruin.
When I came, I didn’t warn him.
It hit hard. Wet. Shameless.
He pushed deeper. Slower.
As if now that I’d broken, he could finally take what was his.
She didn’t say a word.
Not even when he spread her open. Not even when her thighs began to tremble.
He liked to think it was because she trusted him. Because he made her feel safe. Because she knew—somehow—that he could take her further than she’d gone before.
He focused. He stayed slow. Intentional.
Controlled.
He told himself that was who he was: someone who didn’t need praise, who didn’t rush to conquest. Someone who earned it—her breath, her wetness, her arching hips.
He thought: She wants this because I’m steady. Because I know what I’m doing.
But underneath that…
A flicker.
She hadn’t praised him.
She hadn’t begged.
And somehow, that made him even harder.
I felt it when he changed pace.
His tongue slowed.
His mouth went wide, greedy.
He wasn’t kissing now.
He was devouring.
His grip on my thighs changed too—stronger. One hand anchoring me open. The other already inside me. Two fingers, knuckle-deep and steady.
He was fucking me with them now, slow and thick, his palm angled upward, watching how I responded.
I pulsed around him.
He felt it and didn’t stop.
“More,” I said.
Quiet.
But clear.
His head lifted slightly. He searched my face, as if to confirm what I meant.
I didn’t repeat myself.
I didn’t have to.
He added a third finger.
The stretch made me arch. My breath caught like it had teeth. But I didn’t pull away.
He groaned—fuck, soft and low—then buried his face in me again, this time licking with more force, like the sound of my voice had lit something in him.
My body opened around him—hot, slick, swollen—and he knew it.
He pulled back to watch.
Three fingers now.
Then four.
He didn’t push them all in at once.
He coaxed.
He worked me like I was clay and he was sculpting an opening just for him.
I didn’t speak again.
I went still.
Let him feel me stretch.
Let him see it.
My chest flushed.
My thighs trembled.
I went wet all over again.
That’s when he looked up—face slick, eyes sharp—and asked:
“Can I?”
I nodded.
Barely.
He exhaled once through his nose.
Then curled his thumb in.
His whole hand now—slow, deliberate, fucking incredible—disappeared inside me.
Not forceful.
Not rough.
Just in.
I gasped and clenched, body taut and trembling, unsure if it was too much or not enough.
He held perfectly still.
Let me take it.
Let me adjust around the fullness of him, the unbelievable heat of being filled like that.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
Not at me.
At himself.
He started to move, just slightly.
A slow twist.
A subtle curl of his wrist.
And I came—hard.
It wasn’t pretty.
It was raw.
Messy.
Mine.
I soaked his wrist, thighs slick and shaking.
I bit my lip to stay quiet but it didn’t help.
My moan broke free anyway—long, low, from someplace primal.
He didn’t let up.
He fucked me through it, hand slick inside me, holding me wide open like a secret he didn’t know he’d ever get to see.
And I let him have it.
Let him feel everything.
She was still panting.
Not dramatically, just the subtle, post-orgasmic kind that vibrates through the chest, like a motor slowing.
Her thighs still trembling, her mouth half open, her body draped back in the chair.
And he was watching her.
Calm.
Breathing steady.
He hadn’t even undone his belt.
That was the part that made her blink slowly when she looked at him. Like she couldn’t decide if it turned her on or drove her crazy.
He just held her gaze.
Didn’t gloat.
Didn’t comfort.
And he wasn’t in a rush to touch her again.
He liked seeing her like this—undone, caught somewhere between wreckage and wonder. He liked knowing he could take her there again, if he wanted.
When she finally spoke, it wasn’t much.
A name. Maybe a single word.
But his response was a tilt of his head, a faint smile.
As if to say: You asked for the monster. And he showed up.
The man behind the track and the artwork is at Beautiful Monsters on Substack.
Highly recommend subscribing if you like dark edges, slow burns, and obsessive detail.
And of course, tips are always welcome :)