#or if there was more confrontation between them...

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

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Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 20: Hidden Pages

The afternoon sun cast dappled shadows through the trees as you and Yeosang made your way down a narrow side street in one of Seoul's older districts. The buildings here were different from the gleaming skyscrapers and modern structures that dominated most of the city—older, with character etched into their weathered facades and stories hidden in their architectural details.

"It's just around this corner," Yeosang said, his voice carrying a note of anticipation that made you smile. You'd never seen him quite this animated before, his usual quiet composure brightened by genuine excitement about sharing this special place with you.

As you rounded the corner, he gestured toward a narrow building squeezed between a traditional tea shop and a small art gallery. The bookstore's exterior was understated—a simple wooden door with glass panels, a modest sign in both Korean and English that read "Hidden Pages," and large windows that offered glimpses of towering bookshelves within.

"This is it," Yeosang said, pausing at the entrance. "It doesn't look like much from the outside, but..."

"But the best treasures are often hidden in plain sight," you finished, looking up at him with warm eyes. "Just like some people I know."

The compliment made color rise to his cheeks, and he ducked his head slightly before pushing open the door for you. A soft bell chimed as you entered, and immediately you understood why this place was special to him.

The interior was a book lovers dream—floor to ceiling shelves packed with books in multiple languages, cozy reading nooks tucked into corners, and that distinctive smell of aged paper and ink that seemed to permeate everything. Soft classical music played from hidden speakers, and warm light from vintage lamps created an atmosphere that felt more like a private library than a commercial bookstore.

"Welcome back, Yeosang," came a gentle voice from behind the main counter. An elderly man with kind eyes and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from the book he'd been cataloging. "And you've brought a friend."

"Mr. Park, this is Y/n," Yeosang said, his hand finding the small of your back as he guided you forward. "Y/n, this is Mr. Park, the owner. He knows more about books than anyone I've ever met."

"A pleasure to meet you," Mr. Park said with a warm smile. "Any friend of Yeosang's is welcome here. He's one of our most valued customers—always finding treasures that others overlook."

"I can see why he loves this place," you replied, already enchanted by the atmosphere. "It feels magical."

"Books have a way of creating magic," Mr. Park agreed. "Please, explore as much as you'd like. The poetry section is upstairs, along with the café. And Yeosang knows where to find all the hidden gems."

As Mr. Park returned to his cataloging, Yeosang turned to you with an expression that was both proud and slightly nervous. "Where would you like to start?"

"Show me your favorite section first," you suggested. "I want to see what draws you here."

Yeosang's face lit up as he led you deeper into the store, past sections of contemporary fiction and bestsellers, toward a quieter area in the back where the shelves held older, more eclectic collections.

"Philosophy and poetry," he explained, gesturing to the carefully organized shelves. "But also some rare editions and first prints. Mr. Park has a talent for acquiring books that you can't find anywhere else."

You watched as he moved through the stacks with the easy familiarity of someone who'd spent countless hours here. His fingers trailed along the spines of books with gentle reverence, and you found yourself captivated by this side of him—passionate, knowledgeable, completely in his element.

"This one," he said, pulling a slim volume from the shelf, "is a collection of translated Korean poetry from the early 1900s. The translation work is incredible—it manages to preserve the emotional resonance of the original while making it accessible to English readers."

He opened the book to a page he'd clearly marked before, his voice taking on a different quality as he read a few lines aloud. The words were beautiful, but it was the way he spoke them—with such care and understanding—that made your heart flutter.

"That's beautiful," you said softly when he finished. "You have a lovely reading voice."

"I used to read to my sister when we were younger," he admitted, closing the book but keeping it in his hands. "She said poetry sounded better when I read it aloud."

The small personal revelation made you want to know more about his family, his childhood, all the experiences that had shaped the thoughtful man beside you. But before you could ask, he was already moving to another section, eager to show you more treasures.

"And this," he said, reaching for a higher shelf, "is a first edition of—"

His words cut off as he stretched upward, his shirt riding up slightly to reveal a strip of toned stomach. You found your eyes drawn to the lean muscle there, the way his body moved with unconscious grace. When he noticed you looking, a different kind of heat entered his gaze.

"Sorry," you said, not sounding sorry at all. "You're just... very nice to look at."

"Y/n," he said quietly, your name carrying a warmth that made your pulse quicken.

"What? I'm just appreciating the view while you reach for books. It's called multitasking."

Yeosang laughed, a genuine sound of delight that transformed his entire face. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things," you replied with a playful smile, stepping closer to him. "But please, continue. I'm very interested in... rare books."

The way you said it, with that slight emphasis and the mischievous glint in your eyes, made his breathing catch. There was definitely a new energy building between you, something flirtatious and charged that made the quiet bookstore feel intimate and full of possibility.

"Well," he said, his voice dropping slightly as he pulled the book from the shelf, "this particular volume is quite... special. It requires very careful handling."

"I can be very careful," you assured him, moving close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "When something is worth taking care of."

Yeosang's eyes darkened as he caught your meaning, the book momentarily forgotten in his hands. "Are we still talking about books?"

"Are we?" you countered, looking up at him through your lashes.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you crackling with tension and possibility. Then Yeosang cleared his throat softly, glancing around the store.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice slightly rougher than usual, "we should continue exploring. There's so much more I want to show you."

"Lead the way," you replied, though you made sure to brush against him as you moved, enjoying the way his breath hitched at the contact.

The next hour passed in a delightful haze of literary discovery and increasingly bold flirtation. Yeosang showed you rare manuscripts, beautiful art books, and hidden alcoves filled with volumes on obscure subjects. You found yourself drawn not just to the books, but to watching him—the way his eyes lit up when he found something particularly interesting, the gentle way he handled even the most worn volumes, the quiet passion in his voice when he explained why a particular work was significant.

And he seemed equally captivated by you—your genuine interest in his explanations, your thoughtful questions, the way you laughed at his dry observations about some of the more pretentious literary critics whose works lined the shelves.

"You know," you said as you browsed through a section of vintage travel guides, "I never expected to find book shopping this... stimulating."

Yeosang, who had been reaching for a volume on the top shelf, paused and looked down at you with raised eyebrows. "Stimulating?"

"Intellectually stimulating," you clarified with mock innocence, though your smile suggested otherwise. "All this talk of rare bindings and... careful handling. It's very educational."

"I see," he said, climbing down from the small step stool he'd been using. "And here I thought you were just being a diligent student."

"Oh, I'm very diligent," you assured him, stepping closer as he descended. "I always pay close attention to my teachers."

The way you said 'teachers' made his eyes flash with something that was definitely not scholarly, and you found yourself backed against the bookshelf as he moved closer.

"Is that so?" he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "And what have you learned so far?"

"That you have excellent taste," you replied, your voice equally quiet. "In books and... other things."

"Other things?"

"Places," you said, gesturing around the intimate bookstore. "Atmosphere. The way you choose to spend your time with someone special."

Yeosang's hand came up to rest against the shelf beside your head, his body creating a small cocoon of privacy around you. "Someone special?"

"Very special," you confirmed, looking up into his dark eyes.

The moment stretched between you, charged with possibility. You were acutely aware of how close he was, the way his scent—clean and warm with hints of bergamot—surrounded you. His eyes dropped to your lips for just a moment before returning to meet your gaze.

"The café upstairs," he said softly. "Would you like to see it?"

"I'd like to see everything you want to show me," you replied, the words carrying layers of meaning.

Yeosang's smile was soft but held an edge of something more intense. "Then let's go up."

The narrow staircase to the second floor was tucked away in the back corner of the store, barely wide enough for two people. As you climbed ahead of Yeosang, you could feel his presence close behind you, the warmth of his body and the way his breathing had become slightly uneven.

The upstairs café was even more intimate than the bookstore below—small round tables scattered among more bookshelves, soft lighting from table lamps, and large windows that looked out over the quiet street. Only a few other patrons were present, all absorbed in their own books and conversations.

"Corner table?" Yeosang suggested, nodding toward a small table tucked between two tall bookshelves that would offer relative privacy.

"Perfect," you agreed, following him to the secluded spot.

As you settled into the comfortable chairs, Yeosang caught the attention of the café server and ordered tea for both of you—something called "poet's blend" that he assured you was exceptional. When you were alone again, the atmosphere felt different. More intimate, more charged with possibility.

"This place is incredible," you said, looking around at the combination café and library. "I can see why you love it here."

"It's peaceful," Yeosang agreed. "A place where you can think, or read, or just... exist without the noise of the outside world."

"Is that what you do here? Just exist?"

"Sometimes," he admitted. "When the schedules get overwhelming, or when I need to process something complex. I come here and let the quiet settle into my mind."

You reached across the small table and took his hand, enjoying the way his fingers immediately intertwined with yours. "Thank you for sharing it with me. For letting me into this part of your world."

"Thank you for wanting to see it," he replied, his thumb tracing gentle circles across your knuckles. "I wasn't sure if you'd find it interesting."

"Yeosang," you said seriously, "watching you talk about something you're passionate about is one of the most attractive things I've ever experienced. The way your whole face lights up, the way you handle the books like they're treasures... it's beautiful."

Color rose to his cheeks again, but he didn't look away. "You make me feel like the things I care about matter."

"They do matter. You matter."

The server arrived with your tea, providing a brief interruption to the intensity building between you. But as soon as you were alone again, the charged atmosphere returned.

"This is delicious," you said after taking a sip of the aromatic blend. "Complex. Layered."

"Like you," Yeosang said quietly, his eyes holding yours over the rim of his teacup.

The simple compliment sent warmth spreading through your chest. "Is that your professional opinion, Professor Kang?"

"My very professional opinion," he confirmed with a slight smile. "Though I may need to conduct further research to be completely certain."

"Research?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "What kind of research?"

"Extensive research," he said, his voice dropping to that low register that made your pulse quicken. "Thorough investigation. Very... hands-on methodology."

The academic language delivered with such obvious double meaning made you laugh, but it was breathless laughter that carried heat. "I do appreciate thorough research methods."

"I thought you might," he said, his gaze dropping to your lips again. "I'm very dedicated to my research."

"How dedicated?" you asked, leaning forward slightly.

"I believe in exploring every possible angle," he replied, his own body language mirroring yours as he leaned closer across the small table. "Leaving no stone unturned."

"Very admirable," you breathed, acutely aware of how close your faces were now, how his eyes had darkened with unmistakable desire.

"Y/n," he said softly, your name carrying a question and a promise.

"Yes?"

"I think," he said, his gaze flicking around the café to confirm that your corner table was relatively hidden from view, "that I'd like to begin my research now."

"Here?" you asked, though your tone suggested the idea was more thrilling than shocking.

"Just a preliminary investigation," he assured you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. "To determine if further study is warranted."

Instead of answering with words, you closed the remaining distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was anything but preliminary.

Yeosang's response was immediate and intense. His hand tangled in your hair as he deepened the kiss, the careful control he usually maintained slipping away in the face of his desire for you. The small table between you became an obstacle as you both strained to get closer, the need for contact overwhelming rational thought.

"This table," he murmured against your lips, "is very inconvenient for research purposes."

"Terrible design flaw," you agreed breathlessly, your hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer despite the physical barriers.

Yeosang glanced around quickly, then stood and held out his hand to you. "There's a section in the back," he said quietly, his voice rough with want. "Poetry. Very quiet. Very... private."

Without hesitation, you took his hand and let him lead you away from the table, leaving your tea forgotten as you moved deeper into the maze of bookshelves. The poetry section he mentioned was indeed tucked away in the back corner, surrounded by tall stacks that created a sense of complete seclusion.

The moment you were hidden from view, Yeosang turned and pressed you gently back against the bookshelf, his body caging you in as his mouth found yours again. This kiss was different from the tentative exploration at the table—hungrier, more desperate, full of all the desire that had been building between you throughout the afternoon.

Your hands roamed over his chest, feeling the lean muscle beneath his soft sweater, while his fingers traced along your jawline, your neck, everywhere he could reach. The taste of tea lingered on his lips, mixed with something that was purely him, and you found yourself addicted to the combination.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered against your mouth, his hands framing your face as if you were something precious and rare. "I've been wanting to touch you like this all afternoon."

"Then don't stop," you breathed back, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him down for another deep kiss.

Time seemed suspended in your hidden alcove among the poetry books. Yeosang's mouth moved against yours with increasing urgency, his careful composure completely abandoned as he lost himself in the taste and feel of you. His hands had found their way to your waist, pulling you closer against him, while yours mapped the strong lines of his shoulders and back.

"Y/n," he gasped against your neck, having moved to trail kisses along the sensitive skin there. "We should... people might..."

"Let them," you replied recklessly, your head tilting back to give him better access. "I don't care."

The declaration seemed to snap something in him. His mouth returned to yours with renewed intensity, and you could feel the full force of his desire in the way he held you, kissed you, breathed your name like a prayer.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard, your clothes slightly disheveled and your lips swollen from kissing. Yeosang rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he tried to regain some semblance of control.

"That was," he started, then seemed to lose track of his words.

"Research?" you suggested with a breathless laugh.

"Very thorough research," he agreed, opening his eyes to meet yours. The heat still burning in his gaze made your pulse quicken all over again. "Though I think I need to collect more data."

"I'm always willing to contribute to scientific advancement," you said solemnly, though your smile was anything but serious.

"Good," he said, leaning down to press one more soft kiss to your lips. "Because I have a feeling this research is going to require multiple sessions."

"I look forward to it," you whispered back.

Reluctantly, you both began the process of making yourselves presentable again—smoothing rumpled clothes, finger-combing disheveled hair, trying to look like you'd been innocently browsing poetry rather than making out among the verses.

"Should we head back downstairs?" Yeosang asked, though he seemed reluctant to leave your private alcove.

"Probably," you agreed, equally reluctant. "Before Mr. Park wonders what happened to us."

As you made your way back through the café and down the narrow staircase, Yeosang's hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a gesture that felt both intimate and claiming. When you reached the main floor, Mr. Park looked up from his work with a knowing smile.

"Find everything you were looking for?" he asked innocently.

"And more," Yeosang replied, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. "Thank you for the recommendation on the poetry section. Very... inspiring."

"Poetry has a way of moving people," Mr. Park agreed with a twinkle in his eye that suggested he wasn't entirely naive about what had transpired upstairs. "I hope you'll both come back soon."

"We definitely will," you assured him, meaning every word.

As you and Yeosang stepped back out onto the quiet street, the late afternoon sun painted everything in golden hues. The air felt different somehow—charged with new possibilities and the lingering heat of your encounter among the books.

"So," Yeosang said as you began walking back toward the main road, "how did you find your first visit to Hidden Pages?"

"Educational," you replied with a mischievous smile. "I learned a lot about... poetry."

"Poetry," he repeated with a laugh. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things," you said, echoing your earlier flirtation.

Yeosang stopped walking and turned to face you, his expression serious despite the heat still simmering in his eyes. "Y/n, I want you to know that this—today, sharing this place with you, being with you like this—it means everything to me."

"It means everything to me too," you replied sincerely, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Thank you for trusting me with something so special to you."

"Thank you for making it even more special," he said, turning his head to press a soft kiss to your palm.

As you continued walking, your hands linked and your hearts full, you couldn't help but think that Hidden Pages had given you more than just a glimpse into Yeosang's world—it had given you both a perfect afternoon of discovery, connection, and the kind of romance that belonged in the pages of the poetry books you'd been kissing among.

"Next time," Yeosang said as you reached the main street, "I'll show you the rare manuscripts section."

"Next time," you agreed with a smile that promised more adventures, more discoveries, and definitely more research among the stacks.

–––

The ride back to the house was thick with tension that had nothing to do with Seoul's evening traffic. Yeosang sat in the driver's seat with white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel, his usual calm composure nowhere to be found. You could feel his alpha energy radiating from him in waves—controlled but barely, like a carefully banked fire that was threatening to break free at any moment.

Every time you shifted in your seat, his eyes would flick to you and then quickly back to the road, his jaw clenching with visible effort. The afternoon at the bookstore had awakened something in both of you, and the confined space of the car was making the sexual tension almost unbearable.

"You're very quiet," you observed, your voice coming out softer and more breathless than you'd intended.

"Trying to concentrate," Yeosang replied, his voice rougher than usual. "On driving. And not pulling over."

"Pulling over for what?" you asked innocently, though the heat in your gaze suggested you knew exactly what.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Don't tease me right now, Y/n. I'm barely holding on as it is."

The raw honesty in his voice sent a thrill through you. This was a side of Yeosang you'd never seen—his careful control slipping, his alpha nature more prominent than his usual thoughtful restraint. The combination was intoxicating.

You reached behind your ear and slowly, deliberately, peeled away your scent blocker.

The effect was immediate and devastating. Your natural jasmine and vanilla scent flooded the small space, but now it was laced with something else—the unmistakable sweetness of arousal that had been building all afternoon. The combination hit Yeosang like a physical blow.

His foot pressed harder on the accelerator as he sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes flashing gold for just a moment before he forced them back to brown. "Y/n," he said, your name coming out like a warning and a plea. "What are you doing?"

"Letting you know how you make me feel," you replied simply, watching as his alpha senses processed the full impact of your unfiltered scent. "How the afternoon made me feel. How right now, sitting next to you, knowing what your hands feel like, what you taste like..."

"Fuck," he breathed, the curse unusual coming from his typically composed lips. The car swerved slightly as his concentration wavered, and he had to grip the wheel tighter to maintain control. "You're going to make me crash."

"Then drive faster," you suggested with a smile that was pure temptation.

Yeosang's response was to press the accelerator further, the city blurring past as he navigated the familiar route home with newfound urgency. His alpha scent was getting stronger too—musk and cherry blossoms now mixed with something darker, more primal. The combination of your scents in the enclosed space was creating a feedback loop of desire that had both of you breathing hard by the time he pulled into the driveway.

He'd barely put the car in park before he was turning to face you, his eyes blazing with intensity. "Inside," he said, his voice carrying unmistakable alpha command. "Now. Before I do something very inappropriate in this car."

You didn't need to be told twice. You were both out of the car and moving toward the house with quick, purposeful steps, the tension between you so thick it was almost visible. Yeosang's hand found the small of your back as he guided you to the front door, the possessive touch sending electricity through your entire system.

The moment you stepped through the front door, Wooyoung bounced up from the couch where he'd been sprawled with a gaming controller, his face lighting up with excitement.

"You're back! How was the bookstore? Did you find anything good? Did Yeosang bore you to death with poetry quotes?" He was already moving toward you with his arms outstretched, clearly intending to pull you into one of his enthusiastic hugs.

But before he could reach you, a low growl rumbled from Yeosang's chest—playful but unmistakably possessive.

"No," Yeosang said firmly, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you against his side. His voice carried an authority that none of them had heard from him before, alpha dominance bleeding through his usual gentle demeanor.

Wooyoung stopped mid-step, his eyes widening with surprise and interest as he took in Yeosang's protective posture and the obvious tension radiating from both of you. "Oh," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face as understanding dawned. "OH. Well then."

Without giving anyone time to comment further, Yeosang was guiding you toward the stairs, his hand firm and possessive on your hip. "We'll be upstairs," he announced to the room at large, his tone suggesting that interruptions would not be welcome.

"Have fun!" Wooyoung called after you with barely contained glee. "Don't break anything important!"

"Wooyoung," came Seonghwa's exasperated voice from the kitchen doorway, clearly having witnessed the entire exchange.

"What? I'm being supportive! Very encouraging!"

You could hear the others beginning to gather in the living room, drawn by Wooyoung's dramatic commentary, but Yeosang was already pulling you up the stairs with single-minded determination. His room was at the end of the hall, and he led you there with the focused intensity of an alpha who had finally reached the end of his restraint.

The moment his bedroom door closed behind you, the atmosphere changed completely. Gone was the careful politeness of the bookstore, replaced by something raw and hungry that made the air itself feel electric.

Yeosang turned to face you, his back against the door, his eyes dark with desire and something deeper—possession, claim, the need to make you his in every way possible.

"Do you have any idea," he said, his voice low and rough, "what you've been doing to me all afternoon?"

"Tell me," you replied, stepping closer to him with deliberate slowness.

"The way you looked at me in the bookstore. The way you listened when I talked about the books, like what I had to say actually mattered. The way you let me kiss you among the poetry..." His hands clenched at his sides as if he was fighting not to reach for you immediately. "And then in the car, removing your blocker, letting me smell how much you want me..."

...Yeosang barely got the words out before the last of his restraint shattered. He surged forward, hands catching your face and waist at once, yanking you into a kiss so fierce it stole the air from your lungs. It wasn’t gentle—wasn’t even patient anymore. After an entire day of holding back, his need seared through every motion.

He tasted every gasp, every whimper, his scent filling the bedroom now that your own was free—jasmine and vanilla tangling with the deep, heady undercurrent of his alpha arousal. His hands slid into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head and expose your throat.

“Yeosang—” you breathed, but your voice broke as his lips traced the line of your jaw, down your neck to the fluttering pulse there. He grazed his teeth lightly over your skin, drawing a shudder from you.

“You know what you do to me?” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a growl in your ear as he pressed you back until your knees hit the edge of his bed. “You turn every word, every look, into a promise I can’t keep—unless I have you. All of you.”

You flushed with heat, arousal sparking sharp and urgent through your veins. “Then take me, Yeosang. I’m yours.”

That, apparently, was the last thread holding him together.

He gripped your hips and lifted you easily onto the mattress, his body caging you. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, eager to touch, to feel the racing heart and tense muscles beneath. “Too many clothes,” you muttered, and Yeosang was already stripping his sweater off, baring pale skin and lean strength.

He helped you tug off your own shirt, pausing only to dip his head and press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, your shoulder, wherever he could reach. His hands were everywhere—urgent and reverent all at once—thumbs brushing the curve of your ribcage, fingers splaying at your back.

Your scent was thick in the air now, sweet and unmistakably needy. Yeosang paused, just for a heartbeat, and buried his face along your neck, inhaling deeply. A shiver ran through him. “God, you smell perfect,” he whispered. “Drives me out of my mind.”

You arched into him, whimpering when his mouth latched onto the sensitive skin below your ear. “I want you to lose control,” you admitted, voice trembling. “I want you to show me what you feel.”

He growled again, edging on feral. “Be careful what you wish for, Y/n.”

There was no more patience then. He pushed you gently but insistently down onto the bed, shedding his own clothes with quick, deft movements while peppering every bare inch of you with kisses—soft at your throat, sharper across your hip, soothing at your stomach as your breath came in panting gasps. His scent—cherry blossom and something spicy, something only you could coax out of him—wrapped around you, dizzying.

His hands found the waistband of your pants, hesitating just enough to flick his eyes up and get your breathless, urgent nod.

“Yes. Please, Yeosang, I want—”

He slid them off in one smooth motion, his palm following, caressing down your thigh, tracing upward until he found the heat between your legs. His fingers brushed your slickness, his eyes darkening further when he realized just how badly you needed him.

He spread you open, gentle but relentless, gaze raking over you as if committing you to memory. “You’re so wet,” he murmured, voice full of awe and something primal. “All for me?”

“All for you,” you gasped, hips canting toward his touch.

Yeosang leaned down, mouth hot and insistent as he kissed you again—capturing your gasp as he finally slid a finger inside you, then another, curling just right as his thumb circled your clit. You spasmed against him, back arching, and he groaned, the possessive alpha edge unmistakable now.

“I’m going to make you come for me,” he promised, voice thick and desperate. “Right here, before I claim you. Before you feel all of me.”

All you could do was nod, already spiraling—his fingers, his scent, his everything making your body vibrate with need. You clutched his biceps, nails leaving marks as you chased the edge. Yeosang’s free hand fisted in your hair, holding you steady as his touch grew rougher, more insistent, dragging pleasure out of you.

“That’s it, princess,” he encouraged, breath hot against your ear. “Let go for me. Show me you’re mine.”

You came hard, a rush of heat and light flooding your senses as you choked out his name. The noise Yeosang made was almost a snarl, and he kissed you through it—deep and hungry. His hand gentled, easing you down, stroking you as your body trembled, melting under his touch.

When the aftershocks faded, you opened your eyes to see him watching you with tender, worshipful awe—and desperate, unspent hunger. You reached for him, pulling him down, needing him closer.

“Your turn,” you whispered, voice hoarse with want. “Claim me, Yeosang. Make me yours.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. With a swift, sure movement, he positioned himself over you, pausing just long enough to look into your eyes—searching, pleading for any flicker of doubt.

There was none. You lifted your hips in invitation, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He pushed into you, slow but deep, a groan dragged from his chest that sounded like relief and possession and reverence all at once. The fullness of him, the heat, the feeling of being connected in every way—body, scent, heart—was almost too much.

Yeosang pressed his forehead to yours, shuddering as he bottomed out, holding still to let you both adjust. Then he began to move, hips rolling, every thrust pushing you tighter together, your scents mingling until the entire room felt heavy with belonging.

You clung to him, hands in his hair, his breath stuttering against your lips as he whispered your name—over and over, words breaking, dissolving into animal need.

He fucked you with abandon, claiming each gasp, each moan, as his due, marking your neck and chest with his mouth. As you knotted together, bonded in sensation and want, Yeosang finally surrendered, losing himself in you, in everything you offered.

And when you shattered beneath him again, he followed, his body locked against yours, his heart pounding out a rhythm that perfectly matched your own.

Afterward, Yeosang just held you—arms wrapped tight around your trembling form, his forehead still pressed to yours. His scent was all over you now, and yours on him, and there was nothing left hidden between you.

“Mine,” he whispered, voice still ragged, dizzy with love and shock and awe.

“Yours,” you breathed, smiling, blissfully.

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[auxiliaryslinky]

Take it from 9-11 year old me whose entire bit was making comedy & slice-of-life plots: it's not about the Tuesday being so random, it's the fact that the random itself is the plot.

Slice-of-life isn't so big on focusing on the grand details of an overarching epic plot (eg. guns ablaze and world ending magic spells galore) as it tends to highlight more mundane and ordinary experiences in the lives of people in a fictional setting. A huge plot can still exist alongside a slice-of-life style of narrative, it doesn't derail it at all, it's just that it portrays a world and its inhabitants differently. If it doesn't humanize them, it does make them seem more alive in their own way. Like they're more than just Genre characters for Genre plot.

In my personal writing journey, slice-of-life as a genre can be a medium to explore deeper forms of interaction through shared, relatable experiences, and somehow show that their lives in this other world mirror or mimick the sort of crap we experience too. The interaction doesn't just exist between characters, it reaches to us and those around.

Slice-of-life may not speak for everybody's lives entirely, but they're slices for a reason.

We as real people may not always have filler beach episodes or maid cafe after school jobs, but we do go on silly vacations with others and work part-time in random places to get money as a teen. The only difference is that slice-of-life gets away with highlighting and romanticizing the little sparks in mundanity that we as people losing our crap in a dying world and economy will find too optimistic or even cringe.

The random Tuesday can become "Tuesday when I had to chase my cat and bumped into a person who became my best friend of 7 years" if you're willing to go crazy enough.

It could even be "Tuesday night when my character drank too much and slept on the side of the road" since life isn't always so happy or light.

And if you're like me, while it's not to everybody's taste, as somebody who now writes literary fiction — slice-of-life can further the drama of a big plot, with enough elbow grease and manipulation. They aren't mutually exclusive at all.

The Tuesday is just a day after all. So much can happen...

PLOT EXAMPLE TIME

Teenage hero confronts the villain in a Tuesday evening? Of course the big bad doesn't schedule his world-ending attacks, he has to be stopped! And surprise, surprise!

Hero's sister? The nervous and shy one he always told to follow her dreams and even helped practice her dance flexibility with his secret hero training, the little sister he promised he'd always attend performances for even if the world ended? The one he promised he'd attend a recital for on next Tuesday?

Yeah, her ballet recital is that night, and she's peering through the curtains anxious, and looking for support, just to find his seat still empty thirty minutes in and her stomach sinks.

He may love his sister and he's her top supporter but he too, loves not having everybody else die and it be his own fault, but man his sister's gonna be so disappointed and he even promised her, but–

A smarter, more stoic batman-esque savior might have little issue trading one bad experience to defeat another worse one, but you don't reasonably expect a teenage superhero (and in the slice-of-life sideplot, an older brother with many broken promises) to think straight in this amount of physical stakes and emotional chaos do you?

people who write slice-of-life stories scare me. like how did you find a plot in a tuesday

[clfixationstation]

ngl I cannot bring myself to agree with the "Catra's redemption was rushed" crowd, whether they like the show overall or not. Perhaps I have a different view of redemption than most. To me, a redemption arc begins when a character experiences guilt and remorse for their actions, which Catra expresses in early season 4 when she has a nightmare about how she threw Entrapta under the bus and activated the portal. Catra's nightmare shows her images of Entrapta and Adora questioning her, placing the onus for her actions on her: "What did you do to me?" "Why did you do it?"

Derailing: Why did she do it? Not because Adora made her. Catra can't use that excuse anymore. "Why did you do it?" Adora also asked Catra this as a child (s5ep3 Corridors) after she hit Lonnie. Back then, it was because Catra was terrified of losing Adora's friendship and thereby being "discarded" by Shadow Weaver. She was scared for her life. But now? Catra didn't activate the portal for safety; she did it to win. She did it to prove to the world she could be victorious, to Shadow Weaver, Hordak, Adora, to everyone who refused to believe in her. Yet after pulling that lever, Catra's true desires were revealed; she wanted to be relatively safe, surrounded by friends, allowed to love Adora, and recognized for her worth. She didn't need to dominate. When that false reality shattered, Catra's hope was shattered with it. She fell back on her sense of injustice, reduced to her own agony, inflicting it upon the world and herself. After the portal, Catra had to face that her goal of ascending through the Horde was hollow.

One could even argue Catra feels regret at the end of season 3 with this look she gives Adora of "ohhh I fucked up, I fucked up big time." Catra looks sickened, with herself and with how Adora now sees her.

From this point in the story, it was blatant to me that Catra was headed for redemption. Catra clearly knows that she went too far and may have completely burned every bridge and ruined all hope of redemption. But she can't yet confront that her ambitions will not fulfill her. So, she doubles down. In classic sunk-cost fallacy fashion, Catra seemingly strengthens her allegiance to the Horde, taking control and commanding operations. Despite herself, Catra's guilt creeps up on her, not only through the nightmare but also in her approach to Adora. Unlike in s1-3, throughout season 4 Catra avoids Adora almost entirely, only engaging from afar. Catra evades confronting the amount of pain she's caused Adora, the seemingly irreparable chasm she's clawed between them, focusing solely on strengthening the Horde. She still cares, but she denies herself that regular interaction.

This suppression poisons Catra's fragile friendship with Scorpia as well. Catra continually lashes out at Scorpia, projecting her own insecurities and frustrations onto her. Her behavior pushes Scorpia away and causes her to leave the Horde, to leave Catra. This is the first time someone left because of her. It almost feels like self-sabotage, Catra pushing Scorpia more and more, becoming crueler, creating reason for her to defect. Catra doesn't feel worthy of Scorpia's friendship, of anyone's. And so Scorpia's kindness enrages her, reminds her of how far she's fallen, and how much lower she will go. Catra also lashes out at her former comrades, Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle, further isolating herself from anyone who cares about her, pinning her entire existence on proving herself through Horde victory. She failed in the friendship department; the Horde is all she has left.

But Catra can't fool herself forever, and she certainly couldn't fool Double Trouble. After defeating Hordak, who does Catra have left to prove herself to? Horde Prime? Herself? Neither of those people care. For the first time, Catra is completely alone, and Double Trouble doesn't let Catra hide from how she got there. They read Catra to filth, summarizing what I wrote above: Catra pushed all her friends away in pursuit of a villainous role she didn't desire; her heart laid elsewhere. Now both goals are in ruins. Depleted, with nothing left to prove, Catra asks Glimmer to kill her. Catra's guilt permeated season 4, seeping into all her relationships and degrading her mental state. But guilt is meaningless without action. Which brings us to season 5.

I got soooo off track, so I'll try to wrap it up. So yes, Catra's redemption arc started in s3/4 when she first felt remorse for her actions - not in season 5. Even then, her change took time to develop. Initially, Catra still tried to align herself with Prime, but convinced him to spare Glimmer, indicating her shifting allegiance. The girls begin to empathize with each other and Catra sees how much Glimmer cares for Adora and the life Adora has built for herself. Fully expecting to die, Catra chooses to throw away the small amount of favor she earned with Prime and save Glimmer, therefore protecting Adora. Catra apologizes to Adora for everything. Her body is stolen from her and she dies as a consequence of her actions. She's revived and chooses to join the Rebellion. She slips up but genuinely tries to make amends, not for her own conscience but because it's right. She wants to do better. She accepts ire from the Princesses without retaliation. She defends Adora from Shadow Weaver. She gives Adora the strength to choose to live and allow herself to desire, and together they save the world.

This redemption is not immediate. It was given time, the foundation established across seasons. Catra does not have a sudden change of heart. It builds gradually, even within the final season. Nothing about Catra's arc was rushed and nothing about it was easy. Each day, she fought the harmful instincts cemented in her from years of abuse to become a better person, experiencing realistic regression and growth. Catra was tormented by others and herself for her entire life and all it did was make her worse. She deserves a soft universe, the new world she and Adora created together

[astroismypassion]

Scorpio Rising observations coming from a Scorpio Rising

Credit @astroismypassion Tumblr blog

Since Rising sign indicates first part of life, Scorpio Rising often had crises early in life. A lot of them and these events change their identity profoundly, resulting in "shedding skin". Psychologically, they become a new person.

They are shape-shifters, but not in a chameleon like way that Libra Rising is, but they shapeshift their energy. Not their emotions, identity, just energy. Usually is done out of self-perseverance and survival so that they could survive in dangerous, hostile or unwelcoming environments.

They have great intuition and gut feeling (when they listen to it!), but you can argue so does Cancer, Pisces etc. Which they do! Scorpio Rising seems to merge their subconscious with the darker undercurrents of a room or a person. And this makes them a great listener, psychotherapist, friend, counsellor or just someone who gives advice.

They often have this aura that sexually they appear very independent and free. Regardless of orientation, Scorpio risings often don’t conform to typical gender norms or sexual norms. Even if they are private or modest, people sense something primal or taboo around them. You could have hard time guessing what they are into sexually or at least would always be surprised. That's why they don't go for "types" in dating, but are open to a much bigger spectrum.

Early in life, they are pulled in situations where betrayal happens, not to them or Scorpio Rising doing it, but they witness it by parents, friends, other couples. They usually see the consequences of betrayal early on and it affects their character greatly, wanting to rise above it. Which is way a lot of them end up really strict with loyalty.

They often survive at least one major ego death in a lifetime. It was caused either by career, a significant relationship, marriage etc. They go through literal or symbolic deaths (a major loss, reinvention, identity crisis) that strips their personality down to the bone. They resurrect themselves repeatedly despite being painful and hard.

They have compulsion to control first impressions. They hyper-focus on how they appear to others, but not for validation, like Leo Rising, but for control. They like to appear unreadable.

They facial expressions reveal very little. That's why when they smile or try to be more expressive in their adulthood, it can seem forced at times. They were in hostile situations as children, where they had to show very little emotion on their face, because it would get them in trouble.

Many of their relationships are fated and karmic. Might have more luck much later in life, well after 40. They attract transformative relationships, even friendships, but mostly partnerships. People they attract force them to confront control issues or crack open their heart through betrayal or loss. They attract people who pull them into karmic, sometimes obsessive, relationship dynamic.

Every major relationship evolves or destroys them. So their connections are never light or casual. But there is also a huge lesson for them there boundaries are not betrayal. They are the preservation of sacred energy between people.

They love to control how they come across to others, but they have no problem not being liked. They are here to break the illusions and catalyze change in others.

Secretly, they crave the type of connection that is so intimate that breaks them open and rebuilds them. Rebuilds them into a kinder version, someone more joyful, calm, peaceful, content.

Scorpio Rising often feels exhausted by small talk or being in a shallow environment, for example where there is gossip. And they get bored in crowds or with social media very easily. They prefer real life interactions over social media with their friends and loved ones.

Others sense that being around Scorpio Rising means change. Some will avoid them because they're not ready for change. Others will cling to them as if they’re the only one who sees them.

Scorpio Rising often unconsciously hold the emotional baggage or secrets of their family, social circle or their partnership.

It's ironic though, how others vent to Scorpio Rising, but then end up resenting them.

They often carry emotional undercurrents people refuse to name, such as shame, rage or trauma.

Sometimes, they often experience something that has been a generational dysfunction in their family, such as drug, alcohol abuse etc., but they are forced to deal with it alone. But if and when they survive it, they end up being the healer for a community of people, not just their family.

Because their aura is so pure and magnetic, they often repel or attract people they haven’t even spoken to.

The downside, people fall in love with the idea of them long before they know them on a personal level. Which sometimes generates this projection-fueled partnership. So I think Scorpio Risings really needs to discern whether it's genuine attention or a projection.

To protect their image, control the narrative or hide emotional aspects of them, they often hide personal things and their feelings. But life always throws them a public exposure, betrayal or identity death so they have no choice but to end up being transparent. And this is from where their radical authenticity comes from, later in life, they become "seen" and "raw", but it makes them feel free instead of terrified.

They feel safe in crisis and unsafe in peace. Scorpio Risings are often most stable in chaotic or high-stakes environments, because they were taught to be alert, strategic and emotionally protective early on.

So when they are adults, too much peace can become suspicious. Almost like calm before the betrayal or mental breakdown. They are learning that not all peace is a trap. And they are allowed to let their nervous system soften.

Their eye contact is often weaponized. Their eyes can disarm a narcissist, a liar or seduce without a word. They may avoid eye contact in certain settings not from insecurity, but to avoid overwhelming or exposing someone else.

Despite appearing stoic, unbothered at times, they are emotionally still and often in deep observation mode, even if that means observing your emotions. They can appear ice cold, but not because they lack feeling, but because they digest experiences, people and events at a soul level, not a surface one. They are slow-burning empaths who just need to test emotional safety before revealing their warmth.

They are definitely not TRYING to be that intense, they actually are. Metaphorically or quite literally, Scorpio Rising was born at the border between death and rebirth. That's why they appear to always be so intense.

They are "hidden" from premature recognition just enough for them to become ready. They may not be “seen” fully for years — then suddenly, people start noticing, often during a personal evolution or spiritual awakening.

They may not be “seen” fully for years, then suddenly, people start noticing them, often during personal growth or spiritual awakening.

When Scorpio Risings are deeply hurt or betrayed, they don’t always lash out despite being ruled by Pluto, instead they emotionally withdraw and their gaze turns blank, icy and unreadable (even during breakup). This can devastate people close to them who crave emotional feedback or they think Scorpio Rising just doesn't care.

Scorpio Rising acts as a walking trigger for repressed emotions in others, such as jealousy, insecurity, shame, sexual confusion or rage.

When someone reacts strongly to them, it’s often because something within that person needs to be transformed.

They see self-destruction as rebirth. And they burn down their own life just to be reborn. Not out of chaos, but necessity. They destroy what no longer serves, even if it hurts. Once they trust this pattern, they learn that every loss is really a liberation. They might end a relationship abruptly, leave a successful job or disappear from a social media.

They can make people feel calm, on edge, sexually activated or emotionally exposed without saying a word. People look to them for cues on how safe or dangerous the environment is.

People who go through major life changes (divorce, awakening, death of an ego identity) often unconsciously seek out Scorpio Risings. And Scorpio Risings often don't even realize they're playing this role.

Their body stores deep subconscious and energetic undercurrents. They store them in their physical body, especially around the gut, pelvis and spine. They may experience mysterious body symptoms (tight jaw, nausea, pelvic tension) when exposed to unspoken tension, lies or toxicity.

Many are unaware that their chronic physical states (fatigue, stomach ache, lower back pain) are often somatic responses to overload.

Their eyes, bone structure and energy may resemble ancestors they never met. Or mirror the vibes of those who carried power, pain or secrets in the family lineage. People often say to them "Oh you remind me of...".

They may inherit traits or struggles (addiction, emotional repression, psychic sensitivity) that bypassed their parents.

Credit @astroismypassion Tumblr blog

[slylycurioustreasure]

Nothing but noise

SUMMARY: Jake, a guitarist and singer with a deep, captivating voice, is a rising rock star, adored for his raw charisma and intense performances. But behind the spotlight, he hides deep wounds and a temper as wild as his music.

You, a music critic renowned for your sharp writing and uncompromising perspective, attend Jake's concert with cold impartiality. After listening to his highly anticipated latest album, you write a frank but scathing review, denouncing music that, in your opinion, lacks soul and is "nothing but noise."

This criticism immediately goes viral, angering and frustrating Jake, who feels betrayed and misunderstood. Your inevitable encounter turns into an intense confrontation, where every word exchanged becomes a battle. Yet beneath the electric tension, a complex bond—one of defiance, attraction, and shared hurt—begins to form.

Between powerful riffs and silences heavy with unsaid things, you will have to learn to understand each other, to break each other and perhaps to rebuild yourselves together.

GENRE: Contemporary romance, drama, music, enemies-to-lovers, slow burn, angsty, emotional

PAIRING: Jake Sim (guitarist and singer) x reader (music critic) — Enemies to Lovers

WARNING: Insults, harassment, conflicts, emotional tension, strong language, verbal abuse, psychological manipulation, rivalry, argumentative scenes, frustration, anger, humiliation, cynicism, bruised ego, romantic ambivalence, alcohol consumption, social pressure, jealousy, misunderstandings, touchiness, emotional non-consent, dark themes, drug use (brief mention and one instance of consumption), smoking (tobacco use).

CONTENT WARNING / TW: Explicit sexual acts (18+), strangulation (consensual), violent face fucking, tear kink, saliva/spitting, profanity, mild domination/humiliation, obsession, crude language, fierce love, toxic addiction, forced kissing, rough sex, sex act involving a guitar.

IMPORTANT NOTES : Please practice safe sex. Also, please do not use your guitar for masturbation — it’s dangerous and highly discouraged.

→ These elements are depicted for narrative purposes only and do not promote or encourage risky behavior. Substance use and unsafe sex practices are harmful to your health.

⚠️ If you read this, you agree to enter a filthy cult. You have been warned.

WORD : 25k

Riff (n.) — a short repeated phrase in popular music and jazz, typically used as an introduction or refrain in a song.

✘ The Collection ✘ | Moodboard | DIVIDER by @thuringwethilsfangz

The ceiling's neon lights hum with the sinister regularity of overly lit spaces, where artificial light desperately attempts to mask the exhaustion that permeates every surface. The Dissonance's office is a rectangle of steel, raw concrete, and cold glass, a sanitized cocoon slowly swallowing the souls of those who work there. Exposed bricks, covered in dust and the scars of time, stand alongside artificial plants with dead leaves frozen in a perpetual illusion of life. Here, music no longer sings. It is dissected, sliced ​​into pieces, packaged, and sold. And you are the skilled scalpel, the pen that writes on the still-warm flesh of a suffocating art.

You just finished a review of a watered-down pop singer, another calibrated product of the system, a voice formatted to please the greatest number of people without ever disturbing them. You felt neither hatred nor passion, just that warm emptiness that has been eating away at you since music became a livelihood rather than a devotion. Your fingers strike the keyboard in a clinical, mechanical, almost soulless rhythm, as if each sentence you type distances you a little more from the girl you were, the one who still believed in the magic of a pure note.

A knock at the door. Then a second. A third. Three sharp, short, relentless knocks.

You close your eyes for a moment. You exhale deeply. This noise, this brutal reminder of the outside world, is already racking your nerves. This office, this glass cage, is your last refuge, your fragile bubble, and now, harsh reality is injected into it without warning. You inhale deeply, trying to drown this growing irritation in the air you breathe.

“Come in,” you say, your voice weary, more tired than polite.

The door opens onto Giselle, your director. She is an austere and rigid shadow, the cold guardian of the rules that govern this microcosm. Every day, she reminds you that it is not talent that stands up in this universe, but submission to its invisible laws.

Her stiletto heels click against the floor with the precision of a deadly metronome, echoing through the room like bullets fired in slow motion into your head. Each step is a blow to your already frayed patience, another beat in the dull, awakening migraine. Her black hair, impeccably styled, smooth as blades, waves slightly at the tips, as if even her locks are trying in vain to defy the rigid order that governs her person. She wears a pristine shirt, white as an oath, and a charcoal gray pencil skirt that hugs the rigidity of her curves. Everything about her exudes control—and a soft, latent, almost palpable threat.

You can't help but notice his smile, too wide, too bright, that shark smile that always precedes the storm. 

"Y/n! How nice to see your dejected face. Are you still working on that poor guy with the ridiculous falsetto?"

You look up from your screen. Giselle's gaze pierces you, charged with a cruel mix of amusement and defiance. Not a smile, just that look that screams: I know you're on the verge of breaking down, and I love it.

"Giselle," you reply, your tone dry and laced with sarcasm, "your morning irony is a real delight. Should I make you an iced coffee with it, or are you just planning to wreck my mood on an empty stomach?"

She bursts into that fake laugh, a light sound that bounces off the narrow walls of your office and resonates like an ironic echo in your chest. You know it feeds her, this electric tension between you, like a drug she injects herself with shamelessly.

"Come on, relax. I have something for you." Her tone changes, softens, becomes almost flirtatious. But you know this little game. Behind that sugary voice, she hides a trap.

She pulls out a thick, black folder, cold as a tombstone, and places it in front of you with the solemnity of an executioner laying down his knife. You don't move. You don't even open it. You stare at that damn folder. Sober. Heavy. Full of shit.

“No.” Your voice falls, sharp, betraying your fatigue and pent-up anger. She scrutinizes you, one eyebrow arched, both amused and intrigued. “I say no, Giselle. I barely finished my last paper. I sleep three hours a night. I have tinnitus screaming in my temples. My eyes want to divorce myself from my face. And you come to tell me you have another fucking genius to butcher me?”

She says nothing, moves forward slowly, like a cat about to pounce. Her impeccably manicured nails slide over your shoulders with a venomous softness, a touch that lights a fire of irritation beneath your skin.

“You do what you do better than anyone here. You take an artist's heart, strip it naked, pierce it, and throw it on a page. You make the truth raw, palpable.” Her voice gets lower, more honeyed, but each word is a blade. “A doctored truth. A truth that sells.” You open your mouth to retort, but as always, she cuts you off, imperceptibly, with that predatory smile. “This story isn't just an article. It's THE article. If you nail it, if you knock this guy off his fucking pedestal… you move up. A real promotion. An office with a window. Maybe even a vacation. You know, the kind of thing you haven't seen in years.”

You laugh, bitter, a dry laugh that doesn't touch your eyes. "So if I reduce an artist to ashes, I get a week of sunshine? Have we really sunk that low, then?"

Giselle doesn't move an inch, sure of her move. Because she knows. You too. You'll give in.

"At least look." She pushes the file toward you. You take a deep breath of icy air in a stuffy room and lift the covers.

Your blood runs cold. The name on the front page: Jake Sim. The guitarist. The singer. The deep, haunting voice. The face of a dented angel. The fucking phenomenon we love to hate. You see his furious riffs again, his hoarse screams in your headphones, his last album that kept you awake at night without ever finding the right words. Savage. Broken. But hollow. You wanted to write an honest, human, nuanced review. But now…

"Wait... is this for the concert this weekend?" you ask, trying to keep your voice neutral, but your heart thumps a little louder. 

“Of course,” she replies, a twisted smile on her lips. “No way you’re missing this.” She crosses her arms, her imposing figure seeming to tower over you, crushing you under an invisible but overwhelming pressure. “And no bland criticism, Y/n. Not this time. We want blood, dirty blood, real blood. This concert is the event. Do you want to stay cloistered in your concrete ivory tower for the rest of your life?”

Giselle’s words hit like hammers, echoing in your head. Each syllable is a hammer blow on a wall you thought was solid. The file in front of you suddenly becomes heavier, almost burning, like a weight on your chest.

You slam the file shut, the noise tearing through the silence that had settled, heavy, in the room. Your throat tightens, a ball of anxiety mixed with anger rises in your chest. You feel your blood boiling, but also this dull fear, this fear that slides into your stomach, icy, paralyzing—the fear of what is expected of you, of what you will become.

You stare at Giselle, searching for some humanity, a sign that this is all a bad joke. "What if I refuse?" you blurt, your voice almost breaking, a defiance hidden in your gaze.

She steps closer, her face closer to yours, the heady, pungent scent burning your nostrils. Her gaze is an icy, implacable abyss. "Then you're free, Y/n. Free to look for another job. Another newspaper. Another future." She turns on her heel, slamming the door behind her, leaving you alone with this black file that weighs like a dull threat, this name that burns your lips, this veiled promise of pain and opportunity.

Silence closes around you like a glass cage, invisible but unshakeable. You're trapped, caught between your integrity and your survival, between the truth you want to defend and the need to hurt, to write what's asked of you, what the world expects—a critique that tears, that hurts, that makes noise.

You already know you're going to write this article. But you also know that you're going to leave a part of yourself in it. A part you may never get back.

𝙎𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩, 𝟮𝟭:𝟰𝟮 — 𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝘼𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙖

You're in the pit. Not in the far-flung stands where polished commentators take notes by the pale glow of their tablets, chewing on empty phrases they'll whip out the next day to save face and collect their fees. Not in the sanitized private boxes, where glasses clink more than voices rise, where laughter sounds false, where handshakes are stuck to calculating glances, without an ounce of warmth.

No.

You're in the belly. Heart pounding. Chaos. You're where it screams, where it pounds, where the bass rises in your bones like heartbeats too powerful for your own body. Where music is no longer an art but a wave, a warm, animal, almost sexual mass. You're where you lose your footing. Where rules no longer apply. Where the smell of sweat, leather, stale beer, and saturated electricity catches you in the throat like a warning.

You're in the pit. And you have no business being there.

Your shoulders aren't covered in ink. Your nails aren't bitten by waiting. Your spine isn't stiffened by faith. You don't have that obsession in your eyes, that demented flame you read in those around you, pressed against each other, like the faithful pressed against the fire of their own damnation. They're young, old, disillusioned, or exalted. But they all have the same thing in their eyes: they're ready to burn for him.

You didn't come to burn. You came to watch the flames. You're a journalist. An observer. A surgeon of sounds and words. You dissect, you analyze, you bleed dry illusions and collective enthusiasms. You're not supposed to let yourself be sucked in. You're here to write. Not to feel.

And yet... Your heart is already beating too fast. You don't yet know if it's the bass or the fear.

You repeat it to yourself. Over and over again. Like a mantra. You're not here for him. Not for Jake Sim. Not for the myth he's become. Not for his wounded-animal screams, his overdriven riffs, his fallen-preacher aura. You came for the truth. The one you were ordered to tell, brutal and naked.

“No bland criticism, Y/n. Not this time. We want blood. Dirty blood. Real blood. This concert is the event.”

That's what they told you, up there at The Dissonance. The bigwigs. The vultures. They want a sacrifice. They want to strip him. Expose him. Flay him alive with your pen. They made you their blade. And you, the good little soldier, you came. Notebook in hand. Sharp gaze. But you didn't anticipate... this.

The light goes out. Not gently. Not like a controlled fade. No. A sharp snap. A decapitation. An absolute blackness, sharply cut, without transition. And in that suspended second, something dies. The screams, the whispers, even the breath. Everything is swallowed by this brutal nothingness, of an almost indecent violence.

The silence hits you harder than the noise. You feel it under your skin, like a thrill you can't name. An expectation. A fear. A desire.

Then comes the explosion. A scream. A tidal wave. A howl that doesn't come from a single throat but from a pack. A mass. A cry of offering and appeal, hysterical, incandescent, irrational. It screams as if every throat wants to be heard. As if the love, the rage, the lack, the overflowing emptiness of these stuck, compressed bodies had waited for this precise moment to split in two.

And you, there you are, in the middle of this clamor. Trapped. Prisoner. Magnetized. You breathe in. But it's already too late. The fever has entered through your pores. A red beam lacerates the stage. Brutal. Sharp. Not a halo. A cut. And there he is. Jake. But not the one they sell you. Not the one who fuels the stories, the playlists, the numbers. Not the polished icon, dressed by brands and studio lighting. You don't recognize this one. Because he has nothing to do with a product. He has nothing to do with what we call a "star." He is other. Other like a warning. Other like a fracture in the world. Other like something your instinct identifies as dangerous, even before your thoughts have time to put a word to it.

He's not moving yet. He holds stillness like a weapon. And yet, everything about him is suspended movement: the nervous tension in his arms, the barely perceptible tremor of his jaw, the way the light traces the line of his ribs beneath his black T-shirt. Lean. Angular. Inhabited. He looks like a man who has never learned to rest. A body meant to survive, not to please. His shadow precedes him. So does his silence.

And when he speaks—no, when it slams—the room tears itself apart.

"Tonight... I want you to burn with me." His voice is a rasp. Not that of a singer. That of a survivor. Raspy. Deep. Cut with night and tobacco. He doesn't speak, he bleeds the words. Each syllable is a blow from a rusty blade, straight from his entrails. And that voice is not forgotten. Because it is not listened to. It is imprinted. It marks. It infects. "We're going to set this fucking night on fire."

And you roll your eyes. Instinctively. A cynical defense. You're a journalist. Not a groupie. You're here to judge, not to thrill. But your heart has just tightened. There's that beat, faster. That thrill you refuse to name. That fluttering in the pit of your stomach that only the truth provokes—and the fear of admitting it.

Jake grabs his guitar. Not a jewel. Not a trophy. An instrument like an extension of his body. A dented Telecaster, lacquered with memories too heavy. The varnish is cracked. The wood is scratched. The attachment has been patched with black tape. It's a weapon, not an accessory. He places his fingers. Strums a string. And the sound that comes out... is not a sound. It's a scream. A steely howl. A screeching, wild, dirty moan. No pitch. No melody. Just a vibration that scrapes the inside of your stomach.

And suddenly, there's nothing outside. No audience. No journalist. No cynicism. Just him. And that sound. And you. As if the rest of the world has slipped out of view. As if that moment were a dark room where he comes to unfold his ugliest, most burning truths.

And you're going to see them. You won't have a choice. Because it's not a concert. It's a stripping bare. An electric exorcism. A face-to-face with his demons. And maybe yours. You're not taking notes anymore. Your notebook is still there, pressed against your ribs. But your fingers aren't moving anymore. Because you're no longer a spectator. You're contaminated.

And then… The song begins. No. It doesn't. It implodes. Inside. Not an intro. Not a build-up. Not a skillfully orchestrated crescendo. Nothing planned. Nothing clean. Nothing polished. Just a blast of doom. A shockwave. As if someone had pressed a detonator, without warning. And that “someone” was him. Jake Sim. And what was exploding was you.

The bass hits you first. Not in the ear—in the ribcage. It doesn't vibrate: it percusses. Like racing heartbeats in a dying body. As if each note were looking for an organ to puncture. And they find it. Your stomach. Your lungs. Your silence.

The drums hammer. Not in rhythm. In rage. Like a heart beating against its own cage. Like blows struck into the void. Dry. Heavy. Inflexible. They don't play: they strike. This isn't an appetizer. This is a public execution. And you're in the front row of the condemned.

And Jake… Jake enters. Not onstage. Into the song. Like a wolf entering the pen, jaw clenched, gaze haunted. As if he's not performing, but summoning. He doesn't hold his guitar. He stabs it. He doesn't tune it: he bends it. His Telecaster hangs on his hip like an all-too-familiar weapon. It's scratched, dented, worn to the bone. This guitar has seen it all. It's survived rages. Endless nights. Meltdowns.

And tonight, she tells everything.

Jake attacks the strings as if he wants to make them pay for something. Each riff is a sonic scar. A scream that doesn't come out of the mouth, but from the fingers. An assault. A sonic rape that lacerates space. He doesn't look for beauty. He looks for the flaw. And he finds it. Immediately. Inside you. Not in your ear. Under your skin. You feel it: there, under your sternum, where even you don't dare look. That's where he insinuates himself. Without warning. Without asking. Without mercy.

And then Jake sings. And then everything falls apart. 

You'd never heard him, not really. You'd listened to him, yes. You'd heard songs, read lyrics. You thought you knew his voice. You thought you could analyze it. But what you hear there... It's not a voice. It's a wound. A cracked, worn voice, pierced by something you can't name. It's deep, but not in the technical sense. It's deep like something you bury, something you stifle. Raspy, yes. But it's not an aesthetic. It's a bleeding throat. And above all, it's... incandescent. Like a bare cable. Like a high-voltage line ready to run right through you.

Every syllable sounds like a piece of soul being torn out. It's not clean. It's not controlled. It doesn't sound right. It sounds true. And it's much worse.

I burn the stars to feel alive

Your silence cuts me like a knife…

You should write. You should time it. Take notes. Locate chords. You should protect yourself. But you can't. Because he's already got you. Not with his hands. Not with his eyes. With pain. He doesn't play. He exorcises. He doesn't sing. He implores. He doesn't perform. He accuses.

And you understand, right there, that you're not watching a concert. You're witnessing a public dissection. And it's not him being cut open. It's you.

You look at me like I’m a sin

But you’re the one who let me in

And suddenly, it hits you. It's not a song. It's a message. An intimate revenge, slow, painful, poetic like a recurring nightmare. And even if he hasn't seen you, you'd swear he's talking to you.

You whom he disembowels.

You, whom he hunts, syllable after syllable.

You could write that it's too much. That it borders on caricature. That it's overflowing, that it's almost ridiculous in its desire to touch. You could line up a dry, glossy, cynical piece of paper. Something that stands out.

“A freewheeling set that confuses pain with demonstration. Too much screaming, not enough flesh. Hysteria coded as aesthetics.”

You could. But you'd be lying. Because this song... it knows. It knows you.

You’re so pretty when you break

When your voice begins to shake

I see the cracks, I hear the screams

Underneath your perfect seams

You're breathing too fast. You hate it. You hate feeling it. You hate that it's touching you. But he took you. Without looking at you. Without touching you. Just with his pain. And when his fingers glide over the strings, it's not the notes you hear. It's the friction of his skin against yours. It's your epidermis he's scraping, down to the bone.

When her voice breaks, wavers just enough to reveal the flaw... it's your own heart that gives way. And when her gaze sweeps the room, never stopping, you understand what true terror is: To be seen. Without being looked at. To be guessed. Without ever being understood.

You say I’m noise, you say I’m fake

But I’m the wound you never shake

And there you are, trembling. Not with fear. With gratitude. You know exactly what he's saying. You know what it's like to be too much. Too intense. Too fragile. Too loud. Too real. And not knowing where to put yourself. Not in your own skin. Not in the world. And you, critic, are there. Without a line. Without an analysis. Just a breath too short. Just a void too full. You wanted to remain cold. But you're burning.

And when he whispers the last verse, everything explodes into silence.

I bleed in keys you’ll never hear

You write your truth, but it’s unclear

Is it hate or is it lust?

Tell me, which one do you trust?

And there. There, you die a little. Because he's right on target. You don't know anymore. If you're there to destroy him or for him to devour you. You don't know anymore if you want him to be silent or to scream until he tears you apart. You don't know anymore if you want to write about him... or for him to write inside you. You don't know anymore if it's hatred. Or desire. Or just an abyss.

But you know you're going to lie. Not in the chords. Not in the syntax. Not in the construction. But in the tone. In the false detachment. In the icy irony you'll apply like a varnish. Because you'll pretend. To have felt nothing. Experienced nothing. Understood nothing.

But you know it, deep down:

Tonight, Jake Sim cut your stomach open. And you didn't bleed. You burned. And the worst part? You're not sure you want it to stop.

𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵 — 𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮

The backstage area smells like the end of the world. Not the end of the world with screams and guitars, no. The other one. The one that comes after the euphoria, when the lights go out and the silence returns too quickly, too heavy. The one where the glamour cracks to make way for what remains: fatigue, sweat, the truth.

You walk slowly down this faded corridor, your heels barely echoing on the raw concrete. The fluorescent lights buzz above you, some crackling, others blinking, as if breathless. The air is saturated with stale tobacco, spilled beer, and that sour smell left by bodies burned by adrenaline. You could turn back. Spare yourself that. But you keep going. Because a part of you—the one you still refuse to face—wants to understand what you felt there, in the pit. What stirred you. What you refuse to admit.

You find him there. Slumped on a couch ripped open like a doomsday throne, Jake Sim is the perfect image of sexy disaster. A damp towel rests on his bare shoulders, his torso covered in dried sweat and tattoos half-erased by the stage. His guitar rests in a corner, like a tired lover. He's smoking, staring up at the cracked ceiling, as if waiting for something—or someone—to come and finish him off.

He doesn't look at you right away. You could be anyone. A lost fan. A shadow. A hallucination. Then he speaks to you, without looking away. "Groupies aren't allowed here... even the prettiest ones." His voice is hoarse, raspy, laden with fatigue and suppressed contempt. Then a sneer splits his face. "And even less so music critics."

You freeze. Not out of fear. Out of… shock. He knows. Of course he knows. “You know who I am.” It’s almost a whisper, more to you than to him. You hadn’t expected him to recognize your face, your name, your words—the ones you haven’t published yet but already vibrating in the air around you.

Jake finally gives you a real look. Raw. Straightforward. Something in his eyes is hurt. And dangerous. “Of course. Who doesn’t know Y/n? The illusion breaker. The one who bleeds artists with black ink.” He lets out a raspy, bitter laugh. “You have this knack for sneaking up on the hurt. And writing it down in a notebook.” He crushes his cigarette against the floor with a sharp squeak.

You cross your arms. "I don't bleed anyone. I decipher. I refuse lies—yours, ours."

Jake straightens slowly. His body is tall, heavy with fatigue and tension. He approaches, step by step, without taking his eyes off you. A presence. He doesn't need to shout to impose silence. You feel the warmth of his body before he's even a meter away from you.

"And you came to decipher me?" He sneers. "Didn't you get enough during the show? I hear I'm 'loud but empty.'"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because he's getting closer again. And suddenly, the distance collapses. Jake gently pushes you—too gently to be violent, too abruptly to be innocent—against the door. His arm is resting beside your head, his mouth so close to yours you could taste it. Tobacco. Salt. Anger.

"I want an exclusive interview." You say it without thinking. And immediately, you feel bad about it. What a load of rubbish.

“Do you want an interview?” His breath is hot against your cheek. “We’re going to have to be honest this time. Not with your piece. With you.”

You swallow. “I want to understand. What you throw out on stage. What you hide behind your chaos.”

Jake smiles at you. Not a real smile. Something broken, mocking, almost tender. "You want the truth?" He rests his forehead against yours. Your breath catches. "The truth is, I saw the look in your eyes tonight. You don't just want to understand me. You want to know why it's bothering you. Why you're shaking."

You try to push him away. Your hands brush against his burning skin. But he doesn't move. He doesn't hold you back either. He's waiting. He's testing you.

"And you?" You whisper. "What do you want?"

A silence. A second of absolute tension. His gaze sinks into yours.

“I want you to write to me the way you felt me. Not the way you think you should. Not for your fucking diary.” Her voice barely trembles. “I want to be your favorite poison.”

Then he walks away. As if none of it had happened. He crosses the room, grabs another towel, and without a word, sits down again. As if the interlude had been just another piece. A rise. A drop. A fall.

You stand there, against the door. Your heart is pounding. Your breath is short. Your hands are shaking. And something inside you, very deep, very ashamed, says to itself: it will be impossible to write this article without lying. Because what he made you feel there, just now… it wasn't just noise. It was you vibrating. And you don't yet know if you'll survive that kind of silence.

𝙃𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙡 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧 — 𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙢 𝟯𝟯𝟳 — 𝟮:𝟭𝟯 𝘼𝙈

You shouldn't be here. You knew it as soon as your heels clicked on the worn marble of the lobby, between dusty curtains and lightbulbs that flickered like relics of a more flamboyant era.

You shouldn't have even offered. This interview was just a pretext—an illusion of distance, a professional excuse sewn with white thread. A web of lies to justify the fact that you had returned to Jake Sim's toxic orbit. That black sun around which you were beginning to gravitate again.

The name of his band, Ashes from Eden , was no longer just an industry name. It was a curse, a harsh whisper escaping everyone's lips. Too raw for pop. Too sensual for metal. Too painfully honest for rock. And him... He was the core of this perfect dissonance. The voice that made the songs bleed. The backbone of chaos. The poison you thought you'd purged from your veins... but which still lived inside you, under your skin, in every beat of your heart that was a little too strong.

And yet, you were there. In the dark lobby of the Blackstar, that hotel that smelled of decadence and simmering secrets. Leather, aged bourbon, the sweat of endless tours. A haunt of faded rock stars, burned-out poets, weary lovers. A place that sticks to you like a refrain you can't forget.

You clutched your notebook to your chest like a talisman. Your white shirt was too tight, pulled across your chest, the buttons threatening to pop with every breath. The sleeves rolled up over your bare forearms, stained with ink and tension. Your tailored skirt was a mistake—too short, too straight. It rode up your thighs with every movement, with every shiver. And you shivered far too much.

You felt it the moment he looked at you. That look. The one he reserved for hysterical crowds. For stadiums. For you.

Jake Sim was slumped in a black leather chair, a battered throne that didn't clash with his battered king aura. His dark hair was tied back hastily, falling over his shoulders as if he didn't care. And he did. About anything, except what burned. His dark circles were deep—the kind of tiredness you can't cure with sleep, only noise. And his fingers, veiny, full of scars and promise, still wore those silver rings. One for every gig he'd lost.

His glass of whiskey—amber, almost honey-colored—captured the sickly light of an old copper lamp. When he raised the glass to his lips, you watched the throat swallow, the tendon strain. And you thought of his hands. Of his mouth. Of everything you had forgotten and that your body had never let go. 

"Why do you keep going?" You tried to be professional. But your voice rose. A little too high. A muffled scream. A string tightening. He shrugged. Quietly. As if he'd been expecting this question. As if he'd been preparing for it. His glass returned to the table, slowly, with a dull thud.

Then his voice slipped between you. Hoarse. Deep. Damaged. The voice of a man singing things he'll never say. "Have you ever tried stopping breathing?"

A thrill. No surprise, no. Recognition.

"It's not the same thing," you said. And you scribbled in your notebook to keep your fingers busy, not to write things down.

Jake stared at you. A slow, icy, deep gaze. A dissecting gaze. Not to judge. To understand where to strike. And then he whispered. Not to you. To himself. Like a confession whispered around a muted microphone, in an empty room after the concert. "You're right. Breathing is easy. Going on stage... is like jumping into the void with a knife between your teeth."

You didn't flinch. You looked at him. You felt that sentence like a bite under your skin.

"And you like it?" you asked. But it was more of a plea than a question. And you would have given anything for him to say no. Or for him to say yes. But not what he said.

He laughed. Not really. Just a breath. A broken thing that comes out of the throat. The laughter of those who don't give a damn anymore but are still bleeding. "No. But it's the only thing that makes me forget I'm drowning."

You looked down. Not because you were weak. Because you knew what it was like to drown, too. But you were writing. He was screaming. You scribbled in your notebook as if it would keep you from remembering.

"You're good at talking like you're deep... when you're just fucked up."

A silence. The kind that weighs. That waits. And then, he leaned in. Not quickly. Slowly. So slowly that each second became a flutter in your stomach. You should have backed away. You didn't. You felt your heart rise, your thighs tighten, your breath come shorter. But your face remained stone-faced.

"You say that like you're not hiding behind your pen."

Jake was too close. You could smell him: leather, whiskey, sweat, memory. You lifted your chin. Your gaze hardened. You were ready to hurt. Because he'd already broken you. 

"Maybe. But I don't fuck my subjects."

The silence crackled like scratched vinyl. And then he smiled. Slowly. Widely. That beautiful, bastardly smile. The one you hated to love.

"Who says I'm not the one getting fucked?"

And then, the world stopped. The room no longer existed. Just the two of you. The desire, the bitterness, the pain, the rage. Everything that should have exploded years ago. But remained there. Boiling. Silent. You closed your notebook. Click. Like a gun being reloaded. 

Jake reached out. For your Zippo. You pulled it out. You placed it in his palm. Your fingers brushed his. Too long. You did it on purpose. Or not. And he didn't blink. He took the lighter, lit it. The flame danced. But it wasn't the cigarette he wanted to ignite. It was you. And you were already burning.

The Zippo continued to light, but Jake didn't hold a cigarette near it. He stared into the flame as if he saw something no one else could understand. His gaze became more distant. Less arrogant. More real. For a moment, you saw the boy from before. Before the tours. Before the dope. Before the fall.

"I quit, you know." His voice cut through the silence like a dull blade. No inflection. No pathos. Just that—a statement. Brutal in its sobriety. He wasn't looking at you. He was staring at a vague point on the table, somewhere between the empty whiskey glass and the dented Zippo that still bore your imprint.

You frowned. You already knew that. But hearing him say it, from his own lips, still blew you away. "I know." Your voice was softer than you'd intended. " I read the article in Rolling Sound . Three months clean."

Jake slowly turned his head toward you. That dark gaze—too dark, always too dark—attached itself to yours like the hook of a badly tuned guitar. A smile played on his lips. A smile without light, without nerve, more of an automatism than an emotion. One of those smiles he wore the way others hide their scars.

"Are you spying now?"

You shrugged. A cowardly gesture. Of course you were spying on him. Of course you knew everything. The setlists. The overdoses canceled at the last minute. The shows where his hands shook too much to play. The rumors. The silences.

Silence was your only response. Jake laughed. Not a stage laugh. Not a rock 'n' roll laugh. Something raspier. More dangerous. The laugh of a guy who's stared at the ceilings of empty hotel rooms too much. A laugh of habit.

"You haven't changed. Always trying to find the tragedy behind the riff." He looked at you slowly. "You like it when it reeks of pain. You call it authenticity. I call it an obsession."

You pursed your lips. You didn't want him to say that, because it was too close to the truth.

"I just hope you're not falling back into it," you breathed. And this time, your voice cracked. It wasn't your notebook talking anymore. Not you. It was the girl who'd seen him collapse in the dressing room, his veins cold, his eyes glazed over. The one who'd held him, crying, for an entire night while he was delirious on acid, thinking he was drowning in his own music.

Jake closed the Zippo. Snap. A sharp, metallic sound, too sharp. Like a door slamming in an empty cathedral.

"You want me to be clean?" He slowly raised his head. He was staring at you now. "And then you're going to write that I've become boring? That I don't make good albums anymore?"

You clenched your jaw. He was spot on. Like always. He knew you loved him for what he was capable of turning into music. And he knew that music came from his rotten gut.

"I never wrote that."

He gave an even bitterer laugh. "But you thought of that."

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. 

"I was scared I'd find you dead, Jake. And you keep digging." You spat it out louder than you meant to. Like a slap.

Jake sank back into the chair. There was this low, golden, almost unreal light, casting sharp shadows across his cheekbones and dark circles. And suddenly, you weren't sure if he was still handsome... or just broken.

“No.” His voice was low. A deep, vibrant note. “You’re afraid that if I get better… you’ll be less interested in me.” You blinked, stunned. He leaned in a little. Slowly. The tension was so thick the air was sticky. “You want the monster. You want chaos. You don’t want to save me, Y/n—you want me broken enough to make you feel needed.” He was looking right into your gut. “He’s not the man you love. He’s ruin.”

You straightened up, your throat burning. "Fuck you," you said, without shouting it. It was more dangerous that way. But you already had tears in your eyes. And he saw it. He leaned in closer, so close you could smell that scent you knew by heart—leather, sweat, tobacco, pain.

Jake's voice was barely a whisper. But every word was a fucking scalpel. "You want to save me... so you can kill me in an article."

And then, you felt the thread snap. Your heart thudded in your chest. You closed your eyes. You gathered your things. Not neatly. Not quietly. You stood up. You weren't breathing. The sound of your heels on the wooden floor was an alarm. Tick. Tick. Tick. As if each step brought you back to everything you'd destroyed together.

Jake didn't follow you. He stood there in the dirty light of that room, his back hunched like a wounded animal that doesn't know whether to bite or fall asleep forever. And when the door closed behind you... Jake picked up the Zippo again. He lit it. Blue flame. Cold. Perfect. Like an old riff you play over and over again because you already know the ending. He took a small baggie from his inside pocket.

"Just a little. To calm myself down," he whispered to no one.

𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙧

You'd been dating Jake Sim for two years, that incandescent hurricane of music and chaos, the guy who could rock entire crowds with his heart-rending riffs and wild screams—a brutal, blinding light on stage, a poet maudit in freefall. His music was a storm of emotion, an explosion of pain and violent beauty, but behind every burning note hid an abyss no one really wanted to see. The hell of substances, those filth he swallowed like so many illusory promises, to forget, to keep, to be the stage monster the world adored.

You had seen the descent, you had screamed, begged, broken and glued back together a thousand times what was left of him. He had promised, repeated that fucking oath every time his dark eyes lost themselves in yours: "I'm getting clean again. Three months." Three months of silence, three months where you had clung to this fragile illusion like a message in a bottle. But tonight, under the pale light of a studio where the fluorescent lights crackle, half-extinguish, you find him as always: slumped in a worn armchair, half-drowned in thick smoke. The room is a sanctuary of debris and shadows, a space where time seems to have stopped between two crises.

Before him, a thin line of white powder, a deadly invitation. Jake inhales it slowly, like a ritual of agony, feeling the burn slide from his inflamed nose until it sets his brain ablaze with a cruel, artificial fire. His pupils explode, drowned in a veil of oblivion, but his eyes search for you, eventually find you.

Your voice trembles, sharp and fragile at once, a release of pent-up emotion, anger and pain mixed together. "Fuck, Jake... You promised. You swore to me it was over. Three fucking months clean, remember?"

A raspy, dry, hollow laugh escapes his lips. Jake is elsewhere, lost in his own chemical storm, but he's watching you. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if to escape a reality he can no longer face, then runs his fingers through his wild mane, suspended between two worlds.

"I didn't lie. I just... slipped. Once."

You clench your fists until your skin tears, the physical pain overpowering that of your broken heart. Your eyes burn with a dull, painful rage.

"Once? What the hell is once to you? What is that?"

He stands up slowly, wobbly but determined, approaching you with that tired rocker stance, that mix of arrogance and despair that tears you apart even more. Jake's voice is raspy, broken, but surprisingly gentle, like a desperate caress amidst the chaos. "I'm fucking sorry, Y/n, but I'm not a fucking countdown. You never got that, did you? You wanted a miracle. I'm just a guy trying not to die."

He grabs your chin firmly, almost violently, his fingers digging into your skin, anchoring the pain in your flesh. Tears rise, unstoppable, sliding down his fingers as they hold you prisoner in a suspended moment.

Your voice breaks, choked with sobs. "I just wanted you to live, Jake. Not die and make me think everything would get better."

He laughs again, that raspy, bitter laugh that burns everything in its path. “Fuck, I’m alive, Y/n. I’ve never felt so alive.” He tilts his head, brushing your tears from your cheek, a tender gesture that doesn’t soothe anything, only exacerbates the hurt. “I’m not a hero. Not a guy without anger or fire. I can never be that dream you want, baby. This is who I am. You have to accept that.”

Jake's smile is bitter, broken, sincere. Then, abruptly, he presses his lips against yours. You recoil, pushing the burn away with the force of your pain, your fingers trembling.

With a lump in your throat, your voice trembling but firm, you whisper:

"Since your only love is drugs, let me go. I stopped believing in your love a long time ago."

You turn on your heels, your heart breaking, your breath caught. Every step, every resonance of your heels on the ground, hammers away at your pain, like a slow, throbbing rock beat tearing at your soul.

Behind you, his laughter echoes, a mad cackle of disbelief and euphoria. In the closet where Jake hides his demons, that night, he sinks into coke, into whatever junk he can find. He overdoses. And you're already gone, broken but alive, the fleeting silhouette of a destroyed love, the bitter promise of an uncertain future.

The office was a ring. A fucking ring where blows aren't delivered with fists, but with words. You were once again in a corner, out of breath, your body tense like a guitar string about to snap under the intensity of the sound. Giselle was advancing towards you, a sharp silhouette, queen of chaos and calculation, her hands resting on your desk like a mistress demanding her prize. Her sharp voice ripped through the silence, a saturated and brutal riff, an electric howl that twisted your skull.

"So, Y/n... How's your article on Jake Sim coming along?" The sentence fell like a cymbal crash in an already overdriven, chilling solo. "I hope you haven't been idle. We want blood, real, raw. Not smoke and mirrors."

You bit your lip, that nervous tic betraying the storm tearing you apart. Your fingers gripped your pen, scribbling absently in a faded notebook, a fragile attempt to bring order to the chaos. "I'm working on it..." you breathed, fragile, almost broken, as if this damn project might swallow you whole.

Giselle took a step closer, settling onto your desk with the casualness of a rock star claiming all the space. Her gaze was a laser, sharp, piercing your defenses. "Are you moving forward, or are you stalling?" she spat out each word with the precision of an aggressive, brutal solo. "Those are two different fucking things, darling."

An icy anger rose within you, dull, a thunderous rumble in your chest. This wasn't just a professional matter. This was Jake. His fall. His aborted rebirth. That fragile hope you wanted to protect at all costs.

“I said I was working on it. It’s my number one priority,” you replied, voice wavering but tenacious, a sustained note in a dissonant chorus. “When I’m done, you’ll know. Let me work.” You stared at her with a mixture of annoyance, burning anger, and visceral pain. You didn’t want to write this article. Not like this. Not by exposing what was left—what was left—between you. You wanted to believe he’d changed. That he was clean. That he was standing, even if shaky.

But Giselle saw nothing but a scandal machine. To her, you were just a cog in this flesh-starved industry, a trafficker of raw emotion. Her voice rose a notch, a sharp blade ready to cut. "I know you and that rock star had a thing going on. A fucking romance. But you can't mix work and personal life, Y/n. If you want that fucking promotion, this article has to be explosive, insane. Your job, mine, everything's on the line. And I don't plan on losing my job because of your fucking heartbreak."

The office seemed to close in around you. Each word struck like a dissonant note in a symphony of pain. Your breath quickened, your heart hammered against your ribcage like a shattered drum set about to give out. The pressure crushed against you, heavy, relentless. Giselle was playing for survival by leveraging your vulnerability, a danse macabre between excessive expectations and personal limitations. This farce, this circus, was exhausting you. You no longer had the strength to pretend. Your fingers clenched your badge, the cold metal sending a shiver of rebellion and defiance through you.

“Giselle, don’t you ever raise your voice at me again,” you spat, trembling but firm, the pent-up rage you’d suppressed for too long. “If you want that article, ask someone else. Because I’m quitting.”

The sharp slam of the badge on the wood of the desk was a final, brutal, irrevocable blow.

Giselle frowned, trying to keep her mask on, but the crack was there. "Y/n, you have no right to leave like that. You have notice, you have to finish your work, you can't run away..."

You didn't let her finish. "Shut the fuck up for once, Giselle!" your voice rose, saturated, laden with that long-suppressed, dull anger. "You're a fucking leech, never satisfied, always wanting more. Well, I won't be the one to give you that. So fuck you. And never let us see each other again. As for the notice, you can stick it where I think it is."

You turned on your heels, breathless, legs trembling, heart in pieces. Each step echoed in this narrow corridor like a raging solo, a broken melody that signaled the end of a fight fought too long. Behind you, his voice was still screaming, but you couldn't hear it anymore. You were already somewhere else. Where the pain burned, where the music fell silent, where Jake's shadow danced with your disillusionment.

𝟭𝟮 𝘾𝙖𝙢𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙂𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝘾𝙖𝙢𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙏𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙣 𝙉𝙒𝟭 𝟴𝘼𝘽 𝙐𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙙𝙤𝙢

It rained as if the sky itself were trying to drown out the screams you could no longer utter. Not a romantic, cinematic rain. A raw, thick rain, grating like poorly adjusted amp feedback. A wall of liquid sound, heavy, aggressive. A celestial dissonance that fell on you like a verdict. It didn't wash anything away. It dirty everything. It clung to your skin like a song you regret writing, but are unable to forget.

Your footsteps echoed in the night like isolated notes of a broken solo. It was a march without tempo, without direction. But your body knew where it was going. Where it had to go. As if every fiber of your being still vibrated in tune with a name you refused to speak.

Jake.

And then you were there. In front of his house. In front of that door that, in the past, had slammed in your face, had kissed you against it, had seen you collapse to your knees. A scene you thought was buried—until the world spat you out in that same setting, like an old refrain that can't be killed.

You didn't knock. You didn't scream. You didn't beg. You collapsed. Literally. Back against the door, arms around yourself, knees to your chest, soaked to the skin. And it wasn't the rain, not really, that soaked your cheeks. It was your own ghosts. Your own choices. Your own fucking heart, which you no longer had the strength to carry.

You were crying. Silently. The kind of crying that's written in minor chords. The kind you don't sing because it chokes you. You'd given up your job, your armor, your last fucking facade. You no longer knew if it was courage or monumental weakness. All you knew was that you were hurting. And you were alone.

And Jake… Jake was watching. He was at his window, a shadow behind the fog, a familiar silhouette, cut to the quick. He could have turned away. He could have done what was expected of him: nothing. But he opened it. And the moment the door opened, you fell backward, as if sucked in. Your head hit his leg, gently. You looked up. Your face was ruined—mascara in gothic drips, lips erased, complexion collapsed. You looked like a punk song the day after a gig: wrecked, beautiful in its ugliness, true in its fall.

You blew:

“I’m sorry…” Your voice. A cracked note, broken by too many silences.

Jake didn't answer right away. He looked at you with that expression only those who have loved can have: both empty and saturated, hard and burning.

“It's cold outside.” His voice was a rumbling bass. Deep. Tired. Worn like overplayed vinyl. He turned on his heel, leaving the door open for you. It took you a while to get up. As if every muscle refused to obey a will that had disintegrated.

But you walked in. You walked like a ghost. Feet dragging, heels in hand. Water dripped off you like a sad melody that refused to stop. You were dirtying his floor. But you didn't care. He didn't care either, apparently.

The living room was bathed in warm, subdued light. Two cups were steaming. He handed you one. Cappuccino. Of course. He hadn't forgotten. You took the cup. Your hands were shaking.

“Thank you.” And then you cried. Really. Not pretty tears. Not sexy tears. Ugly tears. The kind that make your eyes swell and your mouth twist. And Jake… he stood there. Silent. A spectator to your chaos. You hated that he saw you like this. But you were tired of playing. Tired of being strong. You just needed to be.

He whispered, almost reluctantly:

"You should take a shower."

And that was it, the moment. That sentence. That banal gesture, almost tender, almost cowardly. It was the final straw. The final chord.

You put down the cup. You looked up. Bright. Wet. Hot. "I don't need a shower, Jake. I need you." And you took off your top. It wasn't a seduction. It was a declaration. A scream. One last song played in slow motion. You had nothing left to offer but that: you, trembling, exposed, unfiltered.

Jake looked away. He clenched his jaw. He hesitated. "You're in no shape…"

But you were already half naked. Already too far gone. "Please..."

Your skirt slipped down. Wet. Heavy. The sound resonated like a brutal bass. You approached. Slowly. Barefoot. Cold skin. Forehead pressed against his back.

"Your baby is in pain..." Your voice broke. "And he needs to be comforted." A whisper. A plea. You clung to him like a last note stretched on the edge of silence.

Jake trembled. Then he turned. His hands came to frame your face. Gently. As if he were holding a rare vinyl record. Fragile. Sacred. His thumbs slid over your dripping cheeks. And in a raspy breath, almost a rattle, he whispered:

“If this is what my baby wants… how can I refuse him?”

There was this moment—this fucking suspended moment—when the air between you was charged with electricity, saturated like a bass line rumbling too loudly in the gut. He looked at you like a man returning from hell and rediscovering his favorite poison. And you stood there, soaked, shivering, your eyelashes heavy with rain and tears, your lips parted as if you were about to implode.

You were a broken song, a scratched old vinyl you put on when you want to hurt just a little more. And he was that damn guitar solo—heartbreaking, out of tune, but impossible to forget. You had just begged. To bare yourself. Not just physically. You had thrown yourself into his arms like someone throwing themselves off a cliff, eyes wide open, heart in a tizzy.

And Jake… Jake cracked.

It wasn't a kiss.

It was a fucking impact.

His hands slid into your soaked hair, gripping the back of your neck with an almost desperate brutality. And his lips, hard and broken, collided with yours with uncontrolled violence. Your teeth clashed. The shock made you take a step back, and a moan escaped your throat, half in pain, half in relief.

Jake did it again. This time, deeper. Dirtier. His tongue forcing its way in, hungry, rough. You felt saliva trickle down the corners of your lips, your mascara mixing with the taste of his breath, with that kind of sticky urgency that made your heart beat too fast. You kissed him as if you wanted to destroy him, as if the taste of his mouth could erase you. Jake bit your lip, hard. You groaned. Not a cute moan: a raspy, almost animalistic sound.

It was a kiss of survivors. Of people who had been burned, abandoned, and who were returning to seek themselves in the still-warm ashes.

Your hands gripped his shirt, tugging at it until you could hear the seams complaining. Jake pulled back just enough to pull the shitty fabric off, revealing his warm skin, his marked torso—and you lunged at him again, like a pain-starved groupie. Your teeth grazed his collarbone. You bit him, just a little, just enough for him to grunt in your ear.

And damn, that sound… It was more than a sigh. It was a low, raspy note, like the ones you hear in choruses that are too heavy, the ones you can't sing without your throat bleeding a little.

"Say you need me again," he breathed, his voice barely human. His fingers had lodged themselves under the band of your bra, tracing lines of fire against your icy skin.

You complied. Trembling whisper, tight throat:

"I need you, Jake." And then you say it again. Again. Like a mantra. Like a song you can't forget, even though it destroyed you.

So he lifted you up, carried you against him, your bodies pressed together, your mouths seeking each other again, ever harder, ever more painful. Each kiss was a shock. Each breath, a silent scream. Your teeth chattered, your tongues clashed in a desperate ballet, almost ugly, almost too real to be sexy—and yet terribly hot.

Jake pressed you against the wall, the cold paint on your back contrasting with the warmth of his skin. His hands moved down to your hips, pressing, almost scratching, as he growled again between kisses.

"Do you know what you're doing, baby? Do you know what you wake up?"

You nodded, unable to speak. Because yes, you knew. You were waking up a fucking monster. But it was yours. And you wanted it to eat you whole.

Jake's gaze was a pure electric shock, a distorted guitar riff that struck you right in the heart, that unbearable mixture of suppressed rage and wild desire that blazed in his eyes like a black firework on a stormy night. He was no longer just a man, but a sacred fucking monster of rock, a cursed poet whose every breath vibrated with extreme tension, like a huge, heavy bass pulsing, threatening to explode. You felt that vibration in your bones, that all-consuming urgency that made your blood boil.

You lowered yourself slowly, very slowly, like a breath-hold descent into a sonic tunnel where each second stretched into an unbearable wait. The cold, damp parquet floor beneath your knees made a dull, dirty sound, a dull beat like a snare drum hammering out an obscene, sensual rhythm. Not a submissive genuflection, no—a rite, an offering, a deviant prayer to this living demon, this chaos incarnate that stood there before you. The hardness of the floor bit into your skin, soaked, pricked by the cold, while your fingers clutched at his thighs like one clings to a last shred of reason.

Your mascara had run, leaving black streaks down your cheeks, those salty tears flowing like a bass solo both violent and melancholic, bleeding onto your skin like a dirty confession. You didn't give a damn. You just wanted this—to swallow him up, to devour him, to feel this whole body, raw, alive beneath your trembling fingers. Not a game. Not a set. A primal scream.

Jake stared at you, motionless, his jaw clenched like a singer holding his voice before the explosion, his breath suspended in silence before the scream. His gaze was a fucking controlled implosion, a black storm ready to tear through the night, to make the air vibrate around you.

“Y/n…” His voice was low, raspy, a warning, a threat, a plea all at once—a dangerous invitation that seared your soul.

But you left him hanging, your voice coming out hoarse, low, laden with defiance and toxic sweetness, the kind of sweetness that kills you:

"Let me..."

He gave in, or maybe he wanted to see you fall, lose yourself. It didn't matter. You unzipped his pants slowly, with the precision of an artist who knows his instrument inside and out, savoring every second of this prelude. His fingers trembled, pressed against your cheek; the contact was an electric shock, a violent shiver that ran up your spine. His cock, already erect, hard, and swollen, tense like a wild solo screaming at the top of a bridge, was a raw promise, an explosion waiting to happen.

You released it gently, your breath catching in the moment. This contrast, this wild beauty, this unleashed monster, it was like listening to an alternative rock song where each note is a blade slashing at your skin and leaving you naked, fragile, but burning.

You kissed the tip, wet and glistening with that clear, salty liquid—that pre-cum that beaded like dew on an electric guitar left out in the rain. Jake groaned, a low, guttural, almost animalistic rasp caught in his shaggy beard. The sound thrilled you, made you lose all restraint.

You began to spread the liquid over his cock, your tongue caressing the skin with the vicious delicacy of a guitarist making his instrument sing, alternating between softness and violence, playing every inch like an incendiary riff. You soaked him, making him shudder, utter hoarse moans, muffled curses, like an amp pushed to the limit.

You licked his tip, your tongue sliding along his ridge, slowly rising like a solo that builds in power, a crescendo of ecstasy that made him shudder, swear under his breath, his eyes closing in wild pleasure.

“Fuck baby, I missed you… I missed this…” Jake’s words, both burning and broken, were muffled howls, distorted riffs that ripped through the heavy silence around you.

You took him in your mouth, rolling your tongue around the tip where Jake was leaking, each movement a mad drumbeat, a frantic rhythm that you followed with precision. He moaned louder, pulling you violently by your hair, guiding you roughly because he wanted it all, now, without compromise, without gentleness. Your throat opened, deep and ardent, a dark cavern ready to swallow him.

You absorbed every pulse, every vibration, every hoarse grunt. Your saliva cascaded, soaking his cock and the wooden floor, making a wet, sticky, dirty, almost bestial sound. Jake stared at you, his eyes half-closed, lost in a storm of pain, pleasure, obsession. He stroked your cheek with his fingertips, a tender gesture in this obscene chaos, and moaned at the way you swallowed him, all the way down your tense throat, making you moan too, trapped in a wild symphony.

Your fingers didn't stay idle: they played with his testicles, caressing, squeezing, and manhandling these fragile treasures with the precision of a passionate musician who knows every detail of his instrument. Jake gripped your face, pushing you further, deeper, making your throat swell, pulling harder. Your tears fell, hot and salty, like rain on a burning stage.

He continued to fuck your throat without stopping, trapped by this storm, this fire that consumed everything in its path. Then, when the explosion came, Jake froze deep in your throat, panting, his body tense like a rope ready to break. He ejaculated violently, spitting his come back into you in a burning deluge. You choked, the bitter, burning taste invading your mouth, but you took it all, every drop, never wavering.

He pulled out slowly, still trembling, and continued to release his cum onto your face, splattering your hair, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead—that raw, living paint, each drop a primal scream, a piece of rock etched into your skin.

You slowly parted your lips, ready to receive everything, but his pleasure scattered over you, each trace an indelible mark of this moment. Then, with the ritual slowness of a musician returning to silence, you slid your fingers down your cheek, gathered the rest, and brought it back to your lips, tasting his presence, his fire, his life, like a final poignant chord that would resonate long after the piece ended.

"Fuck." The word roars through the room like a saturated, violent, nervous riff, a distortion that vibrates the material and makes the walls of this old squat tremble, its walls oozing with history and transgressions. 

There's no warning, no plea for gentleness: Jake grabs you sharply, lifts you in an explosion of brute force, pinning you against him like a guitar being ripped from its strings in a mad solo. Your body instantly closes around his waist, your legs wrapping heavy, hot, possessive, chained to his hips, unbearable and burning. Your arms twist around his neck with the savagery of a rampaging animal, your burning skin pressed against his, your breath coming in short, mingled breaths, rage and hunger pulsing between you like a rumbling bass.

Your mouths explode in collision, not in a tender kiss, but a fierce struggle, a muted battle where every lick is a bite, a claim. Saliva intertwines, acrid, hot, saturated, burning—your tongues play a chaotic, wild duel, like the furious solos that tear through the night. This is not gentleness: it is chaos, an unbridled symphony where every note wounds, consumes, possesses.

He carries you like a wild beast, smashing your body against the walls, banging furniture, sending everything flying in his path in a wild, disordered, and violent rhythm, like a drummer in a trance. Your nails lacerate his skin with the force of a raging riff, digging, marking the flesh with your anger and your passion. You want to tear him apart, mark him, chain him to you, but more than anything, you want him to destroy you, to take you back, to belong to you body and soul.

Then, suddenly, he throws you onto the bed, the fall taking your breath away. He rips your bra off with a sharp, brutal snap, resonating like a guitar string breaking on a note too high. His mouth slides along your bare skin, devouring, devoid of softness, a trail of fire. His black, hungry gaze devours you—you are not a delicate muse, you are the wild flame he burns to extinguish and devour.

An electric shiver runs down your spine. You're vulnerable and proud of it, exposed in all your raw truth, with that painful, desperate intensity he can read. Jake looks at you like a man starved for years, a predator marked by the rage to possess your skin, your flesh, your pain.

You see his hard cock, thickened with desire, the tip glistening with pre-cum in the dim light. You stand there with your mouth open, your eyes bathed in a burning light, mesmerized by the raw power before you.

“Look at me like that again,” he growls, his voice a raspy, dark growl laden with menace, “and I’ll take you right here, right now.”

You don't move. You don't look away. Slowly, painfully, with that mixture of audacity and submission, you spread your legs, offering yourself entirely. The friction of the fabric against your skin resonates like a primal beat, a call to war.

"Do it. I can't take it anymore."

He leaps onto you, crushing you beneath his weight, like a bass drum hammering against your ribcage. His hands, hard and hot, explore your dripping skin, assert their territory, sweeping away everything in their path. You're soaked, saturated, drowning in this storm of desire that refuses to die down.

Abruptly, Jake grabs your throat—his fingers squeeze, firm, merciless, making your skin pulse, barely depriving you of air—fixing you with a dark, feral stare, burning with primal, possessive rage. His hot breath fanned against your sensitive skin, his low, menacing voice piercing your eardrums:

"Are you still looking at me, whore? Do you want me to fuck you until you beg?"

And without warning, he spits into your mouth—a hot, bitter, humiliating stream. The acrid, salty taste burns your throat. You swallow involuntarily, a mixture of humiliation and excitement coursing through you. You are at his mercy, completely, totally, and that's what you wanted: to be broken, possessed, reduced to his savage instrument.

“Say my name. Scream. Be my slut.”

Your hands grip his hair, scratching, pulling, trying to anchor yourself in this mad chaos. Your broken voice rises, hoarse, saturated with devastating desire:

"Jake... Jake... take me... fuck me..."

He squeezes your wrists, pinching them until the pain flares, pushing you toward total surrender. Ecstasy and pain merge, a tumult of wild emotions where you are nothing more than his plaything, his raw work.

Jake didn't hold back. He came at you like a punch to the stomach, brutal, sharp, without any mercy or gentleness. No foreplay, no languid caresses or silent promises. No. Just the raw, naked violence of a man who claims you entirely, body and soul, as if your flesh was his only right.

You didn't feel it coming, just that sharp, cold, sharp blow that tore you apart from the inside, like a blade plunging unannounced into tender flesh. His manhood invaded you all at once, filled with rage, obsession, primal desire. Your breath caught, your eyes widened, your entire body tensed and let itself be shot through with an electric shock of animal intensity.

"Fuck, you're mine, damn it..." he growled, his voice low, raspy, vibrating with wild possession, like a wild animal declaring its territory.

He dominated you relentlessly, hammering your flesh, each thrust slamming against your taut skin, your stomach, your hips, hitting hard, too hard, like a furious drum. You felt the raw power of his cock, hard and hot, penetrating deeper than anything you had ever known. You were trapped, caught in a hurricane, tossed between pain and pleasure, strangled by this bestial urgency.

His rough hand grabbed the back of your neck, his fingers digging roughly into your skin, immobilizing you like captured prey. He wanted to control everything, down to the slightest breath, the slightest resistance. His mouth then descended on your throat, nibbling, pinching, digging red, violent, and hot marks, indelible memories of his hold on you.

Pain mingled with pleasure, burning, incendiary. Your entire body vibrated beneath the fire, every fiber of your being consumed, torn apart, turned in a wild spasm. You clung to it, to the pain that had become your oxygen, your only truth in this chaos.

"Can you smell that?" he whispered in your ear, his voice trembling with fierce rage and all-consuming obsession. You could only nod, too weak to speak. "You're the one driving me crazy."

And then, without warning, in a dirty, raw, and humiliating gesture, Jake spat into your mouth again. The acrid, harsh, sticky mixture that flowed between your lips was like a challenge, a wild promise. You swallowed, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, the filth mixed with desire, with possession.

His cock pulsed furiously inside you, each thrust hitting that sensitive spot, that raw nerve that was making you lose all reason. He roughly tossed you onto your back, still holding your neck, his fingers squeezing tightly like a silent oath: you belonged to him, body and soul, without appeal.

Jake's mouth devoured your breast, biting so hard you had to grit your teeth, until the pain turned to burning pleasure, to conflicting spasms. Your back arched, your hands tried to free themselves, but he pressed them violently against the mattress, dominating every breath, every shudder, every moan.

"You're not going to run away from me, are you?" he spat between blows, his voice rumbling, vibrating with a ferocious obsession. "You're mine, and that's not going to change."

Every thrust of his hips was an explosion, a wild blast. He pounded into you like a raging drummer, his cadence wild and unpredictable, making you scream inside. You cried silently, overwhelmed, fractured, unable to think of anything but the delicious pain that consumed your very soul.

Jake growled, tense, panting like an animal in heat, his muscles tense, his skin covered in sweat. Then, abruptly, he grabbed your head, pulled you toward him, and kissed you with savage urgency, his lips biting yours, forcing himself into your mouth like a conquering invader. His tongue lapped you, aggressive, smothering, drawing you into a chaos of sensations, overwhelming you completely.

"What do you want?" you gasped, your voice cracking, trembling between pain and desire.

"You. Nothing but you. That you're mine, damn it." Jake replied, his voice raspy, laden with a consuming possessiveness.

Without letting you catch your breath, he violently turned you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees. He roughly yanked your hair back, forcing you to arch your back even more, exposing you entirely to his domination. Without slowing down, he started again, wilder, more bestial, hammering your flesh like a madman, each blow a painful explosion that made you scream silently.

Your head was spinning, your eyes were clouded with tears, your breath caught. Your body was vibrating, fractured, hungry for his blows, his bites, the marks he imprinted on you like burning tattoos.

"Look at you, damn it…" he breathed, his voice low, almost contemptuous, but saturated with a burning desire. "You're at your wit's end, you're dying of desire."

When he finally released his grip, his fingers massaged your bruised neck, his lips sought yours for a tender, almost fragile kiss, fragile like a promise after the storm. A moment of raw aftercare, rare and precious.

“You belong to me. Nothing and no one can save you from me.” He murmured, his lips against yours, as you sank, exhausted and fulfilled, into the complete possession of his strong arms.

Jake never stopped, not for a second, he continued to penetrate you with an unbridled rage, his cock hard as steel, hot as a blazing inferno, plunging deep into your lust-filled pussy. Each thrust was a raw, violent, merciless explosion. You felt his skin stuck to yours, dripping with sweat, sliding and rubbing against your soaked flesh in an animal, bestial, savage friction. His pelvis slammed against yours with an almost primal force, a cruel pounding that sent burning lightning rippling through your entire body, from your thighs to your heaving chest.

Your pussy, tight, pulsed around him like a hot, suffocating, tight cage, unwilling to let go or let him out, as his thrusts dug deeper, ripping every millimeter of mingled pleasure and pain from your skin. Each thrust pushed you closer to the edge, pushing you into a churning sea of ​​sensations too intense to contain.

His hand, wet, slippery with your own lubrication and your still-warm pleasure, ventured slowly, tracing a burning path between your pressed bodies. His fingers massaged, searched, finally found your clitoris, that tiny but devastating spot, and grabbed it firmly, brutally. He didn't spare you: his fingers pinched, pulled, rubbed with delicious brutality, alternating heart-rending caresses with sharp bites that made you lose your mind. His hand undulated in rhythm with his thrusts, multiplying the sensations, playing with you like a merciless tyrant.

You were out of breath, your ragged breathing exploding into muffled moans that escaped in wild, almost bestial cries, echoing your total abandonment. Your entire body was consumed, set ablaze by this surging, uncontrollable wave of pleasure, ready to submerge you, to crush you beneath its weight. Your legs trembled, your pelvis undulated to follow its every movement, your chest heaved with disordered spasms.

Then, suddenly, your orgasm tore a brutal, devastating cry from you. Your muscles contracted with unbearable intensity, your pussy clenched around his cock as if to imprison him forever, twisting your flesh, almost painful, almost cruel. Jake almost pulled out, but didn't: he didn't slow down. Instead, Jake pushed harder, deeper, biting savagely into your neck with ferocious savagery, his teeth clawing at your fragile skin, digging red, painful marks that still pulsed long afterward.

You screamed, your voice trembling, choked by the mingled pain and pleasure, as hot tears welled up in your eyes. They fluttered, unable to open, overwhelmed by the intensity of the fire consuming you.

Jake was possessed, unleashed, a raging animal that wouldn't stop, that wanted you whole, for himself, down to the last drop of your burning essence, until you were reduced to a naked, raw state, offered defenseless under his total domination. His hand, still slippery, slid back to your clitoris, soaked with your burning pleasure, wet and viscous like hot oil. He rubbed with fierce insistence, pulled, pinched, multiplying the stimulations in a symphony of delicious torture, while his cock continued to penetrate you, to pound, to strike your pussy, wild, chaotic, incandescent.

His balls slammed heavily into your ass with each thrust, hammering your tender skin as your chest crushed against the soaked sheets, sweat and arousal mingling in a suffocating mixture. Your breaths became short, raspy, panting, your entire skin buzzing, vibrating with extreme tension, oscillating between pain and pleasure, violence and raw tenderness.

“Say you need me…” Jake breathed, his voice raspy, broken, saturated with effort, desire, and a dull rage.

“I need you…” you gasped, your heart beating so hard it felt like it might burst, your throat tight, your cheeks burning, your eyes bathed in tears of wild ecstasy.

" Again. "

“I need you, Jake… fuck… make me cum again… eat me up, burn me, drive me crazy, take me all…”

Without a word, he tightened his grip around you, his pelvis slamming brutally, wild, unleashed. The crash of his cock against your vulnerable flesh resonated like a jackhammer through your body. You felt his total dominance, the way he broke you, crushed you, reduced you to ashes under his raw power. He wanted you all his, whole, until your last breath, until your last tear of pleasure.

Then, abruptly, without warning, he came inside you, with a guttural rasp, a muffled hoarse cry, a wild growl, his hot sperm spilling slowly, deeply, saturating your burning flesh. He growled your name, grinding it in his throat like a primal, almost demonic incantation, a wild prayer to your fused bodies.

He collapsed on top of you, panting, trembling, his face buried in your neck, his breathing heavy and chaotic, like a raspy gasp of survival at the end of the world. And you too, your lungs burned with the same violence.

A deep silence fell then, dense, enveloping, like a veil suspending time.

In that damp darkness, between sweat, tears, visible and hidden scars, you felt his arms embrace you gently, tenderly, like a fragile, silent, mute promise. No excuses, no pretenses, no assured tomorrows.

Just two shattered souls, two scarred, wild, broken bodies that had found themselves in the heart of the storm, clinging to each other in a last shared breath.

🗞️The Dissonance Column : “One Album Too Many?” Review of Cinders & Saints by Jake Sim — by Y/n.

“This isn’t an album. It’s a narcissistic farce, drowned under layers of autotune and sonic artifice.”

Jake Sim serves up thirteen tracks that he sells as pure, sincere pain. In reality, Cinders & Saints is nothing more than an empty shell, a product calibrated for those who mistake spectacle for music and inner chaos for marketing.

His voice, once rough and soulful, now sounds like a hollow echo, filtered through a distorting mirror. He no longer sings; he contemplates himself, imprisoned by his own sonic reflection.

Each track is a pose, each silence an awkward silence. There are no ashes, no embers, just a simulacrum of emotion stifled in a sanitized studio.

"Jake no longer composes: he mimes, he recites a role worn to the bone. The result is a tired record, emptied of all authenticity, saturated with poorly disguised pride."

The themes of love, loss, and intimate violence are hammered home with the subtlety of a jackhammer. Everything is polished, overdone, as if written by an algorithm programmed with his worst interviews and most superficial whims.

And that incessant howling, that desperate need to shout out every chorus, feels more like a spoiled child's whim than a true artistic expression. As if the high volume could mask the emptiness behind the lyrics.

"This album is not a confession, it's a rant from a star in need of attention."

Yes, Jake Sim may have suffered. But suffering isn't enough. Making music requires courage, truth—and, above all, knowing when to keep quiet.

It's not an album you listen to. It's an ego you endure.

Rating: 1/5 – for the sound design effort. The rest is thrown away.

The morning light wasn't gentle. It slashed through the room like a new blade, slicing through the shadows, hunting down the slightest trace of tenderness to finish it off. It brought nothing but this certainty: the night is over. What shone in the dark, in the sweat and the sighs, never lasts very long under the neon lights of reality.

Your body was there, still warm, still wet from him—damp sheets, hair plastered to the back of your neck, bare legs tangled in his sheets like some post-concert scene you're never allowed to show. You were wearing his T-shirt. The one from the 2021 tour. The one where he still sang like he believed what he was screaming. Remember that? Back then, his voice had scars. Now it's just veneer.

And he was in the kitchen. Jake Sim. Fallen king of tortured rock. Tiny god for emotionally overdosed teens. Your ex. Your mistake. Your fantasy. Your personal hell.

You hear the coffee maker's rumble, mechanical and violent, like a drum kit in the back of the room. Then the sharp thud of his phone against the counter. Notifications. One. Two. Twenty. Digital avalanche. Media buzz. You don't want to look. But you know. You know exactly what's about to explode in his face. You recognize that kind of silence. It's the silence of a man reading his own execution.

And then it comes. The voice. It's no longer human. "...Is this some fucking joke?" Not a scream. A broken bone. 

You raise your head slowly. You feel like you're in the wrong music video for a band that took itself too seriously. The light on your face is almost cruel. You want to explain. But he's already there.

Jake enters the room. Barefoot. Shirtless. Phone in hand like a poorly drawn gun. The screen glows, cruel and merciless: “The Dissonance — One Album Too Many?” And underneath, your name. Black on white. Like a signature on a death warrant. He throws the phone on the bed. Not violently. That's the worst part: he leaves it as evidence.

"Tell me it's not you."

And that's when you understand: he still wants to believe. He still wants to hope that it's a mistake, a theft, an illusion, a nightmare. But he reads your style like one recognizes an old song—every sentence, every line, every stroke of the scalpel. It's your work. Your crime.

You mean it was before. That you never thought he'd read it. That you didn't know he'd touch you again the way he touched you that night, like a man who believes in orgasm more than love.

But he raises his hand.

“No. Don’t say anything. Not yet.” Jake’s voice is calm. Too calm. You know it. It’s the one he used before he blew everything—a contract, a tour, a hotel room. Or a girl.

He moves forward.

“You sleep in my bed… you wear my fucking T-shirt… you scream my name like it still has meaning. And meanwhile, you murder me in a column of three thousand characters with the coldness of a surgeon on coke?” Jake laughs. Dry, high-pitched. A poorly controlled guitar distortion. No joy. Just a vibration of pure, out-of-tune hatred. “You drained me. You squeezed every last note, every last tear, every last breath—and you expect me to believe it wasn’t personal?”

You open your mouth, but he won't let you breathe.

“You say I screamed to mask the emptiness. But you're the one who put the emptiness inside me.” Jake approaches, roughly. You see his eyes. Red. Swollen with fatigue, with pain, with memories. He's not crying. Not yet. He's fighting. It's nobler to burn than to sink. “Do you want to see what I look like when you kill me? Look at me. Look closely, Y/n. That's what you did. That's your song.”

You lower your eyes. Not out of shame. Out of survival instinct. But he continues. He wants you to feel every word. Every syllable like a slap.

“Are you saying I sold an image? That I made an album to please? You think it's a product, Cinders & Saints? You were there, Y/n. You were there when I wrote it. You saw what I spat in it. You licked up that blood. And now you act like you've never seen the beast.”

A silence. A crack.

Jake sits on the edge of the bed. His back to you. He's shaking. He clenches his fists. His back is marked. Scratched. You left your evidence everywhere. And yet, he's the one bleeding.

“You know what’s killing me?” He whispers. His voice is raspy. Dry. An end-of-song breath. “I thought you came back.” And then he turns away. His eyes are shining. No rage. Not yet. Just that dull ache, that internal break that even music can’t fix. “You used me. Again. Like a fucking microphone. You took my pain, you took my scars, you took my fucking heart—and turned it into a one-star column.”

You cry. Silently. Because he's right. Because you killed him with words. And he deserved them. But not like this.

He stands up. Grabs his jacket. His keys. Leaves his phone like a body on the parquet floor. And before leaving, he looks at you. One last time.

"When you're done enjoying the storm, close the door on your way out." And he slams the door. You stay there. Alone. In the unmade bed. In the silence. In your own field of ruins. And the truth is, what you just did... you won't recover from it either.

𝙋𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙋𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚 — 𝙏𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙃𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙍𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 — 𝟭-𝟮𝟯-𝟮 𝙏𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙣, 𝙈𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙤-𝙠𝙪, 𝙏𝙤𝙠𝙮𝙤, 𝙅𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙣

Sunghoon's office wasn't a place you entered. It was a place you fell into. A hermetic airlock. A place outside of time, outside of life. The kind of space where souls came to agonize under the weight of verdicts and cold truths, never hoping for anything more than an administrative murmur to accompany them on their way out.

Everything about it exuded manic discipline.

The walls, a too-somber gray, seemed to ooze an authoritarian calm, as if emotions had been expelled there with injunctions. The shelves—filled with codes, files, lives passed through the legal mill—were organized mausoleums, perfectly symmetrical, like a cemetery where each tombstone bore the name of a client he had brought down with logic and coldness. The desk itself wasn't a piece of furniture: it was a battlefield cleared after the massacre. Not a piece of paper out of place. Not a pen out of place. Not a human trace.

Even the light had something surgical about it: harsh, white, without warmth. It seemed to have been tamed, bridled, contractually forbidden from softening anything.

And in the center, like a king without a kingdom, Sunghoon twirled a pen between his fingers. Methodically. Click. Click. Click. A dry rhythm, almost perverse in its regularity. It wasn't nervousness. It was a metronome. That of a heart that had long since stopped beating for anything other than survival.

Then the door opened. Jake hadn't knocked. He hadn't had the strength. Or maybe he didn't care. He came in like a long-suppressed scream. Like an emotional hangover no pill could soothe. He looked broken. But not the brokenness you heal with a Band-Aid and a little hope. No. He looked the way someone who's lost something they never get back. Something intimate. Dirty. Irreparable. 

Jake wore a black T-shirt, stained with dried sweat, a threadbare jacket thrown over his shoulders like a remnant of pride. His hair clung to his forehead, and his eyes were craters. Empty. Reddened. Inhabited by ghosts that didn't even have names anymore. In his right hand, a glass of whiskey, half-empty and shaking as if holding onto what little control he had left.

He stank of the stage, the night, the music, the alcohol, and something even darker: the mourning of an illusion. And when he set foot on the immaculate floor of Sunghoon's office, it was as if death itself had invited itself into the bunker.

Sunghoon didn't look up until he'd twisted his pen three times. Not out of curiosity. Out of calculation. He knew. He'd heard the shuffling footsteps, the dislocated sigh, the silent call of a presence that hadn't come to plead. He adjusted his glasses. Like a surgeon before making an incision. 

And Sunghoon's voice fell, clear. Sharp. Legal. "We can sue her for defamation." He paused. Snap. "And with me as your lawyer, you won't lose."

Jake didn't answer right away. He stood in the corner of the office, a hesitant shadow. His eyes drifted, fixed on memories Sunghoon couldn't—or wouldn't—see.

Then Jake spoke. Not loudly. Not like a man trying to convince. But like someone surrendering. "I love her." He swallowed. A mirthless laugh clawed at his throat. "I can't do this to her." There was no pride in his voice. Just waste. A raw pain, like a wound you keep licking even though you know it won't heal. His gaze wandered into the whiskey glass, and his wrist swirled the liquid as if hoping to find an oracle.

Sunghoon didn't answer. He picked up the pen again. Click. Click.

"So what are you doing here?" Sunghoon's tone was the same. Not a shiver. Not a variation. As if Jake's love was just another incident. An administrative detail. "I have work to do. And no time for your love stories."

Jake grimaced. His glass shook. Not from the whiskey. From the pent-up rage, the grief digested too quickly.

“Can't you just be human once?” His voice was low, raspy. “I need some fucking emotional support, Sunghoon. I'm not asking you to fix me. Just… to be there.”

A silence fell. Heavy. Visceral. Sunghoon slowly put down his pen. Removed his glasses. Wiped them like cleaning a blade. 

"Jake… I'm a lawyer. Not a shrink." He looked at him. Finally. "If you want a hug and cookies, go to Heeseung's. He loves picking up skinned people." Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him. "Me, I have people to defend. Enemies to defeat. And a fucking bank account to feed." His jaw tightened. "So if you just need a place to cry, you're in the wrong place."

Jake exploded. Not with a shout. But with that acidic sarcasm that flows like venom when you've got nothing left to lose. "You know what?" He downed the rest of his glass. "You're an asshole, Sunghoon. A real one." He took a step closer. "And I wonder what will happen the day someone takes that broomstick you've got stuck up your ass. The day you fall in love. And find yourself begging for a hand you've never extended to anyone."

Sunghoon remained frozen. But his eyes had lost something. A sparkle. A distance. He seemed, for a split second, almost… human.

“Love is a curse.” Sunghoon’s voice was lower. Almost a confession. “Don’t wish that kind of shit on me. I already have enough blood on my hands. I don’t need another woman.”

Jake didn't answer. He turned. Walked to the door. And left. Quietly. Just as he had come. But leaving behind something irreparable. A bitter taste in the air. A cutting silence. And in that silence…

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Sunghoon's pen resumed its dance. As if nothing had happened. As if he had never been tempted, for a moment, to reach out.

Giselle's office reeked of hollow success. An overpowering scent hung in the air, a chemical mix of vanity and faux leather, expensive candles and overpolished trophies. The walls were covered in Photoshopped memorabilia—framed magazine covers, selfies with dead people inside, gilded plastic trophies. Ego on display. Every object screamed “look at me,” but none said “feel me.” It was a mausoleum of marketed glory, a temple dedicated to the cult of image, where dreams came to die in the spotlight.

And you stood there in the middle of this gilded morgue. The anger inside you rumbled like an overdriven amp. Your heart was beating too hard, too fast, like a poorly controlled drum kick. You had the metallic taste of betrayal in your mouth—that flavor of blood, adrenaline, and everything you can't hold back when the dams burst. You felt like if you opened your mouth, it would be to scream. Scream at the world that you couldn't take it anymore. Scream its name. Scream your pain. Scream until something inside you finally gave out.

Giselle, on the other hand, was sitting with her legs crossed, her chin held high. Beautiful as a false advertisement. She smiled with all her teeth like an overly made-up doll, proud, cruel, with a sharp, empty beauty. She looked like those stars who no longer have a soul but continue to pose. The kind of beauty that dazzles you just enough to not see the emptiness behind it.

"Why did you do that?" you spit. Your voice has risen. It's a little off-key, like a guitar that hasn't been tuned, but still vibrates in tune. It's not a scream. Not yet. But it's a solo that's starting. A dissonant note that announces the storm. You were already too far gone to come back. Already more in love than alive. Already too hurt to speak softly.

Giselle doesn't even look up right away. She makes the silence last. A dramatic pause. Like a producer waiting for the drop to come in. Then she looks at you. And she bleeds you dry with a single look.

"I did what you didn't have the balls to do." Her voice cracked. "Whatever it took to save us. To save you. Be a little grateful, Y/n."

Giselle snorts, a dry, unpleasant sound, like fingernails on glass. Her blood-red nail polish gleams in the light. She slowly runs her fingers over her nails, as if she's just carved a sentence into your flesh and is admiring the calligraphy. As if she's making fun of you, but in high definition.

You stare at her. You feel like your heart is melting. But not from love. From helplessness. From rage. From that sadness that's too heavy to cry, so it eats away. You breathe. Painfully. You tremble. You're standing, but you've already fallen.

"You destroyed me," you said under your breath. A whisper. But sharp. "And most importantly, you destroyed him."

And then Jake's image comes back to you. The look in his eyes when he read the article. That emptiness in his eyes. The kind of emptiness that swallows up whatever light is left. You saw him decompose. You saw him break inside without saying a word. As if every sentence he read was stabbing him in the throat. And there you were. Silent. Powerless. A stray bullet in the story of the man you loved. You wanted to tell him it wasn't you. That you'd tried. But you were too slow. And now you had blood on your hands, and no song to absolve him.

“I told you I was quitting, Giselle. That I was leaving everything. The paper, the file, the fucking media world. I didn't want to sully it. I didn't want to… lose it.” Your voice breaks. It squeaks, it twists, it fades. Like a vinyl record skipping at the most fragile point in the song. It's not anger anymore. It's grief.

But Giselle? She bursts out laughing. Not a hearty laugh. Not a laugh of shame or embarrassment. No. A dry laugh. Brittle. Like a punch in the ribs.

“Your thing with him was a joke, Y/n. A shitty romance between a journalist having an existential crisis and a stoned singer. Seriously? What were you hoping for? A Netflix redemption? A happy ending?” She stands up. Moves closer. Every word is a dirty riff, a bass that vibrates too loudly in your eardrums. She sizes you up like a slut, a cliché. “He’s over. And he would have over you too. You should thank me for publishing your article. He would have dragged you down with him.”

And then you see red. Not an expression. Literally. Everything turns red. Crimson. Incandescent. Your fist goes off. Instinctive. Animal. The sound of the impact is obscene. Flesh against bone. A crash that resonates like an over-amped bass thump in an empty room. His head swivels. His lip bursts. A drop of blood lands on the bleached floor.

She lets out a cry—not in pain, no. In shock. As if she never imagined you could become this. But you have. You grab her by the hair, without thinking. You pull. Her head tilts back. Her eyes, once superior, are now wide. Terrified.

“You will take this article down.” Your voice is hoarse. Worn out. Like a singer gasping for air at the end of a set. “You will issue an apology. Public. Clear. And sincere.” She whines, tries to push you away, but you tighten your grip. “And you will never speak his name with your filthy mouth again. Because he’s not screwed. He’s fighting. He’s drowning, yeah. But he’s fighting.” You gasp. Tears mix with your sweat. “I saw his sleepless nights. I held his hands when they shook. I picked up his pieces. You just put words to it to sell papers. You saw nothing. You lived nothing.”

Giselle trembles. Her voice is no more than a breath:

"Okay... okay... fine... let me go, damn it."

You release her with a sudden gesture. She falls. To her knees. Breathless. Mascara running. A diva in ruins.

"You're sick, Y/n. Completely crazy."

You laugh. A dry laugh. Broken. Not mad. Desperate. You kneel in front of her, gently. Your eyes are calm, but it's a calm like an ocean's just before a storm. "No. I'm just a girl who loved a boy. And saw what was behind his screams. Behind his songs." You stare at her. A merciless look. "And you ain't seen nothing yet."

You leave the room. You slam the door behind you. A sharp, sharp sound. Like a clap of thunder in a recording studio. Like the last note of a song that's too loud, too real. The kind of note that leaves feedback in your skull. And for a second, you're standing in the hallway, straight, icy, victorious—then you collapse. Against the wall. Against yourself.

Your back is slowly sliding. Your legs are giving out. You're out of oxygen. You can't breathe anymore. Your breath is short, ragged, as if you've been running for years toward something that, deep down, maybe didn't exist. And now, you're just here, on the floor, lost in a hallway that smells of air conditioning and betrayal.

Your mascara is running. Your cheeks are black with anger, makeup, and pain. You're crying. But not those pretty movie tears. No. You're crying like someone bleeds. You're crying like someone screams inside. You're crying like your soul wants to tear itself from your body and run to him. To Jake.

Jake. Jake. Jake. Jake.

His name rings in your head like a chorus loop. An obsession. A cursed melody. You have it stuck in your head like a song you can't get rid of. You have it in your heart like a vinyl needle stuck in a wound.

You cry for him.

You cry for yourself.

You cry for what you were. For what you could have been. For this fucking story that even the most heartbreaking songs couldn't tell without distorting it. You loved like someone jumps off a cliff. He loved like someone falls. And in the end... no one landed.

You're crying because you hit Giselle. Because you yelled. Because you said everything. Gave everything. And yet... It won't change anything. Jake read the article. Jake saw you keep quiet. Jake saw your silence as a betrayal. And Jake... Jake may never come back.

Because deep down, that's the cruelest thing: you wanted to protect him. You wanted to love him better than drugs, better than music, better than his own darkness. But you weren't fast enough. Not strong enough. You failed.

And in this sterile corridor, lit by neon lights that are too white, you have this violent, brutal thought that atomizes your heart:

Love, sometimes, is more toxic than any drug. Because you're still addicted. And Jake, he might already be gone.

𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 — 𝙉𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙧 𝙉𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙗 — 𝟯:𝟭𝟳 𝘼𝙈

You were there, lost in that nightclub, Nadir—a temple of madness, a sanctuary of broken souls. Strobe lights swept through the thick smoke like blinding flashes in an endless night. The bass pounded against your chest with the violence of a tribal drum, hammering your fractured ribcage, resonating even in your blood, a dull, cruel beat. It was the sound of your own agony, a deadly rhythm that reminded you that you were still alive—and yet dying.

A year. A fucking year. A year that his shadow continued to haunt you, seeping into every vein like a poison you refused to spit out. You drank, again and again, shots of burning tequila, numbing your pain so it would finally stop screaming at the surface of your skin. You drank to drown the anger, the sadness, the madness. You drank until you vomited, until you lost consciousness, until the world gave way beneath you and nothingness opened up—but the fucking blackout never came.

You wanted an alcoholic coma, a complete breakdown, a temporary end to this internal torture, but your body refused to give in. Each blow a reminder, each brutal memory tore you apart a little more.

On the dance floor, sweat slid down your skin like acid, mixed with the blaring lights and the music saturated with black electricity. A visceral cacophony that seemed to want to engulf you. That's when he came, a thick shadow in this incandescent chaos. He stuck to you, his hungry hands sliding over your waist like a beast on its prey. Your mind foggy, your body numb, you didn't yet perceive the threat, only this morbid need to forget, to disappear into this toxic fog.

You danced, absent, a ghost among the living, until he crossed the line. His hands became brutal, violent. This indecent contact broke the alcoholic torpor that enveloped you, lit a bitter fire in your icy veins. You had a survival reflex: push back. But he was too strong, too determined, clinging to you like a wild beast, restraining you, locking you in.

"Come on, babe," he breathed, his voice thick with lust and threat, "don't you want to make this more... fun?"

He turned you around roughly, pressed his lips against yours, making you gasp for air. Trapped, suffocating, rage rose within you like a black wave. With a ferocious gesture, you bit his lip, tearing the flesh, feeling his hot blood flood your mouth. The man growled, glaring at you, his eyes brimming with hatred and promises of revenge.

"You dirty whore," he spat, "you made me bleed."

Without warning, he grabbed your hair, yanking violently, tearing out a muffled scream that the music immediately swallowed up. You wanted to scream, to shout for help, but the bass crushed everything, reducing you to a whisper lost in the storm of sound.

Then, in the visceral chaos, he arrived. Jake. A dark figure slicing through the crowd, a flash of anger ready to devastate everything. He had seen it. He had seen the scene you lacked the courage to face alone.

His gaze darkened, the shadow of black anger fell upon him like a destructive hurricane.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jake roared, unleashing a brutal right hook, the force of his blow slicing through the air, threatening to shatter the man's jaw. His fist blazed with a rage as old as the pain consuming you both.

The man's nose burst into a geyser of blood, glowing red against the darkness.

"Sorry, man," the attacker stammered as he backed away, raising his hands in surrender, but Jake stared at him, implacable. The man fled, cursing, his face burning, leaving behind a metallic smell, the bitter taste of threat.

Jake turned to you, his dark eyes searching for the invisible scars you bore. You faltered, ready to fall into nothingness, and he caught you, firm and solid, an anchor in this infinite chaos.

“Come on,” he breathed, his voice raspy, broken, but protective. He grabbed your arm, dragged you out of the club, away from the harsh lights, the noise, the fake party where pain hid behind every fake smile. The icy night air bit at your skin, but you felt nothing. Not the bite of cold. Not the bite of life.

He opened the door of his car, made you sit down, motionless, a ghost on the edge of the abyss.

“Fasten your seatbelt,” he ordered, without looking at you.

Your hands trembled, clumsy, paralyzed by emotion, alcohol, shame, fatigue. You tried, but failed. His hand, heavy and warm, covered yours; the touch was a spark, a fragile fire, a half-whispered promise. His skin against yours, the weight of his presence, the raspy breath escaping him—this was all that remained of a love torn apart, destroyed by storms, but never completely extinguished.

Jake buckled his seatbelt slowly, inhaling as if to hold back a torrent of words he didn't want to say.

The car's engine purred like a wounded beast, a low, steady rumble—the continuous bass of a rock song too slow, too desperate for the radio, but perfect for an intimate end of the world, just as Jake had started it. The car sped off into the pitch-black night, headlights cutting through the darkness, flashing across the scars of a city too exhausted to judge.

Inside, the cabin vibrated with a thick silence. Not a peaceful silence. No. An electric, saturated silence, like a guitar left to cry between two bursts of distortion. Everything was tense. Moist heat. Sticky skin. Unshed sighs. The smell of alcohol, blood, fear. And that sadness, that damned acidic sorrow that hung like a sheet of smoke.

You were curled up in the passenger seat, back hunched, hands clutching your thighs, your dress soaked and wrinkled, sticking to your skin like a second shame. Your makeup had run, washed away by the tears you no longer knew how to cry. You had that metallic taste in your mouth. Blood. Aggression. Alcohol. The past. Everything mixed together. Everything overlapped. Like a song remixed to the point of agony, until it had no meaning or rhythm, just a sick melody.

And him. Jake. Jake, driving. Jake, inches away. Jake, the other half of your hell.

He said nothing, but you could feel it vibrating like a deep, continuous, raging bass. His hand gripped the steering wheel, white, tense like a guitar string about to snap. The other nervously ran through his hair, over and over again. He'd always had this tic. He had it the night you broke up. He had it the day he got off. He had it again tonight, as if everything had frozen. As if time, despite everything it claimed to heal, only repeated the same fucking dissonant chord.

You weren't looking at him. Not yet. But you felt him. His silence. His breathing. His heart pounding, heavy, behind his ribcage—that damn black drum you knew by heart.

You'd come to escape, to drink, to forget yourself. And you'd run into him. Obviously. Because there was always a song playing somewhere, something that brought you back to each other. Even on the dirtiest nights. Especially those. So you spoke. Not to break the silence. But because you no longer had the strength to remain silent.

"Thank you." Two syllables. Weak. Bare. And yet, in that car, they smacked like a slap on already reddened skin. As if you'd ripped a bandage off an infected wound.

He didn't answer. But you saw it. His jaw tightened. He inhaled slowly, as if he were keeping himself from exploding. His hand slid down his thigh, trembling. He was driving fast, too fast, as if he was running away from something—or maybe both of you. You didn't need an answer. Because Jake didn't speak with words. He spoke with silences. With looks. With those trembling gestures he thought were invisible.

You finally looked at him. And you remembered. You remembered his lips on yours. His hands on your skin. The way he looked at you before going on stage, as if you were the only real thing in his life made of amps, pills, and lies. You remembered everything. And you would have given anything to forget.

But there you were. You were there. And so was he. Like a cursed loop that never ended.

"What were you doing there?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer. You just needed to hear his voice. That deep, gravelly timbre, like sandpaper on your heart.

He answered bluntly. "Jay was DJing. I was doing a little promo for him. You know him… he always wants it to be packed." His voice was calm, almost detached. But it wasn't. Because his jaw twitched again. And you saw him swallow something bigger, dirtier. The real question. The one he wouldn't ask.

You, what the hell were you doing here? What the hell were you doing here, alone, drunk, lost, getting crushed by a guy I could have killed?

But he was silent. Because he still loved you. And he hated you for it. And you felt it. The love there. The hate. The failure. The pain. That misshapen thing vibrating between you two. That hellish riff you'd never managed to finish. So you turned to the window. To keep from crying. To keep from screaming. To keep from begging him.

But he was looking at you. And you felt it. And the car kept going. And the night never ended.

𝟭𝟮 𝘾𝙖𝙢𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙂𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝘾𝙖𝙢𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙏𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙣 𝙉𝙒𝟭 𝟴𝘼𝘽 𝙐𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙙𝙤𝙢

The morning was nothing like a morning.

It was a morning after. A nasty morning after. The kind that lingers in your bones like an emotional hangover. The kind that feels like the burn of black coffee on an empty stomach and the bitter taste of what you didn't know how to say. A pale light filtered through the curtains, and in the too-quiet kitchen, every sound sounded like an echo too loud: the sizzling pan, the bare footsteps on the tiles, the ticking of the clock that reminds you that time goes on, even when your heart refuses.

Jake was there. Silent. Making pancakes as if he could fill the cracks with flour and sugar. The bacon crisped in the pan, a familiar, almost warm smell. A normal scene. A false scene. A scene of respite between two storms.

And you… you were watching.

Sitting there, knees against your chest, curled up in a sweatshirt that was too big—maybe his, you couldn't remember. Your heart was beating like a snare drum, too fast, syncopated, desperate. You'd been holding your breath since yesterday. And you knew it had to come out. That if you didn't say it now, you'd never say it.

And then you spoke. Not out of bravery. Not even out of necessity. But because your heart was beating like a poorly tuned distortion. Like an empty concert hall where a muffled scream still echoes in the walls. Because his silence was screaming in your chest.

"You know... that day, I quit." Your voice was just a hoarse breath, a broken note in a song without a chorus. And in that kitchen silence, that calm too clean for the story you carried, your words sounded like grunge on morphine.

Jake didn't answer. But his body vibrated. An almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, a slight tremor in his hand, a strand of hair that fell without him pushing it back. Details. Tiny details that only you knew how to read, like the sounds of an old demo tape that was never meant to be released.

He flipped the pancakes with the coldness of a surgeon in despair, and you felt your chest implode. There was nothing innocent in his silence. There was everything. And you were there, naked but not naked, decomposed in that oversized sweatshirt and your wounds too fresh.

But you had to keep going. Because if you stopped, you would die. Not physically. But that part of you he had touched—that core, that pure note—would die for good.

“I didn't let the article go because I didn't care. I begged. I cried. I screamed into glass offices where people looked at me like I was crazy.” You smiled, a grin distorted by tears. You sounded like a song on the radio that you change too quickly because it hurts without knowing why. “But it wasn't enough. I was too late. They had already planned your downfall. And I had your blood on my hands.”

Jake wasn't flipping pancakes anymore. The pan steamed, forgotten. He was listening. Or maybe he was fighting not to listen to you. Not to hear you say what he'd been waiting for, all the while fearing it more than anything.

You barely inhaled, your throat full of shards of glass. And then you said what had been haunting you since the night, since the last time, since you. "I didn't want you to think I slept with you to sell you out." Your voice cracked like a guitar being thrown on stage after a set that was too short. "I loved you." You closed your eyes. It hurt so much. Like screaming into a crackling microphone. "And I still love you."

The silence that followed was unbearable. It was suffocating you. So you moved. One step. Then another. As if the distance between you were a solo to be crossed. Each step weighed a ton. Each second was a cymbal suspended above the void.

And when your hand brushed his, it wasn't a touch. It was a confession.

Jake turned around. And that's when you saw him. Not the Jake of the tabloids. Not the rock icon. Not the mythologized lover, the adored nightmare. No. You saw him. The man. Tired. Worn out. His eye red from crying too much in silence. His mouth trembling from killing his words too often before they came out.

He looked at you the way you look at a song you loved and thought you'd forgotten—but which returns one evening, by surprise, and leaves you defenseless. And then he reached out. His fingers found your cheek. And there it was. All his tenderness. All his fear. All his humanity.

"Don't cry." His voice... his voice, it was a stolen demo. A voice you don't show to anyone. Fragile. Naked. And you, you collapsed inside. Not because you couldn't take it anymore. But because it was him. And it was you. Again.

Jake approached. Slowly. Like approaching a fire you've already been through. His hands rested on your waist. He held you tight. Tight. But not too tight. As if he was afraid you'd slip away. As if he was afraid he'd wake up.

“I didn’t blame you. Not really. I was just… free-falling. And it was easier to blame you than to look at me.” He closed his eyes, and his voice cracked. “You tried to save me, and I… sank your raft.” A laugh. Short. Bitter. Like a snapping rope. “I saw the article. I saw the apologies. But what I saw most was that you were still here.” He rested his forehead against yours. The gesture was violently intimate. A lipless kiss of the soul. “You were there. And you never really stopped trying.”

His tears fell, hot. Real. And when he breathed your name, it wasn't a plea. It was a muffled cry. A prayer. A goodbye he didn't want to let go.

“So… I’m sorry, baby.”

That word, that forbidden note, tore you open. You melted into his arms. And Jake caught you. As if he'd always known. As if he'd been waiting for this moment. As if, despite everything, this was it, the end of the song. Or maybe the beginning of a new verse. 

Your bodies, your regrets, your scars. Intertwined.

Two survivors of an emotional crash. Two broken voices trying to sing as one. In that kitchen, amidst the smell of cold bacon, burnt pancakes, and incandescent memories, there was nothing left to prove.

Nothing more to explain. There was only you. Two dissonant chords. Two unfinished choruses. Two hearts still beating, against all odds. And the sound it made might not have been pretty. But it was true.

And it was yours. Just the two of you.

The kiss exploded between you like a wild, distorted guitar solo, tearing through the air and souls alike. A dull, brutal explosion, a riff launched at full power, uncontrollable, where each note vibrated in your ribcage and shattered your defenses like ancient windows under a sledgehammer. 

Jake wasn't kissing you anymore—he was devouring you. His mouth was a hungry abyss, a burning amplifier spewing raging flames, engulfing your mouth in a furious pogo where every lick hit your throat like bass shattering the walls of your chest.

You were lost, engulfed in this burning assault, this sonic and carnal chaos. Where did you end? Where did it begin? 

His saliva—viscous, burning, insistent—flowed between your lips like a hot, red river. It mingled with yours, trickled in thick cascades onto your tongue, overflowed, escaped, slid over your trembling lips, trickled down your chin to end its indecent course, marking your skin in the valley between your breasts. Dirty, brutal, visceral—the very essence of your tension, distilled into a burning nectar that you drank without restraint, to the last drop.

Jake growled, that hoarse, primal sound, bordering on a bestial scream, a hungry whisper that made your fingertips tremble, fractured you from the inside out. His hand, strong and possessive, gripped your jaw, squeezing the skin like marking territory, like carving a song into marble, so you'd never escape. He tilted your head, imposing his rule like a stage leader imposing his rhythm on a trance-ridden crowd.

His bite fell on your tongue—firm, painful, electric—a cymbal crash that cracked the melody of your breathing. You thought your mouth would tear under his force, that your heart would explode in your chest saturated by the tension of this love struggle.

“Fuck… fuck, I love you,” he spat between wild kisses, his teeth tearing at your lower lip, drawing out a stream of hot blood that you would have drunk, thirsty, without hesitation.

You didn't answer.

Your mouth had become a battlefield, a warring territory where his violent tongue explored relentlessly, a theater where every sigh, every moan, was a note both painful and intoxicating.

You tugged at his hair, eliciting a hoarse growl—an animal warning, the promise of an even wilder storm—and he dove back in, deeper, shoving his tongue down your throat, crossing all forbidden boundaries, digging, delving, dominating like a relentless riff that refuses to stop, that embeds itself in your head and your body.

Jake loved you in that kiss. As much as it destroyed you. 

Then, without warning, you pulled away, panting, out of breath, your heart beating like a drum set unleashed in an explosion of sound. Your chest rose and fell, burning, saturated with an electric fever that consumed you from the inside out, your cheeks burning, damp with fine sweat and incandescent desire. A trickle of icy saliva still hung suspended between your lips, the last trace of an animal kiss—dirty, wet, visceral—a brutal release that had torn you apart and consumed you all at once, like a distorted guitar riff tearing through the night.

But Jake didn't let you walk away. His deep, incandescent black eyes stared at your silhouette like a spotlight on a burning stage. He watched you descend slowly, resolutely, to your knees before him, a submissive warrior ready to plunge into the savage arena he dominated.

Your hands trembled—between fear and excitement—but they were firm, hungry. They slid over the rough fabric of his sweatpants, feeling the raw heat radiating beneath your fingers, that pent-up tension ready to explode like a drum solo shattering the silence. Slowly, almost defiantly slow, you slid the fabric down, freeing his proud, red, and straining cock. It glistened in the dim light, splashed with a burning liquid, viscerally alive—a pulsing flame that rippled with the slightest stir.

Your gaze couldn't tear itself away from this weapon ready to devastate everything. There, planted like a red-hot nail, a vertical piercing—cold, hard, intrusive—crossed the glans, screeching against the skin with a wild promise. This jewel, this padlock, this silent defiance, was Jake's mark. A secret tattoo, a wild claim etched into his flesh.

You swallowed, your stomach tightening with a mixture of fascination and dark, almost forbidden desire. Your fingers brushed against the metal, tracing that cold line that electrified your skin, igniting a fire both burning and cruel. The contact awakened a torrent of emotions within you—curiosity, confusion, a thrill of anticipation that twisted your soul.

“Fuck, Jake… you got a fucking piercing in your dick.” Your voice, raspy, vibrant, vibrated like a distorted bass in a ballad heavy with tension.

Your hand slowly stroked the shaft, playing with the intrusive jewel that seemed to dominate his power, a cruel reminder that this body wasn't just his, but a prison and a fortress all at once. You felt the cold shaft rest against the burning skin, then the sticky liquid—hot, salty, thick—running and splashing against your hand, sticking you with a burning, raw moisture. This intimate nectar, this prelude to the storm, was the very essence of this brutal struggle between domination and surrender, pain and pleasure.

“It’s… so… hot.”

You looked up at him, capturing the fiery glint burning in his eyes, that mixture of childish embarrassment and bestial desire, a wild fire that made you grin like a predator with sharp fangs, ready to bite.

“It’s not just a jewel, baby.” His voice, deep, raspy, tore through the air like a distorted guitar riff, aggressive and furious. “It’s a fucking lock.” Suddenly, his fingers dug into your hair, gripping with a grip that sent a shiver of ecstasy and pain rippling down your spine. He pulled hard, cruel, precise, that perfect blend of dominance and violent caress, a cymbal crash that explodes sweetness. A hoarse growl ripped from his throat, primal and laden with threat as much as promise. “I mark what’s mine. And you… you’re mine.”

It's dirty.

Brutal.

Visceral.

Nothing sweet, nothing tender. Just you, kneeling on the cold wooden floor, your mouth half-open and your hands trembling with longing, expectation, and need. You look like an unholy prayer, a broken offering, an overly faithful groupie returning to sacrifice herself on the altar of her fallen idol. There's only him in your field of vision—Jake, the fallen king of your heart, the singer of your fall, the only one who knew how to capture you like a song you never forget.

You run your fingers up his thigh, like stroking the neck of an electric guitar ready to scream. Every vein beneath your palm pulses like a string stretched to breaking point. He's hard, warm, alive. You feel his tension vibrate through you. It's tense like a scream you haven't been able to stifle.

And you want him to scream. You want him to scream your name as he comes down your throat.

"I've always belonged to you," you breathe, your voice hoarse, almost broken, your throat tight with an overflow of memories, tears, and longing. And it's true. Even when you hated him. Even when he thought you'd betrayed him. Even when your article was published. Even when he left you. You already belonged to him. Body. Heart. Ashes.

Your hand grabs his cock, hard and swollen like a microphone hot from singing too much. You grip him tightly, as if you're going to scream through him, as if you're going to swallow all the music he's silently left you. You let your thumb stroke the underside, slowly, feeling the heat, the blood, the life. And then, your mouth moves closer. You don't kiss him right away. You make him wait. You look at him. You dominate him with your gaze, even though you're down there, even though you're naked, even though you're nothing but ruins at his feet.

Your tongue darts out. You lick the tip, slowly. You taste the salt of his desire, the metal of his piercing. You shudder. That fucking jewel. Still there. Insolent. Cold. A provocation between your lips. You do it again. Again. Again. The tip of your tongue circles the head, then you take it in your mouth, gently at first, and already you hear Jake growl—a low, raspy, dirty rumble. Like a bass riff in a grunge song too dirty for radio play.

And you open up. You open your mouth, your throat, your tears, your damn need.

You swallow him. Slowly at first. Then deeper. And deeper. You feel him shudder in your mouth. You feel his piercing scrape your throat. You moan, your eyes still fixed on his. You want him to see. You want him to look at what you've become without him: a creature on its knees, dirty, burning, devoured by a love too big, too ugly, too true. You want him to see your tears, even if they fall silently.

You keep sucking him, dirty, brutal, your saliva dripping down your chin. You drool over him like a woman possessed. Your tongue won't stop. You lick him, you eat him, you destroy him. Every thrust of your mouth is a confession. A silent scream. A fucking love song you scream on your knees.

He moans louder. He rocks his pelvis. He starts fucking your mouth. You let him. You open even wider. You want it all. You want to swallow him deep, until you choke. And you do. You gasp, but you don't pull back. You squeeze. He fucks your throat, brutally, like an animal. You don't care. You've already gone somewhere else. Into his arms. Into his voice. Into his pain.

"I belong to you too," he moans. It's brutal. Almost a scream. Almost a sob.

And then you crack.

You're really crying. One tear, then two. Your eyes are brimming without you knowing why. Too much love. Too much hate. Too much missing. You moan against his cock, and he feels it. He grunts, and fucks you harder. He pounds into your throat, and you clench, loosen, and start again. You want to finish him off. You want him to lose himself inside you like he always has.

You can taste his salty taste on your tongue. His precum. More and more. You keep licking him, sucking him, as if your mouth is the last stage where he can scream without being judged. Your hands slide to his hips. You cling to him. As if you're going to collapse. As if you're going to come just from sucking him.

You're soaked. Literally. Your thighs are sticky. Your sex is throbbing, wet, aching. You're crying from your throat and between your legs. You don't want to think anymore. You just want this. Him. Now.

“Fuck… baby, you take me so well.” Jake’s voice is a tightrope. Raspy, cracked like a distorted guitar solo, scratching at the eardrums and setting the nerves on edge. He’s not really talking to you. He’s panting, he’s moaning, he’s intoning something between a prayer and a punishment. The whisper of a man collapsing to his knees before what he no longer knows how to love except like this—violently. To the bone. On the verge of breaking.

His fingers dig into the back of your neck like claws. He pulls you toward him, harder, as if he wants to tear you away from yourself and reshape you around his cock. And you come. You come without resistance. Without shame. You come like a silent scream, your mouth open, your lips already swollen, ravaged by greed.

You swallow it. All the way down. You feel it hit your throat, brutally, savagely, without any tenderness. It's raw, dirty, direct. You gag. You choke. You hiccup. And yet you stay there, saliva dripping from your mouth like a visceral offering, tears already welling in your wide-open eyes.

You cry. And he gets harder.

Your tears. My God, your tears.

Jake drinks them in with his eyes like a thirsty man bleeding from the inside. There's nothing sadistic about it. Nothing calculated. It's worse. It's sincere. Almost sacred. He watches you suffer for him—to make him feel better—and he becomes sick with love, with hate, with fucking desire, with all the stuff that's always been beyond him.

“Look at me…” he growls, his voice cracking, his jaw clenched. You look at him. Your eyes are bright, misty, rimmed with wet lashes. You look like a fucking Madonna who would get her throat fucked instead of praying. A saint on her knees for a sin she wants to taste every last drop.

He pushes deeper, and your throat tightens. He lets out a hoarse scream, the kind he also lets out on stage when he explodes in the middle of a solo. This isn't just sex. This is a drum solo in a flooded garage at 3 a.m., using his guts as drumsticks.

He feels your tears falling onto his thighs, hot, salty, real. He feels your tongue sliding against him, even as you struggle to breathe. He feels your love in the back of your throat.

And it drives him crazy.

His hips slam against your face, the rhythm uneven, brutal, almost desperate. You hold onto his thighs to keep from falling. Your fingers dig into his skin. You scratch, you cling, you take. You take everything. As if he could save you by destroying you a little.

Jake trembles. Literally. Every thrust is a shot. He's barely holding back. The cold metal of his piercing slams against your hot throat with each thrust. You feel it. You endure it. You love it. A delicious torture, a filthy devotion. He penetrates you like you're tearing yourself away from pain, as if he wants to punish you for still being here, still so perfect, still on your knees for him.

And you answer him without words. You moan around his cock, throat choked, breath stolen, eyes drowned. He's there, inside you, whole, and he's never been more real.

"Fuck, look at you..." He gasps. "You've got tears falling on my skin and you keep sucking me like you were born to do it."

And maybe that's true. Maybe that's your role in this twisted story: crying for him where he can no longer cry. Loving him in your mouth, on your knees, while he breaks in the back of your throat.

His eyes shine. A tear falls from his lashes, silent, treacherous. He doesn't brush it away. He lets it flow. Like an offering to yours. A silent confession.

Jake pulls harder on your hair. Your head tilts, your neck exposed, tense, vulnerable. He pushes into you again, again, always, deeper. And this time, he closes his eyes. There's nothing else. Only you. Him. This scene, both pornographic and sacred. Your face ravaged, dripping, exposed.

And this fucking unbearable truth: he loves you like a wounded animal, and he knows you're the one who'll kill him.

But for now, he moans your name. He trembles. He explodes in your throat with a wild, desperate rasp. A storm in his mouth. An end-of-the-world sigh.

You stand there, throat burning, tears on your chin, and you swallow it all. Like a declaration. Like an oath. Like proof that love, true love, isn't sweet. It's not clean. It's not pretty. It's dirty. It's hurt. It's naked. It's raw.

And damn, that's why you stay.

“I need you, baby. On the bed. Now.” Jake’s voice growls. Not a command. Not a demand. A fucking growl. Like it’s not him speaking, but the beast beneath his skin. A beast with sharp fangs, a hunger he can no longer hide behind his tattoos, his music, or his rock star mask.

And when he pulls away from your mouth, slowly, you feel everything: the obscene elasticity of your saliva clinging to him, like a trail of still-hot lava between your swollen lips, and his veiny, hard, twitching cock. There's a taste of ash in your throat, a taste of his rage, and the bittersweet burn of having been used like an instrument. Like a fucking resonating chamber.

You don't speak. You can't. Your throat is stiff. Your knees, cold against the ground, are shaking. But you nod. Slowly. Like an offering. 

You get up, clumsily, as if after an earthquake. You slide your panties—soaked, almost transparent with shame—down your legs. They fall to the floor with a dull, crumpled thud. You don't even look at them. This fabric no longer belongs to you.

Jake, on the other hand, never takes his eyes off you. Not for a second. He looks at you like a starving man looks at a last meal after months of agony. As if he were going to tear you apart, empty you, love you to death.

He steps closer. Grabs you by the waist, pulls you to the floor. You slide onto the sheets, he arranges you just the way he wants, like a guitar before a solo. Your legs fall on either side of his hips, your back half-raised, your heart in turmoil.

"You're fucking wet..." Jake groans, low. Almost angry. Almost disgusted by how much you want him.

His thumbs dig into the tender flesh of your thighs, spreading you shamelessly, until you feel vulnerable, dirty, sacred. And then he dives in. Not like a lover. Not like a romantic guy who wants to “please.” No. Like a monster. Like a beast descended from hell, eager to taste the only thing that might calm him.

His tongue traces a first line���slow, bestial—along your pussy. You jump. Your back arches, your voice chokes. Jake continues. Lips parted, slobbering, he sucks you as if he wants to erase your thoughts. He grunts as he does so, that low vibration resonating deep in your stomach.

And you're already crying. Not because of the pain. Not because of the pleasure either. Because it's too much. Too intense. Too real. Because Jake is devouring you like you were made for this. To be broken under his mouth, to be drowned in this animal trance.

Your hands cling to the sheets. Your nails dig in.

"Jake..." you breathe, between tears, but he doesn't listen to you.

He licks again. He bites. He clicks his tongue against your clit, sucks it with sadistic slowness. You scream. You moan, you whimper, you almost bleed with emotion. And Jake, he smiles against you. He likes it. Your betraying body. Your hips moving on their own. Your clit beating like a heartbeat too fast. Your taste. Your cries.

He steps back a little. Looks down at you. He's as beautiful as a waterfall, as cruel as a guitar solo screamed in the rain.

"You've got tears on your cheek, baby..." he says, raspy, his lips wet. He runs his tongue down your thigh, slowly, watching you collapse. "You like that, huh? Being eaten until you cry?"

You nod, trembling, unable to lie for another second. Your naked body is there, offered, a saturated electric guitar, the strings ready to scream under the bite of the metal. Every inch of your skin is a charged filament, vibrating with raw tension, a wild fire that only he knows how to stoke. You are his chaos incarnate, his favorite disorder, the fucking muse who resonates in his storm. 

Jake doesn't come for a gentle ballad, a languid slow jam where the notes stretch out like a sigh. No. He bursts forth, he destroys the stage, he massacres the silence. His solo is a primal scream, a wild drumbeat that saturates the sound to the purest distortion.

Jake doesn't know tenderness. He knows rage, unbridled desire, the need to burn you whole. His lips slide over your skin with that restrained violence—they nibble, graze, tear like nails scratching the paint on an old electric guitar, the one that still bleeds after every riff.

But his lips don't set the pace. It's his fingers, his two fingers, wide, powerful, almost brutal. They plunge into you without warning, deep, without any gentleness, all the way to your palm. As if he wanted to open you up, to pierce you, to seize your soul as well as your flesh. No caress. Just an unleashing of carnal violence, a desire that isn't bothered by any gentleness.

You scream, a shrill cry that tears everything around you, a high note that bursts into the night. This scream becomes your loudest music, the one you can't hold back, even if you wanted to. And the tears... they fall, slow, betrayed, salty, sliding down your temple, splashing the damp pillow. They are pearls of your pain mixed with your pleasure, drops of a dirty, offered ecstasy.

Jake's raspy breath, his gritted teeth, the dark hunger burning in his eyes—all of it pushes you to the edge, pulls you apart like a drum ready to explode. You're nothing more than a burning sanctuary, an angry volcano ready to spit out your pain and your pleasure, to make you bleed and moan all at once.

His fingers move with infernal, relentless speed, hammering your body in a savage, uncompromising rhythm. You are the snare drum of his drum kit, struck, beaten, broken, vibrating under his domination. Your entire body is a pulse, a fractured beat, a magnificently cruel chaos.

Jake's mouth becomes omnipresent, a hungry beast devouring your quivering skin, tearing at the folds of your flesh, biting at your weakness. He licks, sucks, nibbles with the voracity of a man who hasn't eaten in days, as if plucking the invisible strings of your voice, shattering your screams into distorted pieces.

You are now nothing but a sound—a hoarse breath, a broken cry, a distorted note echoing in the heavy silence of an empty concert hall, abandoned to your fury.

“Cry for me… keep going.” His voice is a sharp blade, a razor gliding across your burning skin. “That’s it. You’re mine. My fucking tragedy.”

You cry, you scream, you moan. You have lost all sense of place, of time, of yourself. You are drowning in the storm he unleashes within you, in this chaos where pain and pleasure mingle mercilessly.

Then the orgasm arrives. Not like a gentle wave. Not like a sliding whisper. No. It's an explosion, a collapse, a total implosion that rips everything apart. Your body twists, tears, consumes itself beneath his ever-present fingers and mouth, merciless, relentless.

You were born for this—to be destroyed, consumed, savagely loved and devoured by Jake. But even at the height of your fall, he doesn't slow down. His tongue scoops up every drop of your juices, every salty tear, every hot ooze from your contracted sex. Jake licks you like drinking a delicious poison, a forbidden secret, a dirty, sweet truth.

Between two hoarse, panting moans, he murmurs:

“This is just the beginning, baby.” His voice is broken, cracked, like a singer who has just given it his all on stage, out of breath, exhausted. “I’m going to make you cry again. Again and again. Until you can’t take it anymore. Until you forget your own name.”

“Take me. Fuck me. Bleed me. But take me, please.”

Your breath is short, broken, charged with this visceral burning that devours you from the inside, this unregulated hunger that shakes your entire body, makes you vibrate like an overtightened guitar string, ready to break in a wild cry. Your clitoris beats, strong, furious, like an overheating engine, inflamed, incandescent, under your trembling fingers. Your pussy, wet, drips, a hot and thick river that flows slowly between your thighs, this shiny and heavy liquid that promises abandonment, fall, loss.

Jake sneers, that harsh, cruel laugh, like a distorted, sharp, raw riff. He hits your pussy with a hard, sharp, precise blow—a brutal smack that makes you jump, an electric shock, a thunderstorm that erupts and shakes you to the roots. Your juices splash against his chin, glistening in the pale reflection of the lamps, and he licks, slowly, with a demented greed, as if you were a black, toxic wine he'd drink down to the last drop. 

“Fuck, you’re disgusting, baby.” He growls, his voice deep and distorted, raspy like a bass rumbling in a concert hall. “You stink of lust, you stink of fucking filth.”

He slides his hand down to his cock, his bare skin glistening in the pale light, rubbing his head against your burning pussy. The burning contact electrifies you, makes you bend, bend again. Your breath quickens, breaks, you feel the cold metal of his piercing against your burning flesh, that cruel and delicious touch tearing your pain into thin strips of acidic pleasure. You bite your lip, holding back a hoarse moan that threatens to escape, to betray you. 

“You like that, huh?” His voice is a sharp whisper, almost mocking. “I knew you’d like it, you dirty little slut. You adore me.”

Jake hits you again, harder, more brutal. His cock bounces, hammering your pussy like a raging drum kit, wild, primal. The rhythm is wild, anarchic, like a guitar solo that races and carries you away into chaos. You moan, hoarse, desperate, completely lost in this tumult of emotions and sensations. Your body becomes the instrument of his violence and tenderness, the stage for a furious concert, and you, the groupie screaming in both pain and pleasure.

Then, without warning, he penetrates you. Dry, hard, tearing you apart with a violent blow, filling you with a tender, savage, and uncompromising brutality. You scream, a heart-rending, raw scream, that primal scream that tears you from yourself, pushes you to the brink of madness. 

Your eyes revolt, rolling back in their sockets as his cruel cock plunges into you, his fiery piercing savagely hitting your walls, making you cry out in pain and desire, like a whip of fire and steel. Every movement of that cold metal against your burning skin opens you, tears you open, expands you in a senseless explosion of pain and pleasure.

“Jake… it feels so good…” You let out his name in a shaky, almost pleading breath, clutching his arm like a lifeline in this destructive whirlwind.

Jake begins to thrust, long, deep, slow, and then brutal, pulling at your pussy like a rope stretched to the limit, each stroke tearing at your body and soul a little more. Your skin folds and tightens, stretching painfully around him, each movement a precise tear, a dull crack. 

You let yourself go, abandoned to these inner turmoil, moaning louder and louder, your voice rising in the echo of the room, rough, animal, marked by suffering and desire.

Jake tilts his head, fixing his black, incandescent gaze on yours. That gaze that marks, that demands, that burns everything in its path. He kisses your chin with a sharp gentleness, his tongue sliding, licking, sucking the fragile skin, then slowly descending to your neck, nibbling with a restrained, precise violence. Each bite is a signature, an indelible scratch on your skin, proof of his cruel and ardent possession.

But he doesn't slow down. His firm, relentless hand, clamped against your hip, holds you there, vulnerable, offered up, like a trophy to his fury. His thrusts intensify, wild, fast, merciless. His piercing slams against the inside of your pussy, each stroke a blade of fire, an electric shock that slowly consumes you, destroys you, rebuilds you. You are annihilated, overwhelmed, lost, invaded by a tide of pain, pleasure, filth, raw passion.

Tears roll down your cheeks, hot, salty, mixed with sweat and unbridled desire. These tears are not of sadness, but of that pure pain, that painful ecstasy that makes you waver, fall, slide between torture and ecstasy. 

You scream, moan, howl, over and over again, lost in the wildness of this moment. Jake crushes you, devours you, possesses you completely. In this electric night, to the wild rhythm of your hoarse breaths and brutal thrusts, you know you'll never want it to end.

"Fuck, I love you." Jake spits the words against your bare skin, his breath rasping, racked with the tension of a singer on the verge of exhaustion, a cry as hollow and broken as a guitar string about to snap, but still holding, burning, vibrant, wild. His acrid breath mixed with the raw smell of sweat and whiskey sticks to your skin, devours you.

His mouth presses into the burning hollow of your neck, and his teeth sink in—not a touch, no, a savage fang that tears at the fragile flesh with an almost bestial voracity. You feel the bite, the metallic taste of blood that invades his mouth as he slides his wet tongue over the wound. The contact is a cruel paradox: burning pain, an incendiary kiss. The trickle of hot blood flows in thick drops, a red trace that marks your skin like a torn score, scratched by madness.

Your scream bursts forth—not just a scream, but a wild, high-pitched, distorted howl that tears through the night and reverberates like the feedback of a raging electric guitar. Your throat burns, your voice cracks with the violence of ecstasy and pain mingled together. 

Your tears well up, hot and salty, falling in a disorderly rain on your trembling cheeks, splashing his hands that hold you. They flow in torrents, ardent witnesses to your exposed vulnerability, your total surrender.

Your sobs break into loud, violent, dissonant gasps, like a chopped, wild, uncontrollable bass riff, in a smoky cellar where bodies vibrate, feverish. This mixture of agony and pleasure devours you entirely, consumes you. The world disappears, only you remain, this tumult, this wild fusion.

Jake doesn't let go, savoring the raw taste of your bitten skin, the bloody bond he's carved into you. His tongue slides, soft and wet, caressing the wound, erasing the pain in a shower of burning, hungry kisses. It's the caress of a guitarist before he shatters his strings, the alternation of sweetness and violence, like a torn melody that haunts.

“I… love you too,” you whisper, fragile and torn, each word exploding between the hoarse moans that shake your body, a dissonant but vibrant chord, saturated with desire, need, dependence.

But there's no rest in this hellish concert. Jake accelerates, intensifies like a crazed drummer hammering his drums in a frantic, chaotic, hypnotic rhythm. His body moves inside you with animal precision, hammering your pussy with deep, brutal, relentless strokes. Each thrust resonates like a wild snare drum hit, a primal beat that both tears and fills.

Your pussy contracts, spasms, wraps itself around him with the violence of a raging bass, vibrating under the fingers of a mad master, in a trance. He pounds you, opens you up, stretches you relentlessly, tears you apart like a riff that races and explodes, without limit, with no way back. You feel every inch, every vibration that resonates in your flesh and your soul.

Then, with a sudden yet tender gesture, he grabs your hands, your wrists, and squeezes them tightly. His fingers intertwine with yours in a powerful, rhythmic, vibrant embrace, like the bass pulsing in a song that's accelerating, building toward climax. Slowly, he lifts your arms above your head, immobilizing you in this sweet captivity, this burning consent to the delicious violence, to the ecstatic pain that consumes you.

He finally kisses you, his lips pressed against yours, delicate at first, almost timid, then the kiss turns wild, a fierce battle between sweetness and rage, a bloody and magnificent battle. His thrusts become languid, almost painful in their intensity, a saturated, incandescent solo. His penetration is a wild symphony of pleasure and violence, each thrust more brutal than the last, making your whole body vibrate, tearing you away from yourself.

You cry. Not out of weakness—on the contrary—these tears are the visceral, raw translation of your ecstasy. They flow, salty, splashing the sweet brutality of this moment. Your sobs tremble in time with his blows, giving your kisses that raw taste, saturated with passion, sadness, possession, and absolute freedom.

You press your lips against his, timidly, as your pussy tightens around him with animal strength, a snake encircling its prey. Your head becomes heavy, foggy, drowned in an electric, sensual mist. Jake slides his tongue into your mouth, playing, teasing, fighting yours in a wild duel, a firework of unleashed emotions and desires.

Then, without warning, you explode—a violent, wrenching, sudden orgasm. You squirt, shaking, burning, your muscles contracting wildly, your body screaming silently into the night. Jake doesn't slow down; he pushes deeper, penetrating you to the very depths of your flesh, to that visceral, wild part of you that only true demons can reach.

Then it comes—long, powerful, a hot, cruel jet that fills you entirely, possessing you in this last act of savagery, this electric, carnal catharsis.

Jake finally stills, his heavy, raspy breaths caressing your burning skin, his loose hands falling on your tired hips. He kisses you tenderly on the forehead, like a leader reassuring his band after the chaos of a wild concert, that cruel gentleness of a man who knows he's left you scarred, broken, whole.

Then he captures your mouth in a deep kiss, sealing this night of brutal ecstasy, dirty love, and wild devotion—like the last note of a song that ends in a heartbreaking scream, a suspended breath, a silence laden with everything that has been burned, broken, given away… and perhaps, reclaimed.

𝘽𝙤𝙣𝙪𝙨 𝙎𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙚 — 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝘽𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙪𝙥 — 𝟭𝟬:𝟱𝟵 𝙋𝙈

The room was full of emptiness. The kind of emptiness that screamed silently, saturated with dried sweat, scents that never leave, and the ghost of his voice. Jake had been gone for weeks. A round. Lights, screams, other cities, other bodies that weren't yours. You were left here. Naked. Alone. Abandoned like a forgotten relic on its altar.

And his guitar, it sat there. Thrown carelessly against the scuffed leather chair. The same one he held like an extension of his body. The one he practically bit on stage, his mouth open as if he were going to swallow it. The one he clutched tighter than he'd clutched you lately.

You approached it like a poorly healed wound—drawn in spite of yourself. Your fingers brushed against the wood burned by tours, worn by adrenaline, arrogance, and sleepless nights. It still smelled of him. The varnish clung a little to your skin, impregnated with the salt of his palms, the heat of his chest, the blood of his concerts. You leaned forward, slowly, as if in a forbidden reverence, and your tongue slid over the edge of the splint. The taste hit you like a memory: iron, salt, sweat—and that dirty, animal smell, Jake's.

You moaned, all alone in the room, like a muffled note on a string. And without meaning to, your finger pressed down on a string. It vibrated. Sharp. Raw. It echoed through the room like a brutal scream, like a taunt. You smiled in spite of yourself. Jake would have given you a mocking look, the bastard. He would have hissed, “That’s not how you play my guitar, baby.” And he would have laughed. You would have hated him for getting you so worked up.

So you sat down slowly, careful to rest the guitar on its side, the strings facing you. You didn't want to break it. Just... use it. Just slide onto it like you would have slid against him. Your hips began to undulate. Slowly. Like a muffled riff. You rubbed your soaking wet sex against the guitar, the strings lightly scraping your skin, clawing at you with desire. The wood creaked beneath you. You moaned louder. You felt him everywhere. Jake. His shadow. His absence.

And you imagined it. His calloused fingers inside you, playing with the same brutality as on stage. His insolent tongue sliding over your stomach. His raspy voice in your ear: “You need me so much that you're playing my guitar, is that it?”

Your fingers gripped your breast. You pinched your nipples angrily. You almost thought you were him—possessive, hungry, animal. Every movement of your pelvis was dirtier than the last. The wood was soaked with you. And you didn't care. You even hoped he'd see it. Come in. Find you there, offered up on his fucking instrument like a demented groupie, like a lover who can't stand loving him anymore.

And Jake came home.

His dusty boots clatter against the floor like a hammer blow to your chest. He says nothing. He looks at you. A gaze that tears, that burns, that condemns. His body is tense like a rope ready to snap, every muscle charged with contained violence.

You feel his desire, his anger, his wild possessiveness, a whole universe of conflicting emotions that engulf you in an instant. You're trapped. Prey ready to be devoured.

He advances, fast, brutal. He rips the guitar from your hands like a piece of flesh. You don't even hear the sound of wood against the wall. All you feel is Jake's presence engulfing you.

His hands grip you, rough, greedy. He pulls you towards him, his breath against your skin like a whiplash. His teeth bite, his fingers tear, his tongue commands and insults.

You scream. You let yourself go. You become his instrument, his wild solo, his animal storm.

Every blow, every bite, every growl is a note in a symphony of violence and raw passion. You are both the stage and the audience, the fire and the ash.

You feel his cock against you, hard, pressing, demanding. He penetrates you with a bestial urgency, each thrust a declaration of war and love. You scream, clinging to him like a lifeline in an ocean of pain.

The walls echo with your screams, your fury, your wild embrace. The music is dead, but you are the noise, the dust, the chaos. A concert ending in an empty room where only the two of you remain, broken and perfect in your filth.

And when he comes, it's a final chord, a last breath before absolute silence.

You're wrecked. You're alive. You're his fucking muse.

PERM TAGLIST: @immelissaaa @rosepetals09 @zhangyi-johee @idkwiexist @aliceskzfan @zhangyi-johee @baifyjakeywifey @hoonsgirlie @cheesecakehoyeon @firstclassjaylee @enchantedcherryblossom @calumspengo @ii2sanrio @synielve @doraemon02

[atangledfate]

The sheep stepped forward to catch the wolf to make sure they didn't fall over or get hurt. Yet her eyes were on the outline of surge as she bolted away. She couldn't help but feel like it would matter more coming from her. To hear her side of that story, to feel that emotion coming from the victim. It felt wrong what happened to her and continued to happen to her.

" ... Damn it Surge... just once i wish i understood what was going through your head... "

She muttered before turning to the wolf.

" Wish i could tell you more about the Wisp, that i'm afraid is a story for Sonic to tell... or perhaps Mr. Prower... i'm as clueless as you are. I was in the command center when it appeared, but they seemed ot be helping Sonic so... that's always a good sign "

================================================

Sonic came to a screeching halt when Kit came closer and made his demand. On the one hand he was really afraid Surge might get angry at him for spilling the beans. Truth was the only one who knew everything was Whisper he only knew bits of it, but he supposed enough to tell him---still damn if he wasn't being put between a rock and a hard place here.

" You aren't making this easy on me are you? "

He said with a soft tone as he placed his head into his hand.

" Fine i'll be straight with you. I only know what Surge said and that wasn't much... she went to this place, and is getting her memories back or maybe she has them back. I don't know... Whisper knows more but she's with Tangle.. an probably will be for a while... "

" I figure she hopes seeing this place will do the same for you... and that's all i know... i've never been out here before... well passed by it maybe... but yea that's it that's all i know..."

===============================================

Miles crossed his arms and listened to blaze as he was glad to hear she had a limit of some kind. So phasing herself was maybe natural for her but having to phase things outside that was difficult maybe, even draining. Well it wasn't much of a weakness but it was something. If he had a scan of that ability up close maybe he could work out a way to counter it. But for now it was best they avoid a confrontation with this warrior.

" Belle i don't doubt you... or Belle Bot... your skills are incredible. I just worry that we are up against foes we don't know the full capabilities to yet... i just want someone three to... back you up... that's all"

He didn't want her to feel like he was coddling her, just that he didn't want her on her own just yet. Not until this mess blew over...

" But if Blaze thinks Odessa is the right call and doesn't mind her being away for awhile. Maybe its best if we keep her away from lupus in the time being... either way we should get you out of the base, and someplace off site for awhile. "

" I agree with miles even if its just until this blockade is over... i don't like that they wanted Belle ... it was so oddly specific and when i refused i could see the president was a little frustrated by it... i would feel better as well if someone was with you... "

"Me flapping my gums about my cry baby backstory ain't going to do anything. It's not like most people at The Restoration already know what happened with Starline, and I'm sure you'll get a lot of people telling other's once this shit is over and done with. Weather I want to or not, people are going to find out. I just don't care. I'm gonna do what I'm gonna do, regardless of what people think about me." Surge had her style and wasn't going to change it for anyone.

"You're talking to an avid G.U.N hater here so you don't gotta convince me of anything. Though I think I'd like to get a statement about the giant mega Wisp that was flying overhead earlier. If you know anything about that." He was one of the many that got spooked seeing that Wisp appear out of nowhere. At least they were friendly and moved the ship crashing down somewhere else. It still wasn't something he expected to see today.

"You have fun with that, I gotta go get arrest," Surge said, shoving the canine out of the way almost knocking him over as she stormed off. "Drippy is already off the base so no need to delay this shit anymore."

===========================================================

Kitsunami gets closer to Sonic. "Either you tell me the truth or I'm going back. I'm not asking for details, just if Surge got her memories back. I'm only trying to piece everything together." The fennec didn't want to be sheltered from the truth anymore, and even if he wasn't perfect he's gotten better at just blindly following what Surge tells him and making his own choices. This was one of those times.

===========================================================

"We won't have to worry about the one who assaulted Amy for the day. I'm unsure what fully happened, though I believe they overload themself with their ability to avoid my attack." Something that still irked Blaze as she would've stopped them from fleeing if they hadn't managed to phase the entire plane to prevent it from being damaged. "They were clearly struggling to keep their power in check after that."

"I'll be fine on my own Tails, though I think I'll just stay inside Belle-Bot until everything calms down. I haven't field tested it yet, though as I said, I did design it to hopefully stand against Metal Sonic." Belle wasn't going to go out of her way to find out, though if Metal Sonic caused problems and she was able to help she would.

"I'd say that all depends. It's a rare sight for me to see Odessa so angry, and this General Lupus got under her nerves rather swiftly. Best to avoid them interacting today if we can help it, least she attempt to challenge him." Blaze knew the reason why. Odessa having strong morals and need to protect the weak. Something G.U.N wasn't doing much of right now and they were one's who were supposed to do just that.

[timblriche]

How Will and Mike's first kiss could be directed to mirror their platonic-romantic tension and culminate in a romantic plot twist and "gotcha!" moment for the GA. Also, the narrative weight of hugs for Mike...

hear me out… it'd be a fantastic directing choice to maximize mike and will's platonic-romantic tension while preserving the 'mike likes will back' twist for the GA until the very last second by centering it around an intense platonic hug. (skip to the end if you just wanna read my rendition of their first kiss!)

like if instead of suddenly kissing, if during a big emotional moment they shared a super intense but innocent & initially platonic hug that lingered and grew until slowly morphing into a kiss, shocking the GA. a real hug is also what mike and will need so badly; even that is something mike denied himself in the airport scene bc he was already repressing how badly he wanted to hold will. so starting their first kiss with an intimate hug wouldn't just be romantic payoff, it would show how blurred the line between platonic and romantic feelings can be for mike and will. it'd be emotional catharsis, character resolution, and the moment mike finally stops running from the truth: starting with a simple hug (it'd validate mike's fear that a mere hug from will is the gateway drug to dangerous uncharted gay territory which would be kind of hilarious lmao). iirc the last time they shared a real hug was at the end of S3 when will moved and we got that scene of mike looking sadly and longingly at the car driving away, then the byers house, and then the shot of him devastated while getting a hug from his mom just like he did in S1 when he thought will died. and then we get that ridiculous ass half-hug at the airport in S4. so my point is, hugs carry a surprising amount of visual narrative weight when it comes to mike, the intensity of his feelings for will, and the blurred line between platonic and romantic.

let me set the scene... something crazy just happened, maybe one of them narrowly escaped certain death, maybe one just risked their own life to save the other, maybe one just did something super heroic to save everyone, OR maybe it's not even life or death but will just confessed his feelings after mike confronts him about the painting lie... and mike, in his shock at the sudden revelation, jumps to showing acceptance for will's sexuality but doesn't verbally reciprocate bc he's still figuring things out internally. it's at this point where will has already accepted that mike doesn't return his feelings, so he just accepts and values mike's platonic acceptance via a big platonic hug without expecting anything romantic, and the GA is like aww look at these besties being besties, they're the bestest of friends! of course mike doesn't reciprocate, he's just there to show will acceptance! platonically!

they're wrapped up in each other's arms with their heads tucked into each other's shoulders, feeling so much relief and closeness and maybe they're out of breath and tearful if they just escaped something life-or-death, and mike lifts his head a bit to whisper something into will's ear (e.g. "I thought I lost you") and he feels overwhelmed by all the platonic love he has for will... but wait... is it? platonic? why does the newfound knowledge of will's feelings for him stir something in his heart? why does this closeness he's been avoiding for so long feel so right and more importantly why does mike want more of it? and their faces slowly inch up each other's necks and get closer and closer together [tender, emotional music playing] and the GA's starting to panic a little bit and now their cheeks are pressed up and they're breathing heavily and the tension is unbearable and their eyes close (bc the momentum is unstoppable now, and all that’s left is to close their eyes and hold their breath and brace for the inevitable) and the corners of their mouths touch and they linger until slowly but surely succumbing to the pull of each other's gravity and GOTCHA! slowly falling into a kiss…………………. bro someone give me a director's chair on that set pleeeease

I took some inspo from willhelm and simon in young royals (willhelm faces a super similar internal crisis as mike):

[peachiejeongin]

Hello honey! Thank you for blessing us with your wonderful writing! You are the best!

Been in a bit crappy this week and a comforting channie fic where he gives all the cuddles and spoils the reader is definitely needed. So could I request a bang chan fic where the reader is feeling low but doesn't say anything but chan notices and without any confronting or questioning just takes the day to wrap his girlfriend up and just hold her tight and waits on her all day with cuddles, tea and chocolate to make her feel as loved as comforted as possible and the next few days when she finally perks up he SPOILS her even more so (because let's be honestly chan would ruin you all the time with surprises and gifts etc) like you turn up to work and have a massive delivery of your favourite flowers and come home to millions of candles and a bath running and a brand new pair of expensive gift wrapped silk pjs on the bed etc and of course more cuddles from channie ❤️

Wrap You in My Arms (and Everything Else Too) | Bang Chan

Pairing: Bang Chan x reader Genre: Fluff, Comfort, Established Relationship Warnings: Mentioned of stress Notice: Hello, my love! Thank you so much for your request!! I am so sorry you had a rough week :( I hope this story can cheer you up! I am such a sucker for Chan cuddle/comfort fics, so please enjoy! word count: 1.2K

Life was too much.

Anything that could go wrong this week, went wrong.

From little mistakes at work that you would never make under normal circumstances, to family drama, and even quarrels between friends that you found yourself in the middle of, life would not stop when you so desperately needed to.

The worst part was you had not said anything about it.

You were too afraid to do so.

Afraid that bringing it up to anyone would be a hindrance to them, or that it would overwhelm you as every event of the week would implant itself back onto your brain.

Thus, you stayed silent. Unusually silent.

And Chan noticed.

He noticed when the smile you gave him in the morning was half-assed. He noticed when you skipped your morning coffee, choosing to instead indulge in the tiredness you were swiftly becoming accustomed to. Most importantly, he noticed how you chose to spend most of your off-days curled up in your bed or on the couch, lost in some video on your phone or sleeping the day away.

This was not you.

And he knew that.

He always knew that.

Thus, he made it his mission to make you feel better.

The first night of his plan, he found you on the couch, once again, curled up into a ball as you focused too intently on the television. He took matters into his own hands, curling up beside you and wrapping you tightly in his arms.

“Channie?” you mumbled, voice worn from exhaustion.

“Shh,” he hushed gently, holding you close to his chest. “Just let me take care of you, baby.”

You nodded into his shoulder, circling your arms around his waist tightly, and melting away all of your worries into the snuggle.

There were no questions.

No protest.

Just you and Channie, wrapped up in each other.

The next few days continued like this.

You started and ended your days with a nice, long cuddle from Bang Chan. In the mornings he had to leave early for practice and could not snuggle you, he would leave you a mug filled with your favorite kind of tea. Similarly, at the end of the night when you came home from work and he was not able to be there, your favorite chocolates would be on your nightstand, along with dinner already cooked or ordered on the kitchen table. In all instances, a handwritten note would lay right next to the affectionate gift with a loving message.

“I love you so much, baby!”

“You’re so strong! Take on today!”

“You’ve got this, love!”

For the first time in days, you felt a smile on your lips whenever you read his notes, whenever you ate dinner, or whenever you would be tightly content in his arms.

On the days and nights Chan was present, you were even more spoiled, if that was possible.

He would practically wait on you hand on foot, catering to your every need and want. You had errands to run? He would run them for you, and he would pick you up a gift on the way home. You wanted takeout? He was getting you takeout. You wanted to sleep in all day? He was right beside you, basically as your human pillow.

Throughout the day, lighthearted giggles would be shared, half-serious pick-up lines would be cracked to make you smile, and kisses would be brushed against your forehead when Chan thought you had dozed off.

When you would crawl into bed at night, wrapped comfortably in his hoodie and still lightly sipping on your tea, Chan would pull you right back into his arms, rubbing your back gently as he soothed your stress of the day.

“I love you so much,” he would whisper into your ear. “Please never forget that.”

Then the next few days came, and something shifted.

You were smiling again, heartedly laughing at Chan’s cheesy jokes, and drinking your morning coffee like it was a lifesafer.

You were back, and though he never directly mentioned it, you could see in Chan’s eyes that he was relieved, proud to have his baby back.

And in typical Chan fashion, he did not just notice your returning glow.

He celebrated it.

For instance, that Thursday morning as you showed up to work, a large, blooming bouquet of flowers was placed right beside your desk, almost making you trip over them. A note came with it:

“I’m so proud of you baby. Your smile is blooming again <3 - Chris”

Your face was still flushed when you walked through the door that night, smiling ear to ear as you brought in the lovely bouquets of flowers and set them all over the tables around the house.

Well, tried to, at least.

Every table you attempted to set the flowers on had a candle upon it, making the apartment smell of cinnamon and spice. The candles led to the bathroom, some in the corners of the hallway; you settled for setting the flowers in an empty spot on the floor, figuring to worry about it later.

You followed the path of candles, directly to the bathroom. Your breath caught in your throat as you saw Chan standing in the doorway.

“Hey, beautiful,” Chan greeted softly.

“What have you done?” you asked in a tone that was a mix of cheeky and adoration.

“My way of making your hard week a little better,” he explained, looping his arms around your waist.

“Chan, you have already made this week so much better,” you lightly told him. “What more could you possibly do?”

“Hm, not much I guess,” he faux shrugged. “Just, y’know, this.”

He stepped out of the way and revealed the sight of the bathroom to you: a warm bath was running, the scent of lavender soap filling the air, rose petals adorning the water, with a snack tray set just to the edge of the bath with a glass of chilled water and a book you had mentioned wanting to read weeks ago.

You turned to Chan, eyes glassy in awe.

“Channie,” you whispered.

He just kissed your forehead.

“Enjoy, baby,” he whispered. “And by the way…” He took your hand, leading you to your shared bedroom just nearby and flicking on the slight.

“You’ve got these to change into when you’re done,” he said, handing you a shopping bag. You took it, giving Chan a brief, ‘what on earth did you buy me’ look. As you took out the tissue paper in the bag, you nearly gasped.

A pair of beautiful, silk pajamas lay in the bag, neatly folded in your favorite color.

“You—” You could not speak, mouth agape. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Well, if spoiling my baby during a hard week is unbelievable then so be it,” he responded with a giggle. 

You sat the bag down on the bed, coming closer to Chan and hugging him tightly.

“Thank you,” you softly said. “You have turned an awful week into something amazing.”

“Don’t thank me,” Chan replied, tightly hugging you back. “It’s my job to make you feel better.”

He pulled away just enough to kiss your lips, soft, gentle, and passionate.

“Now,” he continued. “Get to your bath before the tub overflows.”

You laughed, immediately doing as you were told.

After your long, relaxing soak with a good book and good snacks, as you lay in Chan’s arms, wrapped in the silk pajamas, eyes fluttering shut, your mind could finally rest, knowing Chan was your safety net ready to catch you when you fell in life.

And you were so, so lucky to have your safety net.

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀꜱ ʙʏ: @ᴀquazero

🏷️@amararosesblog @velvetmoonlght @amarecerasus (dm/inbox to be added!)

[ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ? ᴅʀᴏᴘ ᴀ ʟɪᴋᴇ, ᴀ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢ, ᴀɴᴅ/ᴏʀ ᴀ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ!]

[quinnsdesk]

QUINN DOES TIM GET JEALOUS? maybe more in a protective and possessive way OOOO

Ahhhh yes yes yes I love this!

I'm thinking Tim definitely gets jealous, while you're his patrol partner it's totally protective but when you're finally his AH HE'S SO POSSESIVE!

all x fem!reader || mdni under the cut ✭

Before you two start dating:

✭ Tim Bradford definitely gets jealous, but not in the obvious way. Not at first. While you're just his patrol partner, it manifests as protectiveness. He's territorial about your safety, your reputation, and your performance. He says it's just because you're a fellow officer, just part of the job, but it’s more than that.

✭ I can totally imagine him, when he was your T.O, not liking it when other officers call you “boot” like they own the word. He gets weirdly stiff when you share inside jokes with anyone else.

✭ If another cop tries to flirt with you at roll call, Tim's standing closer than usual, shoulder brushing yours, cutting in before the conversation can go anywhere. "It's called professionalism," he says when you tease him about it later. "You're my responsibility out there."

✭ Oh and when you're on patrol and a drunken civilian makes a comment about how he's always had a thing for ladies in uniform? "Damn, girl, I never knew cops could be so sexy." Tim lights up in flames, internally. "Watch it." He demands before positioning himself between you and the suspect in a protective manner. "It's not 'girl'. It's officer to you." He barks before cuffing the man and being a little too rough when putting him in the shop.

✭ When Nyla and Angela finally notices how Tim gives Aaron death stares as you and Aaron talk about the latest ClipTalk trend they confront him. "I don't know what you're talking about. I look out for all my rookies like this. Even though she's P2 now." Man is lying through his teeth; he's never done such.

✭ And when he's really pissed, he'll channel out all his frustrations in the shower. Tim's got a large ego, so he can't help himself but to run his hand over his hard length imagining you and your wide, beautiful eyes. You're in the bathroom of the bar, your "date" only a few feet away, as you take his cock like the perfect girl you are. Only for Tim to open his eyes to be disappointed once he cums in his fist, he misses your touch.

✭ When you're in interrogation, a guy who may be connected to Elijah Stone can't help but glance down at your chest every once in a while, before asking for a glass of water. You happily leave, leaving Tim and the suspect alone in the room. "When she gets back you better talk to me and not her chest, or else I'll cut your eyes out and feed them to my dog, Kojo." The man is understandably terrified.

✭ I see him never letting you approach a hostile suspect alone. "Tim, I'm not your rookie anymore." You whine in protest, "I don't care, stay behind me." His voice deep, a raspy, sending shivers down your spine.

✭ Tim absolutely hates it if anyone, even Grey, raises their voice at you. A detective was just about to chew you out for not firing your weapon at an unarmed suspect who in turn got away. "Hey! You got a problem with my partner? She did her job the way I trained her, so if you got a problem with her, you got a problem with me." The detective shuts up leaving both you and Tim in an awkward silence.

✭ If you're searching an apartment and the suspect checks you out. Tim will wait for you to leave the room before grabbing the guy's collar. "I will blow your fucking brains out. Try me." Before letting him go and waiting 2 minutes before turning his body cam back on.

✭ "Who's that?" He asks pointing to your date who's picking you up at the station. "Oh that's just Jake, my date." You smile watching the hair on the back of Tim's neck stand up. He waits for you to go clock out before walking over to him, gripping his hand a little too hard when he goes for a shake. "Take care of her. I don't want to have to console her when they take you away in a body bag." The man gulps as Tim smiles before you walk back and say goodbye to him.

✭ "Officer Pretty." The words clung to Tim's thoughts like a leech as you bandaged his knuckles, "You really need to start boxing with gloves." You chuckled, of course he felt bad for lying to you, but you can't know how he puts he career at risk every day when a suspect calls you hot.

When you guys are finally together:

✭ Tim sees a guy look at you too long at a bar and suddenly his arm is around your waist, voice low in your ear: “You want me to handle that or are you gonna smile and let him keep staring?” You smile at him teasingly before he grabs your jaw and pulls you in for a deep and possessive kiss right in the middle of the bar, making the man's mouth go dry.

✭ The phrase “You’re mine” gets a lot more airtime when he’s feeling jealous. It’s not even meant to be sexy sometimes, it’s territorial. "I was wondering if I could get your number?" A rookie from another division asks. Tim walks over, his metro shirt clinging to his chest, "She's got my number and that's all she needs." He barks before giving the rookie his signature death glare. "You know you don't need to be so possessive over me?" You kiss him on the cheek. "Everyone is this station needs to know who you belong to."

✭ No more then 5 minutes later he has you bent over his desk in his office, the sweet squelching noises of your pussy making you whine as he rams himself into you. "That clown thinks he can make you feel this good? Tell me who you belong to." He grunts with each thrust. "Yo- You Seargeant Bradford." You gasp as a sharp stinging sensation forms on your ass cheek. "That's right. You're mine, pretty girl."

✭ Tim will see you talking to other male officers, but he wouldn't mind. Knowing that your panties are in his pocket will give him a peace of mind. He knows you're uncomfortable, your thighs are sticky, leaking of his cum but he loves it. You glance over to him watching his hand remain in his pocket, fiddling with the fragile fabric before running that exact hand over his face. You knew what he was doing. Reminding you who you belong to. That fucker.

✭ Oh he gets so pissy when you call another guy handsome even as a joke. "Can he fuck you like I do? Huh?" He groans into your neck with each thrust, "Fuck you so good, you can't even form a coherent reply." He mocks as you whimper. He places your hand on your lower belly where you feel his cock ramming in and out of you. "Feel that? That's me baby, not him." He spits before speeding up.

✭ Imagine you spotted your ex at the precinct’s fundraiser. It was harmless, just small talk. But the second Tim noticed, you felt his energy shift across the room. His jaw clenched, drink forgotten on the nearest table as he stalked over like he owned the place. “Hey,” your ex said, smiling politely. “Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.” Before you could reply, a hand found the small of your back. “She is,” Tim said, stepping up beside you. His voice was calm, but cool enough to make someone freeze. “With me.” Your ex extended a hand. “Tim, right? Good to finally meet you.” Tim didn't take it, he just looked at him. You tried to cut the tension. “We were just catching up. It’s not a big deal.” Tim didn’t take his eyes off him. “No, of course not." Tim smiles, but it's not genuine, it's cocky, egotistical, rude even. Your ex coughed awkwardly. “Right. Uh… well, good seeing you." As he walked away, Tim leaned in, voice low against your ear. “He doesn’t get to look at you like that anymore.”

@sleepymissy @whatasadlittlelife @jessewesmitchellfan @w1ldf1owers @winchestersbgirl @vinos-things

[nellie-elizabeth]

This was the first full episode of the show I watched, and I'm really excited to get back to it as I watch through chronologically! What I was so impressed by in the whole episode was the details of their intimacy, the cleverness and subtlety of the writing. Like, not to over-explain what's happening in this moment, but I kinda want to break this down.

Starsky says "You got any plans after this is over?" and the premise of the banter, as it were, is that he's making "small talk," saying the same kind of thing he might say casually at work, akin to "what are you up to this weekend."

And Hutch, he matches his energy but he tosses the ball directly back to Starsky to hit the punchline. He doesn't answer the question with a jokey fake small talk answer. Instead he says "it's up to you."

Which works on like, so many different levels for me? For one, it's Hutch just being sweet, telling Starsky that his plans are with Starsky, whatever they are. He could have deflected, but he affirms that he wants to spend his free time with Starsky. For another, he's implicitly referencing the fact that being here in this restaurant where things have gone so catastrophically wrong, was Starsky's idea, and affirming that he'd still defer to him to make plans. And then on the more serious level underneath the premise of the joke, Hutch is serious: what happens after this is wholly dependent on if Starsky is okay or not. If he makes it through this, if they both make it through this. Hutch's plans, both immediate and long-term, are completely up to Starsky in a very real sense.

And then Starsky hits us with the Butch & Sundance reference, which, you know, famously queer coded, along with being a response to Hutch's statement: Starsky, too, plans on doing whatever comes next with Hutch. The plans they make, they make together. And Hutch gives the sweetest little laugh, such open affection on his face! Starsky makes jokes because it's his only way of taking care of his partner when he's in this vulnerable state, and Hutch is being so terribly gentle with Starsky while still participating in their back-and-forth. If the banter stops, that's the sign that things are actually dire.

The bit at the end of this episode when Starsky makes a joke about Hutch getting his teeth capped, and then retracts the joke just before Hutch goes out to confront the armed baddies alone, is a good continuation of the rhythm they have going on in this ep. They keep things light and superficial in order to keep each other calm, but by the end of this episode shit is dire enough that Starsky can't keep the banter going.

When I first watched this episode, I didn't know these characters yet. I was (and am) still so new to the show. But even on that first viewing I remember being impressed by the economy of storytelling and relationship building that was happening in little moments like this. The whole show is built out of scenes between the two leads that work this way, multi-layered and performed with an impressive amount of subtlety and power. Obviously it's the domain of fandom to overthink the media we consume, to pick at little moments and dissect them beyond any possible intended meaning. But this show... man, it holds up under that scrutiny, in so many ways big and small.

[liesandspookyfairytales]

Saviors in Shadows

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

Pairing: Poly 141 x Black Widow!reader Word count: 2.8k A/N: I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. The transition to the smutty part sucks lol. And this is the first time I'm writing smut that actually makes sense and is in story form, instead of headcanons.

Contains smut!!! MDNI!!! 18+ content!!!

Comments, likes and reposts are greatly encouraged and appreciated!

The next few months were… confusing. I noticed that mostly Soap and Gaz, but captain Price and even Ghost would make these kinds of flirty comments. Soap started with his ‘shopping for lingerie comments’ (which caused him to get hit multiple times by the others). I admit, I’d lost my cool with him after a few times. I confronted him, asking him what the hell he was doing, why was he flirting with me when he had three loving partners. He’d just grinned and told me that they knew he was flirting with me, that I just had to wait and see. 

I didn’t understand at first. Until Gaz sat next to me, close enough to touch. I stared at him, confused and wary, but he just winked at me, telling me that I looked lonely. After that

every time Gaz would sit next to me he’d make sure we’d touch. The captain was much more subtle. He’d join me in the rec room to do his paperwork, instead of doing it in his office, or when I mentioned that I liked the caramel ice cream that Soap always scarfed down, he’d gotten me a mini freezer for my room, where I could store my own tub, without worrying that Soap would steal it all.

Ghost was the most confusing. He only got close to me during training. I often ended up on my back, with him between my thighs. I could feel his breath through his mask, how his touch lingered and how his eyes locked onto mine.

It all came onto a head during our latest mission. We’d been sent somewhere in Marokko to track down a weapons trader working for a terrorist. I was absolutely done with the mission two days in. To say that heat and desert weren’t my thing, was putting it mildly. 

We’d spend the day scouting the area for the target. It had been going well, as well as spending the entire day in the scorching sun without sunblock could go well. Gaz and Soap had been messing around, their boredom getting the better of them after Soap’s insistent whining. The two had started with playing Simon says, but quit after the lieutenant's creative threats. They went on to play this or that, before Soap remembered he’d brought a pack of playing cards. So they were currently playing poker. Not the strip poker version, much to Soap’s disappointment. 

Price had eventually told me to join the two sergeants, insisting that he and Ghost could manage on their own for a bit.

Playing with them was amusing, to say the least. Gaz had a relatively good poker face and was good at bluffing. Soap was good too, but he was way too suspicious of me and Gaz, constantly grumbling about cheating after he lost a few too many rounds.

The last round was the most amusing. Gaz had folded, so it was between Soap and myself. I’d held my cards, smirking at Soap, who wanted to raise the stakes. “Are you sure?” I’d asked. Soap huffed, saying I couldn’t psych him out. I’d laughed, “I’m not trying to psych you out, just want to make sure you really want to do that.” He’d just glared at me and in the end, I won.

Soap immediately wanted to start another round, before Price called out that they saw the target. The three of us quickly sprung into action, switching back to the military mindset. It turned out that it was the target we were looking for. We’d quickly moved to kill the target, before all hell broke loose.

It had been chaotic. People shouting, guns firing, bombs exploding (no doubt thanks to Soap). I had been closest to the target, so I ended up taking him out. I was making my way through his followers, before putting a bullet between his eyes. I’d heard the guys finishing off the others, before silence fell. The only thing I could hear was my own panting and the ringing in my ears.

I hadn’t registered Price talking to me and I jumped when his hand landed on my shoulder. The sudden movement caused searing pain in my side and when I looked down, I saw a knife sticking out just under my vest. Gaz quickly pushed past the captain and guided me to sit down, before pulling out his medical supplies. I barely felt it as he cleaned and stitched the wound, only looking up when he held out a little bag of candy.

“For your blood sugar,” he explained. He opened the bag and picked out a few sweetheart candies. I’d looked at the message on the little heart, ‘I’m Yours’. After popping the candy in my mouth, Price told us we had to move to a secure location.

On the drive back to the safehouse Soap had stolen the bag of candy, sorting through them to look for the ‘right one’. After muttering ‘not that one’ and putting it back, he gave me three more candies. Each had a different message. ‘Be Mine’, “Kiss Me’ and ‘Let’s Get Busy’. He had smirked the entire way back.

I groaned as I lowered myself onto the ratty bed, careful of my injury and watch as the guys bring in their gear while Price is on comms with Laswell. The captain sighed as he walked in, “bad news, exfil can’t be here for another twelve hours.” I sighed and Soap started complaining while pouting. Gaz snickered, telling him he looked like a grumpy toddler. Soap cried out in outrage, before launching at Gaz. I huffed out a laugh, before settling in for a nap. The bickering in the background was oddly soothing and I quickly fell asleep.

-

I wake up to quiet murmuring. Opening one eye, I see Price pacing up and down the studio. Soap sits on the couch, his leg bouncing. Gaz sits next to him and Ghost looks like he stands guard, keeping an eye on our surroundings. “We just gotta tell ‘er,” says Soap. Gaz huffs, “you want to tell the woman who finally has some freedom for the first time of her life that you think you love her?” “Well, yeah and dinnae act like the three of ye dinnae feel the same.” “You’re planning to tell her that four people are in love with her, she’s gonna freak out,” says Ghost. 

“Maybe you should let her decide if she’s gonna freak out,” I say. The guys stiffen and turn to look at me. “Well, are ye going tae freak out?” asks Soap, looking unsure. I hum, thinking for a few seconds. “No.”

Soap’s eyes widen, “wait, really? You’re not freaked out by it?” I nod, “you told me to wait and see, right? Well, I waited and I saw.” I sit up, wincing at the pain in my side. Gaz immediately comes over to support me. I hum, feeling the warmth of his hand seep through my clothes. It takes the attention away from the intense eyes on me.

“So I can kiss you?” asks Soap, grinning while he tilts his head. “Soap” warns Price. “Don’t overwhelm her, we don’t want to rush her-” “Yes,” I interrupt the captain. Soap inhales sharply, before crossing the small space in a few strides and kneeling a leg on the bed. He lowers his head, his lips only an inch from mine. “Are you sure?” he asks. I just roll my eyes and grab him by the neck before slotting my lips over his. I hear him groan as he relaxes in my grasp, a groan echoed by Gaz, who has front row seats to our kiss.

Soap moves to sit on the bed without releasing me. He wraps his hands around my waist before gently tugging me into his lap. I follow his directions, feeling the heat of Gaz’s hand leave my back. I settle my knees on either side of his thighs. Soap slowly gets bolder, moving his lips over my own, nipping with his teeth. Eventually he lets go to suck in a deep breath.

“We can’t do this,” says Price. I turn to look at him, “why not?” He shakes his head, “this is just the adrenaline talking, you’re going to regret this when we get back to base.” I shrug, “maybe I will regret it, but that’s a problem for the future, not for now.” Price still looks hesitant. “Please,” I add. He groans before slotting himself against my back and fisting his hand in Soap’s hair. “Well sergeant? She said please.” Then he kisses me.

Soap moves to kiss my neck while Price takes his time kissing me. It’s vastly different from how Soap kissed me. Where Soap was like a raging fire, Price was water, smooth, it felt like I could drown in him.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Ghost pulling Gaz with him to sit against the headboard. The sergeant's lips attached to the lieutenant's neck. He still wears his mask, but I can see his blown pupils. In the meantime, Soap’s hands slide down my waist, brushing over the bandage, before settling on the waistband of my pants. I grind my hips down on his, wanting to see his reaction. He groans and I feel the vibrations running down my neck, causing a moan to slip past my lips, only to be swallowed by Price.

I pull back from the man, before turning to look at Soap, who looks positively delicious with his eyes blown, neck stiff from how Price’s grip on his hair. “Are you going to take my clothes off, sergeant?” I ask. He groans, before quickly turning us both around, laying me on my back while being careful of my injury. He makes quick work of taking off my clothes, leaving me naked. After throwing my clothes on the ground, he sits back on his legs, hovering over me and taking in every inch of skin.

I see Price moving behind Soap, pressing himself against his back and moving his hand to fist Soap’s cock through his pants. Soap groans, throwing his head back onto Price’s shoulder. The captain hums, before opening the sergeant’s pants, tugging them down and pulling out his cock. Gaz moves beside me, leaning over me to roll my nipples between his fingers and giving me a quick kiss. Then he moves down my body. I open my legs, desperate for some friction, but he ignores me, closing his mouth over Soap’s cock instead, only stopping when his lips hit Price’s hand. I watch as he moves his head, groaning at the taste of precum.

I whimper, trying to get their attention, to get anything. Turning my head, I look at Ghost, who’s still seated against the headboard. While he’s still in full uniform, I can see the fiery red hickies lining his neck. I’m about to reach out for him, when I feel a hand on my clit, applying steady pressure while moving in circles. My head falls back and I trace the hand up to Price. He winks at me, before pulling Gaz off of Soap’s cock and pushing him towards my pussy. “Give some attention to the lady, yeah?” Soap whines at the loss of Gaz’s mouth, but chokes when Price starts moving his hand.

I’m enamoured by the sight before me, but get distracted when I feel Gaz press hot kisses against my inner thighs. I move my hips, trying to get him where I want, but he just grins at me, placing little kitten licks on my thighs. He manoeuvres his head, ducking under Price’s hand that’s still rubbing my clit, to lick my core.

I moan out for him, new to the feeling. I’m no stranger to pleasure, but I’ve never received it from someone other than myself. Gaz starts to eat me out like he’s a man starved and my eyes roll to the back of my head. With how pent up I am from the lack of orgasms, it doesn’t take long for me to come, pleasure wracking my body. Soap comes quickly after that too, his cum splattering on my stomach. Gaz quickly detaches from my pussy to lick his boyfriends cum off of my body.

I lay on the bed, panting, when Ghost speaks up, “come here,” he orders me, holding out a gloved hand for me to take. I look at him, before obeying. I take his hand and let him tug me to him. He settles me between his spread legs, making me lay down on his chest, my head on his shoulder. 

He tugs his mask up and I turn to look at him. He quickly grabs my jaw and turns my face away from him. I whine in protest and he nips at my neck in punishment, before he mouths the tender spot behind my ear. His mouth feels rugged, it’s like he has rough scars on his cheeks. He successfully distracts me from the others, letting me bask in the post orgasm glow.

But it doesn’t take long before he gestures toward Soap to come forward. The Scot eagerly settles between my legs looking down at me with puppy-like eyes. Ghost’s gloved hand comes up to tug Soap down, slotting their mouths together, his other hand still on my jaw, not letting me see. “Take my glove off,” he orders Soap, holding up his hand. Soap grins, before opening his mouth. He takes one of Ghost’s gloved fingers in his mouth, gently biting down and tugging on the glove, before moving onto the next finger. I watch him with wide eyes, my heart beating wildly, my breath coming out in pants.

As soon as Soap tugs the glove off with his mouth, Ghost’s hand is on my clit. He softly teases the bundle of nerves, before dipping his finger in my folds. I groan at the intrusion, pushing my chest up, only for Soap to latch his mouth onto my nipple. Ghost’s finger is thick, more than I’m used to. He pumps in and out of my pussy, before adding another. My head rolls to the side and I see Price in a similar position to Ghost, holding Gaz against his chest like the lieutenant does to me. The captain has his fist wrapped around the sergeant’s cock, moving at the same pace as Ghost’s fingers inside me.

My eyes move to Gaz, amazed by how pretty he looks. Soap, clearly not happy with the lack of attention, bites down on my nipple, before smoothing it over with his tongue. I hiss, fisting my hand in his hair, janking him back to glare at him. 

I want to lash out at him, reprimand him, when Ghost adds a third finger in my pussy. He lets go of my jaw, telling me to keep it in place, before wrapping his hand around Soap’s neck. “God, you can’t even behave when there’s a pretty woman beneath you can you?” he sneers. “Like a goddamn animal.” I stiffen, shocked by his words, but Soap only moans, hardening even further against my thigh.

“Is that what you want?” asks Ghost, pulling his fingers out of me, “ to fuck her like the dog you are?” Soap nods eagerly, yeses and pleases falling from his lips. Ghost hums, “go on then.” Soap moves quicker than lightning and presses his cock to my pussy. I cry out at the intrusion, and Soap stills, pressing apologetic kisses on my face. I take some time to catch my breath and get used to the feeling of a cock inside of me.

Once I give an experimental roll of my hips, Soap begins to move. He pulls out almost completely, before pushing back in, before pulling out again. The feeling of his cock dragging inside my pussy feels amazing. I hear a high pitched whine and realize it comes from Soap. He looks utterly blissed out. Groaning and whimpering, before burying his head in my neck. I wrap my arms around his neck and drag my nails along his back, leaving red marks. Soap’s hips stutter against my own, before he pushes in deep. I cry out at the new feeling. Before Soap can move again, Ghost grabs his hips. “Right there, sergeant,” he orders.

Soap obeys and continues hitting that one delicious spot. I quickly feel an orgasm rising again. “I-I’m close,” I whine. Ghost hums behind me, “that right, sweet girl?” I nod frantically and he lowers his hand back to my clit, applying steady pressure. “Come then, come for us,” he rasps in my ear.

I cry out, pleasure wrecking through my body as I clench down on Soap, causing him to cum with a hoarse shout. The Scot sags down on me, still working around the wound, which has started to ache. Next to me, I hear Gaz moan loudly as well as he cums too.

I faintly hear someone get up, before the tap runs. The person returns with a wet rag, cleaning me up, before tending to Soap and Gaz. As Soap pulls out, I let out a deep sigh and nestle deeper in Ghost’s arms. “You better not regret this later,” he warns as I drift off to sleep.

[birdadjacent]

while "[x] reacts to [y]" style videos usually do nothing for me, i am really interested in music theory, so i've had a lot of fun watching music industry pros' initial reactions to the Clair Obscur soundtrack (most notably certified banger Une vie à t'aimer)

but what i really want is someone who HAS played the game to analyze that song (and others) from a story AND music theory perspective - like:

Specifically WRT Une vie à t'aimer:

the tension between the classical vocals/instruments and the rock/metal ones to represent the conflict between Aline and Renoir. To be more precise: the vocals and instrumentals representing Aline are very classical, while the blown out electric guitar and metal vocals are for Renoir - what does the clash of styles say about their respective positions?

The song largely switches between (based on my own counting; i haven't seen any notation) 2/4 (2/2?), 4/4, and 6/8, but there are odd bars with an extra beat specifically when verso's name comes up in the lyrics, and what that means in terms of how his absence is such a disruption

The 6/8 motif is repeated in Renoir's theme, but NOT in Aline's - what does this say about their respective feelings about the conflict between them?

And other things like

the environmental music that plays in the last area of stone wave cliffs before the lampmaster fight uses a simplified version of verso's theme, foreshadowing his appearance

Inversely: one of the last areas before the final confrontation with Renoir at the end of the game has Gustave's theme for its environmental music (which, of course, incorporates motifs from Lumiere)

Speaking of - I see people comment a lot that Verso's theme is the only character theme with no vocals. This isn't true - Gustave's theme, while much more instrumentally rich, doesn't have a vocal line either. Another way the game is putting them in the same role?

There's a low-pitched, husky sounding woodwind instrument (i'm pretty sure it's a clarinet? but i'm Bad at identifying reed instruments by sound alone) that's most prominent, if not exclusive, to songs that are associated in some way with Lune - her theme, for example. HOWEVER, there's a really similar register/effect, but on a flute, for some of the music in Sirene's arena - another thematic link between them?

The first vocal line in Lune's theme and Sciel's theme are very melodically similar (though they diverge after). Maybe a coincidence, but maybe a commentary on their shared origin? (though Gustave's theme doesn't share this, so maybe not)

Music that plays as early as spring meadows incorporates motifs from Renoir's theme and Aline's theme, which just adds to my "if you think the game 'suddenly' switched to being all about the Dessendres in act 3, you haven't been paying attention" reaction to that common line of criticism. (Let alone the beginning of Renoir's theme playing during the gommage in the first 30 minutes of the entire game)

And that's barely scratching the surface. Like, just breaking down where character themes and motifs sneak into world music and why could be an entire video. Don't even get me started on how pretty much all of the music for The Reacher doesn't sound like anything else on the soundtrack, and what that could mean. I realize I'm like halfway to writing the script myself with this post but the last time I took a music theory class was my senior year of high school (15 years ago) so there's gotta be someone out there better qualified than me to break this down. anyway give lorien testard every award. what an incredible ost.

[writingwisterias]

hewwo hewwo

in case it hasn't been asked yet, id love to see your take on each leon era reacting to their partner who's also a fellow agent and also his pseudo captain on the field since they have a little bit more experience and level head compared to him

all your hcs are such joys to read <3333

HIII, This was so interesting to think about! I'm glad you enjoy my hc I'm sorry I took so long its been a really busy couple of months <3

Warnings: None

RE2: I think Re2 Leon would prefer someone with more experience in this Era. He has to sort of make a lot of choices himself and perhaps he could lean on someone to make more of them. It might ease the pressure he probably felt during the entire time. You can see how he reacts to Ada, he follows her instructions because there little else to do, so maybe it would have turned out slightly differently with someone else to talk in those situations.

RE4R: He seems a lot independent in this game so perhaps he would prefer if despite your increased experience it was more of a joint effort, maybe prompting an open discussion. With his head space and he's very protective I think he would also take control or make brash choices before he's really thought them through/ spoken to you about it. Infinite Darkness: Again I think he would accidentally ignore you advice as he gains more experience himself. I feel like Leon's battle strategy is to ensure people remain as safe as they can be. Which could result in him arguing with you about certain situations, mostly follows your lead though in terms of conversations and the general approach to a scenario but will overtake during an actual fight. Damnation: There no point in trying with him. He not going to listen to anything you say that could be a logical response to a situation. The mission requires really fast paced decision making and I feel like he would just take control. If you confront him about it there's no point he'll ignore you and pulling rank doesn't matter or affect him because as far as he concerned it doesn't matter in battle. I think maybe towards the end where he's sort of running on fumes and spite he might listen to you a little bit more, stopping his charging horse approach. RE6: The situation in the game is an interesting one tbh, I think at the start in Tall Oaks he might lean back and encourage you to deal with Helena and just work on being your support during the situation. However, in China I think his behaviour would switch to listening to you and himself depending on what point you are at in the game. I think he would ignore you the most when Ada is involved and he has the opportunity to prevent anything from happening to her. Maybe the encounter with Chris n Piers could strike up some arguments or angst between the two of you. Since he is laying his feelings on the table in the moments, depending on your relationship with him that could hurt. Vendetta: With how he interacts with Chris, I think he would prefer to take orders from you. Towards the start of the film he doesn't really seem interested in listening so it could be interesting if Chris used you as a way to get Leon to listen. Maybe he ran off instead of talking to you or something (Most likely)… I think he would just prefer to take the heat of decision making away for a change since he lost an entire team under his watch. Depending on if you were helping Chris for a while or not then I think he would also play it off as you having more knowledge on a situation. You can defiantly guarantee some stupid joke about listening to what the wife wants or some bs Death Island: I feel like he would prefer a shared opinion on the situation, talking out strategy's etc but I don't think he would argue if you took the lead, make some half-assed Whitty joke about it. instead? The entire mission is weird and there's a lot of opportunity's for you and him to get separated etc so I think it would just be a mutual if you make a call I follow it instead of actual argument's.

[liedownquisition]

If you think that Batman being a good guy means he can't be a fascist, congratulations! You are fully ready to uncritically read any propaganda and convert to the whims of it because the whole point of propaganda is to present the fascists as good guys! Like... that's the whole thing about propaganda, you're supposed to root for the guys they want you to root for and be against the people they want you to turn against. That means presenting them with universally admirable qualities and then using them to prop up fascist institutions.

US Cops are part of an inherently fascist structure. I didn't think this was in question at this point. Bruce has multiple instances and discussions throughout his history including and especially relevantly in Jason's time as Robin where he discusses that they have to operate within a limited framework alongside The Law.

And Jason's ideology is EXPLICITLY to Be a Better Batman.

So it's really just a more extreme version of the EXACT same ideology. Jason in UtH, and continuing into OYL was a crimelord, possibly only ended by BftC (it's a little vague/goes unmentioned that he ever did). meaning he's not JUST getting rid of other gangsters/mobsters, he's Replacing Them. He was really explicitly taking over Black Mask's territory and taking his people, and then once he hit whatever threshold he was eliminating the competition. ->And yeah there is a difference between a shattered leg and murder, sure. Once the medical debt racks up I think the former might be a slower, more agonizing death and condemn you to always continue being a criminal because no one's going to hire you with a rap sheet and a bum leg.

And if you want to criticize Jason for that, you have to acknowledge that Batman also has a crime lord persona: Matches Malone. Which he has explicitly for the purpose of taking it over. (Add War Games to your collection if you don't understand what I'm talking about. Which, wow, that happened RIGHT BEFORE UtH, what a strange coincidence.)

Anyways, the Joker confrontation was for Jason's self-interest, yeah he pretty much says that, but everything else? Nah. He doesn't have to do the crime lord thing to set that up. That's about Being Batman.

Re: Bruce getting punished: His broken back has not had long-term consequences. His venom addiction did not have long term consequences. Outside of those runs, they might as well have not happened most of the time. Bruce losing girlfriends who only existed in one or two runs explicitly for the purpose of being lost is not a long term consequence esp since they're rarely discussed outside of those runs. Breaking up with girlfriends like, say, Catwoman, who only got back with him for one or two arcs for the purpose of dumping him again isn't really a long-term consequence so much as a continuation of their dynamic. Dick always comes back. Tim comes back. Alfred came back until they finally killed him off but they made that DAMIAN'S consequence and not Bruce's. Cass comes back. Damian comes back. These consequences are always reverted back into the status quo. The only real long-term consequence Bruce has is... Jason, actually. And that in-canon rapidly got shifted by the narrative to being Jason's fault. And even Jason coming back never really shifted the status quo back to normal, because he doesn't fit in it.

Also Kori was not just a sexy goldfish you just haven't read anything but maybe the first handful of issues. <3 I'd say that's fair because it's not a good comic, but I have a firm stance in not letting people pretend to be experts in comics they aren't reading. I'm the annoying person who is going to point out that the characters do actually have a lot more in RHATO than most people usually say, even if it's not within the realms of what I would call a "good" comic. She struggled with the personal dilemma of getting sucked back to her planet and wanting to save them, but not wanting to stay because she hadn't forgiven the circumstances of being effectively sold into slavery to save them (which didn't work anyways), as well as facing down one of her former slavers. A more accurate description is "sexy worf" since her role throughout the comic was largely to be the team's badass and show when things are Serious Business by having her lose.

And frankly, it's so funny seeing everyone modernly call Jason "DC's Punisher" because for the most part no one thought that like... in those years between his re-intro to Flashpoint. You know who DID get called that? Roy. Roy got called DC's Punisher and was a much closer allegory because former gov't agent->murderous vigilante because of his daughter beign killed is a much closer comparison to former Cop->murderous vigilante because of his family being killed. -Roy really wasn't groveling at Jason's feet, either btw. And the Outlaws... did not resemble the Titans? Unless you mean that any team with a number of former Titans on it basically "resembles the Titans." In which case would include Outsiders, some versions of the JLA, and more. --> actually speaking of the Outsiders, a lot of people wondered if THAT was the comparison they were trying to make since "Batman and the Outsiders" is a much more similar title. After all, Roy did have a team on Outsiders with Kori, and Jason did show up briefly in that run (though Kori had left the team by then). --->I'm pretty sure literally everyone was dumbed down in n52 btw. Outlaws and other titles as well. If there were titled that didn't feel kind of like an insult to long-time fans in the early days of that era, they weren't one I found to read.

You weren't blaming Editorial for Roy & Kori, really. You blame Jason as a character for Roy and Kori as if he wasn't gutted and hanged on display in an ill-fitting parody of himself just as badly as the other two. Worse, actually, because Kori doesn't have long-term consequences from that. And Roy? Roy's problems didn't start here, they started in Titans '08 when they started retconning a less-sympathetic version of his addiction into his background, In Rise of Arsenal and Titans for Hire when they continued to present him with a horribly prejudiced version of his addiction that they could "blame" him for, and whenever it was that they decided to kill his fucking daughter off in Cry for Justice in the first place.

As for that page, your answer is right there:

He doesn't tell Bruce to kill Joker, he tells Bruce that he is going to kill Joker and Bruce just needs to stand there and let it happen. His alternative is to kill Jason.

Like, this isn't even being media illiterate, this is refusing to read the words on the page in the orders they are in and understand them on the literal most surface surface level.

"I AM GOING TO KILL HIM." "YOU WILL HAVE TO KILL ME" <- do you see why your reading is not only subtextually incorrect, but explicily IN-TEXTUALLY incorrect?

To be honest I think that a lot of people who share the anti Jason Todd sentiment don't even actually hate Jason. I think a lot of them hate what he forces the narrative to do.

Jason forces the subversion of the hero genre -- he's the single, most extreme proof that Batman's hero fantasy wouldn't be effective in real life, and therefore Jason showing up can take you out of the universe really fast really hard. A lot of people are here for what comics are meant to offer, the one man hero fantasy that makes you Feel Good, and Jason showing up doesn't Allow you to enjoy it! And if that's the case, you're completely justified in not liking Jason, he takes you out of the thing you enjoy.

I think a lot of you don't actually find his personality or acts annoying in of themselves, you just hate what those actions do to the genre itself. And I think once you realize that and start looking at comics like actual pieces of literature, Jason and shitty comics both will become a lot less rage inducing to you.

[bloodandiron-if]

How would the RO's deal with someone who is also interested in the MC and is courting them? 😏👀

⚠️ LENGTHY CONTENT INCOMING ⚠️

- - -

OPERATIVE D-6

They don’t react openly.

They won’t confront the person.

They won’t even seem bothered by their interest in you—until you really notice.

Their presence becomes quieter and sharper. They stay closer than usual, watching the other person’s movements like a threat assessment. And if that person oversteps? D-6 will place themselves between you and them without a single word, like a wall you didn’t realize was being built around you.

No theatrics. No warning. Just a shift in air pressure, and that hint of a feeling that D-6 has already decided what happens next.

- - -

DETECTIVE JUNO REYES

Juno keeps it calm.

They’ve been in worse situations than a petty romantic rivalry. But unbeknownst to themself, they’re watching the other person with that classic detective stare—measured, silent and very much judging.

They trust you to make your own choices, but if the person starts pushing boundaries? Juno’s not above a firm conversation in a quiet hallway.

“I’m not going to fight for something that’s already mine. But I’ll make sure they understand the situation very clearly.”

- - -

NICO/NIA RUSSO

Subtlety? Yeah, that’s not in their playbook.

The second somebody even thinks about showing interest in you, Russo's clocked it. Cue the eye-rolls, the deadpan jokes, the “hey, just gonna drape myself over you so they get the memo” move.

And Jealous? Please. They just have zero patience for anyone messing with their relationship—especially when they’re out here trying so hard to keep it real with you.

“Aw, that’s cute. They don’t know you’re already taken—well, mostly. Depends on how you answer, I guess.”

- - -

KIERAN/KIERA MYLES

Myles is dangerously calm.

They act amused—like the whole situation is beneath them—but there’s a quiet sharpness behind their smile around that person.

Yet, they don’t confront the other person directly. They confront you instead—gently, closely and privately in a way that they can know your thoughts on the situation and where they stand with you.

“If you want to see what they’re offering, go. I won’t stop you. But if you stay… you’ll know exactly what you’ve chosen.”

- - -

ALEX/ALEXI MONROE

Monroe gets quieter, more hesitant—not because they’re insecure, but because they’ve been here before.

They’ve seen people walk away.

They won’t beg—but you’ll feel the shift in their presence—the way their eyes drop when that person tries making moves on you, the way they hesitate before reaching for your hand.

But if you give them any sign that you’re still choosing them? That soft smile will return like sunrise.

“I’m not the only one who sees how special you are—but I really hope I’m the only one you stay with.”

- - -

ROWAN/RHEA CARTER

Carter doesn’t flinch. They’ve stared down worse threats than competition.

If someone else is trying to win you over, they welcome the challenge. Not with pettiness or showboating—but with that sense of conviction.

They'll deepen their courtship with you: clearer words, bolder gestures, and a fire in their eyes that makes it hard to ever look away.

“Let them try. I never need to outshine anyone. I just need you to feel the difference.”

[formosusiniquis]

public broadcast morticia, platinum record gomez

Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson wc: 3.9k | T | @stevieweek day 3: horror/princess; transfem!stevie; post-canon; getting back together AO3

Stevie shuts the prop book in her lap slowly, allowing the scene to transition out of the story animation and back to real life. For the seconds it is in frame, the red cloth-bound cover of the prop stands out in stark contrast against the gold and black of her skirt. The camera pans slowly back up to her face.

“That would be scary, wouldn’t it?” she asks her future viewing audience. “To wake up one morning and not recognize who you are.”

Wings beat, and a grey tentacle wraps around her shoulder. Robin clicks and coos, moving the demobat puppet in time with the noises. She's probably asking a real question, but Sevie hasn’t picked up much of the language she’s invented for her puppet.

It’s all scripted anyway.

“I agree, Demi. Not having an adult to go to makes it scarier. But wasn’t it brave to keep going even though he was scared?”

Robin chirps and squeaks again. Flapping the puppet’s wings with the special pull cord, she maneuvers the bat around the stage to make it look like Demi is flying.

“Of course, Demi, I’ll always be someone safe for you to go to. I love you.”

Her eyes sting as she says it. God, she cries so much more easily these days. Fucking hormones.

The puppet shivers and shakes in a full-bodied chirp. I love you too.

A howl sounds from just outside the room. Signaling the end of this segment and the start of the next one. 

“Dart must hear someone at the door! Let’s see who’s come to visit.”

The pace is her favorite part of the show. Slow, easy. All done as much as possible in one smooth take. Stevie pushes herself up from the dark-patterned wingback chair, smoothing down her skirt, she walks from one room of the set to the other. The camera trails her, giving Robin a chance to move throughout the specially designed paths that keep her out of frame while she’s holding the Demi puppet.

Unlike Demi, Dart doesn’t that closely resemble his namesake. That was for the feds more than the children. Demi had some aesthetic changes to make her look more friendly, rounded body and visible eyes. Dart was changed fundamentally. Instead of the puckered fleshy face, Stevie can run a hand through sparse fur between two pointed ears. The animatronics Dustin helped their puppet master build let them move, giving the whole face more subtle movement than the other puppet is capable of. Good for the larger, German Shepherd-sized build. Even if the focus of the camera is usually on the face, the top jaw dog, wire-haired and angular, and beneath its pink nose, a split bottom jaw that opens in two wide, distinct joints. More cute than dangerous when a long forked tongue lolls out from it.

As Stevie’s thick rubber heels thunk against the floor of the set, Dart’s pit bull stump tail wags in its excitement at her approach. Back from college, Dustin is operating it today. He maneuvers the body so it faces her now that she’s come to get the door. The charmingly dumb look on its face gets her every time — a grin she has to school back to a more appropriately sized smirk. 

From off stage, someone cues Dart’s reminding bark.

“Has our guest arrived, Dart?”

Dart can nod when Dustin operates it. Always more sure than the rest of them about the intelligence that lurked beneath those demo creatures. Still, someone once again makes the appropriate answering cue.

Robin is standing outside the set, positioning Demi in a window. She chirps and flaps, Stevie’s cue to begin introducing who is behind the door.

“Today’s scary job will have us confronting our glossophobia, that’s our fear of public performance. If your palms get sweaty when you answer a question at school or you think about throwing up when you have a piano recital, we picked this job to give you a special scare.”

Never a theater kid, Robin teases her at how quickly she’s picked this up. Her cues, like this one to open the door, are always hit. She knows exactly what her face is doing, the way her dark lips hint at a smile, and the way the dark of her makeup makes something dangerous and anticipatory flash in her eyes. She’s yet to have a guest not spook just a little when the door swings open. The danger that she used to be humming under her skin was obvious to them when the sound and light cues hit, making the stage flash and sound with lightning and thunder.

It’s one of the joys of the job.

The outside of the “house” is dark, a dual-purpose choice to hide the sound lot that pairs with how nice it looks in post to have the first glimpse of their guest be in that horror movie strobe.

“Welcome home,” she says as always to the blackness outside her door. Thunder booms first, then lightning streaks, and she’s looking at someone who shouldn’t be here. “Eddie Munson, front man of the band Corroded Coffin.”

She steps numbly out of the way, letting Eddie through her door. 

Six years.

Dart rubs its head against her skirt, a move that would be accompanied by a whimper if it were able to make its own sound effects. As it is, she takes the comfort she can get from Dustin. Robin makes a trill; she's not a good enough actor to disguise the nerves in it.

It’s too much to deal with, so as with all things, she decides it’s better not to. There’s a procedure here, a routine. Stevie turns on her heel and starts walking to the set they’re supposed to be on. Eddie can fall into step behind her or, hell, maybe she’ll get lucky and he’ll run away. He’s always been good at that.

Stalking is what she’s doing; it might be what Eddie did too, to find his way over here. Hers means she’s moving too fast through the set for the pace they’re setting, the emotions she’s feeling moving her body like a rocket through the familiar frame of her pretend house. Eddie’s means he’s ruined her fragile peace.

It’s a real multifaceted word. Maybe they should use it for a show. Maybe they could get a zookeeper to bring a big cat on, too.

Eddie finds the guest’s seat at the table, sitting down across from her at the kitchen island, ruining the slight lift of her mood at the plans for a new episode with his continued presence.

He’s already got his hands in the spread on the table. Fingers smudged with the dyed red frosting, pinching a brownie carved into a coffin shape. It looks garish in the bright light of this set. The kitchen, the only set she refused to bow to the other aesthetics of the house. It unnerves instead in its rich, pastel, Stepford glory. Eddie looks just as out of place here -- even with the spiderweb detailing on the cabinets -- as he did in her kitchen in Hawkins.

“Good evening, Eddie,” she says what she’s supposed to say.

His mouth is full, his answer muffled in rich chocolate she baked herself before shooting.

“Why don’t you tell us about your band? I’m a big fan of your guitarist, Jeff Best.”

Jeff, the person who was supposed to be on the sound stage when she opened the door. The band member she had approved of, after being told by producers how enthusiastically the band had been supporting the show. How they wanted on, desperately.

She asks, “What’s the scariest part of your job?”

And asks, “Isn’t it frightening performing in front of thousands and thousands of people?”

And asks, “Are you ever afraid the stage will collapse?”

And asks, “Pyrotechnics are fires and fireworks that can be done inside, but aren’t you worried that something might go wrong?”

This segment has always been less of an interview and more of an exploration of worst-case scenarios. The things that frighten, the accidents that end up on the news, but rarely ever happen. A way to show the kids who tune in that the world can be scary, but it’s usually not. That fear of the coulds shouldn’t be the thing that keeps them from trying.

But she flings these worst cases at Eddie like knives, like saying they might manifest into coming true.

But each interview always ends the same way.

“What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever overcome?”

Eddie spins a chocolate eyeball around on the white china plate. It blurs with the movement until it’s just a white sphere moving around and around the border of fine, red blood splatter. Is he trying to figure out how to skirt his NDA? Is he inventing some stage diving accident or bar fight? Some story that will make him sound like the worldly rockstar the world knows him as?

Sure, he’s softened his aesthetic for this appearance. The only leather is his jacket. His wide-legged black pants, with the red and black brocade vest, straddle the line between professional and showman.

But he’s still Eddie, dungeon master drama queen to the last.

“The scariest thing I’ve ever done?” he repeats. Incorrectly to that point, done implies it’s scary because of his fuck up, overcome implies it’s the world. They’d workshopped the wording of that final question for days before her first interview.

Eddie continues, because if there’s one thing he’s going to do it’s continue whether she wants it or not. “The scariest thing I’ve ever done is go attempt to make amends with someone that I hurt very badly and hope that she’s good enough to forgive me.”

She’s supposed to ask a follow-up here, but she really doesn’t want to.

“Some of those were in the present tense, Mr. Munson.” She’s borrowing words from Robin now, stealing them from somewhere in her soulmate's brain because all Stevie knows is a blank rage that she hopes isn’t in her eyes.

That’s bad television.

“You’re right. The going has happened, the attempt is ongoing, and the fear is in both.”

A clock’s chime fills the room. Loud, sourceless, she’s taken to thinking of it like a school bell, and that’s better than remembering a grandfather clock and Max’s broken legs. Eddie flinches back, not that big a fan of the show apparently. Midnight ends every episode.

“Time sure flies, doesn’t it, Eddie?” A thump comes from behind them, a spot on the third wall out of the sight of the framing of their primary camera. Robin in position for her favorite job.

Stevie gives her her cue, “Gordon?” Robin, on her mark and her applebox, brings down the thick, fleshy, grey hand with the too-long fingers and the blackened nails onto Eddie’s shoulder. It’s weighted at the front, dislodges Eddie from his seat, and jostles him backward. “Introduce Eddie to the others? I know he’s just dying to stay for a while.”

Hand in place on Eddie’s shoulder, all Robin has to do is pull and he’s stumbling off stage like he’s on a vaudeville hook.

She blinks slowly, wills her blood pressure down. Her heart has been thumping in her ears since she laid eyes on Eddie, and even now that he’s technically off camera, she still can’t let go of her rage.

But there’s a show to finish, and she’s going to do her job. She can ignore Eddie’s big, brown eyes that somehow manage to haunt her even in the dark beyond the camera. She can turn down the camera, face it head-on.

She can. She does. “And don't forget: you're smarter than you think, braver than you feel, and you always have a friend right here. Until next time.”

She’s moving even before she can hear the director call, “Cut.”

“Whose fucking idea was this?”

“Not me,” Robin answers, gleeful at Stevie’s rage. She’s got Eddie still pinned in place with her long arm.

“Listen, Stevie, baby.”

“Nope,” Robin says, popping that P and giving Eddie a shake.

Not that anyone but Stevie would have heard that over the way she yells, “You don’t get to call me that.”

“Eddie, dude, not that it’s not good to see you, but I talked to Jeff,” Dustin comes out from the set with his hands already raised.

“And I saw that, Henderson, but don't fret, I wasn't offended. I figured you wouldn't mind if I remedied the situation myself.”

“Never let it be said you've ever learned a single lesson the easy way, Munson,” Robin says.

“Yes, and I'll be glad to catch up with you about that, Buckley. And with you, Henderson. But right now, I would love a moment with the talent. Stevie?”

It's on her tongue to say no again. To send him packing, the quest failed. Let him turn it into some ballad of spurned love and wretched harpies; she doesn't care.

But she doesn’t. She doesn’t. She says, “Five minutes.” And stalks off toward her dressing room.

He doesn't jingle anymore. That strikes her somewhere in the chest. The sound of his trailing behind her, the same melody as hers, told in a round: thick rubber heels on a concrete floor.

She sits down at her vanity and starts stripping off the thick paint of her on-camera makeup. As she slathers on cold cream, she can see Eddie find a seat on the coffee table. It throws her back to that last summer together, getting caught in her mother’s bathroom by a boy she liked in ways she didn’t know how to say yet.

The more things change.

“Listen, Stevie.” It’s funny how she can still tell when he’s started a sentence, not knowing how he plans to end it.

“You came all this way and you didn’t think about how you wanted to actually apologize? Did you get so lost in the drama of crashing my set that you didn’t think of what would happen when it was over?” She keeps her eyes on him in the mirror as she says it, moving through her routine like usual. With each condemnation, she takes her hand towel and wipes a little bit more of Stevie, Princess of the Dark, away until she’s bare-faced, annoyed, and just Stevie Henderson again.

“No,” he lies. “I mean, maybe. Look, Steph, for what it’s worth.”

She grabs her normal makeup, the lightweight stuff that doesn’t have to look good to the limited eye of the camera or sell a character that she’s only sometimes.

“It’s not worth a lot, Eddie. Let me try to save you some time. We finally gave in and gave the band the time of day, you leapt in ass first without a plan, because I’m Princess of the Dark, Princess Stevie, Lady Stevie of the Night, whatever the fucking branding has decided this week so I’ve got the image now. I’m not some baby freak borrowing wardrobe pieces from her socialite mom and her dyke best friend, I’m the right kind of metal that perpetual bachelor, frontman Eddie Munson can be seen with now. Does that about cover it?”

“No, no, Stevie, I swear.”

She can’t even slam down what’s in her hands. The stupid spongy applicator from her eyeshadow would get lost, and if she breaks another one of the eyeshadow colors, she’ll lose her mind. Setting it down gently does nothing to temper the absolute, white out emotion she’s feeling.

“You swear? You swear. The way you swore nothing would change. The way you swore you’d leave on tour and come back with nothing but stories and homesickness. That was the tour that you called me from Wichita to tell me you weren’t coming home, and you didn’t think it would work out if we tried to stay together. In case you forgot.”

“It’s not-”

“This was after you told me you didn’t want me to come when I offered. That it would be stupid of me to leave my -- easily abandoned -- job at the record store. But why would you want the idiot you’re about to leave playing merch girl as you wandered through the Midwest.”

“Are you finished?”

She’s got brown eyeshadow on one eye, her cheeks are pinked, and it’s not from blush. She’s pretty far from done. “That foot-in-mouth condition ended up being terminal, I guess.”

“Stevie.”

She can’t storm out if her eyes aren’t done. A half-done face is one thing, but it’s at least got to be even.

“Stevie, you’re getting mentioned in the same sentences as Elvira, R.L. Stine. You’re Sesame Street if the face was the Count and not Elmo. That’s you, that’s all you. It’s something you created from the ground up with nothing but your charm and vision, and yeah, stunning good looks and a little bit of black mailing the United States government.

“If you had come with us back then, you know what you’d be? My muse, sure. You’d be the merch girl that people whisper about, and wonder how many of the band members she’s sleeping with to get to play groupie. They’d find out things about you, and if you were lucky, they’d just make your life miserable.”

She can’t believe this. “Are you really trying to pull some ‘I left you to keep you safe,’ that is the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Her face is done, she could leave. She’s given him more than the five minutes she promised. 

But then Eddie’s standing. No, he’s collapsing, off the table to her feet. Hands clutched in her skirt, looking up at her from the floor. “You’re right, it wasn’t about you. It was about me being the same coward I‘ve always been. You know what I’m most afraid of, Steph? That one day you would wake up in our rank ass tour bus and you would resent me for trapping you and all of your potential.”

The vanity counter bites into the meat of her hands. “It took you six years to come here and say that.” 

“Yeah, yeah, it did. And it was too long and it wasn't long enough. I would wait forever, Steph. It’s about who you are, not what you’ve become.”

“You’re contradicting yourself, Teddy.” He’s trapped her here, kneeling on her skirt the way he is. “Either you left so I could fill my full potential, which is pretty fucking bold to assume that everyone had that itch to leave Hawkins the way you did and that I wouldn’t have been just fine waiting tables or rewinding video tapes for the rest of my life. But it’s that or you love me no matter what, and it wouldn’t matter if I hung up the witch's broom.”

She’s feeling generous, and she likes how big and wide his cow eyes get when he’s desperate. It reminds her of different times. Eddie’s hand pulls hers off the vanity, and she lets him keep it. Let him pull it close to his chest. He’s probably imagining he’s some knight pledging some oath, and fuck even imaginging what he’s thinking endears her just a little bit more to him.

Letting him in was always going to be a mistake.

She’s never held a grudge as well as Robin.

“There isn’t anything you could do that would make me want you less.”

Still, in the last six years, she’s learned that even though she loves too hard and too long, sometimes it’s more important that she protect her heart. Like her head, it can’t take too many more beatings.

“You want a burger. You want a new record. You want a quick fuck with someone who knows what they’re doing. Wants are quick and fleeting, and sometimes they aren’t even that good. I can’t be a want, Eddie.”

He clutches her hand tighter. He drops his hold on her skirt so his other hand can grab her at the elbow instead. “Stevie, I need you. And if you send me packing, I’m still gonna need you. You’re it. You’re just- you’re it.”

“And if I didn’t follow you on tour, like some love-sick groupie? If I stayed here with the show, you couldn’t see me for weeks and months. You’d still need me?”

“Like air. I’ll call, I’ll write, I’ll come in and compose. I can be your first recurring guest or handle a puppet. Anything at your order.”

She can feel herself caving. Like a sink hole in her chest, the ground giving way to nothing but a yawning starvation. It’s been years, and she’s sunk all of her love and her care and the desperate need she has always had to be seen into this show. It was good, but there has always been so much of her to give.

So she spits back the worst thing he ever said to her.

“And I’m not just some stand-in for Chrissy Cunningham.”

She expects him to drop her arm. To scurry away like some frightened mouse now that the claws of the cat have dropped in front of it. To remember that before the tits and the smirky face she patterned off of Elvira, she was still always a mean girl.

The quiet collapse of Eddie’s face is less satisfying than the rage, the sadness in his eyes more like a kicked dog than an international rockstar.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” He says.

She could echo it, but hers needed to be said.

“If I thought you hated me, it was easier to leave. I could make you just one more thing I fucked up. I don’t see her when I look at you.”

She scoffs, and he pulls her closer.

“I don’t, Steph, I don’t. You’re not some damsel I couldn’t save. You’re the knight who rescued me. Let me make my oath, let me prove myself.”

“I want a new theme song. Something catchy, not metal. And you’re going to come on and do a special segment on the show about dealing with scary things, in terrible corpse makeup. Stop smiling, it’s not going to be fun.”

“I’m sure you’ll make it wretched.”

“I’m going to make you confront all the stupid shit you’re scared of and if you don’t act scared enough I’m going to bring in the rest of the band and tell them you’re the reason this is happening to them.”

“Gareth hates spiders, and Freak is scared of clowns.”

“And I want Jeff on the show. I had to cut out half of our interview questions about the things he’s had to face being black in the scene because you think you’re charming.”

He has the nerve to stand up, stepping on her skirt before he’s shoving his way into her space on the bench seat of her vanity. His hands are warm, fingers long and familiar as they curl around the curves she’s developed since they last saw each other.

“Whatever you want forever, Steph.” He whispers it into the side of her neck like he thinks he’s Gomez Addams, and she’s too weak to not be delighted.

“In that case, you can also explain all of this to Robin.”

“And when she kills me for wronging you?”

She grabs his chin between her fingers, lets her coffin-shaped nails dig into the stubbly skin until she can see the bite of pink crescent moons. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring you back. Everyone knows Miss Stevie is a witch.”