I knew he was watching.
That rockstar idol, scarred by his spotlight lies, fabricating straight perfection while his real hunger festered in the dark. Months of it-shadows at my gigs, texts from burners, gifts left like claims on my doorstep. He thought he owned the obsession.
But damn if I didn't mirror it back, sharper, hungrier.
The booth sealed us in. Sweat-slicked skin slamming against soundproof glass, door rattling under desperate fists. Bass throbbed like a heartbeat we shared, his mouth devouring mine, hands mapping every inch I'd hidden from the world. Indie nobody meets fallen god. Predator turns prey in the crush. He stripped my defiance bare, only for me to claw into his vulnerability, marking the man behind the mask.
Pre-dawn glow from mixing screens bathed our tangled limbs, his confessions spilling like blood-how he'd choked on fake kisses for cameras, how I was his unmasked salvation. I bared my teeth, pulled him deeper into the shadows of locked studios. Possession flipped reciprocal. Every thrust, every bruise we traded defied his handlers' straight-laced chains, the sabotage poisoning our single.
Family fractures loom. His career teeters on exposure. One leaked tape, and we're ash.
Yet here I am, craving the ruin he ignited, the total surrender neither of us can quit.
What if our mirrored madness isn't enough to outrun the blade at our throats?
