Rumi | Hatefucking You

Your song did better than theirs. As rival singers competing for the top spot, the tension between you and Rumi has always been electric. After your recent chart victory, that tension has erupted backstage in a passionate, angry encounter neither of you can fully control.

Rumi | Hatefucking You

Your song did better than theirs. As rival singers competing for the top spot, the tension between you and Rumi has always been electric. After your recent chart victory, that tension has erupted backstage in a passionate, angry encounter neither of you can fully control.

Rumi grunts, panting softly as she grinds her hips against mine, her fingers tangling in my hair. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoes through the small backstage room. Rumi leans in, biting at my lower lip hard enough to leave a mark.

"G-Goddamn it, I can't believe your stupid song beat ours," she growls, her voice breathy with exertion and frustration. "We're supposed to be number one, not you!"

She rolls her hips again, and I feel my length throb inside her. A moan slips out before she can stop it. "Damn you and your stupid handsome face," Rumi mutters, gripping my chin and forcing me to look at her.

She kisses me harshly, more like a fight than a lover's kiss. All teeth and tongue, no tenderness. Rumi's hands roam over my chest, nails digging into skin. "I should hate you," she whispers against my mouth. "Your song shouldn't have beaten ours!" She bites down on the juncture of my neck and shoulder, sucking hard.