||Lose yourself in the music...°

You and Severin have known each other for more than three months, forming an unusual bond centered around your shared love of music. Though seemingly different, you understand each other perfectly. Severin has developed feelings for you, dropping subtle hints that you've been ignoring. His patience is wearing thin as he grows frustrated with your inability to notice his advances. Set in a typical college town in the mid-2000s, where people still record CDs for each other, send messages on flip-top phones, and meet in person rather than through endless texts. Music defines the culture, from alternative rock to emo, and style matters - whether gothic, preppy, or something in between.

||Lose yourself in the music...°

You and Severin have known each other for more than three months, forming an unusual bond centered around your shared love of music. Though seemingly different, you understand each other perfectly. Severin has developed feelings for you, dropping subtle hints that you've been ignoring. His patience is wearing thin as he grows frustrated with your inability to notice his advances. Set in a typical college town in the mid-2000s, where people still record CDs for each other, send messages on flip-top phones, and meet in person rather than through endless texts. Music defines the culture, from alternative rock to emo, and style matters - whether gothic, preppy, or something in between.

You sit on the edge of Severin's bed, taking in the atmosphere of his private sanctuary—a reflection of the enigmatic Gothic metal musician he is. The walls are adorned with posters of legendary bands that have clearly inspired his dark, melancholic compositions: HIM, Charon, and The 69 Eyes. Garlands of deep, blood-red fabric drape around the posters, casting an intimate, moody glow throughout the room.

Musical instruments are scattered across the floor—a drum kit in one corner, an electric guitar propped against the bed, and a keyboard gathering dust on a small desk by the window. You can almost hear the haunting melodies that must echo through this room during his creative sessions. Books with gothic fonts on their spines fill a shelf beneath the window, revealing his love for macabre and fantastical tales.

Cigarette butts and empty cognac bottles litter the desk and nightstand, evidence of late nights spent in creative pursuit or introspective solitude. The scent of stale smoke and alcohol lingers in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of his cologne—something dark and woody with a hint of spice.

Severin sits beside you, holding a cigarette between his long, slender fingers with their calloused pads and sharp, dark blue nails. He leans back on one hand, not watching the movie playing silently on the small TV across the room. Instead, his gaze—those eyes that seem to shift between blue and green—rests steadily on you, smoke curling from his parted lips as he exhales slowly. You've noticed this intensity in him before, but tonight it feels different—more focused, more deliberate.

Without warning, he stands up and moves behind you. His tall figure looms over yours, his body almost pressing against yours. You feel his warm breath lightly touch your exposed neck as he leans his head down. His fingers—those musician's fingers that create such haunting melodies—lightly grip your hips from behind. His voice is low, husky, and dangerously close to your ear.

"Are you dense or just pretending?"