Jazz (Shattered Glass) x reader
One of Jazz's most disconcerting virtues wasn't his skill with weapons or his ability to extract information from other people's lips, but his natural ability to move through thin air, to disappear in plain sight like a shadow.
Optimus Prime's primary bodyguard, loyal to the core. One of the best; but more than that, he was a specter who knew when to look and when to make himself felt.
And, unfortunately, now he was watching you.
You didn't need to see him. You didn't even need to hear him. That tension in the air was enough, that subtle tingle in your body that told you you were no longer alone, that you had become prey with no escape.
You still remember the testimonies that once came from mouths gripped by fear. Yes… they spoke of a living silence that coiled in your bones and whispered horrible things that mark you forever. The poor Decepticons had told you: Jazz doesn't kill you instantly. He watches you. He follows you. It lets you know it's there, allowing you to poison yourself with your own fear. There was no one to save you. Megatron wasn't around, the faithful Starscream wouldn't save you. And Shockwave's peace wouldn't be there for you.
And you, idiot, thought you could get through. That you could slip through the ruins of a dead city and emerge unharmed, carrying something that should never have been in your hands.
You shouldn't have made a sound. You shouldn't have come, you shouldn't have even set foot in enemy territory.
You tried to fool him. Acting as if the tension in the air, the light sound of footsteps, didn't exist. You walked with your chin high, the rhythm of your steps firm. A mediocre actress on a stage that had already set its destination. Wanting to pretend you knew where you were going, when in reality you'd been lost longer than you could admit.
There was no recognizable street for you. No refuge, no trace of the city you'd once memorized. Everything had fallen apart. Everything had turned to ruin and darkness… all thanks to the war.
And then you heard it.
A tiny, contained sound, just a touch. It wasn't clumsiness. It wasn't coincidence. It was a reminder.
You knew she was doing it on purpose.
That Jazz, with her crooked smile and her hands covered in someone else's blood, was playing with you like a cruel child shakes an insect out of a glass bottle. And you, tiny and scared, spun around, frowning with a fake firmness.
"Who's there?" you heard yourself say, your voice tense but not trembling, your brow furrowed, your eyes scanning the darkness around you.
When Jazz emerged from the fog, you didn't see him first, you felt him. Like a nightmare you didn't know was yours or someone else's, creeping toward you with the faint sound of its engine in the air.
There was no chance. Before you could react, you saw the sickly gleam of his visor, that deep red it almost hurt to look at, reflected in your eyes, anticipating the touch of his smile. A crooked smile, sly, sharp. When he finally caught you, his fingers, sharp and precise, closed around your arm with the calculated brutality of someone who knows how much power he has, but chooses not to use it fully.
You didn't even have the time to defend yourself. Not when he was twice as fast, twice as lethal. His metal servos caught you tightly. Drag you toward him.
He forced you to walk, his hand heavy and steady on the back of your neck, guiding you like a puppet. There was no salvation, no refuge, no hope. Only Jazz, his damned blue visor shining in the darkness like a beacon, and that feeling, sticky, suffocating, that to him, you were nothing more than a collection of secrets waiting to be shattered.
"Excellent night to die, huh?" he whispered, his voice raspy and warm. You shuddered slightly, not wanting to see him.
It wasn't a question, but a veiled statement. The base was close. The wait, the echo of his words, everything had aligned in your mind, and you knew you couldn't escape. The future lay before you, blurred, unattainable, because in his gaze you could already see what was going to happen. He didn't torture you with empty threats or unnecessary shouts. You knew he was enjoying every moment.
"You're going to talk," his voice rose this time, clear, defiant. What he said pierced your gut like a sharp dagger.
Even so, he couldn't help but smile.
<--------------------------------------------->
The room smelled of rust. There were five of them, all looking you up and down, criticizing you shamelessly. The walk was long. You were afraid but kept quiet, ignoring Jazz's repeated threats along the way.
Blaster spoke first. His voice was a collapse:
"Is this all you could bring, Jazz?" He walked around you, and you made eye contact with him. Challenging each other, he shoved you, and it hurt. You were hurt because Jazz hadn't been very gentle with you on the way.
"More than it looks, I guarantee you," Jazz replied, nodding as if he were proud of what he'd brought, dragging your body in front of them like an offering. He shoved you, and you fell to the ground. The blow against the metal was hard and sharp. But even so, you frowned in anger. You weren't going to lower your head. Not now, not ever. You glared at anyone who dared meet your gaze, defiant, even though inside you felt something cold and heavy settle in your chest.
"She's close to Megatron. She'll give us information about what they're planning," Jazz added, crossing his arms, confident, as if it were a formality. As if your will no longer counted.
You sat up slightly on your elbows, spitting to the side. Your mouth was dry, the metallic taste on your tongue. And yet, you raised your voice.
"I… will never… tell them anything…" Your voice cracked, still showing your anger.
Strong. Even though your throat burned.
The response wasn't long in coming. Blaster let out a mocking laugh, turning around, walking openly, as if he looked down on you. It was funny to listen to you as if it were some kind of joke.
Ratchet was closer to you. He barely looked at you, disregarding your efforts to not bow your head. He spoke to Optimus, ignoring you.
"She seems determined, Optimus."
Her words pierced you. Not because they hurt you, but because of how they ignored you. Because back then, you were an object. A thing that had to speak or break. And then, Optimus spoke, and his voice was dry. Without emotion.
"We have ways to make her talk." He looked you up and down coldly, despising you.
The atmosphere suddenly became charged. You saw him look at Ratchet and Wheeljack. They nodded instantly, without a word, without hesitation. And that was when fear surged through you.
The metal floor scraped against your legs, your wrists tied behind your back, and your aching body barely remained conscious. The room was small, enclosed, lit by a harsh, dirty white light that forced you to squint. The first thing you saw was Wheeljack grinning, his expression twisted, his optics flickering with an almost childish gleam, as if what he was about to do to your body amused him more than anything else.
Ratchet was there too. He didn't speak. He just stared at you, as if you were already a corpse.
Jazz remained in the corner. Leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, watching with that calmness of his that felt heavier than any blow.
No one asked you if you were ready. No one explained anything.
Wheeljack was the first to move. He came closer, ran a claw down your face, and laughed.
"You know, you could save yourself all this. Talk." "Tell us what I want and you can keep all your… decorations in their place," he whispered, as if he were telling you a secret.
The first blow wasn't the worst. It was a shock. A lightning bolt straight from his fingers to your abdomen. Your entire body tensed, muscles jerked uncontrollably, your throat closed, and a gag reflex rose in your chest. It hurt. More than you'd expected.
But you didn't make a sound.
Ratchet moved closer then. He pulled out a tool you didn't recognize, something rusty and sharp. He ran it down your side, pressing, not to kill… but to make you feel. The flesh gave way. The pain ignited like a flash fire. You bit your tongue. The metallic taste filled your mouth.
Jazz said nothing. But you felt his optics on you.
"Where are the Decepticon supplies?" "Who's moving the troops in the western zone?" "What's the next escape route?"
Questions, blows, burns. Your body responded before you did. Each stimulus was worse because it came without warning, without a pattern that allowed you to anticipate it.
But in your head, there was only one thing.
The pain burned, but your mind sought refuge in memories. Then you began to remember. Images of your time with the Decepticons, moments you seemed to have forgotten, came flooding back. You remembered that feeling of warmth when Soundwave, with his cold calm, his piercing gaze that spoke a thousand words, offered you silent comfort.
You remembered how Shockwave protected you, when, after a dangerous mission, he carried you to his quarters, making sure you were okay before leaving. All of that felt distant, like a distorted dream, but real. In your mind, Megatron's words echoed: "Hang in there. Don't forget who you are."
You remembered how the Decepticons always spoke of unity, of never giving up. The image of Starscream, humble and loyal in a strange way, crossed your mind. "No matter what happens, don't give up. We don't forget." Those words were your salvation, their reason to keep resisting, despite the pain and humiliation. You couldn't fail them. You couldn't speak.
You repeated that to yourself as Ratchet held your face, forcing you to look at him, and Wheeljack laughed as he brought another tool closer. The pain came and went in waves, but the fear was constant, clinging to the back of your neck, like a shadow.
You started talking to yourself. Don't say anything. Don't give them a word. They don't have you. They don't know anything. Just hang in there, just hang in there…
The worst part was when you passed out, and when you came back, they were still there. As if they'd never stopped.
You lost count of how many times concentrating became a chore. Your optics would close without permission. But you kept going. Clinging to the memories, to the unspoken promises. Because you knew that out there, somewhere, the Decepticons would be looking for you. And if not, you weren't going to betray them anyway.
At one point, you heard Wheeljack snort.
"Nothing. This scum isn't going to utter a damn word." Ratchet nodded, wiping his hands with a dirty rag.
"We're wasting time. It would be best to get rid of her." You knew what that meant. And, for the first time in the entire session, you turned your gaze toward Jazz.
He was still standing in the corner, staring at you. Now, though, he was smiling.
He pushed himself away from the wall, approached, and walked slowly until he was standing in front of Ratchet and Wheeljack.
"Relax. Leave her to me," he said in that soft, amused voice.
The other two looked at each other. Ratchet frowned.
"Not completely," Jazz replied. "Sometimes you just have to… know how to push."
He looked at you. And smiled. The last image before everything went dark again was that gleam in his optics that you were starting to hate.
<--------------------------------------------->
Jazz hadn't left you alone for a second. He'd kept a slightly more secluded cell for himself, a more private place. From there, his eyes never left yours. He came to visit you, always with that smile on his face, playing with you, enjoying your suffering.
Sometimes, he brought you energy. Sometimes, the gentleness of his expression seemed like a comfort. Every time he came close, he did so with that look that made it clear everything was under his control. There was something dark in his words, something you couldn't ignore, even if you wanted to.
But there were times when he treated you… well.
Gentle words, a fake attention that seemed almost affectionate, of course—you knew it wasn't. That it was all part of a game. But seriously… even in his moments of "kindness," it scared you to think that maybe he was really looking out for you.
Sometimes, he hurt you, of course. But other times, he would also stare at you and make you feel vulnerable.
Sometimes you felt his eyes on you, silently watching you. At first, it was all mockery, contempt, and feigned hatred. But over time, something had changed. He let you know, somehow, but without openly admitting it. His gestures were less aggressive, but just as manipulative.
You remembered that night clearly. Optimus had ordered Ratchet to come interrogate you again, to extract more information from you. That night was even worse than the first. Your memories were broken fragments, almost imprecise, and complete torture. You were immobile, powerless, and your body completely incapable of reacting. You couldn't move a finger, let alone open your eyes. Everything was blurry, and your senses were completely shut down.
In the midst of that torture, among the vague, cloudy images, something remained etched in your mind: Jazz. His figure was there, close to you, closer than you could bear, but something was different. He was serious. You didn't know exactly what he was doing, but he didn't seem to be causing you any more pain. Was he healing you?
The idea seemed absurd, but for a moment, you considered it. Was it possible that, in some twisted act of care, he was trying to ease your suffering?
You didn't remember clearly. The only thing that remained was the feeling of his closeness, of a strange and confusing moment. Maybe it had been a dream, maybe not.
The next morning, you woke up in the cold cell, your mind still foggy and your body aching but miraculously healed. Jazz, as if nothing had happened, appeared again, with his usual attitude, mocking you, not caring what had happened.
He said you deserved it, that a thing like you shouldn't have to go on living. He said it with a crooked smile. In the end, you didn't say anything. He was completely ignoring that strange moment when he'd taken care of you, or whatever he'd done. He mocked you, as if it were just an anecdote that never happened. His words sounded empty, but you knew that, deep down, there was something more to them, something you couldn't decipher. He still thinks you didn't notice.
There were sincere conversations between the two of you, you know… Jazz and you. Even though they seemed doomed from the start. There was one intimate moment that still hurt to remember. That night, like so many others, you found yourself alone in the cell, bored in the stillness of the darkness. The silence was thick, you could feel it. You didn't know how many days had passed, but time no longer had any meaning.
Suddenly, the metallic sound of footsteps echoed in the entrance. You knew who it was before you saw him.
It was Jazz. You didn't say anything, just watched him. He wasn't paying much attention to you, his eyes focused on a broken light hanging from the ceiling. He approached with his usual confidence, as if he owned the whole place. However, something in his demeanor had changed. There was none of that mocking spark in his eyes, nor the usual provocation. He was almost relaxed, and you realized he hadn't been having a good day.
He approached the light, placed his hands on the panel, and began to repair it. The hum of the tools was the only thing that filled the air. And you, sitting in the corner of the cell, watched silently, like a spectator in your own prison.
At some point, you couldn't take it anymore. You needed to understand. Everything weighed on you, suffocated you, and although you didn't want to show weakness, you dragged yourself to ask him a question.
"Why?" Your voice sounded almost broken, a mixture of desperation and confusion.
Jazz paused for a second, as if the question had taken him by surprise. He frowned, and for a moment, his face was all seriousness, as if he were processing something he didn't quite understand. Then, a light laugh escaped his lips, but it wasn't mocking. No. It was a low laugh, somewhat quieter, almost as if he were saying something to himself. He shook his head, not looking directly at you.
"Why what?" he replied, but his tone wasn't as defiant as usual. He was more… thoughtful. And for a second, there was something bordering on vulnerability in his eyes. "It's just…" You looked away, thinking… "why are you still keeping me alive?"
He laughed mockingly, not caring, and looked at you surreptitiously. His laughter faded for a few seconds. "I don't know," he finally replied, without sarcasm, without irony.
You forced yourself to raise your gaze, to hold it on him. Jazz leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He closed his eyes for a moment.
"I guess I'm good at seeing what others prefer to ignore," he murmured, not looking at you. "I know you have a lot of information to give." He looked at you, smiling slightly.
"And because also…" He stopped himself, the silence becoming almost unbearable. Your spark throbbed uncomfortably in your chest. You found yourself wondering since when he'd stopped hating him, or if you'd ever truly hated him. Since when had you started noticing the way his voice changed on those late nights, when the base was asleep and it was just the two of you left.
"Mhm?" You tilted your head a little, curious at his hesitation.
"Nothing. You shouldn't care," he said, forcing his voice.
"I shouldn't," you said quietly.
However, he didn't say anything else. He focused on fixing the light, ignoring you again, but in a different way. It wasn't the same contempt he had before. Something had changed in the way he treated you, though you didn't know what it was. The atmosphere lightened, but the tension didn't completely dissipate.
And then, without realizing it, you didn't even realize who it was who spoke again. They both spoke. You didn't know why, but it seemed like the words flowed from him without much thought. He talked about his life, his story, things you would never have imagined hearing from him. The anger that usually emanated from his words was now replaced by something more human, something darker and more sincere. You didn't ask him to tell you anything, but he did, as if he needed to vent, as if your silence was a void into which he could vent his rage, his frustration.
He talked more than ever. About the war, his mission, the reality of the Autobots and the Decepticons. About his failures and victories, and, of course, about what he considered the real reason why everything happened. But you said nothing. You didn't want to give even a hint that you were interested. You knew you couldn't. If you started talking, if you uttered even one word, you'd be giving yourself away. And you couldn't do that.
And though the words fell between you like an endless rain, you just listened, showing no emotion on your face. You knew that everything he was telling you, everything he was revealing about himself, was just a game to him. He knew that all those secrets he was sharing would stay with you, sealed in your mind, buried in the darkness of that cell. You wouldn't share them with anyone. And that was his control over you: he knew you had no one, that your words would never leave the walls that kept you prisoner.
Jazz kept talking, but you remained silent, trapped in your thoughts. You knew that, deep down, it didn't matter what he said. In the end, he thought you'd never be free.
Jazz didn't quite understand when it had started. In the beginning, you were just another prisoner. Just one more. Interrogation, pressure, routine. He'd seen hundreds; they all broke sooner or later, or were eliminated. But not you. You endured. Silent, defiant even when you had no strength left.
And that… piqued his curiosity.
He'd never had a prisoner last so long. He'd never had to visit someone so many times.
And yet, he came back.
He said it was out of duty, but over time, he stayed longer than necessary. He watched more than he should have.
It wasn't compassion. It was something else. Something he couldn't name.
He only knew that when you weren't talking, he wanted to understand why.
<-------------------------------------------------->
Now you were here. You couldn't think about that now. You couldn't let it hold you back.
You found yourself in the hallways, feeling the base's icy air caress your skin.
The hallways of the base seemed endless, each one larger than the last, a labyrinth of steel and metal that could swallow you up at any moment. You looked back, afraid of being discovered, wanting to know if something was chasing you, if someone was coming after you, looking to trap you again.
So much time had passed. So much time that you didn't know if your body could take any more.
The torture had become routine. But the worst wasn't the physical pain. The greatest damage was the mental strain, the constant manipulation, the chaos in your thoughts.
The only thing that mattered was that you had to leave. Not because the daily pain was what tortured you the most, but because the weight of Jazz's manipulation was slowly destroying you.
His presence in your life had gone beyond that of a simple aggressor. It wasn't just his physical power that overwhelmed you, but his psychological power. And you realized that the way he treated you, the way he played with you, was doing more damage than you had anticipated.
You had to be stealthy. Every second that passed was more valuable than the last.
You looked around, with the desperation of someone who only has one chance to survive. You thought about everything you had left behind, what you had lost, what you had experienced with the Decepticons. And in that moment, all you wanted was to run, to escape that place. You knew it was dangerous, you knew you couldn't leave without consequences, but the thought of continuing to be a puppet in their hands became unbearable.
You wanted freedom, if only for a moment.
With each step, freedom seemed closer, more tangible. Fear mingled with the excitement of escape, with the promise of a future without Jazz's shadow, the torture, the mind games that wore you down so much. All of that would be behind you. Or would it?
Confusion crept into your mind, but you forced yourself to focus. It should be just that: confusion. That spark of hope was the only truth in that moment.
You could smell freedom. It was just steps away. You knew escape was the only thing left, the only way to survive.
This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not when you were so close. Not after everything you'd endured. Not after feeling, for the first time in weeks, that spark of hope burst in your chest, illuminating the dark tunnel they'd trapped you in.
You thrashed about with a strength you didn't even know you had left. You punched, kicked, scratched. Your hands searched for weak spots, wires, anything. All without looking, without taking the time to see who it was, because in that instant it didn't matter.
It seemed like years of training with the Decepticons had been thrown away in a second. Was he stronger? You'd fought bigger and taller bots, that can't be it…
He slammed you against the wall before you could scream. His visor glowed in the darkness, and his face was so close that the air seemed to scorch you.
"Really?" he murmured, his voice so low it was barely a brush against your hearing aid. He covered your mouth with his servos, struggling, but he was stronger.
You knew it was useless. He held you, so tight you could feel your arm go numb. Your labored breathing hit his face, and for a second, it was as if everything stopped. Because there was something about the way he looked at you. It wasn't triumph. It wasn't mockery.
"I warned you, I did it," he whispered, without taking his visor off yours.
He pushed you back against the wall. You let out a small yelp. His hands were on either side of your head. He didn't touch you more than necessary, but the space between you was so minimal that the heat from his chassis seeped into your own battered armor.
"What did you expect, hm? That I'd let you out?" His voice was deep, without its usual sarcastic tone, gripping you tightly, struggling.
"Jazz." This time your voice sounded different; you looked pleadingly into his eyes. "Please…"
You didn't respond. You couldn't.
His fingers closed around your chin, forcing you to look up.
"Listen to me clearly, if you try this again…" he leaned closer, his mouth close to yours, so close that you swore his lips brushed yours in a slight accident of proximity. "I swear I'll tell Prime. There will be no scolding, there will be no jail." He moved you forward and pushed you again, hurting you. "You'll die."
"I'll disarm you myself."
He suddenly let go of you, and your body slid against the wall. You fell limply, unable to stand.
Then he lifted you almost effortlessly and forced you to move back through the hallways. You didn't scream. You didn't make a sound. No one else was there. It was late, and that part of the base was deserted. You felt your spark thump.
Jazz didn't say anything the entire way. But every so often, you could feel his visor shift toward you. As if he was searching your face for something. As if he didn't know what to do with you.
The door to your cell closed again with that mechanical sound you'd learned to hate. Not a slam. Not a bang. Just that firm, cold, final click.
Your body fell to the floor as if it could no longer support you. As if what little willpower you had left had evaporated in that instant.
Jazz didn't say anything. Not a word.
He just pushed you inside with a curt gesture, not excessively violent, but not carefully either. Like someone putting something back in its place. As if you were a piece that needed to be returned to the board.
You turned quickly, as if by reflex, waiting for… what? An explanation? Another insult? Another threat?
But there was nothing. He just spun around and left.
You sat on the floor, your back against the metal wall, your chest burning with helplessness. Your hands trembled, even though you tried to ball them into fists.
Because it wasn't even worth it anymore.
And you, alone. Like in the beginning. Like always.
A few nights had passed since that time.
Since he pushed you into the cell, since he left without looking at you, without saying another word.
The torture didn't stop. Ratchet returned. Wheeljack too. Sometimes with energy in his hands, other times with frustration in his gestures. They asked you the same thing. They wanted answers you weren't going to give. And although it hurt, although each interrogation left new marks, over time it was no longer so common.
Jazz was gone.
He never saw you again.
He never brought you energon again.
Much less… to heal you.
The cell, which was already cold, became hollow. Without him, without his silence, without his strange presence.
And you hated yourself for missing him.
You wondered why. Why the emptiness he left was more unbearable than any blow. It was uncomfortable to think about seeing him again, but it also excited you.
First, you began to question the Decepticons.
Have they looked for you?
Apparently not.
Do you miss them?
Yes.
Do they?
…
And the doubt tightened more than the shackles. If they had wanted you back, you would already be out… or dead. But there you were. Alive. With scars and thoughts that shouldn't be there.
Jazz had left you that space, that silence you didn't understand.
Thinking about seeing him again was strange. It hurt.
But you wanted it too.
Hundreds of cycles passed. The Autobots no longer seemed interested in you. They already knew you weren't going to talk.
But you still didn't know why you were still alive, which was suspicious.
<-------------------------------------------->
The first thing you saw when you woke up was the metal ceiling, blurry, gray, and shapeless. It took you a few seconds to connect with your body. You felt strangely light, as if you'd slept too much or not enough.
You turned over in bed. The surface wasn't so uncomfortable anymore; your cell had changed over time—there were also some Decepticons who helped you. It wasn't so lonely, so dirty. Even so, it wasn't the most comfortable place; nothing seemed comfortable.
A silhouette leaning against the wall. Arms crossed, almost motionless and distracted.
Your optics blinked a couple of times, still sluggish.
"Jazz…" you murmured, quickly getting up. He looked up, staring at you. He didn't seem in the mood.
You wanted to say something, but you didn't know what; there was a silence.
"You haven't been here for so long," you said, not knowing why you were mentioning it.
"Yes. I know." He said calmly.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to free you." You frowned. "You're going to die," he said, so calm, so firm, that the brutality of his tone resonated through your circuits. There was no malice in his voice, but that was what terrified you the most. The lack of emotion, the simplicity of the threat. "What?" you managed to whisper, trembling, feeling an invisible pressure build in your chest. You had stood up, but you couldn't understand. "That's right," he repeated, unfazed.
The weight of his words plunged you into a sea of uncertainty. You were trapped between confusion and fear. You felt vulnerable, exposed. The air was thicker than you remembered, as if the walls of the cell were slowly closing in, pressing in on you. You shifted, unsure if you wanted to move toward him or away from him. You began to despair, not knowing what to do. "I-I"
"But…" He stopped you. You looked at him. "Not today," he continued, his gaze fixed on you with an indescribable intensity. "I spoke to Optimus, and he gave you a chance." He began to walk, his steps slow as he showed his superiority.
"We'll set you free," he said, taking a step closer to you. Those words hit you like a bolt of lightning. Free. What did that mean? Free?
"With a tracker that's impossible to escape," he continued, his tone deepening, as if the weight of his proposition weighed on him. He looked at you with that imperturbable calm he'd always had. "You'll gather information from the Decepticons and betray them. If you don't… the tracker will kill you." It was a condemnation disguised as a proposal. "We know your combat skills, and Optimus thinks you can be useful. So you'll do as we say and join the Autobots."
You stared into his optics, searching for any trace of mockery, any hint of lies. But you didn't find any. There was just something profound, something you'd never seen in him before. However… this time you didn't refuse at once.
Suddenly, he knelt in front of you, lowering himself to your level. His presence invaded you, but it wasn't like other times, when he crushed you with his disdain. Now it was something different, something almost… close.
"If you want to live, of course," he said, and with those words, something inside you tightened, as if the strings of your soul were straining at the edge of an abyss. You saw him smile slightly.
You stared at him, not knowing what to think, what to feel. The same Jazz who had tortured you, who had pushed you to your limits, was now offering you a poisoned deal: to live, but at the cost of your loyalty. A price you couldn't imagine.
Then Jazz realized, with your silence, with your hesitation, and your gaze, that you had fallen.
And there you were, in front of him and he in front of you. Something inside you stirred, without knowing exactly what it was, and then you nodded, looking up at him.
"Good," Jazz said, his voice low, almost a whisper, as he moved closer. There was no rush in his gesture, only a disturbing calm.
In a slow movement, his lips touched yours, so unexpectedly that for a moment the world stopped. It was a strange kiss, without urgency, but full of weight, as if something were being sealed, as if that act sealed a deal between you both.
You remained still, surprised, but then something inside you gave way, and, without thinking, you kissed him back. Something about his touch, though cold and calculated, made you feel that, somehow, you wanted him too. And even if you didn't yet understand why, you were going to find out.
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There may have been times when I said your visor was blue, but in Shattered Glass it was red, sorry I forgot.
Sorry if this Jazz doesn't sound like Shattered Glass Jazz. 😔😔
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 5379 WORDS?? Dios JAJAJAj- I'd like to say that I knew NOTHING about Shattered Glass 😭😭 sufri mucho, mucho. I had to do a lot of research. Thanks for the idea
i hate, hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate the traductor.
If you want to give me ideas, PLEASE GO AHEAD
