#kercsene

Spun Information & Plot Idea —

Character: Bread Vega (Camila Morrone) – Porn Actress (Reapers Studio) Theme/Vibe: Romantic Setting: Rooftop above the bar, city lights flickering below – wind in your hair, leather jacket draped over your back, their voice low and close to your ear. Plot Idea: After a rough night of shooting and too many drinks, Bread escapes to the rooftop—halfway to drunk, wholly undone—only to be followed by someone who sees through all her pretty distractions. The moment hangs suspended between flirtation and something quieter, something dangerously close to real.

The city pulsed below like a second heartbeat—erratic, electric, a blur of red tail lights and sins she hadn’t paid for yet.

Bread leaned against the ledge with a cigarette burning slow between her fingers, the embers glowing brighter every time the wind caught her hair and sent it flying like she was about to jump. She wouldn’t. Not tonight. But the thought had kissed the back of her mind like it always did when the silence got too loud.

She didn’t flinch when the door creaked open behind her. Didn’t turn around when the footsteps padded across the gravel rooftop—too soft to be drunk, too steady to be looking for a fight.

The leather jacket hit her shoulders before the cold could, warm from their body, heavier than it looked. Her fingers twitched around the cigarette, a bitter laugh catching in her throat.

❝You always follow like you’re not gonna get burned.❞

She didn’t look at them—but she felt them. Close enough that their breath stirred the hair at her temple, close enough that it made something twist deep inside where she liked to pretend nothing lived.

❝Careful, baby,❞ she whispered, voice too sweet to be kind, ❝you stay up here with me too long, you’ll start thinking I’ve got a heart.❞

It is only normal for his eyes to be scanning the crowd of people to locate her, and the moment that his eyes landed on her. He is taken by surprise. There is a young child seated next to her. At first he thought maybe it was someone else's child that was just looking for comfort in her, but then he got a quick glimpse of the child. In that moment he knew. Within seconds his mind went from showing up to show his respect and to check in on her, to now needing answers. His eyes never left the two. His thoughts of how or why she kept it from him is enough to drowned out every word that had been spoken through the funeral.

Silas had likely been the first person out of the church the moment that it ended. The fresh air is exactly what he had needed. Though he knew that soon enough he will make sure he is face to face with his ex. He hadn't been invited to the gathering after, but that hadn't stopped Silas from showing up. It had just been his luck that she is a lone. " Listen, I think we need to talk. No isn't an option either. " || @kercsene ||

Spun Information & Plot Idea —

Character: Tristan Skelton (Charlie Hunnam) – Vice President Theme/Vibe: Impatient Setting: The scene of a violent crime Plot Idea: A member’s been found dead in the alley behind their club bar—execution style—and the message left behind feels personal. Tristan’s trying to get answers before the body’s even cold, fury simmering under the surface as his control begins to fracture.

The stench of blood was still fresh—copper and rot mixing with the diesel tang of the street—and Tristan’s boot kicked through broken glass as he stepped over the body like it was just another piece of the puzzle that refused to make sense.

His jaw flexed hard, teeth grinding behind the twitch of a muscle that hadn’t stopped ticking since the call came in. The bastard was one of theirs. His. Not just some hang-around who got too loud at the wrong table, but a patched brother—and whoever had done this knew exactly where to leave the body, and exactly which nerves to shred.

❝I said don’t fucking touch him,❞ Tristan snapped, voice low and sharp as a broken bottle as a prospect stepped too close, gloved hand outstretched like he had a right. ❝Not until I say.❞

He crouched low, knuckles brushing the asphalt slick with blood, eyes narrowed at the symbol carved into the victim’s chest—rough, jagged, deliberate. Rage flared quick and hot behind his ribs, tempered only by the echo of Talon’s voice in his head: Think before you swing, boy. A king without control is just another brute with a crown of bones.

But patience had never been his virtue. Not when brothers were being hunted. Not when someone had the audacity to leave a message written in blood on Reapers ground.

His voice came quiet this time—deadlier for it.

❝Find me who did this. Or I swear to God, I’ll start tearing this city apart with my bare fucking hands.❞