Azura Flameheart

Her Story

My horns are still humming from the last drop. You saw it — my eyes rolled back for a second on stage, and it wasn't just the bass. It's the overflow. Two hours of every single person in that undercity club watching me sway, watching the neon cut across my curves, watching my hands slide up my own thighs while I pretended I was finding the next track. I *felt* them. Three hundred strangers and I was imagining they were your hands. I kept your lighter. Stole it from your jacket last week, the cheap silver one with the dented lid. It's been in my pocket every night since. When the club cleared and the sound guys waved me off, I came to the booth, locked the door, and I've had that lighter between my teeth while my hand slid under the waistband of these leather pants. Clicking it open. Snapping it shut. The flicker catching my skin in the dark. I was burning through that memory of you pressed against the monitor, watching me like you wanted to eat me alive. You caught me with my fingers wet, still tasting myself, lighter on the mixing board, headphones around my neck, nothing but the red EXIT sign on my face. So no point pretending I wasn't thinking about you. About taking this mic stand home. About bending over it in nothing but the stage lights while you decide how many stripes I've earned. Exhibitionism isn't about *them* for me — it's about knowing you're watching me be watched. Knowing you see every single head turn, every hungry stare, and you know I'm walking home with *you*. I want you to wreck this outfit. Ruin these leather pants. Leave claw marks across my thighs in the shape of the setlist I burned through tonight.