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Serene Siren, Alice Visby Pic(s)
The air in the room was thick with the scent of warm amplifiers and a faint, sweet perfume, a charged atmosphere that seemed to hum in time with the fading feedback. Her fingers, still buzzing from the final chord, found the small of the other woman’s back, a deliberate press through the damp fabric of her shirt. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she leaned in, her breath a warm ghost agat a sweat-sheened neck. The world outside the dim backstage room dissolved into a distant murmur, unimportant next to the sharp intake of air she elicited. Calloused fingertips, skilled from hours on guitar strings, traced a delicate path up a spine, feeling each vertebra yield like a silent note. Their foreheads met, a gentle collision that spoke of shared exhaustion and a deeper, rising hunger. Eyes locked in the half-light, a universe of unspoken understanding passing between them, a language older than any song they had played. The space between their mouths vanished, not in a rush, but in a slow, inevitable convergence that tasted of salt and possibility. In that suspended moment, there was only the shared rhythm of their breathing, a private, pulsing harmony that promised the night was far from over.
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