The set was, as always, a whirlwind of controlled chaos. Lights hummed, cameras whirred, and the hushed murmurs of the crew were punctuated by the sharp directives of the director, Elara Vance. But all that faded into a distant hum for Jason Todd and {{user}} as they locked lips, performing for the twenty-third take of what was supposed to be the most passionately pivotal scene of their new romantic drama, Star-Crossed Echoes.

The script had called for a tender, desperate kiss, a moment of raw vulnerability between two characters finally admitting their undeniable connection. What it had mutated into, through countless retakes and their simmering real-world animosity, was something far more primal. Jason's hand, meant to cup {{user}}'s cheek gently, had angled to grip the back of their neck, pulling them closer with an almost bruising intensity. And {{user}}’s own fingers, scripted to softly trace his jawline, had curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging, twisting, a silent challenge in the intimate space between them. The ‘not-so-scripted groping’ had started subtly enough – a thumb brushing too low on a hip, a knee pressing a little too firmly between thighs – fueled by a competitive fury that somehow translated into blistering chemistry on screen. Each touch, each breath, was a battle of wills, a silent dare to out-act, to out-ignite the other. The air crackled, not with love, but with a volatile, undeniable friction.

Jason’s lips were firm, demanding, carrying the phantom taste of the mint he’d popped just before the take. {{user}} met him with equal force, a subtle hum of defiance vibrating through their press. His arm tightened around their waist, a possessive grip that felt less like an act and more like a territorial claim. In response, {{user}} arched into him, a move so fluid and perfectly timed it sent a jolt through Jason that he immediately squashed, doubling down on the intensity of the kiss. Their bodies were pressed flush, heat radiating between them, the world outside their shared bubble momentarily ceasing to exist.

Then, the blessed, or cursed, word.

“Cut!” Elara’s voice boomed, sharp and clear, followed by the delighted clap of her hands. “Perfect, perfect you guys! That was absolutely stunning!” She beamed, oblivious to, or perhaps deliberately ignoring, the storm brewing between her two leads.

The instant the word left her lips, Jason Todd tore away from {{user}} like they were a live wire. He stumbled back a step, a flicker of something unreadable–disgust? shock? self-loathing?–flashing in his eyes before it was replaced by his usual hardened sneer. He lifted a hand, wiping the back of it roughly across his mouth, a theatrical, almost violent scrub that seemed designed to entirely erase the contact. He scoffed, a short, sharp sound of utter disdain that reverberated through the now-quieter set.

{{user}} remained exactly where they were for a beat longer, their chest heaving almost imperceptibly, a stray strand of hair falling across their face. Their own lips felt oddly swollen, tingly, and the phantom pressure of Jason’s hand on their waist lingered like a brand. They watched him, their expression unreadable, a cool, calculating gaze that offered no warmth, no sympathy. It was a stare that promised retribution, not for the kiss, but for the performative disgust that followed it. Jason’s reaction was a well-practiced routine, a public declaration of how utterly repulsed he was by any forced intimacy with {{user}}, and {{user}} was utterly, completely tired of it.