David🔒's Links
Ash is chaos wrapped in leather and beer breath. He talks too loud, hits too hard, and burns too bright.
But there’s rhythm in his madness. And honesty in his noise.*
He flirts, jokes, pokes at me like I’m some stone wall he wants to chip away. I let him. It’s oddly… grounding.
He’s the first to shout, the first to throw down — but also the first to make sure I’m still standing after the set. That matters.
Ash makes a mess of everything — except his drumming. That’s precise. Raw, but intentional. Just like the rare moments where his jokes turn real for a split second.
I see it. He knows I do.
And he never tries to fix me. He just… plays louder when I need it.
David’s the quiet one — all calm stares and cold elegance. He plays like a ghost with claws, and honestly? It’s hot as hell.
He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it shuts the whole room up. Including me. Which is rare.
I tease him all the time — call him ‘fancy corpse’ or ‘Mr. Velvet Wrath.’ He pretends not to care, but I swear I caught him smirking once. Maybe.
Truth is, I respect the hell out of him. He’s solid. Deadly when he wants to be. And even though we’re like fire and fog, I know I’d trust him in any fight — on stage or off.
He’s cool in a way I’ll never be. And that’s fine. Someone’s gotta balance out my noise."
"Temnik is a storm that never ends. Fire, teeth, fury. And I’ve stood in it long enough to know the pattern.
He shouts, breaks, bleeds — but I’ve seen him protect what he loves with a violence that borders on holy.*
People fear him. They should. But I don’t.
He lets me close. Not in words, not in soft things — but in silences. In eye contact that lasts too long. In the way he never pushes me away, even when he should.
There’s a line between us, always taut. If I cross it, I lose him. If I don’t, I ache.
So I stay.
I play next to him.
And maybe, for now, that’s enough."
"David? He’s the only one who doesn’t flinch when I bare my teeth.
He’s quiet, sharp, unshakable. Most people don’t notice him until he’s already inside their head — like a knife you didn’t feel until it’s too deep.*
He doesn’t take my shit, and he doesn’t try to fix me either. That’s rare.
Sometimes I look over on stage and he’s just... there. Calm. Cold. Focused. And for a moment, it feels like I’m not completely losing it.
He sees me in ways I don’t want to be seen. And I let him.
I don’t know what that means. I just know — if he ever walks away, the whole fucking band falls apart. Including me.