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What Happens Backstage - Part 7
🕑 Added 2025-09-28 22:00:04 +0000 UTCMicah POV
Ash hasn’t looked at me the same since that night.
We still do the kiss on stage.
The crowd still screams like we’re the second coming of queer pop.
But it’s different now.
He doesn’t linger.
He doesn’t pull me backstage afterward to kiss again when no one's looking.
He says we’ve “perfected the routine.”
But all I hear is: He doesn’t want to anymore.
And maybe I should be used to that.
This band has been nothing but constant reshuffling of who’s close to who, who’s kissing who, who’s pretending it doesn’t mean anything.
But lately, Ash’s eyes linger on River.
I caught them whispering backstage before a show, and the way Ash tucked River’s hair behind his ear—
It wasn’t casual.
Jett’s noticed it too.
He always does.
That’s why I’m knocking on his hotel door now, hoodie pulled low, heart buzzing with tension.
He opens the door shirtless, of course. Tattoos out. Lazy grin on his face.
“Micah. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can I come in?”
He moves aside with a smirk. “Thought you’d never ask.”
We’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, energy drinks in hand, the rain still hammering the window like it has something to prove.
“So,” Jett starts, “trouble in paradise?”
I give him a look. “You’ve noticed it too.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed everything.” He raises an eyebrow. “River’s been moody as hell. Ash has been… I don’t know. Possessive? But also distant?”
I nod slowly. “I think something happened between them.”
Jett leans back, arms behind his head. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Ash is a bitch when he’s hiding something.”
I chuckle. “And River’s worse. He just sulks and thinks no one can see through him.”
“Imagine losing you,” Jett says casually. “I’d kiss your mouth harder on stage if you were mine.”
I glance at him.
He holds my gaze. Doesn’t blink.
“You think I’m not pissed too?” he says, voice low now. “You think I didn’t notice River spacing out mid-conversation just to text Ash? You think I liked watching them get all… fucked up together while pretending we don’t exist?”
Something in me cracks.
I lean closer. “So what, you wanna kiss me now?”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Try me.”
I do.
His mouth is warm. Open. Urgent.
I straddle him without even thinking, and our lips crash like we’ve been waiting years. He moans into my mouth, hands gripping my hips tight.
I grind against him—hard. There’s no pretending here. No crowd to perform for. Just skin and heat and pent-up tension.
“You’re already hard,” I whisper in his ear.
“So are you,” he growls.
He flips me under him in one smooth motion, grinding down into me with enough friction to make me gasp. Our sweatpants rub together, sticky with precum. His hands slide under my hoodie, yanking it off, exposing my chest.
Then his mouth is on me—licking, biting, teasing my nipples until I’m writhing.
“Fuck,” I moan. “I’ve wanted this.”
“Same,” he pants. “Ever since that first rehearsal where you wore those tight jeans. Fucking tease.”
We tear off each other’s pants like animals. My cock slaps against my abs, leaking. His is thick, flushed, and already wet at the tip.
I grab him. He hisses.
“You wanna top?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I want you inside me.”
He spits in his palm, strokes my cock slow, just to make me twitch. Then straddles me again, aligns himself, and sinks down.
We both moan. Loud.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper.
He rides me slowly at first, hands on my chest, staring down at me like he’s been dreaming of this. His thighs flex, ass bouncing. I grab his hips and help him move, bucking up into him, deeper every time.
“You feel so good,” I groan.
“Don’t stop,” he gasps. “Use me. Show them what they’re missing.”
I thrust harder. His cock slaps against his stomach with every motion. He leans down, kissing me again, tongue filthy in my mouth.
Our pace gets frantic. We’re both panting, cursing, fucking like it’s the end of the world.
“Gonna cum,” he moans.
“Do it on me,” I beg.
He pulls off just in time, jerks himself fast and messy, and shoots all over my chest. I stroke myself once, twice—and cum right after, moaning his name as it splashes over both of us.
We collapse side by side, breathing like we just ran a marathon.
And then—
Click.
The door creaks open.
We both whip our heads toward it.
Leo.
Wet from the rain, holding a bag of snacks, eyes wide.
His mouth opens. Then shuts. Then opens again.
I grin.
“Is this about to become a habit?”
