Ante Up

(Because people keep asking me to write this and then are shocked when I say I already have, lol. Apparently Twt likes to hide this thread???)

Piers can rock through anything—and that’s a statement he’s willing to wager on. Not a betting man by nature, but he’s done it all and kept the show going. As long as the audience is willing, he’s willing, and that’s all that matters. He’s played outdoors in a downpour, (and got some rather magnificent photos of the stage illuminated by a halo of rain and his hair plastered against his back, mascara running down his cheeks), he’s played through snapped guitar strings and burst callouses and hangovers and busted amps.

This is different.

All of those things before were just shit that happened in the middle of a set and he dealt with it—this is purposeful. Intentional. He feels it with every step as he takes the stage, blinking into the blinding floodlights as he hits his tape mark and grips the mic.

Raihan had bet him before he went onstage tonight. He wagered that if Piers enjoys the music so much, then physical pleasure is trivial in comparison. That he can hold it together onstage, even when...

Right. The fuckin’ pervert. Piers doesn’t know why he went along with this, but the fact that he has a vibrating bullet stuffed up inside him in front of literally over a thousand people is making his extremities tingle. It feels less like he’s walking, and more like he’s floating—damn, even playing high off his ass wasn’t this disorienting.

Raihan is out there, somewhere, in the crowd Piers can only just see over the stage lights. He can’t be too far because the remote needs a certain distance to work, but Piers still can’t spot him. And the moment to run offstage and claim some fucking excuse for why he needs ten minutes in the bathroom has just passed. Piers swallows, feeling what’s as close to stage-fright as he’s ever had.

Surely, Raihan was bluffing. He thought he’d rile Piers up by doing this to him, sliding the toy in with those sure fingers in and murmuring in his ear about I hope you can handle it, and the worst Piers is going to have to deal with is the torture of knowing it’s inside him. One of Raihan’s little games, to get inside his head.

The set starts, and Piers strums his guitar—and oh, fuck. That’s not just the bass reverberating in his bones.

Singing, remembering to sing is important, he can’t miss his entrance and it’s a good thing he knows these lyrics by heart already so he doesn’t flub the words. He takes a step, changing his pose on stage, and the toy slides inside him in a way that echoes throughout every limb, bringing a heat to his face that has nothing to do with the spotlights.

Up and down the melody, hitting every note until the song comes up to a crescendo and so does the vibrator inside him, steadily pulsing until he’s only praying his fingers don’t slip. That no one notices the bulge surely growing in the front of his trousers, or writes it off as stage excitement. It’s fine, it’s fine until the wave crests and he’s up on his toes, chasing the rhythm harder, panting into the mic when he grips it hard with both hands and if his voice is pitched lower, the crowd is loving it. Rougher. Deeper. More.

Raihan is lost in the audience, watching, knowing damn well what it is that he’s doing and likely watching with pure amusement as he destroys Piers’ sanity. The sadistic motherfucker. This is all about ownership; Raihan loves playing these public games to demonstrate just how much control he has over Piers’ body, his lust. They belong deeply to one another, but it’s Raihan’s personal peccadillo to love pushing the boundaries, showing off the things that are his to others. And even now, this all too public secret is ringing off the back of Piers’ teeth and he works to swallow it down, even when his body wants to scream it to the world. He can no longer tell if he’s snarling or singing, but sex drips off every syllable he pours into the microphone, and the audience is eating it up.

Piers will be pissed about this, later. Right now, he’s trying to fight back the wicked burn of lust in his gut and hide his hard-on behind his guitar. But Raihan knows his set list as well as any member of the band, and he knows precisely when to ease off the vibrations and when to send them rocketing to have Piers halfway moaning into his mic.

Are his thighs shaking? Can anyone tell? Can anyone hear it in his voice, how desperate he is to get off? In front of all of his adoring fans; he should feel shame, but all that exists now is hot, sharp need. Getting air into his lungs is a struggle, but he gasps for it, tries to make it part of the song. He can barely remember which number they’re on, but the words come out automatically, and the crowd is ravenous for him, and he can’t feel anything but the roar in his veins as they approach the final song.

Except he’s been strung out too long, pushed too far, and his heart is thundering in his chest. Body can’t take it anymore. Adrenaline and endorphins flood his system, every pulse pushing it higher, every met note like a lover’s caress. It’s the energy of the music, an unstoppable tide that Piers can do nothing but ride to the end.

His cock grinds against the solid back of his guitar and as his voice drops low and sultry.  Everything in the song and the music and the world tightens up, and he can feel the buzzing inside him slip against the place he needs it the most. That does it.

Piers has to jam his teeth into his lower lip so hard it splits to keep from interrupting the last note with a moan of pure satisfaction from his orgasm, and slides won limp against the mic stand. Panting, trying to sort his mind out...at least they’re still cheering. Blood drips through his teeth and down the back of his throat, and he can feel his cum wet and sticky in the front of his pants, an unmistakable sign of how hard he just came. Get up...he ought to get up, but his ears are ringing so loud the cheering is nothing more than a distant buzzing, and his legs won’t seem to fit beneath his body anymore.

He flops back onto the stage and everyone assumes the music wrung him out, howling for the performance and dramatics of their beloved rockstar. Later, several music review blogs will write about how passionate he seemed at this particular venue, but for now, he concerns himself only with tying his jacket around his waist and hunting down his boyfriend. He’ll figure out if he wants round two or revenge when he finds him.