What Happens Backstage - Part 3

Ash POV

Ever since that night in Chicago, kissing Micah on stage has become… a thing.

It started as a dare. A joke. A heat-of-the-moment tongue kiss with a crowd screaming loud enough to rattle my ribs. I thought that was it. One impulsive moment.

But now? It’s expected.

We’re three cities deep into the European leg of the tour, and every night, the kiss comes earlier. Longer. Dirtier. Once, Micah ran his hand down my chest mid-chorus and the fans screamed like someone had died. Or orgasmed. Maybe both.

And the internet? Jesus.

There’s NSFW art of us everywhere. Animation. Fanfiction. Deepfakes. Threads speculating how I’d sound moaning Micah’s name. A tweet went viral last night that said “Ash looks like he cries when he cums.” It has 40K likes.

Maybe they’re not wrong.

We’re in the green room today before soundcheck, alone, legs tangled on the beat-up couch. I’m tuning my guitar. Micah’s chewing gum and scrolling through his phone like he owns the world.

Then he says it.

“Hey,” he grins. “Wanna practice kissing?”

I look up. “What?”

“For the shows,” he says innocently, even though we both know he’s full of shit. “I figure we could rehearse some fan service. You know. Keep it… believable.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure we’re past believable.”

He shrugs, wicked grin spreading across his face. “So let’s just lean in.”

I should say no. I should laugh it off.

But instead, I set the guitar down, stretch my legs, and say, “Fine. Teach me how to kiss for the fans.”

We start slow. Just a press of lips. Testing.
Then Micah slides a hand up my neck and pulls me in deeper.

It’s not a stage kiss. There’s no pretending.

His tongue flicks against mine and I groan into his mouth.
He pulls back just a little and says, “Shit. You’re actually good at this.”

I smirk. “Reading fanfic pays off.”

And that’s all it takes.

Micah pulls out his phone, finds one of the spicier fics, and starts reading the lines aloud.
I think it’s one of the ones where I straddle him on a piano.
We laugh. Until we don’t.

We act it out. Almost like a joke. But I climb onto his lap anyway.

And when I grind down on him, he gasps. I feel it—his cock, hard and twitching through his jeans.

Micah grabs my hips. Moaning softly now. We kiss again. Hotter. Needier.

Soon we’re humping like animals, our clothes still on but useless.

His hands slip under my shirt. Mine grab at his ass.

I feel the heat between us. The way pre-cum is soaking through his jeans. The way he’s trembling.

I break the kiss, breathing hard. “Take it off,” I whisper.

He nods.

I help him lift his shirt, revealing the smooth, sweaty skin underneath. He’s panting. Chest flushed. Eyes glazed over.

I run my hands over his chest, down to his stomach.
Then start stroking him through his jeans.

Micah throws his head back. “Ash…”

We don’t stop.

We strip each other down, bit by bit. Pants to the floor. Briefs tossed aside.
His cock bounces against his stomach, leaking.

I take it in my hand.
He grabs mine too. We stroke each other, side by side, thighs brushing, lips moaning names against necks.

It’s messy. Wet. Our bodies pressed together, sweat mixing, precum smeared on our stomachs.

He mutters, “Gonna cum—fuck, Ash—”

“Me too,” I whisper, kissing him again, our fists working faster, tighter.

And then—we cum at the same time, gasping into each other’s mouths, hands still stroking through the final spurts, our bellies covered in it.

We collapse into each other. Still panting. Still shaking.

I bury my face in his shoulder. He laughs, breathless. “That was… a solid rehearsal.”

I’m about to respond when—

The door opens.

We freeze.

Leo stands there, jaw slack, eyes wide.
Takes in the scene: two naked, sweaty bandmates, sticky and still tangled.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Rehearsal, huh?”

Then he shuts the door behind him.