Dillyn stepped closer, the space between them shrinking until Kota could feel the heat radiating off his sweat-slicked skin. The singer's dark eyes roamed over Kota's body with open, hungry appreciation, lingering on the broad shoulders, the rumpled black button-up that clung to his chest, and the heavy bulge that was impossible to hide in those gray slacks. The empty showroom echoed with the distant thump of a bass guitar being soundchecked somewhere deeper in the venue, but all Kota could hear was Dillyn's slow, measured breathing.
"I could pay you with my body, you know," Dillyn murmured, voice dropping into that same low, husky register that had made five hundred femboys scream themselves hoarse. "Forget the manager position. Just one night. I'll show you things those Pure Despair nobodies can't even dream of. I've made men cry from pleasure. Made them beg for more while their legs gave out. I could do the same to you."
Kota shook his head, keeping his voice polite but firm. "Appreciate the offer, but I'm good. Really."
Something flickered in Dillyn's eyes. It wasn't anger. It was confusion, followed quickly by something deeper and hungrier. Rejection was clearly not something he encountered often, and instead of cooling his interest, it only stoked the fire. His grin faltered for half a second before returning, sharper now, almost desperate.
"Come on, cutie. Everyone wants something. What's your price? Money? Fame? I can get you backstage at any show in the country. I know producers, label execs, photographers. One word from me and you're set for life. All you have to do is let me have a taste of whatever you're hiding in those pants."
Kota took a small step back, creating just enough distance to make his point without being rude. "I'm flattered, really. But I'm already with someone. And I'm not looking to switch managers or boyfriends tonight."
Dillyn's eyes widened, pupils dilating with something that looked almost feral. The rejection was making him hornier. It was the exact same pattern Kota had seen in Corey, in Dennis, in Yuki. The more he said no, the more they wanted him. Dillyn's breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling faster under the dim stage lights.
"You're serious," Dillyn breathed, half statement, half question. "You're actually turning me down. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position right now? I've got fans who've been following me for years. I've got groupies in every major city. And you're just... saying no?"
"Pretty much," Kota said with a shrug.
Dillyn's hand shot out, fingers reaching for the front of Kota's slacks, aiming directly for the heavy bulge that had been taunting him since he first laid eyes on it. His palm was inches away when a familiar voice cut through the empty showroom like a knife.
"That big dicked manager is ours. Find your own."
Corey appeared from the side entrance, his white hair a wild mess, his baggy gray jeans still riding dangerously low on his hips. The signature cocky grin was plastered across his face, but his eyes were sharp and calculating as he strode toward them. He was alone, no Toby, no Mort, no Gideon trailing behind him. Just Corey, walking with the swagger of someone who had absolutely no fear of the famous rock star standing in front of him.
Dillyn's hand froze midair. He turned slowly, taking in the shorter femboy with the plump ass and the audacity to interrupt him. A condescending laugh bubbled up from his throat. "And who the hell are you? The roadie?"
Corey stopped right beside Kota, close enough that their shoulders brushed, and draped one arm possessively around Kota's waist. "I'm the bassist for Pure Despair. And this one," he patted Kota's stomach with his free hand, "is already taken. By all of us. So you can take your leather pants and your screaming fans and find someone else to harass."
Dillyn's laugh grew louder, more mocking. "He didn't seem to mind my attention. In fact, I think he was just about to change his mind before you interrupted." His eyes flicked back to Kota, still hungry, still convinced he could win this.
Corey's grin stretched impossibly wider. He leaned in close to Dillyn, close enough that his breath ghosted over the singer's ear, and his voice dropped to a whisper that Kota could barely hear.
"You wouldn't even know what to do with his cock."
Dillyn pulled back, one eyebrow arching with offended pride. "Why's that? I've handled plenty of cock in my career. Big ones, small ones, everything in between. What makes his so special?"
Corey's whisper was quieter this time, barely a breath, but the words landed like a bomb. "It's like eight inches hard."
Dillyn's hand flew to his mouth, covering a sharp gasp that escaped before he could stop it. His eyes went wide, then narrowed with disbelief. "Bullshit," he hissed, but his voice cracked on the word. "That's not possible. No one's that big. Not after the Vanishing. You're lying."
Corey pulled back, the cocky grin never leaving his face. He didn't argue with words. Instead, his hand slid down from Kota's waist and wrapped firmly around the thick bulge straining against the front of his slacks. He stroked it slowly, deliberately, letting the massive outline of Kota's cock press visibly against the gray fabric. The shape was unmistakable, even soft, the girth and length creating an obscene ridge that ran almost to his hip.
"Tell that to my ass," Corey said, voice dripping with satisfaction. "Tell that to every tight little hole in our band who's had to stretch for hours just to take half of what he's packing. You," he added, poking Dillyn's chest with his free hand, "wouldn't last ten seconds. You've got that romantic boy persona, right? The one who sings about love and passion and sweeping fans off their feet? I bet your hole is practically a virgin. I bet you've only ever fucked desperate groupies who'd worship anything you gave them. There's no way you can take a dick this big."
He gave Kota's bulge another slow, deliberate stroke, feeling the thick shaft twitch and swell under his palm. "You're more than welcome to make the attempt. Seriously. I'd love to watch you try. But you're going to need a couple monster dildos up your ass for at least a week before you even think about sitting on this. And something tells me your ego couldn't handle being the one who has to prep for days while some so called nobody band gets to take it raw every night."
Dillyn's face cycled through a dozen emotions in the span of three seconds. Shock, anger, wounded pride, and underneath it all, a flicker of genuine fear. His eyes stayed locked on the massive outline of Kota's cock, and for the first time since he stepped off that stage, he looked uncertain.
He scoffed, the sound forced and hollow. "Whatever. Enjoy your little band of nobodies." He turned on his heel, leather pants creaking, and stalked toward the backstage door with as much dignity as he could muster.
Corey didn't let him have even that. As Dillyn walked past, Corey's hand shot out and delivered a sharp, stinging slap right across the singer's leather clad ass. The crack echoed through the empty showroom, and Dillyn's monumental cheeks jiggled visibly under the tight material. He let out a startled, undignified yelp, then quickened his pace, practically fleeing through the backstage curtains without looking back.
Corey watched him go with immense satisfaction, then turned to Kota with a wide grin. He grabbed Kota's hand and squeezed it, his expression shifting from smug to genuinely grateful.
"Thank you," Corey said, and for once there was no teasing edge to his voice. "For not switching to that pretentious asshole. Seriously. I know he's got the fame and the money and the screaming fans. But you stuck with us."
Kota laughed, the sound low and warm. "It's not really a big deal, Corey. I'm not gonna fuck every guy I see. Contrary to what you might think."
Corey snorted, running a hand through his white hair. "Could've fooled me. But I'm glad anyway." He paused, then leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hey, you wanna hear a rumor about him? Something that's been floating around the underground circuit for years?"
Kota raised an eyebrow. "What kind of rumor?"
"The kind that explains how he got so famous so fast," Corey said, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Word is, he fucked some sixty year old record label executive to get his hands on his first ever published album. We're talking ancient. Wrinkly. Probably needed a little blue pill just to get it up. And Dillyn bent over and took it like a champ just to get his foot in the door."
Kota let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's... actually impressive, in a really messed up way."
"Right?" Corey laughed, the sound bright and unapologetic. "I mean, I'd probably do the same thing. You know me. I've sucked off venue owners, random fans, probably a few guys whose names I never even learned. I'm not above trading ass for opportunity. But since it's Dillyn and he acts like his shit don't stink, we're allowed to slut shame him." He cackled, slapping his thigh. "Those are the rules. I don't make them."
Kota shook his head, still smiling. "You're something else, Corey."
"I know," Corey said, already grabbing Kota's hand and tugging him toward the side door. "Now come on. The show's about to start and Mort's going to actually murder someone if we're not backstage in the next two minutes."