Shoot

Cliff Parker wipes the sweat from his brow, his chest heaving after Rob's blistering solo. The stage lights pulse like a heartbeat, but it's Steve Vega who catches his eye now—dark hair tousled, lips parted in that hungry way. They slip backstage, the roar of the crowd fading to a distant hum. Cliff grabs Steve's shirt, yanks him close. Their mouths crash together, rough and urgent, tongues tangling with the taste of salt and smoke. Steve's hands roam, fingers digging into Cliff's hips, pulling him flush against the hard ridge straining in his jeans. Cliff groans, grinding forward, the friction electric. He drops to his knees, unzipping Steve with practiced ease, freeing the thick length that springs out, already leaking. Cliff takes him in, deep and slow, lips stretching around the heat. Steve's fingers twist in Cliff's hair, guiding the rhythm—thrusts shallow at first, then deeper, fucking his mouth with a growl. Precum coats Cliff's tongue, salty and sharp. Steve pulls back suddenly, hauls Cliff up, spins him against the wall. Pants shoved down, Cliff braces as Steve slicks himself with spit and pushes in—inch by relentless inch, stretching him wide. They move like animals, skin slapping, breaths ragged. Steve's hand wraps around Cliff's cock, stroking in time with his hips, building that coiling ache. Cliff comes first, spilling hot over Steve's fist with a choked curse. Steve follows, burying deep, pulsing inside him until they're both spent, leaning into each other, tension shattered like glass underfoot.