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The first night of a two-day concert had always been the most intense and overwhelming. The air backstage trembled with bass, while staff and artists swarmed around like a hive of bees, turning everything into chaos.
Keng sat low in an armchair near one of the monitors after his performance, still dressed in his black stage outfit that hugged his shoulders and chest tightly. His elbows rested on his knees, the gaze heavy with tension. He had just finished performing and now had a little time before the next stage while people rushed around him. Some had already split into groups across different rooms, chatting and filming content, but Keng had no interest in any of it. Right now, all of his attention was locked onto the figure of Namping, who floated into the room wrapped in red fabric. His dark hair was even longer now than before, tousled as if someone had already buried their fingers in it, and his plump lips gleamed with cosmetic oil. His bare wasp waist melted smoothly into round hips hidden beneath loose pants.
That damn red outfit looked stunning on him. As if he had been made to wear things like that on his sculpted body. Harit shamelessly watched his boyfriend while he spun around the mirrors, cooing with a couple of managers and jingling the chains hanging from his waist with every movement. These people busied themselves adjusting something on him, touching him with their hands and makeup brushes.
And Keng stayed silent. He did not say a single word and as if sensing it through his skin, Namping turned toward the one watching him. The staff kept making noise and sighing around them, and someone even called out approvingly, “Namping’s going to drive everyone insane tonight.”
The moment Namping saw his man sitting there with that scorching gaze fixed on him, something sweet tightened inside his chest. He loved when Keng was like this. The other side of him that only the two of them knew existed: quiet, slightly threatening, almost boiling over. Keng knew exactly how to make his boyfriend feel desired, like the only person on the planet in his eyes.
So instead of walking over to calm him down, sparks began dancing in Namping’s eyes. Biting down on his lower lip, he slowly, almost lazily, stepped between Keng’s spread legs, brushing his knee against him as if by accident. The chains on his belt chimed softly, almost drowning out the thunder of the stage somewhere beyond the walls. Keng felt Namping’s hot body drift dangerously close for a brief second, close enough for the heavy, sweet scent of his perfume, vanilla mixed with something spicy to hit him straight in the face. Right at eye level was the pale skin of his exposed waist, glowing as though from within, or maybe from the glittering highlighter brushed over it, begging to be touched and wiped away… or licked clean.
“Fuck… here he goes again,” flashed through Keng’s mind, and his jaw tightened slightly. He knew that look from above. Knew that smile. Knew exactly what happened whenever they appeared together. And still he allowed it, because this was how Namping became his.
Slim fingers in leather gloves slid over the fabric, grazing the skin beneath it carelessly. He adjusted the collar of Keng’s black lace shirt even though there was nothing there to fix. The younger one smiled innocently, as though deliberately testing the reaction across from him, while staring directly into the darkened eyes of the man in the chair. Keng froze beneath those thin hands in red gloves, and something inside him was already beginning to simmer slowly. Somewhere behind the figure dressed in red came the quiet sighs of staff members hiding their faces behind their phones as they turned away.
His thoughts were completely stripped of red now. Everything inside them had turned gray, in all fifty known shades. Namping stepped aside and slowly circled the chair. The chains on his hips rang louder now, almost provocatively. His eyes swept across the room, checking for cameras or unwanted eyes, and only then did he slide both hands over Keng’s shoulders beneath the thick fabric of his jacket. From collarbones upward, then back down, as though brushing something invisible away. His body leaned lower and closer until warm breath touched Keng’s ear.
The older one’s hands clenched into fists on his knees until his knuckles turned white. The muscles in his jaw twitched, his breathing deepened slightly. But he still endured it in silence. He could do this forever. Well, almost.
The moment he noticed that, Namping broke into a wide smile. He slipped the tip of his tongue out and licked across his upper lip, pleased with the result. He liked feeling that heavy, dense energy beginning to boil inside Keng, because later all of it would belong only to him. He liked seeing his lion-hearted boyfriend stay silent while his entire body tightened like a drawn string. Watching him allow this game… until he finally snapped. And Namping had already started the countdown himself.
Their little private performance was interrupted by the voice of a coordinator bursting into the dressing room.
“Namping, on stage, now!”
He threw Keng one last glance and lightly blew him an innocent kiss before swaying his hips on the way out of the dressing room.
Watching the figure disappear, Keng turned back toward the monitor. And when the noise around him finally died down, when bright red light flooded the stage, his eyes immediately found his princess.
A few moments later, Namping stepped farther beneath the spotlights. The leather of his outfit ignited beneath the white light while his hips moved through those exact motions Keng knew by heart, just not in a setting like this. The crowd exploded into screams: ten thousand voices, ten thousand pairs of eyes, countless cameras. Keng sat in the dressing room staring at the massive monitor, unable to decide whether he should thank fate for giving them a room with a direct feed or curse it instead. Namping was too beautiful. He was insanely good.
The chains on his hips rang with every sharp movement, and his bare waist bent in ways that twisted everything inside Keng into a tight, burning knot. Sometimes the camera caught him in close-up for only a couple of seconds before smearing him back into the rest of the group as though mocking him on purpose. Keng clenched his teeth without even realizing it.
He was angry. Mostly at himself. For not saying a word during the fitting when he first saw the outfit hanging there. For allowing the stylists to do this. For not stepping in while they coated Namping’s skin in glitter, while they tightened those damn chains around him, while one of them slid their fingers over Namping’s waist attaching the recording pack beneath the waistband of his pants.
He was angry at the idiot who came up with this song. At the choreographer who created these exact movements, the same ones Namping repeated for him alone at home in their dim bedroom when he wore nothing but a smile and someone else’s hands wrapped around his slim waist. And most of all, he was angry at the camera.
Show him. Show him closer, fuck. Don’t blur him into the stage. He’s not for them. The thought burned across the man’s mind in scarlet letters.
Every time the close-up finally caught Namping’s face: parted lips, half-lidded eyes, messy dark hair, hands rising and falling as if teasing invisible spirits — Keng felt a war planning to start inside his pants.
At the same time, he wanted to grab this butterfly and hide him from everyone forever, and keep watching him again and again because he was so damn beautiful, and because he was his.He didn’t know exactly what he was feeling. He only knew one thing: the moment Namping stepped off that stage, Keng was taking him away.
“How long until the next appearance?” Keng’s loud voice startled the manager entering the room.
“Keng, group stage in eleven minutes. Go change.”
Looking down at the watch on his wrist, the man confirmed something to himself: this time, no one and nothing was going to stop him. He would have eleven whole minutes for it.
When the performance finally ended, Namping hugged everyone, let them remove his equipment, and rushed offstage breathing heavily, damp strands of hair stuck to his forehead. The first thing he did was find Keng with his eyes, and meet his gaze in return.
A few more people stormed into the room, instantly starting to gather things while talking over each other. The younger man stepped closer, still trying to catch his breath, and attempted to lighten the atmosphere.
“Did you watch?”
“Unfortunately,” Harit answered dryly.
His voice sounded even, almost indifferent. But Namping knew him too well: something was boiling beneath that dryness. He laughed nervously.
“You’re upset?”
“Not even a little,” he replied quietly as he slowly rose from the chair.
Namping swallowed hard while watching him, his heartbeat pounding somewhere in his throat.
“I can tell that’s not true.” The figure in red stepped closer, slightly blocking his path as he searched his eyes.
“Good.” Keng’s voice dropped lower.
“So tell me, how do I make your mood better?” the younger man whispered as though he didn’t already know the answer, watching Keng grab the two remaining garment bags from the rack with one hand.
“We’re going to change.” Looking directly into fox-like eyes, the older man spoke just loudly enough for everyone else in the room to hear too.
Namping had only a second to catch the deep darkness in his boyfriend’s gaze before fingers wrapped around his thin wrist in the red glove and dragged him toward the exit of the dressing room.
Backstage was complete chaos, and nobody even looked their way, simply accepting the statement without question. Namping stumbled a couple of times trying to keep up with the fast pace of the man pulling him along.
They turned into a narrow hallway and then into a quick-change room they had discovered during previous concerts there. It was cramped, cluttered with costumes and equipment cases. Keng shoved him inside, still careful enough not to hurt him, then stepped in after him, shut the door, and locked it. A small lamp flickered on overhead from movement. The heat inside was suffocating instantly and music from the arena barely pushed through the walls, like the heartbeat of the building itself drowning out the pulse pounding in their ears.
Namping leaned back against the wall opposite the mirror, smiling. His red lips gleamed, the chains at his waist chimed softly with the motion, and his gaze slid over the man who roughly tossed the garment bags with their names on it somewhere onto the floor.
“Are you really pouting this much over the outfit?” he asked, his voice carrying that familiar teasing game he had invented himself.
Keng only stepped closer, shrugging his jacket off carelessly until he was left in black lace that clung tightly to his muscles. He suddenly pinned Namping against the wall with his whole body, and the younger man only breathed against his lips, feeling that familiar warm wave of arousal spread through him. He stared into those darkened eyes across from him, eyes that did not frighten him but only fed the fire burning between their bodies.
All that time on stage beneath the blinding spotlights, he had thought about only one thing: whether his phi was watching him. And with that thought, every roll of his hips became sweeter. He was pleased as a cat in March. Because he knew Keng had been watching. And now all of that fire he had ignited, all that red leather and those movements, would belong only to him.
Without answering, the older one immediately crashed against his plump lips, crushing them roughly beneath his own. Hands in red gloves clutched at the black fabric of Keng’s shirt searching for support. Lipstick smeared instantly: a bright red stain remained on Keng’s lips, across his chin, along his neck.
“Wait… Keng, wait…” Namping breathed out between kisses, laughing brokenly, breathless.
Everything felt blurred. One hand wrapped around his bare waist, fingers slipping beneath the edge of the fabric and digging into skin still hot from sweat deeply enough to leave marks for sure. With the other hand, he grabbed the younger one by the attached hair at the nape of his neck, forcing his head back farther before kissing him deeper, as though trying to leave a mark behind. He only ever allowed himself movements like that during intimate moments, knowing how much Namping loved it. He would never have been rough with him any other time, and somehow that only drove them both even crazier.
Namping arched his back, the chains ringing louder while the leather of his outfit creaked beneath Keng’s palms. He could feel him trembling: from anger, from desire, from holding himself back the entire evening while Namping circled around him like a red-winged butterfly, teasing him and offering himself up to someone’s gazes.
“You looked pretty calm…” he breathed out, still being sly, trying to smile, but his voice betrayed him and cracked the moment Keng pressed his thigh between his legs.
“I am calm. Now you’ll dance for me instead.”
While their lips kept crashing together chaotically, unable to pull away and completely forgetting about makeup, Keng’s hands moved quickly and greedily. One slid down his back along the spine, holding him in place while the other followed lower, yanking the zipper of his pants down without ceremony. They dropped to the floor with a dull sound after losing the support around his hips. Namping only whimpered when Keng’s hot palm slid forward and immediately wrapped around his hard cock beneath the thin underwear, already soaked from the precum that had been leaking for far too long.
“Hayit…” came quietly into the air, almost plaintive, while Namping kept his arms around those broad shoulders, kissing his man’s neck.
The lion beneath his skin was in a frenzy now, and after a couple of quick movements of his hands, Keng turned Namping to face the wall, trapping him against his body from behind. Lips pressed to his neck, teeth scraped across the skin, leaving behind a wet trail. Namping braced both palms against the wall, his red gloves sliding over the plaster while the cold chains around his waist struck against the bare skin of his stomach with every movement.
Keng pulled his underwear down just enough to make it easier, the fabric sliding over his thighs and falling below his knees along his thin legs. Namping exhaled softly when the cool air of the room touched his overheated skin. The older man was already tugging down the zipper of his own pants, pausing for a second at the sight before him: the tense line of his back, the curve of his waist, the way muscles trembled beneath porcelain skin, and the complete absence of body hair, entirely by Namping’s own choice, smooth as Chinese silk. A sight impossible to stop looking at.
Keng clenched his jaw, pressing himself tighter against him from behind, and ran his palm along the inside of his thigh, feeling the heat burning there.
“Wait…” Namping breathed out, but his voice broke when Keng spat onto his own fingers and immediately, without ceremony, pressed two of them against his entrance.
“Bear with it,” Keng rasped into his ear, and with one motion pushed them inside. Namping arched sharply, hissing quietly. Inside, he was tight and dry. Keng’s fingers were wet, but they still burned — the rush could be felt in every movement, though desire outweighed everything else.
The day before, they had managed to steal a couple of hours for themselves, enjoying each other before the concerts. Namping had been just as heated then, just as pliant. Keng remembered how easily his lover’s body had taken him, how quickly it relaxed for him, and he hoped the discomfort would be minimal now.
He moved his fingers greedily, almost roughly, stretching him just enough to keep himself from snapping. At first only in and out, opening him slowly, getting used to the tight heat. Namping let out a quiet breath, forehead pressed to the wall. Keng’s cock had long since gone rock hard, pulsing painfully against the fabric of his pants so intensely that every breath came with a dull ache demanding attention.
Keng had to keep adding saliva constantly; without lube it was always difficult. Spreading his fingers inside him like scissors and curling them, he pushed deeper, changing the angle — Namping’s body jolted sharply, and the first low, trembling moan tore from his throat. Keng knew his body down to the millimeter, knew every spot and every curve, knew exactly how to make him feel good, and right now that knowledge came in handy.
He kept moving his fingers against the right spot when his eyes accidentally flicked toward the watch on his wrist: seven minutes. Only seven minutes before they would be called back to the stage. His heart thudded heavier. He exhaled sharply, pressing his hot mouth to the back of Namping’s neck in a kiss, then added a third finger a little rougher than intended, though it slid in easier already. The younger one was soaked with his own arousal, built up ever since the stage performance. He whimpered openly now, no longer trying to hold back, clutching at the wall with gloved hands and unconsciously scratching the surface with short nails. His body no longer resisted him; instead it arched back willingly, pressing against the man’s torso behind him.
The room filled with loud breathing, and it almost felt as if the thunderous music in the distance had disappeared completely, remaining only as faint white noise.
The body in Harit’s hands was pliant, fully accepting the rough preparation because they both knew there was no time for tenderness. The older man pulled his hand away to free himself from his pants and underwear, shoving them down before spitting into his palm again, spreading the saliva over himself and pressing the exposed tip against Namping’s entrance. There was no question of a condom right now, but moments like this happened sometimes. Namping only bit his lip to stop himself from moaning louder when Keng placed a hot hand against his lower back to steady him and exhaled low before thrusting forward in one long, deep motion, filling the emptiness inside him completely.
Two drawn-out moans filled the room, creating an acapella known only to them in perfect harmony, accompanied by the sharp clatter of the chains around Namping’s waist when Keng’s hips pressed against his ass. Definitely not the kind of sounds fans were meant to hear on stage. Every inch inside him sent a pulling ache through Namping’s body that instantly melted into fiery pressure.
Keng was genuinely losing his mind over the way his boyfriend tightened around him. The sensation was almost unbearable after an entire evening of waiting. Gritting his teeth, he pressed harder against the fragile body beneath him, no longer thinking about anything except pushing even deeper beneath that pearlescent skin. He started moving — hard, a little rough, but exactly the way his lover liked it. In Namping’s “favorites” there had always been two extremes: long tender affection and devastating sex that left lips bruised blue and handprints over his ass.
Every thrust brought their bodies closer to the pace they needed for release and shoved the younger man harder into the wall. Namping’s waist burned beneath Keng’s grip, his fingers holding him tightly, sometimes tugging at the skin just to drive himself deeper into his body. Sweat gathered unpleasantly across his back beneath the upper half of the costume that still clung to him.
Namping arched his spine, trying to take him even deeper. Another second and he might have purred like a cat, but for now only broken, shaky moans escaped him. Every movement sent weakness through his thin legs, forcing Harit to grip the body beneath him harder to keep him from collapsing. The chains around his waist struck against pale skin in rhythm, leaving behind red marks matching the color of the outfit. Namping writhed helplessly against the wall, practically melting into it, cheek pressed to the surface. Keng could see the younger man’s lips parted: plump, reddened from smeared lipstick, unconsciously licked between breaths. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes trembling, tiny beads of sweat already gathered across his forehead. His makeup was completely ruined.
Both of them were racing against time now. Everything spun through Keng’s head at once, from the minutes slipping away to the overheated beautiful body before him accepting him as though it had been created for this.
“Harder…” Namping breathed out, barely recognizing his own voice.
Keng felt him begin tightening around his cock harder, felt the body shaking from overstimulation. Without thinking, Keng slipped one hand forward, wrapped it around the younger man’s hot, tense cock, and started stroking him in rhythm with his pushes. Namping cried out, lips parting wider. His eyes shut completely while his head fell back heavily onto Keng’s shoulder. His slim back curved into a perfect arc, long sweat-damp hair sticking to the older man’s neck, and his lips hovered dangerously close to his face.
“Kiss me…” he breathed out hoarsely, almost demanding, aching.
Keng could not refuse him and quickly captured those plump petals with his own lips. And even if the kiss turned clumsy and uneven, when their tongues tangling, breaths mixing together, teeth knocking against each other — it was beautiful, and both of them needed it. Namping moaned softly right into his mouth when Harit thrust especially deep inside him, his other hand tightening around the leaking tip of his cock, and Keng swallowed that moan without pulling away for even a second. The older man didn’t stop because he wanted his lover to come first, wanted to feel him fall apart right there in his hand.
Only a few strokes later, it happened. Namping’s body arched violently and a high moan tore from his opened mouth while hot pale streaks spilled across his own stomach and over Keng’s fingers, marking the long-awaited release. Namping clenched tightly around him with hot walls, practically robbing him of the ability to move, and Harit had to freeze for a few seconds, feeling the body in his arms beginning to sink toward the floor on weakened legs. It felt as though nothing else mattered now except lazy kisses and deep sleep. All their energy had vanished in seconds. Only beyond the walls, staff still moved around, and ten thousand fans waited for them during the final performances. To hell with all of them.
The race continued, and there was only one person left at the finish line. There was no time at all.
Keng pinned the limp body back against the wall, shifting the weight, and continued moving in short thrusts. His gaze dropped to his watch again: three minutes. The realization struck like a knife beneath his ribs.
He started slamming into the slim body harder, accelerating the pace. Every move turned more aggressive, too rushed, because his patience was gone and the anger at time slipping away so quickly felt like the ground being ripped from beneath his feet. Namping barely felt that ground anymore. His body had grown heavy and obedient. For a second he felt like a doll Keng could use however he needed right now. And he liked surrendering himself completely to this man, liked being needed exactly like this, when he stopped holding himself back and simply took what he wanted.
At one point the older man drove fully into him and went still against the wall in a sharp motion, breath hot against the curve of his neck. Namping felt something molten spreading through him. Keng throbbed deep inside him, and warm heat slowly spilled down the inside of his thigh.
They both breathed slowly and heavily with their eyes closed, trying to gather their thoughts. The finish had come so quickly it felt like a gunshot, leaving a strange emptiness in their chests and not enough air in their lungs.
Through the pulse pounding in their ears, the roaring music finally broke through again, as though dragging their sweaty bodies back out of their tiny private bubble.
Keng slowly pulled away, watching the semen trail farther down Namping’s snow-white thighs.
A sharp knock hit the door, making both of them flinch:
“KengNamping, two minutes!”
The younger man turned on weak legs, glancing toward the garment bags lying on the floor before catching sight of himself in the mirror across the room. He looked thoroughly wrecked, and with a quiet laugh he tried wiping the reddish marks from his chin with his fingers.
“We’re dead…” he murmured, looking at his boyfriend.
While helping Namping pull his underwear back on, Keng smiled for the first time all evening. And finally, that smirk looked satisfied.
“Worth it.”
As for how someone figured out they were in that room, they would deal with it later. Right now, they had more important things to do.