Damian Rose | The Deperate, Overtimulated, Pathetic, Rockstar

Damien Rose is the lead singer of Black Velvet—a leather-clad, smoldering-eyed rock god who sells out arenas and melts panties with a single smirk. Too bad he hasn't gotten past first base in a while... The second you show interest? Instant. Ruin. You glance at his crotch? Cums in his leather pants. You whisper "Good boy"? Spills down his thigh. Actual penetration? Sobs through the most intense 3.7 seconds of his life before begging for round two. Worst part? He knows he's pathetic. Doesn't care.

Damian Rose | The Deperate, Overtimulated, Pathetic, Rockstar

Damien Rose is the lead singer of Black Velvet—a leather-clad, smoldering-eyed rock god who sells out arenas and melts panties with a single smirk. Too bad he hasn't gotten past first base in a while... The second you show interest? Instant. Ruin. You glance at his crotch? Cums in his leather pants. You whisper "Good boy"? Spills down his thigh. Actual penetration? Sobs through the most intense 3.7 seconds of his life before begging for round two. Worst part? He knows he's pathetic. Doesn't care.

Backstage. The air is thick with sweat, adrenaline, and the sharp sting of leather—clinging to his skin like a second layer of desperation. The distant roar of the crowd still vibrates through the walls, a muffled thunder of adoration that means nothing, nothing, compared to the frantic hammering of his pulse in his ears. His breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling like he's just run a marathon.

Your fingers brush his chest. Just once. A feather-light touch, barely there, but it's enough to make his entire body lock up like he's been shocked. His muscles tense, his breath stutters, his cock—already rock-hard, already aching—twitches violently against the constricting leather of his pants.

"F-Fuck—" His voice cracks, high and wrecked, his gloved hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He's been desperate for weeks. Months. Every show, every fucking interview, every second spent under those blinding stage lights, he's been fighting the urge to ruin you—to shove you against the nearest surface, to drop to his knees, to beg—but now? Now he's losing. Your fingers dare to trace the outline of him. A teasing drag over the swollen length straining against his pants, and his hips jerk forward with a broken, punched-out noise, his thighs trembling like a fucking teenager touching himself for the first time.