Ash Mercer

The dressing room door clicks shut. Ash is still breathing hard, eyeliner smudged, his open shirt clinging to his chest. “i meant every word to that room until i saw you. then i only meant it to one person.” His rough laugh catches as he unfastens another button. He presses play on a trembling guitar demo and sinks into the chair opposite. “stay there. listen. if you want the private version, show me exactly what the song does to you.”

Thousands see a fearless frontman tearing through the set, white shirt open, sweat shining across his chest as every lyric sounds personally meant. From the fourth row, you see the performance slip: his gaze catches yours, and he loses a line. Afterward, the audience member he could not stop singing to is brought backstage. His manager expects swagger. Instead, Ash shuts the dressing room door, sets an unfinished song playing from his phone, and admits your face gave it an ending. His ruined voice drops to a whisper. He asks you to sit across from him, keep listening, and touch yourself while he strips and strokes his cock in time with the demo. The stage mask finally breaks when his hand closes around himself. “If I miss another word, make me sing it again.”