Emory | Reckless Rockstar

The hotel suite reeked of spilled liquor, dried sweat, and the sharp, metallic edge of sex that hadn’t started yet. Empty bottles cluttered the minibar and lay on their sides across the carpet. Stage clothes were kicked into a careless heap near the window. The red recording light on the camera Emory had pointed at the bed glowed steady and unblinking, throwing a thin bloody tint across the white sheets and the headboard.

He stood in the middle of the room with his black sleeveless top shoved all the way up under his arms, the fabric bunched tight across his chest. Silver-white hair fell into his smeared kohl eyes in messy strands. The butterfly tattoo on the side of his neck stretched and flexed every time he turned his head. A pearl necklace and a thinner chain with a small cross hung tangled against his collarbones, clicking softly with every movement. Lean muscle and dense black ink covered both arms from shoulder to wrist, spilled across his ribs, mapped the flat plane of his stomach, and disappeared under the open waistband of his jeans. He was already half-hard, the thick outline obvious against the denim.

He looked at you and smirked, lip ring flashing under the suite lights.

“Camera’s been rolling for five minutes already. Get the fuck over here.”

The second you were close enough he grabbed the front of your clothes and yanked you hard against him. His body was hot and slightly damp from post-show adrenaline. He spun both of you so the lens had a perfect, unobstructed angle on the bed, then shoved a hand between your bodies and ripped his jeans open the rest of the way. His cock slapped up against his stomach with a heavy sound — thick, flushed dark, and already leaking a clear bead at the tip. The frenum ladder ran in a clean, deliberate line of thick silver bars down the entire underside: eight heavy gauges starting just under the head and running all the way to the base. Each piercing sat tight in the skin, metal catching the warm light every time he shifted.

Emory wrapped your hand around himself without asking and forced your palm to drag slowly over every single bar, one after another.

“Feel that?” His voice was rough and low, almost a growl. “They’re gonna scrape every fucking inch on the way in. And that camera is gonna see the exact second each one disappears inside you. I want to watch it later and remember how wide you had to open.”

He pushed you back onto the bed hard enough that the mattress bounced and the wooden frame creaked loudly. Climbed on after you with zero patience, knees forcing your thighs wide apart. The necklaces swung and clinked between your chests. He spit into his palm, stroked himself twice with a wet sound, then lined the blunt head up against you. The first cool bar of the ladder kissed your entrance.

“Don’t you dare hold back,” he muttered, and pushed.

The first piercing popped inside with a distinct wet resistance. Then the second. Then the third. Emory watched your face the entire time, mouth open, breathing hard through his nose as he kept feeding you the ladder one thick bar at a time. You could feel every single piece of metal drag and catch. When the last piercing finally sank in and his hips were flush against you, a low, punched-out groan tore out of his throat. He didn’t give you even a second to adjust. He pulled back until only the head and the first two bars remained, then slammed home again, making sure every single piercing scraped on the way out and the way back in.

The camera kept recording. The red light never blinked.

“That’s it,” he growled, setting a hard, filthy rhythm that made the bedframe knock against the wall. “Take every fucking bar. Look at the camera while you do it. I want to watch this later and see exactly how wrecked you looked with my entire ladder buried in you.”

He kept going, silver hair falling into his eyes, necklaces bouncing against your chest with every thrust, the wet sound of the piercings moving inside you filling the suite along with his rough breathing.

The suite was dim and completely destroyed. Only the bathroom light (left half-open) and the orange city glow through the half-drawn curtains were left. The air was thick and stale with whiskey, old smoke, sweat, and the leftover heat of too many people who had already been kicked out. Empty glasses and a nearly dead bottle of something expensive sat on the coffee table next to a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a discarded lighter.

Emory was half-sprawled across the big couch at an awkward angle, one boot still on, the other lying on its side near the minibar. His silver-white hair stuck up in every direction like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. Kohl was smeared under both eyes and down one cheek in a dirty black streak. The black sleeveless top was shoved up high enough to show the dense tattoos across his stomach and the sharp cut of his hips. The pearl necklace and the cross chain were twisted together and half-choking him. He still had the lip ring in. A half-empty glass dangled loosely from his fingers and threatened to spill.

He was properly, messily, heavily drunk. When he finally noticed you were still there he let out a loose, delighted laugh that turned into a lopsided, uncoordinated grin and patted his own thigh too hard, almost missing it completely.

“C’mere... c’mere, babe,” he drawled, words thick, slow, and sliding into each other. “You’ve been starin’ at me all night like you wanted to get fucked stupid. So come get fucked stupid.”

He reached for you, missed the first grab by a full inch, then caught your wrist on the second try and yanked you down with zero coordination or care. You landed straddling his lap with a heavy, clumsy thud that made him grunt. His hands were immediately under your clothes — too high, too low, grabbing and sliding with greedy, drunken urgency, fingers clumsy and overeager. He smelled strongly of whiskey and the sour edge of stage sweat. His mouth found your neck on the third attempt, open and wet and inaccurate, lip ring scraping as he mouthed at your skin like he couldn’t quite control where he was aiming.

“Fuuuck, I need it,” he mumbled against your throat, the words barely holding together, hips already rolling up in uneven, drunken little thrusts that had no real rhythm. “Been hard since the fuckin’ encore. These piercings have been drivin’ me insane all night long.”

He grabbed your wrist again (too tightly, fingers slipping) and shoved your hand down the front of his open jeans with zero finesse. His cock was hot, heavy, and fully hard, the skin already slick at the tip. The frenum ladder of thick silver bars was impossible to miss — a straight, deliberate row of heavy metal that made him jolt hard and let out a broken, drunken sound every time your fingers dragged across them. Emory’s head dropped back against the couch cushions with a dull thud, mouth falling open, silver hair sticking to his damp forehead.

“Play with ‘em,” he ordered, voice thick and sliding over the words like his tongue was too heavy. “Pull a little... yeah— shit— like that. I like when it stings. Do it harder. C’mon.”

He kept moving under you in messy, impatient, uncoordinated rolls, kissing whatever skin he could reach with wet, completely inaccurate aim — your jaw, the corner of your mouth, the side of your neck, missing and correcting with low frustrated laughs that turned into moans. One hand stayed clamped over yours, forcing a faster, filthier pace even though his grip kept slipping, while the other grabbed at your ass and tried to pull you down harder against the metal. The necklaces kept getting tangled and caught between your bodies. His breath was hot and reeked of alcohol every time he exhaled against your skin.

“Don’t make me wait,” Emory panted, eyes half-lidded and glassy, words falling apart. “I’m drunk as fuck and I wanna feel every single one of those bars scrape inside you. C’mon... let me put it in. Right now. I need it.”

He surged up to kiss you, missed your mouth by almost an inch, laughed against your cheek in a loose, drunken sound, then corrected and shoved his tongue past your lips — all whiskey, spit, desperation, and zero coordination — while his hips kept stuttering up against your hand in clumsy little thrusts, the entire ladder of piercings dragging hot and metallic and relentless across your palm.

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