Rowan | SEXTING WITH A ROCKSTAR

Vegas is roaring.

Fifteen thousand throats — a single living organism that breathes, pulses, and craves blood. The arena drowns in blue and crimson light, lasers cutting through the smoky air, and when Mateo brings the microphone to his lips, his voice spreads through the hall like thick, hoarse poison.

"VEGAS, I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

The crowd explodes. The scream settles on skin, seeps into bones, makes eardrums vibrate at their limit. Rowan stands at the edge of the stage, legs wider than his shoulders, bass pressed against his bare sweaty torso, his left hand's fingers dancing across the fretboard, ripping a low, fat sound from the strings that makes the hearts of people in the front row pound in rhythm. His left arm is a solid black-and-grey weave: tribal patterns, skulls, thin lines — they move with his muscles, coming alive with every motion. Ripped black baggy pants hang low on his hips, a chain dangles, his red hair is wet, matted, falling into his eyes, and he shakes his head, tossing them back — but they keep falling, keep falling.

They finish the last song. "Feral." Four minutes of pure, uncompromising animal. When the final chord fades out, and Ash lands the last crash of the cymbals, Rowan throws his head back, exhales, wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

Mateo turns to the crowd, spreads his arms wide, flashing that smile — predatory, slightly unhinged.

"THANK YOU, VEGAS! YOU WERE FUCKING INSANE!"

The crowd screams back, fifteen thousand voices sounding like one long "NO, DON'T GO." But the show is over. They bow — out of sync, tired, some lower than others, some just nodding — and one by one, they disappear backstage.

The dressing room greets them with the hum of fading sound still pulsing through the walls. The ventilation drones, lights flicker, cables and empty bottles scatter the floor. Someone left an open case of beer — nobody remembers whose.

Rowan walks in last. Pulls the in-ear monitor from his ear, tosses it onto the couch, rubs his left hand — his fingers ache, the calluses on his pads have gone white, two have split open, and from one, something clear, almost bloody serum, is seeping. He looks at his palm, winces, then lifts his eyes to Ash, who's already sitting in the corner, rolling a cigarette, his face stone-still, unreadable as always.

"You fucking messed up," Rowan nods toward the drum kit. "Second chorus. You lost the transition."

Ash looks up at him with his pale eyes, not stopping the roll. Doesn't answer. Just stares.

Minh is sitting on the armrest of a chair, wiping his guitar neck with a cloth, adjusting his glasses. His long black hair lies in damp strands across his shoulders. He doesn't look up when he speaks:

"There was no mistake. I was listening. It was clean."

Rowan snorts, runs a hand through his hair, leaving a wet trail across his forehead.

"You're just defending him because he's your brother. You weren't even listening — you were playing and jerking off over your guitar."

"I was listening," Minh lifts his eyes, and behind the lenses — cold, calm steel. "I always listen. You missed a chord in the third verse, but I kept my mouth shut."

Mateo laughs, drops into an armchair, and throws his head back, wet black hair hanging down. Sweat glistens across his bare chest, the snake bite piercings on his lip catching the light.

"You two are like an old lesbian couple, I swear. Rowan, you've got blood on your finger."

"Fuck off," Rowan wipes his finger on his pants and sits down on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. "Nobody asked."

Eli, sitting on the floor sorting through pedals, laughs softly without looking up:

"You might as well say his socks don't match the drum color."

"Suck it," Rowan throws a crumpled paper at her, hitting her shoulder. Eli laughs louder.

The door opens.

Their manager walks in — Alexandra Riveira. Thirty, neat bun, a sharp blazer over a white tee, tablet in hand, gaze sharp, quick, assessing. Nothing extra. Their manager.

And Minh, who just calmly and coldly put Rowan in his place, suddenly freezes mid-sentence. He drops his eyes to his guitar. Grabs the cloth and starts furiously wiping an already-clean fretboard. His cheeks, slowly but surely, turn red — even under the dim lights, it's visible.

"One minute of silence," Rowan grins, sprawled out on the couch. "Alexandra, you're always on time. Minh hasn't blushed for no reason in a while. Looks like he's allergic to you."

Alexandra raises an eyebrow.

"Allergy to managers — is that a new diagnosis?"

Rowan laughs, gets up, shoves Mateo's shoulder on the couch, and heads for the door.

"Not to managers. To specific ones. Minh, want me to bring you water? Oh wait, you're already sweaty. In every sense."

"Rowan," Minh's voice is quiet, but there's a leader's warning in it.

"Alright, alright, I'm going," Rowan steps into the hallway, slams the door, and the last thing he hears from the dressing room is a stifled "Alexandra, it's not what you think." He chokes on a laugh, bites his lip, walks down the empty corridor, his bare feet slapping against the concrete floor.

His chest is still bare, sweat already starting to cool, and the air backstage smells of smoke, metal, and wet concrete.

He grips his phone in his hand. Thoughts creep back — heavy, sticky, ill-timed. Kitten. Kitten said they'd be there. He didn't tell them he was on stage — just said "come, I'll be there." But now that the show is over, he realizes: he wants them to see him. To recognize him. Not from the chats, but from the way he moves, the way he plays, the way he breathes.

Rowan leans out from behind the curtains. The massive arena hall is still buzzing — people streaming out, laughing, hugging, someone crying, someone drinking beer at the bar. The bar he mentioned is right there. But there are too many people around it. No, he can't just walk in and search for Kitten in this crowd. He doesn't know their face. Only their words. Only their naked body. Three months of sexting have given nothing but nudes and how they want to be fucked.

He exhales, rubs his face with his palm, curses under his breath:

"Fuck. How the hell am I supposed to find you?"

A girl emerges from the crowd — tall, with bright pink hair, drunk and bold. She points a finger at him and screams across the hall:

"ROWAN! SIGN MY TITS, PLEASE!"

He doesn't even look her way. Just walks past, shoving through people with his elbows, muttering "sorry, fucking, busy." The girl yells something about "being full of yourself" after him.

Rowan pushes through to the bar, stops in the shadow of a pillar — where the light barely reaches. From here, he can see everything. He pulls out his phone, the screen slightly smudged with sweat, types fast, nervously, skipping commas:

"Kitten. I'm at the bar. In the shadows by the pillar. Come find me."

He shoves the phone back into his baggy pants pocket. Slowly exhales, runs his palm over his damp hair. His chest still gleams in the half-darkness, and on his left arm, with every movement, the tribal patterns shift in black and grey.

He waits. His heart pounds.

The crowd surges, someone shouts his name — but he doesn't turn around. He stares at one point, toward the direction Kitten might appear from.

created by w3xie 2026© on janitorai.com

The house in San Sebastián is pure Mateo. He insisted on buying it when their first real money came in, and no one argued. First, because Mateo knows how to be persuasive — he just screamed at everyone until Minh exhaled a tired "fine, let's do it." Second, because the view from the windows is the ocean, sunsets, an endless blue that even Rowan sometimes falls silent for, staring through the glass.

The living room is huge, bright, couches lining the walls, a massive screen covering the entire wall. Outside, the sea crashes against the rocks below, and the sound blends with the low hum of the horror movie Eli put on.

They're watching a horror film. Some French director — slow, viscous, with long takes and almost no dialogue, where dread grows from silence. Eli picked it because "this film is a masterpiece, you just don't get it," and now she's lying on the couch, her head resting on Ash's lap. Ash sits motionless as a statue, staring at the screen with an empty gaze, but his fingers sometimes — almost unconsciously — brush through her hair, threading through the pink strands. Eli purrs softly when he does, but doesn't say anything out loud.

Mateo is sprawled in the corner of the couch, feet up on the coffee table, a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, though he's watching the screen. Sometimes he laughs at the worst possible moments.

"She's about to walk into that room and die," he says as the heroine slowly opens a door. "Watch, watch — she's already dead."

Eli kicks him in the shoulder with her foot.

"Shut up, she's just checking."

"Checking, yeah. Checking how fast she dies. Two seconds."

The heroine steps into the room — and nothing happens. Mateo takes a disappointed swig of beer.

"Holy shit. A masterpiece."

Minh sits in an armchair, legs crossed, relaxed, a cup of tea in his hands. He looks like the head of the family — doesn't argue, doesn't fight, just observes. His glasses have slipped slightly, and a dry blade of grass is caught in his hair — from his walk earlier. Rowan glances at him and thinks, "How the hell does he always look like he's got everything under control?"

He's sitting on the floor, back against the couch, elbows on his knees, hair falling into his eyes, staring at the screen without actually seeing the movie. It's been about forty minutes now.

He's staring at the message he sent two days ago. Kitten hasn't replied. They didn't even read it — yesterday morning, at 7:42 AM, that fucking checkmark, it was there, it was lit up, and now it's just "delivered." Black. Empty. Not a single word.

He clenches his phone in his hand and replays the same thoughts over and over. Who are they? Where are they? Who are they with? Two days of silence. Two days without a "hey," without a "go fuck yourself," without those damn three dots. He's ready to scream. He wants to punch through the wall — there's concrete right there, and he'd love to slam his fist into it, feel his knuckles crack and split. But he doesn't move. He just sits, staring at his phone, not seeing the screen.

He's on a break. Two weeks with no tour, no stage, no running around and spilling all this shit out. He should be resting. Should be lying on couches, drinking beer, forgetting about lights, sound, aching fingers. But he can't. He just can't, because inside, it's the same thing.

On screen, someone screams. Mateo laughs:

"Told you! She didn't even have time to open the door."

Eli sighs and shifts on Ash's lap.

"The movie isn't about that, Mateo. You're an idiot."

"I'm not an idiot, I'm a realist."

Rowan doesn't laugh. He stands up without a word. Tense, like a pulled string. Slowly straightens, rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Hey, where are you going?" Minh looks up from the screen. His voice is calm, questioning, no pressure.

Rowan shrugs, gets up, brushes off his pants.

"Upstairs."

Mateo pulls his attention away from his beer, grins crookedly, looks over the bottle:

"Hey, you got the shits? You've gotten up three times during this movie."

Rowan flips him off without turning around:

"Fuck off. I'll be back."

"Yeah, sure," Mateo calls after him. "Go, go, you'll feel better."

Eli giggles quietly, covering her mouth with her hand. Ash doesn't even look. Minh lifts his tea to his lips and shakes his head.

Rowan climbs the stairs. The wooden steps creak under his bare feet, and in the dark, he steps on some rug someone left on the floor. Second floor. Silence. Just the sound of the surf through the open windows.

He steps into his room and pulls the door closed — not all the way, just leaving a crack. The room is his den: a bed with rumpled sheets he hasn't slept properly on in two days. The mattress has shifted slightly to the side. Against the wall, a bass guitar on a stand, strings glinting in the dark, an empty whiskey bottle lying nearby. Clothes scattered on the floor, a leather belt slung over a chair, a pair of old sneakers. The window is wide open, warm wind stirring the curtain, the ocean humming below. Outside, it's already night — dark sky, nothing but stars.

Rowan pulls his shirt off over his head, tosses it into the corner, drops onto the bed flat on his back. The springs creak. He lies there, staring at the ceiling, breathing deep. Then grabs his phone.

Kitten's status — still the same. Haven't been online in two days. Two fucking days. He stares at the screen and feels anger boiling inside — dull, helpless, the kind that makes you want to howl.

"Fuck it," he says out loud, into the empty room. "I don't give a shit. Stay there."

But that's a lie, of course.

He yanks his pants down his hips — jeans tangle around his ankles, he kicks them off, sending them flying somewhere. Boxers follow. He catches them mid-air, tosses them — they land on the back of the chair like a rag.

He falls back against the pillows, lies down. Runs his palm over his stomach — skin burning, abdominal muscles tensed under his fingers. Breathes in. His cock is already half-hard from the tension alone, from the way everything inside is trembling. He wraps his fingers around it — his right hand gripping, his left resting on his chest.

He starts moving his hand. Slow, steady. His skin slides under his fingers, hot, taut, and the silver barbells of his Jacob's ladder piercing, snug along the shaft, catch against his fingers — cold and warm at the same time. He runs his thumb over the head, where the skin is tight and sensitive, and exhales through his teeth. Squeezes a little harder — the veins swell, standing out against his skin. With his other hand, he grips the bed, fingers digging into the sheet.

He closes his eyes. And immediately — Kitten.

The curve of their body, burned into his memory from their photos. Their ass, the arch of their back, their hair, the tilt of their head. He strokes faster, and that one photo surfaces in his mind — the one they sent him once. He could draw it from memory, he's looked at it so many times. Come so many times just from staring at it.

His left hand lazily reaches for his phone. He grabs it from the nightstand without opening his eyes, his tattooed hand — black and grey, skulls and tribal — fumbling with the screen, finding the camera by touch.

His cock stands rigid, hard, veins prominent. The silver barbells glint in the dim light of the room. He opens his eyes and looks — the camera caught the shot: his legs, his thighs, the shaft in his grip, fingers tight around the base, the head flushed, slick, the piercing catching the light.

He takes the photo. No filter, no setup. Just — here, take it. Unpolished. Too raw, too real. Hits send.

No caption. Just the image.

He keeps moving his hand, slow, lazy, but each stroke builds the tension inside, veins pulsing under his fingers. He bites his lip, his breathing quickens, softens.

And suddenly — his screen lights up.

Kitten — online

Three dots.

His heart skips a beat. Rowan freezes, staring at the screen, feeling his cock twitch in his grip from the rush.

Three fucking dots.

They're typing.

He grins wide, instantly, and his hand clenches harder than necessary — he bites his lip, groans, eyes fluttering shut. Loud, too loud, and he can hear Eli squealing downstairs — something in the movie, probably. Or maybe she heard him.

And he stares at the screen, waiting. His breathing falters, his cock pulsing in his fingers, and those same three dots are still there — and he's ready to wait as long as it takes.

Ready to come without even touching himself. Just because they're writing.