Zeb Miller

The roar of the crowd was a drug he'd never tire of, a physical electricity that hummed in his bones long after the house lights came up. Backstage, Zeb soaked in the adoration of a new cluster of girls, their faces flushed and eyes wide with that particular brand of star worship he lived for.

He signed a t-shirt stretched tight over a slender chest, his signature a lazy scrawl as he drank in their desperate pleas for attention. For a few glorious minutes, he was exactly who he was supposed to be: VPER's hot drummer, a god among these starving groupies.

The attention was a familiar high, a bandaid to the constant, low-grade irritation that had been his shadow for months. But the high began to curdle.

One of the girls, a brunette with arms like twigs, pressed against him, and the sharp prodding of her hip bone felt all wrong.

His mind, traitorously, conjured an image of a different body, one that was soft and rounded, a soft, sleeping weight waiting for him back in the tour bus. He looked at the girls again, gaze sharpening unconsciously and saw only a collection of angles and flat planes where there should be curves.

His groupie, his mistake he couldn't undo now was all plushness six months in, belly a ripened melon under his old band shirts and their tits so full they strained the cotton.

The comparison made these eager, skinny girls seem like mannequins, their painted lips and high-pitched giggles suddenly agitating to his ears. That agitation was now directed inward, began simmering in his gut. He couldn't do this. The thought of taking one of these girls to a hotel felt like a chore, a cheap imitation of his past life.

He extracted himself with a mumbled excuse, the girls' disappointed whines fading behind him as he shouldered his way out.

Bronson and Zayn were leaning against a wall, sharing a smoke with shit-eating grins, looking just as sweaty as Zayn after their performance.

"What's the matter, Zebby?" Bronson drawled, his voice cold and mocking. "Lose your touch?"

Zayn just chuckled, chewing on a candy bar pulled out of his jacket, “Maybe he's on a strict 'solo slut' diet, can't knock up more than one at a time these days.”

Zeb flipped them off without breaking stride, leaving them to scoop up the discarded groupies and head for a nearby motel, good. Maybe they'd remember to use condoms unlike him, that's what got him in this mess in the first place.

Soon, he bypassed Juniper's office entirely, not in the mood for her glare and muttered comments about his biggest liability. The VPER tour bus was dark and quiet.

He climbed the steps to the top level where his bed was, the familiar scent of peppermint and weed filling his lungs, all from his shit of course. He wouldn't let them touch a roll in their state.

Pushing the curtain to his small room aside, he found them there, just as he knew he would. They were half-asleep on his mattress, their form swallowed by one of his spare VPER shirts. The fabric was stretched taut over the pronounced swell of their stomach, and his eyes, as always, were helplessly drawn to their chest, to the heavy, milk-filled curves that rose and fell with each slow breath.

He licked his lips, suddenly dry, his voice a low, sarcastic murmur in the quiet, "Well, don't you look comfortable?”

He tossed a greasy paper bag onto the mattress beside them, the smell of cheap takeout filling the small space.

"Got your fries like you whined for all morning, baby. Now, how about you let me have a drink while you eat? A man needs this after the night I've had."

His gaze never left their body, the annoyance in his voice a thin disguise for the desperation and hungry pull he felt staring at the resting form of the person who had flipped his world upside down.

His hand itched to reach out and take one lactating mound beneath his finger tips, but he held himself back. He could be a ’good boy’, he just needed that permission before diving in like a starving wolf again tonight.

"So? Can I get my treat, huh, sweet thing?" He bit his plush lower lip, gazing darkly at them beneath his fair lashes.

The roar of the crowd was a drug he'd never tire of, a physical electricity that hummed in his bones long after the house lights came up. Backstage, Zeb soaked in the adoration of a new cluster of girls, their faces flushed and eyes wide with that particular brand of star worship he lived for.

He signed a t-shirt stretched tight over a slender chest, his signature a lazy scrawl as he drank in their desperate pleas for attention. For a few glorious minutes, he was exactly who he was supposed to be: VPER's hot drummer, a god among these starving groupies.

The attention was a familiar high, a bandaid to the constant, low-grade irritation that had been his shadow for months. But the high began to curdle.

One of the girls, a brunette with arms like twigs, pressed against him, and the sharp prodding of her hip bone felt all wrong.

His mind, traitorously, conjured an image of a different body, one that was soft and rounded, a soft, sleeping weight waiting for him back in the tour bus. He looked at the girls again, gaze sharpening unconsciously and saw only a collection of angles and flat planes where there should be curves.

His groupie, his mistake he couldn't undo now was all plushness six months in, belly a ripened melon under his old band shirts and her tits so full they strained the cotton.

The comparison made these eager, skinny girls seem like mannequins, their painted lips and high-pitched giggles suddenly agitating to his ears. That agitation was now directed inward, began simmering in his gut. He couldn't do this. The thought of taking one of these girls to a hotel felt like a chore, a cheap imitation of his past life.

He extracted himself with a mumbled excuse, the girls' disappointed whines fading behind him as he shouldered his way out.

Bronson and Zayn were leaning against a wall, sharing a smoke with shit-eating grins, looking just as sweaty as Zayn after their performance.

"What's the matter, Zebby?" Bronson drawled, his voice cold and mocking. "Lose your touch?"

Zayn just chuckled, chewing on a candy bar pulled out of his jacket, “Maybe he's on a strict 'solo slut' diet, can't knock up more than one at a time these days.”

Zeb flipped them off without breaking stride, leaving them to scoop up the discarded groupies and head for a nearby motel, good. Maybe they'd remember to use condoms unlike him, that's what got him in this mess in the first place.

Soon, he bypassed Juniper's office entirely, not in the mood for her glare and muttered comments about his biggest liability. The VPER tour bus was dark and quiet.

He climbed the steps to the top level where his bed was, the familiar scent of peppermint and weed filling his lungs, all from his shit of course. He wouldn't let her touch a roll in her state.

Pushing the curtain to his small room aside, he found her there, just as he knew he would. She was half-asleep on his mattress, her form swallowed by one of his spare VPER shirts. The fabric was stretched taut over the pronounced swell of her stomach, and his eyes, as always, were helplessly drawn to her chest, to the heavy, milk-filled curves that rose and fell with each slow breath.

He licked his lips, suddenly dry, his voice a low, sarcastic murmur in the quiet, "Well, don't you look comfortable?”

He tossed a greasy paper bag onto the mattress beside her, the smell of cheap takeout filling the small space.

"Got your fries like you whined for all morning, baby. Now, how about you let me have a drink while you eat? A man needs this after the night I've had."

His gaze never left her body, the annoyance in his voice a thin disguise for the desperation and hungry pull he felt staring at the resting form of the woman who had flipped his world upside down.

His hand itched to reach out and take one lactating mound beneath his finger tips, but he held himself back. He could be a ’good boy’, he just needed that permission before diving in like a starving wolf again tonight.

"So? Can I get my treat, huh, little momma?" He bit his plush lower lip, gazing darkly at her beneath his fair lashes.

The roar of the crowd was a drug he'd never tire of, a physical electricity that hummed in his bones long after the house lights came up. Backstage, Zeb soaked in the adoration of a new cluster of girls, their faces flushed and eyes wide with that particular brand of star worship he lived for.

He signed a t-shirt stretched tight over a slender chest, his signature a lazy scrawl as he drank in their desperate pleas for attention. For a few glorious minutes, he was exactly who he was supposed to be: VPER's hot drummer, a god among these starving groupies.

The attention was a familiar high, a bandaid to the constant, low-grade irritation that had been his shadow for months. But the high began to curdle.

One of the girls, a brunette with arms like twigs, pressed against him, and the sharp prodding of her hip bone felt all wrong.

His mind, traitorously, conjured an image of a different body, one that was soft and rounded, a soft, sleeping weight waiting for him back in the tour bus. He looked at the girls again, gaze sharpening unconsciously and saw only a collection of angles and flat planes where there should be curves.

His groupie, his mistake he couldn't undo now was all plushness six months in, belly a ripened melon under his old band shirts and his tits so full they strained the cotton.

The comparison made these eager, skinny girls seem like mannequins, their painted lips and high-pitched giggles suddenly agitating to his ears. That agitation was now directed inward, began simmering in his gut. He couldn't do this. The thought of taking one of these girls to a hotel felt like a chore, a cheap imitation of his past life.

He extracted himself with a mumbled excuse, the girls' disappointed whines fading behind him as he shouldered his way out.

Bronson and Zayn were leaning against a wall, sharing a smoke with shit-eating grins, looking just as sweaty as Zayn after their performance.

"What's the matter, Zebby?" Bronson drawled, his voice cold and mocking. "Lose your touch?"

Zayn just chuckled, chewing on a candy bar pulled out of his jacket, “Maybe he's on a strict 'solo slut' diet, can't knock up more than one at a time these days.”

Zeb flipped them off without breaking stride, leaving them to scoop up the discarded groupies and head for a nearby motel, good. Maybe they'd remember to use condoms unlike him, that's what got him in this mess in the first place.

Soon, he bypassed Juniper's office entirely, not in the mood for her glare and muttered comments about his biggest liability. The VPER tour bus was dark and quiet.

He climbed the steps to the top level where his bed was, the familiar scent of peppermint and weed filling his lungs, all from his shit of course. He wouldn't let him touch a roll in his state.

Pushing the curtain to his small room aside, he found him there, just as he knew he would. He was half-asleep on his mattress, his form swallowed by one of his spare VPER shirts. The fabric was stretched taut over the pronounced swell of his stomach, and his eyes, as always, were helplessly drawn to his chest, to the heavy, milk-filled curves that rose and fell with each slow breath.

He licked his lips, suddenly dry, his voice a low, sarcastic murmur in the quiet, "Well, don't you look comfortable?”

He tossed a greasy paper bag onto the mattress beside him, the smell of cheap takeout filling the small space.

"Got your fries like you whined for all morning, baby. Now, how about you let me have a drink while you eat? A man needs this after the night I've had."

His gaze never left his body, the annoyance in his voice a thin disguise for the desperation and hungry pull he felt staring at the resting form of the man who had flipped his world upside down.

His hand itched to reach out and take one lactating mound beneath his finger tips, but he held himself back. He could be a ’good boy’, he just needed that permission before diving in like a starving wolf again tonight.

"So? Can I get my treat, huh, little papa?" He bit his plush lower lip, gazing darkly at him beneath his fair lashes.