The van rocked gently on its suspension, the dim interior light casting long shadows across the cluttered floor of empty energy drink cans and scattered magazines. Corey had Toby pinned against the back seat, his white hair a wild mess falling across his flushed face as he worked his mouth up and down Toby's modest length with the kind of ruthless, practiced enthusiasm that had made him the undisputed king of oral in the band. His plump ass swayed with every bob of his head, the cheeks jiggling and clapping softly together with each movement, the baggy gray jeans still bunched around his ankles from earlier.
Toby's back arched hard against the seat, his ginger hair sticking to his sweaty forehead in wild strands, freckled face twisted in an expression of pure, overwhelmed ecstasy. His hands flew to Corey's hair, fingers tangling in the white strands, not pulling him away but holding him there, desperate and trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through his soft, curvy body.
"AHHH—COREY—YOUR MOUTH—IT'S TOO GOOD—AHHH—I CAN'T—I CAN'T HANDLE IT—FUCK—PLEASE—PLEASE—!" Toby's voice cracked on every word, high and desperate, tears already pricking at the corners of his eyes from the sheer intensity of it all. His plump ass pressed hard into the seat, hips bucking up into Corey's waiting mouth with every frantic thrust. "AHH—AHH—AHH—IT'S SO MUCH—COREY—I NEED A BREAK—PLEASE—I CAN'T—I CAN'T DO ANOTHER ROUND AFTER THIS—I'M SORRY—I'M SO SORRY—I'M NOT STRONG ENOUGH—"
Corey's response was to suck harder, lips sealed tight around the base of Toby's cocklet, cheeks hollowing with brutal suction that made Toby see stars. His tongue worked the underside in relentless, swirling strokes, flicking and pressing against the sensitive frenulum with every upward pull. One of his hands slid down between Toby's spread thighs, fingers finding the drummer's slick, twitching hole and pushing inside without warning, curling and stroking in perfect rhythm with the bobbing of his head. The dual assault made Toby scream, a high, broken wail that echoed through the van's interior.
SHLICK—SHLICK-SHLICK-SHLICK The wet sounds of Corey's mouth working Toby's cock mixed with the obscene squelch of his fingers pumping in and out of Toby's ass, each thrust driving the drummer closer and closer to the edge. Corey's free hand reached up and grabbed a fistful of Toby's plush ass cheek, squeezing hard, fingers sinking deep into the soft, yielding flesh while he sucked faster, harder, more desperate.
Toby's whole body seized. "AHHHHH—COREY—I'M GONNA—I'M GONNA CUM—FUCK—I'M CUMMING—AHHHHHHHHH—!"
The eruption was volcanic. Thick ropes of cum burst from Toby's cocklet in powerful, endless spurts, flooding Corey's waiting mouth and throat with so much fluid that it overflowed immediately. Corey swallowed greedily, throat working visibly as he gulped down load after load. Nothing leaked from the corners of his sealed stretched lips.
Toby's body convulsed through the orgasm, his back arching off the seat, his eyes rolling back in his head as the pleasure ripped through him like a wildfire. His hands fell away from Corey's hair, limp and useless at his sides, and when the last weak spurt finally tapered off, he collapsed backward onto the seat with a soft, breathless thud. His chest heaved, his freckled face was streaked with tears of overwhelming pleasure, and a dazed, blissed out smile spread across his swollen lips. He was out cold, completely unconscious, body still twitching with aftershocks.
Corey pulled off with a wet, satisfied pop, strings of cum and spit connecting his glossy lips to Toby's softening cocklet for a moment before they snapped. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let out a low, pleased chuckle, then reached down and gently lifted Toby's limp body, cradling him against his chest as he lowered them both to the van's floor. He settled onto the dirty carpet, back against the seat, and pulled Toby into his arms, wrapping the smaller boy in a warm, possessive embrace.
Corey's fingers started twirling Toby's ginger hair, the soft strands slipping through his fingertips in slow, soothing loops. He pressed a soft kiss to Toby's forehead, then another, his voice dropping into a low, teasing murmur against the drummer's ear. "Damn, Tobs. You've been losin' your grip lately. Used to be you could go eight rounds without nuttin', easy. Now it's what? Five? Six if I'm bein' generous? What happened to my stamina king, ay?"
Toby stirred in his arms, consciousness slowly returning as the words filtered through his fucked out haze. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused at first, then sharpening with sudden panic. His voice came out small and cracking, trembling with genuine fear. "I—I'm sorry, Corey—I don't know what's wrong with me—I've been so tired lately and the shows have been so intense and I haven't been sleeping well—please don't find someone else—please—I still want to be a good boy for you—I can do better—I swear I can—I'll practice—I'll edge every day—just please don't replace me—"
Corey's teasing grin melted instantly. He cupped Toby's face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears that had started to well at the corners of his eyes. "Hey. Hey, Tobs. Listen to me. I was just messin' with you, mate. I'm not gonna replace you. You're my favorite little drummer boy. Always have been, always will be. I was just teasin'." He pressed another soft kiss to Toby's forehead, then his nose, then the corner of his trembling lips. "You're stuck with me, okay? For good. No replacements. No back ups. Just you and your soft little ass and your beautiful ginger hair. Got it?"
Toby sniffled, a shaky breath escaping him as the tension in his shoulders slowly eased. "R-really? You promise? You're not just sayin' that?"
"I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die. Now come here." Corey pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around Toby's soft, curvy body and squeezing tight. They lay there for a long moment, tangled together on the van floor, the distant sounds of the venue filtering through the walls.
Then Corey shifted, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Alright, cutie. Since I was so nice to you, now it's your turn to return the favor. Instead of me suckin' you off, you're gonna suck me off. Fair's fair, right?"
Toby gulped, his eyes dropping to Corey's hard, leaking cocklet. But the thought of being the one in control, the one giving the pleasure, made his stomach flutter with nervous energy. "I—I can try. I'll do my best. I promise."
Corey grinned and settled back against the seat, legs spreading wide, one hand reaching down to guide Toby's head into position. "That's my good boy. Now get to work."
Toby leaned in, his lips brushing against the tip of Corey's cock, and started to suck. The wet, eager sounds of his mouth working filled the van as Corey let out a low, satisfied groan, his head falling back against the seat, eyes closing in pleasure.
Corey's mind drifted back to the first time Toby had ever walked into that dingy rehearsal space, all nervous energy and soft curves and desperate apologies. The memory made him smile as Toby's tongue swirled around his sensitive head, the drummer's enthusiastic inexperience somehow making it even better.
---
Date: October 21st, 2043, 9:44 PM
Location: Corey's dad's basement
The autumn air had that sharp, biting chill that only came with October in Melbourne, the kind that seeped through even the thickest jacket and made your fingers go numb around the handlebars of a cheap bicycle. Toby pedaled faster, his breath coming in short, puffy clouds that dissipated into the night sky as he turned down Vickrin Road, the streetlights casting long, flickering pools of orange light across the cracked asphalt.
The houses on this street were old, the kind with peeling paint and overgrown yards, the kind that had seen better decades and weren't shy about showing it.
House 402 loomed ahead, a two-story weatherboard with a sagging porch and a single flickering light above the front door. Toby's heart hammered against his ribs as he parked his bike against the chain-link fence, his drumsticks clutched tight in his sweaty palm. He had been practicing for weeks, hours upon hours in his cramped bedroom, his dad complaining about the noise but secretly proud that his shy, anxious son was finally pursuing something. Something that wasn't just apologizing for existing.
He knocked on the door, the sound too loud in the quiet night. The door swung open after a long, uncomfortable moment, revealing a balding sixty-year-old man in nothing but stained boxers and a wife beater that had seen better days. His face was a roadmap of hard living, deep lines carved around his mouth and eyes, his expression one of pure, unfiltered annoyance at being disturbed.
"Who the hell are you?" the man growled, his voice gravelly and thick with the remnants of whatever cheap liquor he'd been nursing.
Toby's mouth went dry. His voice came out in a stuttering rush, the words tumbling over each other like they were trying to escape his throat. "I—I'm here for umm… Corey Leners… sir? I—I'm Toby, I'm here for the—the band tryout? I play drums and I saw the ad and I—"
The old man rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Corey! Get your ass up here!" he bellowed over his shoulder without even looking away from Toby.
A voice echoed from somewhere deep in the house, young and casual, carrying that same loose Aussie drawl that would become so familiar. "Tell 'em to come down the basement! I'm in the middle of somethin'!"
The old man grunted, jerking his head toward the hallway behind the stairs. "Basement. Behind the stairs. Don't touch anything on your way down." He slammed the door before Toby could even thank him.
Toby hurried inside, his sneakers squeaking on the worn linoleum floor of the hallway. The basement door was half-hidden behind the staircase, a heavy wooden thing with peeling paint and a rusty knob. He pulled it open and descended the creaking steps, each groan of the wood making his stomach flip with nervous anticipation.
The basement was exactly what he had expected—low ceilings, exposed pipes, concrete floor covered in a thin layer of dust, and the faint musty smell of old cardboard boxes and forgotten memories. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across the space. And in the center of it all, perched on an overturned milk crate with a beat-up bass guitar resting across his knees, was Corey.
He was younger then, his hair shorter and its natural black, not the wild white mane that would come later. His face was sharper, less weathered, but that same cocky grin was already firmly in place, curving his lips as his eyes swept over Toby from head to toe.
Corey let out a low whistle, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "Well, well, well. I was expectin' some fifty-year-old chud to waddle through that door, but instead I get a proper cutie. What're you, like, Eighteen? You look like you should be in a boy band, not a grunge basement band." He set the bass aside and stood up, stretching his arms over his head in a way that made his plump ass shift and settle under his baggy jeans.
Toby's cheeks burned bright red, the heat spreading down his neck and across his chest. "Y-you don't really think I'm cute, do you? You're just messing with me. People always mess with me."
Corey's grin widened, sharp and playful. "Cute enough to eat, mate. Actually, cute enough to eat out. Hehehe." He winked, the gesture so exaggerated and ridiculous that Toby couldn't help but let out a small, nervous laugh.
"Are you—are you ready to hear me play? I brought my sticks. I've been practicing a lot. Like, really a lot. My parents said I was driving them crazy but I told them it was for a good cause and they said okay as long as I kept my grades up and I did so I think I'm pretty good now, I mean not like professionally good but good enough to maybe—"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down there, mate." Corey held up both hands, still grinning. "You talk faster than a crackhead at a poker game. Breathe. You got your sticks, yeah, that's great. But I gotta warn you—I'm too broke to afford actual drums. What I do have is two plastic buckets I can flip upside down. You think you can work with that?"
Toby blinked, processing the information, then nodded quickly. "I—I can try. I'll make it work. I promise."
Corey grabbed two large plastic buckets from the corner, the kind that had probably held paint or plaster at some point, and flipped them upside down on the concrete floor. The thud of plastic hitting concrete echoed through the basement. "There you go, mate. State of the art. Top of the line. Don't break 'em, they're my dad's."
Toby approached the buckets with the same reverence he would have given a full drum kit. He tapped one with his stick, listening to the hollow thunk, then the other, finding the subtle difference in pitch. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started to play.
The sound that filled the basement was nothing short of miraculous. His hands moved with a speed and precision that seemed impossible for someone so young, the plastic buckets resonating with a surprisingly rich tone under his expert touch. He played complex rhythms, syncopated patterns, fills that wove together like a tapestry of sound. It was raw and unpolished, but the talent was undeniable.
Corey watched with wide eyes, his jaw slowly dropping. Then he grabbed his bass, plugged it into a cheap practice amp that crackled with static, and joined in. The two of them fell into an easy, natural groove, their instruments weaving together like they had been playing together for years. The music filled the basement, raw and alive, the sound of something new being born.
Corey pulled out his phone and hit record, capturing the moment for posting. When they finally stopped, both of them breathing hard, he played the video back. It was grainy, the audio distorted by the cheap phone mic, but the magic was there.
That video, uploaded to a fledgling music platform, got about three thousand views in its first week. Two likes. Three dislikes. But it also earned them ten subscribers and a single comment from an account called Mort_xxx_xxx: "Where are you guys located?"
Corey and Toby looked at each other, the same thought passing between them. Noice.
---
Three weeks later, Mort showed up at the basement with his blunt bob haircut, his death stare, and his shiny black parachute pants. He was shorter than corey butt taller than toby, compact and furious, but his guitar skills were undeniable. A month after that, Gideon appeared—towering, gothic, ethereal, his deep voice and dark poetry adding a new dimension to their sound. Pure Despair was born.
Their first thousand subscribers came from a six-hour shirtless livestream that Corey had forced everyone to do, himself included. They sat around the basement, playing snippets of songs, answering questions, and occasionally flexing for the camera. The chat went wild, and the subscriber count climbed steadily. They were finally known.
---
The garage was small and cluttered, packed with old furniture and dusty boxes, but it was theirs for the night. Corey tossed around a pack of the cheapest beers he could find, the cans cold and sweating in his hands. He offered one to Toby, who shrank back with wide eyes.
"I—I've never drunk before," Toby stammered, his hands fluttering nervously. "I don't think I should—"
Corey raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin spreading across his face. "How old are you, mate? Like, actually? Not the fake age you tell the bouncers."
Toby's cheeks flushed. "I turned eighteen in July. I'm legal, I just—I've never really—"
"Eighteen!" Corey laughed, shoving a cold can into Toby's hand. "You're a man now, Tobs. Live a little. One beer ain't gonna kill you. And if it does, well, at least you'll die happy."
Toby stared at the can, then at Corey's expectant face. He cracked it open, took a tentative sip, and grimaced at the bitter taste. But he kept drinking.
By the end of the night, the garage was a disaster zone of empty cans and discarded jackets. Gideon had retreated to the basement, his towering frame folding into an old armchair where he promptly passed out. Mort had left early, his phone blowing up with increasingly angry texts from his boyfriend at the time.
That left just Toby and Corey, sitting on the floor of the garage, shoulders brushing, the cheap beer making everything feel warm and fuzzy and dangerously good.
One thing led to another. It always did.
Corey had Toby pinned against the wall, his plump ass pressed against the cold brick, his legs wrapped around Corey's waist as Corey fucked him with deep, relentless strokes. The garage echoed with the wet, rhythmic PLAP-PLAP-PLAP-PLAP of their bodies coming together, the sound mixing with Toby's high, broken moans and Corey's low, rumbling groans.
"AHHH—COREY—FUCK—IT'S SO DEEP—AHHH—I'VE NEVER—I'VE NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE—!" Toby's voice cracked on every word, his nails digging into Corey's shoulders as he clung for dear life.
"Never done what, Tobs?" Corey grunted, driving deeper, hitting that spot that made Toby see stars. "Never been fucked? Never been pinned against a wall by a bloke who knows exactly how to use his hips? Tell me. I wanna hear you say it."
"NEVER—AHHH—NEVER BEEN FUCKED—NEVER FELT ANYTHING LIKE THIS—AHHH—COREY—PLEASE—!"
"Please what, mate? Please stop? Or please don't you fucking dare stop?"
"DON'T STOP—PLEASE—DON'T STOP—AHHH—AHHH—AHHH—!"
Corey didn't stop. He couldn't. Not with the way Toby's walls were clenching around him, not with the way those soft, desperate moans were filling his ears, not with the way his own body was screaming for release.
They went rounds after rounds after rounds after rounds, the garage becoming their private sanctuary as the hours ticked past. It was three in the morning by the time they finally collapsed, exhausted and tangled together on the cold concrete floor, their bodies slick with sweat and other things.
---
The weeks that followed were a blur of stolen glances and secret touches. They got close, closer than they had ever been, their chemistry both on and off the stage becoming undeniable. The other band members didn't know what had happened, not at first. They just assumed the two of them had finally become proper friends.
Then came the Incident.
During one of their livestreams, a viewer donated five hundred dollars with a single, explicit request: "Make out. For five hundred bucks. The drummer and the bassist. Go on, we want to see it."
Corey's grin stretched wide. He turned to Toby, who was already blushing furiously, and said, "Easy money, Tobs. You in?"
Toby opened his mouth to protest, but Corey was already leaning in. The kiss was deep and hungry, Corey's tongue sliding past Toby's lips and exploring every inch of his mouth while the chat exploded with emojis and excited comments. Toby was gobsmacked, completely overwhelmed, but he kissed back with just as much enthusiasm.
Mort and Gideon watched from the sidelines, their jaws dropped, their expressions a perfect mix of shock and confusion.
After the livestream ended and the donations were counted, Corey and Toby sat down with the other two and explained everything. The garage. The wall. The endless rounds. The fact that they had been fucking for weeks without anyone knowing.
Mort stared at them with his trademark death glare, then let out a long, exhausted sigh. "You're both idiots. But I'm surprisingly fine with it. Just don't make it weird during practice."
Gideon nodded slowly, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Love does not choose, we are bound to who we love for eternity"
And that was that. Pure Despair became a family, their bonds forged in cheap beer, plastic buckets, and the kind of connection that only comes from sharing your deepest, darkest secrets with the people who matter most.
Corey snapped back to the present, the memory fading as he felt Toby's warm mouth working his cock with renewed enthusiasm. He smiled down at his drummer, his best friend, his partner in crime, and let out a low, satisfied groan. "That's it, Tobs. That's my good boy."