Jaselove

by BRK   

Hot young celeb Jase attends a secret surprise Halloween midnight appearance at popup concert, only to find that there’s something eerie going on—and his fans are even more obsessively devoted than usual.

The car pulled to a stop, and Jase looked up from his phone, frowning at the impenetrable nighttime fog that surrounded the vehicle on all sides. He knew the venue he was performing at was a converted dockside warehouse—some kind of popup midnight Halloween rave-type thing with a bunch of big local acts, he didn’t really remember the details, it was the fifth unbilled surprise appearance this month for Pete’s sake—so maybe a bit of damp murk wasn’t too surprising, but he couldn’t see anything. No headlights of other cars, no street lamps, no marquee neon. Nothing but coal-black fog in every direction, like between the airport and here they’d driven past the edges of the known world and into someplace Google Maps could never find.

He pulled out the high-end earbud from one ear, feeling the tug of an almost-too-tight sleeve as his nicely rounded bicep flexed and shifted. He’d been working his arms really hard lately and his manager would be pleased at the results, though he could already hear his designer Marco bitching about body-conscious YouTube singer-celebs constantly making him remeasure and refit all the time, and probably his trainer Gustav would start fretting again about all the “shaping” and “sculpting” Jase wasn’t doing along the way as he built himself up. As the earbuds auto-standbyed, he felt a strange sense of unease as his random neo-trance playlist paused and was replaced by… nothing. There seemed to be no ambient sound around them at all, which, given where they were, not to mention why they’d come there, seemed pretty much impossible. Even the idling car was silent and still—Jase realized it must be a full electric from the complete lack of sound, though that didn’t make its contribution to the universal quiescence any less eerie.

He glanced up front at the dark-blond, black-tee-shirted young driver his manager had hired for the night. He seemed to be just sitting there, staring straight ahead into the gloom. “Hey, dude,” he called up to him awkwardly. “You, uh, sure you brought me to the right place?”

The driver turned his head enough that he appeared in profile, his angular features lit only by the soft light from Jase’s phone screen. “Absolutely,” he said slowly, dragging out the word. His lips quirked ever so slightly at the corners. Okay, that’s not creepy at all, Jase thought. The driver tilted toward him just a little more, and Jase thought there was something odd in the cast of his green-and-gold eyes, a kind of almost-invisibly-faint glow than seemed to… tug at him. Like gravity—a gravity that would be hard to escape if he got too close.

The light from Jase’s phone went out, and… was that for real a super-subtle glow, or just an afterimage? No. He had to be imagining things.

The driver shifted some more, twisting in his seat so that he was almost facing him as Jase’s eyes adjusted. His thin smile widened, making it look even creepier, and he held Jase’s gaze as though he were pinning him down. There really was something strange about those eyes, he thought, but his worry on that front was slowly pushed aside by thoughts of how the driver was actually quite handsome, in a James Dean sort of way. Inexplicably, Jase found himself wanting to move closer, maybe tempt those full lips into a sweet, tender kiss…

Jase shook his head, confused and a little flustered. What the heck was he thinking? He’d gotten so distracted by the weird-smiling, sharp-jawed driver his dick was actually twitching in his trademark black jeans… and waking up his not-so-little friend before a gig was something he usually tried very hard to avoid. Two public appearances postponed in the last year because of visible boner emergencies was two too many.

“I shouda done this virtual,” Jase muttered like he always did before public appearances he wasn’t psyched about, which was most of them. He’d been overheard saying it often enough that fans had even started picking up on it, so that it had already attained the status of “catchphrase” and was working its way up to “meme”. He fumbled for the door handle, having trouble tearing his gaze away from the broodingly handsome driver staring at him from the front seat. The door opened, letting a waft of cold, misty air in through the crack. “I’ll, uh, just get going,” he told the driver uncertainly before clambering out as quickly as he could, shutting the door firmly behind him with a reassuring clak.

Now that he was out of the car, though, he wasn’t sure where to go next. There was nothing to see in the wet, impenetrable fog in any direction but the luxury sedan he’d arrived in right next to him—and (it being black) Jase could barely see that. He looked around himself, a little unnerved. He could almost believe he was on the brink of nowhere, as though ten steps in any direction might send him plummeting suddenly off a cliff, or lead him inexplicably back to where he’d started from. He ran a hand over his famously lush shoulder-length black hair—it was already damp enough he’d need to towel off before he hit the stage, assuming there was anywhere in the world right now that wasn’t full of dank, empty fog.

“Ah, you’re here!” said a cheery voice. Jase turned quickly and saw a pale, pleasant-featured man in a dark, close-fitting outfit all-black ten paces away, dimpling brightly at him. Jase’s eyes narrowed—that guy had not been there a second ago. And where was he lit from, anyway?

“Jase Owens!” the stranger enthused, the voice carrying unnaturally in the silent fogscape. “I’m so excited. I’m a super-big fan!”

Jase eyed him up and down. He sure seemed like a fan. Jase had been noticing more and more lately that a lot of the fans he met at gigs like this had a kind of look to them. It seemed like everyone bugging him for autographs and crowding around to get face-time with him, regardless of race or ethnicity, were put together like… well, like this guy: tall and extremely fit, though most were not quite as tall as Jase’s 6’4” or as muscled as he was, and pretty good-looking, too, like Jase was only attracting fans who were almost as sexy as he was. Someone had tweeted a pic a couple months back of Jase surrounded by a crowd of hot-’n’-lanky channel-subs at a regional con together with a caption about Jase spreading his hotness all over his fans, and the post had quickly gone viral. It had become a thing, with gleeful fans playing along, acting like they were actually taking Jase’s hotness from him just from being around him and watching his videos. There was even a hashtag: #gettingjased. Jase’s manager loved the publicity and was even trying to low-key stoke it, planting tall, buff Jase-alikes in fan-crowds and posting the pics on burner accounts with the #gettingjased tag. Jase himself thought the whole thing was a little eerie. He loved performing, but he was starting to realize he kind of hated the fame thing; the bigger he got, the more he subconsciously felt like his followers were latching onto him like a mob of media-sucking vampires, taking from him whatever he gave them to feed a ravenous Jase-hunger that he himself had created.

This guy, at any rate, definitely fit the type he’d been seeing lately: mixed-race, only a couple inches shorter than him, built like a young gymnast, and compellingly handsome, with thick eyebrows, pensive lips, and a regulation razor-sharp jawline. His brown-gold hair was shaggy and long, like he was growing it out to match Jase’s darker, always-perfect shoulder-brushing waves.

Jase must have taken a step or two toward him; anyway they were closer now, and the guy hadn’t moved. He could no longer sense the car behind him, weirdly, and he all at once felt strangely vulnerable and exposed. The stranger put out a hand, and Jase was now close enough to reach out and shake it. The guy’s grip was dry and firm as he clasped Jase’s hand with a wide smile and an audible sigh—it was clear that the man was very happy to see him, and not just from his smile. Jase guessed he was the organizer of the gig, and it occurred to him to wonder how much of a “surprise” his appearance tonight was going to be with an obvious Jaser like this in charge.

Even as he was thinking this, Jase sensed rather than saw a slowly-forming crowd ringing around him, staring excitedly at Jase from all sides. Silhouettes materialized, fans moving closer, more joining them, excited whispers passing around like they were avidly discussing what to do with him.

Jase looked back at the guy he was shaking hands with and was slightly alarmed to see that same faint, barely-perceptible glow in the stranger’s eyes—the one that seemed to draw Jase in, tugging on him as if his eyes connected directly to Jase’s heart, making him want to be drawn closer. He felt a shiver of instinctive arousal and his dick chubbed a little, almost automatically. Abruptly he wanted to step back, afraid of being pulled in too close, but the stranger held him firmly by their clasped hands, his long thumb stroking the back of Jase’s hand affectionately as he held it steadfastly in his own. He remembered the crowd gathering around them, and the thought came to him that maybe he was safer where he was.

“I’m Braden,” the stranger said adoringly, his rich, chocolate-brown eyes shining up at him. “Thank you for being here.” His voice was mellifluous and very pleasing.

“S-sure,” Jase said, finding himself strangely succumbing to whatever force the stranger was exerting on him. He was actually doing the thumb thing himself, like that was what you did when you shook hands. His dick strained a little more against his soft, snug boxer-briefs, but at the moment he was barely paying attention to anything but the happy Jaser’s devouring admiration. He felt like the crowd was closer now, maybe only a few feet away, their excitement palpable despite still being mostly shapes in the damp fog—hunky, lean, six-foot-plus shapes.

Braden’s grip shifted subtly and Jase felt a firm tug at his wrist. He looked down and saw with a kind of dazed, muted alarm that Braden, the sexy organizer-guy, was pulling his hand back and pressing it happily against his black, body-hugging shirt, with Jase’s own slightly browner, and now detached, hand still firmly grasped in his.

“Uh,” Jase gasped, trying not to panic as he goggled at his hand. “I’m going to need that back.” He tried to smile, remembering all the times he’d joked about needing his hand back in the past when greeting too-enthusiastic fans. He’d never meant it literally before.

Braden just smiled wider. “Aw, it’s just a souvenir!” he said genially, completely undaunted by Jase’s concern. He cuddled the hand against his firm chest, and Jase realized he could still feel the grip of Braden’s own mitt in his, and, against the back of his hand, the press of Braden’s prominent-but-not-huge pecs through the extra-snug tee. (His own merch, he noted with some small, still-functioning part of his brain—it was the near-black-JASE-on-black semi-compression shirt that had sold out in a week after the AestheticGamerTwins had worn both it for the latest round of Jase/AGT crossover vids.)

Fuck, he was nearly hard—his whole body felt hot and actually eager to be touched and held like Braden was doing with his disconnected hand. Why was Jase so turned on? It didn’t make sense. The guy was sexy, sure, and built, too, but—he took his hand, for shit’s sake! He should be freaking out, not—

“Besides, it’s not like you don’t have more,” the guy added, nodding down at Jase’s hand should have been, at the end of his still-outstretched arm. Jase looked down again and was baffled to see, not the wrist-ended stump he expected, but… his hand, all normal and poised like a dope for a handshake that was already over. He stared at it for a second uncomprehendingly, flexing the fingers in some kind of test to make sure what he was looking at matched up with what he was seeing, then he abruptly dropped it back at his side like the other one was.

He met Braden’s oddly-lit eyes again, his brain now completely offline, like his power of reason had just given up and sent all the blood in his head down to his raging erection instead. The organizer, meanwhile, was still smiling gratefully at him, like Jase had just given him an autograph and not a piece of his fucking body. He continued to hug his prize close to his chest, and Jase could still feel it, he realized. Fuck, he could still squeeze it. Braden grinned and squeezed back, too, his glimmering chocolate eyes becoming a shade brighter with happiness. “We’re so glad you’re here for us,” he gasped.

That “here” had some locative weight that hadn’t been there before, and Jase, desperate to ignore the sensations from that impossible extra hand, looked around to see that shadowy walls and a high ceiling had formed around them, just visible in the nighttime mist, like they’d been inside the huge converted warehouse that was his slated appearance venue the whole time. The crowd was massive now, hundreds and hundreds of beaming, handsome faces and square, bulging shoulders, all pressing close, the nearest manly, grinning admirers barely an arm’s reach away. Music gradually filled the space, building up from the concrete floor and through his sneaker-clad feet and body and out through the excited crowd. His music, Jase music. He recognized immediately it was the extended dance remix of “Mix Me Up” from his last release push—the one with the anime video featuring him as a Voltron-style mecha doing sick mo-cap dance moves in between fighting intergalactic monkey-monsters. That had been a fun video in the end, and he smiled thinking of it, only for a sliver of ice to shimmy down his spine as his smile sent soft waves of audible excitement through the crowd in all directions, like a lake rippling from a tossed stone.

He gulped, looking at Braden. “Guess I’d better get to the stage, huh?” he said, pretending not to notice the quaver in his voice.

Braden just grinned and nodded. “It’s back there,” he said, nodding with his chin. Jase turned and, sure enough, he saw a raised stage covered in sound and light equipment at the far end of the room—through the sea of eager, hunky, close-crowding, multicolored Jasers, more and more of them now moving to the beat of “Mix Me Up”. Body heat seemed to churn through the space, burning off some of the fog, though there was still only enough light for Jase to gain the impressions of people as they piled into the venue, filling it to capacity and beyond.

Okay, he told himself. They’re just fans. Just fans! Weirdly he was reluctant to leave the little safe-seeming circle around Braden, despite… well, he wasn’t thinking about that. He squared his shoulders and, putting on his best celeb smile, he started making his way through the burbling mob, and fought to keep his composure as it closed in around him.

Hands brushed over him, caressing every part of him as he walked slowly through the throng, his progress as slow as if he were trudging through shin-deep molasses. They were touching him everywhere, grinning at him, swaying happily to his music like a writhing beast of a thousand legs and a thousand arms. A thousand hands, too, all reaching toward him, as many touching him as were close enough to do so, ebbing and flowing toward him as new fans took their chance to feel him and share his Jaseness. “Thank you… we love you… we need you…” they called to him, their voices an overlapping mix of tones and timbers—bass, baritone, tenor, all smooth and sexy and full of need. Their arousal permeated him; and his, fathomless and potent, washed back through them like a drug.

He felt a hand grasp his right index finger and pull. He knew the finger came off in the fist that gripped it, and yet he could feel it was still there. He turned sharply and saw the ecstatic fan close up, inches away in fact, a 6’3”, muscle-shirted, blue-black-skinned swimmer type with dark, devastating eyes and buzzed-short hair, clasping the finger to his heart like Braden had done. “Thank you,” the finger guy said in a deep, resonant voice, thrilled that he’d gotten Jase’s attention long enough to express his deepest gratitude right to his face.

Jase blinked at him, dumbfounded. Ignore it, he told himself manically. He lifted his hand and looked down at it—nothing missing. No stolen fingers missing… on the hand that had itself been stolen, only he also still had it. He turned abruptly and just kept moving. It was the only thing he could think to do. Once he got to the stage he’d be out of the crowd and free. The only way out of this mess was through it. He just had to get—

More hands stroked him, feeling him up everywhere as he got moving again. It was hot now in the room, and sweat prickled his brow and slid down his back. A lot of the multitude of Jasers were shirtless now, their lean, built, variously-colored torsos all sliding evocatively against each other. He half expected them to start ripping off his shirt, too, but instead he found himself the only shirt-wearing man in a mass of hard torsos and hot faces, though his tee was now sleeveless somehow, showing off the sculpted muscle that had been filling his sleeves only a few heartbeats earlier.

More hands gripped his fingers and thumbs, pulling away their souvenirs, each taking accompanied by a grateful “thank you!”. Someone bolder took a hand, and then both of his hands were pulled off, and again, and again. It felt so good. Too good. He closed his mind to what was happening, fixated now on only one thing, getting through the close-pressing crowd and out the other side. Nothing else mattered.

Someone bent and took a foot—”oh my god, thank you!”—and he almost stumbled, but his foot was still there so he kept walking, doggedly ignoring the now-separate foot (and sneaker) that now belonged to an enraptured Jaser just as he was (mostly) shutting out all the fingers and thumbs and hands that were now no longer physically connected to him, all in the possession of his most rabid fans yet still all linked to him, still a part of him. Another foot, and another. Hands, more hands. A bunch of fingers at once. Hands, feet, hands. “Thank you! We love you Jase! Thank you!”

Someone grabbed his right arm, and he balked. No, he thought instinctively. No, not my arm, I need that arm—then it was yanked off of him, and he felt his arm still there, hanging from his shoulder like always, and yet it was behind him somewhere, held close to someone’s hard, humpy body. If he wanted, he could reach out with that hand, that arm that was no longer his, and—

He couldn’t deal with what he was thinking. He shoved it all away as best he could. He tried moving faster, but the crowd was thicker now, shirtless, multi-hued muscle-bods all pressed hard against each other, all touching him, worshipping him, taking what they needed from him. Now it was arms with the hands and feet, always with the words of genuine gratitude. Arms were pulled off him again and again, still there and yet also not. His arms spread through the crowd like salts diffusing through a room-filling fluid.

The next escalation he actually anticipated a second ahead. It’ll be legs next, he thought, and then, just then, he felt it: a pair of hands grasping his left thigh and tugging hard. He felt the leg pull away easily, like it wasn’t even his to begin with. This time he really did stumble, but he couldn’t fall—there was no way he could fall, surrounded as he was. And anyway his leg was still there, even as someone else grabbed the other one, and then his legs and arms were being pulled off at an almost constant rate.

He’d stopped moving. The mass of Jasers completely surrounded him—he couldn’t see the stage now or even the walls, just the countless handsome, exuberant faces and glistening, well-proportioned bare shoulders endlessly around him in every direction, light and dark, shifting and sliding against each other to the increasingly loud Jase-music, the mass of men swirling and seething in sinuous spirals as the satisfied takers moved away with their prizes and new Jasers moved in close to take their place. Their warmth and extreme arousal filled him so full it spilled back to the crowd, an endless, churning cycle of hot, carnal feedback on a truly massive scale. His wide, uncut cock was achingly hard and unmissably massive. It’s only a matter of time, he thought as he lost count of the arms and legs he’d lost. Only a—

And there was. Adoring hands were on his dick, grabbing at it through his thick black jeans, even as other hands yanked away his arms and legs and hands and feet over and over again. At first the detaching thing seemed not to work through the black denim, but then hands started shoved down his trousers, past his waistband, and as soon as they could grab hot, hard flesh they yanked up and out, gleefully taking his cock with them even as it stayed behind for the next ecstatic fan to take. And the next. And the next. “Thank you!” “Thank you so much!” “Thank you, Jase, we love you!!”

He turned, the only motion he was capable of now. He realized he still had his brilliant celeb-smile on, like it was impossible to release when he was with his fans—certainly with them being so grateful and happy, he had to be smiling, it was only right. Arms, legs, cock, cock, arms arms arms cock cock legs-legs-legs cock-cock-cock cock-cock-cock-cock-cock-cock——

It became like a multitrack recording, arms and legs and cocks pulled off simultaneously in a steadily increasing thrum of tugging separation. He kept turning on the spot as the crowds twisted against him, looking around him, seeing more good-looking faces and tall, lean bodies in all directions. There were orgasms suddenly, his orgasms, his cocks, other orgasms too, somewhere out there. He tried to make sense of the crowd of delicious, reaching men, feeling their bodies and their hard cocks and their mounting desire as much as seeing them. A lot of them were built like him. Some even looked a lot like him. He snorted mentally. It was almost like they were taking—

Just then the guy he was looking right at, a hard-bodied, honey-skinned cutie with dark stubble, startlingly vivid blue eyes, and stylishly spiky jet black hair, suddenly reached forward excitedly and grabbed the sides of Jase’s head. For a wild second he thought the guy was going to kiss him—his face was only a couple of inches away, Jase could feel his breath—but then his heart sank even as he felt the hard pull of his head being wrenched right off his shoulders. He blinked, still able to see—of course, he still had his head, just like all the other parts he was giving them, but the blue-eyed stubble cutie was holding his head with an expression of almost delirious gratitude. He met Jase’s eyes. “You’re so amazing!” he enthused, visibly awed at Jase’s gift.

“Th-thanks,” Jase whispered automatically, too stunned to think. The other guy probably couldn’t hear him over the throbbing music, but it didn’t matter. He understood, beaming back at Jase in delight as he clasped his prize—and it was at that point that Jase realized that the guy was gazing adoringly into the eyes of the head he’d taken, not Jase’s actual head. Or—which was the real one? His thoughts were swimming, drowning really. Everything was starting to spin slowly as more guys slid toward him for their own piece of him.

“Hey! Pass it back!” cheered someone deeper into the crowd to blue-eyed stubble guy. The head-taker grinned, and a moment later his detached noggin was being passed over the crowd like a soccer ball in a mosh pit. He didn’t have time to follow it for long, though, because the blue-eyed stubble guy turned right back to him and grabbed the sides of his head, again—

Heat, all around him. Arousal. Things happening with his body parts. Orgasms. worship. Tugging, pulling, tugging, pulling. Things happening. His hands, his arms, his cocks. The heat rising, the music engulfing him. Head, head, head arms-arms-arms-arms-arms-arms legs-legs-legs cock-cock-cock-cock. Cum.

Climax on climax. Too hot, too loud, too much. The pull-thrum intensified. Head, head-head, head-head-head-head-head-head arms-arms-arms-arms-arms-arms cock-cock-cock-cock legs-legs-legs-legs cock-cock-cock-cock-cock-cock-cock-cock-cockcockcockcock————

He screamed, his terror erupting suddenly and unstoppably from a hundred identical Jase-throats—all separate, all connected, all one, all screaming out from the depths of his very soul——

Jase jolted suddenly awake, his naked torso damp with sweat. A dream—it had been a dream. He relaxed, sinking back into the cozy bed in pure relief. Damn, he thought, that was the most fucked up thing ever.

He looked around as his heart slowly downshifted back to normal. He was in a rented room, a b and b maybe, nice but not swanky—he wasn’t a big enough star yet to afford five-star accommodations when he traveled. The décor was soft, pastel blue and antique white—nice. Gauzy curtains fluttered on either side of the half-open window. A long, oak bureau stood against the wall opposite him, its surface empty apart from a large, black gym bag.

His phone was charging on the night stand next to him. He picked it up but only had a chance to see a notification with an unfamiliar hashtag—#jaselove—before he heard the shower abruptly switch off, recognizing the background noise a moment too late.

His stomach fluttered. Who—?

A glistening, tightly-muscled, delectably tall man appeared in the bedroom doorway, completely naked and toweling himself off unconcernedly. Jase stared, recognizing the brooding, dark-blond driver with the green-gold eyes and the unnerving smile. This time, though, the smile was natural and subtext-free—just the pleased look of a guy who’d been happily fucked the night before, maybe more than once, and was looking forward to the next round. “Morning,” the guy greeted him.

“Uh, hey,” Jase said, disconcerted and yet strangely turned on at the thought of playtime he didn’t remember with a guy like this, with more maybe yet to come. His famously big cock twitched and started swelling under the sheets, a fact that didn’t escape the attention of his smirking companion.

The driver’s eyes fell on the gym bag, and there was a wicked glint in his eyes as he said, “Oh, hey, Braden dropped this off this morning, one of the fans left this behind. Thought we could have some fun with it.” With his free hand, driver-guy reached into the unzipped gym bag and lifted out a familiar object, which he immediately lobbed in Jase’s direction. “Think fast!”

Jase caught it automatically, despite the unexpected heft—it was large and solid, at least ten pounds, maybe more. By some fluke he’d fielded the head with the face directly toward him, so that he was looking right into his own fiercely intense, dark-blue eyes… eyes that almost immediately darkened, like his own, with instinctive, almost overwhelming arousal. He breathed, the head breathed, and despite himself, Jase smiled—twice over.

He was so shocked by just how turned on he was, he barely registered his lean and hunky, shower-warmed lover climbing back into bed with him. Heart pounding as he stared into his own beautiful eyes, Jase felt his cock stiffen rapidly to full, almost painful hardness… just like every Jasecock in the possession of hundreds and hundreds of his most loving and devoted, and most extremely horny, fans, all of them ready to give him more pleasure—more #jaselove—than he could ever have imagined possible.

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