Lover (I Don't Have to Love) // joshler smut [complete]

Lean

Tyler had picked him out of the crowd before the show had even started. He'd stood in the back near the bar, leaned up against a pillar, hands in his pockets. The crowd swayed and surged with the music, sweaty and wanton as the heat in the club rose with the sound volume. But not him. He'd just stood there, eyes locked to the stage. Locked to Tyler.

The lights danced across the boy's figure and face, occasionally catching a glint of something, maybe a piercing. Tyler couldn't tell. The boy's features weren't clear from where Tyler stood and sang, but Tyler was drawn to him regardless. He felt the boy's eyes and the intensity of his gaze. He felt the want, and urged his own body not to respond in kind. Not yet.

Normally, a guy standing alone in the back just staring might give him the creeps. It should give him the creeps.

Normally, if he felt up to it, Tyler would pick someone else to entertain him after a show. Maybe one of the starry-eyed, barely clothed girls who converged near the front of the stage. Maybe one of the kids who not-so-subtly sold chemicals in the crowd. The free drugs he got out of it were a bonus.

But not tonight. Tonight felt different.

They played a 40-minute set. Tyler put everything he had into the performance, but he was distracted. His bandmates definitely noticed something off, shooting him questioning looks, but the crowd didn't seem to mind, if they picked up on it at all. Most were halfway to a hangover or worse.

The last chords of the closing song spread across the sea of bobbing bodies and they roared, waves breaking against the the stage. Tyler beamed. Every show seemed to bring out more people now. Maybe one day they would sell out this place. High on concert adrenaline, the thought of selling out a 1500-capacity club made him giddy.

Finally, after thank yous and goodbyes and one encore, he was free. He left the stage in a hurry, eager to towel off the sweat running down his forehead and chest. Dallon, the band's bassist, followed him.

"Good show, man," he said, slapping his hand on Tyler's shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

Tyler turned and nodded. "Yeah, good turnout. Any idea how many?"

"Few hundred, maybe," Dallon shrugged. "We can check tomorrow with whoever runs this place, get real numbers. Tyler, hey—"

Tyler hadn't really been listening and had started to walk away, but turned back abruptly. "What's up?"

"You all right?" Dallon cocked his head.

"Yeah," Tyler answered, forcing a toothy smile. "Why wouldn't I be? Feeling great. Good show."

Dallon smirked. "You've got someone on your head, man. I know that look."

Tyler blushed.

"Just help us load the van before you take off, yeah?" he continued. "Before whoever it is actually gets on your head."

"Fuck off," Tyler laughed. "I'll be out there. Give me a few."

Am I really that obvious? Goddamn, he thought. He couldn't deny the suggestion of someone riding his cock did make it stir. He'd been willing it to stay down all night. He needed to get back out on the floor and find that guy, if he was even still there.

Back in the dressing room — more of a closet with a fold-up table, some haphazardly placed chairs, and a grimy mini-fridge in the corner — he pulled out a water bottle, tore the cap off, and poured it straight on his head. As beads of water ran down his neck and chest and he grabbed for a towel, he belatedly realized he could have soaked himself on stage like some washed-up 90s rock star. It was so cliché, but they would have loved it.

Bet he would have loved it.

Tyler scowled. Next time.

After throwing on a fresh shirt, he weaved back through the narrow hallway to the stage, and hopped down the stairs. While most had gone back to the bar or dance floor as the club's music started back up, a few people were still milling about the stage, eager to talk to the band.

While shaking hands and offering more smiles and thank yous, he looked toward the back of the club, but without the lighting from the show the pillar where his quarry had lingered was in darkness.

"Hey, guys, I have to get going, but thanks again for coming out!" Tyler extracted himself from the small group of fans and booked it to the back of the club. After a few feet he saw that the pillar was standing alone. The boy was gone.

Shit! Tyler cursed himself for taking so long to come back out. He walked further back to the bar and looked around. Nothing.

Shit, shit, shit.

He slumped onto a bar stool, disappointed, then felt the air shift behind him and startled.

"Looking for something?"

Tyler spun the stool around and his breath caught in his chest. It was the boy he'd been looking for, and he was hot. He stood with one hip cocked, thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his black skinny jeans. Tyler looked him up and down, taking a mental picture. Red hair, backwards cap, loose grey tank emblazoned with a spaceship and the words I WANT TO BELIEVE. His shoes were high tops, and matched his hair: bright red. He wore a look of friendly mischief. Tyler immediately warmed to him.

"Oh, hey," Tyler answered. "You were at the show."

The boy smirked. "I was."

"I saw you watching," Tyler continued. "I like your... uh... shoes." He immediately regretted saying it, and felt heat rise to his cheeks as the smirk on the boy's face grew. Shoes? Fucking really, Tyler? Shoes?!

"Thanks," he answered. "My favourite pair."

Tyler nodded and stood. The boy didn't back up, and suddenly Tyler was close against him, not quite touching. Too close. Tyler was taller than him, just barely, and could feel the heat radiating off his body. His eyes were a deep brown, his pupils dilated. His entire presence practically screamed sex.

So why did Tyler feel so awkward and tense? This wasn't anything new. Find someone after a show, have a couple drinks, maybe pop a pill or two, and fuck.

Finally after what felt like an eternity, the boy stepped back and moved his arm — his fully, beautifully tattooed arm, Tyler realized — as if to usher him forward.

"Can I follow you?" he asked, half-smirk, half-smile. His eyes crinkled.

Tyler knew the boy could sense Tyler's hesitation, and that he liked it. Snap out of it, Ty. He cleared his throat then raised an eyebrow and grinned, hoping it might come across as seductive.

"Let's get out of here. I need to grab my shit first."

Tyler moved back toward the stage and the band's dressing room, leading the way. He shook himself off and regained some bounce in his step, smiling wide. Whoever this guy was, he was hot as fuck, and he clearly wanted to fuck.

It was going to be a good night.

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Author's Note:

Thank you so much for reading! Please comment, vote, and share if you enjoyed it, so I know to write more. I'm new to wattpad and still finding my way around. <3