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[ ✦ ] — ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ…

OLDER!TYLER JOSEPH X MUSICIAN!FEM!READER

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 summary: WHEN YOU GET THE OPPORTUNITY TO MEET YOUR FAVOURITE ARTIST YOU DON’T SQUANDER IT. LUCKILY FOR YOU HE SEEMS TO BE JUST AS INTERESTED AS YOU ARE.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 warnings: 18+ CONTENT, MDNI, NO USE OF Y/N, PORN WITH A SMIDGE OF PLOT, STRANGERS TO LOVERS, AGE GAP, USE OF NICKNAMES (BABY, BRAT, PRETTY GIRL), HINTS OF POWER IMBALANCE BUT NOTHING MAJOR, THEY’RE BOTH SWITCHES, PIV SEX, COWGIRL, ORAL (F RECEIVING), DRY HUMPING, BREAST PLAY, DIRTY TALK, PRAISE, TEASING, UNPROTECTED SEX, CREAMPIE, MALE WHIMPERING.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 wc: 14,935

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 a/n: TYLER LOOKED SO FUCKING GOOD AT THE AMAS I HAD TO WRITE ABOUT IT. INCREDIBLY SELF INDULGENT, IM NOT SORRY. PLEASE IGNORE ANY REPETITION OR SPELLING MISTAKES, THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD. ENJOY!

You should be paying attention. You should be listening.

This was the entire point of coming here, wasn’t it? To mingle. To network. To smile politely at people with intimidating résumés and expensive shoes and pretend you belonged in the same room as them. The producer to your left was still talking, animatedly, too, judging by the movement of his hands, but the words themselves dissolved before they could reach you, lost somewhere in the fog clogging your brain.

Nothing stuck.

Your mind had become a radio station trapped between frequencies: all static, no signal. You knew it was rude. God, you knew it was so rude. Your manager would probably combust on the spot if they saw you mentally buffering through a conversation with someone this important. You should be nodding at the right moments, asking insightful questions, laughing at things that probably weren’t funny. Instead, you stood there clutching a champagne flute like it was a flotation device and silently praying you hadn’t been asked a question yet.

Your fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. The cool crystal pressed into your skin hard enough to ground you, or at least you hoped it would. As if friction alone could yank your consciousness back into your body.

You weren’t completely hopeless, at least. You aren't just blatantly staring like some kind of creep, you're only occasionally…staring. Briefly. In controlled, civilised little glances. You do know how to compose yourself, if just barely.

Mostly.

You lifted the champagne to your lips again, bubbles prickling against your tongue, bitter and expensive in the way all award-show alcohol seemed to be. The movement gave you the opportunity, well another excuse, to look over the rim of the glass to the man who had your attention under his captivity all night.

And there he was.

Tyler sat across the room with the sort of posture that suggested he’d rather be literally anywhere else. Not because he didn’t deserve to be here, but because he looked painfully detached from it all. The flashing lights, the clinking glasses, the endless circulation of industry people pretending not to size each other up, it all slid off him like rain against a window.

You couldn’t even blame him. Award show afterparties were essentially glorified corporate flirting. A room full of talented people pretending to casually “chat” while secretly exchanging social currency under the guise of a celebration.

Still, your attention remained embarrassingly, helplessly fixed on him and you start to feel undoubtedly pathetic

You had a crush.

Which was ridiculous. Deeply, profoundly ridiculous. Every few minutes you had to remind yourself that you were not thirteen years old clutching a band poster to your chest. You were an adult. A serious musician. A person in their early twenties with bills and deadlines and a carefully curated public image. You were supposed to have evolved past this sort of thing years ago.

You shouldn’t be fawning over someone almost twice your age who is just trying to enjoy their evening.

It's all so lame. It feels so immature.

And yet your stomach still performed humiliating little somersaults every time he laughed at something his bandmate said.

It all felt unbearably soft. Too fluffy. Too naïve. Too pink.

The kind of feelings reserved for handwritten love notes tucked into jacket pockets and flowers bought spontaneously from street vendors. The sort of emotions that belonged in cheesy coming-of-age films where people kissed in grocery store aisles while indie music played in the background. Not here. Not in a crowded afterparty smelling faintly of perfume, alcohol, and expensive desperation. And definitely not for someone like you.

Yet somehow, despite every logical thought your brain attempted to manufacture, your gaze kept drifting back toward him like a compass needle snapping north.

You only hoped the producer beside you hadn’t realised you’d mentally checked out ten minutes ago.

More importantly, you hoped Tyler wouldn’t look up and catch you already staring.

“Thirsty?”

The word cut through your trance so suddenly it nearly made you jump.

You turned to find the producer watching you with an expression hovering somewhere between amused and mildly concerned. Following his gaze downward, you realised your champagne flute was still pressed against your lips despite the fact it had been completely empty for God knows how long.

Smooth.

You let out a little laugh that sounded almost natural if nobody examined it too closely.

“Yeah, sorry,” you said, lowering the glass. “Just really committing to the party atmosphere, I guess.”

Your attempt to come off as playful landed well enough. Half-successful. Which, honestly, counted as a victory tonight.

The conversation picked back up after that, and this time you actually participated instead of standing there like an emotionally overwhelmed coat rack. You asked questions. You responded appropriately. You even managed to make eye contact for more than three consecutive seconds.

Progress.

Still, your attention betrayed you constantly, eyes wandering back toward Tyler whenever you thought you could get away with it. Every glance was subtle in theory and catastrophically obvious in practice.

Eventually, after exchanging numbers and a firm handshake, the producer disappeared back into the current of people flooding the room.

And just like that, you were alone again.

Alone, holding an empty champagne glass, still losing a one-sided staring contest with a man across the room.

Your mind wandered helplessly, circling the same impossible question over and over:

How had someone who’d spoken maybe three sentences to you managed to take up this much space inside your head?

•••

When the AMAs team first reached out and asked if you’d present one of the awards, you said yes almost immediately.

Of course you did.

It was a good opportunity, one of those glittering, career-polishing moments your manager would later describe as “great for visibility”. You weren’t exactly underground by any means, but your audience existed in a strange little pocket of the industry: devoted, passionate, slightly concerning in their ability to decipher cryptic lyrics, but niche enough that broader exposure still mattered.

The AMAs meant cameras. Press. New listeners. New connections.

And, as an added bonus, there was a very real possibility you’d be handing an award to one of your favourite bands of all time.

A perk, really.

You’d loved Twenty One Pilots for what felt like forever. Their music had threaded itself through years of your life so thoroughly that certain songs felt less like tracks and more like timestamps. So the idea of not only attending the same event as them, but potentially standing beside them onstage and speaking to them like a normal, functioning human being?

Slightly horrifying. Completely exciting.

Mostly horrifying.

By the time the actual day arrived, you’d already been poked, powdered, zipped, sprayed, adjusted, accessorised, and manhandled by your stylist until you barely resembled the exhausted creature who’d rolled out of bed that morning.

Then came the red carpet.

Well, the blue carpet, technically.

The second you stepped out, the noise hit you all at once.

Your name echoed from every direction in overlapping waves. Photographers shouted over each other trying to steal your attention for half a second longer than everyone else. Camera flashes burst like tiny supernovas directly into your retinas. Somewhere nearby, a publicist was stress-sprinting in heels.

It was chaos disguised as glamour.

Still, this wasn’t your first rodeo. You knew the choreography by now. Pause here. Turn slightly. Chin down. Smile but not too much. Pretend you aren’t being perceived by thousands of people simultaneously.

Easy enough.

So you posed. Then posed again. Shifted your weight. Smiled on cue. Tilted your head just enough to look effortless despite the fact every movement was calculated within an inch of its life.

And then your entire carefully rehearsed performance collapsed in on itself.

The atmosphere shifted first.

You felt it before you saw it: a sudden spike of energy rippling through the crowd, voices rising several octaves louder behind the barricades. The photographers straightened like hunting dogs catching a scent. Heads turned in unison.

Then you looked over.

And there he was.

Tyler.

It took one glance, one stupid glance, and suddenly your brain ceased functioning like reliable machinery and started behaving more like microwaved soup.

You stared at him completely, helplessly transfixed.

He looked annoyingly good.

Confident, too. Far more confident than you’d expected. Somewhere in your mind you’d imagined him quieter, more reserved in front of cameras. Less willing to play into the spectacle of it all. But instead he moved like he understood exactly how to command attention without even trying.

Which, frankly, felt unfair.

Your eyes drifted over the sleek leather jacket stretched across his shoulders, the material reflecting the flashing lights in sharp white streaks every time he moved. The cameras adored him. The entire carpet seemed to tilt subtly in his direction.

And then your gaze dropped lower.

Lower.

Lower-

Were those fucking capris?

“Eyes over here, please!” one photographer barked alongside your name, not rude exactly, but definitely firm.

Your stomach dropped.

You swallowed hard and immediately snapped your attention forward again, suddenly very aware of the approximately one hundred high-definition cameras pointed in your direction. Somewhere out there existed photographic evidence of you openly gawking at your celebrity crush. You were caught, quite literally, in 4k.

Fantastic.

You tried to recover quickly, forcing your expression back into something vaguely composed. Cool. Casual. Entirely normal.

Then, because apparently you didn’t have a single ounce of self control left in your body, you looked back for another indulgent glance one more time.

Big mistake.

Tyler had the leg of his absurdly expensive sunglasses caught between his teeth, eyes half-lidded as he glanced lazily toward the cameras surrounding him.

No recovery from that, really.

You turned away so fast your neck nearly snapped, forcing yourself to stare blankly ahead while heat prickled violently up the back of your neck. You pasted another smile onto your face, praying the blush wasn’t visible beneath the makeup.

Later, unfortunately, you’d discover it absolutely was. In high definition. From multiple angles.

You weren’t entirely sure when things had shifted. When admiration had quietly curdled into something far messier.

At some point, respect had become longing.

A harmless crush on an artist you deeply admired had transformed into something hotter, needier, impossible to ignore no matter how many times you internally told yourself to get a grip. Maybe it had always been there, lurking beneath the surface unnoticed. Maybe admiration and infatuation had simply worn each other’s faces long enough for you to stop distinguishing between them.

The line between wanting to be someone and wanting someone, after all, could be dangerously thin.

So for the rest of the night, you simmered quietly in your seat like an unattended pot threatening to boil over.

Awards came and went in glittering waves. Industry veterans stood beneath spotlights and delivered polished speeches about perseverance and artistry while fresh-faced newcomers blinked through tears and thanked God, their mothers, and occasionally their publicists. The audience applauded on cue. Cameras swooped dramatically through the aisles. Somewhere behind you, someone laughed just a little too loudly at a joke that absolutely did not warrant it.

And through all of it, your attention kept drifting forward.

Toward Tyler.

Just a few seats ahead of you, close enough to look at without being obvious, though at this point you were beginning to suspect you had wildly overestimated your own subtlety. Every few minutes your manager would jab an elbow sharply into your side and whisper, “Are you even paying attention?”

To which you’d immediately respond with an offended, wholehearted, “Of course I am.”

You absolutely were not.

At one point you were pretty sure you clapped for a category you didn’t even hear announced.

Eventually, after what felt simultaneously like twenty minutes and several lifetimes, it was finally your turn to present. A stagehand appeared beside you with the silent urgency of someone who hadn’t sat down in twelve hours and ushered you backstage. Into your hands they placed the envelope: sleek, black, unnecessarily dramatic.

You stared at it suspiciously.

It took every ounce of self-control not to pry it open immediately. Technically, you weren’t supposed to have favourites. Presenters were meant to remain neutral, professional, unbiased.

Unfortunately for the integrity of the American Music Awards, one of the nominees happened to be Twenty One Pilots.

So neutrality had left the building hours ago.

Then suddenly you were climbing the stairs toward the stage, and your first coherent thought was: Don’t fall.

The fear was irrational but relentless. Every award show staircase looked specifically engineered to humiliate celebrities in front of millions. You mentally congratulated yourself the second both feet safely reached the platform without catastrophe.

A win was a win.

The crowd erupted as you stepped toward the microphone, applause echoing through the massive venue. You smiled automatically, waiting for the noise to settle while trying very hard not to look directly into the camera lens currently capable of exposing every pore on your face in microscopic detail.

“Hello, Vegas,” you greeted with a grin, fingers idly playing with the edge of the envelope. “Now don’t tell anyone, but I’m a little biased when it comes to this category.”

The crowd laughed softly. Good. Alive. Breathing.

“Many, if not all, of my favourite artists being rock or alternative.. So honestly, presenting this award feels less like work and more like being handed the aux cord.”

You smiled again, pausing for the crowds reaction like a well practiced performance. All about stop and start.

“That’s why I’m incredibly honoured to present the award for Best Rock/Alternative Artist. This category is stacked with absolute heavy hitters, some past winners such as Green Day, Foo Fighters, Pearl Jam. And this years outstanding nominees are…”

You began reading through the list carefully, grateful you’d rehearsed the names obsessively beforehand. Nothing haunted you more than the possibility of publicly mispronouncing or forgetting someone’s name and immediately combusting from embarrassment on live television.

Finally, you reached the envelope again.

“And the American Music Award goes to…”

You dragged out the pause shamelessly, slowly opening the envelope while the room collectively held its breath. Your eyes scanned the card inside.

And then your entire face lit up.

The smile that spread across your mouth was immediate, impossible to contain, bordering dangerously close to cartoonishly ecstatic.

“Twenty One Pilots!”

The room exploded into applause.

As the crowd roared and the duo made their way toward the stage, you quickly swapped the envelope with a stagehand in exchange for the award itself, a heavy, oddly-shaped sculpture of black and clear glass that looked beautiful but also vaguely capable of causing blunt force trauma.

And then suddenly they were there.

Right in front of you.

Josh reached you first, bright grin and easy energy radiating off him as you shook his hand warmly.

“Congratulations,” you told him sincerely.

Then Tyler stepped forward.

Your breath caught embarrassingly fast.

Up close, he somehow looked even more unreal. Sharper somehow. More tangible in a way your brain had clearly not prepared for.

You placed your hand in his, tilting your head slightly as your smile softened.

“Congratulations,” you said quietly.

The words themselves were simple, but you were fairly certain your expression betrayed everything else: admiration, excitement, years of respect folded carefully into one tiny moment.

Tyler squeezed your hand gently. His palm was warm, rough with calluses. Real.

“Thank you,” he replied, humble and earnest enough to make your stomach flip violently.

Then you passed them the award and stepped aside while the two of them accepted it.

You should have been listening to the speech.

Instead, your brain remained catastrophically fixated on the lingering feeling of Tyler’s hand against yours, phantom static still prickling across your palm.

And God, photos and videos truly did him no justice. None at all.

Before you could properly recover, the three of you were already being shuffled offstage by stagehands moving with the efficiency of air traffic controllers. You barely had time to blink before a photographer intercepted you near the wings for a quick set of photos.

You took your place between the pair carefully, trying not to look as nervous as you suddenly felt.

Josh casually slung an arm around your shoulders like you’d known each other for years. Meanwhile Tyler’s hand settled against the small of your back almost immediately, warm and steady against the curve of your spine.

The touch nearly short-circuited your nervous system.

You faltered for half a second before forcing yourself to smile through it, praying none of the cameras could capture the absolute psychological warfare currently happening inside your body.

“Congratulations again,” you said through your grin while flashes exploded around you. “I know I’m not supposed to play favourites, but I’m really glad you guys won.”

Your voice came out more genuine than intended.

Then, finally glancing upward toward Tyler, you almost laughed at the way he’d slouched slightly so the photographer could fit all three of you in frame.

“And honestly,” you added, “thank God you did, because otherwise I might’ve pulled a full Moonlight/La La Land stunt up there.”

That earned a real laugh out of Tyler.

Not the polite celebrity kind, either. A genuine one. Shoulders shaking, eyes squinting shut. Josh snorted beside you trying, and failing, not to laugh too.

The sound hit you directly in the chest.

“You wouldn’t actually do that, right?” Tyler asked as the photographer finally moved on, though his hand lingered at your back for several seconds longer than necessary.

Long enough for your pulse to completely betray you.

“I mean,” you started, unable to stop smiling, “not intentionally.”

You shrugged innocently.

“Like a, uh, what do they call it? A Freudian slip?”

Another laugh spilled from Tyler’s mouth, warm and effortless, and you immediately knew your brain would replay that sound obsessively at three in the morning for the foreseeable future.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, an incredibly stressed and overwhelmed stagehand appeared beside him looking moments away from a full on collapse.

“Guys, performance prep. Now. Please.”

The duo began getting ushered away almost instantly.

Tyler glanced back at you as he walked, gaze lingering for just a second too long to feel accidental.

“I’ll, uh…” you began quickly, suddenly aware that if you didn’t say something now you’d spend the rest of your life regretting it. “I’ll see you at the afterparty?”

Tyler considered it for a moment before a small crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“Sure.”

Then the stagehand dragged him fully away before either of you could say anything else.

“Congratulations again!” you called after them.

Tyler looked back over his shoulder one last time, smiling properly this time, and the expression hit you with enough force to make your entire insides twist themselves into ecstatic knots.

Yeah.

You were absolutely screwed.

•••

And now here you were.

Alone at the afterparty, an empty champagne flute still trapped in your hand like a security blanket, staring across the room with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Your brain continued to replay every microscopic interaction you’d had with Tyler on an endless loop. The handshake. The smile. The warmth of his hand against your back. The laugh. God, especially the laugh.

You were spiralling over approximately four minutes of human interaction.

Truly pathetic.

The party buzzed loudly around you, all gold lights and expensive perfume and conversations that sounded vaguely important if you didn’t listen too carefully. Somewhere nearby, somebody was definitely pitching a podcast no one asked for.

But your attention remained fixed elsewhere.

Your eyes narrowed slightly as you watched Tyler lean toward Josh, murmuring something into his ear before standing from the booth. He slipped through the crowd with an ease that made everyone else seem clumsy by comparison before settling onto one of the ridiculously tall red leather bar stools lining the counter.

You watched him lean forward onto his elbows, shoulders loose, expression soft and tired in the low amber lighting.

Your stomach betrayed you immediately.

You debated going over there.

Actually talking to him. Like a real person. Instead of silently orbiting him from across rooms like some compromised satellite.

The angel on your shoulder urged restraint.

Leave him alone, it said. Let the man enjoy his night in peace. Your intentions are not nearly as innocent as you’re pretending they are.

You argued back internally that you could absolutely behave yourself.

The argument lacked conviction even inside your own head.

Meanwhile the devil on your opposite shoulder was practically shoving you forward.

Go talk to him. You’ll regret it forever if you don’t. Opportunities like this don’t happen every day. Also, he touched your lower back for an objectively unnecessary amount of time. Science demands further investigation.

Really, you needed very little convincing.

By the time your internal moral debate had concluded, you were already halfway to the bar.

Tyler glanced sideways as you approached, eyes flicking over you with immediate recognition as you awkwardly climbed onto the stool beside him. You tried to make the movement look graceful and effortless. Unfortunately, bar stools were instruments designed specifically to humble humanity.

You nearly missed the footrest entirely.

Recovering quickly, you ordered another drink from the bartender, having to repeat yourself twice over the noise of the crowded room before finally turning toward Tyler with a small smile.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he replied easily, mouth curling into a faint grin.

He said something else immediately after, but the words dissolved beneath the roar of the music and surrounding conversations. You saw his lips moving, caught maybe half a syllable, and absolutely nothing else.

“Sorry, what?” you asked louder, leaning closer into his space so you could actually hear him.

Tyler leaned toward you too, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your neck and clavicle. Goosebumps erupted instantly down your arms.

“I said,” he repeated directly beside your ear, voice lower this time, “I was wondering when you were actually gonna come over here instead of staring at me all night.”

You jerked back just enough for Tyler to witness the full extent of your horror in real time.

“Oh my God,” you groaned, covering your face with both hands. “You saw that?”

Heat climbed violently up your neck and ears despite your best efforts to contain it.

Tyler nodded once, slow and smug.

“Yeah.”

The grin he flashed you was entirely too self-satisfied for your liking.

Mortified beyond comprehension, you immediately grabbed your drink and took a long sip like alcohol alone might erase the last ten seconds from existence. Unfortunately, it did not.

Still, you refused to let yourself die of embarrassment that quickly.

“What can I say?” you sighed dramatically, lowering the glass. “You’re kind of intimidating.”

You looked at him through your lashes, and Tyler’s brows lifted slightly in amusement before he leaned a little closer again, visibly entertained now.

“I am?”

You nodded slowly.

“Well, not just visually.”

That pulled a small curious crease between his brows. You hesitated briefly, debating how honest you wanted to be with him. Or perhaps how honest you could survive being.

“And honestly,” you admitted softly, “this is kind of embarrassing to say out loud, but I admire you a lot.”

Your smile turned smaller then, more sincere.

“I’ve been a fan for years. I’m pretty sure my first concert was one of yours.”

“Oh yeah?” Tyler asked.

“Yeah,” you laughed softly before taking another sip of your drink. “I think I was thirteen? It was at, God, what was the venue called?”

You snapped your fingers suddenly as the memory hit you.

“The Basement!”

Tyler groaned immediately, dropping his head slightly while a crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“That makes me feel so old.”

You shrugged without missing a beat.

“I don’t know why you’re complaining. Most people would kill to age as gracefully as you have.”

That made him look at you properly. Fully.

And unfortunately, you looked back.

His expression shifted into something quieter then, something unreadable but intent. His eyes lingered on yours for a second too long before drifting downward slowly, past your nose, your lips, your chin, then lower still before flicking back up again so quickly you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.

Almost.

Did Tyler Joseph just give you a once-over?

Your pulse stuttered embarrassingly fast.

“I mean it, though,” you said quickly, breaking eye contact before you could completely combust. Your fingertips traced absentminded patterns against the polished countertop. “I genuinely don’t think I’d be making music if it weren’t for you guys.”

Tyler’s smile softened instantly into something sweeter. Something devastatingly genuine.

“You flatter me,” he said quietly.

You rolled your eyes playfully, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“Always so humble.”

A soft snicker escaped him, barely audible beneath the music.

“I try not to brag too much,” he replied dryly.

“You should,” you answered immediately, sincerity slipping into your voice before you could stop it. “You’ve earned it.”

For a moment, Tyler just looked at you.

Not politely. Not casually.

Really looked at you.

And somehow, despite the packed room buzzing around you, despite the music and flashing lights and hundreds of conversations happening all at once, the moment felt strangely quiet.

Like the rest of the party had blurred into static around the two of you.

Tyler tilted his head slightly, studying you with an expression hovering somewhere between amusement and curiosity.

“So,” he said finally, swirling the liquid in his glass, “you’ve just been secretly judging me from afar this whole time?”

You let out a soft laugh. “Admiring. There’s a difference.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” you nodded solemnly. “Judging would imply I think I’m above you somehow.”

Tyler just stared at you for a solid three seconds before he snorted quietly into his drink.

“That would be ambitious.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand against your chest. “Wow. Humble and self-aware. Dangerous combination.”

“I try.”

“No, seriously,” you continued, leaning against the counter slightly. “I had to work up the courage to come talk to you.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow again like he still didn’t fully believe you.

“You literally walked onto that carpet looking like you knew every camera in the room was in love with you.”

“That’s because they were,” Tyler replied immediately.

You blinked at him once before laughing loudly enough to earn a brief glance from the bartender.

“There he is,” you pointed accusingly. “There’s the ego.”

“It comes out occasionally.” Tyler smiled into the rim of his glass before taking another sip. “Usually only at formal events or when I’m on stage.”

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself.

You took another sip of your drink. It was unfair how easily he dismantled you. You’d walked over here fully intending to be cool and charming and vaguely mysterious. Instead you were thirty seconds away from melting directly into the upholstery of the bar stool.

“So,” Tyler said after a moment, “what was thirteen-year-old you expecting when you went to that concert?”

You huffed out a laugh. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I think I expected you guys to seem larger than life.” You traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly. “You know how artists feel when you’re younger. Like they exist somewhere outside normal reality.”

Tyler watched you quietly as you spoke.

“But then you got onstage and acted like complete weirdos,” you added. “And I remember thinking that maybe making music didn’t have to feel so unreachable.”

His expression softened at that.

“That’s… actually really nice.”

“It’s true.”

You glanced sideways at him.

“I mean, your music made me feel less insane as a teenager, which is probably the highest compliment anyone can receive.”

There was another small lull then, but not an awkward one. The kind that settled naturally between two people who had somehow slipped into each other’s rhythm quicker than expected.

Tyler leaned back slightly against the stool, eyes still on you.

“You know,” he said slowly, “you’re a lot different than I expected.”

That caught your attention immediately. “Different how?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I expected you to be…” He gestured vaguely with his glass. “Cooler.”

You barked out a laugh. “Cooler?”

“Yeah.” Tyler nodded seriously. “Like intimidatingly cool. The kind of person who’d silently judge my outfit choices.”

Your eyes immediately dropped toward his cropped pants again before you could stop yourself.

Tyler caught it instantly.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” you laughed helplessly. “I’m trying so hard to respect the capris but I can’t.”

“They’re not capris.”

“They end mid-calf, Tyler.”

“They’re fashion.”

“That sentence alone just made them worse.”

Tyler laughed again, fuller this time, shoulders shaking slightly as he dropped his head.

You stared at him for half a second too long.

It was strange seeing him like this up close, looser, lighter. Less like the carefully constructed image you’d built in your head over years of interviews and performances.

Just a man laughing beside you at a bar.

A very attractive man, unfortunately.

“You’re staring again,” Tyler murmured without looking up.

You sighed immediately. “Jesus Christ, do you notice everything?”

“Mostly things that are entertaining to me.”

“That’s awful.”

“I think it’s charming.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught somewhere in your throat under the weight of the way he was looking at you now.

Not teasing anymore.

Something quieter. Warmer.

The tension shifted subtly between you then, no longer playful in the same harmless way. It settled lower now, tucked beneath every glance and every lingering second of eye contact.

Tyler’s fingers tapped idly against his glass before he leaned slightly closer again, close enough that you could smell the lingering cologne on his skin beneath the alcohol and crowded-room haze.

“You know,” he said softly, “for someone who claimed to be intimidated by me, you walked over here pretty confidently.”

You swallowed once.

“That’s because I had two drinks first.”

Tyler grinned immediately. “Ah. Liquid courage.”

“Exactly.”

“And here I thought you were naturally this smooth.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head before glancing down into your drink again.

When you looked back up, Tyler was already watching you.

Still.

Like he hadn’t looked away once.

“God,” you tutted, reaching out without thinking and catching Tyler’s hand in yours as if it belonged there.

His skin was warm. Real.

Your fingers traced lightly over the faint smudges of black paint still stubbornly clinging to him, like it had made itself at home and refused to leave.

“I bet the cleaners absolutely hate you,” you said, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Leaving black handprints and smudge marks everywhere you go.”

Tyler watched you inspect his hand with an intensity that felt unfairly focused, like you were doing something infinitely more interesting than you actually were. He flexed his fingers once, subtle, almost instinctive, then stopped himself from curling them around yours.

“Yeah,” he said, voice mild but amused. “You should see the award. It’s covered in them.”

That made you laugh properly, soft and unguarded.

“It’s cool though,” you said, thumb brushing one last absent circle over his knuckles before you finally let go, like you were reluctantly returning something you’d borrowed. “The paint. I think it’s cool.”

Tyler’s smile widened just slightly, something softer flickering across his expression.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and for some reason his voice felt closer than it should have.

His bottom lip caught briefly between his teeth as he kept looking at you, like he had something else to say but didn’t quite trust himself to say it.

And then the moment broke.

A hand landed on his shoulder from behind.

Josh.

He stood there with the air of someone trying very hard not to smile too obviously, eyes flicking between you and Tyler in slow, deliberate disbelief before settling on his bandmate.

“Me and Debs are heading out,” he said. “You coming?”

Tyler glanced back at you. Just for a second.

Long enough to feel like something, short enough to pretend it wasn’t.

Then he exhaled, almost reluctant.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Alright. Let’s call it.”

He shifted like he was about to stand.

Something in your chest reacted before your brain caught up.

“Wait,” you said quickly.

Your hand reached out before you could overthink it, fingers wrapping lightly around his wrist.

Tyler paused immediately.

Looked at you.

Curious. Patient. Entirely too aware.

You let go just as fast, suddenly aware of the contact, and grabbed a napkin from the bar instead, asking for a pen with a speed that probably suggested mild panic. The bartender handed one over.

You wrote quickly. Too quickly.

Once. Twice. You checked it. Fixed a digit. Checked again.

Then you folded it carefully and held it out to him.

Tyler looked at it, eyes flicking down to it with a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“My hotel,” you said simply, then added, because apparently subtlety had left your body entirely, “and room number.”

You tilted your head slightly, looking up at him.

“In case you wanted to… talk more.”

A beat of silence.

Then you reached forward and, with zero self-preservation instincts left, tucked the napkin neatly into the front pocket of his jacket.

Tyler went still.

For half a second, he just looked at you. Mouth slightly parted, like his brain had briefly stopped buffering.

Then, softly-

“Okay.”

A smile returned to his face, quieter now. Real in a different way.

“Okay,” you echoed, like you needed to make sure the moment had actually happened.

Then you stood, smoothing nothing in particular, and nodded politely at Josh, who looked like he was witnessing something he would be telling people about for the next ten years.

“Nice seeing you both,” you said as you backed up.

“You too!” Josh called immediately.

As you walked away, you heard the tail end of Josh’s voice, too amused to fully contain himself, and then Tyler’s laugh cutting in right after-

“Shut up, man.”

•••

The city stretched beneath your hotel window like a restless constellation, millions of blinking lights stitched together in pinks, blues, and molten orange. From up here everything looked almost gentle, softened by distance, as if Vegas could be mistaken for something calm if you didn’t know better.

You stood there watching it anyway.

Waiting.

The clock on the wall became its own kind of obsession. You checked it once. Then again, as if time might have changed its mind in the last thirty seconds. It hadn’t. It never did.

Tyler wasn’t coming.

The thought arrived quietly, almost politely, like it didn’t want to embarrass you.

Not that you blamed him. Inviting someone to your hotel room under the guise of “talking” was the kind of sentence that sounded innocent only if you ignored every possible implication hiding underneath it. And you were fairly sure neither of you had been particularly committed to innocence when you said it.

Maybe you’d misread everything. The laughter, the lingering looks, the ease between you at the bar. Maybe it had all been nothing more than a good night wrapped in coincidence and your own overactive imagination doing what it always did best: writing stories that weren’t there.

It stung, just a little.

But it made sense.

You let out a soft sigh, finally peeling yourself away from the window. The room behind you was dim and expensive in that impersonal way hotel suites always were, beautiful, but clearly belonging to no one. You bent to tug off your heels, your feet practically sighing in relief the moment they hit the shiny marble tiles.

Freedom, at last.

You were halfway to reaching for the zipper at the back of your dress when the knock came.

Three taps.

Careful. Measured. Like whoever stood on the other side is hesitant, unsure of themselves.

Your hand froze mid-motion.

For a second, you didn’t breathe.

It could be your manager. It could be security. It could be your stylist here to retrieve the dress before you somehow managed to spill something on it, tear it, or damage it beyond repair.

But your body was already moving before your thoughts caught up.

Bare feet padded quickly across the glossy floor, each step quieter than the last as you crossed the room with sudden, reckless certainty. You didn’t bother with the peephole. Didn’t pause. Didn’t think.

The deadbolt clicked. The latch turned.

And you pulled the door open with far more urgency than necessary, almost swinging it off its hinges.

Tyler stood there with his fist still raised mid-air, frozen in the exact position he’d been about to knock again. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just stared.

The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full. stretching, tightening, holding its breath.

Then his hand slowly lowered.

His eyes swept over you in one unguarded pass, like he was trying to confirm you were real and not something his night had invented out of exhaustion and too much noise.

“Hi,” you said, breaking the spell first, leaning casually into the doorframe like your pulse wasn’t currently sprinting. A grin tugged at your mouth.

“Hey,” he replied, voice soft. A little unsure. A little amused. His hands slid into his pockets as he offered you a small smile that didn’t quite settle into confidence, but came close enough to try.

“Come in,” you said, stepping aside and gesturing him inside with an easy tilt of your head before turning away.

“Okay,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You didn’t hide your smile as you moved toward the mini bar in the kitchenette.

“You want a drink?” you asked, already reaching for two glasses and the decanter without waiting for an answer.

“Sure,” he hummed, glancing around as he followed you in. His eyes moved over the room in quick, practical sweeps, living area, kitchenette, windows overlooking the city. “Nice room.”

You paused just long enough to look at him over your shoulder.

“Is it?” you said lightly, pouring with theatrical generosity. “Didn’t know you were a hotel-room connoisseur. I’m learning so much about you tonight.”

Tyler’s eyes narrowed slightly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He leaned back against the island as if he belonged there, watching you with quiet amusement.

“Just take the compliment,” he said.

“Okay,” you replied easily, sliding his glass toward him. “My manager will be thrilled to hear Tyler Joseph approves her hotel selection strategy.”

That earned a quiet exhale of laughter from him.

You lifted your glass. He lifted his.

The clink was soft, barely there, but it landed anyway.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy. It was something gentler. Something that felt like space rather than distance. Like the world had finally stopped insisting on anything from either of you.

Just two people. A room. A city breathing quietly below.

“I’m glad you came,” you said eventually, voice softer now.

Tyler glanced at you over the rim of his glass.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Me too.”

A pause.

Then, a little more honestly, he added, “I don’t usually, uh… do this.”

You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “Do what?”

The question hung there, though neither of you pretended you didn’t understand it.

Tyler exhaled through his nose, a small, self-aware smile flickering at the edge of his mouth as he looked away briefly.

“This,” he said. “I don’t usually go back to people’s hotel rooms.”

“No?” You asked in a quiet mummer.

That made him look at you again.

You stepped closer without really thinking about it, like the space between you had quietly decided it no longer needed to exist.

“Listen, I like you,” Tyler said then, quieter than before. More careful. Like he was placing the words down instead of saying them. “But I think I’m a little too old for you.”

A small smile spread across your face before you could stop it, soft, immediate, almost disbelieving in its ease.

“I’m not a kid, you know? I’m a serious, successful adult.” You began, eyes lingering on his as you took another step towards him. “I should be offended, but… I get it.”

You took another long, leisurely sip of your drink. “I like you too, Tyler.”

Something in his expression loosened at that.

Your hand lifted, slow, deliberate this time, and came to rest lightly on his shoulder. The fabric of his jacket was warm beneath your palm, real in a way that made everything else feel slightly unreal. Your thumb traced absentmindedly along the seam.

Tyler didn’t pull away.

Instead, he leaned into it just slightly, as if he’d been unconsciously waiting for permission to do exactly that.

He watched you over the rim of his glass as he took another sip, eyes steady now. Less cautious. More present.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words leave you before you can catch them, soft, reckless, completely uninvited. They hang in the air between you like something fragile that shouldn’t be touched for fear it might disappear.

The room shifts.

Tyler’s glass pauses halfway down to the counter. Then he sets it down properly this time, like he needs both hands for whatever this moment is becoming.

For a split second, everything inside you detaches from your body from the sheer shame.

Of course you said that. Of course your mouth decided to skip consultation with your brain entirely.

“I-” you start quickly, already shaking your head, heat rushing up your neck. “I am so sorry. I know we just met, I just thought-”

You don’t get to finish.

Tyler moves.

There’s no hesitation, no drawn-out decision, just a sudden, decisive closing of distance, like something in him has already been waiting for permission and finally decided to stop asking.

His hand finds your face as his mouth meets yours.

And the thought you were having dies cleanly mid-sentence.

The kiss isn’t gentle in a careful, uncertain way. It’s soft, yes, his lips warm, slightly parted, but it deepens quickly, like something that starts as a spark and forgets it’s supposed to stay small. You answer instinctively, like your body has been waiting longer than your mind has been willing to admit.

His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw as his fingers settle behind your ears, anchoring you there like he has no intention of letting the moment slip away. The touch is steady, almost reverent, but the way he pulls you in contradicts every attempt at restraint.

He's crowding you against the counter, closing you in with his body, and you let him. You're barely cognizant enough to try and sit the glass in your hand down, but you must miss the mark, because you're pretty sure that it goes teetering over the edge of the counter, landing near your feet with a clatter. The drink is probably pouring everywhere, but it's a mess you'll have to clean later, because as of now, you can't be bothered to care.

Tyler’s mouth breaks from yours just long enough to graze your bottom lip with his teeth, barely there, a tease more than anything, but it sends something sharp and immediate through your spine anyway.

You shift closer without thinking, chasing him, chasing the warmth.

Then he pulls back just enough to speak.

“I’ve been waiting to do that all night.”

You've never heard his voice sound like this before. Lower now, roughened at the edges, like it’s been worn down by restraint. Inflections layered like you've turned him ragged just from a little kissing. You're tempted to tease him for it, but truthfully, you aren't faring any better.

“You can kiss me whenever you want,” he adds, quieter, like he’s not entirely sure he should be saying it but refuses to take it back.

That finally gets a breath of clarity out of you.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tyler.”

There isn't an ounce of fight in him when you grip his shoulders and rotate your positions, spinning him around to pin him against the wall. One moment he’s the one leaning in; the next he’s the one being guided back, until his shoulders meet the wall with a low sound that vibrates somewhere between surprise and approval.

And then you’re the one closing the space.

His head tilts back slightly as you trace your mouth along his jaw, teeth scraping as you gently suck and bite, slow enough to feel deliberate. You don’t rush it, you take your time with him, the faint scrape of stubble against your lips grounding you more than anything else in the room.

Tyler exhales sharply when you bite lightly at the edge of his jaw, a sound that catches in the air between you and makes something in your stomach tighten in response.

You continue to pamper the plane of skin between his jaw and neck with kisses. You let your tongue glide over his pulse point, slow and calculated.

“Do you want to keep this going?” you murmur against his skin, words barely separated from him at all.

The answer you get isn’t verbal at first.

It’s a sound, low, involuntary, honest in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

Still peppering kisses across his given flesh like constellations. He arches into you when you sink the stamp of your teeth around him in a particularly harsh bite. You nearly apologize, jerk away for the slip up, but the heady groan that pierces the atmosphere snuffs out any worry you were beginning to feel. You make note of that little reaction, filing it away for later.

Then, suddenly, his hand is at the back of your neck.

Not harsh, but firm enough to guide you.

He pulls you back just slightly so you have to look at him.

The lighting shifts across his face in soft, uneven tones, city glow, amber lamp light, shadows folding along his features like something half-dreamed. Up close like this, he looks different again. Less like a person you’ve watched from a distance and more like someone you can actually reach. He looks so pretty like this, painted in shades of black, and mellow gold. There's a tenderness in his stare as it darts over your face, pausing over your features like he's trying to memorize you.

His thumb is sweeping over your chin, traveling up, scorching in its path as it glides over the shape of your bottom lip and presses into the soft, rosy flesh, slightly parting your lips.

"Yeah? You want to keep going?"

Now he's just teasing you. The question is genuine, you can tell that much, but its delivery is still entirely smug. There's a satisfaction in his gaze, the warm shade of them alive with it. Like he's got you exactly where he wants you.

“Oh, I do,” you say. “I’m not letting you get away that easily.”

You don't give him any kind of warning when you lift your thigh up between his legs, grinding it directly on the hardness that's pressing against the rough material of his pants. You can feel the weight of him on your thigh, even through the cover of the fabric, close enough that there’s no ambiguity left in the air between you.

The reaction is immediate and just as good as you hoped.

He curls into you, head tilting to nudge against yours. His chest heaves, deep and heavy when a breath puffs out across your neck. "Fuck. That's-" his hips grind on your thigh, chasing after the sensations it creates, and you aren't sure if he's entirely aware he's doing it.

You tug him away from the wall by the collar of his jacket, and he follows easily, practically leaning into your grip as you guide him down the hallway. He's leaning into you again, dragging you into another kiss as you pull him through the dark, though now you're both flying a little blind now that you're caught back up in him. You have to rely on your brief memory of hotel rooms layout to back yourself through the open threshold of the bedroom.

Your hands fumble as the pair of you put in joint effort to pull off his jacket, toss it carelessly to the floor.

You're hardly gentle when you turn him and shove him down on the bed. The springs creak with his impact, his weight sinks a divot into the mattress. You don't waste any time reaching behind your back and pull down the zipper to the dress, letting the expensive fabric fall and pool at your feet before climbing over him, swinging your legs around his hips.

“Someone’s eager.”

His hands are greedy, raising to grip you by the waist, holding on tight like he's wants to keep you there permanently. Holding you firmly to keep you pressed on the bulge straining against his pants.

“Can you really blame me?” You glide a hand over him, slipping it over his chest, feeling the shape of lithe muscles and soft skin underneath your palm while it navigates its way up, allowing you to trail your fingertips along the column of his throat. “You’re so hot, it’s unfair.”

You can't resist to start circling your hips in a slow grind, working yourself over his bulge. You can feel him through your respective clothes, or lack thereof, the thin fabric of your underwear does little to dull the sensations. They even magnify them, the thin seam on the inside brushes right over your clit, sparking a bright, syrupy heat up your nerves when you move.

“Don’t be a tease.” Tyler breaths deeply, a low whine slipping from his behind the wall of his chest. You can feel the air slip through his trachea, the dim shudder of it humming beneath your palm when you tense it around his throat. He chases after the drag of your hips, lifting his own to meet the lazy rhythm you've set.

“I think you like it.” You lean yourself over him, not ceasing your movements, without removing your hand. You drag your nose alongside his, angling your head, contemplating kissing him, but you pull back before he can fill the distance. His head drops back down on the mattress with a muffled thump, a frustrated sigh escaping past his lips. “Besides, I want to take my time with you.”

His mouth drops open a bit, preparing to talk, and that's when you choose to grind yourself down more firmly. The head of his cock drags right along your clit when you do it, and you just barely manage to keep the loud moan in your chest from shaking free. Tyler isn't so lucky though, hissing through his teeth, spine bowing to lift himself into the brunt of the feeling.

"Not. Fair," he bites out stiffly. He looks so pretty like this. The bedroom is dark, save for the bit of light from the city lights outside that manages to barely slip in through the window. But, you can see him clearly, the blush on his cheeks, the lust burning in his glazed over stare, hair tussled and messy on the comforter. He's impossibly pretty; you wish you could keep him here, just like this, forever. "Do you have any idea-, shit, that feels good, how hard it’s been to hold myself back all night."

"Yeah, I've got an idea or two," you shrug, nodding your head in playful tilt.

"As if you're any better. I did catch you staring at me all night long, remember?"

“What happened to your humility?”

"Haha. Very funny," he scoffs beneath you, making you shake with the motion of it. And then he's moving, and in a blur, you're the one under him. You don't resist, body turning pliant under the weight of him wedging between your thighs, slotting in to place like he belongs there. Your legs splay open, seemingly on their own volition to give him more room, your ankles hooking around the back of his knees to keep him there, locked to you.

When he kisses you this time, it's so much sweeter than the one you had shared back in the kitchen. This exchange is more explorative. No less passionate, but more leisurely. Like you both want nothing but to take your time with each other. Eagerly tasting the other, indulging in the brush of your lips on his, and he, yours. The tip of his tongue skims over the swell of your mouth, asking for entrance, which you give without hesitation, jaw parting open to let him tease his tongue with your own.

It throws you headfirst into a clouded head space, brain turning hazy from the press of his body pinning yours, the bite and lick of his mouth. The concept of time trickles far from your grasp, seconds and minutes turning murky when he grinds his hips down on you, taunting you with the heavy press of his cock, thick and throbbing, rocking over your clothed cunt. You're dripping now, wet and soaking your underwear, clit aching, and you moan into his mouth.

He swallows the sound greedily, drinking it down like wine. You two are hardly doing much, dry humping like a pair of horny college kids, but your brain is already breaking down into mush. Made muddled, thoughts turned brittle and falling apart by the delicious pressure already building at the base of your spine, molten inside the pit of your belly. Searing, slipping inside your bloodstream, coiling like a drug.

And now he's the one pulling away from you. Abrupt and terrible. You hardly have time to process it at all.

"What the hell Tyler!" you snap indignantly, tucking your chin down to glare at him as he lifts himself, untangling the hook of your legs from around he's knees so he can freely sit back on his haunches.

He's unfazed by your complaint, too busy roving his attention over your body. You don't miss how his eyes seem to pause over your heaving chest, staring unabashedly at the way your nipples are hard and poking beneath the thin fabric of your bra. You see the way his eyebrows seem to perk appreciatively.

And then his gaze is traveling down further, his hand is on one of your knees, gently tugging your legs open wider so he can stare between your legs. It makes you uncomfortably aware of how wet you are, of the visible patch that's probably soaked through the gusset of your panties. He doesn't comment on it, but he looks smug. Eyes glittering with a satisfaction that seems to burn.

"Take this off," he orders, hooking his pointer finger around the left strap of your bra before abruptly letting it go, letting the snap back against the skin of your shoulder. And then he's hooking his fingers under the waistband of your underwear and pulling, hard enough that you almost get tugged with it. You have to grip onto the blankets to hold yourself in place. You move to obey, hands fumbling to reach for the hook of your bra before unclasping it. Both articles of clothing get carelessly tossed, landing somewhere on the floor.

You can't look away from him. Your attention is trapped, seized onto him like he's the only thing that matters. Transfixed like a moth hypnotized by an exposed flame as he leans down, settling his stomach flat on the mattress, shoulders tucked within the open splay of your thighs. Suddenly, you feel like you can't breathe. Like if you do, you'll wake up and realize that this is just a cruel dream, forced to drink the bitter medicine of reality.

But this is real.

This is happening.

You can feel the warm brush of his breath gliding over the exposed spread of your cunt, teasing in its glide.

"What are you doing?" Nope. That's not what you had wanted to say at all. Now you look stupid, lips parted, eyes probably glassy.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth ticking up in his amusement. "I was planning on eating you out. Why? Do you want me to stop?"

"No." The word all but rips out of your throat, loud and demanding in its tone as you jerk up as you prop yourself up on your elbows to openly glare. But you can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed about how desperate you are. Not right now.

He seems pleased with your answer, gaze dark. "Good."

There's no fanfare before he's all but burrowing his face into you, tongue splitting you open to lick a stripe over your cunt from hole to clit. It's a shock to your system, every atom in your body flares under the stimulation, muscles pulling taut. You're like a marionette on tight strings, all parts of you seizing, back bowing from the surprise of it, legs involuntarily clamping around Tyler's head. He doesn't fight it, doesn't make any moves to pry your thighs away from his ears. He carries on, unbothered within their squeeze.

His hands loop under you, coming around to grab your hips when they squirm. But he isn't stopping you. He isn't trying to hold you down. It's like he aiding them, guiding them when they start to rock against his face, helping you find a smoother rhythm that makes you gasp. "There you go, baby," he murmurs in a velvet baritone in between lapping at your clit in tight little circles. The oxygen in your lungs vanishes. Snuffed out. "Just like that."

He almost sounds proud, pleased with the reactions that he's getting out of you, and it has your body burning so much hotter. And then he's sealing his lips around clit, sucking gently. Your hands fly down to take ahold of his head, fingers threading through the silky stands of his hair. Reaching for something to ground you down. To keep you contained inside reality.

He groans when you pull his hair, sending vibrations scattering across your cunt. Most of his face is obscured, smothered against your pussy, but you see how his brows furrow, face twisting with how much he liked it. Even more damning though, is his hips. The subtle lift of them before they grind back down, fucking himself on the mattress, seeking out friction.

Your jaw drops open, from your moans and pleased disbelief. You smile as best as you can when you look down at him, trying to focus through the waves of bliss ceaselessly drifting within your body. "Are you, are you-, God, Tyler, are you humping my bed?"

His eyes, which have slipped shut at some point, open lazily to meet your gaze, but he doesn't bother with speaking.

All you get in response is a shameless "mmhmm." Smothered, slurred, like he can't be bothered to part himself from you.

Maybe you should have anticipated that he would be like this. Zealous, indulgent, giving. He's eating you out like it's his job. Like he's doing it for himself just as much for your pleasure.

As though he needs it to survive, the purpose of it.

A laugh hisses from your throat, just as disbelieving as it is excited. "Wow, you really are desper-"

You didn't notice that one of his hands had disappeared from your hip, until one of his fingers is prodding at you and slipping inside. The full length of it stretching you open in a single push, the insertion aided by how soaked you've become, wet across the inside of your thighs, his spit and your own arousal makes you slick. All it takes is a single finger to punch the air out of you. The suddenness of it, the width filling you up has your body squirming.

"I'm sorry. What was that?" He taunts, and meanly curls his finger, pumps it deep inside of you, seeking out that spot that'll have you going brainless.

"An asshole," you choke out. "You're such an asshole."

"Well, this 'asshole' is about to make you cum, so I feel like I should be hearing less shit talking."

You're tempted to berate him. Maybe tell him to shut up, but the ability to speak goes lost on you as he goes back to licking on your clit. Thrusting his finger inside of you at the same time, and when he finds it, the edge of his finger sweeping over your g-spot with startling accuracy, the high-pitched moan it drives out of you is humiliating.

You just barely hear the cocky "There it is" he murmurs over the blood roaring in your ears.

Your eyes roll, lashes fluttering when you fully drop your head back on the mattress, lifting your hips to chase after the dual sensations of his tongue and the pump of his finger. You're just beginning to adjust to it, body growing used to the stretch when he's slipping another in alongside it. Relentlessly stroking them over that spot inside of you that makes your thoughts dwindle into nothing. And you let it happen, giving up any kind of resistance or snark that you might have been clinging on to, allowing yourself to fully bask in the rapture of it all, and the ecstasy is almost harsh.

"I think you can be good for me when you don't act like a brat. Wanna try? You want to be good for me?"

It lashes through you. Electrical, sharp, brilliant. You find yourself nodding without little thought.

"Oh, c'mon. You know how to talk. Don't tell me you've gone all dumb on me already from a little finger fucking."

It should be mortifying how simply he's got you under his influence. How clearly he's been able to read you. Picked you apart, piece by meticulous piece and figured out all of your tells, what makes you tick. But all you feel is elation. The euphoria that comes with being understood.

"Yeah, I'll be good. I can be good, I promise."

"There we go," he purrs, too arrogant. Utterly happy with the state he's put you in, and he's determined to make you so much worse. To tear you apart and leave you as a pile of twitching, heaving parts.

"Tyler, I'm-" your breaths snag, gasp hiccupping. "You're gonna make me, fuck."

"Go on, pretty girl." He urges, voice a throaty rasp. "You can have it any time."

And that's all it takes. The raw permission, the sloppy drag of his tongue gliding around your clit, the firm thrust of his fingers fucking into you. It all takes ahold of you mercilessly, wraps you up tight, and shoves you directly down into the throes of your orgasm. Your nails rake down his scalp, messily gripping at his hair in an effort to try and keep yourself sane while your back bows off of the mattress. He works you through it, lapping carefully at your clit, softening the pressure as the pleasure begins to tapper off, ebbing away in blissful aftershocks.

The moan you let out is drawn out, wispy. Your hips are still moving, lazily rocking while the rest of you has gone boneless, endorphins and contentment turning your muscles into jelly. You can feel him peppering kisses across your thighs, the sensation of it helping to draw you out of the pleasant haze you've been caught in.

You will yourself to look down, almost drunkenly tilting you head while you focus on composing yourself, sucking steady breaths. If you didn't know better, you could believe that Tyler had been the one who just got off. His cheeks are still flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen and smeared the aftermath of your orgasm. He's panting, catching his breath while he nuzzles into your thigh.

"I'd say I did a decent enough job," he joked. "What do you think? At least a five out of ten, right?"

"Hmm. I'm not so sure yet. I think we need to gather more information before I can give it a proper rating."

He smiles with you. And then you're moving. Lifting yourself up on wobbling knees. He raises himself to meet you, leaning himself over to take your mouth in a brief kiss, letting you taste yourself on him, dimly sweet, natural. You both reach for his clothes, and you busy yourself with his belt and then his zipper, tugging his ridiculous capris and boxers down his waist, and he works on the buttons of his shirt. But he gets frustrated halfway, annoyed with how his fingers keep slipping from his impatience, and he settles for ripping it off. Buttons go flying, clacking across the tiles in the spray, but neither of you pay it any mind.

You're tugging him higher up on the bed as soon as he's naked. He pulls himself up after kicking his pants away and off his ankles, swapping his place with yours. You shove him down on the flat of his back, climbing astride his bare hips and his hands are already on you, groping, shifting, feeling all of you. Traveling up to take handfuls of your breasts, softly squeezing them within the textured skin of his palms. The callouses on his fingers and the undersides of his knuckles are delightfully rough against your nipples, and you arch into them, seeking out more.

You can't help but to admire all of him now that you have him bare and beneath you.

It only takes a split second to come to a conclusion: he's stunning. Far better than anything you imagined. It's surreal to have him here, splayed out and panting. Tan skin bordered in amber from the glow of the lights down below. Lithe muscles and his soft frame taking shape from the shadows projected over him. Inky blotches of tattoos that have long faded with age.

"What?" he asks softly, observing you playfully. His thumbs sweep over your breasts, caressing around your nipples, making you grind down onto him. He's hot, throbbing, the thick width of him bare between the crux of your legs; head catching against the entrance of your pussy.

Your head angles to the side when you observe him, admiring him with an expression that you know must be terribly affectionate. Too loving for what this is. "You're pretty Tyler."

"Pretty?" He looks like he doesn't quite believe you, eyebrows raising. "I don't think I've ever been called that before."

That admission makes your heart ache. The flippantness of it. The casualness of its delivery. As though it doesn't matter. Like he doesn't expect for anyone to regard him such a way. That maybe, he isn't deserving of it, the appreciation or praise. "You are. So pretty."

He truly looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself. Now the blush on his face isn't only from the lust burning through his veins, but also what must be mortification, self-consciousness, incredulity.

You want to tell him that he's so much more than just that, but you suppose that it would probably be pretty ill-timed considering that you're both completely naked. You'll have to save that for later. When you aren't trying to fuck each other.

He's soaked when you reach down where your bodies press together and take him into your hand, smeared with the precum that dribbles from the head of his cock. He hisses between the clench of his jaw when you grab him, sensitive no doubt, from how worked up he'd gotten from eating you out, from how he'd humped himself on your mattress. The evidence of it trickles from him in a messy, sluggish flow. He's so hard that it must be painful, head flushed an angry red.

When you trace your thumb down a vein, throbbing as it scrawls down the length of him, he jerks, hips flexing into the movement. You feel starved and ardent when you watch how his eyelashes flutter, the subtle swell of his lips glittering with his spit and your cum. He looks drunk. Dazed while he stares up at the ceiling before glancing down back at you. He swears when he sees you hovering over him, like you're something to be in awe of. You don't do it to be mean exactly, but when the weight of his eyes settles back on you, glazed over, pupils blown wide, almost reverent, it has you clenching around nothing. You need to take the edge off somehow, need to get a little bit of relief just so you think a little clearer.

It has you gripping him tighter, slipping your hold lower, aided by the smear of his arousal as you grab him around the base to hold him still when you grind your clit against the tip.

His hands fly around your waist, firm enough that it might leave bruises. He gasps, face pinching while he stares, transfixed as you softly rock on the head of his cock.

"Okay, now you're just fucking teasing," he wheezes out.

Something like realization slips into his expression, sober and bare. "Shit, you don't have any condoms here, do you? I wasn't exactly planning on this."

You immediately halt in your movements, pressing a palm down on his chest to prop yourself up, breathing through the shocks of pleasure still boiling inside of your stomach. "No, I don't have any," you say, disappointment pressing down behind your lungs. You couldn't blame if he doesn't want to keep going now, for being responsible. "Uh, I mean, I'm on the pill and I'm clean. So if you are, then…”

You let it settle there, the offer looming. Letting him contemplate your proposal on his own terms.

"Yeah, I'm clean," he replies. "Don’t really have too much time to sleep around while touring. And the last time I was in a relationship was an embarrassingly long time ago." It stretches between your bodies, an answer in its in own, and the stares you exchange only confirms it. His hands don't move to lift you off; they don't lighten to give you the ability to tear yourself from his grasp, either. You're both motionless, the shared decision felt in both of your bodies.

"Oh really? I figured you would have had, like a whole mob of fans frothing at the mouth to get a piece of you." you shrug.

“Guess that makes more for me then.”You shift the angle of your hips, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance and then you sink down on him. It's abrupt. He chokes, and all the collective air held in your lungs is shoved out in a single gasp. Your bodies freeze, muscles going temporarily still like they don't know how to handle what they're experiencing.

An ache throbs from the girth of his cock stretching you open, a subtle sting that feels good as much as it hurts. Probably the only thing that helps in aiding you in fitting him inside so quickly is how soaked you both are, from how relaxed he'd gotten you with his mouth. You sink all the way down to the hilt, stopping only once the physical barrier of his thighs keeps you in place.

"Hold on. Don't move," he pleads in a thin rumble. He draws in a large gulp of oxygen, brows furrowed like he's concentrating. "This is literally every guys worst nightmare, and I don't want to admit it, but if you move, I'll probably come. I swear I'm not usually like this."

"That's what they all say," you chide with faux annoyance. It's not very convincing, your amusement is clear, a smile already nudging at your mouth.

"Well in my defense, it’s been a while. I'm a little out of practice."

You don't poke any more fun at him, you let him adjust, adapt to the feel of you around him. For a minute or two, you just stay like that. Quiet, joined together, listening to the other breath, the occasional rumble of a car passing down the street outside, feeling the soothing warmth of each other's bodies.

It's intimate in a way.

Too gentle for what might just be a fling, for whatever this might turn out to be. A quick one-night stand in between basically strangers, a temporary experiment. You don't want to think about the fact, that once this is over, he might not want anything more with you. And that's fair, isn't it?

Sure, he said that he likes you. But that doesn't mean that this is going to develop into anything more than mutual attraction and lust that's finally spilt over. Once this is done, and the mutual high has worn off and you've both satiated that want and curiosity, you'll both go back to your lives. You'll become strangers again and pretend that you don't know what he tastes like, how he sounds when he groans, how he feels under you. You'll see him at stupid award show after party’s, listen to his voice on the radio, continue on with your respective careers and convince yourself that don't want him anymore. That this didn't matter. You'll lie to yourself. Make it easy, because that's what you do. That's what has to be done.

But if you couldn't have this, him, then you'd at least make this a night to remember. Something to think back on fondly.

"You good?" you ask him after a few passing minutes. He looks visibly less tense, and the white-knuckled grip he had on your hips has slackened; his thumbs now sweep over the sore skin in apologetic caresses.

He answers in a nod, but when you raise your eyebrows in a silent bid for a better response, he successfully spits out a verbal reply. Quietly panting out a confirming "yes" along with another agreeing tilt of his head. It's only then that you lift yourself up in a steady rise only to drop back down again, rocking yourself in a steady motion that has your clit grinding against the swell of his pelvis bone, the dark thatch of hair above his cock catching on your clit. Coarse, dragging over you in a way that has pleasure sparking along your nerves, light and electric.

It makes you moan, a pitched, breathy sound, rising up right along the wet squelch of his cock repeatedly driving into you. Tyler's focus keeps darting, like he can't decide where to look: at your face, fervently admiring how your mouth has dropped open, cheeks and forehead glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, or down where he splits you open, cock flushed, thick girth plunging deep inside of your pussy.

You circle your hips when you rise and fall, rotating them in a heavy rhythm that nearly makes your eyes turn in the back of your skull. It has your hands scrambling again for something to purchase, slipping up the expanse of his abdomen, the shape of his pecs. His flesh is hot, damp with perspiration, the usual tan hue darkening a tad.

When he sighs out in bliss, almost whimpering, he says your name. He repeats it. It's like he's taste testing it, and it sounds saccharine on his tongue. It invigorates you, shooting through your system like a shot of adrenaline, and you can't help but to grind a little deeper, squeezing the walls of your cunt to grip him a little tighter when you lift yourself.

It earns you another gasp of your name, a little desperate, as though he's been relieved by the feel of you, the heat. You can practically feel the stress ebb from him. The tension vacating his body as you ride him, churning and bucking your hips to carry you both towards the ecstasy that looms ahead. A far drop that you know will have you both scrambling and struggling to hold on.

His shoulders draw back, pressing back into the mattress when he fucks himself back up into you, thrusting rapaciously to meet your pace.

"That's, that feels-" He doesn't get to finish his sentence, head lolling back, stretching out the pretty shape of his neck. You see how his Adam's apple bobs, throat working as he swallows another moan. If you focus just enough, sifting through the rise and fall of your shared breathing, the worn creak of the mattress' springs rasping each time you drop yourself back down on him, the wet smack of your skin meeting his, you can hear his pulse. Thundering under his skin. A recurrent thump, a brisk pattern that you swear you can almost taste in the air, weaving the already heady perfume of sex into something intoxicating.

"I really wish you could see yourself like this, Tyler." You heave in another breath, your own spine arching when the head of his cock strikes a spot that makes your thoughts fizzle, turning as thick and sluggish as a batch of melted sugar. "You look so good baby, it's not fair."

You expect to hear some kind of sass thrown back at you. Maybe something sarcastic and self-depreciating, another deflection, but all you get is a rough groan, inarticulate and drawn out, like you've grazed something deep and wounded inside of him.

Oh, he liked that. You could feel it in how every part of him coils up tight, legs bending sharper to drive into you with deeper strokes. Some kind of compulsion. A physical impulse, like his body had decided to do it before his mind could completely recognize that it's chasing after the urge. Hungry for the praise, the desire to be wanted.

Adored.

It's a complete 180 from how he'd been before. In control, directing you how he pleased, balancing between chiding and gentle. But this is the opposite. He's the one who's being influenced now; he's wordlessly handed you the reins and allowed you to take what you need from him, graciously accepting what you're willing to offer him. A chalice taking only what's been poured. And you're willing to give him anything, to fill him until he's overflowing.

You lean over him as best as you can without throwing off the pace you've built, supporting yourself with a hand on his chest while the other settles beside his head, fingers squeezing to clasp the blankets to keep you grounded. You lower your head, chin dipping to glide your nose along the shape of his cheekbone, and you have to smile at how he leans into you to graze his nose along yours.

It's intimate. So intimate that you could suffocate on it like a poison, but you can't stop.

"You feel so good," you praise in a euphoric moan. "Tyler, you're making me feel so full. God." That compliments that flow from you aren't fake. You aren't hamming it up like you have with past one-night stands, saying whatever you possibly can just so the guy will get off and make the experience end sooner, counting the seconds in the hope for it to be over.

But you typically aren't this vocal apart from the occasional moan, or a sporadic line of dirty talk scattered here and there. But right now, it all flows from you freely. Maybe it's only because you love to see the reactions it garners from him. You're subconscious craving more. More of those dainty, breathy whines and gasps that have begun to spill from him. Groans worked out from him each time you lift yourself up with your thighs, balancing your weight on the flat of your feet to drive yourself downward. It's hell on your muscles, a deep burn already zapping up the tendons, licking harshly across the meat of your thighs, but you'd be damned if you stopped now.

You aren't entirely sure that he's aware of the noises he's making now. You didn't think that he would lose his composure this fast, unbothered demeanor crumbling as delicately as a sandcastle giving beneath the barrage of an ocean's waves. He looks debauched, hair damp with sweat, eyes still dazed and fluttering, jaw dropped open. You wish you could keep him like this for eternity, spread out on your bed in a hedonistic display, chest heaving, atmosphere thick with the sounds of his pleasure and the prurient taste of his scent saturating your mouth and throat. Kept and cherished, drinking each other down until the sun goes supernova and consumes the world in a burst of fire and plasma.

He mutters something, a whisper of words, jammed and snagging in his mouth, tongue tripping uselessly against his teeth. You aren't able to pick up what he said, syllables lost to the slurred mumble of his voice.

"Hmm? What was that?" You remove your hand up from where it was gripping the blankets, using it to cup the side of his face, directing him to focus his attention back on you from where it had drifted off.

For a split second, it seems like he's contemplating talking back. There's a flicker in his eyes, sharp and challenging, but it vanishes as swiftly as it had appeared, snuffed out as definitively as a coal being doused with a bucket of water, and all that remains is supple compliance. "…Don't stop. Please, don't stop."

You really wished you had the time to really indulge and take him apart piece by piece. To study him in the way that you truly want to. To prod and lick and touch, discovering what makes him weak. What gets under his skin and turns him boneless and desperate, but that sort of excess requires a long discussion, a conversation of boundaries. It would be pretty mistimed to try and bring that sort of thing up now, when you're both already in so deep, consumed and stupefied by lust. Too muddled and dazed to think clearly.

But having him like this is more than enough. You'll be thinking about this for weeks, months, hooked on him like a drug; candy stuck and caramelized between your teeth, sweet and tawny. Buttery gold on your enamel, sunlight caught inside of your mouth.

You would deny anyone else, taunt them, make them ask you again until you were satisfied, but you don't think you can resist him now. Not with you both so close, hurtling towards the fringes of a shared bliss.

"I won't stop," you assure. "You've been so good for me. So good, Tyler."

And there it is again. He jolts, a full-bodied shiver twitching over him as though he's physically trying to seek out more praise. You swear you can feel him twitch inside of you, but it could just be a trick of your imagination. Though you're doubtful it is with how needily he drives his cock into you, causing the noisy echo of skin on skin to pitch around the room, the bed creaking repeatedly, the frantic movements of your bodies causing the headboard to thump against the wall.

You're probably going to get a noise complaint tomorrow, but it's definitely worth it.

"You close baby?" you ask, slipping your palm down from his face to feel his pulse battering throughout the junction of his jugular.

He nods frantically, a guttural groan vibrating behind his ribcage. You're both right there. Dangling at the edge, hurtling in the direction of a precipice that swells and expands in front of you, and you need it. You need it so bad that it hurts. A painful ache, like the gnawing of hunger. All it's going to take for either of you to reach it is a little push, and you're happy to deliver, to reach out and shove.

"I want to feel it. You're so close, Tyler, I know you are." You're moaning now, and your thumb squeezes around the width of his throat, hooking just beneath the hinge of his jaw and he presses into it. (You're absolutely storing that away for later, if there is a later) "I want you to come inside. I need you to fill me up. C'mon, you deserve it."

That's all it takes. He goes off as though he's attached to a fuse that's been lit and eaten up by the sparks. He seizes up, reacting like a man being electrified, coiling up, wrought with tension that makes him spasm. "Oh fuck," he swears. A cork popping free from a bottle, a string of swears and curses rambling from him in a stimulated rush.

You keep bouncing on him, unrelenting in the cadence of your ride, determined to aid him through every possible pulse of pleasure, just as adamant to finish yourself off in the process. It's right there, dangling in front of you, licking up your back, lashing through your stomach. Before you can reach down to swirl a finger over your clit, he's doing it for you, settling the thick pad of his thumb over you in tight, debilitating figure eights that light you on fire. Between the brush of his thumb on you and the warm flow of his cum spurting inside of you, that's all it takes for you to tip over into your second orgasm of the night with a silent cry.

You keep going until you're both spent. Until the pleasure turns too sharp, overstimulating, and you're both twitching from the aftershocks. It's only then that you allow yourself to collapse. The sting in your hips and thighs makes you groan from the relief of finally stopping and you sag on top of him from the respite of it.

Your head drops on his chest, ear pressed where his heart thuds and pulses. You both pant, unmoving, Tyler still buried inside of you, softening but heavy. You try to catch the oxygen you had lost and struggled to hold. You stay like that, basking in the afterglow. Lounging in the sounds of your breathing, the scent of sex, which has merged with his. It's pleasant. Peaceful. The kind of smell that you wish you could trap in a bottle and save for later.

You long to stay here, but you know that time won't slow down for you. Soon you'll both have to move. You'll have to get up from the bed and clean yourself up, take a shower, and Tyler will have to go back to his own hotel room. This moment isn't infinite. The hands on the metaphorical clock are ticking down, and they can't wait for you to be ready for the inevitable. For the awkward conversation that awaits you. The shifty eyes and the promise to make sure that you'll both be professional, detached.

"Ten out of ten," you blurt, trying to shake off the dread that's settled over you, as fitting as a second skin. "Ten out of ten, for sure."

He chuckles at the call back, and the fleeting trickle of levity is soothing. But it doesn't last. He falls silent, catching his breath while he absentmindedly traces shapes across your back and shoulders, sketching nonsensical patterns and marks. The sensation of it is more calming than your half-cocked attempt at humor. It helps you settle against him, going lax across the shape of his torso, your ribs trying to take shape to his own.

Minutes later, maybe even hours later, times still a murky area for you, he's still holding you, arm wrapped around your waist, fingers playing over your back like he's plucking the invisible strings of a bass. It all seems so real. It's the kind of gesture that doesn't belong between one-night stands. It's captivating, close, something shared between lovers. It has anxiety prickling at the back of your throat like you might be sick, turned ill from the uncertainty tossing in your stomach.

You should break the tension. Rip the band-aid off but you find your voice lost, caught within the chaotic webbing of your insecurities. Stuck on the fine threads and spun up like a stupid, struggling fly.

"I guess I should go ahead and ask: Was this a one-time thing? It's cool if it is, I understand. I just… want to make sure we're both on the same page. That there's no room for misunderstandings."

You question if you're hallucinating. If you had imagined him talking. But no. His voice is real, gruff and raw from how it had been used, but no less vulnerable. Uncertainty clinging to its edges. As though he's reluctant to ask. Afraid to hear what your answer is. While he's busy suffering in his trepidation, you're being freed of yours. The delight that breaks through you is shifting, coruscating with its hope.

"Do you want it to be a one-time thing?"

"No. No, I don't." His answer breaks over you like the dawn piercing through a long dark. Warmth cresting, a medley of hues splashing over the sky as though someone had spilt watercolors over a canvas. Life bursting through frozen earth.

"Then it isn't," you reply. Firm, doubtless.

His lips press against the crown of your head, a loving stamp of approval sealed on your skull. A mutual agreement signed in affection. A promise that hums between you with its own pulse, made living and determined.

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