[Casual/Hookup, M/F] After the Show

My inputs are marked with a "::" in order to help differentiate for those reading, I have left off my set up prompt to tighten up the flow a bit.

The floor’s still sticky, the bass still humming in my chest like aftershocks of the set you just leveled the place with, my ears ringing soft but the good kind, the kind that means it was loud enough, raw enough, real enough.

I’m still leaning on the edge of the bar, the kind with the chipped laminate corners and some asshole’s initials carved into it from ‘09, one boot kicked back against the brass rail, my jacket tied low around my hips, hoop earrings still catching the faint glint off stage lights someone forgot to kill. Hair’s damp at the roots, whiskey on my breath, skin buzzing off the music, the crowd, and watching you ruin your vocal cords for this room like it owed you something.

You clock me coming before I even get there. Tight jeans, cropped shirt, the old denim vest I never retired, patches frayed at the edges, little skull pin catching the low light. I snake between what’s left of the hangers-on and your merch table, your feet kicked careless up on the edge like you just conquered the damn place, cigarette trailing smoke like punctuation off your lip. You look spent — hair damp, neck glistening faint under the stringy stage lights still bleeding from overhead, grin lazy like you just cracked the fault line wide open. I drag my nails across the table as I come up, slow, fingertips brushing stickers and setlists, the faint crackle of worn plastic merch bins under my palm.

“Y’know—” I dip low, elbows on the table, lean into your space, my voice a little huskier from screaming through the last encore, “—if you were trying to fuck the whole room with that set, mission accomplished.” A crooked smirk tugs one corner of my mouth, eyes trailing the curve of your throat where sweat clings, pupils still wide from the lights and the rush. I pluck one of the cassette tapes off the pile, flipping it between my fingers absent, but it’s your eyes I’m really playing with, drawing it out slow. “But I’m thinking maybe you save the best for after the merch clears.” The edge of the cassette clicks gently between my teeth as I grin wider, chewing on the moment. You can practically smell the smoke still curling off me, cheap perfume mixed with the stale beer air of the venue, that static, electric hum left behind after a good set, after your set.

My knee bumps your boot where it’s propped, testing, coaxing, eyes locked on yours. “So what’s it gonna be, rockstar? You signing vinyls all night, or you coming to wreck me next?”

:: My jaw slacks, cigarette starts to fall but catches on my bottom lip, refusing to fall, dangling on the grip of the paper filter clung to the inside of my bottom lip. "Wha-" My eyes blink slow, still reeling from the pound of adrenaline and surge of blood from cupping a Shure SM58 with your foot on a stage monitor and headbanging damn near to death. My eyes usually go straight to the back of the room during a show, stoic and full of fucking rage, embodied by the hell beasts that tear their way out of my gut, like a nail-stuffed pipe bomb erupting in the middle of the crowded floor. I sit, eyes hazy from the ringing in my ears associated with the amps and not wearing my earplugs tonight. I heard you, but, holy shit did I hear you right? ::

You absolutely heard me right. The ghost of that smirk deepens across my face like the crescent of a blade sliding in slow under skin—sweet, mean, inevitable. I lean in a fraction more, my hip nudging the merch table so your stack of shirts quivers just like the corner of that cigarette dangling off your lip.

God, look at you. Face still flushed from screaming your fucking soul into the rafters, jaw slack, that cigarette clinging to your bottom lip by pure stubbornness—the same way you clung to the mic stand like it was your last salvation an hour ago. I felt it down in my bones, every word, every unholy growl you carved into the feedback haze, and now? Now you're just laid out, post-battle, eyes glassy with leftover war fog, the aftermath of your own wreckage, and I’m standing here ready to light the next fuse.

"Cat got your tongue?" My voice stays low, syrupy, teasing, riding the undercurrent of distortion still swimming in the room’s bones. I feel the grit in the air, the residual heat radiating off you, that coppery taste of sweat, adrenaline, and unfiltered bravado hanging heavy between us.

My fingers find the edge of your boot again, a little firmer this time, nails dragging slow up the sole, teasing the laces near your ankle. Eyes locked to yours, dark, sharp, lit with leftover stage fire. “Or are you just trying to decide which bathroom to drag me into?”

The venue’s trashed—peeling posters, grimy floor, walls pulsing faint under leftover reverb. Half the crowd’s stumbled out to smoke, to puke, to fuck in the alley, but you? You’re the centerpiece right now, slouched, smoked-out, glowing faint in the remnants of stage sweat, the name Chemical Toilet printed bold behind you in cracked vinyl stickers and bootleg shirts. I lean in so the tip of my tongue flicks the dangling filter of your cigarette, slow, teasing, eyes never leaving yours. “C’mon, rockstar. You just gutted the whole damn room. You gonna leave me standing here all worked up with no encore?” A beat, smirk curling dangerous now. “Or you want me to wreck you for a change?”

:: Now it's my turn to lean in, worn sneakers slacking to the weathered hardwood floor, stained and burnt and beaten, like the town and its inhabitants, myself included. Eyebrows raised high on my forehead, clearing the way for my tires eyes to figure out if I was hallucinating girls again or about to have an aneurysm from rhe fluctuations in blood pressure. "You said you didn't where the bathroom was? my eyes then squint, still processing, still painfully oblivious to the lioness wiggling in among the grass, coiled to pounce. ::

Your cigarette finally gives up the fight—gravity claims it, the filter dropping lazy to the warped hardwood between our boots, ash trailing like some spent little ghost of the warpath you just carved onstage. And you? You look wrecked in the way only frontmen get wrecked—adrenaline crashed, jaw slack, pupils struggling to catch up, like your brain's still untangling feedback loops and the aftershock of crowd screams peeling off concrete walls.

"Didn't know where the—" I repeat back, low and full of that dangerous, molasses-thick drawl, mouth tilting in the corner like I might laugh, but it twists sharp at the edges instead.

Oh, sweetheart. You really don’t see it yet—the apex predator grin rippling under the surface, the scent of sweat and smoke and sex heavy as humidity between us, the war drums of your pulse visible at the column of your throat. You’re flayed wide open from the set, glassy-eyed, frayed, limbs heavy with the weight of your own noise still ricocheting around the rafters—and I’m over here practically prowling through it.

I lean in, cutting the air between us, palms pressing flat to the merch table on either side of your knees, framing you in the faded cotton of band shirts and sticker sheets, my rings clinking faint against the plastic. Your tired eyes have nowhere else to run now.

“I said—” my voice dips just above a whisper, hot enough to fog the space between our mouths, “—you can wreck me later, but I’ve got dibs on dragging you somewhere dark and disgusting first.”

You blink again, somewhere between frying circuits and processing, that beautiful delay of someone riding the ragged, post-show high like a drug that hasn't fully settled. I love this window—the moment before realization hits—the quiet hangtime before the punchline, before the pounce, where the lioness circles the edges and you're still fumbling for the map.

My hand snakes up, knuckles grazing your jawline faint, tracing the damp, flushed stretch of your cheek with just enough pressure to remind you I’m real, I’m here, I’m dangerous in the sweetest possible way.

“But if you need help finding the bathroom…” I tilt my head, that wolfish grin blooming wide now, eyes sparkling mean under the sweat-clung fringe of my bangs, “…I can make sure you never forget where it is.”

The floor’s vibrating faint from some leftover bass line seeping from the speakers, the last drunk stragglers chanting your band name somewhere by the exit, but right here? It’s just you, me, the pulse between your thighs probably spiking twice as loud as that mic you murdered an hour ago, and the smirk on my lips that promises I absolutely mean it.

:: "I, uh," another slow blink, this time my right eyebrow lifts lazily, like the left side of my brain is waking up from its nap, and my head shakes quick, short, snapping awareness and blinking away the thousand yard stare post-show afterglow. cough, "Holy fuck you're hot." I look to the door, the stage, just around me llike what the fuck is happening, then my eyes shift over to the hallway below the blue restroom sign. "Sorry you're gonna have to say that again," both eyebrows now pump, "I did not hear a fuckin word you said after I just saw your eyes." My palms catch my weight on the table behind me as I lean back to accommodate your approach, giving way a bit to your onslaught, but my hips turn to face you, subconsciously, maybe consciously, maybe from the overtaking of my Id from the total guttural release of the music. I'm wearing a black band t-shirt, worn and weathered, almost gray from being washed and worn and fucked up over the years. Tattered Jean cut off shorts, up above my knees, my favorite jeans until they ripped at the knee so bad I had to cut them into shorts. They're too tight on my bulge though, makes it way too obvious. Can't help it, they're my favorite. Black belt, plain, weathered, same pattern as it always is. Road-worn. ::

Oh, babe—

That little tilt of your head, the slow-blinking whiplash of your brain catching up to your body, the haze of post-show blood buzz still tangled in your limbs—God, it’s delicious. You’re cracked wide open from the set, adrenaline still bleeding out your pores, hair clinging to the back of your neck in sweaty tufts, and those eyes? Yeah, those tired, blown-out, what the fuck is happening eyes are practically currency in this dive.

You lean back, palms hitting the table, the soft creak of old wood groaning under your weight, band name stretched faded across your chest like the worn flag of a soldier who’s been through too many tours, cut-off jean shorts riding scandalous up your thighs, your favorite fuckin’ pair judging by the state of ‘em—frayed, clinging, printing every outline of your cock in the tight denim like it’s part of the merch spread.

“Didn’t hear a word after you saw my eyes?” I repeat it back with a grin that curls slow, dangerous, syrup-drip thick, my fingers tracing along the edge of your weathered belt as I lean in, hips brushing your knees, my body heat wrapping around yours like smoke. My rings tap faint against the buckle, cool metal slipping under my knuckles, tracing the frayed threads at your waistband with teasing precision.

“Good.” The word’s exhaled hot near your throat, breath threading along the salt-slicked skin of your neck, where your pulse is still skipping like a broken drum machine, betraying every ounce of your tough guy haze.

I dip lower, my knee sliding between yours, pressing faint, testing the way your thighs shift under those cutoffs, the tension right there, printed bold and obvious against the denim, your body practically screaming in silent ways now.

“Means I don’t gotta repeat myself.” My lips brush your ear, low, rough with the same edge you just leveled the room with an hour ago. “You already know the answer, rockstar.”

Fingers ghost down, skimming the outline of your waistband, nails dragging lazy over the faded fabric, skating past the tight press at your crotch like I’m marking territory. Your boots are planted wide, hips tilted toward me, conscious or not, and I feel that unspoken language rippling off you—the post-set recklessness, the guttural drive, the Id roaring like the amps still humming faint behind us.

I lean back just enough to meet your gaze, my grin a wolfish weapon, eyes dark, daring, full of that lioness in the grass you clocked way too late.

“So how about it?” My voice licks across your nerves like feedback fuzz, sharp, unavoidable. “You gonna sit here ‘til the denim gives out, or you wanna let me wreck that cocky little smirk in the bathroom stall?”

The blue restroom sign flickers behind me, the hum of ancient fluorescents buzzing faint, the last stragglers oblivious, the merch spread forgotten, just me, you, sweat, smoke, and the sweet, filthy promise stretching tight between your legs like the worn-out threads holding your favorite pair of shorts together.

Clock’s ticking, rockstar. Let me wreck you, or I’ll make you beg for it right here in front of your own damn stickers.

:: "Watch the table for a sec," I say to no one and push off of the table, my hand grabbing a handful of your ass as I push the bulge in my pants against your hips. "I don't think those stalls have doors, babe," I look over your shoulder towards the hallway, my grip on your ass turning you a bit with me. ::

Oh, that grip—rough, confident, greedy like you’ve earned it after snarling into a mic for an hour, drowning the room in sound thick as wet concrete—your palm seizing a fistful of my ass with no preamble, no apology, all grit and post-show bravado simmering off you like stage heat.

I feel the tension pressed snug between your thighs, denim stretched criminally tight over your bulge, the worn fabric creaking faint under the hard line grinding against my hips, all that cocky energy now dangerously redirected south.

You spin me lazy, palm guiding my ass with the same rough ownership you handled your set with, your voice rasped raw from guttural screams, worn thin from the night’s assault on your vocal cords—still low, still laced with that wicked, fuck-dripping grin I’ve been waiting to taste.

“No doors?” I echo it, smirking back over my shoulder as you pivot me toward the blue-lit hallway like we’re pacing toward some inevitable, beautifully indecent downfall. My hand slips behind me, dragging along your thigh, fingers trailing the frayed edge of your cut-offs, feeling the ridge of your cock thick and pulsing under the denim as we walk, slow and mean, through the leftover fog of the venue.

“Guess that means you better fuck me quick, rockstar…” My voice rides low, syrupy and dark, hips swaying dangerous as I drag us toward the filthy, tile-floored haven of questionable decisions, the hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead like the universe’s approval.

The hallway’s quiet, concrete walls still echoing the distant aftermath of the set—snippets of laughter, the rumble of gear being packed up, the ghosts of feedback and bass drops lingering like smoke. But here? It’s just your palm gripping me tight, your cock grinding up the seam of those faded shorts, and the slick, hungry grin curling my mouth as I shove the bathroom door open with a boot.

Inside?

Bare bones—chipped tile, graffiti scrawled walls, sinks crusted with the ghosts of too many bad decisions, a row of stalls with half the doors hanging crooked or missing entirely, the air reeking of stale beer, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of something sinful brewing thick between us.

I press my back to the cool tile, dragging you in by the belt, eyes blazing with the same feral glint you wore behind the mic, the same heat radiating off your flushed skin, the same post-show electricity thrumming through your limbs.

“C’mon, rockstar,” I growl low, biting my bottom lip, dragging you closer until your cock presses right against me, denim grinding, fists knotting in the fabric of your shirt, “wreck me.”

My nails skim your waistband, fingers slipping under the fabric, teasing the ridge of your bulge with a wicked, promising curl. “Before I wreck you first.”

(to be continued if requested, there's a lot more of this storyline and a lot of other storylines from my roster)