Ok but stubble on Finn in the new clips… tt!aerion with stubble when LS comes back from university a day early and she catches him off guard working in construction all dirty and hot and bothered before he has a chance to shave. Mmmmmm.
this was meant to be a lil super short drabble but, uh, iceflame. i've missed them bad, and they effectively derailed my entire pre-planned writing day so oops. suffice to say 18+ mdni. explicit smut. oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, rough sex, biting/blood during sex, degradation/dirty talk, mild possessive behaviour, public adjacent sex.
You come back a day early.
No warning text. You simply get in the car on Thursday afternoon instead of Friday morning because your last lecture was cancelled and the want hit you like a freight train in the middle of a library, and you thought: six hours. I can do six hours.
You do it in five and a half.
Aerion's truck is parked outside a site on the edge of town, one of those half-finished residential builds that's been going up in stages all summer. You pull in behind it and cut the engine, sitting there for a second, watching through the windshield.
He doesn't know you're here.
He hasn't had time to prepare. Hasn't showered, hasn't changed, hasn't scraped the day off himself the way he usually does before he sees you, that quiet vanity he'd deny under torture.
Instead he's standing on a half-built porch in a white t-shirt gone grey with dust and sweat, jeans slung low, tool belt heavy on his hips. His hair is pushed back off his forehead, darker than usual with sweat and grime, and his arms are filthy to the elbow, streaked with concrete dust and dirt and dried sweat that catches the late-afternoon sun.
And he hasn't shaved.
Pale stubble covers Aerion's jaw, his chin, the hollow under his full lower lip. It catches the light like frost on a blade.
You've never seen it before. He shaves religiously, almost compulsively, chin always smooth and clean. You always assumed it was pride thing. Now, looking at him with two days of growth softening the mean line of his jaw, you realise it might also be armour. Something he puts on before he lets you see him. Something he maintains because it keeps him looking like the version of himself he's decided you deserve.
This version, the unshaved version, the filthy and sweating and caught-off-guard version, is something you were never supposed to see.
You want to eat him alive.
You get out of the car. The site is mostly empty, just Aerion and one other guy finishing up for the day. He hears the door slam and turns toward the sound, and the look on his face when he spots you, the split second of pure, unguarded shock before he catches it, is worth the five and a half hours of congested highway.
"Stark."
"Targaryen."
He recovers fast. Leans against the porch railing, arms folded, the posture of a man who is not remotely surprised even though you can see his pulse hammering at the base of his throat.
"You're early."
"I'm early."
His eyes track down your body and back up. You're still in what you wore to campus. Nothing special. Jeans, a thin sweater, hair unstyled. But the way he looks at you makes it feel like you're wearing nothing at all, and the way you're looking at him is making his jaw pulse.
"Well," he drawls, and his voice has that lazy, mean edge, the one he uses when he's off balance and covering it. "You gonna stand there gaping or you gonna come say hello?"
You cross the dirt between your car and the porch. He doesn't move. Just watches you come to him, filthy and sweating, sawdust in his hair and concrete on his hands and that pale stubble catching the light.
"Careful, princess." The smirk is back. Defence mechanism, fully deployed. "Gonna get your nice clothes all dirty."
You don't answer. You reach up and grab his jaw.
Aerion's mouth snaps shut. Your fingers press into the stubble, rough against your fingertips, scraping against your skin in a way that sends heat pooling low in your stomach.
You turn his face, tilting it into the light. Run your thumb along the grain of it, from his ear to his chin, feeling the coarse drag under the pad of your finger.
He's gone still under your hand, his eyes fixed on your face with flaying intensity.
"You gonna tell me to shave?" he mocks, and his voice is different now. Low, rough, stripped of the lazy performance. "Get all nice and presentable before i'm allowed to touch you?"
You gaze at his mouth. At the pale stubble framing it. The smear of dirt on his cheekbone and the sweat drying on his throat, and his filthy hands hanging at his sides because he hasn't dared touch you yet, not like this, not covered in a day's worth of labour and grime.
You kiss him.
You yank his face down to yours by the jaw and lick into his mouth and the stubble scrapes against your chin, your cheeks, and the friction of it, the raw rough drag of him unpolished and unshaved and tasting like dust and salt, makes you groan against his teeth.
Aerion grabs you. Both hands on your hips, dragging you flush against him, and you can feel the grit and the sweat and the heat of him soaking through your sweater and you don't care, you don't care about any of it, you grab the back of his neck and bite his bottom lip and pull.
"I want to feel that," you say against his mouth. Your voice is low and your blood is too loud and your fingers are still in the stubble, scratching through it, gripping. "Between my thighs, Aerion."
His whole body tenses. Every muscle, all at once, like someone's run a current through him. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, and his breathing goes ragged.
He palms your ass with both hands and pulls you into him, grinding you against him, and you boost yourself up onto the porch railing with his hands steadying your hips, settling between your thighs the second you're seated for better access.
"Missed me that much, huh?" He's grinning against your mouth, all teeth, sucking on your bottom lip, his dirty hands leaving prints on your jeans. Playing it cool, or trying to. Mostly failing. Because his voice is hungry, and his hands are shaking, and he's hard against your thigh already.
"Yeah." Quiet, hungry. Honest in a way you rarely let yourself be with him. You bite down on his lip, taste the salt of his sweat, pull him closer by the back of the neck until there's no space between you. "Yeah, I did."
There's a flicker across his face.
The smirk falls away and what's underneath is naked, starving, and so desperately... happy.
He kisses you like he's trying to climb inside you, one hand rough in your hair and the other gripping the back of your thigh, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in and the stubble drags against your jaw, your neck, the soft skin under your ear. You shiver, full-body, and he feels it and makes a sound against your throat that isn't a word, isn't a name, is just need, raw and thick, bubbling.
"Inside," you manage. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, pulling, and his mouth is on your pulse, the stubble burning against your throat. "Now."
"Truck's closer."
"I don't care."
He pulls you off the railing, your legs unwinding from his waist, and grabs your hand.
His grip is filthy and calloused, too tight, and he's half-dragging you across the site to his truck. You're keeping pace, stumbling over dirt and gravel, laughing against his shoulder because this is insane, this is broad daylight, and he gets the back door open and you climb in first, pulling him after you by his belt. He follows, pulling the door shut behind him, and the cab smells like sawdust, his cigarettes, and sweat.
You pull your sweater off. Aerion doesn't wait for you to finish, just pushes the fabric up and gets his mouth on your stomach, your ribs, dragging that stubble across every inch of skin he uncovers.
The scrape of it is electric. Burning and rough, so different from his usual smooth jaw that your back arches off the seat, and your hands fist in his hair with a throaty groan.
"Fuck," he mutters against your skin. He sounds breathless. His mouth drags lower, stubble rasping against the soft plane below your navel, and his fingers work your jeans open with the practised speed. You've done this a dozen times in this truck and will do it a dozen more. "You drove five hours for this."
"Five and a half," you correct, breathless.
"Crazy bitch," he says with a huffing laugh and with his mouth pressed to your hip, the stubble burning, and it sounds like i love you.
Aerion's fingers hook into your jeans and your underwear, pulling them down your legs in one motion and then he's there, settling between your thighs immediately. He glances up at you from between your knees with those pale eyes and that filthy face, that stubble catching the fading light through the truck windows.
"This what you want?"
Not a taunt for once.
"Yes."
He lowers his mouth to you and the stubble drags against the inside of your thigh, your whole body jerking at the sensation.
His hands pin your hips, thumbs pressing into the creases of your thighs, and he licks a long, flat, greedy stripe through you. The sound you make bounces off the roof of the cab. The stubble is everywhere. Scraping the tender skin of your inner thighs, rough against the crease where your leg meets your hip, dragging against you every time he moves his jaw.
It's almost too much. Yet it's perfect. It's the friction of him unpolished, unperformed, the raw physical fact of a man who worked all day and hasn't cleaned up, and is eating you out in the back of his truck like it's the last meal he'll ever have.
Your thighs close around Aerion's head. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his face because you can't help it, because the stubble and his tongue and the filthy wet sounds he's making are short-circuiting every nerve in your body. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your navel, and his grip on your hips tightens.
He sucks on you, tongue twisting against you clit, and your vision whites out at the edges.
"Aerion." Breathless. Broken. Your heels dig into his back. "Don't stop, don't, please..."
He doesn't stop. He doesn't stop until your thighs are shaking and your voice has gone rough. You come so hard your spine lifts off the seat and your fingers nearly rip his hair out. He works you through it with his tongue, lapping at your swollen folds, and his stubble-rough jaw pressed flush against you, panting into you, his own hips grinding against the seat beneath him because he's so turned on he can barely stand it.
After the haze finally fades, Aerion crawls up your body. His face is wet, his eyes glazed and his chin slick with you, the stubble glistening. He looks ruined.
He looks like every dirty, gorgeous, impossible thing you've ever wanted.
You grab his jaw again. Feel the stubble, damp now with your release. Pull him down and kiss your own taste off his mouth and his whole body shudders against yours.
"Don't shave," you murmur against his lips.
His laugh is breathless, almost boyish. "Yeah? You like like me a little rough, princess?"
You answer by pulling his belt open with one hand, pushing his jeans down his hips.
He chuckles, settling between your thighs and you can feel the heat of him against you, the blunt thick press of him between your swollen folds, and your breath catches because it's been three weeks and your body remembers him before your brain catches up.
He pushes inside you and your eyes lock.
His are so blue.
Bright, pale, burning blue, close enough that you can see the darker ring around the iris, can see yourself reflected back in them, and the sound you both make is hungry and relieved.
Because that's what it is. Relief. Like a joint clicking back into socket, like a limb waking up after going numb. He's hot and rough and thick yet so familiar your body opens for him like it was built for this. Just this. Just him filling you up, and the stretch of it after weeks apart makes your nails bite into the back of his damp neck.
"Fuck, Stark." He rolls his hips, grinding deep into you, and his voice has that mean, lazy edge he puts on when he's trying to stay in control. "Three weeks and you're this tight? What, none of those pretty college boys keeping you warmed up for me?"
He's performing. You can hear it. Because the alternative is admitting he's been counting the days till you're back.
"Bet you thought about this every night." Another thrust. Harder. His hand slams flat against the roof of the cab, bracing, the sound of his palm hitting metal ringing through the truck. "In your little dorm bed. Touching yourself. Pretending your fingers felt anything like this."
You bare your teeth. "Shut up and fuck me."
"I am fucking you." His mouth finds yours, kissing you mean, all teeth and pressure. The stubble scrapes raw against your chin. "I'm fucking you in my truck in broad daylight because you couldn't even make it to the trailer, you desperate little..."
He trails off. His hips stutter. Because your nails have dug deeper, crescent moons in his skin, and you've clenched around him, and Aerion's composure is cracking down the middle. The words die on his tongue and what replaces it is just his breathing, rough and uneven against your mouth.
You suck his bottom lip between your teeth and bite down. Mean. You feel the skin split, taste the copper bloom of blood on your tongue, and Aerion's whole body jerks in response. His fist hits the car ceiling again, harder this time, knuckles white.
"Fuck." Hissed through his teeth, his lip bleeding into the kiss, and he licks the blood off your mouth and you lick it off his, and the taste of it, hot and metallic and shared, snaps something loose in both of you.
He drops his forehead to yours and it's there again, that thing between you, the undertow, the gravity, two halves of the same organism slotting back together after too long apart.
Your bodies remember each other. The rhythm finds itself without effort, without thought, his hips and yours moving together like breathing, rutting and rolling into each other. The performance is gone. The mean-mouthed, cool, unbothered version of him has burned away and what's left is just this. Your aerion, raw, pressing his bleeding mouth to yours, his hand cupping the back of your skull as he fucks into you.
"Need you." Growled against your lips. Low, furious, like the admission is being torn out of him by force. He's already inside you. He already has you, but it doesn't seem to matter. "Need you, wolf."
His arms brace on either side of your head and the stubble scrapes your cheek with every thrust. You hold his face in both hands and breathe him in, sawdust and sweat and salt and blood and the fading heat of a workday, and think: this. this. this is what I drove five and a half hours for.
Your nails rake down the back of his neck, his shoulders, leaving welts through the sweat and grime, and Aerion shudders, his hips snapping harder. Your back arches and your mouth finds his and you're kissing and fucking and clinging to each other with the desperate, consuming intensity.
Two people who've been starving for three weeks and are finally, finally being fed.
He comes inside you.
You feel the coil snap in him. The hot, pulsing flood of him, the way Aerion's whole body locks up and then breaks, his hips grinding deep and staying there, buried. The groan that tears out of him is guttural and animal and all yours.
Your legs tighten around his waist and you moan, actually moan, long and drawn out, holding onto him with your nails still buried in his shoulders and your face pressed against his jaw, the stubble rough against your cheek.
"Yeah, fuck," he breathes against your ear. His voice is choked, rough-spoken, barely words now. "Yeah, I got you, wolf. There you go." His hips pulse again, grinding into you, giving you everything as his cum floods you deep. "Feel all of me."
You do. You feel all of him. Hot and shaking and pressed so deep inside you there's no space between where he ends and you begin. Your arms wrap around his neck and you hold on and he holds on and neither of you moves for a long time.
He collapses on top of you. Still inside you, still trembling, face buried in your neck. You can feel the stubble against your collarbone, rough and prickly. His breathing has gone ragged and warm against your skin.
Your fingers trace the line of his jaw. The grain of the stubble, root to tip, rough one way and soft the other. He turns his face into your palm and you feel his mouth move against your hand but you can't make out the words and you don't ask.
The truck ticks in the cooling air. The light through the windows has gone amber and low.
"Five and a half hours," he mumbles into your neck.
"Shut up."
"Crazy." His arms tighten around you. His voice is muffled and something else that makes him sound unlike himself. "Absolutely fucking crazy."
Summary Being Hannah and Allie's friend required two things: Being social and extroverted. Parties, crowds, and constant socializing. Unfortunately, you were none of those things. So when you made one stupid decision, a not-so-incident kiss with John Loganㅡa hockey star, notorious flirt, and the second-biggest manwhore at Briar, only to prove something pointless to Hannah and Garrett, you expected everyone to forget it by tomorrow. But no, John Logan had other plans.
You were busy. Booked. Perfectly content with your quiet and private life. Then one stupid kiss with John Logan blindsided you.
Pairing John Logan x Homebody!Reader
Note Hi! This is my first story here. English isn't my first languange, so bear with me please...
he messages her one night for a booty call but she hates him
Ohhhhh, my pookie ❤️ I’m excited
Shawn Heard x f!reader
12:54 AM
Unknown Number:
this still your number?
You looked at the number with a curious frown before typing back.
You: Who’s asking?
Unknown Number: Shawn.
You: Right.
You: What do you want?
You almost groaned, how the fuck did he get my number? You quickly saved it to something fitting.
🐊: you busy
You: At one in the morning?
🐊: that ain’t an answer.
You: It was enough of one.
🐊: come over.
You stared at message for a moment, grimacing to yourself.
You: Have we ever actually had a conversation?
🐊: we’re havin’ one now.
You: No, you’re sending me demands.
🐊: don’t make it complicated.
You: Complicated?
🐊: yeah. come over. we’ll figure the rest out.
He’s either confident, stupid or drunk. You’d hope it was drunk and stupid.
You: Shawn… are you drunk?
🐊: little bit.
You: Little bit?
🐊: enough.
You: So you got drunk, found my number, and thought I’d be interested?
🐊: worth askin’.
You: No, it really wasn’t, we’ve barely spoken.
🐊: seen you around.
You: I know.
You thought about all the run ins at parties, in town. His little group of friends that just screamed ‘I’ll rob you for fun.’ Bunch of losers.
🐊: you always smile then disappear.
You: Because you’re usually headed my way.
🐊: thought maybe tonight you’d quit runnin’.
Oh, the arrogance. You caught yourself smiling though.
You: I wasn’t running, i was avoiding you.
Seen.
putting your phone down, he didn’t message you back for at least 6 minutes.. 6 minutes of peace and quiet, you hopefully thought he had passed out.
🐊: that’s kinda rude.
You: You’re texting a girl you’ve barely exchanged ten words with asking her to come over for a quick fuck.
🐊: it wouldn’t have been quick figured i’d shoot my shot.
You smacked yourself, catching a small blush.
You: You fired it into the ocean.
🐊: hell.
You: Do yourself a favour.
🐊: what’s that
You: Delete my number, drink some water, and bother literally anyone else.
🐊: you always this mean?
You: Only to river rat losers who think “come over” counts as flirting.
A full minute passes.
🐊: 😂 aight.
🐊: still would’ve been fun.
You: Goodnight, Shawn.
🐊: yeah yeah.
10 minutes went by, you found yourself suckling at your vape as if it was fresh air, annoyed. Interest possibly peaked.
You: Can I ask you something?
His reply comes almost instantly.
🐊: knew it.
You: Knew what?
🐊: you got curious.
🐊: wanna see what you could be riding?
You silently dry heaved, oh god no!
You: Please, don’t get ahead of yourself.
You: I have one question.
🐊: go on then.
You: Why me?
The typing bubble appears, disappears… then comes back.
🐊: that’s the question you ask when you’re thinkin’ about it.
You scoffed, the audacity of this man.
You: No, it’s the question I ask before blocking someone.
🐊: nah.
🐊: if you were gonna block me, you’d have done it five minutes ago.
You hate that he’s got a point.
You: You’re unbelievably full of yourself.
🐊: never said i wasn’t.
You: Answer the question.
🐊: cause i wanted you.
You: You don’t even know me.
🐊: don’t gotta.
🐊: i got eyes.
You: Ew, you’re disgusting.
🐊: still got you textin’ me.
You stare at that for a second, again.. another point. Damn him! You could imagine if sitting on his sofa, leg up on a coffee table in those ridiculous bright orange shorts.
You: You’re confusing disbelief with interest.
🐊: whatever helps you sleep.
You: You’re a dick.
🐊: and yet…
You: Finish that sentence and I’ll block you.
Fuck sake, you caught yourself smiling at the messages.
🐊: 😂
🐊: you ain’t blocked me yet.
You: I’m deciding if you’re entertaining enough to keep around as a cautionary tale.
🐊: nah you’re decidin’ if i’m as much of an asshole in person.
You: I already know the answer.
🐊: you think you do.
You: You’re awfully confident for a man who just got rejected.
🐊: did i?
You: Yes.
🐊: don’t feel like it.
You: Why?
🐊: ‘cause if you’d really wanted me gone.
🐊: this conversation would’ve ended ten minutes ago.
You typed, deleted it, typed again. DAMN IT! Is this flirting? It feels like flirting.
You: Goodnight, Shawn.
🐊: night.
🐊: i’ll hear from you again.
Thankfully you don’t hear from him again, son of a bitch. Few days has passed and you hadn’t even seen him in town, or maybe you just grew to avoid him and his friends naturally. He is hot, in a way.. you cursed yourself, promising to go to church more with mama if you could forget about his arrogant ass.
Then it came, that dreadful ping of a notification while eating dinner.
🐊: you alive
You: Unfortunately.
🐊: still got my number.
You: Unfortunately.
🐊: 😂
🐊: thought about bouncin’ on it then?
You: Don’t ruin my afternoon.
🐊: so you did.
That bastard!
You: You’re exhausting.
🐊: you keep replyin’.
You: I’m beginning to think you’re physically incapable of losing an argument.
🐊: damn right.
🐊: come get a drink tonight.
You: Still no.
🐊: why
You: Because I don’t know you.
🐊: that’s kinda the point.
You: No, your point was ‘come over.’
🐊: yeah.
🐊: different offer.
You: Is it?
🐊: public place.
🐊: hour or two.
🐊: if you still think i’m an asshole, you can leave.
You’re thinking about it, you’re thinking about his mouth on your neck. You’re thinking about all the dirty and wild things he could do you but you avoided him for a reason, you told yourself he smelled funny but whenever you got close enough, he smelt like an ordinary man, that was it.. He’s a man, a rough man. FUCK! You cursed yourself again.
🐊: there’s that thinkin’ again.
You: Don’t start.
🐊: you’re considerin’ it.
You: I’m considering whether this is the beginning of a true crime documentary.
🐊: hell, if you wanted me to kidnap you all you gotta do is ask. 😉
Ew, did he just use an emoji??
You: Comforting.
🐊: was supposed to be baby.
You shake your head, licking your lips and swallowing hard enough you nearly choked.
You: Hypothetically…
🐊: here we go.
You: If and that’s a very big if, I agreed…
🐊: yeah?
You: It would be somewhere busy.
You: Somewhere with lots of people.
You: I’m getting there on my own.
🐊: didn’t ask to pick you up.
You: and if you’re as much of a jerk in person as you are over text
🐊: when?
You: IF!
You clarified.
🐊: sure.
You: I leave, Immediately.
🐊: then leave.
You: You’re taking this rejection surprisingly well.
🐊: ain’t rejection.
🐊: sounds like i just talked you into a drink.
You stare at the message, already regretting it.
You: You are unbelievably smug.
🐊: earned it.
You: Don’t make me change my mind.
🐊: you won’t.
You: You have an answer for everything, don’t you?
You: Tomorrow, 6. One drink at Millers.
🐊: thought you said you hated me.
You: I do.
🐊: guess i’ll have to work with that.
You: Don’t get your hopes up.
🐊: wouldn’t dream of it.
You lay your phone on your chest, hand rested on your forehead with a deep exhale wondering what you’d gotten yourself into. You signed loudly in annoyance when another text came through.
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Guitarist! Aerion Targaryen x Bass Player! F Reader
⭑𓂃 WC: 8K words
⭑𓂃 Summary: Inspired by @cannibaldread's TikTok. Aerion is the band's volatile lead guitarist, the kind of man who never knows when to stop. Unfortunately for you, the bassist, you're caught in the middle of a relationship that's equal parts obsession, resentment, and self-destruction.
⭑𓂃 contents: Toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, jealousy, verbal arguments, explicit language, rock band setting, fame, unresolved sexual tension, hate sex, messy hookups, angst, emotional dependency, unhealthy coping mechanisms, alcohol use, public confrontations, and eventual smut.
⭑𓂃 Tags: @witchyinsomiac
The bass slammed against your hip, each note punching through bone and muscle, the low-end rumble vibrating up your spine until it settled behind your ribs. The final chord detonated across the arena, hanging in the air like thunder refusing to die. Tens of thousands of voices crashed together into one deafening roar, a living thing twisting beneath the floodlights.
But you barely heard them.
Your attention locked onto Aerion, who was on his knees right at the edge of the stage. His silver-blonde hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his leather jacket was slipping off one shoulder. He dragged his pick down the strings, soaking up the adoration from the front row before his pale eyes flicked up through the harsh strobe lights to lock dead onto yours.
He smirked—a sharp, arrogant twist of his lips that made your blood boil.
You held the bassline steady, anchoring the sheer chaos he created as he rode on the edge of a musical disaster.
He stepped back from the edge of the stage, stalking toward you with long, deliberate strides.
The fans screamed louder as he closed the distance. This was the part of the show they ate up—the manufactured tension, the way he crowded your space, the way his fingers grazed the neck of your bass while he leaned into your microphone.
"Don't rush the tempo," he murmured into the mic, the words meant only for you, disguised as a breathless ad-lib to the crowd.
"Play on beat, and I won't have to carry you," you shot back, leaning away just enough to let the cold air hit the space between you.
He laughed, the sound swallowed whole by the wall of distortion, and slammed into one last, shattering chord.
For half a heartbeat, the arena held its breath.
Then the place exploded.
The roar crashed over the stage like a tidal wave. Thousands of voices screamed your band's name, stomping feet shaking the risers beneath you. Phones glittered like stars beyond the blinding spotlights. They wanted one more wave, one more bow, one more chance to worship the chaos they'd just witnessed.
Yet You'd had enough.
The moment the house lights dropped, you shrugged the heavy leather strap off your shoulder and thrust your bass into the waiting hands of a stagehand without breaking stride. Behind you, the applause only grew louder as the rest of the band lingered for the curtain call. Aerion would be eating it up already—arms spread, flashing that grin that could convince an arena every cheer belonged to him.
You didn't look back.
You ripped the sweat-soaked wristbands from your arms and flung them onto an equipment crate as you shoved through the heavy backstage doors. The muffled thunder of the crowd chased you down the concrete hallway, fading with every hard strike of your platform boots.
You needed space.
More than anything, you needed to get away from him before you snapped in front of forty security guards and a camera crew.
You shoved open the dressing room door and stepped inside.
The soundproof door swung shut behind you with a heavy thunk.
Silence.
The deafening roar of sixty thousand fans vanished as if someone had cut the power to the world. One second your ears rang with applause; the next there was only the quiet hum of the mini-fridge tucked beneath the counter and the slow, relentless ticking of the wall clock. The sudden stillness felt almost violent after the chaos outside.
You hooked the toe of one platform boot against the heel of the other and kicked it loose. It hit the floor with a heavy thud. The second boot followed a moment later, skidding beneath the makeup station.
The dressing room lights were merciless. Every fleck of silver glitter glued to your cheekbones caught the bulbs overhead, sparkling as if the stage had followed you inside.
You snatched a makeup wipe from the plastic packet on the vanity hard enough to tear two out at once.
"Perfect."
You crushed one into your fist and dragged the other across your face.
The first pass barely made a dent. Glitter smeared instead of lifting, leaving your skin raw and shining. You scrubbed harder, the wipe turning black with eyeliner and streaked with crimson lipstick until your reflection looked less like a rock musician and more like someone trying to erase herself.
The handle behind you gave a quiet metallic rattle.
You froze.
The door eased open.
Aerion slipped inside, still carrying the heat of the stage with him. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, his hair was a mess from ninety minutes under stadium lights, and the familiar charge of reckless energy rolled into the room a heartbeat before he did.
Of course he hadn't stayed to bask in the applause.
The crowd could chant his name until sunrise. If you'd walked off in a mood, that would always win.
He knew you well enough to recognize the signs. You hadn't waited for the bows. You hadn't looked at him after the last chord. You'd handed your bass to the nearest stagehand like it was on fire and disappeared.
Message received.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Without a word, Aerion shrugged the Stratocaster from his shoulder and let it fall onto the velvet sofa with far less care than the instrument deserved. The strings gave a protesting twang. He didn't so much as glance at it.
Typical.
He snagged a towel from the back of a chair and scrubbed it beneath one eye, smearing away black eyeliner already running from sweat. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, the sheer black mesh plastered to his skin. The adrenaline hadn't left him yet. It never did—not right away. He looked like he could've walked straight back onto the stage for another hour.
You, meanwhile, were still attacking the glitter glued stubbornly to your cheekbone.
The wipe had started to pill under your fingers.
Neither of you spoke.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was practiced—a razor-sharp edge honed over years of shared dressing rooms and unsaid promises. You knew precisely how long he could tolerate the quiet before he struck the first match and set the entire room ablaze.
Behind you, the dull thump of the towel landing on the glass coffee table echoed through the heavy air.
"You were glaring holes into the back of my head for half the set."
You met his blue eyes in the mirror, holding his gaze without a single flicker of hesitation.
"Someone had to remind you we were playing a concert," you said smoothly, tossing the ruined makeup wipe into the trash before leaning back against the vanity. "Not hosting a meet-and-greet for the front row."
One corner of his mouth twitched.
There it was.
That infuriating little smile.
Not apologetic.
Not defensive.
Satisfied.
You'd walked off before the encore applause had even faded and he knew exactly why.
Aerion crossed the room in three strides, not botherint to stop until he was standing right behind you, towering over your chair.
The smell of his cologne, sharp cedar and something smoky, mixed with the stale air of the room. He reached out, his cold rings grazing your collarbone as he adjusted the lapel of your jacket—a jacket he had stolen from your duffel bag three cities ago.
"They love it when I put on a show," he countered, his voice dropping an octave, losing the stage-performer edge and settling into something far more dangerous. "And they love it when you pretend to hate me."
"Who said I'm pretending?" You swatted his hand away from your jacket and stood up to face him.
Aerion caught your wrist mid-air.
The silence in the green room stretching between you like a taut bowstring—ready to explode.
"If you actually hated me, you would have quit the band in London," he purred as he tilted his head. "But you are still here. Playing my rhythm. Wearing my eyeliner."
You held his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a flinch.
Slowly, your eyes trailed down the razor-sharp plane of his cheekbone to the faint smear of black carbon still staining his lower lash line—a single flaw in his otherwise terrifying perfection.
"You really rehearsed that one, didn't you?"
Aerion blinked, the subtle crack in his veneer lasting for only a fraction of a second.
Without breaking eye contact, you reached past him, plucked the damp towel from the marble vanity, and pressed it into his chest.
"You missed a spot."
His brow furrowed.
"...What?"
"Beneath your left eye." You nodded toward his reflection. "Try again."
For the first time all evening, he broke eye contact.
His fingers were already rubbing furiously beneath his left eye before the thought had even finished crossing his mind.
"Is it smudged?"
You said nothing.
You were busy shrugging into your jacket.
Only when he glanced back at the mirror and found nothing but clean skin did he realize you'd played him.
"Where are you going?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low gravel.
"Valarr."
The question that followed didn't come as quickly as the others.
"...Valarr?" he repeated, the name tasting foul on his tongue.
That alone was enough to send a bitter, dark flame through his veins… You were leaving because you were simply choosing someone else's company over his.
"He asked me to show him what to do with the wireless packs after a show," you said, your hand resting on the brass door handle.
"That's the guitar tech's job."
"So's buying your eyeliner."
You pulled the door open, the faint roar of the corridor spilling into the quiet room.
"Apparently, he explains everything with the words 'thingy' and 'magic.' I figured someone should give the kid a fighting chance."
Smoothly, you crossed the threshold into the hallway, refusing to offer him the satisfaction of a backward glance—or another second of your time. Behind you, the silence swelled like the holdover before a storm—dense, oppressive, and long enough to tell you that the strike had landed. For the first time all night, he had nothing left to say, but you were already moving, completely unbothered by whatever realization was currently crashing over him.
You had somewhere better to be.
You found Valarr near the loading dock, away from the chaos of the venue. He was bent over a heavy road case, a tangle of quarter-inch cables slung over one shoulder as he wrestled with a stubborn power strip. Sweat clung to his hairline, but unlike his cousin, there was no performative swagger to it—just quiet, focused effort.
"Need a hand, or are you planning to fight that rack unit all night?" you asked, leaning against the metal framing.
Valarr looked up, a quick, genuine smile cutting through his exhaustion. "Honestly? If you don't take these cables, I might throw them into the alley."
You chuckled, stepping in to relieve him of the tangled bundle and expertly coiling them down the length of your forearm. For a few minutes, the two of you worked in a easy, rhythmic harmony, swapping out battery packs and securing the heavy wireless units into their flight cases.
"Great set tonight, by the way," Valarr said, wiping his hands on his jeans as he clicked the last latch shut. He paused, shooting you a sideways glance that held a sharp, observant glint. "Though the tension on stage was... high. Even for you two."
You let out a soft, humorless huff, setting a receiver box into its foam cutout. "Aerion was driving the tempo off a cliff just to see if I’d drop the groove."
"He's been that way since we were kids," Valarr said, rolling his shoulders with a quiet sigh.
"It's exhausting."
"It's drastic," Valarr agreed, a faint, amused tilt to his mouth. "He's always been one for theatrical misery. But you... you actually hold the line against him. I don't know how you survive it."
"Honestly? Some days I wonder the same thing," you admitted, resting your hands on the edge of the road case.
As the sound of rolling equipment and shouting stagehands hummed in the background, the conversation shifted, softening into something surprisingly grounded.
"So why the bass?"Valarr asked, wiping his palms on a grease-stained shop towel as he leaned back against a stack of amplifier heads. "And don't give me the PR line about it looking cool under the purple gels."
You scratched the back of your neck, setting down the wireless pack you’d just re-cased. "Because it weighs as much as a refrigerator, obviously."
Valarr let out a soft, genuine laugh, shaking his head.
"I'm serious," you said, a slight tilt of your mouth breaking through your usual guarded demeanor.
"So am I," he countered, eyes bright with humor. "Though I’m pretty sure a four-string weighs a bit less than a Kenmore. Come on—what made you pick it?"
You leaned back against the cool metal lip of a road case, looking down at your hands. "It's the low end. Everyone in the crowd is staring at the front of the stage, watching the flash, the guitar solos, the theatrics. But the bass? That’s the pulse. You don't just hear it—you feel it right in the center of your chest." You glanced up, meeting his steady gaze. "I like being the backbone. The force that actually holds the entire room together while someone else takes the credit."
Valarr nodded slowly, the easy amusement giving way to a quiet, deep understanding. "The hidden architecture."
"Exactly," you said. "What about you? Why are you lugging heavy cases and wrestling cable nests in dark loading docks when you could be sitting in VIP?"
He offered a sheepish, lopsided smile, running a hand through his hair. "Honestly? I hate the spotlight. I’ve watched Aerion chase it his entire life, and it just looks... exhausting."
"It is," you murmured.
"I like the invisible clockwork," Valarr said, gesturing around the cavernous, shadowy back-of-house. "The logistics, the tech, the sheer human effort it takes to build a temporary world, burn it down, and rebuild it in a new city twelve hours later. Making the magic happen behind the curtain feels a lot realer than standing in front of it."
It was a welcome change from the constant tug-of-war you'd left behind in the dressing room. For the first time that night, the conversation didn't feel like a competition. And You caught yourself smiling.
"Look," Valarr said, checking his watch before glancing back up at you with a gentle expression. "I know the label expects us to show face at the lounge down the street for the post-show press stuff. I'm heading over in twenty minutes. Let me buy you a drink? Just a quiet corner and a cold glass."
"I'd like that," you said, offering him a genuine smile. "Give me ten minutes to freshen up in the dressing room and wash off the stage grime, and I'll meet you by the back exit."
"Deal," Valarr replied softly.
You turned and headed back down the corridor, feeling a strange, light relief in your chest. For once, the night wasn't going to be a battleground. You were going to get your drinks, satisfy the photographers, and enjoy a rare, quiet evening—completely on your own terms.
The pulse of the bass thrashed through the floorboards of the neon-drenched club, a thick, suffocating beat that you felt more in your teeth than your ears. The label had secured a plush leather booth for the band in the elevated VIP section, complete with bottles of high-end vodka sweats and a relentless parade of sharp-eyed sycophants.
Down on the floor, Aerion was in his element. He was slouched on a velvet sofa surrounded by a halo of predatory beauty—three or four groupies vying for his attention, their hands tracing the leather of his jacket while he exhaled a lazy plum of smoke. He was laughing, loud and hollow, but every so often, his dark eyes cut through the haze of the club to track you.
You pointedly ignored him, tipping back your fourth drink of the night and letting the burn settle into your chest. Beside you, Valarr was an absolute breath of fresh air. He had traded his loading-dock grit for a dark button-down, leaning in to yell jokes over the roar of the crowd. He wasn't playing a role. He was just present, matching your laughter drink for drink, treating you like a person instead of an ornament.
A small cluster of fans suddenly braved the VIP ropes, flush-faced and clutching silver Sharpies, pleading for photos and autographs.
"Go on," Valarr nudged you with his elbow, offering a warm, easy smile. "Give the people what they want."
You rolled your eyes playfully, stepping away from the booth to sign a couple of phone cases and pose for a dizzying flash of phone cameras.
When you turned back around, you caught Valarr being pulled toward the edge of the floor by a gorgeous girl in a sparkling slip dress, who was laughing and coaxing him to join her. He shot you an amused, helpless look over his shoulder before letting himself be dragged into the rhythm of the music.
Before you could even step back toward the table, a shadowy figure slid into your space.
"Looking for a partner?" a voice slurred against the side of your neck.
He was tall, wearing an expensive jacket that smelled faintly of stale bourbon and heavy cologne. You didn't know his name, but you knew his type—rich enough to buy his way past the bouncers, entitled enough to think the club owned him everything in it.
"I'm good," you said smoothly, taking a deliberate step back.
He didn't take the hint. Instead, he closed the distance, his hand dropping to your waist with a wet, heavy grip. "Come on, don't be like that. Just one dance for a fan."
He pulled you onto the crowded floor, his body pressing too close, his fingers digging into the small of your back with an invasive, possessive pressure. You tried to twist out of his hold, but his hand slid lower, gripping the fabric over your hip, his thumb pressing uncomfortably hard into your flesh.
"I said no," you snapped, your voice dropping into a razor-sharp glare. You brought your heel down hard onto his shoe and shoved his chest with both hands. "Touch me again and I’ll break your fingers. Fuck off."
The guy stumbled back, his face twisting into an ugly, alcohol-fueled rage. "Who the fuck do you think you are? You're just a—"
He never finished the sentence.
A blur of black leather and raw, unadulterated fury collided with the man, throwing him backward into a table of high-stemmed glasses that shattered on impact.
Aerion stood over him, breathing heavily, the groupies completely forgotten. His jaw was set like granite, his knuckles already white as he loomed over the guy.
"What did you just say to her?" Aerion’s voice wasn't just loud—it was a low, terrifying growl that cut right through the booming bass of the club.
The guy scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his lip and lunging forward with a sloppy right hook. "Mind your own fucking business!"
Aerion dodged it with a violent, practiced ease, his left hand snapping out to catch the guy by the collar while his right came across in a brutally clean strike that laid the man flat on his back.
Chaos erupted in an instant. The guy's friends surged forward, shouts echoing over the music as drinks flew and security detail frantically tried to tear through the panicked crowd. Valarr was already sprinting back toward you, his eyes wide as he threw himself into the fray to keep two other men from blind-siding his cousin.
Through the flashing neon, amidst the screaming crowds and the crushing sound of shattering glass, Aerion turned his head. His eyes locked onto yours across the madness—dark, chest-heaving, and entirely consumed by a dark satisfaction. He had been looking for a reason to burn the night down, and he had finally found it.
Through the flashing neon, amidst the screaming crowds and the crushing sound of shattering glass, Aerion turned his head. His eyes locked onto yours across the madness—dark, chest-heaving, and entirely consumed by a terrifying, dangerous satisfaction. He had been looking for a reason to burn the night down, and he had finally found it.
Before long, red and blue strobe lights cut through the thick haze of the venue as the police finally breached the front doors. Sirens wailed outside, and heavy boots crunched over the debris field of shattered bottles and splintered mahogany. Batons were drawn, shouts echoed over the dying hum of the club’s speakers, and the reality of the disaster hit you like a bucket of ice water. This wasn't just a bar scuffle—it was a full-blown crime scene. Blood smeared the polished floorboards, a bouncer lay groaning by the VIP ropes, and the threat of handcuffs, mugshots, and cancellation hung heavy in the air.
If the press got wind of this, or if a single mugshot hit the internet before the festival contracts were finalized, the entire tour was dead in the water.
When the officers shoved their way into the VIP section, the lead cop took one look at Aerion’s face—bloodied, unbothered, and sneering—and the air completely shifted. Recognition flashed across the officer's face. Within minutes, the aggressive stance melted into eager, sycophantic grins. Sharpies were pulled from patrol jackets, phone cameras flicked on for discreet backstage requests, and the cops brushed off the devastation with a laugh, chalking it up to rock-and-roll antics. No charges were filed. No holding cells were filled.
They were escorted out the back alley and driven straight back to the tour bus, the silence in the vehicle suffocating.
The moment the bus doors hissed open, Valarr stepped up the narrow aisle, his face pale and eyes full of genuine concern as he reached out to check on you. "Hey, are you alright? Did he touch you?"
Before you could answer, Aerion pushed hard past him, his shoulder shoving Valarr back toward the front lounge.
"Fuck off, Valarr," Aerion growled, his voice thick with raw malice. "Go sit up front and manage the logistics. I'm handling this."
Valarr's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he didn't argue. He knew that look. He'd seen it before.
Blood tasted like pennies and cheap tequila, but the real filth was the noise.
It hadn't started with a scream. It had started with the sickening crack of bone yielding beneath iron ring-knuckles—a wet, ugly sound that somehow cut through the club's relentless bass. Crimson strobes flashed across splintered mahogany, shattered crystal, and bodies scrambling over one another to escape. The room had become a slaughterhouse.
Aerion moved through the carnage like a mad dog slipped off its chain. His eyes burned black beneath the lights, his lips peeled back over blood-slick teeth in something too savage to call a grin. Every swing landed with brutal certainty. Every step forward sent another body crashing into overturned tables and broken glass.
Valarr swore under his breath and lunged after him.
"Aerion!"
He never even looked back.
But by the time the local police stormed the club, their boots crunching over broken glass, the fight was already over.
Flashing blue lights spilled through the haze of cigarette smoke. Batons were drawn. Officers shouted for everyone to get on the floor. Men bled across the sticky hardwood, groaning amid overturned tables and splintered chairs. A bouncer clutched his ruined jaw near the VIP ropes. Another man lay curled around a pair of broken ribs.
By every reasonable measure, someone was going to jail.
Then the lead officer got a clear look at the faces standing in the wreckage.
His expression faltered.
Recognition replaced suspicion almost instantly. The hard edge left his voice, traded for the awkward enthusiasm of a fan who'd just realized he'd stumbled into a backstage meet-and-greet instead of a crime scene.
Someone produced a Sharpie.
A few uneasy laughs followed. Blood was wiped onto denim. The officers settled for muttered warnings about keeping the peace, reminding them to leave town before sunrise. No cuffs. No arrests. No trip to county lockup.
Just a request for autographs... and backstage passes at the next stop.
Now, inside the tour bus, the silence felt heavier than the fight itself.
You sat on the worn leather couch, staring at the cold rain lashing against the tinted glass of the window. Across the narrow aisle, Aerion was slumped in an armchair, casually dabbing a ice-pack to his split knuckle, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
The rage inside you wasn't the hot, messy kind that had just painted the club floor; it was cold, heavy, and lethal.
"You complete and utter idiot," you said, your voice dropping so low it cut straight through the hum of the idling engine. "You think that was a victory? You think because some small-town cop wanted your autograph, we just got away with it?"
Aerion didn't even flinch. He just offered a lazy, crooked smirk, tossing the ice pack onto the table between you. "Relax. Nobody's in jail, bass player."
"The label is going to lose their minds by morning," you snapped, leaning forward, the tension in your shoulders tight enough to snap a cable. "There were thirty phones filming that room. If one video hits the press before the festival bookers lock in our headlining slot, they’ll pull the plug on the entire run. You almost scorched our whole year of work because your fragile, bloated ego couldn't handle a drunk at a bar."
You stood up, towering over him in the cramped space of the bus, your fist clenched so tight your nails bit into your palm.
"You didn't protect me, Aerion," you spat, glaring down into his dark, unbothered eyes. "You just wanted an excuse to bleed, and you don't care if you drag the rest of us down to hell with you."
The lazy smirk vanished from Aerion’s face, replaced by a dark, dangerous scowl. He spat into a paper towel, a bright crimson smear staining the white ply, his jaw working as he swallowed the metallic taste of his own blood.
"Fuck it," he snapped, his voice rough and laced with venom. "If I didn't jump in, that bloated bastard would've had his greasy hands all over you."
"So fucking what?" you shot back, not backing down an inch, your eyes narrowing into slits.
Aerion blinked, a flash of genuine disbelief breaking through his anger. "Seriously? So fucking what?"
He glared up at you, the rage in his chest blackening by the second. All he could hear was the bastard's slurred, entitled voice echoing over the roar of the club, muttering about how you were practically begging for it—wearing that sheer lace jumpsuit, cut down to your waist, showing off every inch of skin like an invitation. The guy had thought because you dressed in nearly nothing, he owned the right to touch whatever he wanted.
Shaking his head, Aerion reached blindly for the half-empty bottle of bourbon sitting on the small table between you, desperate to drown out the noise in his head and burn away the lingering sting in his knuckles. He tilted it toward his mouth.
Before the glass could even touch his lips, you swung your arm in a blinding flash of movement.
SMACK.
Your hand struck the glass neck with brutal precision. The bottle flew from his grip, shattering against the bus floor in a sharp explosion of amber liquid and jagged shards.
Aerion froze, staring at the wet mess, his eyes wide with dark, simmering shock.
Aerion stared at the dripping pool of bourbon on the floor, his eyes dark with a dangerous, quiet heat. He slowly looked up, his jaw clenched tight.
"Oops," you said, not an ounce of remorse in your voice. "Just be glad the bottle didn't hit your face."
That was the spark. Aerion surged up from the leather seat, towering over the small space of the bus, the air between you suddenly thick with tension. "What the fuck is your problem?"
"You," you snapped, stepping right into his space, refusing to give up an inch. "You are my fucking problem, Aerion. I am so exhausted from dealing with your endless, arrogant bullshit."
"I just saved you from a touchy bastard—"
"I had it under control!" you roared, shoving a finger into his chest. "I don't need you playing the brooding protector. I am sick of you flaunting your self-destructive parade every single night. The grandstanding, the chaos, the constant need to burn everything to the ground just to see if people will watch you bleed! You act like the rest of us are just props in the Aerion Targaryen show, here to clean up your goddamn messes!"
Aerion let out a dry, harsh laugh, wiping the trace of blood from his chin with the back of his hand. His eyes narrowed, slicing right through your fury with lethal precision.
"Is that what this is about?" he sneered, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "Or are you still carrying a grudge because you couldn't handle how things went down? Because the last time you threw a little tantrum like this, it was in London."
The air left your lungs.
"Careful, sweetheart," he said, leaning down until his voice barely carried beyond the room. "We both remember London."
His smile was thin.
"You packed your bags before sunrise."
Your jaw tightened.
"Because of you."
"No." He shook his head once. "Because I told you to leave..."
He held your gaze.
"...and you almost listened."
The silence that followed didn't just fall between you—it settled, heavy and suffocating, thick enough to choke on. The roar of the bus engine fading into background noise, leaving only the sharp, shallow rhythm of his breathing and the steady drip of bourbon hitting the floorboards.
A sharp, cold blade of pain cut through the heat of your rage. He wasn't just bringing up London; he was weaponizing it.
He was taking the single worst night of your life—the night you had felt utterly small, rejected, and broken enough to pack your bags—and reframing it as proof that you were weak. That you were soft.
When you spoke, your voice wasn't raised. It was low, quiet, and razor-sharp.
"You don't get to rewrite that night."
Aerion’s eyes narrowed, but he didn't back away. "I remember every second."
"Do you?" You took a slow, deliberate step toward him. "You shoved me out of your hotel room."
"Because if I hadn't..."
He stopped himself.
The air pulled tight. The sudden hesitation hung in the narrow space between you like a suspended wire. Aerion’s jaw locked, the muscle ticking under his pale skin, his dark eyes flickering with something raw and exposed that he instantly tried to kill.
You caught it. You felt the shift in the room, the sudden tilt of the earth under your feet.
"Because if you hadn't... what?"
He was trapped, and he knew it. A dark, quiet beat passed before he threw his head back and let out a dry, breathy laugh.
"Still trying to get me to say it?"
Neither of you moved. You were standing far too close now, the heat radiating off his chest brushing against your exposed skin, but neither of you stepped back. The fight had changed. The anger about the venue, the cops, the press, the band—it all evaporated, replaced by a desperate, dangerous need for the truth. You weren't trying to win anymore. You were trying to understand.
Aerion leaned in just an inch, his voice dropping so low it was almost a hum against your collarbone.
"You think I wanted you gone?"
"You told me to leave," you whispered.
"Because if you'd stayed another five minutes..."
He swallowed, his throat working hard, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that burned.
"...I wasn't going to stop myself."
He let the heavy, dark implication hang in the space between your lips, thick with years of unspoken ruin.
A new kind of fury bloomed in your chest—hotter, deeper, and far more lethal than before.
"So you threw me out."
"Yes."
"You let me believe you hated me."
"That was easier."
The words struck you square in the chest. Three simple words that dismantled every wall, every defensive lie you had constructed since that rain-soaked night in England.
You closed the remaining distance between you. Not out of surrender, and not out of desire, but out of a fierce, desperate need to look into his eyes and see if he was lying to you even now. Your hand shot out, your fingers twisting violently into the front of his soft, worn t-shirt, yanking him down toward you.
A single, humorless laugh escaped your lips.
"You're a coward."
He answered almost immediately, his voice completely devoid of his usual arrogance.
"I know."
Neither of you noticed how close you'd drifted until your knuckles were twisted tight in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him so close you could feel the erratic kick of his heart against your wrist. His breath caught in his throat.
"Tell me I'm wrong," you whispered, your thumb brushing against the center of his chest.
His eyes dropped to your mouth for the first time that night.
But he didn't.
Aerion’s silence was heavy enough to crush the air right out of your lungs. His gaze stayed glued to your lips, dark and unreadable, while your fingers remained tight against his shirt, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart beneath the thin fabric.
He didn't move. He didn't pull away. For the first time since you’d known him, the loud, chaotic armor he wore was completely gone, leaving only the raw, volatile core of him exposed in the quiet of the bus.
"You're a bastard, Aerion," you breathed, the anger in your voice softening into something far more dangerous, far more fragile.
His hand came up slowly—almost hesitating, as if he expected you to strike him again—and his long fingers brushed against the side of your neck. His skin was warm, his thumb resting gently over the pulse beating wildly at your throat. His touch was surprisingly steady for a man whose knuckles were scraped and bloody.
"I know," he rasped, his eyes dragging back up to meet yours. The distance between you shrank until his breath was warm against your cheek, tasting faintly of bourbon and copper. "I'm the worst thing that ever happened to you. But don't you dare act like you didn't feel it too."
He slid his palm up to cup the back of your head, his thumb trace along your jawline, tilting your face up just enough that your lips brushed when he spoke. The friction was electric, sending a sharp, familiar shiver straight down your spine.
"Say it," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly, quiet demand. "Say you hated me for leaving."
"I hated you," you whispered back, closing the last fraction of an inch between you, your lips pressing against his with a desperate, bruised intensity that felt less like a surrender and more like a collision.
Aerion let out a low, ragged sound against your mouth, his arm sweeping around your waist to yank you flush against his chest. All the space in the world vanished in an instant. The kiss wasn't gentle—it was hungry, sharp, and laden with every unspoken word, every jealous look, and every bit of ruin you had dragged each other through from London to tonight.
His grip tightened on your waist, pulling you so close you could feel the shudder that went through his whole frame. He wasn't playing the rockstar anymore. He wasn't posturing for a crowd or fighting a stranger in a dark club. It was just him, drowning in the one person he’d been trying to run from for years.
When you finally broke the kiss, it felt like pulling air back into a vacuum. The sudden gap between your lips was suffocating, the cold air of the back lounge instantly rushing in to replace the heat of him.
Neither of you pulled away far. Aerion’s forehead rested against yours, his deep, ragged breaths fanning across your skin in short, hot bursts. His hand was still tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck, his fingers clenched tight, as if he was convinced that if he let go, the spell would snap and you'd vanish.
You opened your eyes. His violet gaze was right there, wide, dark, and utterly wrecked. The arrogance had completely drained from his face, leaving behind a raw, naked vulnerability that you hadn't seen since the nights before the fame, the arenas, and the noise took over.
It had been years. Years of icy silence, bitter glances across the tour bus, brutal fights, and pretending the fire between you had burned out into ash. Years of building walls and convincing yourself that London was the end.
And yet.
The second his lips had touched yours, every single year melted into nothing. That same terrifying, electric jolt had hit you instantly, crashing through your pulse like a live wire. Underneath the metallic taste of blood from his split lip, the burn of cheap bourbon on his breath, and the lingering residue of sweat, leather, and hard rock—it was still just him.
Fuck.
You hated him for what he did. You hated him for London, for the chaos, for making your life a constant, living storm. But as you stared into his dark, searching eyes, feeling the hard kick of his heart pounding against your ribs, the terrifying truth settled heavy in your chest.
After everything, all you wanted was him.
You wanted a promise. You wanted him to look you in the eyes and swear that he would never walk away again, that he would never lock you out, that London was a nightmare that would never repeat itself. But asking Aerion for a guarantee was like asking the storm to stop rolling over the horizon. He was built on chaos, and a promise from him would just be another lie to burn through.
He couldn't give you forever. But he could give you this.
He could give you tonight. He could give you the quiet hours of the early morning, the space between tour dates, and maybe—just maybe—he could give you the next day, and the day after that, to start tearing down the mountain of bullshit he had built between you.
Aerion seemed to read it in your eyes. The shift from desperation to a fierce, quiet surrender. His hand slid down from the back of your head, his calloused thumb tracing the line of your jaw before hooking beneath your chin to tilt your face up.
"I can't undo it," he murmured against your mouth, his voice low, dark, and thick with an honesty that cut deeper than any smooth-talked vow ever could. "I can't promise you tomorrow, or the next tour, or whatever the hell comes after. But I'm here right now. I'm yours tonight. Take it."
"Then give it to me," you breathed.
And that was all the invitation he needed.
Aerion’s mouth claimed yours again, but the restraint was completely gone. It was a hungry, possessive wreck of a kiss, his tongue sliding past your lips, tasting of dark liquor and the metallic tang of his own blood. He lifted you effortlessly, your thighs instantly wrapping around his waist as he backed you up against the narrow wall of the lounge. The wood groaned under the weight, but neither of you cared.
His hands were everywhere at once—rough, desperate, and heavy. One hand slammed against the wall beside your head to anchor you, while the other slid down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises through the lace of your jumpsuit. You pulled him tighter, your fingers knotting into his dark, messy hair, dragging his face deeper into the curve of your neck.
He let out a low, rough growl, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse. A sharp, electric shiver shot straight down your spine.
"Tell me this is what you want," he rasped, his hot breath fanning across your collarbone as his hand moved to the front zipper of your stage gear. "Tell me to stop, or tell me you're taking all of it."
"Don't you dare stop," you whispered, reaching down to grab the front of his shirt, tearing at the fabric until it gave way.
Aerion shed his shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it into the dark corner of the bus, leaving his broad chest bare, heavy with sweat, and marked by the faint line of his ribcage rising and falling with every ragged breath. He didn't wait. His fingers hooked into the neck of your lace jumpsuit, pulling the fabric down over your shoulders, exposing you to the cool air of the room—and to the dark, consuming heat of his gaze.
His eyes swept down your body, dark with an unholy kind of reverence. "Fuck," he muttered, his knuckles brushing over your bare skin, sending goosebumps rippling across your flesh. "You're going to destroy me."
"Good," you choked out, pulling him down by the back of his neck.
His mouth hit yours again, hard and unyielding, as he slid a knee between your legs, pressing his weight fully into you. The friction through the thin layer of lace was unbearable, a white-hot spark catching in the pit of your stomach. You arched into him, a soft gasp breaking into his mouth, and Aerion groaned, his hips hitching forward to match your rhythm.
His hand slid down, pushing the lace past your hips until you were completely bare to him in the dim light of the tour bus. He didn't offer a gentle touch; his calloused palm cupped you directly, his fingers slick and warm, finding the precise center of your ache with a pressure that made your knees go weak in his grip.
"Aerion—" you gasped, your head snapping back against the paneling as he began to move his thumb in slow, agonizingly tight circles.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a dark thread in the quiet room.
You forced your eyes open, meeting his heavy, violet gaze. He watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face, taking ownership of every ragged breath you drew. He lowered his head, his mouth tracing down your throat, over your chest, taking one hardened peak into his mouth while his hand worked between your thighs.
The combination of his hot, wet mouth and the sharp, rhythmic rhythm of his fingers drove you over the edge of sanity. You clamped your legs around his waist, your nails digging deep into the bare skin of his shoulders, leaving red crescents in their wake.
"Aerion, please," you begged, the word escaping you before you could stop it.
He smiled against your skin—a dark, dangerous tilt of his lips. He reached down, unbuckling his belt with one swift, practiced motion, pushing his jeans down just far enough to free himself. He lined himself up at your entrance, the broad tip pressing against your wet heat, stalling for just one torturous second.
"Say my name," he growled against your lips, his hips hovering at the precipice. "Say who you're doing this for."
"Aerion," you sobbed out, leaning forward to press your forehead to his. "You. Always you."
With a low, gut-wrenching groan, he drove himself all the way inside you in one long, devastating thrust.
The sensation was so intense it stole the breath right from your lungs. You were completely filled, stretched tight around him, the years of separation, anger, and longing collapsing into a single point of blinding heat. Aerion froze for a beat, his eyes closing as a shudder ran through his entire frame, his muscles locking tight as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
"Fuck," he choked out, his voice wrecked. "You feel... god, you're so tight."
He began to move. At first, it was slow, deep, and agonizingly thorough—pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in, setting a rhythm that rattled the very frame of the bus. Every slide of his skin against yours was an electric current, a silent confession of everything he had tried to run from.
You met him thrust for thrust, your hips lifting to swallow every inch he gave you. The friction was unbearable, a tight, coiling tension building in the lower half of your body, threatening to snap you in two. Aerion shifted his grip, sliding his hands under your thighs to hoist you higher against the wall, changing the angle so he hit deeper, harder, striking that exact, sweet spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids.
"Aerion—I'm—" you gasped, your voice breaking as the coil pulled impossibly tight.
"I've got you," he rasped, his pace turning wild, chaotic, and completely unrestrained. His chest slammed against yours with every deep, punishing drive, his mouth finding yours to drink in your cries as you shattered beneath him.
The climax hit you like a physical wave, crashing through your nerves and wringing a sharp, high cry from your throat that he swallowed whole. Your walls contracted violently around him, pulsing in rhythm with the shockwaves running through your blood.
The tight, helpless grip of your body was the final straw for him. Aerion buried his face in your shoulder, letting out a raw, guttural groan as he drove into you one last, deep time, his body going rigid as he came inside you, his hot release filling you completely while he held you pinned to the wall.
For long minutes, the only sound in the back lounge was the heavy, ragged sound of your shared breathing and the distant hum of the highway tires.
Aerion didn't pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against yours, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, gently, he slid you down until your feet touched the floorboards, though his arms remained wrapped tightly around your waist, refusing to let an inch of space come between you.
He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, and finally your bruised lips—a soft, lingering touch that felt unnervingly sweet compared to the storm that had just passed.
"Tomorrow," Aerion whispered against your mouth, his hand gently smoothing back the damp hair from your face. "We talk about the bullshit tomorrow."
You closed your eyes, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face in his warm skin. "Tomorrow."
The quiet of the bus wrapped around you both, heavy and strangely still.
Aerion’s chest rose and fell in slow, steady surges against yours, his heart still hammering a furious rhythm against your ribs. He didn't pull away, nor did he slip back behind the smirk, the sharp banter, or the untouchable, chaotic armor he usually wore like a second skin.
He stayed right there, present and completely exposed in the dim, amber light of the lounge. His calloused hand lingered at the small of your back, his long fingers gently tracing the curve of your spine in quiet, rhythmic sweeps—a tender, grounding touch that had nothing to do with stage presence or bravado.
For years, everything between you had been a game of leverage, a battle of wills, or a high-octane show put on for an audience of thousands. Every kiss was a challenge; every push was meant to test your limits.
But as his thumb brushed over your pulse point, soft and steady, you felt the subtle shift in the air.
And for once, he was genuine. He would try—not to push you over the edge, or please the crowd, but to please you.
MOURNFUL PURSUIT. (peter prior x umbrella!reader)
CHAPTER ONE: the beginning.
content warnings: body horror, death, blood, gore, guns, psychological distress, graphic depictions of violence, viral outbreak, burn injury description, zombies.
word count: 4k.
The map was confusing. The names of the roads were unclear, and the highways all looked the same.
Maybe that was Peter’s fault for relying on a piece of paper instead of technology.
He didn't realize how much time had passed while he was there, staring at that thing, which was so crumpled that the mountains printed on it looked almost real. He should have arrived in Raccoon City hours ago if he hadn't taken the wrong turn and gotten lost.
The paper map was supposed to keep him away from his phone, away from the messages, and away from his memories. Liz had told him he should learn to let go, that he should forget Ennis just as the sun did from time to time, but the sun has many sons, while he would lose his only one.
Being a good father and a good husband shouldn’t be that hard, after all, he had gotten along well with Kayla for a few weeks.
He put Darwin to sleep; he came home early from work; in other words, he stuck to a script that he didn't know was possible to follow. He tried his best to pretend that his mind wasn’t replaying the same moment over and over whenever he closed his eyes. It was an award-worthy performance, until he realized that his guilt was consuming him completely, slithering through his guts like a snake, regardless of whether he’d done something right or not.
He started making the same mistakes all over again, and this time he blamed the fact that he couldn’t bear to see the two people he loved most trying to figure out what was wrong with him. Kayla didn’t deserve that. Darwin didn’t deserve that.
It was Liz who came up with the idea of a lateral transfer when she noticed the atmosphere around Peter was changing again. Even during a regular talk, he was hesitant to speak, afraid that the minor slip might lead him to say the wrong thing. And even worse, it seemed that not only was he drawing stares, but people seemed intrigued by the idea of asking him about Hank Prior. Did they really think that comforted him? That remembering his father’s presence would make him happier? They should have realized it was cruel, perhaps they just wanted to see how his jaw would clench, how his eyes would wander.
It wasn’t sadness, it was guilt.
That only made the situation harder. He couldn’t tell the whole truth, couldn’t reveal that he’d put a bullet in his father’s head, couldn’t say that he’d gotten rid of the body and put up missing posters as if he didn’t know where his father was.
His chest grew heavier every time he lied, every time he had to pretend he missed his father, because he knew he did. Even with the slaps and the arguments, a part of him needed validation, those little nods of approval that were practically nonexistent, and he thought Liz was already tired of having him follow her around like a lost puppy.
The paperwork part was a tedious process. He almost bit his nails off from stress when he realized the answer would take a few days to arrive, if it would arrive at all.
He tried to keep his expectations low, swallowing his anxiety every time he opened his inbox. Nothing. For almost a full month, he was being eaten up inside, waiting, hoping, and anticipating. Until the number in his spam folder went up, one more than the day before, and there it was: what he’d been eagerly awaiting, a way out of the pit he’d fallen into and couldn’t climb out of.
Officer Peter Prior,
On behalf of the R.P.D., congratulations on your successful transfer. Your work and assistance during the investigation of the Tsalal deaths are to be commended, and we couldn't be prouder to welcome you to our department.
Please report for orientation at the Raccoon City police station on Friday, Sept. 28th at 8:00 a.m.
We look forward to serving with you.
Raccoon City Police Chief
Brian Irons
He received that email on August 4.
It had been almost eight or seven months since the incident. He tried to force himself to stop counting, but he couldn’t.
All those days left until he had to catch the plane meant that he would have enough time to cry during his goodbyes and smile once he was far from that city. A different job awaited him, with new people and new problems, but perhaps no longer with the feeling that he was being judged and watched at every step.
Without the cold and without the layers of clothing, he almost felt naked in that heat, even with the air conditioning on.
The car was his. It wasn’t a rental or his father’s truck, the one where he could still smell the blood every time he got in. The problem was the full trunk, packed with small mementos he'd brought from Ennis to help him adjust to his new home, while even the back seats were stacked with boxes.
Whenever he drove over a speed bump, the contents of the bags shifted, reminding him he wasn’t alone.
When he passed a gas station, the one he’d seen a few days earlier on Google Maps, he let out a sigh of relief. That meant he was on the right track now.
He should have at least stopped to fill up and get a taste of the town’s atmosphere, but he decided to keep going to avoid falling any further behind. And though the place was empty, with no lines, he was already late. Not by one or two hours, but by a whole day plus ten hours.
Maybe it was the time of day, but he expected that at 6 p.m. the streets would still be pretty busy — some bars open with live music, or people rushing out of work, eager to get home — but everything was very quiet. There were no car horns, no engine noise, no sound at all indicating that another car nearby was being driven. No motorcycle roar either.
It was extremely odd. In Ennis, even with the heat, there was usually some movement on certain streets at that time of the day.
But he wasn’t in Ennis. Maybe Raccoon City let workers leave early, some kind of different way of life he’d have to get used to eventually.
Cars began to appear on the road, but to add another layer of creepiness, they weren’t moving, and it wasn’t a traffic jam either. They were scattered haphazardly on the street, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that someone hadn’t been able to solve. Some had their engines off, others were switched on. Doors were open, as if the occupants had tried to run out and forgotten to shut them. Other cars were too close together; clearly, there had been a collision.
Peter had to slow down drastically, shifting into first gear, one eyebrow rising as he drew closer to the scene unfolding before him. He drove as far as he could, until the street began to seem too narrow because of the disarray of cars abandoned there.
He had nowhere else to go if he stayed there. The road would not magically clear, parting all the cars, if he kept waiting.
The problem was the uneasy feeling already taking over his core, an urge to back up and return to the nearest airport, but he couldn’t give up at the first sign of something odd, and there was certainly no way to back up there, unless he wanted to scratch his new car and realize that even with the new scratch, he wouldn't be able to get out of that street.
With the ink in his pen running out, he marked a small dot on the name of the street where he thought he was, writing “my car is here” above it. He stuffed the map into his pants pocket, along with his phone, and hid the gun behind his back, between the waistband of his pants and his skin, his shirt covering it up.
There was really no one on the street.
He never imagined that the first step he would take in this new city would be right in the middle of the street, his shoe against the asphalt as he walked, trying to make as little noise as possible. He was afraid of disrupting the peace the place seemed to offer or the silent chaos that had taken over it.
The stores were closed.
Peter tried pressing his forehead against the glass, his blue eyes scanning for any movement, even in the dark, among the mannequins and the racks of clothes.
Still nothing.
He tried squinting to see across the street, but it was the same. No one there either.
The farther Peter walked, the more he found himself turning his head, wondering if someone would appear at any moment to dispel the sense of the uncanny that hung over the city.
In the silence, even the slightest noise can be heard, and that’s why he was able to hear what sounded like a gate opening, a soft creak. He didn’t think twice before heading in that direction. That meant something was there, whether a person or an animal, and it was a sign that the city wasn’t a ghost town.
He seemed to be approaching a building, one large enough to perhaps have six stories of apartments. But his gaze shifted back to the street, away from the sky, as he tried to figure out what had opened the gate, which now seemed to be closed again.
Looking even more lost than he did, someone else was also standing in the middle of the street, carrying a backpack that seemed to hold everything and anything. She, too, was watching her step, and he was already trying to weave through the zigzag of cars to reach her and stop looking like a stalker.
He was so, so close that he was actually relieved when she stopped. Maybe she’d heard him, but she didn’t turn around. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead.
A groan echoed through the air. It wasn't hers.
Even Peter stopped. His mission to reach her was put on temporary hold until he could figure out where that sound was coming from. He just hadn’t expected the noise to be drowned out by the speakers on the lampposts, which now seemed to be blaring at full volume.
Attention all citizens: Due to the citywide outbreak, you are advised to take shelter at the Raccoon City police station. Free food and medical supplies will be provided to everyone in need.
The first time that announcement was broadcast over the street loudspeaker, you had already been inside your house for two days.
Initially, it was meant to be just your week off, reviewing some reports from colleagues to ensure the information about the virus strain was accurate and determine whether any corrections were needed. However, on 23 September, you began receiving highly specific and detailed messages on your phone. Your mother insisted that you should not even drink a drop of tap water, and your father said that they might not be able to make it home in time for dinner because they would be working overtime. At the same time, they both asked the same thing of you: stay home, and don't come looking for them.
Reading those messages sent a chill down your spine.
Nothing in your family was ever that simple. Everything was always far more complicated. Pouring a glass of water wasn't just about pouring; it was about knowing which glass to use, how much water to pour, and what the right temperature should be so it wouldn't be too cold or too hot. And to add to that, working at the Umbrella Corporation hadn’t exactly been a relaxing experience over the past few months either.
The tranquility of the labs had vanished. Whispers were spreading through the hallways here and there, and scientific projects were being abandoned midway, as if something was seriously wrong.
Every time you asked your mother what was going on, she just shrugged and said it was probably a cost-cutting measure, explaining that they wanted to keep funding only the projects they considered worthwhile. But what kind of cost-cutting results in throwing entire folders of documents into paper shredders over and over again, with the scraps being thrown into the biohazard waste?
On the first day of isolation, the only things you had to entertain yourself with were TV and social media. They were also your source of information. You’d leave the news channel on, glancing at it out of the corner of your eye whenever a story seemed to be the source of your parents’ concern. News of disturbances among football fans at a game, long lines outside the hospital, a bar where a massive fight had broken out, small things that might seem normal, but that were raising suspicions inside you.
During every commercial break, you sent a message to your dad, asking if he was okay, if he could tell you what was going on, or if they needed help. He didn’t reply to any of the messages, and during the fifth break, the signal was cut off, affecting the entire city. No news was getting out of the town, just as no news from outside was reaching its residents.
Those were boring, nerve-wracking days, and every now and then, you’d stare at the apartment door, hoping it was all just a dream, but the strange noises that you ignored told the truth. Whether they were low grunts or those distant noises that resembled gunfire. You still pretended that your life wasn’t falling apart, that the city where you’d lived for so many years was collapsing around you, and you were still trying to maintain a routine within the four intact walls of your home.
The folders from your scientific research were still open, the papers now scattered across the room as you tried to finish reading and figure out where you’d gotten it wrong. There were a few grammatical errors here and there, which you would scribble notes next to, making corrections for when you went to type it up again. That was your pastime: finding the mistakes, marking them, and pretending you’d fix them later. Until there were no more mistakes. Until there were no more pages to review.
On September 26, when that audio started playing and sounding like it was coming from inside your head, the lasagna you'd left in the oven was long gone, which left only the cookies and cereal bars on the shelves.
After so many repetitions, you already knew every word and every punctuation mark. That announcement was etched into your bones, causing your lips to move on their own as you recited the phrase. That made you wonder if you should follow what your parents wanted. You always did exactly what they asked, but what if the R.P.D. was safe? What if sticking with more survivors stopped you from counting the little tiles in the kitchen? Should you stay there and wait for the water to run out completely, then face the world with a dry throat, or leave while you're still healthy to find what you need for the next few days? Or better yet, leave and head straight to the Umbrella building, find your parents, and be safer?
The last option definitely seemed better. And obvious.
Your hunger was growing stronger and stronger. Even though you were eating little by little and saving more for later, you weren't completely satisfied. There was no more fruit for you to squeeze the juice out of. There was no more ice in the fridge to let melt and drink. In other words, once the bottles ran dry, you’d get thirsty and have to go out looking for water. Or worse, you'd have to drink the water from the sink.
One way or another, you'd have to stop obeying what they asked you to do. It meant facing reality and dealing with the situation, whether it was going out or just getting by with the water that was still coming out of the faucet.
You wanted to believe that finding the courage was easy, that it took seconds, minutes, or hours, but it actually took days.
Every time you got too close to the wooden door, your mind played out all the possibilities of what could happen, everything that could be waiting for you on the other side. Maybe the hallway was destroyed, or worse, maybe someone was on their way to save you just as you were leaving, and because of your decision, you wouldn't meet up.
Even the backpack you'd packed — the survival backpack, as you called it — was a target of your indecision and constant defeatism. Everything was in there, from a taser to granola bars, but every now and then, you’d take it all out and put it back, hoping that would help you figure out what to do.
It was on the 29th that you finally understood that no one was coming to save you. You were just one of the many people who might have been waiting for rescue.
The door creaked louder than you remembered, the wood scraping against the cold floor as you held your breath, waiting for something to happen. But nothing happened.
When you pressed the elevator button, the light came on, but nothing happened. All that remained were the dimly lit stairs that all the building’s residents preferred to ignore and pretend didn’t exist.
Going downstairs is always easier than going up, so it wasn’t that hard, even with the weight on your back and the uncertainty almost dragging you back home again.
While the building was too quiet, the street was more chaotic than ever.
Cars were parked where they shouldn’t be, some appearing to have crashed with one another, with traces of fire and debris scattered across the asphalt. The smell was awful, and it reminded you so much of meat roasting on a barbecue that you refused to look any closer out the window.
You were so distracted by the smell that you forgot to look around again.
Something was shuffling toward you, so slowly that it wasn’t audible until it was too close. Turning around was a mistake.
Just about 15 feet away from you was the source of the burning smell. He didn't limp. He just walked too slowly, as if the world were moving faster than it should. His shirt was long and thick, almost like a flannel, but it dragged along the ground like a veil. Blood was splattered all over his shorts.
You were genuinely opening your mouth to ask a question, to try to have a conversation with another human being after so many days locked up at home. Maybe he needed help. Maybe he was so badly injured that he was in shock.
Now the announcement echoed louder than ever. With no windows to block the noise, it felt like the voice was right above you, whispering those exact same words into your ear.
Until your leg froze.
You were wrong.
At first glance, it was a shirt. It must have been a shirt. The sleeves were there, but up close, the part near his stomach was something thin and pinkish, different from the dark blue of what had once been a flannel shirt. Nothing covered his shoulders, nothing covered his face, and when you say nothing, it really was nothing.
What should have been the fabric of his shirt had fused with his skin. All that covered him was muscle, pure muscle, with tendons exposed and bones protruding. Maybe he’d tried to take off his top and made the situation worse.
One of his eyes was there, empty and glassy, while the other was gone. There was a dark hole where his eye socket should have been, and the burn had stripped the skin from that side of the face. Or maybe the skin was still there. Maybe everything had fused together, just like his shirt and his skin. Everything about him had become one.
His hands reached out toward you, so close, yet so far away. As he raised his arms, his skin stretched with them. It was so thin that small tears began to appear from the strain. Perhaps he had done this to everyone else who had passed by there before. Had anyone been there before? Had anyone tried to help him? You were caught in a tangle of questions. Your legs refused to move, your voice refused to come out, maybe you had just broken down.
A shot rang out right beside you, ricocheting off the hand that was so close to your face and causing it to stagger backward.
Your ear rang, a warning that you certainly weren’t defeated, that you could still escape.
“This way.”
It was a real voice, a voice that wasn't recorded, a voice you had never heard before.
You were already staggering toward him, and as you approached what looked like a healthy human being, you checked to see if he had any visible signs that might remind you of the man who had just reached for you.
But you didn’t find anything. He looked healthy, with no blood on him and no visible wounds.
More of those things were approaching. Some were burned, others were missing limbs, and the grunts began to pile up on top of one another, forming a large crowd.
“What the hell is going on?” Another bullet was already on its way, heading straight for the leg of a person that was approaching the two of you.
If he had to deal with all of them, he’d probably run out of ammo within the first few minutes.
Your plan backfired. They were coming out into the very alley you were going to take to head toward your parents. Everything was spiraling out of control, and there was nothing you could do. Your taser probably wouldn't even make them flinch.
All that was left was to believe that the speakers were speaking the truth.
“The police station isn't far from here.” The words escaped your lips. It was the reason you were already outpacing him. It was a way for him to understand what was going through your mind.
Your fight-or-flight response was in full swing.
It wasn’t the stranger’s fault, it really wasn’t. The two of you didn't even have time to introduce yourselves as you ran, darting down alleys and around corners while trying to avoid the undead that were appearing around every turn.
At least you could hear the sound of his footsteps behind you, with the occasional gunshot piercing the silence of that nightmarish situation.
The closer the R.P.D. sign came into view, the more urgent you felt to get to the building. Your steps quickened, and your hands gripped your backpack so tightly that your knuckles hurt. You hadn't been there in a long while, and you'd never had any reason to visit it.
When your hands touched the cold bars of the police station gate, a part of you felt relieved. That was where the rest of the survivors were; that was where you were supposed to be. If you had gotten there earlier, you wouldn’t have been forced to run so fast, and you wouldn’t have struggled to open that gate while gasping for breath after practically dodging people who were clearly not in their right minds.
You held the gate open long enough for the man to pass through it, the two of you shutting the only barrier separating you from death.
“You alright?” It was your turn to ask as you watched him catch his breath.
“A lot of action for my first day.” He stumbled over a few words here and there before straightening his back. “Name is Peter Prior.”
You gave him your name as you walked through the doors of the police station, and there, where you expected to find a bunch of people gathered together and loud conversations filling the room, you found nothing. No survivors, no sign of anyone who could turn that message, which was playing so insistently over the loudspeakers, into something real.
“There has to be someone here.” It came out pathetic, even you couldn't believe in your own hope anymore. That huge statue was the only thing keeping the room from feeling completely empty.
Maybe the fact that it took you so long to work up the courage left you in a worse situation. Without a safe place, without the comfort of the reports, at least now you had company. But at what cost? You couldn't stop thinking about all the possibilities that might have worked out. Maybe withering away in bed would have been the right choice.
taglist: @br1ghtfl4me17, @meowieees first fic after many years guys... kinda nervous
Does entity!companion hunt twin!bb the way they do in the og! Verse? How does he feel about it?
(Words cannot express how much I love bb you made an amazing oc)
brendan is not built for running. he's all lean limbs and bad coordination and he trips over his own feet on flat ground, so the chase itself is almost comical. he's stumbling through corridors, breathing hard, heart slamming in his chest, and he can hear you behind him. your laughter echoing off the walls, bright and delighted and hungry, and the sound of it sends heat flooding down his spine because you're having fun. you're playing.
the most powerful thing in this place is giggling like a girl at a carnival because chasing him is fun for you.
and he likes it. he likes it so much it scares him. every peal of your laughter tightens his gut. every echo of your footsteps closing the gap makes his skin prickle with want. your pretty, pretty boy, running from you on shaky legs, and the terror and the arousal are so tangled together brendan couldn't separate them with a knife.
you catch him in under three minutes. you always catch him. your hands find his shoulders and he's pressed against the wall and you're on him, climbing him, legs locking around his waist and your arms winding around his neck. your face buries in his throat and that purr kicks in, vibrating through his collarbone, into his sternum, rattling his teeth. your nose drags along his pulse point and you inhale deep, your arms tightening and the sound you make is pure, animal satisfaction. mine. caught. keeping you.
and he melts into it. brendan’s head drops back against the wall. his hands come up to hold your thighs and his eyes close. he lets you claim him, lets you nuzzle and purr and mark him with your scent while his heart hammers so loud you can probably hear it without pressing your ear to his chest.
you take him down to the nest. pin his wrists. straddle him with that ancient, playful confidence and ride him while he gasps and shakes and grips the blankets and watches you above him with wide, stunned, adoring eyes. your prize. you caught him and this is your reward and he’s so happy to be taken he could weep.
but then it shifts.
it starts as a flicker. you're rolling your hips and his wrists are pinned under your hands and brendan feels this… pull in his chest. a heat that has nothing to do with what you're doing to his body and everything to do with the shape of you above him, powerful and vast and ancient, the thing that could crush him with a thought, held in place by his bony wrists beneath your palms.
you chose to be gentle with him. you chose to make yourself small enough to fit against his human frame. and the tenderness of that choice ignites a hunger in him he's never felt before.
he moves before he thinks. flips you. your back hits the nest and your eyes go wide because he's never done this, brendan has never once taken the lead, and his hands close around your wrists and press them above your head and he's breathing hard, flushed to his ears, peering down at you with an expression that's half-terrified and half-starved.
you could break his grip without effort. both of you know that, but you don't.
he lowers his mouth to your ear. his voice is shaking, raw, barely above a whisper, and the words come out rough like they've been living inside him for a long time and are only now finding air.
“you chased me so well tonight.” his lips brush the shell of your ear. “my wonderful hunter. let me reward you.”
and your purr stutters. actually skips a beat. because this is new, this is brendan with his jaw set and his hands firm on your wrists and his hips settling between your thighs with a confidence he didn't have five minutes ago. and the look in his eyes (still nervous, still shaking, but determined) sends a spike of molten heat through your ancient body that you haven't felt in centuries.
he fucks you slow. so slow it borders on cruel. holding your wrists, his forehead pressed to yours, murmuring praise into your mouth between kisses. “so beautiful. so strong. you could tear me apart and instead you let me hold you like this.” and his hips grind deep and you keen, your true form flickering at the edges, the human shape thinning, and brendan sees it and doesn't flinch. just tightens his grip on your wrists and whispers, “I've got you. stay with me. let me have this.”
gentle ones can bite. the boy who never fit anywhere fits exactly here. above you, inside you, whispering praise into the ear of a god who chose him.
he's just so tired, that bone deep exhaustion, and all he wants is to stay in tub until he's soaked in water and comfort. he never gets to do that in peace, with the house having too many people all the time, but once he finds the opportunity, he doesn't waste it.
and you're here. next to the tub, offering him your collection of fancy soaps and bubbles. he likes the vanilla scented one best, you generously share it with him. it's all gentle words and your soft spoken voice. you talk about anything and everything, he listens and he smiles.
"can i wash your hair?" you ask and he loves the way you ask the question. you seem happy to be included in his personal comfort hour and you try to be as attentive as you can without making him talk too much. he knows you do it with purpose, you want him to rest not just his body but also his mind. "i'd love that, angel." he says, and he feels shy suddenly because how can you look like a literal angel to him with those bright eyes and that desire to take care of him? he's wrecked.
your fingers are- well, this is hard to describe, but if he had to use one word, he'd just say that they are heavenly. you are very careful with him, trying to take care of possible knots that can form in his wet hair and working your fingers through his scalp as if you want to erase every bad thing ever happened to him. "oh-" he lets out a shaky breath, "you're just- mhm, so good to me, i don't know if i deserve it." you laugh softly. "of course you do," you tell him. he believes you, he believes in anything you say with those lovely fingers taking him to a better part of his reality. "you've been so tired, haven't you? just needed this."
fuck him, you are holding his heart in your palms and you are so gentle with it, he doesn't know what to do. "relax." you say. he listens. he just senses things and they are lovely things, your fingers in his hair and the vanilla scent in the air and the warmth of the water and the way his back starts feeling numb because he's maybe a bit too tall for the tub. "i wanna spend years here," he confesses. "i think i'm gonna fall asleep."
summary: when dean notices what allie hasn’t, he takes matters into his own hands and helps two hearts finally connect.
word count: 2.2k
warnings: fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers, hidden feelings, dean di laurentis being a meddler, flirty banter, awkward confessions, soft romance, cute moments, happy ending.
a/n: this came to me in a dream. italics are also a flashback here!!!
There were a lot of things people knew about you.
You were stubborn.
You overthought everything.
You had a habit of saying “I’m fine” when everyone around you knew you absolutely were not.
And, according to Dean Di Laurentis…
You were completely, hopelessly, embarrassingly in love with Allie Hayes.
“I am not.”
Dean didn’t even look up from his phone.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You crossed your arms.
“Can you actually explain how?”
Dean finally looked at you.
The look on his face was almost insulting.
“Do you want the short version or the version where I list every single piece of evidence?”
“The short version.”
“You’re obsessed with her.”
You immediately looked away.
“That is not a reason.”
“It’s literally the reason.”
“It’s not.”
Dean laughed.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You memorised an entire musical for her.”
You froze.
“That was different.”
“It was not.”
“It was.”
Dean leaned forward.
“You learnt the entire Legally Blonde: The Musical soundtrack because she said it was her favourite.”
You pointed at him.
“First of all, I did not learn the entire thing.”
Dean raised an eyebrow.
“You performed ‘Omigod You Guys’ in Garrett’s kitchen.”
“That was one time.”
“‘What You Want’ too.”
“I like the song.”
“‘Chip On My Shoulder.’”
“Dean.”
“‘Legally Blonde.’”
“Okay, I get it!”
He laughed.
“You are unbelievably down bad.”
You groaned, dropping your head onto the table.
“I was just trying to understand why she liked it.”
Dean tilted his head.
“By becoming an expert?”
“Maybe.”
He smiled.
“Okay. Actually, I need to hear the story now.”
You looked up.
“What story?”
“The moment you decided you were going to learn an entire musical for someone who had no idea you liked her.”
You opened your mouth.
Then closed it.
Because unfortunately…
You remembered.
⸻
It had started completely innocently.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
You and Allie had been sitting in the library a few weeks earlier, supposedly studying.
Although neither of you had really been doing much studying.
Allie had been scrolling through her phone, showing you different songs and videos she loved, explaining why certain characters meant so much to her.
And you had been pretending you weren’t completely captivated by the way she talked about things she cared about.
Then she brought up Legally Blonde: The Musical.
“I just think it’s so underrated,” Allie had said.
You looked up from your book.
“You like it?”
Her face immediately lit up.
“Obviously.”
You smiled.
“Why?”
“Because Elle Woods is amazing.”
“She is.”
Allie looked surprised.
“You’ve seen it?”
You shook your head.
“No, but you’re making me want to.”
She laughed.
“You have to watch it.”
“I will.”
“You promise?”
You nodded.
“I promise.”
And maybe it should have ended there.
But later that night, you went home and watched it.
Just once.
That was the plan.
Except one watch became two.
Two became listening to the soundtrack while studying.
Then suddenly you knew every song.
You knew the lyrics.
You knew the choreography.
And somehow, you found yourself singing along without even thinking about it.
⸻
Two weeks later, you were in your room.
Completely unaware anyone was home.
Your headphones were on.
A hairbrush was in your hand.
And you were very confidently performing Legally Blonde: The Musical.
Specifically, “Omigod You Guys.”
You were halfway through the song when your door opened.
You froze.
Allie stood there.
Holding a coffee.
Trying desperately not to laugh.
For a few seconds, neither of you said anything.
Then—
“Should I come back?”
Your face immediately went bright red.
“No.”
Allie smiled.
“I don’t know. This is kind of entertaining.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You groaned.
“I thought you were out.”
“I was.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I forgot my notes.”
You slowly lowered the hairbrush.
“Right.”
Her smile softened.
“I didn’t know you knew this song.”
You looked away.
“I don’t.”
“Allie.”
“Okay, maybe I do.”
She laughed.
“How?”
You shrugged.
“You said you liked it.”
The smile on her face changed.
Softened.
“You learnt it because I said I liked it?”
Your heart immediately started racing.
“No. I mean. Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
“I just wanted to understand why you liked it.”
For a second, Allie just looked at you.
Not in a weird way.
Not in a bad way.
Just surprised.
“That’s actually really sweet.”
You shrugged.
“It’s just a musical.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“You pay attention.”
You looked at her.
“What?”
“You remember little things people say.”
You didn’t know what to say.
Because she was right.
You did.
Especially when it came to her.
Allie sat down beside you.
“So…”
“So?”
“Are you going to perform the rest?”
You laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because I have dignity.”
She looked at the hairbrush still in your hand.
“You were just performing a Broadway song alone in your room.”
You paused.
“Okay. Fair.”
She laughed.
And for a moment, everything felt easy.
No worrying.
No overthinking.
No wondering if she would ever feel the same.
Just you and Allie.
Laughing.
And maybe that was the moment Dean realised.
Because he had walked past your room earlier.
He had seen the way you looked at her.
The way you smiled without noticing.
The way you cared about every tiny thing she said.
That was when he knew.
You weren’t just interested in Allie.
You were completely gone.
⸻
Dean smiled at you.
“See?”
You frowned.
“See what?”
“That.”
“What?”
“You don’t just like her.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Dean.”
“You’re completely gone.”
You tried to argue.
But you couldn’t.
Because he was right.
And he knew it.
“Which is why,” he said, standing up, “I’m going to help you.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It is.”
“Dean.”
He grinned.
“Trust me.”
You should have known then.
That whatever Dean had planned…
Was going to be dramatic.
⸻
By the weekend, the hockey team had another win under their belts.
Which meant one thing.
Malone’s.
The place was packed.
Music filled the room, people crowded around tables, and everyone was celebrating.
You had barely been there ten minutes before you saw them.
Dean.
And Allie.
Of course.
Dean was leaning against the bar, making Allie laugh.
And your stomach immediately twisted.
Because Dean knew exactly what he was doing.
“Oh my God,” Hannah muttered beside you.
You looked over.
“What?”
“He’s still doing it.”
“I know.”
“He really committed to the bit.”
“He’s annoying.”
“He’s helping.”
You sighed.
“I know.”
Hannah looked at you.
“Then why are you still standing here?”
You didn’t answer.
Because the truth was embarrassing.
You were scared.
“What if she doesn’t feel the same?”
Hannah’s expression softened.
“What if she does?”
You looked back at Allie.
She was smiling.
Laughing.
Completely unaware that she was the reason you were currently having an internal crisis.
Hannah nudged your shoulder.
“Go.”
You hesitated.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“What if I ruin everything?”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Hannah smiled.
“I know Allie.”
You looked at her.
“And I know you.”
A pause.
“She’s not going to stop caring about you because you told her the truth.”
Your heart softened slightly.
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
You looked back at Allie one more time.
Then took a deep breath.
“Okay.”
Hannah smiled.
“Good.”
⸻
Across the room, Dean noticed immediately.
The second you started walking towards them, his smile grew.
“There she is,” he whispered.
Allie frowned.
“What?”
Before Dean could answer, you stopped beside them.
“Hey.”
The second Allie looked up, her entire expression changed.
A smile immediately appeared.
“Hi.”
And somehow, that made you even more nervous.
“I, um…”
You glanced at Dean.
He raised his eyebrows.
Go on.
You sighed.
“Can I steal you for a minute?”
Allie didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah, of course.”
Dean immediately stepped away.
“I’m just going to…”
He gestured towards the crowd.
“Disappear.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“You planned this.”
He smiled innocently.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Dean.”
“Good luck.”
And then he walked away before you could argue.
⸻
Outside, everything felt quieter.
The music from inside became a distant sound.
The cool air helped.
A little.
Allie looked at you.
“You’ve been acting weird all week.”
You laughed nervously.
“Yeah.”
“Did I do something?”
Your eyes widened.
“No. No, absolutely not.”
She relaxed.
“Okay.”
You looked down.
Your hands were shaking slightly.
“I think Dean has been trying to make me jealous.”
Allie blinked.
“Dean?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
You laughed softly.
“Because he knows.”
“Knows what?”
You looked at her.
And finally, you stopped avoiding it.
“That I’m in love with you.”
Silence.
For a moment, you thought maybe you had made a mistake.
But then Allie’s expression softened.
“I…”
You swallowed.
“I know this is probably a lot.”
“It’s not.”
“I just…”
You smiled nervously.
“I’m tired of pretending.”
You looked at her.
“I like you, Allie.”
Your voice got quieter.
“A lot.”
She didn’t look away.
“I’ve liked you for months.”
A small laugh escaped you.
“I learned an entire musical because of you.”
That made her smile.
“The Legally Blonde thing?”
You froze.
“You know about that?”
She laughed.
“Hannah told me.”
You covered your face.
“Oh my God.”
“It was cute.”
“It was embarrassing.”
“It was cute.”
You looked at her.
“You really think that?”
She nodded.
“Yeah.”
A small silence passed.
Then she smiled.
“You know, that’s one of my favourite things about you.”
“What?”
“You pay attention.”
Your expression softened.
“You remember little things.”
You shrugged.
“Because I care.”
“I know.”
You looked at her.
“You know?”
Allie laughed softly.
“I knew you liked me.”
Your eyes widened.
“What?”
“I just didn’t know if you were ever going to actually tell me.”
You stared at her.
“You knew?”
“Mhm.”
“How?”
She smiled.
“You think you’re subtle.”
You looked away.
“I am subtle.”
“Allie.”
“Okay, maybe not.”
She laughed.
“I noticed.”
You smiled.
“So this entire week…”
She looked back towards the window.
Dean was watching.
The second he saw you looking, he gave you a dramatic thumbs-up.
You laughed.
“He’s never going to let this go.”
“No.”
“He’s going to tell everyone he’s responsible.”
“He probably already has.”
You shook your head.
“He’s ridiculous.”
“He is.”
A pause.
Then Allie looked back at you.
“But…”
“But?”
“I’m glad he did.”
You smiled.
“Really?”
She nodded.
“Really.”
Your heart felt lighter.
“So…”
“So?”
You smiled nervously.
“Does this mean you like me too?”
Allie laughed.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
You smiled.
“I cannot believe this.”
“I can.”
You looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been waiting.”
Your heart skipped.
“You have?”
She nodded.
“Yeah.”
Then she stepped closer.
“Can I kiss you?”
You smiled.
“I was going to ask you that.”
She laughed.
“You’re too slow.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
And then she kissed you.
Soft.
Gentle.
Everything you had spent months imagining.
When you pulled away, you were both smiling.
Neither of you could stop.
Then the door opened.
Dean stood there.
Arms crossed.
A ridiculous grin on his face.
“I knew it.”
You groaned.
“Dean.”
“No, no. Let me have this.”
“You are unbearable.”
“I successfully helped two idiots realise they liked each other.”
LS getting a nipple piercing to match aerion's LS getting a nipple piercing to match aerion's LS getting a nipple piercing to match aerion's LS getting a nipple piercing to match aerion's LS getting a nipple piercing to match aerion's LS getting a nipple piercing to match aerion's
you might genuinely have to muzzle him. i’m so serious.
he wouldn't even be able to tell you why it hits him so hard. it's not just that it's hot (it is). it's not just that it's a matching thing (it is that too, and the possessive implications of matching make his pupils blow wide). it's that you (all that composure, always so controlled) did something to your body that mirrors something he did to his.
you marked yourself the way he's marked. you let someone put a needle through you the way he did and now there's a piece of metal in your skin that echoes him and he can't think about anything else.
the healing period is genuinely a torture for him. six to twelve months where he's supposed to leave it alone. except he can’t leave it alone. he is physically incapable of leaving it alone. you tell him it's not healed, you can't put your mouth on it, it can get infected and he hears mayyybe forty percent of the words because the other sixty percent of his brain is just a flatline of mine mine mine mine.
you end up dragging him off you by the hair on a near-daily basis. fist in those platinum strands, yanking his head back while he makes a sound that's half protest, his mouth wet, open, and his eyes glazed, tongue still out like he forgot to put it away. “aerion. no. it's healing.”
“I wasn't—“
“your mouth was literally on it.”
“barely.”
“aerion.”
he goes. sulking. furious. hard in his jeans and absolutely unrepentant about it too. gives it maybe twenty minutes before his hand is drifting back, casual, like he thinks you won't notice his thumb grazing across the front of your shirt.
once it's healed though? it's sooo over. it's genuinely, completely over. he's actually insufferable about it. his mouth is on that piercing every chance he gets. lips, tongue, teeth, tugging at the metal gently while he fucks you, rolling it between his teeth until you arch off the bed. he learns exactly how much pressure makes you gasp and then he just lives there, face buried in your chest, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
and the casual touches are almost worse than the sexual ones. arm around you on the couch, palm resting against your breast like it just happened to land there, and you can feel his fingers shift. barely, just enough to find the little indent of metal through your shirt. he's not even looking at you. he's watching tv or scrolling his phone or talking to someone and his fingers are just there, tracing the outline of it through fabric like some fucked up rosary. like a nervous habit. like something he needs to touch to confirm is still real.
you wear a tank top without a bra around the penthouse once and he walks into a doorframe.
shoulder-first into the doorframe because he was staring at the outline of that piercing through thin cotton instead of where he was going. doesn't even have the dignity to be embarrassed about it. just stands there, rubbing his shoulder, staring at your chest. you raise an eyebrow. he crosses the room in three strides and pulls the strap down with his teeth and you don't make it to the bedroom.
it's the matching that gets him tbh. it's always the matching. the principle of claiming and being claimed back by the only one he finds worthy.
he catches a glimpse of himself shirtless in the mirror and sees his own piercing and thinks about yours and his whole body goes tight and hot with it. two pieces of silver in two bodies that keep finding each other. he doesn't call it romantic because he'd literally rather die. but when you're both naked and his chest is pressed against yours and he can feel the metal against metal through skin? he holds you tighter than he needs to. buries his face in your neck. doesn't say anything, just feels you both, moving as one.
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: a quiet night alone in the dorm turns into an unforgettable first meeting for you and john logan.
pairing: john logan x fem! reader
warnings: not much honestly, a bit of nudity (reader is in a bralette), cussing
notes: here's my first ever john logan fic!!! pretty short but very cute and i def wanna write more for him the future so feel free to send a message with a request!!
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist
Honestly, having the dorm to yourself for the night was kind of amazing.
You loved Hannah and Allie, you really did, but sometimes you desperately needed a little alone time. Especially because your apartment had somehow become the designated "Allie Freakout Headquarters." Midterms? Allie panicked here. Relationship problems? Here. Hockey drama? Somehow also here.
Peace and quiet had become a rare luxury.
So you took full advantage of it.
You finally tackled the mountain of clothes that had been steadily growing on your bedroom floor because, honestly, between classes and work, you hadn't had the energy to care. The laundry still wasn't folded, but at least everything was off the floor.
Then, after staring at the stack for weeks, you finally caved and organized the massive record collection you, Hannah, and Allie had accumulated. Alphabetical order. Artist first, then album. It was weirdly satisfying.
By the time you finished, the apartment actually looked...clean.
For once, there weren't any assignments hanging over your head. No papers due at midnight. No readings you'd procrastinated until the last second. You could finally breathe.
Headphones settled comfortably over your ears, you cranked up Just Like Heaven by The Cure until it drowned out everything else. Within minutes, you were dancing around the apartment.
Barefoot. Baggy gray sweatpants hanging low on your hips. A black lace bralette that was comfortable enough to lounge in.
Not another soul around to judge you.
You wandered from room to room with your eyes closed, singing every lyric from memory, using a wooden spoon as a microphone before eventually swapping it for your hairbrush. You spun dramatically through the living room before launching yourself onto your bed, performing for an audience that definitely did not exist.
Completely lost in your own little concert, you never heard the knock at the front door. Or the second one. Or the sound of someone trying the doorknob.
Outside, John Logan frowned.
"Hello?" he called through the door, hearing movement somewhere inside.
He knocked again.
"Hannah?" he called louder. "Garrett said to grab his jersey! He left it here!"
Nothing.
He waited another few seconds before sighing.
Garrett's text was still open on his phone.
If they're not there, spare key's under the mat. The one that says "Go Away Please."
John had been hoping someone would answer. Breaking into his friend's girlfriend's apartment, even with permission, felt a little weird. But Garrett had practice, wanted his jersey back, and apparently trusted the girls enough to leave a spare key outside.
John shrugged.
"If I get murdered," he muttered to himself, fishing the key out from under the mat, "I'm haunting him."
The lock clicked open. He stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind him. The apartment was empty.
Well...
Mostly.
He could hear footsteps somewhere down the hallway.
And...
Was that singing?
"Hannah?" he called cautiously.
Nothing.
"Allie?"
Still nothing.
The singing only got louder. John stood awkwardly in the entryway for another second before taking a few hesitant steps farther inside. Then someone came spinning out of the hallway.
You.
Eyes closed.
Hands running dramatically through your hair as you belted out the chorus with absolutely zero concern for the outside world.
John froze. He should probably say something.
Instead...
He watched.
Not in a creepy way.
Just...
You looked so genuinely happy. You were dancing around like no one was watching, which, until about ten seconds ago, had been completely true.
A grin slowly spread across his face. He'd never seen you before, but judging by how comfortable you looked, you obviously lived here.
And...
You were really pretty.
Like...
Really pretty.
Then your eyes opened. You froze mid-spin.
Your brain took approximately half a second to register the fact that there was an unfamiliar six-foot hockey player standing in your living room.
You screamed. "What the fuck?!"
John nearly jumped out of his skin.
"It's okay!" he said immediately, throwing both hands into the air. "I'm not robbing you!"
You stared at him. He stared back.
Neither of you moved.
"I—"
"You literally broke into our apartment!"
"I used the key!"
"That's somehow worse!"
"No, wait—"
You grabbed the nearest object you could find, a throw pillow, and pointed it at him like it was a weapon.
"Explain."
John couldn't help the nervous laugh that escaped him.
"Garrett sent me."
Your eyebrows pulled together.
"...Garrett?"
"Yeah." He nodded quickly. "Garrett Graham. Hannah's boyfriend?"
You blinked. "I know who Garrett is."
"Right. Good. That would've been awkward."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"He left his hockey jersey here and texted me to come grab it because he's already at the rink. Said there was a spare key under the mat."
You stared at him for another few seconds.
Then...
Very slowly...
Your shoulders relaxed. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"...I almost hit you with a pillow."
"I've taken body checks harder than that."
A reluctant laugh escaped you. "Don't get cocky."
"Oh, I absolutely am."
You rolled your eyes despite yourself.
Silence settled between you for a second.
Then John smiled. "I'm John, by the way."
"The John Logan?"
"The one and only."
You couldn't help smiling. "I'm Y/N."
"Nice to officially meet you."
You smiled politely before noticing his eyes flick downward for the briefest second. Following his gaze, you looked down. Black lace bralette. Bare shoulders. Barefoot. Hair sticking out in every direction from your one-woman concert.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Heat rushed to your face so fast it actually made your ears burn. You immediately folded your arms across yourself.
"I—"
John's own face turned red almost instantly. "I wasn't—"
"Nope."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"I know."
"I swear."
"I know!"
He looked genuinely horrified with himself. Which somehow made the situation even funnier. Trying to recover what little dignity you had left, you cleared your throat.
"Hannah's room."
John blinked. "What?"
"The jersey."
You pointed toward the hallway.
"It's probably in Hannah's room."
"Oh."
Right. The reason he'd come over.
"Thanks."
He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving you enough time to dramatically bury your face in your hands.
"Oh my God..."
Of all days...
Five minutes later, John reappeared holding Garrett's jersey triumphantly. "Found it."
"Nice."
Neither of you seemed entirely sure how to end the conversation.
John scratched the back of his neck. "Well..."
"I should probably..."
"Yeah."
He reached for the doorknob before pausing.
Turning back toward you, that signature Logan grin spread across his face.
"Oh."
You looked up.
"Great song, by the way."
Your eyes widened.
"You could hear that?"
"You were kinda killing your eardrums with those headphones."
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. "Oh my God."
"And," he continued, clearly enjoying himself now, "your air guitar technique?"
"No."
"Pretty impressive."
"No."
"Eight out of ten."
"You need to leave."
John laughed. "Fair."
He opened the door. "See you around, Y/N."
Before you could think of anything remotely clever to say back, the door clicked shut behind him. The apartment fell silent again. You stood there for several long seconds.
Then slowly slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor. "...Shit."
summary: after weeks of running on empty, you let allie and hannah drag you out for a girls’ night. one drink turns into several, and soon logan, garrett, and dean are called in to collect three extremely drunk girlfriends. the night is funny until the alcohol strips away everything you have been trying not to say.
warnings: burnout, excessive alcohol use, depression, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, references to passive suicidal thoughts, the line “i don’t think i would be alive without you,” and a serious conversation about mental health. no vomiting and no explicit self-harm.
author’s note: this one became a lot deeper than the drunk girlfriend fic i originally planned. i wanted to show how burnout and depression can hide beneath jokes, partying, and acting like everything is fine. sometimes the scariest thoughts come out casually because saying them seriously feels impossible.
i write about these things because stories have always helped me feel less alone, and i hope mine can do that for somebody else too. this fic is not meant to romanticize drinking, depression, or relying on one person to stay alive. logan can love and support reader, but he cannot be her entire reason for surviving. the ending is about being heard, staying, and finally letting someone see how exhausted she really is.
please take care of yourself while reading. you deserve support even when your pain does not look dramatic enough to ask for it.
By Friday night, everything just feels exhausting.
Your laptop dies halfway through an assignment you’ve already rewritten twice. You forget to eat until almost four, then stand in the kitchen staring at a box of cereal because even pouring it into a bowl feels overwhelming. Logan texts after practice to see if you want to come over, and you spend ten minutes trying to reply without letting on how tired you really are.
Eventually, you just send him a picture of your ceiling.
logan: rough day?
you: rough life. dramatic sigh.
logan: want me to come over?
You almost say yes. Instead, you lock your phone and shove it under your pillow because you know exactly what would happen. Logan would show up with food. He’d sit on the edge of your bed and rub your back while you complain about being tired, and then you’d end up crying just because he asked a kind question in the wrong tone.
You care about him too much to let him see how close to the edge you’ve been all week.
That’s exactly why, two hours later, you’re standing in Allie’s bedroom while she tries to force you into a pair of silver boots.
“Your foot bends,” she says, gripping your ankle with the determination of a woman preparing to relocate a dislocated joint. “Stop fighting me.”
“I’m not fighting you. My body is rejecting them.”
“Your body has no taste.”
Hannah, sitting cross-legged on Allie’s bed with a glass of wine, watches the struggle over the rim. “I think losing circulation in both feet might make dancing difficult.”
Allie shoots her a betrayed look. “I thought you were on my side.”
“I’m on the side of keeping all ten of her toes.”
You finally wrench your leg free and nearly topple into the dresser. “I’m wearing sneakers.”
“You cannot wear sneakers with that dress.”
“I can do anything. I’m incredibly brave.”
Hannah snorts into her wine. Allie stares at you for another second before dropping the boot and pointing toward the door.
“Fine. Sneakers. But we are leaving before you crawl back into bed and disappear for another week.”
“I haven’t disappeared.”
“You answered my text yesterday with a thumbs-up.”
“That’s communication.”
“I asked whether you were still alive.”
You grab the wine bottle from Hannah and take a long drink directly from it.
Allie’s expression changes right away. She doesn’t get gentle, since Allie Hayes always chooses blunt concern over subtlety, but she does stop arguing about the shoes.
“That bad?” Hannah asks.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Nope.”
“That sounded convincing,” Allie says.
“I’m just tired. I need one night where nobody asks me about deadlines or my future or why I haven’t answered an email that has been sitting in my inbox for six days.”
Hannah holds out her glass, and you pour more wine into it.
“No deadlines,” she agrees.
“No futures,” Allie adds. “And absolutely no emails.”
You lift the bottle between you. “To making tomorrow’s problems significantly worse.”
“That is not what I—” Hannah begins.
Allie clinks her glass against the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”
It turns out that drinking when you have barely eaten is remarkably efficient.
By the time you get to the bar, the wine has already warmed your stomach and taken the edge off everything that’s been bothering you all week. The music is loud enough that no one expects a serious conversation. The room is crowded enough that you can blend in without really being alone.
Allie buys the first round. Hannah buys the second. You lose track after a bartender places three violently pink drinks in front of you and Allie announces that they taste like “a slutty juice box.”
They do.
You drink two.
An hour later, Hannah is passionately explaining the plot of a book she read in high school to a woman she met in the bathroom. Allie is dancing with both arms above her head, her hair stuck to her lip gloss, and you are standing on the edge of the dance floor with your face tilted toward the flashing lights.
For the first time in days, your brain is quiet.
There is no assignment waiting. No unread message. No horrible heavy knowledge that morning will come and expect something from you again. There is only the bass vibrating beneath your shoes and Allie grabbing your hands, pulling you into the crowd.
“There she is!” Allie shouts.
“Who?”
“You!”
You laugh so hard you stumble into Hannah, who has returned from the bathroom with her new best friend’s entire relationship history.
“I like bathroom people,” Hannah tells you solemnly. “They’re honest.”
“Bathroom people are the backbone of society.”
“That’s what I said.”
Allie appears between you, flushed and shining. “Shots.”
Hannah points at her. “No.”
“Counterpoint: yes.”
“I’m with Allie,” you announce.
“You can barely stand.”
“I’m standing beautifully.”
To prove it, you straighten your spine and immediately sway sideways. Hannah catches your elbow before you can collide with a table.
“Beautifully,” she repeats.
The shot burns all the way down. You slam the tiny glass onto the bar and feel spectacular for approximately twelve minutes.
Then the room begins moving without you.
It’s not exactly spinning. It just feels like everything is a little delayed. Your legs take a few seconds to do what you tell them. Allie’s face keeps drifting in and out of focus. Hannah asks if you want water, and you tell her water is “emotionally boring.”
Your phone is in your hand, though you do not remember taking it from your bag.
There are six messages from Logan.
logan: having fun?
logan: tell Allie Dean says she’s banned from stealing traffic cones tonight
logan: apparently this is a real concern
logan: you alive, trouble?
You stare at the final message until the words blur together.
Alive.
A strange, sad feeling settles under your ribs. The alcohol has made you happy, but it’s also brought down every wall you’ve been holding up all week. Suddenly, you miss him so much it almost hurts.
You press his name and hold the phone to your ear.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey.”
“John.”
There is a brief pause.
Then his voice becomes much more alert. “Hi, baby.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too. How much have you had?”
You squint at the bar as though the empty glasses might provide a reliable inventory. “Some.”
“Some.”
“Drinks.”
“Yeah, I gathered that.”
You smile and lean your hip against the bar. “You’re so smart. That’s why I keep you.”
In the background, you hear male laughter and Garrett asking, “Is that her?”
Logan muffles the phone for a second. “Yeah, and she’s wrecked.”
“I heard that,” you complain.
“I know.”
“I am not wrecked. I’m having a girls’ night.”
“You called me, remember?”
Your eyes burn unexpectedly. “I wanted your voice.”
The teasing disappears from his voice. “Okay. You’ve got me.”
You press your fingers against your closed eyes. The room is getting too loud. Someone bumps your shoulder without saying sorry. Allie has climbed onto a low platform to dance, and Hannah is trying to convince her that this is how people break their necks.
“Can you come get me?” you ask quietly.
Logan does not hesitate. “Yeah. We’re coming.”
“We?”
“Garrett and Dean are here. Where are Hannah and Allie?”
You look toward your friends. Hannah has both hands wrapped around Allie’s waist while Allie argues with gravity.
“Being safe.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean says somewhere in the background.
“Send me your location,” Logan tells you. “Stay with the girls. We’ll be there soon.”
“John?”
“Still here.”
“You’re my favorite.”
His voice softens. “You’re mine too.”
The three of you are sitting on the curb when the boys arrive.
Hannah has stolen your purse because you kept attempting to give cash to strangers. Allie is wearing one shoe and holding the other like a weapon. You are leaning against Hannah’s shoulder, humming along to a song playing faintly from inside the bar.
Dean gets out of Garrett’s Jeep first.
He takes one look at Allie and stops. “Where is your shoe?”
She lifts it proudly. “Here.”
“Why isn’t it on your foot?”
“Personal choice.”
“You’re standing on a public sidewalk.”
Allie looks down at her bare foot as though she has only just noticed. “Oh.”
Garrett circles the hood and crouches in front of Hannah. “Hey, Wellsy.”
Hannah smiles at him with slow, overwhelming affection. “G.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“You’re really handsome.”
Garrett glances over his shoulder at the others. “Finally, some recognition.”
“I always recognize you.”
“No, I mean—never mind.” He takes the purse from her lap and slings it over his shoulder without reacting to the bright pink strap. “Think you can stand?”
“Obviously.”
She cannot.
Garrett catches her under both arms before she reaches the pavement. Hannah dissolves into laughter against his chest while he mutters something about never allowing Allie to plan another outing.
Then Logan steps around them, and suddenly the whole noisy street feels like it’s just him.
He is wearing gray sweats and a Briar hockey hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower. His eyes find yours immediately, moving over your face, your clothes, your scraped knee from an incident you do not remember.
You smile so widely it hurts. “Boyfriend.”
“Girlfriend,” he says, crouching in front of you. “You look comfortable.”
“I’m on the ground.”
“I noticed.”
You throw both arms around his neck. The force nearly knocks him backward, but Logan steadies himself with one hand against the sidewalk and the other around your waist.
“You came,” you mumble into his shoulder.
“You asked me to.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“You smell good.”
“Thanks.”
“You always smell good. It’s suspicious.”
Behind him, Dean is attempting to put Allie’s shoe back on while she keeps moving her foot away.
“You’re being difficult on purpose,” he tells her.
“You like me difficult.”
“Not while I’m kneeling on a sidewalk that has probably seen three different bodily fluids tonight.”
Garrett guides Hannah toward the Jeep. “Nobody say bodily fluids. I don’t need anyone getting ideas.”
“I’m not throwing up,” you announce.
“Great,” Garrett says. “Thank you for the formal statement.”
Logan draws back enough to look at you. “Can you walk?”
You consider this carefully. “Can you?”
“Usually.”
“Show-off.”
He laughs, turns, and guides your arms around his shoulders. “All right. Up.”
The sidewalk falls away as he stands with you on his back. You tighten your legs around his waist and rest your cheek against him,feeling completely content.t.
“Logan,” Dean calls while wrestling Allie into the back seat. “Control your woman.”
“She’s not the one missing a shoe.”
“I found the shoe!”
“And yet it remains off your foot.”
The ride back to the hockey house is loud.
Hannah keeps telling Garrett that she likes his nose. Allie sings half the chorus of three different songs and becomes offended when Dean refuses to stop the car for French fries, even though Garrett is already driving to a twenty-four-hour diner.
You spend most of the ride folded against Logan in the passenger seat, your hand tucked beneath his arm so you can hold onto him.
The happiness starts to fade. In its place is that deep, loose sadness that comes with drinking when you’ve spent too long pretending you’re okay. You watch streetlights move across Logan’s face and feel your chest ache with everything you haven’t said.
At the drive-through, Logan orders enough food for everyone and adds your favorite without asking. Back at the house, the boys get water into all three of you and supervise as much food as can reasonably be managed.
Hannah falls asleep halfway through a sentence with her head on Garrett’s shoulder. Allie accuses Dean of being “aggressively beautiful” before allowing him to carry her upstairs.
Logan keeps you at the kitchen island until you have eaten nearly half your fries.
“One more,” he says.
“I’m full.”
“You said that before you ate the last four.”
“Those were emotionally necessary.”
“So is this one.”
He holds a fry in front of your mouth. You glare at him, then eat it.
“Manipulative.”
“I’ll live with it.”
When Logan finally takes you upstairs, you are exhausted enough that every step feels like walking through wet sand. He sits you on the edge of his bed and kneels to untie your sneakers.
You immediately place both hands in his hair.
He looks up. “What are you doing?”
“Petting you.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“You’d be a golden retriever.”
“That feels insulting.”
“It’s the highest compliment I have.”
He shakes his head, smiling as he takes off your shoes. Then he helps you into one of his shirts, turns away while you change out of your dress, and gently cleans the scrape on your knee with a damp cloth.
The sting makes you hiss.
“Sorry,” he says.
“You hurt me.”
“You fell outside a bar.”
“And now you’re attacking my wound.”
“Yeah, this is all part of my evil plan.”
He puts a bandage over the scrape and kisses just above it. The tenderness surprises you.
Your fingers curl into the hem of his shirt.
“John.”
He glances up immediately. “What?”
Your throat tightens. For a few seconds you cannot remember how to make the words come out without them sounding as frightening as they feel.
“You know,” you say, staring down at him, “I don’t think I would be alive without you.”
Logan goes completely still.
The room goes quiet. Logan doesn't move.
He stands and sits next to you on the bed, knees bumping yours. He doesn't look away. That almost makes it worse.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”
You try. Your eyes only make it as far as his mouth.
“I mean it in a nice way,” you mumble.
“I know you think you do.”
“You make things better.”
His hand closes around yours. “I’m glad I make things better.”
“You do.”
“But that scared the shit out of me.”
Your face crumples before you can stop it. “Sorry.”
“No. Don’t do that.” Logan slides closer, catching your face gently between his hands. “I’m not mad at you. I just need to know whether you’re saying you’ve been thinking about hurting yourself, or whether you’re drunk and trying to tell me you love me.”
Tears slip hot and embarrassing down your cheeks. “I don’t want to hurt myself.”
“Okay.”
“I just get so tired.” Your voice breaks. “Everything is so much all the time, and then you’re there, and it’s not as loud.”
Logan wipes under your eyes with his thumbs. He looks at you for a long moment, but he doesn’t say anything or treat you like you’re fragile.
He leans in, his voice steady but a little rough. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But tomorrow, when you’re sober, we’re going to talk about how tired you’ve been. Not because you’re in trouble, but because I don’t want you to feel like you have to get this drunk just to tell me what’s going on. You don’t have to protect me from the hard stuff. I want all of you, even the mess.”
You lean forward until your forehead presses against his shoulder.
“Tomorrow sounds awful.”
“Probably.”
“Can we cancel it?”
“Nope.”
“I knew you were evil.”
“That’s me.”
His arms wrap around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You clutch the back of his shirt and breathe him in, letting the last of the night dissolve.
After a while, Logan shifts you beneath the blankets and places the water bottle on the nightstand. He climbs in beside you, and you immediately wrap yourself around him, one leg over his and your face tucked beneath his chin.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re still my favorite.”
He kisses your forehead and holds you a little tight. “You’re still here,” he says quietly. He doesn’t say anything else. His hand finds yours under the blanket, his thumb moving back and forth, and you let yourself breathe in the quiet. The room settles around you, heavy and safe, and for once you don’t feel like you have to explain anything.
Quick shout out to the Down syndrome kid from my after-school program back when I was in grade school. Like yea he had the usual issues but he was a sweetheart and quite funny; and one day both his parents showed up at the same time to pick him up and I had the experience of meeting a family of genetically disabled people that had jobs and a home and a kid in school and it was a profoundly normalizing experience for me like I couldn’t take eugenicists seriously after that because like “no they totally can have whole entire meaningful lives with marriage and children and work and hobbies have you not met Dennis??” Anyway quick shout out to Dennis you were a real one
