my favorite moment in bisexual history was damiano david coming out as “straight-curious” and marrying all maneskin members at once publically. i guess we don’t hear so much about the king of bi4bi anymore because he already won
bonus: the kisses were insane, just peak rock’n’roll
⋆ ˚｡⋆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.
