Saw this and had to write the bad boys band au
The venue was cramped, the ceiling sweat-slick and low, and the speakers were clearly older than anyone in the room, but the crowd pulsed with energy, already half-drunk on cheap beer and the promise of chaos. Neon lights flickered between blue and violet, bathing the room in a dreamy haze as chants began to rise.
“Bad Boys! Bad Boys! Bad Boys!”
Behind the worn-out velvet curtain, Joel twirled a drumstick between his fingers and grinned like he was seconds away from a bar fight. Jimmy adjusted the strap on his guitar, the sleeves of his denim jacket ripped and frayed. His face was smudged with eyeliner he didn’t remember putting on. And Grian?
Scar stood near the front of the crowd, pressed between a girl in a mesh top and a guy wearing a “BOOGEY 4 LIFE” beanie. He didn’t care. All he could do was stare at the stage, clutching his camera with one hand and a drink with the other, waiting.
He’d only come to Grian’s shows at first, awkward and polite, the boy who once lent him a pencil in chemistry and smelled like lemon soap. But this wasn’t Grian.
And Ariana Griande was everything.
The lights went dark. The bass thumped. And then—
She strutted onstage in thigh-high boots, a pink leather skirt and a mesh top that shimmered with sequins under the spotlight. A cascade of honey-blonde curls framed her face, lips painted the exact color of murder. The crowd went feral.
Joel slammed down the first beat. Jimmy’s guitar wailed. And Ariana, Grian, stepped up to the mic like it was a throne and the stage was her kingdom.
“Let’s make ‘em bleed, boys.”
Her voice cracked through the air, deep and silky, a little too dangerous for a dive bar on a Thursday night.
Scar, who knew Grian as the quiet guy who got sunburned easily and made lame puns during group projects, was now watching him twirl like a hurricane in heels, leather, and glitter. Grian, no, Ariana, flipped her hair, winked directly at the crowd, and Scar swore it was at him.
“Shit,” he muttered, too mesmerized to care.
The chorus hit. The lights turned blood red. Ariana moved like she owned every inch of the stage, like the universe bent just to spotlight her. Joel and Jimmy were barely holding on, background chaos to her flawless storm. Scar couldn’t breathe.
And she hadn’t even looked at him properly yet.
It was loose. Vague. Mostly built around him “accidentally” hanging around backstage until Grian—Ariana, goddess of chaos and fishnets, noticed him and said something flirty. Then Scar would toss back some clever line, maybe flash a grin, and suddenly they’d be dating. Or making out in the alley. Or both.
Right up until Ariana sauntered off stage, glitter-smudged and radiant, and Scar’s brain turned to soup.
“Move, babe,” Joel muttered, shoving past him with a towel slung over his shoulder. “You’re standing in the doorway like a lovesick golden retriever.”
Jimmy followed, guitar case in hand, still sweaty and glowing from the rush. “She’s on fire tonight,” he said, nudging Scar with his elbow. “You good, man?”
Scar blinked. “Was that.. do you think she… winked at me?”
Jimmy stared. “Dude. She winked at like, the entire left side of the crowd.”
But then, then, she stepped into the hallway.
Ariana Griande, in full post-show glory: curls wild, eye makeup smudged just enough to be hot instead of tragic, heels clicking on the concrete floor like gunfire. A pink faux fur jacket wrapped around her, clashing gloriously with the Bad Boys t-shirt peeking out from underneath.
“Scarlett,” she purred, voice lower than his IQ at the moment. “You came.”
Scar’s brain short-circuited.
“I- uh—yep. Yes. Present.” He pointed to himself like a third grader taking roll call.
She smiled, slow and wicked. “Good. Would’ve been a crime to waste this look on strangers.”
Scar tried to laugh. It came out like a dying seagull.
“I mean, yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair and somehow elbowing the wall. “You look- uh. Wow. Not like- not like a wow-wow, but more like a whoa-wow, which is different. In a cool way.”
She leaned in, close enough that he caught the scent of vanilla and smoke. “You always this smooth?”
“Only around people I have massive, debilitating crushes on.”
Scar’s eyes went wide. “That was out loud.” He groaned hiding his face in his hands.
Ariana blinked. And then, laughing, bright and sharp as cymbals, she threw her head back and howled.
Joel poked his head out of the dressing room. “Scar confessing again?”
“Shut up!” Scar shouted, red to the ears.
But Ariana was still laughing, her fingers trailing across his arm as she passed him to head backstage. “Come on, loverboy,” she called over her shoulder. “You can carry my shoes.”
He scrambled after her, tripping over absolutely nothing.
Literally and figuratively.
