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the time the bright prince feels terribly and woefully neglected by his wife… and you become convinced he’s having an affair
genre/warnings:
mildly suggestive, crack, misunderstandings, insecurities, comfort, fluff, mentions of blood, lannister!reader, they have a newborn!
notes:
another part of the dragon and the lioness but can be read as a standalone. based on this ask heheh <3
Maegor Targaryen.
Aerion had told you that was the only name worthy of his son.
Thankfully, he was nothing like the fearsome legacy attached to that name. With his round, full cheeks, soft silver curls, and wide violet eyes brimming with pure curiosity, the babe looked every bit the picture of innocence. Wherever he went, hearts seemed to melt at the sight of him.
Yet for all his sweetness, Maegor possessed one trait that vexed his father to a degree—
He demanded every ounce of his mother’s attention all day and night. Your attention.
“He’s three moons old,” you reminded him one evening with a frown as Aerion watched Maegor sleeping peacefully against your chest, after telling you how his son had to start learning to let go of you. “He needs his mother and I would have him.”
“Three moons old,” Aerion muttered darkly, “and already a usurper.”
Maegor chose that exact moment to sigh contentedly in his sleep and burrow deeper against you, as if mocking him altogether.
The Bright Prince had begun keeping count of your neglection of him. You would visit the nursery first thing in the morning, and should the babe merely blink his large violet eyes and make a particularly pitiful sound, he would refuse the wet nurses and only cease his whimpering when you held him.
And thus, if he cried, you were there.
If he fussed, you were also there.
Spoiled little thing, his son was. What was the purpose of wet nurses if the boy spent half his waking hours attached to you? He really ought to fire them one of these days.
“They said sons take after their fathers, do they not?”
Daeron snickered after draining another goblet of wine, seemingly enjoying his brother’s predicament. “Your son simply makes it obvious to the rest of us how ravenous you are with your lady wife, brother.”
Aerion shot him glare, internally questioning himself why he had agreed to sit down for drinks with his wastrel of a brother.
“I have spent the past three moons exercising a degree of restraint bordering on sainthood, you mongrel.”
That was not an exaggeration. Since Maegor’s arrival, the intimacy he once enjoyed with you had become frustratingly few and far between, and he had to think at least thrice these days to take you to bed!
To his credit, he had adhered to the advice of maesters so far— that was to give you more time following the difficult birth.
Daeron stared at him, then barked out a laugh loud enough to startle the maids. He leaned back in his chair, grinning like a fox.
“Gods above, you are serious! Well, since you have nothing better to do, then come with me tonight.”
“For what?”
“For a good time, obviously. There is a feast in the city. Music, drink, performers, gambling, a lot of pretty wenches too—”
“Bwah!”
It astounded even you that your babe could be this adorable. He looked so much like Aerion too that, at times, it felt as though you were cradling a happier, guileless miniature of your husband in your arms.
“He looks so much like his sire, does he not?” You poked Maegor’s plump cheek, and he immediately rewarded you with a toothless grin.
Your lady’s maid sighed with a smile, nearly melted on the spot. “The image of him, my lady. Those eyes and hair especially.”
You laughed softly and pressed a kiss to Maegor’s forehead, placing him back in his cradle.
Motherhood suited you far more than you had imagined. The long nights, the exhaustion... none of it seemed to matter whenever your little boy wrapped his tiny fingers around you or smiled at the sound of your voice. You loved every moment of it.
Yet if you were being truthful with yourself, you missed Aerion too. Before Maegor’s birth, your prince had scarcely gone a day without finding an excuse to pull you into his arms, but now your days and nights revolved around your son, and the moments you spent alone together had become increasingly rare.
And lately, something felt... different. Aerion had begun returning later than usual, and he smelled of wine. The first time, you dismissed it, but by the fourth, a knot had begun forming in your stomach. Since when had he taken to drinking?
Then one afternoon, while walking through the castle with Maegor in your arms, you happened upon two servants speaking in hushed voices—
“The princes have gone again!”
“Again?”
“Aye. To the town.”
“The new establishment?”
“The very same. They say the owner imported women from across the Narrow Sea and Essos. They cost a fortune...”
It didn’t take you long to figure out that they were talking about a pleasure house. Your stomach twisted. The princes?
They must mean Daeron, surely? But who was the other prince? Because, there was no way that Aerion was seeking comfort from common whores now—
Then again, the word of his brashness towards the princess consort, Valarr’s wife, was apparently quite well-known in King’s Landing. A princess from Pentos, she was an exotic beauty, meanwhile you...
People rarely described you as beautiful. Sweet and pleasant to look upon, they would say, but definitely not the kind that would ensnare princes at the first sight like she did. Moreover, after bearing a child, your body was no longer quite the same as it once had been.
The thought lodged itself in your mind, and despite every effort to dismiss it, a terrible possibility began gnawing at you. What if he has indeed sought comfort elsewhere?
You hated yourself for even thinking it. But when one night, several days later, you spotted him near the servants’ quarters with a woman adorned with golden ornaments unlike anything worn in Westeros—
Your breath caught when Aerion had both of her wrists pinned together in one hand and cornered her.
A great many things seemed determined to test Aerion’s patience these days.
The councils. His father’s demands. Daeron’s antics. By the time evening fell, a dull ache had settled behind the back of his head, and all he wanted was peace, a cup of wine, and his wife.
Especially his wife. The thought to have you wrap him in your arms was enough to ease some of the tension from his shoulders as he strode through the corridors toward your chambers.
However, when he entered it, the warmth he expected was entirely absent. The chamber was darker than usual, half of the candles unlit. You sat perfectly still before the vanity desk, didn’t even turn or rise to greet him.
“Wife?” he asked, stepping forward with a frown. Usually, you favored dark room when you were unwell. “Are you ill—”
“Who is she?”
Your voice was eerily quiet, yet cut through the air so sharply. It was so abrupt that for a moment he simply stared at you, and only after a solid minute did you turn to him, your expression cold enough to frost glass.
“If you tell me now, I may still find it in myself to be merciful and merely send her away. Is it Pentos? Myr? Or perhaps Lys?” The corner of your mouth curved into a sneer. “Lys is famous for its prostitutes, after all.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened. “What do you imply me doing, wife?”
A surge of anger rushed through his veins, severely taking offense. How could you think that lowly of him?
But whatever retort had been forming on his tongue died immediately, because to his astonishment, there were tears in your eyes.
“I gave you a son. I nearly died bringing him into this world.” Your voice trembled slightly as you rose from your seat. “I know we are not always of the same mind, but how could you humiliate me by bringing a common whore here? Do you intend to flaunt her to me?”
You looked devastated, and more than anything, he hated that look in your face. Who had planted this absurdity in your head?
“You are talking nonsense—”
“Nonsense?” Your voice rose sharply. “I saw you with her!”
This had to end. Suddenly Aerion crossed the distance between you in three strides, and you flinched as his hand caught your shoulder, attempting to pull away, but he would not allow it and forced you to face him.
“Look.”
He lifted his other hand before you. At first you did not understand, then your gaze fell upon the gold band encircling his finger. His wedding band.
Aerion stared at you hard, his violet eyes blazing.
“I have worn this since you put it on me on the day of our wedding, and never removed it since.”
On the day of your wedding, the two of you had scarcely been able to tolerate one another. You blinked as another tear fell, trying to hold yourself together.
“You think I would dishonor you? Shame the mother of my son?” he said through clenched teeth. “I still could see the blood you shed in childbed even in my nightmares. Does that mean nothing to you?”
Three days after Maegor’s birth, your fever worsened and you fell unconscious. You remembered feeling cold, and the bleeding had the sheets beneath you soaked with red. When you awoke, the maesters were surrounding your bed, and your maids were crying.
But standing tall amidst them was Aerion, who never left your side for the remainder of the night. Later, you were told he had threatened every maester in the Red Keep with death should they fail to save you.
The fury in his violet eyes burned brighter. “Tell me, wife— what part of that ordeal would make me look at another wench and decide she is worth more than you?”
You were still not fully convinced. “But you... the servants saw you going to the whorehouse—”
Aerion let out a harsh exhale.
“I was retrieving Daeron,” he grounded out, each word bitter. “Father’s orders. The wench you saw me with is his whore. A fortune-seeking dullard, I just banished her from Summerhall.”
“You have been drinking lately too—”
“So now I’m forbidden from having a drink?” A muscle twitched beneath his right eye. “I face constant shit and my foolish brother every day. I can’t even bed my wife when she’s next to me and our son hogs her time all day and everyday, meanwhile she is thinking I’m hiding some whore in another chamber— and now I cannot drink? Tell me, do you actually want me to keep my sanity, or do you want to see me lose it and hang the first man I see?”
Somehow, the way he phrased it made you feel sorry for him. You pursed your lips, looking away. “Sure, have your drink, then...”
“Oh, I fucking will, woman, but first thing first—”
Before you could even gasp, he dived in, crushing his lips against yours.
The anger that had choked the room only moments ago dissolved into an instant, consuming heat. It was a punishing kiss at first, choking the breath out of you, but it quickly melted sensually as his hands roamed the curve of your body.
It sure had been a while since he had his hands on you. A moan escaped your lips when he fondled your breasts and pressed you against his torso, creating a delicious friction.
When he finally pulled away, it was with a heavy, ragged breath. His gaze burning down into your eyes as his thumb gently traced your lower lip, which was now swollen from his kisses.
“If it were up to me,” Aerion murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper, “I would fuck you senseless—”
His expression softened, a rare, vulnerable shadow crossing his features along with the rise and fall of his chest. “It’s taking everything in me not to. The fever after your last labor nearly took you from me, and I won’t gamble with your life.”
“I can take moon tea—”
“That blasted tea will make you sick. You are not taking that until it’s absolutely necessary.”
You blinked up at him, your expression softening into a sweet gaze that completely disarmed him. The sheer innocence in your eyes was his undoing.
With a low groan, Aerion leaned down and pulled you in for another deep, lingering kiss, sealing his lust against your lips, before trailing his mouth downward, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder to suck your skin hungrily.
“Who could have known…” His voice was a low, teasing rasp, the words vibrating directly against the skin of your neck, “that my wife is such a fiercely jealous woman that she actually made herself cry?”
He was relishing in this, you realized. When he broke away this time, a victorious smirk touched his lips. “Are you content now, my jealous wife?”
You shot him a look, feeling a heat rush to your face. You tried to muster a glare, but the blush staining your cheeks betrayed you entirely.
“Incorrigible man...” you muttered, turning your face away to hide your embarrassment.
Aerion only laughed, the sound rich and genuinely amused—a rare sound for him these days. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his thumb gently tugging your chin back so you were forced to look at him. “Now what else should I prove to you so you will be satisfied?”
“I want Maegor now.”
Your husband arched an eyebrow, exasperated.
“This is absolute treachery,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. “I finally get you to myself, and you immediately call for that little tyrant?”
. . .
A few moments later, the maids entered the chamber, gently putting baby Maegor into your waiting arms. The moment the infant settled against your chest, he let out a happy, bubbling giggle, his tiny hands reaching up towards your face.
“He is fat.”
Aerion stood unhappily over the two of you, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the display.
Yet, as he looked down at his son, a sudden realization washed over him—
He had always thought the boy took entirely after him, but looking closely at Maegor’s beaming smile, Aerion saw you. The babe had his violet eyes and his silver hair, but the contour of his face, the gentle curve of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes—it was all yours.
Now he sort of understood why he also found him adorable.
“Let me hold him,” he said, already pulling the babe from your grasp.
He brought Maegor against his own broad chest. It was a surreal sight, seeing your brooding prince cradling a fragile, soft infant with the utmost care.
Your heart warmed at the sight though, a profound sense of peace settling over you as you looked at the two absolute loves of your life.
Epilogue
The tender silence lasted for only a minute. Maegor, apparently deciding he had tolerated his father’s hold, suddenly squirmed. With a whimper of protest, the babe pushed his small hands against his father’s chest, fighting the embrace.
Before Aerion could adjust his grip, Maegor’s chubby little hand shot upward, unceremoniously slapping right at his father’s face, as well as scratching his jawline.
Aerion blinked, his head tilting back in sheer disbelief at the audacity of his own flesh and blood. He looked completely stunned, before a look of deep betrayal crossed his features as he glared at his son and you utterly failed to contain yourself and burst into a fit of giggles.
YOUR 'BETTER BOBBY' FIC WAS SO GOOD! if you ever felt inspired would LOVE to read more about them. maybe another entity attacks them and they get separated? and alone and lost, reader can't help but miss the real Bobby ahhh. anyway, love you, thank you for writing!
I'm so glad you're all loving this idea, because inspiration hit me so hard I wrote this in one sitting. Continuation to this. Def let me know if you wanna see more 👀
warnings: horror (finally got to write my true love), and some gore (nothing explicit/implied)
You've been here long enough that you've stopped counting the hallways.
That, in hindsight, should probably scare you the most. The fact that it doesn't scare you anymore.
The yellow used to make your skin crawl, that specific shade of institutional sick. Now it's just... the colour of home. Better Bobby's taught you that. Through sheer repetition of safety.
Every time he pulls you into a new room and checks the corners before letting you sit down. Every time he angles his body between you and a doorway without thinking about it. Or when he hands you something to eat. You've stopped asking where the food comes from. That's another question that goes in circles every time you try it. He watches you until you take a bite, satisfied, like feeding you is the only task on a list he takes very seriously.
You have a room now. Your room. He found it for you three (days? rotations? sleeps?) ago, deeper in Level 0 than you'd been before, tucked behind a series of turns that he walked so confidently you wondered if he'd planned the route in advance.
It's quieter than the others. The carpet is thicker, the hum lower, and there's a warm patch on the floor near the far wall where some buried pipe must be running. Better Bobby dragged every blanket he'd scavenged into a pile on that warm spot and when you'd looked at him he'd shrugged, one shoulder, earring catching the fluorescent light.
"What? You get cold."
Real Bobby used to steal the covers.
You try not to make the comparison. You try so hard. But Better Bobby makes it impossible because he's everything real Bobby was on your best days. Distilled and concentrated, with all the carelessness burned off.
He touches you constantly. Not sexually, just contact. His hand on the back of your neck when you walk. His chin on your shoulder when you're sitting together. His fingers finding yours in the dark when the lights flicker, which they do sometimes. And in those brief, stuttering seconds of blackness you can hear things moving in the walls and Better Bobby's grip tightens. He says I'm here like it's a fact of physics. Like his presence beside you is as fundamental and non-negotiable as gravity.
It's a Thursday, you think, or what you've decided is Thursday—you've started naming the days by feeling, which probably means you're losing it—when everything goes wrong.
You're walking. Better Bobby's slightly ahead of you, one hand trailing the wall, talking about something. He talks to you the way real Bobby used to, a constant low-level narration.
Except Better Bobby's commentary is about the architecture of this place, which hallways are safe, which ones echo differently than they should. The way the carpet changes texture near certain thresholds you should know about. You're half-listening, comfortable in the drone of his familiar voice, when he stops abruptly.
You almost walk into his back.
"Bobby?"
He doesn't answer. His head tilts slightly, the way a dog would listen toa distant sound. His whole body goes rigid in a way you've never seen before. Better Bobby doesn't tense up. Better Bobby is languid and easy and always, always calm.
"Bobby, what—"
"Don't move."
His voice is different. Stripped of the warmth, the lazy drawl, all the honeyed softness he pours over you. What's left is flat and hard. Something in your hindbrain fires that hasn't fired since you got here because Better Bobby has kept you so safe that you forgot what fear tasted like.
You taste it now. Bright and metallic at the back of your throat.
The lights flicker abovehead. Not the usual gentle stutter or dimming it does at random intervals. This is violent, a seizure of light, and in the strobe of it you spot something at the end of the hallway.
You can't process it. Your brain tries and slides off the shape the way water slides off wax. It's too tall, and wrong. So wrong. It takes up too much space for its size, like it's pressing against the dimensions of the hallway from the inside, and it's looking at you with something that isn't a face.
Better Bobby shoves you behind him. Both hands this time. Hard.
"Go."
"I'm not leaving you—"
"Go. Left, left, straight, third door. I'll find you." He looks over his shoulder at you and his eyes are dark and flat. Ancient in a way that makes your stomach drop because for just a second—just a flicker, shorter than the lights—the thing looking out from behind Bobby's face isn't Bobby, either. "Baby. Run."
You run.
Left, left, straight, except there's no third door. There's no door at all.
The hallway stretches and bends and the carpet under your feet changes from rough to damp to something that feels horribly organic so abruptly you almost skid. You're running and the fluorescent yellow is shifting with you, deepening in increments, and the walls are getting narrower.
The ceiling goes lower suddenly and you realise, with a lurch of animal terror, that you're not on Level 0 anymore.
You don't know when it changed. There was no door, no threshold, no moment. The hallways just... became somewhere else. Like you walked through an edit. A jump cut in reality.
You stagger to a stop. Your breathing is so loud it fills the quiet corridor.
It's dark here. Not quite pitch black, mercifully. There's light, but it's coming from somewhere wrong. Faintly blue, sourceless, the colour of television static.
The walls aren't yellow anymore. They're concrete instead. Industrial. Stained with something you refuse to look at closely. The ceiling is a mess of exposed pipes and dead wiring, and water (you hope desperately it's water) drips in a strange pattern that sets your teeth on edge
It's cold here. You're shaking, you realise a moment too late.
You press your back against the concrete wall and slide down to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest and try to make yourself small. Try to make yourself invisible. Because Better Bobby isn't here and without him you're nothing in this place.
Just soft, warm, alive thing in a place that is none of those things.
That's when you see it. From the corner of your eye.
It assembles itself in pieces in the dark, the way a photograph develops, the way something reveals itself to you only once it's already too close.
Teeth first.
A grin. Too wide and white, wrong, hanging in the blue-black dark about thirty feet down the corridor. Human teeth in a human smile except there are too many of them and the smile is too wide. It's not attached to anything you can see, either. Just the grin, suspended, luminous. The way a Cheshire cat would look if the Cheshire cat wanted to kill you.
It doesn't move. You don't breathe.
Then it's twenty feet away.
You didn't see it move. You didn't blink. Not once. It was thirty feet and now it's twenty and the grin hasn't changed, not even slightly. The same frozen rictus of delight, and you understand with a sick, cold certainty that it's not walking toward you. It's just... closer. Like the distance between you is a thing it can edit. A number it can change at will.
Fifteen feet. The grin widens. You didn't think it could widen.
You can see more of it now, or rather you can see the shape of more of it. The suggestion of a body behind the smile, darker than the dark around it, a silhouette that doesn't quite hold its edges. And the sound. There's a sound now, low and wet, like someone trying to laugh through a mouthful of something thick. A gurgling, hitching, delighted sound.
It's happy to see you. Whatever this thing is, it's so, so happy that you're here.
Ten feet. You can feel the cold coming off it. Not temperature, exactly, something else. An absence. A pulling. Like it's drawing the warmth out of the air between you one degree at a time and feeding the grin with it.
You open your mouth to scream and nothing comes out.
"Close your eyes."
The voice comes from directly behind you.
You didn't hear him arrive. You didn't hear footsteps or breathing or the rustle of fabric. He's just there, the way he's always just there. His hand closes over your eyes from behind, firm, warm, his palm flush against your face, fingers curving over your brow.
"Close them. Keep them closed. Don't open them until I tell you to."
Better Bobby's voice is calm. Completely, impossibly calm. The same tone he uses when he's telling you to go back to sleep after the lights flicker. But underneath it—deep underneath, in a register you feel more than hear—there's something else now. An edge that doesn't sound like Bobby at all.
His hand lifts off your eyes. You keep them shut. You squeeze them so tight you see colours behind your lids. Bright, bursting phosphenes, and you press your face into your knees and you hear him move away from you. Toward it.
Then the sounds start.
You can't categorise them. You won't.
There's a tearing sound. Not fabric, or paper; something denser, wetter, something with resistance. A sound like a dog shaking water from its fur except heavier and it ends in a crack that reverberates through the concrete floor and up through your spine.
The gurgling laughter changes pitch. Goes higher. Then higher still. Then it's not laughter anymore, it's something between a shriek and a frequency. A sound that vibrates in the roots of your teeth, and underneath all of it is a low rumbling that you realise is coming from Better Bobby. A sound no human throat should make, a sound like tectonic plates grinding in the dark.
There's a splash. Something hisses, like water on a hot pan. The shrieking cuts out—not fades, cuts, abruptly, like someone hit a switch—and then there's a long, wet, dragging sound that moves away from you down the corridor and fades into the pipes and the dark.
Silence.
There's a ringing in your ears. Your fingers feel numb, heavy. You're biting the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste blood in your mouth.
Footsteps. Normal ones. The soft pad of sneakers on concrete.
"Okay, baby. You can open your eyes now."
You do. Better Bobby is standing in front of you, looking down at you with that soft, tilted expression. Same white tee. Same denim shorts. Trusty camera over his shoulder. Not a drop of anything on him. Not a wrinkle. His hair isn't even mussed any more than usual. His earring catches the faint blue light and throws a tiny star onto the concrete wall and he's smiling at you, gently, like you just had a bad dream and he's here to tell you it's morning.
There's nothing in the hallway behind him. Nothing on the floor. No sign that anything was ever there at all, except a faint smell. Ozone, copper and deeper beneath that, an almost rotten stench. You try to examine it but it's already fading.
You don't ask. You can't ask.
Your body moves before your brain does. You launch yourself off the floor and into him so hard he actually rocks back a step. Better Bobby, who's never been moved by anything in your presence, who stands in front of horrors like a wall moves this time. Your arms lock around his neck and you bury your face in his chest.
You're shaking. So violently that it's almost convulsive, these full-body tremors that you can't control, and the sound coming out of you isn't crying exactly. It's more animal than that, a high keening thing that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any room left for embarrassment but you don't, you used it all up being terrified.
Better Bobby catches you. He doesn't stumble again. His arms come around you and they're solid and warm. He holds you so tight that the shaking has nowhere to go, like he's absorbing it into himself, and one hand cradles the back of your head, pressing your ear against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, steady, so steady, and how is he so steady, how is he always so steady—
"Shhh. I got you. I'm here. It's gone."
You can't stop. You're gripping his shirt in both fists, knuckles blanching, and you're gasping against his collarbone and he just...
He holds you. Doesn't rush it. Or tell you you're okay or that it wasn't that bad or any of the things real Bobby would say in later months to make you feel silly for being scared. He just holds on and rocks you, the smallest movement, his cheek resting on top of your head.
Your voice comes out cracked and ruined. "What—what was that, what did you— how did you—"
He hums gently. "Don't worry about it."
"Bobby, that thing, it was—its face, it was smiling, it was—"
"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you. Tips your chin up with his knuckle. That lazy smile, easy and warm and so perfectly Bobby it makes your chest splinter. "I know what it was. It's gone now. Don't worry about it."
"How did you get rid of it?" you rasp.
His thumb strokes your jawline. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
He looks at you. For a moment something flickers behind his eyes. Something vast and patient and very, very old. Then it's gone, and he's just Bobby again, warm-eyed and soft-mouthed, tucking your hair behind your ear.
"I told you, baby. Nothing gets past me." He kisses your forehead. Slow. Gentle. His lips are warm and the concrete corridor is freezing around you. You lean into him like he's the last source of heat in the world. "Come on. Let's go home."
He takes your hand.
You let him lead you.
He leads you back through the concrete and the pipes and the blue-dark, his thumb rubbing circles on your knuckles, and you don't look behind you.
Not even once. Because whatever he did in that corridor is something you have decided you don't need to see the aftermath of, and also because some part of you—the part that still thinks clearly, the part that Better Bobby hasn't quite reached yet—understands that there is no aftermath.
That whatever Better Bobby does to the things in the dark, he does it completely. He doesn't leave evidence. He doesn't leave remains. He unmakes them, and he does it wearing Bobby's crooked smile, Bobby's silver earring and Bobby's cut-off shorts like a costume. Like a skin, like a love letter written in someone else's handwriting.
The concrete gives way to carpet. Just as abruptly. The blue darkens to yellow again. The cold lifts. The hum returns, and for the first time ever you're grateful for it. The way you'd be grateful for the sound of traffic outside your apartment window because it means you're back in the world, or at least, back in the only world you have left.
Your room. The warm patch. The blankets.
Better Bobby guides you down, wrapping the blankets snug around you. He tucks himself behind you and you press back into his chest, his arm winding around your waist. You're still shaking faintly, these little aftershock tremors, and he absorbs every single one.
"Sleep, baby. I'm right here."
And you close your eyes and you think about real Bobby.
You think about the apartment in Santa Clara. The kitchen counter where he used to roll joints with the window open because you didn't like the smell building up inside. The way his camera equipment colonised every flat surface, cables and lenses and that one light diffuser he was so particular about. You used to complain it and he used to say babe, genius needs room to breathe and you'd throw a dish towel at his head while smothering a grin.
You think about the night you fell in love with him. Not the day you realised it (you'd known for a while by then) but the night it actually happened.
You sitting on the hood of his car in a parking lot off El Camino Real, sharing a joint, and he'd turned to you with the camera for once not in his hands and said, so disarmingly, you're the most wonderful girl I've ever met, and his face looked stripped of its usual cockiness. Bare. Scared. Young.
He was so young. You both were.
You wonder if he's sitting in that apartment right now with the TV on and the lights off, not really watching, just existing in the space you used to fill.
You wonder if he's looked at your toothbrush in the holder next to his. If he's opened the fridge and seen the leftovers you made two nights before you vanished (was it two nights? you're losing track of the real timeline, it's blurring at the edges, and that scares you more than the grin in the dark) and whether he ate them or whether they're still sitting there. Slowly going bad, a small decomposition that mirrors something larger in your life.
You wonder if he's picked up his pager. Scrolled to your name. Stared at it.
You wonder if his thumb hovered over the button the way it used to hover over the shutter release—that perfect hesitation, that half-second of do I or don't I—and whether he pressed it or whether he set the pager down and rolled over. Told himself he'd deal with it tomorrow the way he's been telling himself he'd deal with you tomorrow for months now.
You wonder if somewhere under the indifference and the exhaustion and the slow-growing cruelty there is still a version of Bobby who filmed you sleeping because the light was good. Who cut a Metallica shirt into a crop top with kitchen scissors and held it up like a trophy. Who said hold still, the light's doing something crazy on you and meant I love you, you're beautiful and couldn't say it any other way.
You wonder if that Bobby still misses you.
You wonder if he'd ever come looking.
Better Bobby pulls you closer. His mouth finds the spot behind your ear. The one real Bobby discovered during your second date together. The one that makes everything go quiet inside your skull.
"You're thinking again," he murmurs.
"I know."
"About him."
You don't answer. You don't have to.
Better Bobby is quiet for a long time. His breathing is slow and even against your back. The lights hum their tuneless hymn in your ears. Somewhere deep in the walls, something moves again, and you tense at the scraping sound.
Better Bobby's arm tightens around you. A reflex, instant, protective, the one thing about him that never feels performed.
"He's not coming, baby," he says softly. He doesn't say it meanly this time, either. Not triumphant. More so sad. Almost like he wishes it weren't true, for your sake. Because even this thing that wears Bobby's face and unmakes grinning horrors in the dark doesn't want to watch you grieve. "You know that."
OKAY WAIT YOURE THE RIGHT PERSON I HAVE TO TELL THIS TO: Coraline AU x Backrooms AU for Bobby Franklin x reader
Okay so Bobby and reader are together but he’s grown brasher, ruder and arrogant these past few months. Long story short, he’s grown tired of you and he treats you like shit. But he hasn’t really broken it off yet. He can’t bring himself to. He’s grown used to you and he doesn’t wanna go through the whole process of breaking up and moving out and whatever whatever. And you love him too much to do anything, so you just deal with it. Hoping that one day he’ll be how he used to when you first got together.
So one night at the store when you’re pulling a night shift alone, (Bobby had left early, he wasn’t gonna stay and do night shift with you asshole) you hear thumps coming from the lower level. You’re scared but you grab a hardware knife and keep it close as you quietly go down to explore the noise.
Once you reach the extra storage level, you hear it: Bobby’s voice calling from inside the wall. At first you’re convinced that you’ve gone crazy. But no, it’s him. And he’s gently luring you in, “babe, I can see you. gosh you look so cute with that scared look on your face. come here.” You look around in confusion, but a tiny thump from behind the wall grabs your attention. “Yes. Here. C’mere babe.”
You stop in front of the wall. And when you lean in close to press your ear against the wall, poof you stumble into the room and fall on your ass. Your head spins as you blink awake, and immediately you’re hit with ugly neon yellow wallpaper. You look around the room before your gaze locks on … Bobby?
You freeze in surprise. There he is, same white shirt and denim shorts, same camera dangled over his shoulder, and a sickeningly charming smile on his face that you haven’t seen since the beginning of your relationship. Something isn’t right. He doesn’t smile at you like that anymore.
But before you can say anything, he’s walking closer to you until he’s gently cupping your face in his hands. “Hello babe, missed you. You are NOT going to believe this place!” Slowly, with an arm draped over your shoulders, he’s guiding you further and further away from that spot on the wall that you came in here from. You look around. Something makes your stomach churn with unease. It’s yellow everywhere, hallways everywhere. Yet ‘Bobby’ seems to know this place like the back of his hand.
When you finally snap and ask him who he is, he simply smiles that sickening smile again before cupping your cheeks and pressing a tender kiss on your lips. “It’s me, Bobby. Better Bobby.”
Now he just has to convince you to never leave him again. To never go back the ‘other Bobby’. To a dull life where ‘other Bobby’ can’t love you as best as he can. That he’ll never neglect you like ‘other Bobby’ that he can be better. That the only condition is that you stay in here with him forever.
The thing that makes Better Bobby so dangerous is that he's not a bad time at all.
He's not some obvious monster wearing Bobby's face wrong. He doesn't glitch. He doesn't flicker. He's warm. He's present in a way real Bobby hasn't been in months. Maybe longer, if you're honest with yourself, and Better Bobby makes you honest because he makes you feel safe enough to be.
The first few days—hours? time is slippery here, the fluorescent lights don't change and there are no windows and Better Bobby just shrugs when you ask how long you've been here, says does it matter, baby? and the worst part is you can't think of a good reason why it does.
The first stretch of time is almost easy. Dangerously, seductively easy.
He finds rooms for you. Not just any rooms, the good ones. Quiet ones, with carpet instead of that damp yellow tile, where the humming of the lights isn't quite so loud.
He sets up a little nest of blankets he found god-knows-where and pulls you into his chest and plays with your hair and talks to you in that low, lazy voice. The one real Bobby used to use on Sunday mornings when neither of you had anywhere to be. He asks you questions about your day. Your day. When's the last time real Bobby did that? When's the last time real Bobby looked at you while you were talking instead of at his pager or through the viewfinder or at literally anything else?
Better Bobby looks at you like you're the only thing in the room. Which, technically, you are. But still.
And he keeps you safe. That's the part that really gets its hooks in.
Because the Backrooms aren't empty. You learn that fast. There are sounds in the deeper hallways, wet dragging things, clicking, something that might be breathing if breathing sounded like it was coming from a throat that was never designed for air.
The first time you hear it (really hear it, close, too close) you freeze, and Better Bobby is already moving. He steps in front of you. Puts his body between you and the sound without hesitation, without even breaking his sentence, one arm reaching back to keep you behind him. His hand finds your wrist and holds it. Firm. Certain.
"Stay behind me, baby. I got you."
And he does. He always does.
He knows which hallways to avoid, which doors not to open, what corners to take wide. He navigates this place like it's his, and maybe it is, and you try not to think about what that means.
When something skitters in the walls at night (at what passes for night, when he dims the lights in whatever room he's chosen and curls around you like a barricade) he doesn't flinch. Just pulls you closer, mouth against your temple, murmuring you're okay, I'm here, nothing's getting past me. And nothing does.
Real Bobby wouldn't even stay for a night shift.
That thought makes your chest hurt every time. You try to push it away but Better Bobby's already noticed the expression on your face. He notices everything, because he's always watching you with that soft, focused attention that reminds you of how real Bobby used to be behind the camera. Seeing things before they happen. Anticipating you.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Liar." But he says it gently. Kisses your forehead. Doesn't push.
And you start asking questions. Carefully at first, then less so.
How did you get here?
"Same way you did, baby. Found a way in."
But when? How long have you been here?
"Long enough to know how to keep you safe. Isn't that what matters?"
That's not an answer.
"Sure it is." That smile. The one that used to make your chest ache when real Bobby aimed it at you across a room. "You're just not hearing what you want to hear. Ask me something else."
What are you?
"Bobby."
You're not Bobby.
"I'm Better Bobby." He says it like it's obvious, like you're being a little slow, and there's even a flash of that real-Bobby sharpness in it, that dry teasing edge, and it's so perfectly him that it makes your throat close. "I'm the one who stays, baby. That's all you need to know."
But where did you come from?
"Where did you come from? Where does anyone come from?" He tilts his head at you the way real Bobby does (did) when you said something he found cute. "You're going in circles, you know that?"
And you are. That's the thing. Every question leads back to the same place: I'm here, I love you, stay. It's a closed loop. A hallway that turns and turns yet looks different at every corner but deposits you right back where you started, standing in front of Better Bobby while he smiles at you like you're the whole world.
The architecture of this place and the architecture of his answers are the same. Endless. Repeating. Warm enough that you stop noticing you're already lost.
Because he does love you. Or whatever he does, it's close enough that it feels the same in the dark when he's holding you and the things in the walls are quiet, his heartbeat steady under your ear. It feels like love. It fits in all the spaces where love used to be. And he never gets tired of you. Never rolls over with his back to you. Never sighs when you walk into the room like your presence is a weight he didn't ask to carry.
He carries you willingly. Happily. Endlessly.
And somewhere above you, somewhere beyond the yellow and the hum, real Bobby is probably just now noticing your side of the bed is cold. Probably just now checking his pager. Probably frowning, not out of worry but out of inconvenience. Because your absence is a disruption to his routine and not a hole in his chest. Or is it?
Better Bobby presses his lips to your hair. "You're thinking about him again."
You don't answer.
"He's not coming for you." It's not cruel, the way he says it. It's gentle. It's the gentlest thing anyone's said to you in months. "You know that, right? Baby, look at him. You know he's not coming."
And the worst part (the part that keeps you here, that makes you curl into Better Bobby's chest and close your eyes and let the yellow blur behind your eyelids) is that he might be right.
summary: Valarr spends the summer working in his mother's floral shop
warnings: n/a
notes: sorry for the wait! i didn't bold my dialogue this time, i wanted to try something new. (i’m going to work on the continuation of the soulmate fic and finish a request)
wc: 895!
(Ako ning basura, ako lang ni) (Esta basura es mía, y solo mía)
this is not proofread.
Valarr was back from college and like the lovely son he was, he offered to help his mother out in her shop. Jena had been more busy lately and wanted his help. At least, that was what Jena had told him.
When he arrived for his first day to work there, he noticed it was only a little above the normal amount of customers she would usually get. He was working with her behind the counter and furrowed his brows while focusing to not prick himself.
"I thought you had staff to help out? That way you can rest at home?"
He glanced to his mother who shrugged and feigned innocence. The woman sighed dramatically, "Forgive me for wanting to take pride in my shop. Alas, another way for a mother to spend time with her oldest son, don't you think?" She nudged him and helped out another customer by the cashier.
He flushed red when she tried to pinch his cheek. He glanced back at her and that's when he knew, she had something up her sleeve. He didn't know what, but she did. It wasn't until later in the day when his mother kept glancing at the clock did he call her out. "What are you doing?" He narrowed his eyes at her.
He watched her pick out a mix of flowers to make a colorful bouquet. "Hmm?" She set down her pick of the flowers on her work station. "Nothing." The bell to the entrance dinged for a new entrance and Jena smiled. Valarr looked up and he was met with you.
Jena shot him a look when he made a slight noise. He had pricked himself on his thumb from being distracted. You gave a reserved smile to him, it was clear you were familiar with the store with the way you wandered around.
He was about to excuse himself and head back to clean his wound when his mother pulled him back by the apron and he was a bit taken aback by how strong she was. He looked back at her and then to you who was already pulling out your wallet.
"How is your day today, Jena?" You smiled and you stretched your hand out to pay and Jena pushed your hand down slowly. "Oh, I'm doing alright dear. No need to pay. Always helping me out. This is my son, Valarr. He's here helping me for the summer." She used a hand to gesture to him while another hand was on his back to keep him in place.
He put on one of his polite smiles and stuck his hand out for you to shake. You nodded to acknowledge him and shook his hand. Jena smiled brightly, "You know…Valarr is in Kings Landing College. All on his own. Top of his class." He felt himself turn red and pulled his hand away.
He gave his mother a look and she ignored him and handed you the bouquet. She patted Valarr's shoulder and mentioned how you were new to the city and moved here a few months ago. Jena was the bridge for the both of you, "She is one of my regulars. So sweet. And your age." He turned red even more about what she implied.
— —
A few days later, Valarr was crouched down fixing up the placements of some potted plants to help his mother. He was arranging them from tallest to shortest plants and he heard the bell ding. He tried to let his mother handle it while he complete the task, "Hi Valarr!" He heard you and shot up. He immediately abandoned what he was doing and tried to stood up straight.
He immediately bonked his head on one of the hanging plants and he placed his hands on it to prevent it from swinging around. Jena blinked at him in disbelief at him spinning a bit to make the plant still. You cracked a bigger smile as you grabbed an apron on the side.
He brought a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat, "What are you doing here?" He smoothed his head for nonexistent fluffs of hair that he may have messed up. He watched as you made your way through the back area and immediately knew what to do. He wondered how much more help you did around the place when he wasn't there.
He noticed his mother had a new system of doing things than before. You did things effortlessly and he observed. He only snapped out of it when he saw you attempt to lift a box of pots. He moved to grab it and set it where you wanted.
He wanted to make a conversation, "So, what do you like to do here?" You smiled at him and started organizing flowers and trimming them. "I love to check out some museums. Get to know the city and it's history." He grinned at that, "I'm a history buff, myself. I could show you around some time." He shrugged while unwrapping the packages and giving you a glance. You paused for a moment before looking at him for a moment, "I would like that." He smiled brighter at that and the both of you worked in harmony.
Jena peeked from the open doorway to the front of the shop and nodded to herself satisfied. Her work was done.
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hi!! i just wanted to apologize for not posting anything new lately. i’ve been really busy with family and friends lately. i haven’t been able to write lately because of what i’ve been doing. i have some plans for this weekend and i’m not sure when i’ll be able to get the new fics out. i’m pretty sure i can maybe get a new one by monday or tuesday? anyways, thank you to everyone who read and love my writing! i really appreciate it! it’s what keeps me writing if i’m being honest.
I had a cute thought that reader attempted to pump her Gas while tt!Aerion ran inside to pay. And he sees her and stops and gives her a run down of why she shouldn’t do that. Just a cute thought:)
CUTENESS!
tt!aerion like to do things for you ₊˚⊹
!!!!!
he comes back out of the gas station with a beer tucked under one arm and the receipt in his hand, already looking half distracted from whatever the cashier said to him inside.
then he sees you standing at the pump, actually pumping gas.
aerion stops dead in the middle of the lot. for a second he just stares at you like you’ve climbed onto the roof of the truck for fun.
“baby,” he says slowly, walking faster now, “what are you doin’?”
you glance over your shoulder innocently. “pumping gas?”
“no,” he says immediately. “no, you are not.”
you laugh a little. “aerion, i know how to pump gas.”
he reaches you and gently takes the nozzle from your hand anyway, like you cannot possibly be trusted with it another second. “i told you to stay in the truck.”
“i know, but you were paying.”
“that is exactly why you were supposed to stay in the truck.”
“you were inside for forever.”
“it was two minutes.” he gives you a look before turning toward the pump to check the numbers. he takes over completely, one hand steady on the nozzle while the other rests against the side of the truck.
“what?” he says, glancing at you. “i like doin’ things for you.”
“awww baby! you just admitted to liking acts of service.”
“i don’t know what the hell that means.”
“it means you like taking care of me.”
he shrugs like it should be obvious. “yeah. i do.” aerion keeps his eyes on the pump, but you can see the faint pink creeping into the tips of his ears now. “i dunno,” he mutters. “makes me feel useful.”
“you are useful.”
“i know,” he says smugly, and you laugh again.
the gas pump clicks loudly, signaling it is done. aerion pulls the nozzle out carefully and screws the cap back on like this is a very serious responsibility only he can handle. then he digs into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled five dollar bill.
you blink. “what’s that?”
he presses it into your hand. “go buy yourself somethin’.”
you look down at the money, then back up at him, already smiling. “aerion.”
“i’m serious.” he gestures toward the gas station. “get a candy bar or ice cream or somethin’.”
“you are giving me an allowance?”
“i am givin’ my girl five dollars. go on, baby. buy yourself a little treat.”
you shake your head, but you tuck the five dollars into your pocket anyway. aerion watches you do it with the most satisfied expression imaginable, like he just successfully completed a “husband-like” duty.
then, before you can walk away, he catches your wrist lightly and pulls you back long enough to kiss you quick and soft.
“no more pumpin’ gas,” he murmurs against your mouth.
you roll your eyes. “yes sir.”
“atta girl.” he smacks your ass lightly as you walk to the little snacks mart.
Pairing: Pathetic!Aerion Targaryen x Academic Weapon!Reader
summary: Aerion is stuck doing a project and comes to regret it.
warnings: cursing
notes: sorry for the wait!
wc: 2,578
(Ako ning basura, ako lang ni) (Esta basura es mía, y solo mía)
this is not proofread.
Aerion was a loser. That was known, very well known.
It was also very well known that he would try and get with others only to be an ass. Some put up with it for his name and that was it until Aerion grew bored.
He was a social outcast as well, no friends, only ones that wanted perks of being close to a Targaryen.
He was doing alright in classes.
However, one class needed a project where they needed to shadow a person and do a documentary for the semester as a side project. He hated every part of it.
Then, he met you.
You were in one of his other classes and always stuck with your head on the materials or with a few friends. He would stare without you knowing.
He hated that he was drawn to you every time. There was no explanation. He wanted to know why, so he approached you after class one time. Or rather, he was forced because the person being shadowed had to be confirmed in order for no complications.
You had your earphones in and was walking to your next class when he cleared his throat with a camera in his hand. You rose a brow when he got your attention and took one earphone out.
"Can I help you?" You looked to him expectantly and he narrowed his eyes a bit at the fact you couldn't read his mind.
He bobbed his head, "I was assigned to shadow someone for a documentary and I wanted you to participate in it."
Pure silence from you. It was rather insane for him to approach someone he never spoke to before. You blinked at him.
"What?" He huffed and you glanced to your watch, "I have class…."
You wanted out of this situation desperately and he nodded to himself. "Yes or no? I'll have you know that it'll take forever for me to find a new subject." No it wouldn't.
Your thin politeness dropped and you stared him down, "What the hell are you talking about? And who are you calling subject? I'm going to be late for class. See you later." You were as gruff as you could muster up. Your friends always did say you were blunt, but too pleasing to talk back sometimes. You couldn't believe his audacity.
Who the hell approaches someones they never spoke to before and refers to them as a subject?
Little did you know, Aerion was staring after you with a sparkle glint in his eyes.
— —
The next day in class had a new atmosphere. You were now hyper aware of his presence and he was not about to let you forget.
He approached you again before class started. You were trying to type on your computer.
He stuck a packet out to you and you sighed heavily.
You took it and started flipping through it while he spoke, "The professor says I need your signature to prove you're consenting to the documentary."
You felt like everything was going crazy and no one around you even noticed. You glanced around before looking back at him.
"Why would I sign? What's the documentary even going to be about?" You tried to pretend to be busy on your laptop even though you already completed the report that was due.
He shrugged, "Whatever I want. Just need to shadow someone." You blinked at him, he seemed to believed that was a good enough reason.
"That's not even an explanation." You gave him a look when he tried to peer at your laptop and you shut it halfway.
He stood straighter and bit his original words back, "Will you just sign it?"
"No." He blinked like he never heard that word before and you felt satisfied.
He stared for a moment before giving in, "The documentary is just to show the 'individuality of life' in the words of my professor."
You smiled contentedly and grabbed your pen. "All right, I'm in. This better not mess with my schedule though." You cursed your friends for saying you needed to try something new.
— —
Those same friends looked to you wide-eyed when you told them the news of what you agreed to. You had a smile, the adrenaline rush from doing something outside of your bubble had you beaming at them. You were a little proud of yourself for the confidence to do it.
One of them gave you an extremely worried look, "Aerion Targaryen?"
Another blinked, "Documentary? About you?"
The adrenaline was gone in an instant and you felt chills run down your spine. You went pale and your mouth felt dry.
"Holy shit. What did I just agree to?"
— —
Week One
The first day of the documentary was the following Monday and you were waiting on the sidewalk for Aerion to pick you up. He had found your socials instead of texting you with the phone number you had to provide on the packet.
You heard him before you saw him.
You rolled your eyes at the sound of a sports car, it was six in the morning. Nobody wanted to hear that. You glanced to look at the increasing noise just for a fancy black sports car with red details to pull up next to you.
Aerion rolled down the window and you blinked at him and he gestured to the seat. You carefully let yourself into the car. You were scared to break or scratch anything.
When the two of you arrived to the campus cafe, you glanced around and then to him, "So, what are you going to film?"
He shrugged before fidgeting with his camera. "Whatever I want, I guess. Just going to film you."
Little did you know, he was nervous on the inside. He was never nervous.
The two of you were next in line and you gave your order. You glanced to Aerion who was still fidgeting with the camera, "Mocha."
You glared at his lack of manners and gave a tight smile to the barista. You went to pay and Aerion's hand stuck out with his phone.
You supposed he was rich enough to buy your order for forcing you to do this project. You went to turn away and let out a startled noise when you found the camera in your face. You glared over it to Aerion who focused it on you.
"Cut that out of the video." He said nothing to that and you felt people stare as the two of you sat down and Aerion kept the camera on you.
You sighed internally when he got up with the camera pointed at you when your order was ready.
— —
Week Two
You deadpanned at the camera that had a clear focus on your tired face and baggy pajamas.
You could not believe Aerion had showed up at five in the morning on a free day to capture you routine.
You pursed your lips as you let him in. "Delete that later."
All he did was film you prepare breakfast for the both of you and how you got ready in comfortable clothes to complete assignments and then go out to run a few errands.
He complained behind the camera about having to walk and you merely shrugged at him.
He was unused to walking for so long and being in extremely crowded places while you were thriving and working with the chaos. Almost like it was normal.
— —
Week Three
Aerion was reviewing the footage in the loneliness of his room. He kept replying all the parts where you would lose track of the original questions he asked and rambled to him.
You had started treating him like a friend and he seemed to like it enough.
He kept wanting to hear your voice and he frowned at that.
You would never give him a chance with the way his reputation is.
He doesn't know why he thought of that.
— —
Week Four
You were taken aback when Aerion brought you a box of pastries one morning. You read the packaging and it was from that fancy bakery that you could only dream of getting sweets from.
Now, you didn't have to dream. You thanked him and he fumbled with his camera.
You smiled at him and he almost dropped it.
— —
Week Five
He planned to meet you at the library and just get a few clips of you studying. Now he was stuck complaining while you added another heavy book into his arms.
"Who needs this many books?"
He almost stumbled back a bit when you whipped around to face him, stopping your search. "I do."
He had a staring problem. He watched as you scavenged for more.
He finally was able to set the books down and he started his camera while you turned on your laptop and flipped the books to certain chapters.
He looked to you like you were crazy for having multiple books open at the same time. He was in even more disbelief when you started typing and flipping through different books at a time.
It was as if you sensed his judgment and you glanced to him. he immediately pretended to position the camera.
— —
Week Six
Aerion has fully integrated into your routine now. He would go to your classes when he didn't have his, he would head to the library with you or to the cafe. He would even follow you around the store or the city when you wanted to do simple things.
— —
Week Seven - Midterm Week
Aerion studied alongside you while you were immersed in your books. He edited the current clips so far. He was supposed to submit whatever he had to show proof of progress.
He caught himself turning red whenever there were clips of you going close to the camera or talking to him behind the camera.
— —
Week Eight - Break
Aerion showed up with a unmarked box with ribbon one morning. He let you set it down before he started filming and told you to open it. It was headphones.
You looked up at him and he smiled at the camera. "Noise cancelling. Perfect for studying."
You smiled brightly and thanked him. You assumed he would use the small video to picture himself as a good person in the documentary. He didn't.
He smiled when you smiled.
— —
Week Nine
He barely used social media until after break when he saw you posted a picture with your family. He liked it and that was it. He hadn't talked to other girls like he normally would before meeting you.
He thought nothing of it before scrolling through his following and debating who to talk to. He hesitated when he tried to click on random ones.
He found himself unfollowing a bunch of people online.
— —
Week Ten
He was supposed to submit the final version of the documentary and he hesitated. He knew you wouldn't be a fan of it, but he submitted it. He couldn't fail a class now, his father would be frustrated and he'll be sent away event though he was a grown adult.
He had no time to redo the editing.
It's not like you were actually his friend.
— —
Week Eleven
It was the viewing for the documentary, his day came up and he had invited you to join. You declined at first because of your study prep, but gave in. He felt a bit irked when you told him that's what friends are for. To show up for one another. No one has ever told him that.
You arrived a little late so his area was already packed.
You stood to the side and waited for his to come up.
The professor pulled up his and you smiled and gave Aerion a wave when he spotted you. He felt tense and uneasiness pooled in his stomach.
The projector started rolling,
It was you opening the door in your pajamas and tired face.
Your face fell and you wished to melt into the wall behind you.
The next few clips were you wandering around the city doing errands. A few of your rambles were taken out of context and sounded a bit weird.
You felt yourself getting a bit emotional, you seemed so stuck up and shallow. Was that really how you looked to others?
Many of the clips were you studying or going on about some findings you found interesting.
You heard a few people chuckle and you felt like a child again. People were poking fun at your interests.
You didn't want to stay for the rest of it. Aerion watched you go and stayed glue to his seat.
He felt something ugly inside him.
— —
Week Twelve - Final
You hadn't spoken to him in days and he now he stood in front of your table in the library. You had books set up and your laptop as well.
Aerion noticed the way you seemed to curl up inside a bit. He grew tense when a few people would pass by with small chuckles at you.
He fiddled with his jacket. "I got full points."
You barely gave him a look, "What the hell do you want me to say to that?"
You were mumbling and grumbling, he was quiet like he always was. This time was different. Normally, his quietness had a self of reassurance. Now, his facade was crumbling.
He licked his lips, he never apologized before. He won't- "I didn't mean to embarrass you."
You practically stared him down when you paused your work. "Yeah well, too late. I'm busy."
He refused to leave. He tried to clear his throat, but coughed a bit and you scrunched your nose at him.
He sat down across from you were visibly irked.
"Go away." He shook his head and tried to close one of the books just to knock over another and practically the whole library shushed him.
— —
The next day, before your one of your final exams, you were met with Aerion at your door.
You had no time to argue with him and started walking past him in a hurry to get to your class.
"Let me drive you." You loudly scoffed and kept stomping away.
"It'll give you more time to study!" He shouted it because he refused to chase after you even more after all the walking you made him do around the city before.
You whined and gave in.
You let him lead you to his car and you glared at the sight of your favorite drink and pastry from the bakery he's been treating you to.
You stared at it before he spoke, keeping his eyes on the wheel. "Stop being a child and just take the coffee and pastry. It'll help with your stress. Your words, not mine."
You hated how he was right and he pulled up to the closest route to your class. You didn't even realize that he had memorized your schedule.
You got out of the car a bit calmly since you weren't going to be late like you had thought. Aerion rolled down the window after you closed the door, "Does this mean you'll forgive me?"
Your small smile dropped and you looked right at him. "No."
You spun on your heels and walked away from him.
He only stared after you and hoped things would turn out right for the both of you.
He got honked at for causing a line and he honked back. You only walked faster.
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valarr has never been a jewellery man. before you he wore a watch, that's it. and the watch is a tool, an asset, a tax on other men's attention. the kind of thing you wear so a room knows your number before you've said a word.
but jewellery is adornment, and adornment implies wanting to be looked at in a way that isn't transactional, and Valarr has spent his whole gold-plated life being looked at and hating, somewhere very deep, that none of it ever landed anywhere real.
then you start playing with his hands.
it's nothing, at first. it's idle. you turn the watch on his wrist while he's on a call, you run your thumb over his knuckles at dinner, you fidget with him the way some people fidget with a pen. except you're not fidgeting, you're handling him, and he goes still under the touch every single time. he catalogues it the way he catalogues everything. he just doesn't tell you what file it went into.
and then a ring appears. a thin band, his right hand. you notice because you notice everything about him too, and you reach over without thinking and turn it once around his finger, lingering with pleased little hum. Valarr who beat you at this game years ago by learning the exact pressure of your thumb... Valarr has to look out the window for a long moment after.
so he buys more. he's a collector afterall. a chain, fine and warm, that sits at the open collar of his shirt so you touch his collarbones. a second ring. a bracelet that catches the light when he gestures with his hand and makes you trace that vein you like again. he tells himself it's aesthetic. it's not aesthetic. it's wolf-shaped bait.
because you tug.
the chain especially. you hook two fingers under it and pull him down to your mouth mid-sentence, mid-room, mid-anything, and it's the hungriest thing he does in public. the way he goes, the way the white streak tips toward you every time and the brown eye goes dark. he lets a chain reel him in like he's grateful for the leash, for your want. it reads, to anyone watching, as romantic. passionate. it is. it's also a claim.
you're putting a hand on something that's yours and demonstrating it, and he's letting you demonstrate it, which is the whole point, because he craves it. which is the deepest thing in him: he loves being seen as yours. he loves being the thing you reach for without looking to check it's there.
(and the internet comments. oof. he's wearing her bracelet again, half the internet has decided, and they're not even wrong. sometimes he is, because you left it on his nightstand and he put it on without a word and didn't take it off, and you smiled when you saw it, circling his wrist. and the line between his and yours has gone soft on him in a way nothing else in his life is allowed to be soft. people screenshot his hands. people make a whole thing of his rings. he never confirms anything. he just turns the band with his thumb when he thinks no one's watching, the way you taught him, the way you do.)
and the stubble. only ever the stubble, now.
he was clean-shaven for nearly thirty years. immaculate. a man who shaved twice a day for a six p.m. dinner. then one morning you dragged your mouth along his jaw and made a small, hungry sound at the rasp of it, and that was the end of the razor as a daily institution.
he keeps it short during the week (Valarr Targaryen doesn't show up to a board meeting looking unkept) but the weekends are different. the weekends are when he can keep you, when there's no reason to let you up before noon, and he lets it grow.
deliberately. he times it. he's a man who plans everything, and he's planned, specifically, to be rough against your thighs by Sunday because you told him once (didn't even tell him, just reacted) that you liked the burn of it on your skin afterward. the faint marks. the burn. the proof. he gives you the proof. he keeps the marks on you the way you keep the chain on him.
it's the same exchange, really. it always is, with the two of you. you want him, and he craves it more, so he adjusts, he welcomes it, he turns himself out a little more so you touch and claim, and the jewellery is just the most visible marker of it.
I swear I have people I like that aren’t just flavored depression guys.. they’re just not in the room with us
@fieldofthedreaming @dustyoldclock @doctorcheesy @marsbarzsworld @sunnyway0 @michaelbichael @constellation-sapphic and anyone else who wants to join :)
actually fucking disgusting that glasses cost any money like if you actually think about it for more than a few seconds it is so unconscionably inhumane. this goes for things like insulin and mobility aids and hearing aids too ofc but fuck man, fucking glasses? the thing you need to fucking see? its genuinely sickening and inhumanly evil that those cost ANYTHING.
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the natural lifespan of a fandom is unlimited. when well tended a fandom can be functionally immortal. and yet everywhere you look you see newly bred fandoms withering and dying when they’re barely a year old. barely even six months old. fans are looking at their six month old fandoms and saying i think it’s on its last legs, should i euthanise it? when with the proper care that fandom could outlive them for decades. it’s sad. sad state of affairs we’re in.