ellievsbear
One Nice Bug Per Day
noise dept.
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
RMH
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todays bird
★
PR's Tumblrdome
Color Me Curious
@theartofmadeline
Not today Justin
Cookie Run:Kingdom Official!
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
official daine visual archive
tannertan36
gracie abrams
Origami Around
Xuebing Du
seen from United States
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@incase0femergency
welcome to the grand hotel
...welcome to the lobby... reception | room directory | room service | house rules | suites
...guide...
reception -- about me
room directory -- master list
room service -- coming soon page
house rules -- rules for page
suites -- my recs [ coming soon ]
( loosely inspired by @epiphanyrogers theme <3 and me rewatching grand budapest hotel for the hundredth time )
Do you guys realize when it comes to hygiene this is the most clean Bob has ever been? Mind you before the events of thunderbolts Bob was basically homeless💔
Heart of a teenage girl
Pairing: Jack Abbot x nurse!reader
Wc: 4.8k
Description: Recently broken up, you end up drunkenly crying from watching teenage girls doing karaoke to sad Olivia Rodrigo songs. Cue your hot attending comforting you, who only hates two things: 1. Incompetence 2. His favorite nurse looking sad
Tags/warnings: idk why i included santos, drinking, r is drunk, age gap (r is in 20’s, abbot is 50), very much flirting, tons of teasing, jack refers to himself as daddy at one point (non sexual context), this man is a sweetie pie, and also as protective as a guard dog, slightly suggestive themes, many OR references, no allusions to r’s gender, petnames: sweetheart
Note: Not my best, but it’s pretty cute. Like you all. My cuties fr.
“I wish I was 13 again,” Santos murmurs, wistfully eyeing the pack of teenage girls who are currently moving in flashes of glitter, dancing uncoordinated steps on the karaoke floor.
You lean back in your seat, watching your friend with curiosity. “Really? Thought you had a dark past,” you playfully whisper the last part, so as to not accidentally trigger a serious conversation. That is not the mood you are in. You are in a floaty wonderland: surrounding loud, chirpy, noises kept at bay — thanks to the long island iced tea you're sipping on.
Trinity finally tears her gaze away, though it's impossible to ignore the delighted, uninhibited singing coming from the other side.
GUESS YOU DIDN'T MEAN WHAT YOU WROTE IN THAT SONG ABOUT MEEEEE….
Before she can expertly dodge your question, everyone — Shen, Walsh, and Mateo — come back with their drinks. You slowly rise to your feet and take a sidestep, so Mateo and Walsh can slip into the booth. Having already been squished enough, you're willing to take only the corner this time.
You settle in again, next to Walsh, the leather under you creaking with every drag of your thighs.
“Are you both always so fun at parties?” Emery sips through a straw, eyes darting between you and Santos.
“This one —” Shen points a thumb at you “— is already uptight as it is. And Santos is just a poor influence. Don't think I've ever seen her smile, actually.”
“Yeah, she only smiles on her day shift when huckle– Dennis gets pissed on. Or, something of the same sorts,” you join in, ignoring the dig at you.
However, everyone's attention is quickly stolen away by the lives of the party again.
‘CAUSE I STILL FUCKING LOVE YOU, BABE OOoooOohhhOOO
You cannot stifle your laughter anymore when Mateo cheers them on, hooting with his palms cupped around his mouth. The best part is that he looks genuine and sincere, rooting for them no hint of mockingness.
Yeah, you wish you could be 13 again.
It's your turn to miserably and longingly watch the teenager birthday party taking its full swing, completely drowning out the overlapping conversations — and petty arguing — of your colleagues.
You smile at one of the young girls on stage, giving her a lazy wave. Suddenly, she's flushing and whispering in her friend's ear, presumably about a “cool adult” that interacted with her. You wish you could tell her that even though you might look the part — the sitcom adult who sits in a booth with a friend group and drinks — your life couldn't be less boring.
You work at the PTMC, go home, watch TV, fall asleep in front of the said TV, and daydream of a certain honey-eyed doctor. Maybe he's your rebound crush after your recent breakup. Not to mention, a deeply inappropriate one, both work and age wise.
Speak of the devil.
Your face snaps up when you hear your name in that low, raspy, voice. You register his face, tired under the dim lights, and his perfect salt & pepper curls frazzled from the ride over. He's in a white t-shirt stretched taut across his pecs, and a simple pair of black jeans. Though, nothing about how he looks is ‘simple.’
“Doctor…” you speak slowly, narrowing your eyes, and making a show of thinking very, very deeply. You snap your fingers in front of your chin, Before pointing your index at him, “aha! Doctor Abbot, attending of the nightcrawlers. What will you drink?”
The corner of his lips quirk up, amused by your liquor-induced playfulness. “Two of whatever you're having,” he replies, smoothly stealing the glass right out of your hands, holding it in front of his eyes to examine the brown liquid.
“Long island?”
“Yep. L-I-I-T, it's pretty L-I-T. Lit. It means cool.”
“I know what lit means.” He takes in your sluggish blinks, the drop in your usually tight shoulders, and the almost giddy smile on your lips. “How many have you had?”
You hold up one digit, wiggling it back and forth for emphasis.
Jack tuts, “L-I-G-H-T-W-E-I-G-H-T”
“F-U-K-C-Y-O-U,” you proudly smile at your mature retort, mind completely unbothered that your mouth just sweared at your boss.
He shakes his head, contemplating if he should tell you that you spelled your insult wrong.
“Jesus…” he watches you carefully for a second, before handing your cocktail back to you. His thick fingers brush against yours, sending a jolt up your arm.
“Jack! Man, we thought you abandoned your children,” Shen exclaims, realising along with everyone the presence of the new arrival, and bringing you out of your head.
“Well, Shen, daddy's gotta come home.”
Daddy.
Well, technically, he is the attending, so he is the daddy. Daddy of the department, daddy of the floor, daddy of your–
Getting a little off-track there.
You clear your throat, trying to push the sinful thoughts away, putting them back in the compartment that only opens itself in sleepless, late, horny, nights.
“Do you wanna sit orrrr…?” Trinity trails off, jutting her chin towards the karaoke stage.
You bring your glass to your lips again, savouring the citrusy taste on your tongue. You expect to hear the scrape of a chair's legs dragged along the floor — Jack, as always, hauling an extra seat to sit at the head of the table. You always thought it was a way to maintain boundaries even outside the workplace, to make sure there's a tangible difference to avoid misuse of power dynamics. Your attending was quite easygoing, as far as bosses went, but that never deterred his ability to be responsible.
Instead, “Yeah, there's some space here.”
You don't realise you're being spoken to, until you look and everyone is staring expectantly at you. “Wha– oh.”
You try to visibly measure the space next to you, barely larger than your hand. You look back up at the towering man, raising his grey brows in impatience.
You move your ass.
As soon as he's shifting next to you, your senses are overwhelmed by his dominating presence. Your entire side is pressed against his. And he must've showered before coming here, because you can smell the soap he must use — cedarwood. You're thankful for the alcohol in your system, calming your nerves enough to not send a body-wide emergency signal.
“So…” you begin, taking in his face, which is so, so close to you. The disco lights of the place dance on his features, and you try not to chase the shine with your fingers.
“Sorry for crashing. Must be a bummer to have your boss here,” he speaks louder than usual, voice trying to carry over the singing, though his attention is on waving over a server.
You wait until Jack orders a whiskey for himself, continuing after the waiter leaves, “oh, you're not a regular boss. You're a cool boss.”
“Yeah? Is it because I yell a lot less than Robby?”
“That and more.”
“Care to explain, nurse?”
Biceps. Charming. Funny. Biceps. Competent. Sexy. Hardworking. Generous. Biceps.
“No.” You lean forward to catch the view of the little pop-stars again. It seems they've moved on from Olivia Rodrigo to…more Olivia Rodrigo. It's a song you've only recently heard — something about higher standards and expectations.
THEY SEEM SO DESPERATE FOR LOVIN’, BUT BABY, I'M NOT…
The loud singing must have called for his attention too, because now he’s focusing intently on the concert since the first time he came here.
NOW I TAKE CAREFUL CONSIDERATIONS
I'M NOT KISSING ANY BOY THAT IS PASSIVE…
His eyebrows draw together in concern, and almost to himself, he murmurs, “they shouldn't be kissing any boys right now.”
“They're 13, grandpa,” your voice snaps his gaze to you again, “kissing at that age is normal.”
“I'm 50. Anyone under 25 is a kid to me. They—” he gestures to the pack, “—are practically toddlers to me.”
“To remind you, you also have staff in their 20’s working for you. We, very much, aren't kids.”
That makes him pause. If you would've blinked, you would've failed to notice how his gaze dropped to your lips for just a second, before flicking up.
The server brings his order, and Jack is quick to take a swig. “That's what I try to remind myself, too.”
“Do you think Stacy would mind if I join them?” you whisper in Jack's ear with the eager expression of a dog waiting for its owner. You're practically vibrating in your seat, knee bouncing from the third drink you definitely should've refused.
But it's not like you're the only one stupidly drunk. Santos and Mateo are at the pool table, losing to strangers. Shen is in a corner on a facetime with his wife — like, just go back home — and Walsh is nowhere to be seen. So, it’s a thing to wonder why you and your senior are still sitting glued together. You are drunk. What reason does the most rational man you know have?
“Who is Stacy?” He shifts, trying to maintain some semblance of a physical distance between you both, but you just end up closing the space again.
“The birthday girl, Dr. Abbot!”
“The 13 year-old on the karaoke with her friends?”
“Yes!”
Jack sighs, “you don't have to exclaim everything, you know.”
“YES, I DO!”
He physically recoils at your sudden raise in pitch. He takes in your erratic energy: the restless leg, the speedy talking, eyes blown wide. His palm slowly reaches out, firmly cupping your knee, bringing the bouncing to a halt. “Okay, exclaim away. But–”
“But?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking the deep breath of a man who wasn't expecting to babysit his drunk colleague today.
“Okay, this time, we let me finish talking. Yeah?” You immediately nod your head. In reality, you have no idea what he just said. You only heard the “yeah?” in his authoritative voice, and agreed.
“I'm very concerned you know her name.”
“Who? Stacy's?”
“Exactly. You're referring to a random teenage girl as if she's a close, personal, friend,” he explains carefully, like he's talking to a child.
“Nooo! She's not a friend, doc.”
“Of course, that would be creep–”
“But I want to be her friend sooo bad,” you whine, staring adoringly at Stacy and friends like they hung the moon. “Just look at them! They did Olivia, moved to Glee's soundtrack, and are now doing Olivia again. They're sooo cool.”
Jack shoots them a quick look and lets out a small huff of laughter when he sees the deep longing in your eyes, a pure look of awe.
He says your name, and your gaze darts straight from the stage, and into his eyes again. It always steals your breath when he calls you by your first name, anchoring you completely to him with just one word. One person should never have so much power.
“I'm cutting you off.”
“What?” Your mouth hangs open, words blurting out from shock, “like, from your life?”
“What? No–” he uses his free hand to pry the drink out of your hand. He lifts the glass, swinging it in front of your eyes, before setting it far on the table. Out of your reach. “From drinking. No more alcohol for you.”
A huge sigh of relief leaves you, and you dramatically clutch your palm to your chest. “That's nice. It would've been hard to work together with beef between us.”
“It's already hard to work with you, sweetheart,” he says under his breath, scanning your face for any signs of distress.
Your brows draw tight in confusion. Huh, what does that mean?
OH BECAUSE MY HEAD IS FULL OF POISON
AND MY HEART IS FULL OF DOUBTS…
The sound of collective cries panics you before you realise sad girl hours have started. You look from Stacy to her other two friends, fortunately not knowing their names. They're clutching the mics tightly enough that you're sure one of them ought to break the device. The singing is a little uneasy on the ears, but you find yourself softly smiling.
Then frowning.
And next you know, your eyes are welling up with tears when the song comes to an end.
IT'LL NEVER BE THE CURE
IT'LL NEVER BE…
Poor girls. They're crying thinking about their eighth grade crush, but they have no idea what's coming for them. One day, they'll be in their 20's and a stupid man with a stupid name will tell them he loves them, and they will believe him, even though he does nothing to prove it. Poor, poor, girls.
You're not sure if it's them you're upset about, since you feel like the only poor, poor person in this entire room.
“Are they okay?” Jack has forgotten his drink, attention fixated on the young girls. His hand unknowingly slides off your knee, hovering near the edge of the table, as if he's about to get up any second. “Why is the girl in the green dress crying? She can't possibly relate to this. Where are their parents?”
“I'm gonna go make sure–” He turns to look at you for assurance, but he sees a fat tear rolling down your flushed cheek. Suddenly, the concern in his eyes is replaced by panic. “Woah, hey, what's wrong? Do you feel dizzy? Overstimulated?”
His head tips down to map your face. You were fine just a few minutes ago. Now, you're tearing up, and your breath is hitching, and his hands are hovering unsurely near your face.
“It's just,” you sniffle, “it's just so…”
“Sad…?” He prompts.
“Yes!” Your eyes flash like he just invented a new word. “Exactly! See, you have the heart of a teenage girl.”
He shakes his head, “I'm 50, but thank you.”
“Why do you tell me you're 50, like 50 times a day? We get it, grandpa.” You sniffle again, trying to look at the stage. But Jack effectively blocks your view with his sturdy frame, instead offering you his handkerchief like some sort of a gentleman from a 60's rom-com.
You wipe your nose in what you hope is in a dignified fashion, barely hiccuping a thank-you to him. “Is it that you forget it too? And you have to keep reminding me so you don't forget it yourself?”
He sighs, finally swiping his thumb under your eye to brush the wetness away.
“Believe me, I try to forget it.”
As if catching up to what he just did, his hands rush towards the safe territory of your upper arms.
You nod thoughtfully, “that makes sense.”
“Yeah?” You watch as hope flickers in his eyes. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, as if contemplating if he should say something. “You understand why?”
“Mhm,” you nod again. “If I was 50, I'd be trying to forget my age too,” you say completely sincerely, eyes swimming with sympathy.
His head falls forward, and his shoulders shake. For a second, your drunk mind makes you believe you made him cry. But when he looks up at you again, he's flashing an amused grin, shaking his head at you.
“Real funny.”
“I wasn't trying to be funny.”
WENT TO THE DOCTOR AND SHE SAID I WAS FINE
BUT EVERY MOVIE THAT I SEE MAKES ME CRYYYyyYY…
Oh, no. When did they start singing this one? It's that song. The one you've had on replay since your breakup, the one you've been singing in showers, in cars, and in the kitchen.
You feel a fresh wave of tears clawing their way up again. Your lower lip juts out in a pout, and you flush in embarrassment when Jack's laugh dies. “I'm fine.”
He gently squeezes your arm, “up.”
Before you have any mind to be confused, your world tilts when you're suddenly hauled off your seat. You sway on your feet for a moment, before Jack steadies you, firmly planting his hands on your elbows.
“Are we finally going to join Stacy?”
“No. Not while you're doing your best impression of a kicked puppy.”
I CAN'T SLEEEEEP
I CAN'T EAAAATTTT
I THINK YOU'RE WHAT'S WRONG WITH MEEEE…
A soft sob escapes your throat. What is wrong with you?
“Nothing. Three-drink-you is just not as fun as two-drink-you,” Jack assures you, his fingers twitching at your elbows without his permission, stuck between staying noble and wiping away the hot tears that are rushing from your ducts again.
Oh. You hadn't realised you'd said that out loud. You can't believe you're breaking down in front of your attending. Because of a breakup song. Because you're drunk. That's, like, top 3 tell-tale signs you need some help. Or, another drink. But you're quite sure that four-drink-you is a horny you, so, maybe not.
The surrounding noises get muffled when Jack spins you around, and starts walking you towards a hushed corner. He swiftly steers you away from any table, chair, or a group of people that comes in your way, before you even register it.
You're disappointed when his hands drop to his own sides, when you're both tucked away in a corner. You look around, and the lights are even dimmer in here, painting everything a dull shade of yellow. There's a door behind you, presumably leading to a bathroom, because you can see the universal signage for a male. Before you can ask Jack to move from here, you notice a lock on the door.
“No one's gonna come here. Talk.”
You clear your throat, managing to speak through your watery throat, “It was just really–”
“Sad? Yes, we covered that,” he catches the sharp edge in his tone, and quickly smoothes it over, gentling himself for you, “but as sensitive as you are, I know that you're not really sobbing because some little girls are crying along to a sad Taylor Swift song.”
“It's Olivia, not Taylor.”
“They're all the same.”
You immediately gasp, narrowing your eyes at his disgusting comment, “I take my words back. You have the heart of a cold, unfeeling, man.”
Jack bites the inside of his cheek to not burst out laughing. “I'm sorry. Will you please tell me why you're worrying yourself over an Olive song?”
“OLIVIA!”
He raises his palms in surrender, but instead of giving up like you'd expect anyone to, he apologises again. Now he's looking at you expectantly, as patient as a saint, and you feel your sob story tumbling out of your mouth.
“I had a break-up recently. And it's,” you click your tongue in frustration, “I don't even miss him. He was a mistake. A big one. But…”
“But?”
You sigh, “I don't know. It's humiliating. Can we go back?”
“What's humiliating?”
You scramble for words but all that comes out is, “this! You! Here!”
“I'm humiliating?”
“Gosh, no. You're– you're not. You're anything but. You're sweet and patient and kind–” you immediately lock your lips when you realise you're verbally fawning over the man in front of you. “That's not what I mean.”
“So, I'm not sweet and patient and kind?” His eyes are crinkling with amusement, and you would want to wipe that smile from his face if it wasn't so goddamn beautiful.
You take a deep breath, “what I am trying to say is, It's humiliating because we work together. You're my senior. Like, super, super senior.”
“And that makes me unempathetic towards one of my staff having a meltdown in a public place?”
“Okay, I think we're throwing the word ‘meltdown’ a little too easy here.”
Jack pretends to ponder for a moment, observant brown eyes scanning your face slow enough to make you squirm. “I think not. Look at yourself.”
You immediately straighten up. “Huh, do I look like a mess?” Your hands rush to your face, trying to harshly rub the messy tears away.
His eyes immediately soften. “No, hey, that's not…You just look so upset is all. Otherwise, you look fine. Good. As always.” He says it like it's obvious, like it's a rule he learned in medical school.
Almost hesitantly, he pries your wrists away from your face, leaving them in his grip, hanging between you both. You have no option but to look straight at him.
“I'm sorry. You've just caught me on a bad day.”
“What do you mean? I'm having a really good time.”
You let out a watery laugh. “You don't have to make me feel better.”
“Gloria is always on my ass about keeping staff happy. Consider this a part of my duty.”
You have a good couple of inches between you, but the distance seems really, really little right now. You're not sure if it's him or you who takes a step closer. Probably you, since his thumb is stroking the side of your wrist, and you're feeling floaty again.
“I'm not sure this is what duty looks like, Jack,” your voice comes out barely more than whisper.
He tuts in disapproval when you use his first time, voice dropping an octave lower. “No, it doesn't. You should be thankful. Robby just yells at people and tells them to pack it up.”
“Don't joke.”
“If I stop joking, I'll have to tell you that you have no reason to cry for a fuckin’ idiot who owned forty different colors of the same polo t-shirt.”
For a second, you're taken back enough to not speak. “How…how do you know that?”
“Used to see him everyday when he would pick you up, remember?” He reminds you as you watch irritation flare up in his eyes, “and he was 20 minutes late. Every single day.”
“20 minutes is not a lot. He was, after all, picking me up.”
“If you're gonna do something, do it right. I wouldn't even be 2 minutes late for someone who spent the entire night working their ass off.”
You downcast your gaze to avoid his sharp eyes. “Shame you're not the one picking me up, then.” You try to play it off as a joke, but it only comes out as wistful.
“Shame,” he murmurs. “So, you don't miss him?”
You shake your head. “No, but it gets lonely.” You sigh before continuing, admitting with a hint of shame, “I like the whole routine — the dates, the places, the high while it lasts.”
“So? Go on a date again.”
“Right,” You laugh in self-deprecation, “It's not like I've queues outside my door, people waiting to take me out.”
“Impossible. Look at you,” he replies, without missing a beat. You examine his face, trying to gauge the intent behind his words. Mindless affirmation or meaningful compliment?
“You're just saying that,” you whisper.
“What reason do I have to lie?”
“Getting me off your hands, and back to your whiskey again.”
His breath mingles with yours when he tips his face forward, gaze locking in on your soft lips. “I'm not so eager to get my hands on whiskey. I've got better things going on for me,” he speaks, voice dropping low and intimate.
“Like me having a meltdown?”
“Like you allowing me to be here for it.”
“Of course. You're sweet and patient and kind.”
“Pray tell. Don't let me stop you from singing my praise.”
“And…calm and funny and…” you pause, trying to even out your shallow breaths, “incredibly, stupidly, frustrating.”
“Careful. Still your attending.” Irony is that right as he's saying it, he's letting go of your wrists to cup your hips instead — long fingers curling around the fabric of your shirt, settling heavy and firm, grounding you in place.
“You're not acting like it.”
He playfully squeezes your hips, “why am i frustrating?”
“Because…sometimes, I come to the shift, and I get to hear from Santos that somebody decided to play the hero and got shot. And I'm obviously never there, because it all happens during the day shift.”
“You worry?”
“You're not a man with ill styling choices. I can worry.”
“As long as you don't cry.”
“Are you one of those people who don't like people crying? You get all awkward and uncomfortable?”
His hand drags up your arm to swipe across your cheekbone, brushing over the dried tears. “I don't like when you cry. It makes me frustrated and insistent.”
“Insistent to do what?”
“To fix whatever caused it. Or whoever.”
Your throat dries up, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “It's not recommended to go causing trouble in the name of nurses.”
“What if it's a pretty nurse?”
Red rushes to your cheeks, and you feel yourself warming up. You urge the alcohol in your system to deliver you courage, but all you feel is like wet noodles in front of him.
“That's not a valid reason,” you murmur.
“My floor, my rules.”
“Careful. Next thing you know, it's 20 missed calls from HR.”
“Shit,” he says, not sounding concerned in the slightest.
You clear your throat, “now that I'm not actively sobbing, we should head back. Somebody will notice we're gone.”
“They're all too busy being idiots. Besides, there's nothing to notice. I'll just tell them–” your eyelids flutter when he lightly blows air into your right eye, “–there was something in your eye.”
“And you were helping me while using your bedroom voice?”
Jack sputters a small laugh, “oh, this is not my bedroom voice.” His hand on your hip moves, leaving a trail of fire up your side, settling high on your waist. “Or my bedroom hands. Or my bedroom acts.”
Your eyes flutter close, and heat melts low in your belly, leaving an ache between your thighs. Your thoughts wander, trying to imagine his ‘bedroom acts.’
You snap your eyes open before your body can take control from you, and start acting on its own accord.
“HR. 20 missed calls,” you breathily say, not sure if it’s him or you you’re trying to remind.
He sighs as he backs away from you, and you feel sharp dissatisfaction at the loss of his burning, comforting touch. He holds his arm out towards the small hallway from where you both entered. “Pretty nurses first.”
I KNOW THAT THE BAR CLOSES AT ELEVENNN
I HOPE YOU NEVER FINISH THAT BEEEERRR…
What do you know? Your colleagues were indeed too busy being idiots to notice any change. You sit in the booth again, next to Jack, watching the girls be happy and bright again.
You on the other hand feel disappointment settling deep in your chest. You're suddenly wishing that you hadn't urged Jack to come back out here. Something could've happened. Something you had been wishing and hoping for. And now you have let the moment pass.
OOOO, ONE NIGHT, I WAS BORED IN BED
AND STALKED YOU ON THE INTERNET…
“So, I'm gonna leave.”
You turn to look at him, trying very hard not to let your dismay show, instead sweetly smiling at him and nodding your head a little too quickly.
A pause.
“You can leave 10 minutes later. I'll be in my truck.”
Your brows snap together in confusion, lips parting to say something, but Jack is already getting up, grabbing his leather jacket from where he kept it in the booth.
“They're idiots, yes, but it's better if they don't see us leaving together.”
You scramble for words but nothing comes out.
‘CUZ I ALWAYS HAD A VISION OF US STANDING LIKE THIS
ALL PRESSED UP IN THE BATHROOM LINE…
“Where will we go?” you dumbly ask.
Jack shrugs, “dates, places, chasing the high while it lasts.”
Your heart leaps out of your ribcage, body unable to do anything but watch his back as he walks towards the door. Your lips open. And close again.
What.
Deep breaths. It’s chill. All good. Just a normal hangout with Dr. Abbot. Surely, nothing will happen.
Fuck.
You give a final glance towards the cheerful trio of girls, a luminous grin finally breaking out on your face.
They'll be okay. So will you.
You take out your phone and tap the screen awake. One minute passed, nine more to go.
KISS MEEE AND I MIIIGHTT
KISS ME AND I MIGHT DROP DEAD.
Sigh…i missed my husband. Now everyone say, “thank you, stacy” and then everyone who liked this, please glaze all over me. Likes, comments especially, and reblogs increase one minute of my lifespan.
Taglist: @mismwaa @imthecowboylikesmehee @cherbicdollie @wildflowerluver @unenthusedprofiler @cmysecondattemptsims @canillionare @winterreader-nowwriter @marquiserose @kittygeniusprincess @athousandghosts @princesspinkbaby @samaelisdead @sofretro @velvetyhydrangea @mxrxlxy @ryannnleigh @kaaisnl @stvrl1ghtt00 @ilikebeingdelulu @llcalumllhoodll @bluberrychampagne | @you-go-too-slow-for-me @voidsagent @moonlitmaureder @ratsnash @liviemalfoy @lovergirlellie @colorgeek @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing
another fucking masterpiece
Barbie Doll You and your new boyfriend haven't had sex yet. Though, getting drunk for the first time — and seeing your gorgeous boyfriend take care of you — awakens that dormant part. Or, you being a drunk mess trying to get him to fuck you, and him fighting his self-control. ↳ Jackass You and boyfriend haven't done much besides making out. Cut to a drunk you trying to get him to fuck you last night (and him fending you off with remarkable constraint). The morning comes with heartfelt conversations and pancakes nobody ends up eating because, well…Jack was craving something else.
Gold or Silver Alexa, play ‘manchild’ by Sabrina. Or, 3 times Jack notices the incompetency of your new boyfriend and gets annoyed, and 1 time he does something about it.
Heart of a teenage girl Recently broken up, you end up drunkenly crying from watching teenage girls doing karaoke to sad Olivia Rodrigo songs. Cue your hot attending comforting you, who only hates two things: 1. Incompetence 2. His favorite nurse looking sad
The only reason I’m going to see Doomsday.
If they kill any of my husbands or wives… I will get very very angry.
UH WTF I JUST SAW SPIDERMAN!! In 3D no less hahaha!! I loved it so much omg I’m so happy that we are back to marvel not taking itself tooooooo serious. It was so fun while still telling a great story. And watched the doomsday trailer obviously in the theaters first and I can’t wait to bawl my eyes out during it omg. Marvel fics to come. Sorry I am so MIA lately haha
looking through an x reader tag when you’re in a fanfic reading mood only to find out you’ve read all the fanfics that could possibly appeal to you has got to be one of the most devastating experiences. like damn i’m RAN THROUGH😭
𝜗ৎ─── ᴀᴇʀɪᴏɴ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ ᴡʜᴏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴡɪꜰᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆
Mad. Cruel. Ruthless.
Those were the words they associated your betrothed with.
And at the mere age of ten, you had been inclined to believe them , swayed by empty utterances because you had no other basis of picturing this enigma that was going to be your husband.
But when you had the privilege of attending a tourney at the Ashford Meadow seated between your father and your intended's sire—it wasn't fear that washed over you when you watched him ruthlessly disarm his opponents. No. It was something that ran far deeper than the mere 'awe' that you later labelled it as and dismissed it swiftly with. After all it wasn't proper of a lady of six and ten to have such thoughts, was it?
When you came of age, you were taken to the beautiful sprawling grounds of Summerhall to be formally introduced to your betrothed. His father asked him to accompany you on a stroll through the gardens, to help you get acquainted with the summer residence.
Your fingers had twisted into the silks of the extravagant dress you had been made to wear in hopes of making a good first impression. Though he has seen you many times before this—at the tourneys, at a few luncheons, at the bigger parties and social gatherings that were in your standing to attend—hardly making this a first impression. But you suppose somewhere in that romantic heart of yours you had wanted to look good. Look good for him.
The walk had been excruciatingly silent and perspiration had bloomed on your brows though you couldn't be sure if it was from the long walk under the blazing sun, your heavy garments that dragged behind you , or from the imposing man that walked just a few steps ahead of you .
You must have been too busy checking your footing and regathering your skirts as they kept slipping from your sweaty grasp, because you entirely missed him glance back at you and take note of your exhaustion.
So when he abruptly sat down under the shade of one large tree , you mistook it as him suffering similarly under the sun and hot weather. You were grateful to follow his cue nonetheless, settling beside him with a careful distance between him and your skirts.
"You are not mute"
his abrupt words startled you as turned to him hastily, "My prince?"
He hummed as he gazed off into the distance, eyes squinted from the contrasting brightness from under shade and the scorching rays just beyond.
"Tell me about yourself, so that I know it isn't silence that will accompany me for the rest of my life." Your cheeks had flushed from the nakedness of his speech and your first words had stuttered, but when he continued to stare at the gardens before you both, your sentences had flowed more freely.
First you told him about your hobbies—the responses taught to you since you could conjured sentences, answers deemed appropriate for friends and suitors alike. Then you spoke of your interests that were truly yours , not the ones that were expected of a lady—reading. That was when he glanced at you for the first time with something other than disinterest.
And the next time you both were made to cross paths, he hadn't greeted you empty handed. You had stayed up all night that night, as you read every line twice of the 'art of disarming your opponent'. And sure enough, he had successfully managed to disarm you.
Your courtship wasn't labelled nor was it grand. It flowed like a river—naturally, at its own pace and without any external influence. But it wasn't cool to the touch.
He was merciless , arrogant about his skills to a fault. But you couldn't bring yourself to deny him the praise that was due to him. He truly was magnificent when he had the twin swords in his strong grip, feet steady as he swayed to the melody of the clanging of steel and heavy thumps of bodies hitting the ground. The haunting melody that you grew more fond of day by day.
He was fiery, a Targaryen. And this realisation dawned on you the more you watched him train. He breathed fire, true to the blood of the dragon that flowed in his veins.
And that fire consumed you. Yet it never burned you. Because, you realised, his fire always mellowed out when he was with you.
It wasn't hardness that greeted you when his lips met yours. It wasn't bruises that painted your skin when his fingers found your waist.
And it wasn't shame that you felt when he took your innocence on your wedding night.
What overcame you was love and pride. Happiness to belong to someone whose sharp edges never dug into you.
He was mad though—you could attest to it. Absolutely mental .
Because it is only a madman who trains a lady in the art of swords and knives. Not just any lady, his wife.
But Aerion Targaryen personally taught you how to grab the hilt, how to twist the blades just right so that it doesn't face resistance against bone, and which parts of the body to strike so that it pierces right through the flesh and sinew.
He was unforgiving in his training, dressing you up in his own trousers and shirts which hung off your frame. He insisted that the dragon's wife , should be a dragon in her own right. You would curse him in your head , when your muscles protested and sweat made the cotton cling to your back.
But when his sword would clang to the stone floor and his fingers would sneak around your waist pulling you flush against him, you would forget all about your anger and fire. He didn't mind the sweat and the dust and grime. He would bury his nose against your neck and inhale as if he would suffocate without you and your scent was the only air his body would accept.
In those moments he wouldn't be the cruel general or the ruthless prince that the court whispered of , he was just your husband. Your protector and your guide. Your mentor too.
And you were his anchor. Or perhaps the sandstone—smoothening his edges and holding him down so that he didn't lose himself.
He wasn't inhumane. He was angry. Angry at the world that belittled him and looked down on him at every turn. Thought him undeserving of his name and refused to acknowledge his efforts. So he learnt to desensitise himself. He learnt to be secure in himself and his abilities. And you couldn't find fault with a man who was the epitome of confidence and regality.
He wasn't religious, but he would accompany you to your prayers.
He wasn't soft, but he would never hesitate to stop when your body betrayed you, no matter if it was in training or in the bedchamber.
He wasn't romantic , but he would stay seated with his arms wrapped around your waist, nose buried in your neck as you would read to him.
And when you looked at him in the nights—when the candlelight softened the sharper lines of his face and his long hair framed his features in waves of spun gold— you only saw your husband. The man who wasn't afraid to defy norms. The man who knew loyalty. The man who wasn't afraid that his woman might betray him and had willingly put a sword in her hands. The man who had given you his heart.
There was much too many things he wasn't .
But he was yours— bound to you in body, mind and heart. So you accepted him in his entirety.
His cruelty, his madness and his ruthlessness.
Another short blurb that I'm not proud of but had to get outta my system cuz I'm so in love with soft aerion likes , comments and reblogs make me come alive 🙂↕️
SOFT SPOT - Aerion Targaryen
SUMMARY - Having met as children and reuniting once you've grown into a woman, Aerion's previous suspicion of you grows into the softest spot imaginable.
CONTAINS - pure fluff, reader is extremely kind, aerion is only kind to reader, classic sunshine x grumpy
A/N - i personally couldn't stop giggling while writing the "pastry" scene. Ughh i need him
The blazing sun over Summerhall was unforgiving, but it did nothing to melt the sour disposition of Prince Aerion.
At barely ten name days old, the boy was already terror embodied. He sat on a smooth rock by the edge of the river, a fishing rod held tight in his small, tense hands.
His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.
“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.
Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.
Instead, he saw you.
You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.
While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.
You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.
“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”
“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.
You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”
“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.
But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”
Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.
You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.
The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.
Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.
“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”
Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.
Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.
But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”
Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.
“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”
“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.
Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.
Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.
Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.
From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.
To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.
He waited for you to finally lose your cool.
But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.
You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.
A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.
“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”
You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.
An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.
Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.
“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”
“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.
Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.
“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”
You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.
“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”
He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.
“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”
“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”
The room went silent before you spoke again.
“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”
The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.
A breathless laugh escaped him.
“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.
He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.’ Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”
Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”
“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.
He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”
“Of course,” you smiled.
As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.
Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.
The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.
You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.
“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”
“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”
“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”
“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.
The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.
Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.
Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.
“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.
“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.
“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.
Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.
You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”
“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.
That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.
During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.
He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.
“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”
Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.
Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.
“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”
His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.
The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.
Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.
Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.
A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.
You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.
Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.
“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.
“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”
Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.
Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.
Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.
You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.
Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.
However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.
The feast was deafeningly loud.
You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.
Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.
He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.
Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.
But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.
He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.
“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”
“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”
Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.
His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.
The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.
You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”
Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”
Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.
“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”
“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.
A faint smile broke across his face. “Watch me,” he repeated, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder. “Now hold still and let me fix it.”
18+ mdni ♡ A/N: Counselor!Aerion in the arts cabin AKA men will do anything except go to therapy or tell their crush they have feelings for them | Summer Camp AU masterlist
This play was fucking Tanselle’s idea and yet look who’s actually here, actually working. Aerion’s never going to let anyone tell him he’s lazy again. His hands ache from all the wrangling cardboard and papier mache-ing. The room stinks of acrylic paint. Syrupy rays of sunlight stream through the windows, in big yellow slats that swirl with dust whenever he moves and barely seem to alleviate the heavy shadows that cling to the art cabin’s walls like wallpaper. Aerion refuses to switch the light on because the second it gets dark, he’s giving up.
When the door opens he doesn’t even notice. Muffled footsteps just about break through his focus and then there you are, standing over him with a smile. He can’t decide whether it’s friendly or mocking.
“Yes?”
You offer to help and he scoffs. As you’re sitting down, he insists that no, really, he’s fine. The bench creaks beneath you as you make yourself comfortable and peel an old, chipped-off bit of wood right by your thigh and Aerion wants to say that surely you’d rather spend the night with Valarr, or Dunk, or literally anybody else. What he can’t quite bring himself to say is that the quiet in here is the first time in years that solitude hasn’t felt like a punishment. He’s in here, building a papier mache dragon, and discovering what hippies mean when they recommend meditation. It’s humiliating.
It’s also far too much work for one person to take on alone, which you tell him as you scrunch and fold bunches of tissue papers into wonky flowers. If you weren’t doing such a good job, he’d argue. Actually, he does argue, but you just keep laughing and eventually, he wants that quiet back.
Somehow, in a move he can attribute only to your surely malintentioned distraction, he stays until it gets dark. It's hot and thick, still syrupy. He looks up and finds you peeling glue-soaked tissue paper from your fingers, and something confusing and totally all-consuming lurches in his chest. Part of him thinks he might cry and then, thank God, you yawn.
“Get out.”
You look up, already wearing your teasing half-smile. “What’d I do now?”
“You’re tired.” He shrugs, tries not to gag when he screws open the silver paint and gets to work adding highlights to his dragon’s scales.
“Aren’t you? We’ll finish earlier if I stay.”
Despite himself, he folds without being pressed even a little. “Suit yourself. But no talking.”
“Alright, officer. Can I ask why?”
He shrugs again. “I’m tired.”
The half smile grows fuller and only gets more teasing. Aerion feels a swelling in his chest that grows so broad, so fast, he’s afraid his ribcage will pop right open. For a second, he thinks he can’t breathe, but then you swing open a window and he realises it was only all the paint fumes in the room. Your shorts ride up as you lift your legs up to cross them and desire stirs in the pit of Aerion’s stomach. It dries his mouth out, it makes his head go somehow even quieter.
Before he even knows what’s happening, his eyelids are drooping and he’s still painting, but the sunlight pouring in is pale, watery and dawn-yellow. You're fast asleep, slumped on the table, an orange tissue paper tulip plastered on your cheek. Aerion reaches to peel it off you–he can’t afford to waste a prop–and finds himself merely tracing his fingers lightly along your face. His breath hitches as if you’ve woken up, and then he swiftly stumbles out of the arts’ cabin, burning up all over and cradling his hand as if the fingers have just been sliced off. Outside, in the dewy, cloudless half-light, he catches his breath and decides to head for an early, solo breakfast. For hours, apart from his own breathing and dull steps wandering around, it’s so, so quiet.
tags: @absentlysubtleraider7
bro I’m watching cape fear and holy shit I hate the fucking daughter I want her to realize she and the dad fucked everything up omg
WRONG NUMBER - Aerion Targaryen
SUMMARY - You receive a message from a random number and you two begin texting frequently. However, you accidentally figure out who it is.
CONTAINS - banter (crack to a point), aerion is aerion, modern AU, peep the small details!! Read part two, part three
A/N - i keep getting vague modern aerion requests soo!
Your phone vibrated against your mattress late at night.
You rolled over, the glare of the screen hitting your eyes in your dark room. It was an unsaved number.
UNKNOWN: where the fuck is the link for davis’s class
You stared at the screen for a few seconds. You were wide awake, and you definitely didn’t have the energy to start on your own work.
You giggled at your own message before hitting send.
YOU: I sold it oops
The reply came before you could even exit the app.
UNKNOWN: stop fucking around man im not in the mood
YOU: I dont think this is the right number lol
A minute passed with the typing bubbles flickering on and off a couple times.
UNKNOWN: the fuck
YOU: If ur stuck on his class just check the 2022 archive
There was no response after that. You eventually drifted off to sleep, figuring that was the end of a weird interaction.
Four days passed, and you completely forgot about the random text until friday when you received a notification from the same number.
UNKNOWN: it worked
You blinked at the message, trying to remember who it even was.
YOU: Yeah
UNKNOWN: howd you know about that
YOU: I saw his desktop open with that site and took my chances
UNKNOWN: youre actually not michael?
YOU: No im pretty sure im not a guy
You thought the conversation would end there, but about ten minutes later, you got another text.
UNKNOWN: any other shortcuts u know about
YOU: Maybe
Over the next two weeks, the texts became a weird regular thing. It wasn’t a constant back and forth, but it turned into a daily routine.
You’d get a text in the middle of the afternoon about whatever, or you’d send a quick message about random things in your life.
You didn’t know each other. There was no pressure. You didn't have to put on a performance to try to impress whoever it was you were talking to.
UNKNOWN: what were u saying
UNKNOWN: just got to the gym
YOU: Tf didnt you just leave ur room
UNKNOWN: yeah
YOU: Is the gym right next to ur house or smth
UNKNOWN: the gyms downstairs
YOU: Oh you live in an apartment??
UNKNOWN: no
UNKNOWN: i have a gym in my house dumbass
YOU: Oh!!!!!
YOU: Different tax bracket
UNKNOWN: funny
You found yourself looking forward to those short, blunt messages. He was definitely arrogant, but he was always honest and that pulled you in.
By the third week, the conversations started stretching later into the night. You’d be lying in bed, messaging your friends, and a text would pop up at 1 AM.
👻: why the fuck are you awake
YOU: Im readingg
YOU: why are YOU awake
👻: driving
YOU: Ur gonna die
YOU: Get off ur phone
👻: you sound like my dad
👻: hes the reason im driving
YOU: Shit is he at the hospital??
👻: no im clearing my head
YOU: Oh
YOU: You okay?
👻: family dinner was so fucking annoying
👻: just micromanaging my schedule like im some kid
YOU: I feel that, my parents keep controlling my life its so stupid
👻: exactly its pathetic
👻: honestly its weird talking to you
You: Ok whyd i catch a stray hello
👻: no i mean its off talking to someone who isnt trying to get something out of me
YOU: Idek who u are so theres nothing to get
👻: keep it that way
Then during one morning, you walked into the lecture hall for Professor Davis’s class.
The room was already buzzing with students and you took your usual seat next to Tanselle who was busy drawing sketches on her paper.
“Did you finish the reading he gave last week?” Tanselle asked, not looking up from her page.
“Barely,” you muttered, pulling your laptop out of your bag. “I read like two pages.”
Down in the fourth row, right near the aisle, Aerion Targaryen was slouched back in his seat. He had his dark leather jacket slung over the back of his chair and was surrounded by his usual crowd.
One of them said something, and Aerion let out a short laugh. The guy looked around the group with triumph all over his face, proud that he managed to impress Aerion.
Just then, your professor began talking and it didn't take long for you to lose focus.
Bored out of your mind as Professor Davis started droning on about the text you guys were supposed to read, you pulled your phone out under the desk.
YOU: Im bored entertain me
You hit send.
You kept your eyes on your screen, but then out of habit, your gaze drifted back down toward the front of the room.
Down in row four, you watched Aerion reach into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, a small smirk tugging on the corner of his lip.
His jaw set as he read something, and his thumbs immediately typed out a fast response before he shoved the phone face down on his desk.
Your phone vibrated in your palm.
👻: go entertain yourself
Your breath hitched. You stared at the screen, your heart doing a weird thud against your ribs.
No way, you thought. The lecture hall is massive. At least forty people were on their phones. It’s a coincidence.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. You needed to be absolutely sure. You typed out a reply, keeping your eyes glued directly on the back of his silver head.
YOU: Ok unkind
YOU: So ur actually paying attention to class?
The exact moment your text delivered, you watched as Aerion’s head tilted down. He picked his phone back up, scoffing under his breath. His thumbs moved around the screen, typing quickly.
Buzz.
👻: no im looking at my phone because a dumbass is texting me
A cold wave of panic hit you.
Your eyes darted from the screen to the back of his leather jacket. Your mind was short-circuiting, trying to connect the dots.
Aerion Targaryen.
Aerion Targaryen who had a reputation for being, well, himself— was the exact same person who had been texting you until midnight.
You spent the remaining minutes of that lecture staring into the wall. Every time Aerion shifted, your eyes snapped straight to him.
When the bell finally rang, the sudden noise of chairs scraping against the floor made you jump.
“Thank god,” Tanselle muttered, slamming her notebook shut. “You coming to the library?”
“I don’t think so,” you replied after a beat, shoving your things into your bag.
At the front, Aerion was already walking. One of the guys threw an arm over his shoulder and Aerion swatted him off with a grin.
He didn’t look back once. He had absolutely no idea.
For the next three days, every time your phone buzzed, your stomach did a flip. You knew exactly who was on the other side of the screen now, while he remained clueless.
During a late saturday night, you were eating with your friends when your screen lit up.
👻: this movies terrible
👻: why would you recommend this
You stared at the text. Knowing it was Aerion, reading the texts felt completely surreal.
YOU: Ok my bad ill just die
YOU: Its good tho idk what ur on
👻: its not
You: Lol turn it off then
👻: im already an hour in
👻: wouldnt wanna hurt your feelings
YOU: Aww how sweet
YOU: Stubborn bitch…
You bit your lip as you sent the second message. No one would dare to call him that in person, it was thrilling.
👻: lmao
👻: what are you doing anyway
YOU: Eating cheesecake
YOU: Wait have u done the assignment due next week
👻: nah im dreading the partner assignment on monday
👻: if i get paired with one of the idiots im doing it alone
You swallowed hard, grabbing your glass to drink the strain away.
YOU: Maybe youll get someone decent
👻: doubt it
You closed your phone and pressed it onto your chest. He was so different in real life.
When monday came, the room was silenced as Professor Davis tapped his microphone, turning on the massive projector behind him.
“Alright, I’ve randomized the pairings for the research,” he announced. “Check the board, find your partner, and spend the rest of the period discussing with them.”
Your eyes scanned the list, stopping as you found your name near the center column.
Your lungs locked up.
Aerion Targaryen was written right next to it.
“Oh, jeez,” Tanselle said, looking at you with worry. “You got Aerion… Good luck babe.”
Down in row four, Aerion didn’t even bother looking back to find his partner. He simply opened his laptop, ignoring the rest of the room while his friends started moving around. He clearly expected whoever his partner was to come to him.
You took in a deep breath, grabbing your bag.
Walking down the steps felt like walking a plank. As you got closer to his seat, a couple of his friends looked up at you. One of them nudged the guy next to him to clear a seat for you, leaving an empty chair next to Aerion.
You gave them a light smile before sliding into the seat, setting your laptop on the desk. Up close, he smelled like expensive cologne and musk.
“You’re my partner?” he asked, his voice a careless drawl. He still didn’t look at you, opening a blank document.
“Yeah.” You kept your voice as even as possible.
“Type in your email,” he said, turning the laptop just an inch so you could see the screen. “I’ll do the body and everything else. You do the outline and introduction.”
You blinked at him, the contrast hitting you like a physical punch. No jokes, no banter, no casualty.
You were aware he had a reputation for being a ‘womanizer.’ So why was he so cold to you?
“Okay,” you mumbled as you awkwardly reached out to type in your email.
He didn’t say another word to you for the rest of the hour. You sat right next to him, occasionally looking at the side of his sharp profile, realizing this was the same guy who had texted you about the miserable movie you recommended to him just two nights ago.
By 10 PM that same day, you were sitting on your bed, staring at the shared Google Docs. He had already finished his sections before you did.
Your phone buzzed on your blanket.
👻: just wrapped up that history project early so i dont have to deal with it later
You read his message, a sour feeling building up in your chest. You picked it up, your expression hardening.
YOU: Lucky, im still doing mine
You lied.
👻: thats sad
Chewing on your inner cheek, your thumbs moved before you could stop.
YOU: Hows ur partner
The typing bubbles appeared immediately.
👻: its some girl in my section i didnt pay attention
👻: she didnt mess anything up, shes whatever
She’s whatever.
Your eyes fixed on his message until they blurred. You had spent weeks listening to him, laughing at his texts, sharing personal concerns to each other—and yet in real life, you were just a boring, insignificant whatever to him.
The irritation flared up. You tossed your laptop onto your bedside table and sat back against the headboard of your bed.
YOU: Cool
A minute passed without a response.
👻: just cool?
YOU: Yeah
👻: youre acting weird
You left the text on read. Not like it mattered, his read receipts were off. Throwing the phone somewhere in your bed, you didn’t reply.
For the next few days, you struggled returning to how you normally were.
He didn’t text you the next morning but eventually did at night, and you left it unreplied for two hours before sending a short answer.
👻: you alive?
YOU: Yes
👻: ok whats wrong then
YOU: Nothing
👻: ???
YOU: What
👻: fine
It felt petty, but each time you looked at your phone, you remembered him sitting right next to you and not even glancing your way. You felt stupid, but his words hurt too.
If you were just a blank space to him in person, you figured it would be better if you were that way on every platform.
By the end of the week, the silence between your texts was heavy. He didn’t text you back after the last chat, and you definitely weren’t going to break first.
You were sitting in class when Tanselle walked in, settling in the chair beside you.
Professor Davis cleared his throat before speaking. “Alright, before we start today’s lecture, I’ve set up a group thread for the upcoming peer reviews. Click on the link and make sure you’re in it by the end of the day.”
You opened your phone to join the chat, then automatically shoved the phone back into your bag. You had no intention of participating.
The period of the lecture ended with a few minutes remaining and your phone started vibrating nonstop.
You tried to ignore it, but the constant noise was getting frustrating. You reached into your bag and pulled it out, looking to mute the group.
A new message popped up at the bottom of the chat. A classmate tagged your number directly because you hadn’t put your name on the sheet yet.
Too annoyed with the whole class to care, you swiped the app and locked your screen.
Then, your eyes subconsciously drifted toward Aerion. You watched as he pulled his phone out.
He was scrolling through the mass text thread when suddenly, he froze.
His head tilted slightly. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at the only text tagging a number. The number he’d been texting every day.
Up front, the classmate who had sent the message lost his patience. He turned around, looking up at where you and Tanselle were sitting.
The guy called out your name, his voice turning multiple heads in the quiet room. “I just tagged your number in the group, you need to upload your topic.”
The sound of your name echoed through the lecture.
Aerion’s head snapped up.
He didn’t look at the guy talking to you. His eyes darted straight up until they locked dead onto you.
The usual expression on his face dropped away. His eyes searched your entire face, his brows drawing in closer.
He saw the phone in your hand before going back to your face.
It clicked.
You stilled under his gaze, the blood rushing loud in your ears.
Beside you, Tanselle nudged your shoulder. “Babe. Babe? He’s talking to you?”
“Yeah,” you managed to choke out. Your fingers felt like wood as you uploaded the topic into the sheet. “Done. It’s in there.”
The classmate muttered a quick thanks and turned back around.
But Aerion didn’t.
He stayed shifted in his seat, his body turned toward your row. One of his friends said something, laughing and clapping him on the shoulder, but Aerion blindly shrugged the guy’s hands off without looking at him. His dark gaze remained on you.
You looked down at your screen, pretending to type, but you could feel the weight of his stare.
A quick glance back down confirmed it. He was staring at you like he was seeing you for the first time, his mind putting the pieces together.
Some girl in my section, she’s whatever. He finally understood why you had iced him.
When the bell rang, you instantly stood up, already packing your bag.
“Why are you in such a rush?” Tanselle asked, shaking her head with confusion.
You gave her a tight smile. “I just need to get back.”
You wanted to wait out the crowd, hoping he’d leave first, but Aerion was already standing by the row exit.
He leaned his back against the desk, ignoring his friends as they stood confused as to why he was still there.
Panic flared in your chest. You didn’t think this through properly.
Without thinking, you threw yourself into the small crowd shuffling through the other exit at the top of the hall.
You basically sprinted across the stone of the parking lot, your keys already clutched in your hand. Unlocking the car, you threw your bag into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.
You slumped on the headrest, gripping the steering wheel as you finally let out a breath.
Then, your phone lit up with two notifications.
There were two missed calls and above them another notification popped up. It was a text.
👻: answer your phone
IGNORANCE - Aerion Targaryen
SUMMARY - Aerion cannot stand your silence.
CONTAINS - Nothing crazy? Reader is a bit childish
A/N - first post hehee was thinking of a recent dream and made it come to life
"Wife, tell me what is bothering you at once."
Aerion stormed into your chambers, the doors slamming shut behind him.
You stood far into the room, already adorned with his favourite night gown. Refusing to meet his gaze, you instead kept your eyes stubbornly above the fireplace.
"I will not ask again." He warned, taking another step closer to you.
It was only then that you lifted your stare. Annoyance was clear on his face, as was his confusion.
You knew precisely why.
From the moment the two of you woke up this morning, you had been alarmingly silent. You had not woken him up with sweet ticklish kisses around his neck, nor did you eat with him for breakfast.
And Aerion was not a man who took distance lightly.
Yet, he figured that perhaps you were in some mood or simply needed time alone—but even then, you have never avoided him like this.
Which was what brought him here now.
You could only take an almost reluctant step forward before resting your forehead against his chest. Instantly, he softened.
One arm wrapped securely around you while his free hand rested atop your head, threading lightly through your hair.
After a moment, you eventually moved your head back to look up at him.
"Aerion," you murmured quietly, "I am scared."
His brows furrowed and he quickly opened his mouth. "Scared?" he repeated.
You nodded, embarassment creeping into your expression. "It is foolish."
He tilted his head right, waiting for you to continue.
"The ladies I spoke to last night..." you hesitated, avoiding eye contact. "They told me stories of their husbands getting bored just mere months or even weeks after the marriage."
Sighing, you averted your gaze. "I feared that you might someday feel the same."
Only silence followed.
Then, to your utter disbelief, Aerion laughed. A hearty one at that. You pulled back with a wounded pout, like a petulant child who was just refused candy.
Seeing this only worked to amuse him further. He brought his hand to cup one side of your face, thumb brushing slowly along your cheek.
"My love," he spoke, still fighting the remnants of laughter, "that is a concern filled with idiocy."
Your eyes narrowed. "How comforting."
"Not from you, Gods no. I am referring to your idiot friends." he corrected quickly.
Despite yourself, you giggled softly. "So you aren't bored of me?"
"No."
"Truly?"
"Yes."
You eyed him carefully. "Was that answer meant for my first question or the second?"
Aerion exhaled sharply through his nose. "Please," he muttered, leaning his forehead briefly against yours, "you have so rudely ignored your poor husband for more than half the day already. I do not believe I can endure much more."
Your smile widened and you bit your bottom lip to contain your happiness.
At last, the dreadful thoughts that plagued your mind all day finally began to ease.
Aerion lifted your hand to his mouth, pressing absentminded kisses along the side of your pinky.
"The next time something troubles you," his voice was stern yet soft with that tone that seemed to be reserved just for you, "you will not shut me out."
It was not a request.
You nodded. "I won't do it again."
"Good."
Without another word, he swept you into his arms and carried you toward the bed. Once he settled beside you, he brushed the loose strands of hair from your face while you told him about your day.
Though it was quite pointless as halfway through, the two of you were already undressed and left breathless.
BELONG WITH ME - Aerion Targaryen
SUMMARY - Convinced that you both still despise one another, you consider accepting the proposal of another lord, but Aerion doesn't approve.
CONTAINS - enemies with benefits, piningg, aerion is aerion, banter
A/N - diabolical last linee, apologies for constantly edging you guys LMAO
The velvet curtains of Aerion’s chambers were drawn tight, shutting out the afternoon light. Inside, the air was warm, smelling faintly of rich oils and the intoxicating scent of his skin.
You stood before the mirror, fingers working to fasten the laces of your gown. Your skin was still flushed where his hands had gripped you just moments prior, a lingering heat that would soon turn into a bruise.
Behind you, Aerion was leaning back against the bedpost. He was watching you with a heavy gaze, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“You look like a frantic cat,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “Do you always have to rush? One might think you find my company displeasing.”
You rolled your eyes, pulling a tight knot into the silk laces before turning around to face him. “Your company is displeasing, Aerion. I merely prefer to return before someone notices my absence and assumes I’ve been murdered by you.”
Aerion let out a soft, delighted click of his tongue. He stepped away from the bed, his frame cutting through the space between you. His hand shot out, his rings cold against your skin as his fingers curled around the nape of your neck, tilting your head up.
“You have a terribly sharp tongue today,” he whispered, his thumb tracing circles beneath your ear. “It’s entertaining.”
You forced yourself to hold his gaze, swallowing down the dangerous softness that threatened to unravel your resolve. This was what you did. You traded venom in the bright corridors, snapped insults across tables, and then tore each other's clothes off in the shadows.
It was a chaotic cycle born of a mutual friction that had existed since childhood. You were certain he loathed your very existence, using these secret hours to tame his volatile impulses, and you had accepted it.
You had to.
Because acknowledging the ache in your chest every time he looked at you would mean ruining yourself over a prince who could never love a girl he spent half his life mocking.
You lazily knocked his hand away, taking a step back to smooth down your skirt.
“Enjoy tormenting me while you can.” You adjusted the rings on your finger. “My father received a formal raven from the Reach a few days ago. Lord Bradyn intends to put forth a betrothal offer. I think I should accept it.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Aerion went rigid. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating so completely that the colour nearly vanished. He stared at you, tilting his head.
“What did you say?” His voice was quiet, vibrating with confusion.
“I said I’m accepting a proposal,” you repeated, brow furrowing at his reaction. You offered a stiff shrug. “It’s a good match. Bradyn is kind, his lands are vast, and it’s time I left the capital anyway.”
Aerion took a step forward, panic settling into his features. “A good match? You are talking about a simpering lord from the south. You cannot marry him.”
“Why not?” you countered, your own temper flaring at his arrogance. “Do not pretend you care. You spend every waking hour insulting my intellect and treating me with annoyance. Why does it matter if I marry someone who might actually treat me with a shred of gentleness?”
Aerion looked as though you had just driven a dagger directly into his ribs. But as the shock settled, the bewilderment in his face rapidly darkened.
“Pretend I care?” he repeated, his voice cracking before it rose into a harsh growl.
“Just yesterday you called me an insufferable whining girl in front of everybody!”
“Because you were ignoring me!” he growled back, the sudden volume of his voice slamming against the stone walls. His pride, thoroughly wounded and desperate, bled into his voice.
“We trade wits! We argue in the halls! I let you take food off my plate, I… you belong here. Not someplace south.”
He slammed his fist into the wardrobe beside him. His breathing was ragged. “You cannot give yourself to a stranger.”
The violent flare of his temper was the breaking point for your frayed nerves. “I can.” you snapped coldly.
Shoving your way past him, you walked toward the door and shut it with great force.
For the next few days, the keep felt vastly different, entirely because the prince who usually lingered with demanding presence had become a complete ghost to you.
You saw him on the third morning, standing near the bannister with a group of men. Your steps naturally slowed as you crossed the outer courtyard. Your gaze locked onto the sharp line of his profile, bracing your shoulders, waiting for him to turn his head.
But the glance never came.
Aerion kept his eyes strictly ahead, his posture unyielding. Even when you walked close enough that the shadow of his frame fell over your path, he didn’t look back. He simply continued his conversation, treating your presence as if you were nothing more than dust.
The pattern repeated itself with agonizing consistency. In the gallery, he walked past you without a single pause, the fabric of his cloak brushing against your sleeve for a fleeting, mocking second before he vanished down the stairwell.
A heavy weight settled deep in your stomach, growing more oppressive with each passing second.
You had spent years convinced that what happened behind closed doors was merely an angry release—that his feelings for you were rooted entirely in the mutual dislike and childhood rivalry you shared.
You had told yourself that his fleeting curiosity could never be actual regard, and that leaving for the Reach was the only logical choice to protect your own heart.
Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the protective wall of your anger began to crumble, leaving behind a hollow ache.
Walking through the quiet paths of the gardens later that night, you looked down at your hands, your skin feeling empty without the firm weight of his rings pressing into your palm.
The exhausting fire of his personality was gone, and in its place was a peaceful, predictable future that suddenly felt uninviting.
You stopped by the stone fountain, looking into the water.
Did you make the right choice?
The end of the week arrived with a feast in the great hall. The vast room was packed to the brim, the air filled with the scent of roasted meat.
You were seated near the front of the hall, flanked closely by your family. Sitting directly beside you was Lord Bradyn.
He was pleasant enough, offering you a smile as he leaned in to describe his family’s fortunes in the Reach, pointing out with a neat gesture where the new flowers would be planted for your future home.
You nodded along, forcing a tight smile onto your face, though your eyes kept drifting toward the high dais where King Daeron sat.
Aerion was nowhere to be seen.
His empty chair beside Prince Maekar felt like a gaping wound in the room, making the hollow ache in you throb all the more painfully.
"And of course, my lady, my mother has already begun selecting the finest linens for our chambers," Bradyn murmured, his soft hand lightly resting over yours on the table.
Before you could offer a reply, the doors at the back of the hall bursted open.
The chatter of the court died, multiple heads turning in unison.
Aerion marched down the center aisle. He had completely disregarded the formal court attire. He wore his dark riding leathers, his sword clanking aggressively against his thigh. His jaw was set hard, and his eyes were locked onto you.
Your breath caught in your throat. Bradyn quickly withdrew his hand at the sudden entrance of the prince.
Aerion didn't stop until he reached the center of the hall, directly before the King’s dais and right in front of your table.
“Grandsire,” Aerion’s voice echoed through the room. “I request a favour.”
King Daeron sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as he looked down at his grandson. “Aerion. You interrupt a formal occasion. What is it that cannot wait until the morrow?”
Aerion shifted his shoulders, his stare breaking from the King to snap to you. He took three deliberate strides until he was standing over your table, blocking Lord Bradyn from view.
He reached up, his larger calloused hand reaching across the table to grab yours. He gripped your fingers, weaving his own through them.
“I demand her hand,” Aerion declared, his voice ringing out for the entire court. “I will have no other. She belongs at my side.”
You stared up at him as your lips parted in disbelief, your mind spinning into a state of confusion. You saw the raw, stubborn devotion swimming in his eyes.
“Aerion,” you whispered hoarsely, voice trembling as the room watched in stunned silence. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
A faint grin finally broke through his tense expression, his fingers squeezing yours. “Partially.”
The weight of the realm seemed to hang on your next breath. Across the table, your parents were staring at you. Their expressions a mix of profound shock and calculation.
You looked at them, the lingering doubts that had plagued you for the last three days clearing away to make room for undeniable certainty.
Slowly, you nodded.
You didn’t look long enough to watch as your parents processed what this would mean for your family. You had already shifted your gaze to the man beside you.
You offered Lord Bradyn a sympathetic look—a silent apology for the madness he had been dragged into, and a gentle reassurance that he was better off without a woman whose heart already belonged to a prince.
Aerion didn’t wait for Bradyn to speak, nor did he care for the furious uproar that began to swell among Bradyn’s family as they realised what was happening.
The moment he caught the subtle rejection in your eyes, a look of triumph flashed across his features. He pulled you smoothly out of your seat, his hand still clamped around yours.
With his shoulders blocking you from the stare of the court, he guided you down the long center aisle. The great hall slammed shut behind you both, cutting off the disruption he had caused.
He guided you down the winding corridors of the keep, his sweeping strides forcing you to keep up. Your mind was still spinning from the spectacle that had just unfolded in front of the entire realm.
“You are insane,” you gasped out, looking up at the rigid line of his jaw.
Aerion didn’t stop. He cast a swift glance down at you. “You just agreed to a marriage with an insane man,” he retorted, “tell me who’s truly mad here?”
Before you could snap back a response, he rounded the final corner and pushed open the door to his quarters, pulling you inside.
The quiet of his chambers was almost jarring after the chaos earlier. Aerion finally released his grip on your fingers, turning to unbuckle his sword belt, tossing it onto the table with a dull clatter.
You remained standing near the hearth, the crackling warmth of the fire doing little to soothe the erratic racing of your pulse. You looked at his back, the confusion and emotional turmoil of the last few days spilling over.
“You spent days pretending I didn’t exist,” you said, your voice carrying the exhaustion that had plagued you.
“You wouldn't even glance my way, you treated me like a complete stranger. And then you suddenly pull a stunt like that?”
Aerion paused, his shoulders tense for a moment before he turned around. His eyes searched your face with intense focus.
“I was furious,” he muttered, crossing the room until he stood before you. “You stood in my chambers and told me you were leaving for the south with another man. What did you expect me to do?”
A breathless laugh slipped past your lips. You tilted your head up, your confusion melting into a playful familiar spark as you caught on to his behavior.
“So you deliberately ignored me?” you teased, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you stepped closer. “The prince of the blood, acting like a sullen, brooding child hoping I would come begging for your attention just because you didn’t get your way?”
A faint flush touched his cheeks, his eyes narrowing as his pride flared at your words. “Be quiet,” he murmured.
You were about to reply when his arms wrapped securely around your waist, lifting you slightly as he pulled you directly down onto his lap on the sofa, your skirt tangling around his thighs.
Your fingers instinctively caught his shoulders to steady yourself as you looked into his face. “Aerion–”
He didn’t let you finish. Lifting your knuckles to his lips, he pressed a warm kiss against your skin.
His lips trailed a path up the inner side of your wrist, pressing against the rapid flutter of your pulse before his lips moved to the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. His breath fanned across your neck as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss on the crook of your shoulder.
You leaned into him, inhaling his scent. Your eyes fluttered shut as the last of the distance between you dissolved.
“Since you have so much to say these days…” he whispered, eyes burning into yours as his thumb brushed your lower lip, “let’s see if we can keep that sharp tongue occupied.”
MODERN!AERION with a sweet gf .ᐟ
MODERN!AERION is perpetually annoyed by his surroundings and the people. Everyone is inferior to him. But you? He finds a special comfort with you. He doesn’t need to be the cruel son, he can just be Aerion. And you’re the only person who doesn’t think he’s a monster. (He is)
MODERN!AERION gets annoyed on how sweet!reader is the kind of girl who compliments strangers’ earrings, and somehow knows everyone’s birthday.
MODERN!AERION who’s just infuriated at you for being like this. “How dare she be so relentlessly happy in his presence? Doesn’t she know the world is cruel, ugly, and unworthy of her optimism?” He pretends to hate your cheerfulness, but he finds himself orbiting you anyway. He’ll show up at your study group, mock all of your friends, and somehow stay the entire time.
“You’re staying? I thought you hated group work.”
“I do. But you’d get distracted and forget half your notes.”
“So you’re my babysitter now?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
MODERN!AERION who rolls his eyes at group selfies but secretly checks if his hair looked good ok. #diva
MODERN!AERION who gets dragged by you into late-night ice cream runs, karaoke, beach bonfires. He insists he’s “just keeping you out of trouble” but he enjoys it.
MODERN!AERION who you once called ‘Grumpy Dragon’ and he nearly lost it. He didn’t speak you for days. Later on, he got used to your pretty pet names. But if you call him those in public, he’ll never talk to you again.
MODERN!AERION who hates the way his whole family adores you. Frowns when Maekar compliments something you baked for them. Rages out when Daeron asks ‘Why are you even with him?’ And nearly punches Valarr for looking at you too long.
MODERN!AERION who almost fainted when you putted a My Melody sticker on his red Lamborghini.
MODERN!AERION who just loves how you defend him. Daeron always trying to warn you on how terrifying and cruel he can be but you just say ‘he’s misunderstood’. #icanfixhim final boss.
MODERN!AERION who in small moments, realizes how important you are for him. You’re laughing at something silly, sunlight hitting your hair, and he thinks: If anyone ever takes this away from me, I’ll burn the world down.
MODERN!AERION as your bf 𝜗ϱ
MODERN!AERION who’s just Daddy’s boy deluxe. Grew up with everything handed to him, so he’s entitled, arrogant, and constantly testing boundaries. He thrives on being the loudest in the room, the one people whisper about. And everyone whispers about the well-positioned Targaryen family.
MODERN!AERION who’s toxic with friends, classmates, coworkers and always needing to win arguments. So most people around him hate his guts. But you? No. You’re his precious doll.
Mid family reunion he’d go: “You’re all idiots. I don’t know why I waste my time here.”
You roll your eyes. “Then stop wasting it.”
He leans closer so only you can hear. “Not with you. Never with you.”
MODERN!AERION who would buy you expensive gifts not out of generosity but because he thinks you deserve the best if you’re with him.
“You don’t have to buy me things, Aerion.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If you’re mine, you don’t settle for less.”
MODERN!AERION who has real softness deeply hidden. It comes in tiny, unguarded moments: brushing your hair out of your face, holding your hand under the table, muttering “be careful” when you’re about to leave. You keep wondering why he’s like this.
“Why are you always so cruel to everyone?”
“They deserve it. But you… you’re the only one who doesn’t.” But if you point out his tenderness, he snaps back into arrogance.
MODERN!AERION who’s the kind of boyfriend who would insult the waiter for messing up his order, then turn around and quietly ask you if you’re warm enough in the restaurant.
MODERN!AERION who’s a professional ragebaiter. You never catch a break.
“I’m exhausted, Aerion”
“Pathetic. Can’t even keep up.”
“Idiot.”
“Sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
MODERN!AERION who has Dragon pajamas. Absolutely. They’re silk, custom-made, embroidered with golden dragons. He’ll lounge around in them with a glass of whiskey like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
MODERN!AERION who’s the biggest spoiled brat. He refuses to drink tap water. Only imported sparkling. If you hand him a regular bottle, he’ll sneer and say, “What am I, a peasant?”
MODERN!AERION who drives a blood-red Lamborghini. With a gold dragon in the front. He revs it obnoxiously just to make people look. But he’ll quietly adjust the seat so you’re his passenger princess.
MODERN!AERION who has designer clothes. He has a collection of rings and watches he rotates daily. Velvet jackets. Specific fashion items only saw in a 1998 Alexander Mcqueen runaway. As a witch, i know he smells of Maison Francis Kurkdjian Baccarat Rouge 540 and Dior Sauvage + Tom Ford suits. The man smells like heaven.
MODERN!AERION who would insult your friends, coworkers, the waiter, the Uber driver… but if you’re cold, he’ll drape his expensive coat over your shoulders without a word.
send me modern!aerion asks, i’m so so into this shit 𝜗ϱ
