Summary: In which Aerion's short T-shirt causes unrest. Warnings: SMUT.
You remembered the winter well. Aerion Targaryen had let his blond hair grow out, and he'd stalked through the December slush in that striking red coat with the matching red buttons, looking like some fallen prince. He'd been insufferable about it too, preening just enough that you'd wanted to push him into a snowbank, but never quite crossing into outright vanity. That was his talent, you thought. Making extravagance look like effortlessness.
Now it was barely June, and some cruel god had decided to turn the city into an oven.
The heat had been building for days: that thick, dry kind of heat that clung to your skin and made the air feel like breathing through sand. You'd texted Aerion that morning with a single sweaty-faced emoji and nothing else, and he'd replied with a photo of his coffee and the words don't die before I get there.
So when your apartment door clicked open (he had a key, because of course he did, because Aerion Targaryen had bulldozed through every boundary you'd ever tried to set within the first three months of knowing him), you were sprawled on the couch in nothing but a pair of cotton shorts and an old band t-shirt you'd cut the sleeves off of. The oscillating fan was doing absolutely nothing except pushing warm air around the room.
"Tell me you brought ice," you said without opening your eyes.
"I brought me."
His voice was low, familiar, with that particular rasp that always made something in your chest tighten. You heard the jingle of keys being dropped into the bowl by the door, the soft thud of shoes being kicked off, and then footsteps approaching.
You opened your eyes.
Aerion Targaryen stood at the foot of your couch, and he looked like a problem. A very specific, very distracting kind of problem.
The white t-shirt he wore was simple enough at first glance: good fabric, obviously quality, the kind of cotton that was soft rather than stiff, draping rather than clinging. There was something written on it in red, blocky letters you didn't bother to read because your gaze had already slipped lower. The shirt wasn't exactly a crop top, you'd have made fun of him mercilessly if it was, but it was short. Shorter than it should have been. Shorter than any of his other shirts, certainly.
He straightened his back, probably to stretch after the walk from his car, and that was when you saw it.
A portion of his stomach. A sliver of skin just above the waistband of his jean shorts. And below that, a faint trail of pale hair starting just below his navel and disappearing down beneath the denim.
The jeans shorts were also short. Not obscenely so, not high-waisted like a preschooler's as he'd once mockingly described a pair you'd tried on at a vintage store, but short enough that they sat low on his hips. Short enough that they did absolutely nothing to cover the gap of skin his t-shirt had left exposed.
Aerion caught you staring. Of course he did.
There was a moment, just a fraction of a second, where his expression shifted from casual to something sharper and pleased. His lips curved into that lopsided grin you'd grown helplessly addicted to over the past year and a half, the one that made him look less like a rich asshole and more like a very pretty boy who knew exactly what he was doing.
He stepped closer, and his hand came up to your jaw, long fingers cool against your overheated skin, thumb brushing along your cheekbone, and he murmured, "There's my baby."
The kiss was slow. His mouth tasted like the coffee he'd shown you. You leaned into it automatically, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, and you felt him smile against your lips before he pulled back.
His thumb swiped across your lower lip, and he glanced down at the faint smudge of color now staining his skin.
"Ruined," he observed, with absolutely no remorse.
You should have grumbled. You usually did. You usually made some comment about how expensive that lip combo was, how he owed you a new tube, how he was a menace to your makeup collection.
But today you couldn't stop staring at his stomach.
The patch of skin between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his shorts. The way the faint muscles of his abdomen shifted when he breathed. The trail of pale hair that led downward like a road map to somewhere you'd visited many times before but somehow couldn't stop thinking about.
Aerion moved past you toward the kitchen, probably to get water, probably to give you a moment to collect yourself, and as he passed, his hand swatted your backside with casual, proprietary ease.
You didn't complain. You never forgot to complain.
"Aerion."
He paused, turning back with an eyebrow raised. He'd already opened your refrigerator and was leaning down to examine its contents, which meant his shirt rode up even further, which meant you could see more of his lower back now too, and...
"You little slut," you said.
His eyebrow climbed higher.
"Sorry?" But he wasn't sorry. He was grinning.
"Who are you showing this much skin for?" You gestured vaguely at his entire midsection. "It's June second. The heat index is ninety-seven. You look like you're about to film a music video."
Aerion straightened up slowly on purpose, and closed the refrigerator without taking anything out. He turned to face you fully, and then, with the casual grace of someone who had never once felt self-conscious in his entire life, he stretched his arms over his head.
The shirt rode up. Way up.
The hem pulled past his navel, past the trail of hair, past the sharp lines of his hip bones. You could see the bottom of his rib cage. You could see the way his abdominal muscles tensed with the stretch. You could see...
"It's just a T-shirt," he said, dropping his arms and letting the fabric fall back into place. His voice was innocent. His eyes were not. "It's hot outside." He paused, tilting his head. "Just like you're wearing shorts. What's the difference?"
"The difference," you said, proud of how steady your voice came out, "is that my shorts cover my entire ass and go to my thighs."
"Debatable."
"Aerion."
He crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. The heat of him, already running warm, always running warm, seeped through the thin fabric of your shorts.
"Baby," he said, and his voice had dropped an octave, gone velvety in that way that made your stomach flip. "If you keep staring at me there like that, I'll think a miracle has happened."
"What miracle?"
"That you want to blow me."
You swatted his chest, and he caught your wrist before you could pull away, laughing low in his throat. His grip was loose, easy, his thumb rubbing circles against your pulse point.
"I'm serious," he said. "You've been looking at my stomach for approximately four straight minutes. You haven't blinked. I was starting to get concerned for your ocular health."
"I was thinking."
"About my stomach."
"About how you're a slut."
"Mm." He released your wrist and leaned back against the couch cushions, and you thought that would be the end of it, that he'd tease you for a few more minutes and then suggest ordering food or watching something or doing any of the normal things couples did on sweltering June afternoons.
Instead, he lay down.
Right there on your couch, on his back, one arm tucked behind his head. His shirt exposing his stomach completely, the pale expanse of skin, the faint lines of muscle, that trail of hair you couldn't stop thinking about. And then, as if that wasn't enough, he jutted his hips upward slightly. Like a dog awaiting a belly rub.
You stared at him.
He stared back, his expression somewhere between smug and hopeful.
"You're ridiculous," you said.
"You love it."
"I love you. There's a difference."
His face softened at that, just for a moment, just a flicker, before the smugness returned. "Then prove it. Come here."
You should have resisted. You should have made him work for it, made him beg a little, made him regret wearing that godsforsaken shirt that had been designed specifically to destroy your sanity.
Instead, you leaned down.
Your lips brushed the spot just below his navel, the beginning of his happy trail, and you felt his stomach muscles jump beneath your mouth. His skin was warm, slightly salty. You pressed a second kiss there, softer this time, and then a third, trailing down just a fraction of an inch.
You didn't unzip his shorts.
Above you, Aerion made a sound, something between a groan and a laugh, and his hands came up to grip your thighs. His fingers were warm through your cotton shorts, squeezing, kneading, inching upward.
"Come here," he said again, but this time it wasn't a request.
He pulled you down on top of him with enough force that you had to catch yourself with your hands on either side of his head. One of his hands stayed on your thigh. The other slinked down, past the hem of your shorts, past the elastic of your underwear, and his fingers found wetness. Not a little, not just damp. Wet.
Aerion's eyebrows rose. His lips curved. He didn't pull his hand away; instead, he pressed slightly, just enough to feel you through the fabric of your underwear.
"What's this?" he murmured. His thumb brushed against you, light as a whisper. "Playing hard to get when you're this wet already? That's not very nice, princess."
You should have let him believe it. You should have let him think he'd done this to you, that his stupid shirt and his stupid stomach and his stupid smug face had turned you into this: aching, wanting, slick with need.
But you were also honest to a fault, and Aerion knew you too well for lies anyway.
"No," you said, and your voice came out breathier than you wanted it to. "No, babe, it's...that's not..."
"Not what?"
"It's just discharge." You felt your face heat. "From ovulating. It's not...It's just what happens everyday when ovulating."
For a moment, Aerion just looked at you. Then he laughed with genuine, delighted amusement. His hand stayed where it was, fingers still pressed against your damp underwear, and his hips shifted beneath you in a way that you felt everywhere.
"Doesn't ovulation phase mean increased horniness?" he asked, tilting his head. "I read that somewhere. Heightened libido, increased attraction?"
"That's not..." you started.
"I'm just saying. Seems like convenient timing."
You snorted. "That's not how it works. While libido could spike around ovulation due to hormonal shifts, it's not a guarantee, and discharge is not the same thing as arousal. I would know because this week my body..."
"Baby." He cut you off with a gentle squeeze of his fingers. "I love when you talk biology to me. Truly. It's one of my favorite things about you." His hips rolled upward again, and you could feel him now, half-hard beneath his shorts, pressing against your core through layers of fabric. "But I don't care why you're wet. I care that you are."
"Aerion..."
"Sit down." His voice was soft but certain. "Ride me."
"We're on the couch."
"The couch is fine." He pulled at your hips, guiding you more firmly against him. His eyes were bright, almost playful.
"There's no...we don't have any..."
He reached into the back pocket of his shorts and pulled out a condom. Held it up between two fingers like a winning lottery ticket.
"You carry those with you?"
"I carry one with me." He tucked it back into his pocket. "For emergencies."
"You're such a..."
"Ride me," he said again, and his hand slipped out of your shorts just long enough to undo the button, to pull down the zipper, to push the denim down his thighs. "Come on. I'll let you punish me for the slutty top you pretend to hate."
"I don't pretend to..."
"You've been staring at my stomach for five minutes."
"Four."
"Six, now." He grabbed your hips and guided you, shifted you until you were straddling him properly. His cock pressed against the damp cotton of your underwear, hot and heavy, and you couldn't help the way your hips rolled forward.
"There she is," he murmured. "There's my girl."
His hand slipped back into your shorts, into your underwear this time, no fabric barrier between his fingers and your skin. He found you slick and ready and wanting, despite everything you'd said about biology and discharge.
"You feel that?" he asked, and his fingers circled your clit once, twice, watching your face as your breath caught. "You can call it whatever you want. Discharge. Ovulation. Biological imperative." He pressed deeper, one finger sliding inside you with embarrassing ease. "But this? The way you're gripping my fingers? That's not biology. That's me."
You couldn't argue. You couldn't speak. His finger curled inside you and his thumb pressed against your clit and his other hand was unzipping his shorts the rest of the way, pushing them down, kicking them off entirely.
He pulled his fingers out of you, you made a sound of protest that you'd deny later, his fingers were slick, and he brought them to his mouth without thinking, or maybe with too much thinking, and sucked them clean. He reached for the condom in his pocket. Ripped it open with his teeth, which should have been ridiculous but wasn't, wasn't at all.
"Come here," he said for the third time.
You leaned down, and he kissed you, deep and hungry, licking into your mouth like he was trying to taste every part of you at once. His tongue swept against yours, and his hands guided your hips, and beneath you, he nudged the head of his cock against your entrance.
"Atta girl," he breathed against your lips.
And then he pushed inside.
You both groaned, you from the stretch, him from the heat. Your fingers curled into his shoulders.
His shirt had ridden up even further, pressed between your bodies, and you could feel his stomach against yours, warm skin on warm skin, that trail of hair brushing your navel. You looked down at him, at the flush spreading across his cheekbones, at the way his lips had parted, at the blond hair spread across your couch cushions.
"There's my baby," he said again, softer this time.
You started to move.
His hands guided you, showing you the rhythm, the pace, and you let him, because you trusted him, because you wanted this, because despite all your protests about slutty tops and biology and the sweltering June heat, there was nowhere else you'd rather be.
The couch creaked beneath you. The fan whirred uselessly.
"That's it. Just like that. You feel so good. So good, baby."
Your thighs burned. Sweat slicked the back of your neck. His hands moved from your hips to your waist to your breasts, pushing up your shirt, palming your skin.
"You're so beautiful," he said, and he sounded almost surprised by it, even now, even after all this time. "Riding me on your cheap couch in your cheap apartment, and you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"Aerion..."
"I mean it." His hips snapped upward, driving deeper, and you gasped. "I'm going to marry you someday."
"Don't...ah...don't propose to me while you're inside me."
"Fine." He grinned, sharp and lovely. "I'll wait until I'm outside you."
You kissed him to shut him up, or maybe just because you wanted to, because his mouth was warm and familiar and his tongue tasted like coffee and forever. He groaned into the kiss and his hands slid down to grip your ass, helping you move, setting a rhythm that made your vision blur at the edges.
The couch springs protested. The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across his pale skin. His hips snapped up to meet yours, over and over, and his breath came hot against your cheek.
"Close," he muttered. "Baby, I'm close."
You nodded, couldn't speak, could barely think. Your fingers dug into his shoulders and your head fell back and you chased your own release.
He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, pressing hard, that was all it took.
You came with a sound you'd be embarrassed about later, your body clenching around him, your vision blacking out. He followed a moment after, hips stuttering, a low groan torn from his throat.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Aerion laughed breathlessly and pulled you down against his chest. His heart pounded beneath your ear, slowly evening out. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back.
"That was," he said, "a very productive ovulatory phase."
"Shut up."
"The egg didn't go to waste after all."
"I said shut up."
He laughed again, and you hid your smile against his skin, his stomach, where your cheek rested now.
"You're staring again," he said.
"I'm laying."
"You're staring at my stomach while laying on it. I can feel your eyes."
"You can't feel eyes, Aerion."
"I can feel your eyes." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Lucky for you, I wore the slutty top."
"Lucky for you," you mumbled into his skin, "I was ovulating."
His laugh was worth the embarrassment. It always was. He held you against his chest, his too-short shirt rucked up around his ribs, looking at you like he'd won something. Maybe he had. You certainly weren't complaining.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
thinking about bb asking reader to describe sunlight bc he’s never seen it 🥺 all he knows is sterile lighting and pictures of it from the beach room
you’re in the nest. his head is in your lap this time. he does that sometimes now, since the “baby” incident broke something open between you. bb lets himself be the one held instead of the one doing the holding. his eyes are closed and your fingers are in his sandy hair, the fluorescent lights buzzing their eternal buzz overhead and he says, quietly, like he’s been thinking about it for a while:
“what does sunlight feel like?”
not look like. but feel like. because bb has seen pictures. the poolrooms have that strange refracted light that approximates something warm. the backrooms occasionally produce rooms with windows that open onto nothing, painted skies, set dressing, open fields with hazy sunlight. he’s seen the concept. he’s asking about the real experience.
and you have to think about it. you have to actually think, because sunlight is one of those things you never describe until you can’t have it anymore. it’s like trying to explain breathing to someone who doesn’t have lungs.
“it’s… warm,” you start, which is obvious, and you feel slightly stupid for saying. “but not like—not like heat. you know, like a fire or a radiator. it’s softer than that. it’s on your skin but it goes deeper, like it’s warming your blood directly. and it moves. clouds pass over and it goes away and comes back and every time it comes back you notice it again. just for a second, this little moment of oh, there it is.”
he’s quiet. listening with that total-focus attention.
“it makes you sleepy,” you go on. “the good kind. like your body just… trusts it. you can close your eyes and it’s on your eyelids and everything goes red and warm and you feel… safe. held. like something bigger than you is just… there. paying attention. not asking for anything. just there.”
he opens his eyes. bobby’s blue. looking up at you from your lap. and he’s quiet for a long time. processing. running your words through whatever vast and ancient architecture he uses for a brain.
then he says, simply, like he’s stating a fact about the weather or the way the carpet is always damp:
“that’s what it feels like when you touch me.”
he says it like he’s genuinely just making a connection. filing it under the same category. you described warmth that goes deeper than skin, warmth that makes you feel safe. one that doesn’t ask for anything, comes and goes and every time it comes back you notice it again… and his brain, his ancient, inhuman brain, reached for the nearest equivalent in his experience and found your hands in his hair.
you don’t say anything. you can’t. your throat closes up and your eyes burn. your fingers have gone still in his hair and he notices, and bb’s brows furrow slightly.
“was that wrong?”
“no.” your voice comes out thick. “no, that wasn’t wrong.”
“you’re crying.”
“i know.”
“why?”
because you just told me that the only sunlight you’ve ever felt is me. because you’ve been alive for longer than i can comprehend and you have never been warm until i put my hands on you. because i was trying to describe something ordinary and you turned it into the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me and you don’t even know you did it.
“happy crying,” you reassure him, which is reductive but he accepts it. adds it to his catalogue of human behaviours that don’t make sense but that he’s learning to navigate.
you start stroking his hair again. he closes his eyes. the furrow smooths out.
in which you discover that bb has... an unusually long tongue.
His mouth tastes like nothing.
You noticed that early on. Not like absence of taste, not like water. Like nothing, a perfect void where flavour should be, and somehow that's become the taste you crave most in any world.
Your back finds the wall, or what passes for a wall here, that faintly warm surface that breathes if you press your palm flat long enough. BB's other hand slides to your hip, fingers curling into the denim, and the sound he makes is low and human, pulling at a tether behind your navel.
You open for him. BB licks into your mouth, careful, so careful, and you feel the soft drag of his tongue against yours—
And it's good. It's so good. He's come from that first time when he said "teach me how to kiss you properly". His thumb traces your hipbone through your shirt and you're arching into him and the kiss deepens, turns slick and urgent, and you stop thinking.
Which is maybe why it takes you a few seconds to register it.
The texture shifts first. That smooth, wet give slowly becoming something denser, something with grip. Almost velvety, almost ridged, like the pad of a finger where a tongue should be. And then the length. BB's tongue curls past where a tongue should end. It slides along the underside of yours, keeps going, keeps going. A slow, sinuous coil that wraps once around the muscle of your tongue and tightens.
Your breath catches.
You pull back.
His mouth is still open. His eyes snap to yours and you watch it happen. The full-body freeze, every single micro-movement ceasing at once in a way that is deeply, fundamentally not human. No one goes that still. No thing goes that still except something that has learned, through meticulous and painstaking practice, how to move in the first place.
The tongue—
It retracts so fast you almost don't track it, pulled back behind his teeth like a flinch, and his jaw clicks shut.
BB doesn't step back. He doesn't breathe. The bright blue of his eyes goes flat and cautious.
"Sorry, baby." His voice is perfect. Bobby's voice is always perfect. The pitch, the drawl, the way the vowels open warm and lazy. But the word comes out clipped. Bitten off at the root. "That was—I wasn't— "
He's afraid.
The recognition hits you somewhere below your ribs and spreads.
Not afraid of you. Afraid of what your face is doing right now, afraid of whatever you're about to say. That this is the seam you'll hook your fingers into and pull until the whole beautiful lie peels apart and you see whatever's underneath. That you'll scream or you run or you look at him like he's a thing to be hated and feared.
"Hey." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "Hey. Come here."
You bring your hands up. Cup his jaw. His skin is warmer than usual. You wonder if it's the kissing or if he thermoregulated to a point of contact that your nervous system reads as safe.
You feel the rigid clench of the muscle beneath.
He won't look at you. He's looking at the wall behind your head with an expression so perfectly, carefully neutral it makes your chest ache.
You run your thumb across his cheekbone. "BB. Show me."
The stillness fractures. There's movement behind his eyes. Not the black, not yet, but something vast and uncertain, something that doesn't fit inside the geometry of a human face.
"You don't—"
"Show me. Please."
You lean in. Press your mouth to his, soft, no demand in it. Just heat, just contact, just here, here, I'm here.
He makes a sound against your lips. Low, resonant, tectonic. You feel it in your teeth, in the juncture of your jaw, a vibration that no human throat could produce and that your body interprets as the auditory equivalent of being held. It rumbles through the wall at your back. The fluorescent lights above you flicker, once.
Your tongue finds his.
BB hesitates. You feel it. The moment of restraint, the tension of something held deliberately in check. You press closer, flush against him now, fingers sliding into his sandy blonde hair, and lick along the seam of his lower lip.
And you wait.
Slowly—so slowly—it unfurls.
The velvety texture meets yours first, denser than before, slick-soft and fever-warm and alive in a way that makes the hinge of your jaw prickle. It slides along your tongue with a deliberateness that is almost shy, tasting you in a way that feels less like a kiss and more like a question, and then (gently, gently) it coils.
Once around yours. A slow, sinuous wrap, delicate, barely any pressure. The ridged texture drags against your taste buds in a rolling wave that lights up nerve endings you didn't know a mouth had.
Your breath stutters. Heat drops through you like a stone into dark water, pooling low and heavy in your belly. Heat tightens behind your navel, and your fingers curl hard in his hair and you hear yourself make a sound, a small wrecked thing, muffled between your mouths.
BB goes rigid against you.
Then the rumble comes again—deeper, shattered open with raw and desperate and relieved undertone—and the coil tightens, just barely. You feel the tip of it trace the roof of your mouth in a slow electric drag and your hips roll forward into his without your permission, your whole body clenching.
He shudders. Full-body. Not a human shudder. Too fluid, too thorough, like he's settling into his own skin for the first time.
BB's hand on your hip tightens to the edge of bruising and the wall behind you pulses warm, buzzing of the lights shifting pitch. They drop into something almost harmonic, almost musical, and you realise distantly that the hallway around you is responding to him. To this, to whatever is flooding through whatever he uses for a nervous system right now.
BB pulls back just far enough to breathe against your mouth (he doesn't need to, you know he doesn't need oxygen, he's overwhelmed, he's—).
His lips are wet from you, glistening in the warm light. His eyes are searching your face with a frantic, ravenous attention that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the way a creature that has taught itself love, painstakingly, from the outside in, needs to check—needs to know—
You press your forehead to his, cupping one side of his face.
"Again," you whisper, breathless.
The sound he makes isn't a word in any language. But you feel it everywhere.
Bobby's been a shit boyfriend for months. When you disappear through a wall in the basement of Clark's furniture store, you wake up in the Backrooms, where a better version of Bobby is waiting. One who actually shows up, one who loves you, one who never, ever wants to let you go.
Ohhhh but this is sooo BB cuddled up in the blanket fort letting Companion trace his features from that tooth ask
📹 better bobby series masterlist.
you're in the nest after a long day of exploring.
and it's warm. far warmer than level 0 should allow, and by now you know that's him. that bb's doing something to the air or the walls or whatever the backrooms are made of to make this corner soft for you.
he's lying there looking up at you and doing the slow blink. the one that's almost human. the one that takes just a beat too long on the close and a beat too long on the open, like the mechanism behind his eyelids runs on slightly different rhythm.
and then you start tracing.
you don't decide to. your hand just moves. fingertips along his brow bone first. the ridge of it, slightly too pronounced, sharper than bobby's was in a way you wouldn't notice unless you were this close. and he goes still. that predator stillness. but not the dangerous kind. you've seen that kind before. this is the one where he's holding himself so carefully because he doesn't want to do anything that might make this stop.
you trace down. the bridge of his nose. not quite bobby's nose, you think, there's a straightness to it that bobby's didn't have. bobby broke his in eighth grade and it healed with a bump and this nose doesn't have that slight bump. this nose is the version bobby's face would have been if nothing had ever hurt it. across his cheekbone (higher than last week, you note, the architecture underneath pressing closer to the surface again) and he makes a sound.
low. a vibration that starts in his chest and travels up through his jaw and you feel it in your fingertips where they rest against his skin. it's involuntary. you can tell because his eyes widen slightly after he makes it, like he didn't know that was in him.
you trace his lower lip. the full swell of it. exactly bobby's mouth but the temperature is wrong. too cool. and the texture is just slightly off in a way you've stopped being able to articulate because your baseline for "normal" eroded somewhere around week three (or what you think was week three).
and the sound comes again, longer this time. a low, pleased rumble like something resonating in a space too large for his chest.
and that's when it hits you.
he's never felt this before.
not never felt your touch. never felt any touch that wasn't violence.
you think about what you know about him. what the backrooms have taught you. what you've inferred from the way he moves through this place. the things you've read in his body language when he comes back from whatever he does in the dark hallways with black fluid on his hands.
his entire existence has been pain. fear. darkness. the long stretches of nothing that make up the backrooms' silence. hunger, if he feels hunger. if what drives him to kill is something as simple as that.
loneliness so vast and so old that he built an entire personality out of a stolen face just to have someone to wear toward another person. and rage, maybe. whatever it was that made his eyes go black when jerry touched your mind. whatever lives underneath the bobby suit that is ancient and cold, full of teeth.
that is the complete catalogue of what Better Bobby knows about being alive. pain, fear, darkness, loneliness, hunger, rage.
and here you are. in a blanket nest, tracing his lip with your thumb.
teaching him a new one.
you lean closer. his eyes track you as you do. the pupils doing that too-fast dilation, the one that isn't human. one that means every particle of whatever he is made of is paying attention. you kiss the tip of his nose.
the sound he makes is not a sound a person makes.
it's a vibration. a rasp. something between a frequency and a breath, pulled from somewhere so deep in his chest that you feel it in your own sternum.
his whole body shudders once. a full-body response, involuntary, like every part of him is trying to process a sensation it has no category for. his hands come up and hover at your sides, not touching, not grabbing, just... there. open. shaking. like he wants to hold on to something but doesn't know the protocol for this.
more.
he doesn't say it. bb's mouth doesn't move. but everything else does. his chin tilts up. his eyes go half-lidded. his body angles toward you the way a plant angles toward light. this total, unconscious orientation, and you understand with sudden, devastating clarity that he's asking without knowing how to ask because nobody has ever given him a framework for wanting something gently. this is a human thing, a human softness, and hes unfamiliar with it.
so you kiss his cheek. just lightly. barely there. and the rumble deepens.
the other cheek. his eyes close all the way.
his forehead. the sharp ridge of his brow bone. the corner of his jaw where the bone meets the soft skin underneath. each one a small specific point of contact, your lips against the wrong temperature of his skin, and with each one the sound in his chest grows. layers over itself. becomes something textured and continuous. so low it's almost subsonic. you feel it in your teeth, on your skin. you feel it in the blankets. you feel it in the floor.
the level is vibrating.
not dangerously. not the way the walls did when he snarled at jerry. softly. a hum in the infrastructure. like the walls are resonating with whatever is happening in his chest because he IS the walls, or the walls are him, or the distinction stopped mattering a long time ago. and whatever he's feeling right now is big enough that the walls can't contain it.
you pull back just far enough to look at him.
bb's eyes are open. barely. the blue is so bright it's almost white at the centre. backlit. vast and warm and absolutely not human. his lips are parted. his face is... completely open. no mask. no performance. this is the thing underneath, the real thing, the entity behind the entity, and it is looking at you with an expression that doesn't have a name because nothing has ever felt this before. there is no word for this in any language because this is the first time it has ever existed.
you wrap your arms around him. his arms close around you at once (finally, finally) and you feel the strength in them. the same strength that tore hounds apart, held perfectly perfectly in check. he curls around you in the blanket nest, knees drawn up, face pressed into your hair, and the sound in his chest settles into constant and rhythmic sound.
he's purring.
an ancient terror that has killed countless entities and even humans, that makes the architecture of reality rearrange itself is purring. in a blanket fort. because you kissed his nose.
▓▓▓▓▓▓ CLASSIFIED // M.E.G. INTERNAL // CLEARANCE LEVEL 4 REQUIRED ▓▓▓▓▓▓
Colloquial Designation: "Better Bobby"
DOCUMENT ID: MEG-ENT-0000-DOSSIER
CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 4 — RESTRICTED
COMPILED BY: Dr. ██████, Entity Research Division
DATE OF COMPILATION: ██/██/198█
LAST REVISION: ██/██/199█ [SEE ADDENDUM F]
REVISION STATUS: ONGOING — FILE NEVER CLOSED
⚠ DISTRIBUTION WARNING ⚠
This dossier contains information regarding an entity classified as APEX-UNDEFINED. Unauthorised access, reproduction, or verbal dissemination of the contents herein constitutes a Class 3 security violation. Personnel found in breach will be subject to immediate reassignment to Level ███. This is not negotiable.
If you are reading this document and do not possess Level 4 clearance, stop immediately. Close this file. Walk away. Forget the designation. This is for your safety.
SECTION 1 — ENTITY SUMMARY
Designation: Entity 0
Colloquial Name(s): "Better Bobby," "The First," "It" (field teams), ██████████████ (designation rescinded, see Incident Report 0-14)
Primary Domain: Level 0 (unconfirmed territorial claim over full sublevel network)
Secondary Sightings: Levels 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 14, ████, ██████, and the Poolrooms (unverified)
Threat Classification: APEX-UNDEFINED
Containment Status: UNCONTAINED — ALL CONTAINMENT ATTEMPTS SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY
Behavioural Profile: UNPREDICTABLE / ADAPTIVE / SAPIENT (CONFIRMED)
Entity Kill Count (Est.): Unknown. See Section 5.
Human Kill Count (Conf.): █████
Human Kill Count (Est.): ███████ [DISPUTED — SEE ADDENDUM C]
NOTE FROM DR. ██████, ENTITY RESEARCH LEAD:
It should be on record that the designation 'Entity 0' was not chosen for taxonomic reasons. It was assigned because this entity predates our cataloguing system. We did not discover it. It was already here in what we class as the Backrooms. It may have always been here . The number is not a ranking. It's an admission that we do not know where to place it.
SECTION 2 — PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
2.1 — Primary Manifestation
Entity 0 presents as a young Caucasian male, early-to-mid twenties, consistent with the physical appearance of one Robert "Bobby" Franklin (see Personnel File MEG-P-██████, Status: ACTIVE/DISPLACED). The resemblance is exact in approximately 94% of documented sightings. Remaining sightings note minor deviations: incorrect eye colour under different lighting, subtle asymmetries in facial structure that do not correspond to Franklin's known features, and—in three separate reports—a "wrongness in the joints" that observers struggled to articulate.
Franklin himself has been interviewed extensively regarding Entity 0's use of his likeness. His testimony is included in Addendum A (SEALED). He has requested, on multiple occasions, that M.E.G. ██████████████████████████████████. This request has been denied.
2.2 — Secondary Characteristics
Entity 0 bleeds a black, viscous fluid when injured. Lab analysis of recovered samples has returned ████████████████. A second analysis returned entirely different results. A third analysis caused the spectrometer to ██████████████████████████████████. Testing has been suspended.
Entity 0's body temperature registers approximately 4.2°C below ambient room temperature at all times, regardless of environmental conditions. This remains consistent even in the Poolrooms (if sightings there are verified) and the thermally unstable zones of Level 5.
When Entity 0 believes it is unobserved, field teams have reported the following:
a) Complete cessation of respiration for periods exceeding 45 minutes.
b) Head rotation beyond normal cervical range (estimated 190° in Sighting 0-22).
c) Standing perfectly motionless in a posture that does not account for gravity. One researcher described it as "standing the way a photograph of a person stands. Not wrong. Just not alive."
d) Brief episodes of what appears to be the entity's eyes changing colour—from the documented blue to solid black. Duration: 1-5 seconds. No agent has been close enough to confirm ████████████████.
e) ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ for approximately nine hours. When Agent ██████ attempted to approach, ██████████████████████████████████. Agent ██████ has requested a transfer. Request granted.
2.3 — True Form
Unknown.
We do not know what Entity 0 looks like. We know what Bobby Franklin looks like. Entity 0 has never been observed without this disguise. Whether the Franklin appearance constitutes a "disguise" or has become the entity's actual physical structure is a matter of ongoing—and increasingly heated—debate within the department.
Dr. ██████ has proposed that Entity 0 may not have a "true form." That it may be, at a fundamental level, a thing that IS other things. This hypothesis is ████████████████.
SECTION 3 — BEHAVIOURAL ANALYSIS
3.1 — Unpredictability Index
Entity 0 has been assigned a Behavioural Unpredictability Index (BUI) of 9.7 out of 10. For context, most Backrooms entities operate between 2 and 6 on this scale. The Skin-Stealers register at 5.1. The Hounds at 3.8. A completely random number generator would score 10.0.
Entity 0 scores a 9.7 because it is not random. It is making decisions. We simply cannot determine the framework.
Documented behavioural range includes:
Allowing a wanderer to pass through Level 0 entirely unmolested, even appearing to clear a path by relocating other entities beforehand (Sighting 0-09).
Killing a wanderer. Method: ██████████████████████████████████. No apparent provocation. (Incident 0-03).
Sitting cross-legged in a hallway for an estimated 72 hours, staring at a wall. (Sighting 0-15). Purpose: unknown.
Engaging a Class 5 entity in what can only be described as combat. Entity 0 won. ██████████████████████████████████. The Class 5 entity has not been sighted since.
Humming. (Multiple sightings.) The melody does not correspond to any known song. ████████████████ has suggested it may be original composition. This is ██████.
Laughing at nothing. (Sighting 0-19.) Duration: four minutes. Laughter matched audio profile of Robert Franklin exactly.
██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. All seven members of Exploration Team Kilo were recovered alive. None will discuss what happened.
3.2 — Evasion Capabilities
Entity 0 does not want to be found. When it is found, it is because it has chosen to be.
M.E.G. has deployed tracking teams on fourteen separate occasions. Results were as follows:
Operation: LAMPLIGHTER
Duration: 6 days
Result: Entity evaded all contact. Team reported hallways "rearranging" around them.
Operation: NIGHTJAR
Duration: 11 days
Result: Entity sighted once. Made direct eye contact with lead tracker from end of hallway (est. 200m). Smiled. Vanished.
Operation: SILKWORM
Duration: 9 days
Result: No contact. Post-operation analysis revealed entity had been following the tracking team for the final four days.
Operation: TIDEPOOL
Duration: ██ days
Result: ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ██████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. All further tracking operations suspended by order of ██████.
3.3 — Intelligence
Entity 0 is sapient. This is no longer debated.
It understands English. It understands Mandarin, Spanish, Arabic, and—following an incident with Exploration Team Foxtrot—fluent conversational Japanese, despite never having been observed in the presence of a Japanese-speaking wanderer. A comprehensive linguistic audit conducted in 198█ was abandoned after Entity 0 responded to a deliberately obscure dialectal prompt in ██████████████████████████████████. The full list of confirmed languages is maintained in Addendum B. It is not short.
It also understands tactical positioning. It understands, based on Operations NIGHTJAR and SILKWORM, the concept of irony.
What must be emphasised—and what continues to unsettle the department—is how dramatically Entity 0's cognitive profile diverges from every other catalogued entity. Most Backrooms entities operate on recognisable behavioural loops. The Smilers hunt. The Skin-Stealers mimic. The ██████ feed. Even the more complex entities can be understood as sophisticated biological (or pseudo-biological) systems responding to stimuli: hunger, territorial instinct, predatory drive. They do what they do because something in their construction compels them to do it.
Entity 0 does not appear to be compelled to do anything.
It does not hunt for sustenance. It does not hunt for pleasure. It does not, as far as we can determine, hunt at all. Its kills appear to be decisions, made for reasons that change depending on context and that we have failed to model despite years of behavioural data. Other entities are, for lack of a better term, animals. Complex animals. Dangerous animals. But animals still.
Entity 0 operates with what can only be described as intentionality. It makes choices. It weighs outcomes. It has, on at least two documented occasions, changed its mind mid-action, which implies an internal deliberative process that no other entity has demonstrated.
This is what makes it dangerous. Not the strength—though the strength is considerable. Not the evasion capabilities—though those are unmatched. The danger is that Entity 0's internal workings appear to be orders of magnitude more complex than anything else in the Backrooms, and we do not understand them. A Wretch is dangerous the way a bear is dangerous: powerful, aggressive, but ultimately predictable. Entity 0 is dangerous the way a person is dangerous. It thinks. It plans, adapts, and learns. And it does all of this inside a body that can tear a Class 5 entity apart in ninety seconds.
The obvious question—and the one this department has been circling for the better part of two years without satisfactory resolution—is why. Why is Entity 0 so far beyond its peers? Two hypotheses currently hold majority support:
Hypothesis A (Dr. ██████): Entity 0's cognitive superiority is a function of age. It was here first. It has had longer to develop, to complexify, to evolve whatever passes for intelligence in Backrooms entities. Under this model, Entity 0 is not fundamentally different from other entities, it is simply older. The designation "Entity 0" is, in this reading, more literal than intended. It is t he first. Everything else came after. Everything else is younger, simpler, less finished.
Hypothesis B (Dr. ████████): Entity 0 is not smarter because it is older. It is smarter because it wanted to be. Something in its composition—its origin, its structure, whatever animates it—possesses a drive toward learning that other entities lack. It doesn't just react to its environment. It studies it. It chose to wear a human face. It chose to learn human language. Not one. Dozens. It chose to understand tactical positioning and irony and the specific way Robert Franklin leans against walls. Other entities absorb. Entity 0 pursues. If this hypothesis is correct, the follow-up question becomes deeply uncomfortable: what is it learning toward? What is the curriculum building to? What does an entity that has spent ██████████████ years teaching itself to be more look like when it decides it has learned enough?
Neither hypothesis has been confirmed. Both are ███████████████.
Researcher's note: I have been asked, off the record, which hypothesis I find more frightening. The answer is (B). It's always (B).
SECTION 4 — TERRITORIAL BEHAVIOUR & DOMAIN
Level 0 (otherwise known as "The Threshold") is, by consensus, Entity 0's domain.
This is not an official M.E.G. designation but a practical observation. Entity 0 moves through Level 0 with a freedom and familiarity that no other entity displays. It does not navigate the space. It inhabits it. Hallways that shift and reconfigure for wanderers appear to remain static in Entity 0's presence, or, more disturbingly, reconfigure according to its preference.
There is a growing body of evidence—currently classified under Review Protocol ██████—suggesting that Level 0 may not simply be Entity 0's territory. It may be its ████████████. This hypothesis was first proposed by Dr. ██████ in 198█ and was initially dismissed. Following Incident 0-11, in which Entity 0 appeared to ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ an entire corridor, the hypothesis has been upgraded to "under active consideration."
Entity 0 has been sighted on other levels, but these incursions appear purposeful and temporary. It always returns to Level 0. One researcher described this pattern as "a predator checking its territory lines," though others have noted the behaviour more closely resembles ████████████████.
SECTION 5 — INTER-ENTITY BEHAVIOUR
Entity 0 kills other entities.
This requires emphasis because it is, within the context of Backrooms ecology, abnormal. Entities compete for territory aggressively. Entities avoid each other. Entities engage in dominance displays. Sometimes they have been observed working together to hunt and kill wanderers. Entities do not, as a rule, destroy each other with the kind of systematic, almost casual efficiency that Entity 0 demonstrates.
Confirmed Entity 0 kills:
1x Class 5 Entity (undesignated). Method: ██████████████████████████. Duration of engagement: approx. 90 seconds.
5x Hounds. Simultaneous. Entity 0 did not appear injured afterward.
17x Skin-Stealer. Entity 0 appeared to take particular ██████ with this kill. Duration: ██████. Research team observing from concealment requested psychological support afterward.
██████x ████████████████. Circumstances: ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████. See Section 6.
1x entity of unknown classification. Entity 0 was observed speaking to it before killing it. Words were inaudible. Lip-reading analysis suggested ██████████████████████████████████. Lip-reading analyst has since resigned.
Few entities engage in aggression toward Entity 0. The implication of such is clear: within the Backrooms ecosystem, Entity 0 is an apex predator. Other entities tend to avoid it. Some—including the Hounds, which fear nothing else in our catalogue—have been documented actively fleeing its approach.
There are, however, notable exceptions.
The Howlers appear to be, at minimum, a genuine physical threat. They have engaged Entity 0 on at least three documented occasions. The encounters were violent and protracted in a way that Entity 0's other kills are not. During Incident 0-09, Entity 0 was observed sustaining visible damage. The first and only confirmed instance of an entity injuring it in combat. The black fluid was extensive. Entity 0 killed two Howlers, but it took ██ minutes, and afterward it remained stationary in the corridor for nearly two hours. Whether this constituted recovery, pain, or something else, we cannot say. But it did not move, and field team noted it was not humming.
More concerning is the entity's documented behaviour regarding ████████████████████████████, tentatively catalogued as Entity ██████, sighted exclusively on Levels ██████ and ██████. We have very little data on this entity—three sightings total, all partial, all from significant distance—but what we do have is this: during Sighting 0-46, Entity 0 was transiting a hallway on Level ██████ when it stopped. Abruptly. The tracking team reported that it stood perfectly still for approximately ninety seconds, head tilted, and then turned around and walked the other way.
Entity 0 has never, in our observational history, retreated from anything.
What Entity 0 is protecting, or hunting, or maintaining through this behaviour remains unknown.
SECTION 6 — THE COMPANION
⚠ CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 4 EYES ONLY — SUBSECTION RESTRICTED TO SENIOR RESEARCH PERSONNEL ⚠
6.1 — Initial Sighting
During Operation SILKWORM, tracking team reported an anomalous observation that did not pertain to the primary mission objective. Entity 0 was sighted in a hallway junction on Level 0, sublevel ██████. It was not alone.
A human female was observed walking alongside Entity 0.
Estimated age: ███. Physical description: ██████████████████████████████████. She was wearing ████████████████ and appeared to be in good physical health. She was not restrained, and was not visibly distressed. She was, by all observable measures, walking with Entity 0 voluntarily.
Entity 0 was walking between the female and the nearest dark hallway.
The tracking team leader noted this detail three times in her field report, underlining it twice. I am including it here because the behavioural implication is significant: Entity 0 was positioning itself as a barrier between the female and potential threats. This is protective behaviour. This is not something Entity 0 has ever displayed toward any other human in our records.
6.2 — Subsequent Sightings
Ref: S-31
Level: 0
Observation: Entity 0 and Companion seated against wall. Entity 0 appeared to be keeping watch while Companion slept. Entity 0 was humming.
Ref: S-34
Level: 2
Observation: Companion observed navigating. Entity 0 following. Unusual. Entity 0 does not typically follow. It leads or it ██████.
Ref: S-37
Level: 0
Observation: Entity 0 observed retrieving ██████ and presenting them to Companion. Companion laughed. Entity 0 displayed what appeared to be satisfaction.
Ref: S-41
Level: 3
Observation: Two Hounds approached Companion's position. Entity 0 intercepted. █████████████████████████████. Companion did not appear surprised by the violence. She waited. When Entity 0 returned, she handed it ██████ and they continued walking.
Ref: S-44
Level: ██████
Observation: ████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ████████████████. Observation team was withdrawn immediately. Dr. ██████████ has classified this sighting at Level 5. I have not been told why.
6.3 — Identity of the Companion
The Companion has been tentatively identified as █████████████████████████, a civilian reported missing on ██████████. Missing persons report was filed by Robert Franklin. Notably, █████████████████████████ was in a relationship with Robert Franklin at the time of disappearance.
The implications of this connection—that Entity 0 selected a companion who was romantically involved with the individual whose appearance it wears—are not lost on this department. Theories range from predatory luring strategy (see Dr. ██████'s analysis, Addendum D) to ██████████████████████████████████ to something far more ████████████████ that several senior researchers have declined to put in writing.
6.3.1 — Anomaly: Erasure of Civilian Records
During routine cross-referencing with surface-level contacts, research staff discovered that the Companion's missing persons file had been closed. Not resolved. Closed. Reason listed: ████████████████. The filing officer has no memory of processing the closure.
Subsequent investigation revealed a broader pattern. The Companion's lease has been reassigned. Her workplace has no record of employment. Her university transcript exists but is flagged as a clerical duplicate with no corresponding student ID. Photographs in which she appears have not been removed: she is simply no longer in them. The physical prints are unaltered. The space where she stood is just empty. As though no one was there to begin with.
This is not normal. Wanderers who enter the Backrooms leave gaps. Families search. Records persist. Missing persons cases go cold but they do not evaporate. In ██████ years of documented Backrooms disappearances, we have never seen evidence of a wanderer being actively erased from the surface world.
Something is removing her. Not killing her. She is alive and accounted for in the Backrooms. Removing the idea of her. The evidence that she existed at all.
The obvious question is whether Entity 0 is capable of exerting influence beyond the Backrooms. The less obvious and considerably more unsettling question is why it would want to. If Entity 0 is erasing the Companion's surface existence, the implication is not destruction. It is permanence. You do not erase someone's way back unless you intend for them to stay.
This has been flagged as a Priority 1 concern. Dr. ██████ has requested that Robert Franklin be monitored for signs of ████████████████. Request granted.
6.4 — Behavioural Implications
Entity 0, in the presence of the Companion, behaves differently than in any other documented context. Specifically:
a) Aggression toward other entities increases by an estimated 300%. Entity 0's territory, already dangerous, becomes functionally impassable when the Companion is present.
b) Unpredictability decreases. Entity 0''s movements become more structured, more purposeful, more oriented around the Companion's location. For the first time in our observational history, Entity 0 is behaving in a way that can be partially predicted.
c) The entity has been observed performing behaviours with no survival utility: adjusting the Companion's blanket, standing in specific positions to block fluorescent light while she sleeps, █████████████████████████████████. These behaviours have no precedent in our entity catalogue.
d) Entity 0 has not killed a human since the Companion was first sighted. Correlation is not causation. But the correlation is ██████.
SECTION 7 — RESEARCH & CONTAINMENT PROPOSALS
7.1 — Proposal: Use the Companion to Study Entity 0
STATUS: UNDER REVIEW
The Companion represents an unprecedented opportunity. Entity 0, which has evaded every tracking operation, every surveillance deployment, and every research team we have sent into Level 0, has voluntarily anchored itself to a single human being. Its movements are, for the first time ever, partially predictable. Its behaviour, for the first time, has an identifiable variable: her.
Proposal 7.1-A (Dr. ██████████): Establish covert observation posts along confirmed Companion travel routes. Do nott engage. Do not approach. Observe only. Use the Companion's presence to map Entity 0's behavioural patterns, territorial boundaries, and, if possible, communication methods.
Proposal 7.1-B (Dr. ██████): Make contact with the Companion. Offer extraction. If she accepts, observe Entity 0's response. If she declines—and this is the part of the proposal that generated significant debate in committee—ask her to serve as a voluntary research asset. She has closer access to Entity 0 than any M.E.G. (or outside) operative has ever achieved. She is, in effect, already conducting the field study we have failed to execute fourteen times.
Proposal 7.1-C: ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. This proposal was submitted anonymously. It has been rejected. The author is encouraged to identify themselves to their supervisor immediately.
7.2 — Proposal: Use the Companion to Contain Entity 0
STATUS: REJECTED (SEE BELOW)
If Entity 0 will not leave the Companion, then controlling the Companion's location is, theoretically, controlling Entity 0's location.
This proposal was rejected for the following reasons:
We do not know whether Entity 0's attachment to the Companion represents affection, possession, predation, or something outside human behavioural pattern. Assuming it is exploitable is assuming we understand it. We do not.
If Entity 0 perceives the Companion's removal as a threat, its response is unpredictable and potentially catastrophic. Given its documented combat capabilities—including the destruction of a Class 5 entity in under two minutes—the risk to extraction personnel is classified as ██████.
The Companion may not be a hostage. She may be there voluntarily. If so, forcible extraction raises ethical concerns that this department is not equipped to adjudicate.
██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. If this turns out to be accurate, containment is not merely inadvisable. It is ███████████████.
NOTE FROM OPERATIONS DIRECTOR ██████:
I'm going to be blunt. We have spent years and ██████ operatives trying to understand Entity 0. We've tried to catalogue its kills, map its territory and even document its evasion capabilities. And in all that time, the single greatest advance in our understanding of this entity has come from a civilian girl who, as far as we can tell, wandered in through a door that shouldn't exist and started treating an apex predator like a stray cat.
She has learned more about Entity 0 by being near it than we have learned in fourteen operations. I'm not comfortable with what that implies about our methodology. I'm even less comfortable with what it implies about Entity 0's capacity for selective trust.
Recommendation (to be forwarded to every agency looking into this Entity): observe. Do not intervene. Do not extract. Do not, under any circumstances, threaten the Companion's safety within Entity 0's perceptual range.
I've seen what it does to things that threaten what belongs to it.
I don't want to see what it would do to us.
SECTION 8 — OPEN QUESTIONS
The following questions remain unanswered. They are listed in order of departmental priority. Personnel with relevant information are instructed to report to Dr. ██████ immediately.
What is Entity 0? Not what does it look like. Not how does it behave. What IS it?
What does it want with the Companion? Protection implies investment. What is the return?
What is the entity's relationship to Level 0 itself? Is it an inhabitant, a guardian, a ██████, or something we do not have terminology for?
Why Bobby Franklin? Of all possible appearances, why this specific individual? Is is merely due to Companion's prior history with Franklin or █████████████?
The Companion has been in the Backrooms for an estimated ██████. Standard survival expectancy for an unaffiliated civilian without supplies is 1-3 days. She is alive and healthy. How? And more importantly, why?
██████████████████████████████████?
During Sighting S-44, observation team reported ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████. If this is accurate, does Entity 0 possess ████████████████? And if so, has the Companion been ██████?
Is Entity 0 capable of love? (This question was submitted by Junior Researcher ██████ and was initially struck from the record. It has been reinstated by order of Dr. ██████, who noted, and I quote: "It's the only question that actually matters.")
END OF DOSSIER
File Status: OPEN — NEVER CLOSED Next Mandatory Review: ████████████████
"We have been studying Entity 0 for years. I am no longer certain it has not been studying us for longer."
— Dr. ██████, final departmental memo before ████████████████
▓▓▓▓▓▓ UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OF THIS DOCUMENT OR DISTRIBUTION IS GROUNDS FOR IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF M.E.G. MEMBERSHIP ▓▓▓▓▓▓
the way bobby's death (and kat's) could've been avoided if clark just THOUGHT to bring a good pair of scissors and tied a better fucking knot damn it 💔
dailybridgerton
origamiaround
vaporwave
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner
areudirty
