ugh more trailertrash!reader hcs because i keep thinking about it
tt!reader whose only known this. this life, this trailer, everything in between which admittedly and very obviously had not been very much.
aerion who felt superior, like in regards to most things or more likely everything, he thought himself better, because that’s how it was. how it is, how it always will be.
tt!reader who invites him over for the first time. well, let him stay after he dropped her off in his car of which brand she didn’t know the name of and probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce.
aerion who rather enjoyed his visit.
aerion who ended up staying there more often than his own home.
tt!reader who didn’t mind the vulnerability she was showing. didn’t expect it. didn’t expect to let him see and exist in her world of four cheap walls and a creaky floor.
tt!reader who eventually gave aerion a spare key.
tt!reader and aerion who were more often than not pressed together in the small bed watching whatever shitty show was on the old tv.
aerion who paid for a better one. who paid to get a new dishwasher installed after it had started leaking.
tt!reader who came home to a larger tv, a cleaner dishwasher and a white haired man lounging on the sofa. drinking the cheap beer.
aerion who never asked for permission and never spoke of it.
comforting modern!aerion ┊ mentions of blood / bruises / cuts / drinking / smoking┊ a/n - instead of tt!aerion i bring you tt!reader
a banging at your trailer door. loud. angry. impatient. it should have scared you. it used to. it did the first time you heard it. the first time you felt your entire home shake beneath the force of his, no doubt bloody, fist.
but with all things regarding him, you grew used to it. expected it. especially after he had gone no contact for the last three days.
another loud bang. then another. it must be bad today, you thought. even though he was and had always been impatient and angry, he did not always bully your home like this. only when he wanted to feel strong. maybe even just feel something other than despair. when he wanted to feel more powerful than something, even if that something was your cheap front door. it was still a surprise he hadn't broken it down yet.
but this thumping, this loud mean sound that battered not only your door but also your ears was a warning.
it was a warning that you should drop everything and open that door as fast as humanely possible. a sign to prepare for one hundred and fifty Ibs of mood swings and bruises to barge through.
and barge he did. as soon as the door was unlocked he was inside, slamming it behind him as though this was his trailer. though it may as well be from how often he found himself here.
sometimes he didn't even mean to come here. sometimes he wasn't even angry. he was just there. eating or resting. then he'd be walking. then he'd be eating your food, resting in your bed. to him it was easier to exist around you. it didn't matter if it was silent and you were really just existing. he would find you, and he'd stay.
then he wouldn't. sometimes if it was bad, the all consuming kind of bad, where he couldn't seem to drag his mind away from the pure agony of his life, his family, his dreams, his expectations, his thoughts in themselves. persistent and torturous little things. loud too. louder than any other thoughts in his head. it was an overwhelming and painful process and to him it felt like his entire self was rotting from inside out.
but aerion craved control. he despised the fact he couldn't control his own thoughts, those stupid words inside of his own head. and if they made him feel like he was rotting, then he would. he would drink and smoke and drink some more. then he would fight, rot on the side of some road with a bruised cheek and a twisted ankle. he would put his own body through pain to keep up the twisted illusion that he was in control of his actions, of himself.
and while that was happening you waited. didn't pester. no calls, no texts. because you knew he would come back. broken and beaten and bruised not only on his physical body. so you gave him all you could in that moment. that illusion of control you knew he so desperately needed. to feel as though he wasn't a pitiful, pathetic mess that always ended up like a lost child on your doorstep.
it wasn't as though you could give him much else. so you gave him the belief that he could choose whenever you saw him. that he was the one in control of this entire messy fucked up relationship you didn't have a single idea of what to call. like he wasn't wrapped around your finger, and this was something he could decide not to do. like even in the depths of despair he wasn’t thinking about you.
like he didn't limp home on a twisted ankle to you. like he didn't stumble around and find coins on the floor after his wallet had been stolen so he could call you on the nearest pay phone and hear your voice. like he didn't touch his scratched up fingertips to the cut on his lip and think about how it was going to hurt to kiss you now.
you took in the sight of him then. crusted blood on his knuckles. a dried nosebleed that had dripped down his chin onto his shirt staining the white fabric crimson. messed hair. a cut on his cheek. one on his lip. a tear in his trousers. the material peeling of his shoes.
you stared.
and he stood there, breathing heavily in your kitchen / living room / dining area letting you take it all in. every last piece of dirt on his skin and rot in his mind. he was letting you. he was in control. he narrowed his eyes, waiting. because he was choosing not to talk. choosing not to speak to you. not because he doesn't know what to say, how to apologise, how to ask for permission to hug you and bask in that warmth you always gave him. he didn't know how to ask for you to comfort him. he didn't want to. didn't want you to really see how fucked ne was.
but you knew. and some deep part of him knew that you were aware he was scared. scared that one day you wouldn't open that shitty door. he knew. you knew. you never spoke about it. because that was all you could give him. so you pretended not to notice the slight tremors in his hands, the worry in his face, the fidgeting, the stalling. how he looked frightened as he stood there. waiting for your reaction. a reaction.
you let out a long exhale through your nose.
his eyelashes fluttered. his eyes wide for a second. then narrow again. his entire demeanour completely changed from when he was borderline attacking your door, because he knew you couldn't see him then. you could hear him, god everybody in a five mile radius had heard him, but you couldn't see him. when he was in his fifth bar fight in two days you weren't there to watch. it was easier. easier in the sense that if you did see him like that he really would spiral into a never-ending string of thoughts that you wanted nothing to do with him. not now, not ever. but now you stood in front of him. and he wanted to be mean, be cruel. but he couldn't. he could never be that with you. be the thing that he so desperately didn't want to be.
the look on his face was almost challenging. almost daring you to slap him and yell and kick him back out of the door he had came in. waiting. expecting. anticipating. worrying.
you moved. you walked to the bathroom and turned the shower on. you walked back to him. you looked at his shoes.
he stared. he breathed. he took them off. he watched you walk back to the bathroom. he followed. he began taking his shirt off.
you tutted. he halted.
your hand was on the hem of his shirt before he could think. slowly, you lifted it off him, careful not to touch his bruised rib. so careful. like you always were with him. his shirt lay on the floor now, a discarded sad piece of material in the corner. then his jeans. a graze on his knees. then his socks. dirt on his ankles. then his underwear. hard.
then your own clothes. joining his own in a pile of white and black.
it was natural for you to see each other like this. be around each other like this. touch each other like this. it was comfortable being completely bare around each other. a silent, nude way of revealing yourselves. no long talks about feelings that probably would never occur to begin with. no emotions put on display for the other to observe and pick apart. because you already knew.
you knew the surface level stuff like your favourite ice cream flavour from the few times you could afford to treat yourself (not that you ever let him pay). but you knew the thoughts that plagued each other from when you'd be asleep and dream then whisper, just loud enough for the other to hear.
you were both in the shower now. a cramped, small space. the water was warm, not hot. never hot. a cheap shampoo in a bright green bottle that smelt ever so faintly of apples. you massaged it into his hair, let it rinse out, and did your own. all while he stared. he never took his eyes off you. they followed the raise of your arms, the circling of your fingers, the squeezing of your hands in your hair. it was like your every move enchanted him.
with his body you were much gentler. a bright pink plastic bottle that smelled of strawberries or maybe watermelon. you gently rubbed over his face, his chest, his back, his stomach, his legs. every part of him. and he just accepted it. he wouldn't show it, definitely wouldn't say it but he appreciated it, he liked when you took care of him.
after the shower you dressed him in clothes he had previously left over, his spare clothes taking up at least half your wardrobe. you made light work of his injuries, a skill that you had learnt entirely through him and his benders. it wasn't as though you particularly had much either, some bandages, some ointment. and he waited, until you were done and put the few supplies back into a cupboard. even then, once you had sat back down on the small coach he was silent. it was almost like a routine for you both by now.
the small tv buzzing with the faint sound of whatever, your thighs pressed against each other partly out of choice and partly from the lack of space, the 'room' covered in a faint blue glow from the tv.
his hand twitched.
a flick of his finger.
it was nothing really.
his knuckles were covered in a thin layer of bandages. slightly pink from the small amounts of fresh blood. you grabbed it. or rather placed your hand on it. because with aerion it was never really nothing. his hand had twitched maybe because his knuckles were hurting or maybe because he had become far too aware of your body next to his own. maybe you weren't close enough. and despite aerion's own need to not seem weak or needy, his body involuntarily sought you out. it always did. it was like an inescapable hunger that he felt for you.
so you held it. your hand a warm blanket over his. then your thumb started to move. a slow back and forth movement against the thin layer of bandage. aerion was still. then he turned to look at you. another involuntary action his body did before he could think.
you stared back. then glanced towards his bruised hand. you tightened your grip and brought it to your lips. a slight rub against the bandage, then a soft peck where the white was already turning pink again. and another. and another. you kissed each individual bloodied knuckle and aerion couldn’t breathe. it was your way of saying i’m here. i see you. i see every flaw, every miscalculated judgement, every bloody knuckle, i see it, and i'm staying.
“aerion.” a faint whisper against his hand.
his breath caught.
you brought your lips to his palm. a soft kiss.
“don’t bang on my door next time.”
he stared, then he laughed. well, breathed, but for aerion in this state it was the closest to a laugh you would get.
for the rest of the night you comforted him. until his head ended up in your lap and his arms squeezed around your waist. until his breathing evened and his shoulders finally relaxed. it was the most intimate thing you could do for one another. because no doubt maybe next week or next month you would spiral too. the same kind of spiral where you went no contact and were only surrounded by your thoughts. about your home, your life, what the fuck you were doing with yourself, about how of if you could afford rent next month.and you would call him. and he would come. and then it would be his turn to comfort you.
and when the next morning came and the previous blue atmosphere became golden with sunlight, maybe you would treat yourselves to some ice cream.
#cats of tumblr
#lana del rey
