summary | When the family heirloom is nowhere to be found, you found yourself in the middle of the chaos in the Hightower-Targaryen siblings' apartment.
pairing | modern!aemond x gf!reader x platonic!targtower siblings (aegon, helaena, daeron)
tags | crack fic, mentions of sex, aegon is a sweaty liar, new girl-inspired, slightly succession-inspired, the targs hate each other but live in the same building
wordcount | 4.9k
note | my first attempt at a crack fic 😭 this was inspired by new girl s4ep6 'background check', which is my fav ep in my fav show! thought i’d write something fun this time bc i'm going to miss my chaotic little greenies <3
likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated! (divider)
The warm tingle of the morning sun on your bare back made you purr like a cat, limbs stretching over the length on the queen-sized bed. Beside you, the light sprinkle of Aemond’s silver chest hair twinkled under the sunlight, ripples of defined muscle accentuated by the shadows cast. Underneath, his pale flesh had taken a pink hue after some of the strenuous activities you had partaken in when you awakened. On most days, your boyfriend would’ve sprung out of bed the moment the clock struck six thirty, but not today. After all, it was his day off.
And on his day off, Aemond took his time… in between your thighs.
Laying on your stomach, you settled your chin on your crossed arms to look at your lover. The giggle that bubbled from your lips as you stared into his peaceful face couldn’t be helped, prompting him to crack open his good eye to look at you in question, brow raised.
“That was some good stuff, wouldn’t you say?” you said, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively. He merely huffed a chuckle, slim cheeks dimpling.
“Fuckin’ amazing, babe,” Aemond replied with a satisfied smile, turning on his side to grab your waist. You squealed in delight as he maneuvered you onto your back. Attacked by kisses, and tickled by the growing stubble on his chin, it had been a while since mornings were this peaceful.
“Why can’t we ever have mornings like this?” you asked rhetorically, ending with a dreamy sigh as his wandering lips found their home in yours. He grunted in agreement, hips canting towards yours to make known the growing zeal in between his legs, ever eager to make the most of your morning.
The answer came in the sight that greeted you the moment you left his room.
Tangled in a crumpled heap of silver hair on the floor, Aemond’s brothers, Aegon and Daeron, were wrestling for the remote.
“Oh, come on, Aeg! I need to catch up on my show!”
“Fuck off, Cocomelon, MILF Manor’s on!”
With a heavy sigh felt in the Seven Heavens, Aemond turned to you with a deadpan face. “This is why.”
The other side of the apartment was in no better shape. A stuffy cloud of greyish smoke enveloped the open kitchen. In the middle of it, Helaena was making breakfast. Flipping a more than well-done pancake, and scrambling a bowl of eggshell-dotted eggs, their sister was unbothered by the ruckus, merely humming to herself. You exchanged a look with Aemond, who nodded at you with a wordless instruction to take over.
“Morning, sweetie,” you greeted your dear friend, accepting the side hug she happily gave you. Peeking down at the ceramic pan, Aemond hid his grimace at the shape of the blobs of batter she was cooking up.
“Lookin’ good in here, Hel. Why don’t we lend you a hand?” he offered innocently, to which Helaena beamed up with glee.
“Would you mind flipping that when it’s ready, Aem? I need to go feed the babies for a sec!”
The moment Helaena turned to scurry off to tend to the numerous critters littered about in jars in her room, Aemond immediately tossed the blackened hotcake into the trash. It was somewhat impressive how his sister somehow managed to make it cling to a nonstick pan, but he dared not say anything. Meanwhile, you cracked some windows open to let some fresh air in, before rolling up the sleeves of Aemond’s old college hoodie to help out by cutting up some fruit.
Soon enough, all of you managed to find your respective places on the island and finally start eating. It was nice, save for the boys’ banter that managed to have its own seat at the table.
“They’re hooking up with guys my age and their dads?!” Daeron exclaimed, a mixture of awe and slight confusion on his young face at his eldest brother’s choice of morning entertainment.
“Yeah, bro, and you know what that’s called? Good. Fuckin’. TV. Not that lame superhero shit you’re always into,” Aegon retorted with a full mouth of food, specks of egg flying out of his mouth with every word. Even the ginormous mug engraved with the words ‘I <3 U WITH ALL MY B(.)(.)BS’ couldn’t hide the scowl of disgust on your boyfriend’s face as he sipped his coffee, the gaze on his good eye sharp on the two knobheads before him.
You tuned out Aemond’s scolding as you were deep into your own conversation with Helaena, who had a chirping cricket balanced on her shoulder. You made sure to keep your steaming cup of matcha away in case the critter had any plans of jumping off. You loved Hel, but gods, did those things make your skin crawl.
The sudden ding! from Aemond’s pocket cut through the chatter of the table. With his attention shifted to his phone, you stole some of his bacon, watching on in curiosity as his brows furrowed in confusion. “Daemon’s having the whole building inspected?” he announced, making everyone turn to him in attention.
“Did he fuck someone in the building who gave him crabs?” Aegon quipped in a matter all too nonchalant that everyone had turned to him with an incredulous look.
“No. Mum said Dad’s dagger he left for Daemon in the will isn’t in the penthouse anymore. Asshole’s bringing in KLPD’s ‘best’ or whatever the fuck, some guy called Jason Lannister’s going to be up here doing the search. The Lion,” Aemond read off the text on his phone, before shutting it off with a scoff of disbelief. He muttered a few curses for his uncle under his breath before a flicker of realization struck his face, turning to Aegon. “Did someone in this building give you crabs?”
“N-no? Just heard it from uh, uh… the doorman!”
“Aeg, you know you’re a terrible liar, right?” you mused, eyeing the way his pale cheeks had almost immediately turned red at the sudden inquisition. Aegon was a sweaty, anxious liar who spent his teenage years nearly wetting his pants before he could pull out his fake ID at a liquor store. Any more prodding and his gray t-shirt would have been marked with sweat stains.
“Ha, you guys think they call him The Lion because he’s ferocious, and feeds on crime and bad guys as grub? Man, that’s cool,” Daeron remarked, shaking his head with an innocent satisfaction for making such an observation. You turned to Helaena to giggle in amusement, but she was staring off to the side, biting her lip while deep in thought.
“The Lannisters are lions, Daeron. It’s their family sigil. You would know this if you didn’t spend all your time in middle school messing with your iPad with your snotty hands, you oaf,” Aemond retorted, making the youngest pout at the realization. You turned back to finishing your meal, paying Helaena no mind. It wasn’t uncommon to have her like this, often lost in her head that all of you knew to leave her alone until she was back to herself.
Rising from his stool, Aegon made his way around the island to grab butter for his toast. “Slept with a Lannister once. Let me tell ya, boys, they are feisty!” the eldest bragged, punctuating with a feline growl that made Aemond roll his eye for the tenth time before noon. Butter dish in hand, Aegon padded over to the utensil drawer for a knife. “Why does the prick think we have it anyway? It’s not like we need anything from the rotten old ha— Oh, shit.”
And there it was, between cheap IKEA spoons, packets of wooden chopsticks from takeout, and water-stained cutlery, sat the Targaryen family heirloom— the Valyrian steel catspaw dagger. It stood out from the wooden drawer like a sore thumb. Shiny, heavily embellished with a real stone of ruby that could pay off your student loans, and inscribed by what you were told were Valyrian glyphs; it was outright gaudy in your opinion.
When Viserys Targaryen, a multi-media conglomerate and filthy-rich billionaire, passed from his long battle with cancer, he had stated in his will that each of his children was to inherit a portion of his riches. Their eldest half-sister, Rhaenyra, had been given almost half of their father’s wealth in money and property, as well as being the immediate successor to the family company, Dragonstone Corporation. For the rest of the siblings, the other half was split among the four of them, which was, frankly, chump change compared to what their sister got. The only consolation was that they were granted to keep any furniture in their dad’s penthouse. Not the flat itself though, that was for Daemon, as well as the family heirloom that no one else coveted but their uncle.
Now, did the Targaryens have enough money to settle themselves into a manor large enough that each of them could have rooms larger than their current living spaces? Abso-fucking-lutely. But Viserys had been sick for a long time, tethering at a hair’s breadth from death for years. At that time, he had expressed his dying wish of having his family close to him, despite their many, many differences and ill feelings. These hotheaded silver heads could hardly stand to be under the same roof with each other; as if Aemond’s missing eye wasn’t proof enough, but their father was more persistent to have his way. Hence, they had all been given keys to their own flats in one of Dragonstone Co.’s premier luxury buildings, the Red Keep.
Rhaenyra and Harwin were on the second floor, with Jace and Luke in a bachelor’s pad two doors down. Alicent was on the fourth, taking a smaller place of her own after her husband’s passing with her trusted bodyguard and oddly close companion, Criston Cole, staying in the unit adjacent to hers. Aemond and the siblings were situated in a spacious 4-bedroom on the thirteenth floor, the farthest away from anyone.
Technically, they were all still under the same roof, but it helped when the only time one could encounter their estranged kin was when they had the misfortune of being down at the mailboxes together, which was rarely ever. They always had the freedom to move out, but the Red Keep was a highly sought-after property, centrally located in the heart of King’s Landing. It afforded them luxuries not found in other places, a more than perfect location if only it weren’t for the fact that it ran the risk of bumping into their estranged, unmistakably hungover uncle walking his dog Caraxes at the private dog park.
Their grief on their loss was brief, rather relieved with being free of the ghost of a father’s hold on their lives, but Viserys’ blatant favoritism had the siblings muttering ill wishes in his afterlife. You were there with Aemond on the day the children were called up to take their pick of the furniture in the penthouse, wide-eyed at the millions worth of designer, custom furnishings adorning the space. They were all given their respective colored stickers that they tabbed on their picks, yet none of them seemed to be enthusiastic about the whole ordeal. No talk of some family heirloom was discussed as far as you were aware, rather busied with tugging on Aemond’s sleeve to urge him to place his claim on the toile de Jouy fine china that would go exceptionally well with the countryside cottage you were saving up for when you got married.
“Aegon, how many times do I have to say you can’t sell Dad’s stuff on eBay? Not the important ones at least!”
“Hey, it’s not me! You’re the one who’s got a crush on Daemon, you sure you didn’t take it to piss him off?”
The sound of the instant finger-pointing and bickering within the boys was deafening. No one seemed to have any recollection of taking the dagger back to their place, nor did they express any want for it. It seemed that Viserys left one last act of messing with his kids’ lives, a ghostly imbecilic stunt, especially when Daemon was threatening to sue for inheritance theft.
Beside you, an anxious Helaena was biting her lip as you both watched the three sons butt heads in finding the culprit. The urge to spit out the truth was palpable, emanating from her slouched, mohair-sweater-adorned body as your eyes widened in realization. One worried look from her and you understood. After all, she was your best friend, you knew her like the back of your hand.
“Okay! It was me!”
The arguments ceased at her exclaim, three and a half pairs of eyes turning to stare at her instantaneously. No one opened their mouth to voice their frustration, not when it came to Helaena. Alicent’s only girl rubbed a hand over her face in angst, fidgeting on the island’s bar stool as they all awaited her explanation. “I found it in Dad’s study when I was looking for the taxidermy beetles he used to have. It was on the shelf… and nobody put a sticker on it so I didn’t know!”
“That’s because Daemon’s made it pretty clear it was his since the dawn of time, big sis,” Daeron replied, scratching the back of his neck as they all pondered on what to do.
“Why’d you even want this old thing, Hel? It’s ugly as shit,” Aegon commented, flipping the dagger on the counter with a frown on his face.
Another frustrated groan left her lips, face planting on her arms while you tried to soothe her, shooting a warning look at the three boys still standing around the table. “I thought it was kinda nice to have! Like, you know… for charcuterie and stuff!”
“Well, why can’t you guys just talk to Daemon about it? It was an honest mistake! He won’t send his own family to jail… right?” you suggested, flashing a lighthearted smile that went unreciprocated by the four silverheads around you. Frankly, your words failed to convince yourself too, because if there was one thing you learned in the years you’ve spent with the Targaryens, it was that nothing ever got fixed with a simple conversation. They were all quick to anger, jumping at the first chance to butt heads when it presented itself. This was going to be tricky.
A resounding buzz from the unit’s intercom cut through the worried tension within the group, your stress multiplying when the snobby voice of Jason Lannister reverberated from the tiny box.
“Good morning, this is Jason Lannister, a detective with the KLPD. I am here on request by Mr. Daemon Targaryen for an item he claims to have been stolen from your father’s penthouse. Your unit will be the first to be searched, I appreciate your cooperation.”
Seven Hells, of course, they were first. The Hightower side of the family definitely wasn’t Daemon’s favorite bunch, and there was no doubt that there was a huge possibility he could sniff them out in no time. Chaos ensued almost immediately, a mirrored panic prompting everyone in the house to look for ways to dispose of the damned knife.
“Throw it in the trash!” Daeron suggested, opening the lid to the bin. Aegon, already perspiring down his forehead, shook his head vehemently.
“No, wait! Don’t let me see where you’ll hide it! The moment he comes in here, I’ll just yell trash!” he rambled, promptly covering his eyes with a hand and turning his back away. Gods, the pit stains on his shirt were already growing darker with sweat. Gross.
“Why don’t we just throw it out the window?” you pointed out, jabbing a thumb to the open window behind you. Helaena and Daeron both nod in agreement, voicing their thoughts on the idea.
“And stab someone in the brain on its way down? Not necessarily making it better for us,” Aemond grumbled, clearly the most stressed among the group. His good eye waved across the space frantically, thinking of ways of an alibi. There was no doubt the search would be thorough, and he wouldn’t put it past Daemon to order for their whole place to be turned upside down in the process. There was no way they could hide in their apartment, unless…
The idea hit him like a brand-new light bulb, his features brightening as he contemplated. “What if,” he started, rubbing his chin in thought at such a bold plan. “What if we hide it at mum’s place?”
“Are you insane?! You’re seriously going to pin this on our own mother?” Daeron questioned, his eyes wide with bewilderment at his brother’s plan. It was a shitty plan, but they were running out of options.
“She’s at the lake house until Sunday, and they can’t search without a warrant if they don’t have her consent. We’ll just use the keys she gave us, keep it there, and when the whole thing blows over, we’ll secretly put it back in the penthouse,” Aemond explained, waving his hands around wildly. It was clear he didn’t agree with this plan either, but it was better than throwing the knife out and landing it on someone’s skull on accident. “If they find it there, we’ll ask Nyra for help. We’ll just have to trust whatever gross girl crush feelings she has left for Mum. She can deal with Daemon, can’t she?”
You all looked at each other, contemplating. Daemon hasn’t had a judge issue a warrant yet, so her unit won’t be searched while she’s still out of town with Criston and her brother, Gwayne. It was tricky… but it was plausible. Another buzz from the lobby urged you to decide faster, but as no one seemed to think of a better option it was determined.
With a silent agreement from everyone, Aemond nodded, before taking the catspaw dagger and placing it in an old shoebox. He fished the keys his mother gave him, before disappearing out the front door. In the meantime, Daeron buzzed the detective into the building, while you and Helaena fixed up the damp, clammy mess that was Aegon.
“I can’t handle this,” he whined, chest heaving. You were coaching him on what to say in case The Lion asked him anything, but his tongue was all in a twist from how anxious he was. Turning him around by the shoulders, a prominent sweat stain the size of Dorne covered the entire backside of his sleep shirt. Why the hell was his eye twitching so much?
“Oh my gods, you’re a mess! Here,” his sister urged, handing him the oversized, clunky sweater she had knit him for his birthday earlier this year. It was a bright yellow, with a forest green cartoon dragon embroidered on its chest, and fell just around mid-thigh. Helaena turned to you, exchanging a twin look of concern at the sight of him. Skin flushed, greasy, silver locks stuck to his forehead, clad in a bright sweater in the middle of summer. He kind of looked like the Michelin man in boxers.
“Relax, you’re going to be fine! We’re all going to be fine, right?” you reassured the room with a light tone of confidence, though the squeak in your voice all told them otherwise.
The longer Aemond took to return, things were starting to feel less fine.
Sat on the couch tightly together, you all were stiff as cardboard as The Lion explained the customary steps of a search. Your eyes shifted to the door every minute, anxiously waiting for your boyfriend to return. None of you were suited to face a man like Jason Lannister, whose eyes studied all of you like a predator waiting to prowl. “This isn’t a formal search, since, of course, your uncle has been issued a warrant by a judge yet. But since all tenants of the home are here, consent can be authori—”
“Brogues!” Aegon suddenly shouted, prompting all eyes to turn to him. Jason tilted his head in confusion, and all three of you resisted the urge to bury your heads into your hands. “Uh, y-you’re wearing brogues,” he said, clearing his throat. A shaky finger pointed at the decorated, brown leather shoes adorning The Lion’s feet, followed by an attempt at a nonchalant smile that looked more like a grimace. You subtly pinched his thigh, silently urging him to get it together.
“Hm? Oh, yes! Thank you for noticing them, Mr. Targaryen,” Lannister replied, a tinge of bafflement still decorating his tone. “Anyway, as I was saying…” He continued to explicate the procedure, pulling out a small notepad and a pen from his pocket before beginning his search.
Before he could start, the front door opened to reveal Aemond, who was unaware of the presence of an officer of the law standing in the middle of the living room. His hand ran through the messed up strands of his hair, while his mouth also ran a mile a minute blindly. “Okay, I know that took so long but the twins were on the elevator and I had to take the sta–” Springing up from your seat, you cut your boyfriend’s words off by slamming your lips onto his to shut him up. You might have exaggerated the kiss to keep it believable, but it took Aemond a second to piece two and two together when you pulled away.
“Detective Lannister, this is my boyfriend, Aemond, who just came from, uh, the gym.” The Lion’s brows furrowed at your words, blue orbs flickering to the Adidas slides the silver-haired man was clearly not wearing to lift weights at the gym. Aemond cleared his throat, composing himself, before straightening his back to stand taller.
“Yes, I like to run… barefoot. Better for your feet!” he lied, throwing you a look that made you smile at him sheepishly for such a terrible excuse. Things were going south at a breakneck speed, and would only continue to go downhill when The Lion announced he would begin his search.
The detective soon pulled on a pair of latex gloves, taking nearly an hour to examine each nook and cranny of your home. Drawers were pulled open, rooms examined and closets bared, the dagger was nowhere to be found. Relief started to waft through the four-bedroom apartment, but your success was shortlived when the blonde Lannister soon announced that after his search he would all question you individually, starting with Aegon.
Shit.
The sound of the bedroom door closing almost had the eldest collapsing, body seriously overheating in a mix of dread and fear as Lannister stood before him.
“Now, Aegon. I know you have seen this dagger in your dad’s home before he passed. I want you to tell me everything you know that could help with finding it,” he said. Aegon racked his brain to think of a lie, any lie, but his tongue refused to utter any word that held no ounce of the truth of the heirloom’s actual whereabouts. He recalled the stuff you had taught him to say.
I haven’t seen it since I was a kid, detective.
I’m pretty sure Daemon already has the dagger.
I don’t know.
“I wear latex gloves on my feet once a week to moisturize them.”
The words left his mouth before he could stop them, but his brain refused to stop wiring out actual truths about himself in an attempt to sway the detective’s attention away from the topic at hand. “I had my first kiss at a movie theater when I was 15. We were watching Forrest Gump, and I was snoggin’ all three hours of that film. It was awesome,” he continued, letting out a small chuckle at the memory. The Lion’s brows must be stuck in its furrowed state now, with the absolute nonsense that greeted him the moment he stepped foot into their door.
“What are you talking about?’ the detective asked in absolute bewilderment.
“I’ve had a lot of sex. A lot. I’ve probably gotten a lot of girls pregnant, for all I know. Oh! You wanna see my son Jaehaerys? He just turned five!” Aegon had reached into his pocket to grab his phone, but Lannister had thrown up his hands in exasperation with a sigh.
“Okay! I think I’m all done here. I will have to take a look at your mother’s place after this.”
“Y-you can’t do that, she isn’t home!” Aegon stammered, panicking at the prospect that their strategy was going to fail and their mother would be locked behind bars for their mistake.
“Oh no, I was informed just this morning that she was on her way back.”
With his words, Aegon just about fainted the moment The Lion swung the door open to leave his room.
You couldn’t have imagined things taking a turn for the worse, but it most certainly did tenfold. Alicent had barely set her Louis Vuitton weekender bag down before The Lion was already prowling through her home, with a displeased Daemon Targaryen arriving to keep a close watch. If Viserys’ brother was suspicious of his nephews and niece stealing his heirloom, he was especially convinced that their mother would have it. You all stood in her kitchen holding your breaths; an anxious, huddled mess silently praying to whatever being in the sky that nothing would be found. Even Nyra had made her way to her estranged friend’s unit, voicing her belief that Alicent would not have taken the catspaw dagger.
Your prayers went unanswered when The Lion emerged from Alicent’s walk-in closet, carrying an old Ferragamo shoebox that contained the hefty, Valyrian steel weapon. Daemon’s chuckle was as wicked as a witch’s, clearly triumphant with finding something to penalize his brother’s widow.
“This is absurd! I did not take that thing from the penthouse, or anything at all!” was Alicent’s defense, but Daemon was having none of it.
“Oh save it, Alicent. You couldn’t wait to get your hands on my brother’s possessions after he’s left you so little, could you, red?” he sneered, pointing an accusing hand into the woman’s face. Criston Cole pushed Alicent behind his back in defense, puffing his chest menacingly to dare Daemon to try anything. Yells and insults echo throughout the apartment, with threats of jail time thrown about to make things worse.
“This is bad, this is bad,” Daeron muttered, biting his fingernails down to stubs as he watched on. You turned to Aemond, whose good eye was widened to the size of a dinner plate as he watched his plan turn to shit.
“Do something,” you urged him, pulling on his wrist. He was stuck in place, mouth gaping like a fish.
“I…” he stuttered.
“I can’t take it anymore, I’ll just come clean,” Helaena spoke up, stepping away to admit her fault. Before she could voice her guilt, the sound of a steel handcuffs being unhinged was a shrill noise, and with it, a sweaty Aegon broke out into a sob.
“No, Mummy!”
In a blink, he crossed the room to cling to his mother, shielding him away before the detective could put her in cuffs. Alicent’s face broke out into a look of surprise, then to disgust at the damp hold her son had her in.
“Mister Targaryen, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside,” Jason ordered. Aegon looked at his siblings, a shocked Aemond, an anxious Daeron, then to a guilty Helaena. With a sigh, the eldest stood straight, swallowing down his pride and mustering his courage.
“It was me,” he lied, taking everyone in the room in shock at his admittance. “I took it because… I wanted something of Dad’s to remember him by. I mean, Nyra, you got everything else, I thought it didn’t matter if I took something smaller like this. I was just keeping it safe in Mum’s closet.”
You exchanged a look of surprise with the siblings, somehow feeling impressed at his display. The execution was flawless, and it even had their half-sister wearing a look of guilt at his words. Aegon dropped to the floor, stomach down onto the carpet with his hands behind his back, despite the look of perplexion around the room.
“Alright, officer. Take me downtown to the pound. I only hope my end will be kind.”
“I can’t believe Aeg’s sweaty ass got us out of trouble, even guilt-tripped Nyra to hell,” Daeron snickered, before taking a swig of his beer. The sun was only beginning to set, the remnants of the midsummer breeze carrying a tinge of humidity in the night air. You all lounged about the rooftop, passing around ice-cold beers while Aemond was manning the barbeque.
After the whole ordeal, Rhaenyra managed to talk their uncle out of wanting to sue Aegon. With hushed whispers and an oddly intimate caress on Daemon’s cheek, their brother was free to go. His little speech made her feel bad for him, and frankly, everyone else was more than over dealing with his anxious, sweaty mess. The Lion soon left their mother’s apartment, Daemon had his dagger back, and Alicent showed her thanks over a bottle of wine with Rhaenyra along with some other activities their kids didn’t want to start imagining.
“For what it’s worth, I’m proud of myself for doing the impossible today. I think I make a pretty convincing liar,” Aegon said, wearing a proud look on his face. The second son scoffed at his words, approaching the table with a plate of grilled meats. He took his seat at the edge of the lounge bed you were lying on, stealing a swig of your beer.
“Congratulations. You have as much willpower as the two-year-old daughter you’ve forgotten about,” your boyfriend snorted, before being tackled off his ass and onto the ground by the eldest. You watched on in amusement, shaking your head at their antics.
You’ve learned many things in your time with the Targaryens, but one thing was always for sure, there was never a dull moment with any of them.
alright here we goes
1. Dirk Strider - Homestuck (if youre surprised by this you do not know my vast expanses
2. The Scout - Team Fortress 2
3. Kris Dreemurr - Deltarune
4. Clementine - Telltale's The Walking Dead
5. Buddy Armstrong - LISA
6. Arcade Gannon - Fallout: New Vegas
7. Cuno De Ruyter - Disco Elysium
8. Wilson P. Higgsbury - Don't Starve
9. Chell - Portal
10. Ethan Winters - RESIDENT EVIL
took me so long to think of fandoms .. @stqrrin @moefur @mo0rbiiid @pretty-guardian-jirai @vampbuni @kache-chan @nyancvtt @bloody------snow @bottleangels @cutecafekitty4 + open
@cmd-shift4 @minicatknife @g0d0fcha0s @mayando @red-snow-phantom (i know u tagged me in this but deal w it <3) @dazai0s4mukun @whyarealltheuserstakenwastaken @b3an-i3 @dazaistealingchuuyashat @doyoulikewafflesandchips (tagging moots i rarely talk to cause uhh im curious 𓁹‿𓁹)
Currently reading: lowkey I haven’t read anything since The Outsiders so random fanfics rn
Currently working on: reqs that aren’t angst for once
Tags: @ivytheweeaboo, @bluelocklvrrr, @jungwonnii, @gravelocked, @kenyudotcom, @x3nafix, @shorekeeperyume, @cosmophoenix3342, @aprlsbloom I tried not to forget anyone this time ❤️🩹 sorry if I did tho 😞
NEW HAIRCUT IS SICCKKKK TY FOR THE TAG REAP speaking of haircuts, im waiting a little longer before i go to a salon and get actual bangs that arent my mistakes help anyway. . ALSO LOOK IT HAD A WHITE BUDGIE IM CRYING TEARS OF JOY
top ten things ive EVER said
no pressure tags: @livelaughalexisness @aprlsbloom @kiyofiles @jelly-kibtyfish
tagged by @goldengenuflexion & @backonmyvampirebullshit <3
reading: better question would be what am i Not reading right now lmao. TVA, War of the Worlds, Dante's Inferno, War of the Foxes, also working through a book on the artwork throughout the years in the Sistine Chapel.
last series watched: Dept. Q
last film: Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring!!
last song: erica western teleport by Emperor X
sweet or salty: depends on what variation of hormonal i am
coffee or tea: herbal tea always. Big Fan of peppermint and bengal spice
working on: mullllltiple fic wips. a new collage because my sister in law made me a scrapbook journal & a bunch of clippings/stickers for Christmas, moving into my apartment & finding a new job!
no pressure tags: @dykeceit @celestial-jellybean @blackopallpastawarrior @themotionwaltz @estpolynesianmary @irldanielmolloy @mncxbe
reading: uni materials</3 and i'm starting qotd after exam season. and Le fleurs du mal on and off
last series watched: the talamasca
last movie watched: i think the last movie i fully finished was les morsures de l'aube or guillermo del toro's frankenstein. and i started donnie darko but never finished it
last song: haunt me by johnny goth
sweet or salty: both depending on what i'm craving
coffee or tea: tea in the evening, coffee during the day
working on: uni projects, studying for exams, a daniel x reader fic i'm probably never going to finish and a drawing in a coloring book
tags: @cheriecoke @osarina @mouseespace and @dayndream
reading: gokurakugai and ‘softcore’ by brittany newell (still not finished w it……)
last series watched: good morning call (literal nostalgia)
last movie watched: wuthering heights (2026) (jesus fucking christ…. as smb who appreciates the book oh my god i didn’t realize how bad it was butchered by emerald fennell until i saw it and i liked saltburn 💔)
last song: gala by xg (oh it’s so good fndjdjdjs)
sweet or salty: salty
coffee or tea: both bc i love my lattes but also brown sugar hojicha (s/o my baddie irl oomf who pmo to it)
working on: exams. studying… but trust i’ll start editing my choso + kaiser drafts and will have that out soon……
thank youuuuu for the tag, beautiful <33 (edit: IM SORRY MINA I TAGGED YOU TWICE 😭😭)
hihi!!! Thank you for the tag snow!!!!!!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
reading: in terms of book books a Diary of a Cat, in terms of manga I’m catching up with highschool babysitter, Damedol to Sekai ni 1-nin dake no Fan, Bocchi the rock and phantom busters! I’m also patiently waiting for new bllk and wbk chapters!
last series watched: Doctor Stone [ I might write fics for this in the future…. My little nerdy heart loves that shown]
last movie watched: So… I don’t really like watching movies.
last song: Tears in your eyes by Mico!!!
sweet or salty: sweet!
coffee or tea: tea <3
working on: two request, a birthday special, two editions of my songwriter x bllk series, wbk!band smau and school works (◞‸◟,)
✧ Broken ribs suck. You don’t just “walk it off.” Breathing hurts. Laughing hurts. Existing hurts. Characters with rib injuries won’t be doing heroic sprints.
✧ Concussions aren’t instant naps. Dazed vision, nausea, dizziness, maybe even personality changes, but they’re not going to collapse neatly like in the movies.
✧ Blood loss is sneaky. It’s not just about dramatic pools of blood. It’s dizziness, confusion, and the body getting cold as circulation tanks.
✧ Adrenaline lies. Someone can take a serious injury and not feel it until the fight’s over. That “I didn’t realize I was bleeding until later” trope? Very real.
✧ Twisted ankles are brutal. One bad step and suddenly running is off the table. Even walking hurts like hell. Perfect way to ground a chase scene.
✧ Burns linger. Even small burns hurt more than most people expect. Blisters, infection risk, constant pain, it’s not just a cool scar later.
✧ Dislocated shoulders = useless arm. Characters can’t keep swinging a sword or firing a gun. They’re basically fighting one-armed until it’s fixed.
✧ Shock is a thing. Pale skin, trembling, rapid heartbeat, and eventually disorientation. A character might not even realize how bad their wound is.
✧ Stitches aren’t magic. Getting sewn up is painful and recovery takes time. They’re not instantly battle-ready after a needle and thread.
✧ Scars tell stories. Some fade, some don’t. Some stay sensitive forever. Don’t forget the aftermath when the wound becomes part of the character.
based on 'girlfriend' - TV girl and this ask || art creds: @/_3aem || angst, comfort.
you used to hum when you brushed your teeth. that’s what suguru remembers most. that and how your hair would glow against the morning light when you sat on the kitchen counter, cross-legged, sipping your coffee and teasing him for looking so serious at 8am.
now you don’t even come out of your room until noon, if at all. the house smells stale, like untouched blankets and dead flowers, and he’s started keeping the window open just to pretend the air is flowing through.
he watches you sleep a lot these days. not in a creepy way, he just doesn’t know what else to do. you curl up small, shoulders tight with anxiety even in dreams, and your hands twitch like you’re fighting something invisible. he wants to reach out, to touch your face, but he’s scared of waking you. scared of the look you’ll give him, blank, exhausted, that tiny flicker of guilt that always follows when you realize you’ve spent another day doing nothing.
you weren’t always like this. he knows that’s cliché, but it’s true. there was a time when you laughed at everything, loud and unfiltered, the kind of laugh that made people turn to look. you were messy and impulsive and beautiful in all the ways that made suguru’s calm exterior crack. he liked how you never seemed scared of feeling too much.
now you barely feel anything at all.
he tries, though. god, he tries. he makes you breakfast even though you never eat it, brings home flowers that wilt in their vase untouched, cracks jokes that bounce off the walls and fall flat on their face. he plays music while he cleans, hoping you’ll hum along like you used to, but the only sound is the quiet shuffle of his socks on the floor.
sometimes he catches himself staring at you, wondering if you even know he’s still here. wondering if maybe that’s the problem, that you’re too deep inside yourself to see the world outside anymore.
at night, when he lies awake, he can feel the distance between you in inches. you face the wall, and he stares at the ceiling, counting the breaths you take just to make sure you’re still there. he’s scared to sleep first, scared you’ll stop breathing if he does. he doesn’t tell you that, of course. he just stays awake and memorizes the rhythm of your inhale and exhale until the sun bleeds through the blinds.
you used to talk in metaphors. “if i was a season, i’d be spring,” you said once, sitting in the passenger seat with your feet on the dash. “because everything feels new, but it’s still cold.” he thought that was beautiful at the time. now he thinks maybe you were trying to tell him something, that the cold never really left you, that it just waited until the world went quiet enough for it to settle in.
you’ve stopped wearing color. suguru noticed that first. your closet used to be a mess of prints, cute shirts, and hoodies you’d steal from him, but now it’s just greys and blacks, folded too neatly. it’s like you’re trying to disappear, piece by piece.
when he mentions it, you just shrug and say you "don’t feel like dressing up anymore." he nods, even though it breaks his heart. because he gets it. because there was a time when he felt the same way, when even existing felt like dragging a body made of cement through every hour.
"honey, i know how this feels. i wish you'd just talk to me..."
"theres nothing to talk about, suguru."
that’s the thing that hurts the most. he knows how it feels. and he hates that knowing doesn’t make him any better at helping.
he calls in sick more often now. stays home to make sure you’re not spending the entire day staring at the ceiling. he coaxes you into the shower, sits outside the bathroom door while you’re in there, just listening for movement. when you finally step out, wrapped in a towel, he smiles and says, “see? small steps.” you nod but your eyes are empty, "hmm." and he has to look away because it kills him to see you like that.
sometimes you cry out of nowhere. you’ll be sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, and then suddenly your shoulders shake and your breath catches and it’s like something inside you finally cracked. he doesn’t ask why. he just holds you, lets you ruin his shirt with tears, whispers that it’s okay, that you’re safe, that you’re allowed to feel whatever this is. he says it like a mantra, even when he’s not sure he believes it himself.
and when you finally stop, you always say the same thing. “i’m sorry.”
he hates that word now. sorry.
you don’t owe him apologies for hurting. you don’t owe anyone that. but he knows you can’t help it. the guilt is just another thing depression gives you for free.
he starts writing little notes. leaves them on your nightstand, on the bathroom mirror, inside your book. things like, “you’re still here. that’s enough.” or “i love you, even when you think the worlds against you.” he never knows if you read them, but sometimes he finds them folded in your pocket or tucked under your pillow, so maybe you do. maybe that’s something.
he wishes he could tell you that it’s not your fault, that he doesn’t blame you for the way things are. but he also can’t lie, he’s tired... he misses you. he misses you so fucking much, he misses himself too. the house used to feel like home, now it just feels like a waiting room.
one night, after you’ve been asleep for hours, he goes outside for a smoke. the air’s cold enough to bite. he leans against the railing and stares at the stars, wondering if they look any different when you’re sad. he thinks about calling his old therapist, but the thought of explaining what’s going on feels impossible. how do you say “the girl i love is drowning and i can’t swim anymore” without sounding pathetic?
he stays out there for a while, the glow of his cigarette the only light. when he comes back inside, you’re standing in the doorway, eyes half-open, wearing one of his shirts. you look small, fragile.
“couldn’t sleep?” you ask. your voice is soft, raw.
“yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “just needed some air.”
you nod, like you understand. then, after a pause, “i’m sorry.”
he steps closer, reaches out, rests a hand on your cheek. “stop saying that,” he whispers.
you lean into his touch. for the first time in a long while, you don’t pull away. he feels something shift in the air, a tiny crack in the glass between you.
“i don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you say, voice shaking. “i can’t feel anything, and i hate it. i hate that you’re trying so hard and i can’t even—”
“hey,” he interrupts gently. “you don’t have to fix it right now.”
“but i want to,” you say, and that’s when he feels the sting in his throat, the tears pressing hot behind his eyes. because that’s the first time in months you’ve said you wanted anything.
he pulls you into his chest, wraps his arms around you like he can hold you together by sheer force. your face buries against his neck, your breath trembling against his skin. he closes his eyes and breathes you in, shampoo, salt, the faint scent of smoke from outside. it feels human. alive.
“you’re still you,” he says quietly. “even when it doesn’t feel like it. you’re still my baby, my girl.”
you don’t answer, but your hand grips the back of his shirt, and that’s enough.
the next morning, the light hits different. you’re still quiet, but when he makes coffee, you take a sip. he doesn’t comment, just watches as you sit at the table, staring into the mug like it’s something sacred. there’s a small crease between your brows, but your shoulders are less tense.
later, he finds you standing by the window, sunlight on your face. you’re wearing a pale blue sweater he hasn’t seen in months. you turn to look at him, and for a split second, your lips twitch upward. it’s not a full smile, but it’s something.
“hey,” you say softly. “thanks for staying.”
he crosses the room, presses a kiss to your temple. “always.”
and that’s it. no dramatic ending, no miraculous recovery. just two people, still trying. the air feels lighter somehow. the silence between you doesn’t hurt as much. maybe tomorrow you’ll laugh again, or maybe you won’t, but for now, you’re here, and he’s here, and that’s enough.
when night comes, he finds you already in bed, curled up on your side. he slides in next to you, close enough that your backs touch. it’s small, but it’s connection. you reach back, grab his hand, and hold it. he squeezes once, firm and steady, like a promise.
and for the first time in a long time, he sleeps before you do.
aww im gonna kms
i wrote this inbetween writing show off and it helped me keep it poignant and angsty lowkey
Sinopsis: At the Ashford Tournament, Prince Valarr waits restlessly for the arrival of his beloved wife, delayed upon the road. While knights compete and lords feast beneath banners and torchlight, the crown prince’s heart is fixed only on the northern horizon.
Warnings: Light romantic intimacy (non-explicit)
WC: 2,200 words approx.
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The afternoon sun began to sink behind the sand-colored tents and the banners of the houses gathered for the tournament. The wind moved the fabric gently, and the scent of horse, trampled grass, and the wood of the tilting grounds filled the air.
Prince Valarr had spent the last two days riding aimlessly around Ashford, training with his lance until his arms ached and forgetting to eat since his arrival. His father, Prince Baelor, surely believed he did it to avoid listening to Aerion’s bitter jests—those he struggled so hard to endure without losing his temper.
But the truth was different.
Every morning, when the dew still dampened the grass, and every night, when the torches lit the road, Valarr mounted his horse and positioned himself at the northern entrance of Ashford. He narrowed his gaze, shielding his eyes from the sun or the growing dusk, and he watched. He watched the horizon, waiting to see a caravan, a cloud of dust, a sign.
No. There was still no sign of your arrival.
The worst part? That despite those two days—which had felt endless to him, though more than one would call it an exaggeration for a crown prince—you would depart after him. Not because you did not wish to travel at his side, but because your parents had gone to visit Dragonstone and had already been there a week. It had been you who proposed it to Prince Baelor, more than to Valarr: that they depart first for the tournament, and you would leave the following morning, once your parents had already taken their leave.
Baelor had hesitated at first, frowning as he considered the roads and the dangers that might lurk. But in the end he nodded and agreed to escort you with half a dozen good soldiers—the kind who knew how to handle a sword and did not frighten at every sound in the night. He did it so your journey would be peaceful, yes, but above all so that Valarr would be at ease.
And it was true that when Baelor made that decision, his son was already looking at him with dampened eyes, wearing that slight pout he had shown since childhood whenever something displeased him. Those lamb-like eyes that even Baelor—a serious and measured man—could not see without smiling. Almost laughing, if he were honest. For he himself had once been that way with Valarr’s mother, with his beloved Jena. The years had not erased the memory: he too had waited, had longed, had loved with that same tenderness. It was love, simply. And love understands neither rank nor protocol.
"I can wait," Valarr had said that morning at Dragonstone, before departing. "It does not matter if you arrive later."
They were walking back toward the chamber, hand in hand. The stone corridor echoed with their steps, and light poured through the high windows.
"Of course it matters," you replied without releasing his hand, squeezing it gently. "You are the crown prince after your father. Your presence at the tournament is important as well. People expect to see you."
Valarr huffed—a short, almost childish sound—and you laughed as you looked at him. His eyes, one sky-blue and the other brown, shone with irritation.
"My prince," you said in affectionate mockery, "follow protocol. You cannot throw a tantrum simply because your wife will not travel with you to Ashford on the same day."
"It is not a tantrum," he protested as they crossed the threshold of the chamber. "I worry about you. Leaving alone… what if something happens to you?"
"Is that the only reason it pains you so much?" you asked, stepping inside and releasing his hand to sit at the edge of the bed.
Valarr remained standing for a moment, watching you. Then he approached slowly and knelt before you, wrapping his arms around your waist and hiding his face in your lap. His voice came out muffled, yet clear:
"Two days are too many. Endless hours. Counted seconds. And with Aerion’s presence behaving like a… and my uncle Maekar shouting for him to behave, I shall lose my mind. But do you know what will make that madness worse? Your absence. My wife must ride at my side, take my hand, sleep beside me, smile at me over breakfast, wish me luck in the tilts. Who will do that if you are not there?"
He lifted his gaze toward you. His eyes, so different from one another, looked at you with a mixture of pleading and tenderness that broke your heart just a little.
You smiled. You ran a hand through his brown hair, gently caressing the nape of his neck.
"Just wait for me," you whispered. "I will come to you, I promise. And I will spend the whole day with you, every moment. Besides, when we return to Dragonstone, I will always come at your side. We will not be parted again."
And so he ended up waiting for you.
A crown prince was meant to have control over himself, not lose his reason, to make wise decisions. That was what the maesters and counselors said. But Valarr, beyond being the king’s grandson and the heir’s son, was a man in love. Everyone in the castle knew it. In the town they murmured. "Valarr the Enamored," some said. "The Prince in Love," others whispered. You would laugh when you heard it while visiting the villages with your ladies. Then more murmurs would follow: "There is no man more in love than Prince Valarr." "They say he bought the princess a dozen white horses." "Every jewel that arrives at court, if it bears the color red, goes straight to the princess by order of the prince."
And it was Valarr’s fault, of course. The fault of how he would go from stern, brows furrowed and gaze distant, to a radiant smile with dimples in his cheeks each time he looked at you. The fault of how he searched for you in a crowd the moment he entered a hall, how his hand sought yours beneath the table, how his eyes lit up as though he had seen the sun after a long storm.
"Your Grace," a knight’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, "it grows late, and Prince Baelor reminded you of the supper tonight. With the lords who have arrived."
Valarr turned slowly, drawing his gaze away from the dark road that vanished among the trees—the very road by which you were meant to appear. He nodded without a word, took his horse’s reins, and returned to the camp.
The supper passed with a painful slowness. Torches flickered in the great hall of Ashford Castle, casting dancing shadows over the white tablecloths and the wine goblets. The lords spoke of horses, of lances, of wagers. Aerion released a jest now and then, glancing sideways at Valarr, waiting for a reaction. But Valarr scarcely listened. He moved the food on his plate without bringing it to his mouth, glanced at the door again and again, toyed with the rim of his cup.
"Has she not yet arrived?" Baelor asked quietly, leaning toward his son.
Valarr shook his head, wordless.
Maekar, the king’s brother, seated at the other end of the table, set down his goblet and looked at his nephew with an expression rarely seen upon his face: soft, almost tender.
"Such devotion to your wife, son," he said in his deep voice, "reminds me of the loyalty your father bore your mother. And Baelor was never a man of many words—but with Jena… well, he was another man entirely."
Baelor smiled faintly, never taking his eyes off his son.
Then, suddenly, the sound of trumpets broke through the murmur of the supper. Distant at first, then nearer. Everyone in the hall turned toward the entrance. A servant came running in, breathless and grinning from ear to ear.
"The princess has arrived, my lord!" the woman announced, looking directly at Valarr.
He rose from his chair so quickly that it scraped sharply against the stone floor. All eyes were upon him. He should follow protocol, of course. He should wait, walk calmly, greet those present, excuse himself, depart with dignity.
But who the hell cared about protocol when his wife was so close?
He was the first to descend the stairs. The smile he wore was so wide it seemed to light the entire vestibule.
"It seems your little toy has finally arrived—" Aerion began, having followed him with the intention of provoking him, but he did not finish the sentence.
Valarr pushed past him. Not with malice—simply moving him out of the way, never ceasing to smile for a single instant. Aerion frowned, offended, but Valarr was already far ahead, crossing the courtyard in long strides.
"My prince," you managed to say when you saw him appear.
He quickened his pace, and before you could say anything more, he wrapped you in a tight embrace. He buried his face in your neck, breathed deeply, taking in your scent, your warmth, your presence. You smiled and slipped your arms around his back, smoothing your hands over his cloak.
"My love," he murmured against your skin. "How long you have taken. And here I was, nearly dying of your absence."
You let out a soft little laugh—one of those he adored so much. When he pulled back just enough, he cupped your cheeks in his hands and kissed you gently, as though he feared you might break. When he withdrew, he continued smiling, gazing at you as if he could scarcely believe you were truly there at last.
"I apologize for the delay, husband," you said, brushing a hand along his cheek. "I felt somewhat unwell on the road. The carriage swayed so much that I had to stop for a while to catch my breath."
He frowned at once, concern flooding his features. He remembered those bouts of dizziness that overtook you after many hours in a closed carriage—how once you had nearly fainted on the way to Storm’s End.
"I told you to travel with me," he said, stroking your arm. "I could have cared for you every moment. Watched over you. Kept you close."
"I am here now," you whispered. "It is over."
"Ah, yes. The very same masochist as his father with his wife," Maekar murmured to Baelor, who had followed them outside and now observed the scene from the top of the steps.
Baelor smiled, shaking his head gently.
"He is simply in love," he said softly, watching as Valarr adjusted your hair, smoothed your gown, and pressed kisses to your forehead.
Exactly as he himself had done with Jena so many years ago. Love does not change, he thought. It simply passes from father to son.
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This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.
includes. gn!reader. satire. fluff???? if you can call it that
a/n. this is NOT directed towards anyone with a condition that affects their breath. this is just a silly idea i thought of after eating picked onions </3
itoshi rin ☆
bro has no qualms whatsoever about telling you directly to your face. “do you brush your teeth?” he’s deadass curious.
he makes disgusted faces whenever you talk in his direction.
rin will silently pull out a mint from his bag—which he never offers to people—and hand it to you. his eyes are silently begging you to take it. if you refuse, he’ll just up and leave, hell naw.
isagi yoichi ☆
he tries SO hard to keep it to himself, but when you lean a bit too close, he flinches back.
while you’re talking, he’ll take out a pack of gum, pretending to get one for himself before offering it to you. “haha… do you want some gum? it’s a new flavor.” he’s praying you say yes.
if you decline his offer, he’ll just laugh it off. isagi is too nice for his own good. he would rather hold his breath for the rest of the conversation so you don’t feel embarrassed.
bachira meguru ☆
he turns it into a game.
you guys were eating together and he caught a whiff of your rank breath. instead of embarrassing you, he steals some peppermints from the front counter and tosses you one.
“let’s see who can eat theirs the fastest! 3… 2… 1… go..!
you genuinely won’t notice because he’s just whimsical like that. it’s such a bachira thing to compete with you at eating mints, and to his relief, you go along with it.
shidou ryusei ☆
“DAMN. fuck is that smell?”
he’ll sniff the air and then frown when it leads him right back to you…
shidou can be an asshole, but you’re out in public and he has some decency. he doesn’t directly tell you, you’ll just see the conveniently placed bowl of mints in the middle of the table slowly inch towards you. “ryu, what’s wrong?” you ask, leaning towards him. he damn near almost passes out, but he forces a grin instead, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“nothin’! hey, look, i used to love these as a kid!” like bachira, he turns it into a bonding moment so you don’t feel bad about yourself.
itoshi sae ☆
this guy has no filter. always rely on him to tell you the truth because he’ll straight up ask, “did you brush your teeth today?” guys i’m actually crying. you’re so flabbergasted that you can’t even reply, huffing into your palm to smell yourself. “is it that bad?”
sae nods, handing you a piece of gum. he doesn’t make it a big deal after that, just treats it as a minor convenience. he’s like the blunt best friend that wants the best for you (it’s more for his sake than yours).
despite appearances, he does try to soften his tone when you seem genuinely distraught. he brushes it off and doesn’t mention it again after you take a mint. just don’t breathe in his direction.
chigiri hyoma ☆
“oh, wow! that’s so interesting.” he genuinely has no idea what you’ve been talking about for the last ten minutes. he just knows it doesn’t smell good.
“that reminds me! i just bought this new toothpaste. it’s supposed to be good for gum health,” he says, showing you pictures of the product on his phone. it’s not weird since you ask him for skincare recs from time to time. “i’ll send you a link!”
chigiri starts misting perfume onto himself (and the air when you’re not looking).
barou shoei ☆
“y/n.” he stops you mid sentence. it’s effective because he usually calls you donkey or some other degrading name. for a moment, you think he’s about to share something deeply personal.
“stop talking,” he says, and your jaw drops. when he notices it hurt you, he feels bad and scratches the back of his head. “i mean, just—your breath. it’s bad.” you’ve never seen him so at a loss for words before. you turn red and he sighs, getting more uncomfortable.
“here…” he hands you a mint. barou’s genuinely trying his best not to upset you. it’s not his fault his best happens to be lackluster… he tries to change the topic, but the mood is ruined now. oops.
reo mikage ☆
reo is fighting for his LIFE.
he nods happily along to everything you’re saying with a hand subtly covering his nose. he’s given nagi piggyback rides and the guy probably smells like shit, so he’s used to this.
tries so hard to be a gentleman that you can’t even tell when he turns away to blink the tears from his eyes. while you’re talking enthusiastically, he hands you multiple mints. it’s done so discreetly that you don’t even process it as you pop each one into your mouth. he’s like a parent sneaking vegetables into their child’s meal, all while smiling kindly.
nagi seishiro
his face turns sour. nagi—a guy that finds everything a hassle, moves 43 of his facial muscles to frown. this is genuinely insulting coming from a guy who looks like he doesn’t bathe.
“what are you doing?” you ask, watching as he not-so-subtly turns his head away and covers it with his arms.
“‘m sleepy,” he lies, muffled as he breathes through his hoodie sleeve. will pretend to snore so you stop talking to him. he really wishes reo were here in times like these.
michael kaiser ☆
he’s smelled a lot of rank things throughout his life, but your breath gave him ptsd to worse times.
he actually doesn’t say anything. instead, he pities you. perhaps you came from a bad upbringing as well.
but when you tell him you just ate something bad, his smile evaporates. “so you knew and still chose to come over?” you’re lucky you’re on good terms or he would’ve kicked you out of his penthouse by now.
alexis ness ☆
ness is way too considerate for his own good.
in fact, you’re the one that brings up your breath. you ate something acidic earlier and could still taste it on your tongue. you just wanted to know if it was noticeable for him too.
“no! of course not.” he smiles sweetly, looking at you like you were absurd for even thinking it. “you smell lovely.” it sounds so genuine from his lips that you’re convinced. it’s not until you meet kaiser later, who tells you you stink of cat food, that you realize it was a lie.
if you confront him about it, he’ll just wave it off with a simple, “i don’t mind!”
Valarr Targaryen, who shows up to class in a thick wool jumper, the collar of his shirt peeking out below it; pressed jeans, shiny leather brogues. One blue eye, one brown, and a jaw that could sharpen steel, you know that half of your peers are staring when he enters. He sits in the front row, always first to put up a hand, always first to voice his opinion, and people flock to him.
He’s confident — how could he not be? —, clever, extroverted, and when he opens his mouth, out comes the tight, elongated vowels of the Queen’s English. Posh, pretty boy studying Literature at Cambridge. It’s a stereotype so prevalent that it’s more sobering than funny — you’ll come across ten like him in the next week, and that’s an underestimation.
You focus on playing sudoku as your lecturer drones on.
Two weeks and six classes later sees you in a pub not five minutes from campus, gathered with the rest of the Masters students in an impromptu mixer. It’s mostly for the Humanities students — which you’re not really, only taking a class to fill your credit requirements — but you get yourself a Kopparberg and sit and talk and mix, as you’re meant to.
The place is buzzing, as all campus pubs are, filled to the brim with students from every discipline. Your little corner is cozy, the talk is decent, and you don’t have to be worried about the three loudmouths by the bar taking note of you. Hidden, just like you like it.
It’s for that reason that you don’t expect Valarr to drop into the available seat beside you, Guinness in hand.
“Oh,” you say.
“Hello,” he says. “We have a class together, don’t we?”
You hadn’t expected him to notice you. Why would he? You wore your shittiest jumper to class. Your hair wasn’t done. You hadn’t even bothered with makeup — half a deliberate fuck you to the patriarchy, half a genuine laziness that you couldn’t be arsed with — and you knew you weren’t pretty enough to be memorable. Not sad, but true.
“You called The Interestings a shit book,” he said, a smile pulling at his mouth.
“Ah. To be fair, it was a shit book.”
“It was,” he agreed. His fingers tap against the sweating side of his pint — then, twist the chunky signet ring upon his pointer back and forth. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s nervous. “What are you studying, by the way? Haven’t seen you in any of my other classes.”
His fingers really are nice. Not too long, not too short. Lithe, well-kept. He’s in another jumper; cable-knit, this time, a deep navy. Dark wash jeans. His hair falls in strands about his face — and you hadn’t noticed it before, not in the dimmed lecture theatre, but a pale shock of hair coasts along his right temple. How strange.
You blink. How much alcohol is in a Kopparberg? “Sorry?”
His throat bobs. It looks foreign on him — well, you hardly know the lad, but it’s a sort of trepidation that you wouldn’t expect someone like him to experience often. Especially not here with you. He wasn’t this flighty in class. “What are you studying?”
“Ah, right. I’m actually in STEM — just needed the extra credits, so.”
“Right, right.” He taps his pint glass again, peering down into its inky depths. He chews a little on his bottom lip. You press your mouth to the rim of your bottle and pretend you hadn’t been staring at his lips — though you don’t think he’d mind if you did, if his behaviour was anything to go by. “I read your, er, discussion post.”
Oh, fuck. “Oh, yeah?” 800 words of pure and utter bollocks. You didn’t expect anybody to read it. You sure as hell hadn’t given a second thought to anyone else's.
“Thought it was interesting,” Valarr says — glancing up briefly to meet your eyes, before clearly thinking better of it and staring back down at his drink. “You have a way with words, you know.”
You sure as fuck do not. He’s laying it on thick.
When you say nothing, he peers back up again — and this time, you stare back. You don’t let his eyes drop again. You tilt your head, raise an eyebrow. He cannot realistically be sitting next to you, talking about your shitty discussion post, when Elizabeth Pearson-Smythe II is making eyes at him from the other table.
What exactly do you want? You seem to say.
He swallows.
“My… apartment isn’t far from here,” he says, voice hoarse. He pauses in his nervousness, at first, and it’s as ill-fitting as anything; but then he sits up straighter and puffs his shoulders out, clenches his jaw as if to give him strength. And he doesn’t look away. It looks more like him, more like the confident posh boy who likes to voice his opinions. “D’you wanna go home with me?”
(He tells you — afterwards, bare and lying on the expensive cotton sheets his daddy bought him, his duvet just barely covering his cock — that he’s never usually that shy. Never usually that nervous. Has no problem talking to girls, really, and never has.
Just… why wouldn’t you look at him? Why wouldn’t you give him the time of day? Never seek him out, and look at him as though he meant absolutely nothing?
You roll your eyes. He grasps you by your jaw and pulls you closer again.)
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