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.)
Inspired by this post that I found hysterical, because how indeed did that “haircut” go? And who were the princes hiding from originally? And what were their plans if not to go to the tourney? The following is not canon compliant…
Summary: in this I have imagined the haircut, the brotherly banter, and the beginning of eight glorious hours of sober daring that possessed Daeron to suggest they escape and fuck off to Essos, get away from it all. Egg is so down. The resultant adventure was singular because, as always happens, the horrors caught up to Daeron before they could a reach port city. Maybe one day Egg will find a brother who will not (wether intentionally or not) let him down 👀 I had to get this out of my system, it was such fun to imagine and I can possibly foresee additions being added
Characters: Daeron/Egg being good bros 🥹… for Targs, at least
PG 13, Word Count: 1.5K Warnings: typical universe stuff, alcohol duh, mentions of shit family dynamics, mild manipulation, mentions of prostitutes
— Scene One —
The looking glass was fair quality and Daeron’s hand looked promisingly steady in its smooth reflection, poised as it was with straight blade aloft, dripping with water from the nearby basin, inches from Egg’s scalp.
“Do it before you lose your nerve!” Egg encouraged, trying to balance his desire to inspire his brother’s confidence with the mandatory stillness of his head.
Daeron’s eyes were pinched, hovering right above Egg’s silver little head in the mirror, that harsh set to his concentrated features put in glaring relief by the candles as he studied the younger’s locks. “I’m only getting the lay of it…your skull.” He clarified. “Wouldn’t want me to flay you open, would you?”
“No,” Egg agreed, “but this was your idea, so see it through.”
“Stop moving.”
“Daeron, do it!”
“Should I trim you first, I wonder.” Daeron was not asking him, not really, he was still contemplating the method of ridding Aegon from his house’s signature glory and his own bane of existence.
“How should I know? It was your idea.”
Egg knew that if Daeron kept contemplating his skull, he would in time contemplate their plan, and in short time after that become overwhelmed by it, then proceed to fail further and further in his capacity to carry it through. It wasn’t the failure of a shearing that Egg feared, it was failure of their entire ambition to make it to Oldtown in time, and there catch ship to Lys before their father found them late for the tourney. Or likelier yet, before Daeron’s hands and head became unsteady once more.
“Oh fuck it.” his brother groused and Egg both heard and felt a fortifying breath be taken behind him, and then there was the scrape of steel against skin.
Wet. Tug. Sluice. Snip. Shear.
These were sensations and dreads that Egg had braced for many times before, with Aerion hovering above him in the empty darkness, fear paralyzing him and his heartbeat resounding in his toes, throat crushed in terror, cold steel and the readiness of a scrape, a snip, tug, wet, always awaiting agony.
Egg didn’t realize he had his eyes tightly screwed shut until he felt the tickle of falling hair against his eyelids. No pain came.
This was Daeron. He wouldn’t hurt him.
He would take Egg to Essos, they would have many great adventures there, they would be free and happy. In Essos Egg could learn the use of arms and perhaps someone in one of the many great temples would there would be able to cure Daeron of his dream and the fevers that followed them.
“Stop shaking your head, I’ll slice you.”
“It tickles.”
“You’ll make a shit squire if you haven’t any more fortitude than that.” Daeron warned.
“Is it working?”
“In a way.” His brother muttered lowly, not sounding pleased with his craft.
“What’s wrong with it?” Egg inquired, the fallen hair sat heavy on his lashes and he dare not open them and risk an eyeful.
“Well, it’s-“ the scraping sensation had made progress, its journey from left ear to center scalp punctuated by the jarring clack and clang of the blade against the porcelain basin, fresh drips and a smoother shave following each time. “-it does you no favors. And you don’t look much less remarkable than with that silver mange. People are going to think you’re a little warlock. We should get you berries to stain your lips and complete the look.”
Far from putting him off, this notion pleased Egg immensely. The idea of being mistaken for a dreaded sorcerer was exactly the sort of notoriety and respect he longed for, if not out of admiration for feats in arms, he could be revered for arts and spells. “Yes, shade of the evening!!” he cried out, “They will think I see visions and can curse their bloodlines.”
“Mmm, yes.” Daeron humored him, “I’ll introduce you as my little pet necromancer. I’ll tell them you’re over a thousand years old, but the spells shortened your height and the babies you have consumed gave your flesh its supple childishness.”
Egg wrinkled his nose in distaste, feeling the prickle of coarse cut hair move up his nostrils as a result, but he kept still, not wanting to incur another jab at his fortitude or to break the happy harmony that came down so very rarely, and gave him his eldest brother in the form of a benign and humoring man. “And you can tell them that your insights are from me,” Egg went on unabated in his zeal for their new lives, “and i will make a production of it, looking into braziers and mirrors to tell them dreams you had last night, and they will think us the most remarkable of men.”
The blade stopped, not sudden but a nerveless sort of slacking off, and even with his eyes closed, Egg knew that somehow in his desire to continue the delicate moment, he had snapped its fragile thread. He shook the hair from his face and wiped his eyes before turning to look behind him and finding Daeron as he expected, near yet afar off, fear and exhaustion washing out the pale lavender eyes until they were only hollow, unfocused orbs, his gaze somewhere to the side of the mirror but only he knew where in spirit.
Egg had to summon up great courage to call to him, his heart heavy with sorrow and the burden of keeping his brother in the realm of ships and travel plans until they were safe away from their family. “Daeron.” He said to him, and his brother came back to him slowly, the same way he went, with focus and color returning to his reviving gaze, and with that fragile grimace of a smile he saved for Egg alone.
“I do not think this will work.” he said hoarsely.
“Why ever not?” Egg countered and spun back round in his chair to inspect Daeron’s work. It was hideous, clumpy, and half undone, but it was refreshingly bizarre, almost unrecognizable, totally thrilling. He did indeed look like an unbaked warlock. And that thrilled him. “Finish it and it will be well!”
“It will grow back in days.” Daeron seemed to realize only now; they had schemed this daring plan quite late earlier in the night, fueled by Egg’s rabid appeals for Daeron to stay away from the bottle and Daeron’s intense objections about his prospects at the tourney. When the elder said he had no choice but the bottle or else go to hell, then Egg suggested Essos instead. They had then made plans, as only two privileged, morbidly unhappy, and very tired sons of a king’s fourth son ever could.
Poorly. Rashly. Unthought out. “I’ve got money.” Dearon had said by the time of the moon’s waning, “But your fucking hair will give us away.”
Now, Egg was half bald and Daeron was beginning to shake. “Have a sip to fortify yourself, only a sip mind, and finish up.” he strategized, and Daeron let the blade clatter into the basin in search of the flagon of undrunk wine beside the bed.
“You’ve become damned imperious, you know that?” Daeron grumbled without heat between swallows. He drank more than a sip, but Egg had a brittle confidence that he would not abandon him with a half shorn head.
“Someone has to keep things on track.” Egg pointed out. “And we must leave before dawn, else our retinue will be alert. So come!”
“It’s not going to work.” Daeron reiterated but he returned to the mirror nonetheless, and picked up the blade with hands slightly steadied.
“Stop being so pessimistic, brother.” Aegon commanded.
“Ah you sound so like our mother.” Daeron sighed out, false reminiscence tinging his tone, “She always said that, said it especially when I told her I had seen how she was to die…before she went and died.”
They finished the shearing in silence.
“It is unconvincing.” Even Egg’s ebullience at the prospect of their adventure failed him at the sight of the finished project. He was not bald, merely tufted and strange and patchy. And Daeron was right, it would grow back.
“I told you.”
“Have you dreamed of this, has ought warned you of an ill omen?” Egg snapped back, patience worn thin under burden of being the sole motivating influence for a brotherly jaunt to Essos.
Daeron gave him a very pointed, strongly familiar look. Egg was never to ask after his dreams. Egg asked anyway, and often.
“You will never tell me their meanings, I know, but you needn’t be specific.” Egg appealed, “Only tell me if you dreamed, say- a lamb cart rolling over you, nay worse me, a mile down yonder road we mean to take?”
“I am steady enough to shave your head because I have not had a dream since dawn before last.” he pointed out, “No sheep carts, nothing. Only, only what it always is. And I know not when it will come.”
“Then we must go on to Essos, and find those who can decipher it,” Egg said, “and mayhaps it will be that Aemond has made some discovery in his studies, they have tomes of dragon histories in the citadel! And mayhap he has found that there are Dragons trapped in the Hightower’s black stone, and needs but our blood added to his to awaken them—“
“Aegon.” Daeron stilled him, not unkindly, an apologetic hand to his shoulder and a heartbreakingly uninspired expression on his face, “Enough, dawn comes, and we are not fit players for the scope of your dreams. Perhaps there will be a day when you will find someone to see it through, but not me. It was a nice fiction. I am going down, now, to ask our landlady for her best port to take on the road, and then our escort will doubtless be hassling us onward. If you want sleep, get to it. I won’t abide your whining later.”
It was shattering, to say the least, to have come so far in ambition and plan, to have tasted some unity of purpose and felt the tantalizing breath of freedom, in thought if not fully in action— only for Daeron to do what Daeron always did: fall flat on his pretty face in abject uselessness to see it through. It was too predictable and still, Egg had hoped, he dared to hope and this time his desire had been doubled by how great his terror was of returning to the society of his family, to that of Aerion.
It had been his appeals regarding the latter that had moved Daeron to attempt this little rebellion in the first place. Egg did not suppose it would carry its power again, having once been used to sway him, it would now have worn out its weight in compassion.
So, Egg chose instead a tactic most familial, natural even, more so than begging. “And how will you explain my head to father?” he asked Daeron’s departing form with guiltless curiosity.
His brother’s shoulder predictably thudded into the doorframe. Daeron’s face was stormy when he turned back, eyes growing wild and his finger pointed viciously, “We will think of something, but what we won’t do is tell him what foolery we thought of here. You will not. You will not dare. Aegon!”
“He will suspect it anyway! I am bald!”
“You are not bald you’re— ugly.”
“Uglifiied. By you!”
“Not a word, is that a word? It’s not a word.”
“I will tell him the worst of it, brother. And he will think even less of us for being cravens as well as fools.”
“This isn’t fucking happening.” Daeron whimpered in abject misery, hands pressed to red rimmed eyes.
“You’ve heard what he said last banquet,” Egg reminded, “he said if you did not make a change he would—“
“—see me dead. Yes. Fuck.”
Egg viewed his bother’s mounting distress with heartfelt sympathy, but he was too shrewd not to press the point while it was sore, “And I, perhaps alone among your kin, do not wish you dead-“
“-the fuck?”
“-and so we must see this through.”
“Seven take me, there is only ever new forms of torture sent to me.”
“Aerion wants me gelded, Aemond is useless, and father wants you dead rather than see you compared to Valarr one more time. Do you think the tourney will mend this perspective?”
“We have already discussed this.” His brother begged, exhausted.
“We have.” Egg agreed with exasperated candor, “Yet here we waste the last hour of darkness discussing it again.”
“Fuck, right- alright.” he conceded. “We will go. Your hair—“
“It will hide under a cloak until you can find a better method.”
“What better method?”
“I don’t know, that’s for you to know.” Egg sighed, “I cannot possibly do everything myself.”
“Yes, but how am I to know that?” Daeron urged, but Egg was pleased to see him gathering up his cloak and making those various preparation that befit a man intending to travel.
“Have you not learned how your prostitutes keep themselves so hairless?” Egg suggested pleasantly as he rolled what he considered necessities into a small bedroll made of a second cloak, finer than the one he planned to don for their escape.
“Firstly, they are not mine, they’re not my prostitutes.” Daeron scoffed.
“You monopolize their time to a degree it could be suggested they ar—“
“—Secondly,” Daeron overrode him, looking promisingly ready for their flight with a closed satchel brimming with bottles and a second pair of boots, “only a eunuch would ask such questions, a man appreciates the results instead, and thinks little of how it occurred.”
“Pity.” Egg shrugged, “If you had inquired we might resolve the issue of my hair.”
“That’s actually— you’ve got a point.” Daeron muttered, and then his spirits seemed to lift, as if joining Egg’s in some happy anticipation for their escapade, “Excellent idea, Egg! We shall stop, next pleasure house we come to, and there we will have the ladies attendant see to your tufts! They’ll fix you up until you’re as bald as Braavosi courtesan’s cun—“ he broke off abruptly, some residual modesty and decorum returning to him when sober, some of the old, endearing discipline regarding displays of lechery before children once instilled in him by their dead mother long ago. “…As bald as a Meerenese cat.” Daeron amended after some wordless tongue searching, specifically for Egg’s feline gratification, and with that, the brothers agreed to begin their journey.
First stop of which, was the next pleasure house they came to.
Oke, So, I have no excuse, I fell in love again lol❤️🩹❤️🩹😫 they're both so cute together, right now I'm a gluttony demon devouring everything that has to do with them, I made a playlist and everything and I want to draw more but djxjflxijxkxidndo help 🥺💖💖
It's a mix of Homestuck inspired letters for my name that I created in 2018 on another app.
What’s your current comfort media?
Anime Free! (from 'Iwatobi Swim Club') is my current comfort media as I like how the story goes as I'm on season 2 by now. Watched a few episodes from the 1st season when it came out years ago but thought it was boring back then.
Song you’ve had on repeat this week?
'Rhapsody' by Kim Jaejoong, love the lyrics and instrumental with the rock vibe he has going on again.
What’s the last thing you hyperfixated on?
Mermaid Melody Pichi Pichi Pitch.
What’s an oddly specific thing that brings you joy?
I like collecting trinkets and small things so if I see something small and cute I get it.
What smell instantly makes you happy?
Flower Lily Of The Valley.
What's your phone wallpaper right now?
A photo of the moon that I took. I love taking pictures of it as it's so pretty to look at.
Are you a morning person, night owl, or something else entirely?
Oooh thanks for the tag, love! ♡ Hope you're doing well @archive-of-the-lost!!
What is the origin of your blog name?
My name is Em. So...Me is Em @meeisemm
What’s your current comfort media?
Oohh...most probably watching vlogs on YT! I do like university and travel blogs a LOT ♡
Song you’ve had on repeat this week?
Midnight Sun by Zara Larsson baby!!! ☆
What’s the last thing you hyperfixated on?
Self care videos? And vision boards! Ooh and Romance + Fantasy novels!!
What’s an oddly specific thing that brings you joy?
As an extrovert...just a random conversation or a phone call makes me SO HAPPY and it's what made my day today after being isolated for 2 days :((( so yeah- just come people-people bonding!! ♡♡
What smell instantly makes you happy?
Easy- Petrichor! The smell of damp earth during rains? Or after rains? AMAZING. One of God's best creations!
What’s your phone wallpaper right now?
A photo of me and my siblings from when we were kids! ☆
Are you a morning person, night owl or something else entirely?
I guess a night owl? I like late nights and really early mornings too! Though I do have a soft spot for afternoons- so ig idk? Just everything lol.
Tagging (no pressure ofc): @wingcherry @tangerinetides @tlissablr @ripperhyena @sacredwarrior88 @starryknight565 @solixiaa @serotonins-stuff @daffodils-and-bluebells @gachiakuta-lover @lavenderdropp @zanksa @veronixoxo @barelyalivesstuff @natsuzoku @sofaastrawbery @jackalthehyena @hckzee and everyone else who wants to participate!
Thank you so much for the tag em!! Hope you're doing well <33
What's the origin on your blog name?
I'm obsessed with happy hormones 😭(shocker). My favorite one is serotonin. That + my writing = @serotonins-stuff
What's your current comfort media?
At this second, it's asmr. Mainly adventure asmr that's super immersive with good world building.
Song you've had on repeat this week?
Descolado by NAPA :) Those 'jack of all trades, master of none' animations got me hooked.
What's the last thing you hiperfixated on?
The amazing digital circus and making short comic stories.
What's an oddly specific thing that brings you joy?
When I get super tired right before bedtime.
There's just something about being able to sleep without having to work for it. Also litchis/ lychees. Bring me a somewhat sweet but mellow bunch, and I'm melting .
What smell instantly makes you happy?
Anything and everything vanilla smells super yummy.
What’s your phone wallpaper right now?
A collage of a leopard with white flowers. The way it looks with a filter is borderline euphoric. (might change it to fnaf tho).
Are you a morning person, night owl or something else entirely?
During the holidays I'm a night owl. When there's school, I'm a morning person and a night owl. (The secret ingredient is coffee). :)
No pressure tags: @ttheggrimrreaper + anyone who'd like to join!!
thank you so much for the tag!
What's the origin on your blog name?
I wanted something recognizable, and I loved the Grim Reaper media! From webtoons to just art of the idea of this character, So I made that my name, plus Ive been using it across most media for as long as I can remember.
What's your current comfort media?
My comfort media is Apothecary Dairies right now. I like learning fun little facts, and Ive learned so much about Poison!
Song you've had on repeat this week?
Ordinary, Like Jennie, Loose
What's the last thing you hiperfixated on?
The last thing, I think it was just cosplays in general. Recently Ive been doing a lot of scrolling on Pinterest.
What's an oddly specific thing that brings you joy?
James Cameron's Avatar makes me happy beyond belief.
What smell instantly makes you happy?
The smell of citrus, like lemons or lime
What’s your phone wallpaper right now?
Bulbasaur
Are you a morning person, night owl or something else entirely?
I am 1000000% a night owl, late at night is when my best work gets done!
@couch-potato28 @vinzcoke along with anyone who wants to join!
erm my ex!bf used to call me a couch-potato all the time for supposedly doin absolutely nothing so I thought that if I reminded myself by having the nickname as a username I would be more active and prove him wrong :)
what’s your current comfort media?
TAXI DRIVER SEASON 3!! omg ive been trying my hardest to squeeze in some time to watch the episodes and as always they don’t disappoint.
song you’ve had on repeat this week?
Disco by Nessa Barrett, Purple Rain by Prince
what’s the last thing you hyperfixated on?
House of the Dragons and now it’s A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.
what’s an oddly specific thing that brings you joy?
Cold tangerines. Beside being my fav fruit, there’s this vibe when eating them straight out of the fridge.
what smell instantly makes you happy?
Laundry detergent? idk 😭
what’s ur phone wallpaper right now?
Howl and Sophie 🗣️
are you a morning person, a night owl or something else entirely?
