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weekendlusting · 3 months ago

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A TALE OF FAME

pairing ꪆৎ charles leclerc x ahaana patel ᥫ᭡. f1 driver x bollywood actress au

chapter ꪆৎ 1

summary ꪆৎ she's everything, and he just drives.

note ꪆৎ no hate to any characters used in the story, none of what i write reflects on how they actually are. all my love, happy reading.

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Ahaana Patel was an enigma wrapped in stardom. She’d emerged onto the Bollywood scene with a debut that was nothing short of explosive, pro shaking up the industry and catapulting herself into the hearts of millions. She featured in a movie of one of the most celebrated Indian directors, Karan Johar, alongside her costars Varun Dhawan and Sidharth Malhotra, and hasn't looked back since. It was a journey no one, least of all her academically fixated parents in Ahmedabad, could have foreseen. From their meticulously structured plans of engineering degrees and Ivy League aspirations to the glitzy chaos of movie premieres and magazine covers, her story was the epitome of unpredictability.

Now, twelve years later, Ahaana strode confidently through the paddock of the Chinese Formula One Grand Prix. Her steps were light, but her presence was impossible to ignore. The roar of engines, the sharp tang of gasoline, and the relentless buzz of the crowd enveloped her in a world she had come to know well over the years.

Dressed in attire that matched the casual coolness of the paddock air, a fitted white top and denim skirt. Her hair, perfectly styled despite the chaos of travel, swayed gently as she moved, her signature smile lighting up the faces of everyone she passed.

The first race of the 2024 season was underway, and the paddock was a symphony of excitement. Engineers tinkered with machines that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime, journalists scrambled for the perfect soundbite, and VIP guests mingled in their designer ensembles, trying to look like they belonged. Ahaana, however, didn’t need to try—she was a natural here.

“Ahi!”

The familiar Dutch accent cut through the cacophony, and Ahaana turned, her eyes narrowing playfully as Max Verstappen approached. Helmet in hand, the reigning world champion exuded confidence. His movements were deliberate, his gaze sharp, but the moment he saw Ahaana, his expression softened ever so slightly.

“Max,” she greeted, her voice laced with mock seriousness. “Are you ready to win, or should I start drafting my consolation speech now?”

Max rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Your faith in me is touching. Truly inspiring. Maybe you should stick to Bollywood instead of doubting world champions.”

“And miss this circus?” Ahaana gestured grandly at the bustling paddock around them. “Not a chance.”

Their bond was one of playful banter and unspoken trust, forged in the early days of her association with Red Bull. At first, their interactions had been fraught with the awkwardness of two young professionals forced into photoshoots and promotional events. But as time passed, they found common ground in their shared struggles—both carried the weight of their fathers’ expectations and both were determined to carve their own paths. What began as reluctant camaraderie soon blossomed into a sibling-like relationship. Max truly saw Ahaana as a little sister, and always would.

“Where’s Kelly?” Ahaana asked, scanning the crowd for Max’s girlfriend.

“She’s around,” Max replied, shrugging. “Probably hunting you down.”

As if on cue, Kelly Piquet appeared, her presence as radiant as ever. Spotting Ahaana, she broke into a wide grin and pulled her into a warm hug. “Ahaana! I didn’t know you were coming today. Otherwise, I’d have brought P—she misses you.”

Ahaana beamed. “I miss her too. We’re calling her as soon as these boys start driving their toy cars.”

“Toy cars?” Max echoed, feigning offense.

Before Ahaana could retort, another familiar voice joined the fray.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Red Bull’s golden girl.”

Ahaana turned to see Lando Norris, the ever-charming McLaren driver, strolling toward them. His grin was as cheeky as ever, his orange, oh sorry papaya, jacket standing out starkly against the sea of Red Bull merch.

“Lando,” Ahaana greeted with mock disdain. “Lost your way from all the oranges. Here let me show you, its that garage with a mark that looks like a disfigured comma.”

“It’s papaya and you know it. You’re obsessed with me , aren’t you?” Lando shot back, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Admit it—you came all the way here just to see me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ahaana replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Couldn’t resist the charm of McLaren’s poster boy.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head. “I can’t deal with both of you.”

The banter continued until race preparations called for Max and Lando’s attention. Kelly and Ahaana waved them off, heading toward the lounge.

The race was a spectacle, with Max clinching victory and Lando following closely behind in P2. The podium celebrations were a blur of champagne showers and roaring applause, but the real festivities began that evening.

The group—Max, Kelly, Lando, Carlos Sainz, Rebecca, Carlos’s girlfriend, and Ahaana—found themselves in a luxurious nightclub, the VIP section buzzing with energy. Neon lights danced across the room, the bass of the music reverberating through their bodies.

“Did you hear?” Rebecca leaned closer to Kelly and Ahaana, her voice conspiratorial. “Apparently, Alex cheated on Charles.”

Kelly’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking!”

Ahaana raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “How do you know?”

Rebecca shrugged. “Word travels fast in the paddock. Apparently, Charles tried to break up with her, but she keeps avoiding the conversation.”

“Classic denial,” Ahaana remarked, sipping her drink.

Kelly shook her head. “Why doesn’t he just cut her off?”

“He wants a clean break,” Rebecca explained. “But Alex is… persistent.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the night wore on. Lando, ever the photographer, took candid shots of the group, earning playful protests from his friends.

By 3 A.M., the nightclub was still alive with energy, but Ahaana needed a breather. She stepped out onto a balcony, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the heat inside. The city lights stretched out before her, their glow reflected in the glass of the towering buildings.

She wasn’t alone for long.

“Hey, Ferrari,” she said, spotting Charles Leclerc leaning against the railing, a glass of whiskey in hand.

Charles glanced at her, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” Ahaana replied, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “But you looked like you could use some company.”

Charles chuckled softly, though the melancholy in his eyes remained. “Maybe I do.”

Ahaana joined him at the railing, their gazes fixed on the cityscape. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence between them comfortable.

“Rough night?” Ahaana asked eventually.

Charles hesitated before nodding. “Something like that.”

Ahaana studied him, her expression thoughtful. “You know, brooding doesn’t suit you. You should try smiling—it might just solve all your problems.”

Charles couldn’t help but smile, albeit faintly. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” Ahaana replied, her tone light. “But if you’re not ready to smile yet, I’ll settle for a drink.”

Charles handed her his glass without a word. She accepted it, taking a small sip before handing it back.

“Not bad,” she remarked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Charles looked at her, truly looked at her for the first time. The neon lights from the club painted her features in hues of pink and blue, her hair catching the faint breeze. There was something about her—an effortless charm, a warmth that drew people in.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice softer now.

“Ahaana,” she replied, extending a hand.

Charles took it, his grip firm but gentle. “Charles.”

“I know,” Ahaana said with a grin. “You ready to party now, Red?”

Charles chuckled, a genuine laugh this time, and downed the rest of his drink. “Lead the way.”

And just like that, the night took on a new energy, two strangers finding unexpected companionship amidst the chaos of flashing lights and thundering music.

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ᝰ.ᐟ first part! i know this isn't much, but i plan on writing more and this is just the start. i hope you aren't freaked out by the rather rustic writing and keep reading the chapters to come!

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tags @seonghwaexile @bookishprophecy @justadesirebel @peterholland04 @bakingpiastries @ricciardosheart @mikefaistgf @ho3smadd

comment to be added to taglist

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kompaktcat · 1 month ago

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Slowly been growing into it/its pronouns lately and

It/it's but how you would refer to a precision instrument. Something tightly engineered and built for purpose, and built to take a hit and keep coming. Like how you would refer to a well maintained aircraft waiting to be launched by catapult.

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thefusioncelestial · 5 months ago

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Mix 14: Model Stirrer

Ah the modeling world, constantly shoving the prettiest, most handsome, most aesthetic people in our faces. But some of those models were not born that way, some had to be made.

In a series of valleys, no longer on any maps, is a series of modeling camps. For the most part, they seem normal: helping with health, modeling techniques, building connections, and all the shebang; but there is a secret program.

The program aims to reject nobody once they get in, but still wants its prospective models to actually try to get better. Thus the mix & match program.

The bottom 10% & top 10% are brought together & merged. For the cream of the crop, they assimilate members of the bottom 10% to improve "minor" things. There are also rumors that nepo babies who got to the top via connections are given total make overs via this program.

But more often than not, the bottom 10% are merged with each other. A mutual fusion.

Here is Yorden:

A part of the bottom 10%, he is was on the fitness model track.

Problem is that he could never put enough muscle on his frame. Many of the teachers disliked his beiber cut as well. Other than that, he performed well and every other measure. Had he had any connections, he could have gotten that make over that the top 10% gets.

Next is Elijah:

Same track as Yorden. Same problem exacerbated by his tall frame. A bit of a social butterfly, and that has made him a target. Some nepo baby wants his height and social skills for themselves.

The day before they were due to get assimilated by other model students, they hatched a plan.

"Will this plan really work," Elijah asked.

"It's either this, or we are someone else's lunch," Yorden responded.

Elijah pursed his lips for a moment, but silently agreed. Elijah found out that he & Yorden was due to get absorbed by Josh. Everyone hated Josh, he was a nepo baby who had the same bad marks as them in the physique areas, and even worse grades elsewhere except in runway & photo poses. Yet, he was on the top 10% in board rankings.

"I can't believe they want us to give ourselves to him to make him halfway good, all because his grandfather is on the board," Yorden said.

"Nah, we would catapult him to the 1%, give yourself some credit," Elijah chimed.

Yorden sniggered, he liked this about Elijah; a joker and is able to see the positive in many things. That position energy brought people towards him like a magnet, but even his connections couldn't save him. This large social network made him stick out like a sore thumb.

"Anyway, this has worked before, if we merge & are good enough, we can shave off getting eaten by Josh-turd, or we can fight him off tomorrow and absorb him instead, but we got to do it together," Yorden said.

Yorden was the ideas & plan guy. Every criticism, he turned into a basis for improvement. He decisiveness & work ethic is what led to him getting targeted.

The duo sneaked into a lab, the same lab where they were to meet their fates tomorrow.

It was a combination of blue, grey, & very dim. There were operating tables with other past students strapped on them in a state of sedation. They are shocked that isn't them right now, but the knowledge of their selection was not for them to know. Elijah's friend network was able to get that info to them.

But what they wanted was in the back of the lab. Three twenty foot cylinders that could pack four guys each. This is how they planned to merge. Each guy would stand in each side cylinder, and the process would merge them into singular new person who would come out the middle cylinder.

There was a problem, they needed a third person on the outside to activate the machine. So much for Yorden's plans. But where Yorden fails, Elijah succeeds.

Had Elijah chosen a more traditional path, he could be fielding acceptance letters from many engineering & computer science programs. That potential never left him.

"Get in one the cylinders, I know how to get around this," Elijah said.

He walks to a nearby computer console and begins typing away.

Yorden begins to walk to the cylinder furthest away from the console.

"How," he asked.

Elijah turns towards Yorden and smiled a big smile. Yorden remembered: Elijah was a tech wiz. He broke into the cafeteria system once and had the gluten free, sugar free sauce dispenser spray anyone who tried to use them.

Yorden smacked his forehead, he forgot about that quality of his soon to be other half. He was soon in the cylinder, within a few moments it closed shut. Josh was a shade of red for a month.

It was cool and surprisingly airy. Made sense, don't want the fusees dead from the lack of oxygen. It was like the rest of the lab and dimly lit. But in the middle was a pitch black circle. It gave off an energy that both drew you in & made you uncomfortable. Yorden quickly shook his head to get out of the trance.

"Hurry up before I get claustrophobic," he yelled.

Elijah was almost done. He had to change the settings, from assimilation to merge. He was tempted to assimilate Yorden, but he rather not just be another Josh and all the other top 10%'ers who devoured others for their personal advancement. A quick fifteen second delay for the activation, and he was ready.

He heard Yorden.

"Just a moment," he yelled. He pressed the activation button.

The fusion cylinder suddenly roared to life after the instructions were sent. This was Elijah's que to quickly get in the cylinder closest to him.

Elijah was soon inside the cylinder after a quick sprint. It closed behind him. Elijah was a little nervous, and that made him a little bouncy, but after exhaling a deep breath he calmed down.

The insides of the cylinders turned bright as the dim lights turned on, and made the insides look like an infinite white room with a pitch black circle in the middle. Yorden reached out and noticed that the infinity was an illusion, he could feel the cylinder walls after reaching out.

A large start up & then suction noise could be heard. A swirl of light could be seen forming inside the cylinders. It was barely noticeable at first, but soon turned in a spinning light show with Elijah & Yorden in the middle of each swirling rainbow light pillar. To get out of the delirium the spinning and random color changing induced, they both looked up at the pitch black hole at the ceiling. They noticed that the color show terminated there. The suction noise ramped up.

Soon they were both floating. They were approaching the black circle, coming closer. Eventually they reached the black circle and expected to bump their heads, but instead they notice they flowed into the circle with no resistance. From their perspective, they entered a pitch black tunnel and were flying through it with their clothes attached. From the outside their bodies were slowly floating up through the circle and were being swallowed by the dark entrance.

Soon they were gone, effectually in the pipes that connected the three cylinders. As they approached the center connection, low light random color shapes began to zoom past them. Eventually they were able to make out each other's shapes. They crashed against each other with a thud, but no pain was felt.

Then they began to move downwards in an accelerated rate & began to spin.

"This is it, it was nice knowing you," Elijah said.

"We are about to get to know a lot more about each other, everything in fact," Yorden piped.

Elijah closed his eyes, no turning back.

With what little space they had between each other, they nodded towards each other.

Their bodies glowed. Elijah red, Yorden blue. Their bodies of light swirled around each other and then mixed into one purple light.

The light that carried their merged being approached a tunnel of light. It entered the center cylinder and landed with a light thud.

The central cylinder suddenly let out a lot of steam & began to shake. The system was taking the different aspects of Elijah & Yorden and sending the result to this humanoid being of purple light.

It began to stand up. And began to groan as it did.

It gained Yorden's skin tone.

It began to breathe heavily.

It started off with Yorden's frame, but soon it doubled in muscle & grew taller. Shoulders, arms, legs, neck, & chest popped with new muscle.

It had Elijah's abs, but soon his his abdominals grew in size. It's skin restricted & squeezed giving it more defined obliques.

Both of the fusees were not well endowed, but together their family jewels and rods combined on the being to be longer and girther.

It's butt double in sized like blowing two balloons.

It kept Yorden's facial features as a base and then began to morph. It had Elijah's dark hair, jawline, nose, & eyebrows. It kept Yorden's eyes only a little bigger, and kept his ears & chin. The mouth was mix.

After a few more pops and gradual changes in other areas, the merger was done. The being stood fully up.

The purple light faded away & the central cylinder opened up. It stopped shaking and steam flowed out of the bottom of the cylinder.

It walked out and as it did, it thought of its new name.

"Zachary, I am Zachary," he exclaimed.

He looked down and noticed he was wearing a combination of his fusee's clothing. He had airpods in his ear, but messing around with them revealed that they were interfaced with the lab's security systems.

The Elijah part of him remembered the layout from the maps given to him via his social network, and bucked it to the nearest bathroom. He lifted up his shirt to check out the new him:

He was overjoyed.

And the gambit worked. The timeline shifted so that Zachary was never up for assimilation.

Here he is the morning before graduation:

He'll continue to model, but maybe he will pursue that tech potential that Elijah gave up.

#male merge #thefusioncelestial #musclegrowth #muscle #muscular #male body merge #absorption #male fusion #male pred #male body transformation #Fusion #merge #merging #body merging #merging tf #male transformation #transformation

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polarisjisung · 12 days ago

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WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS

synopsis: Lemonade stands, cootie-proof forts, love songs, and endless arguments—some things never change. But this time, Chenle’s finally ready to win the only fight that ever mattered.

wc: 2,6k pairings: schroeder!chenle × lucy!reader genre: fluff, romance, peanuts gang au, childhood friends to lovers au, lwk crack warnings: none! notes: I'd sell my soul to the devil for chenle to write songs about me

The first time you decided Zhong Chenle would marry you, it was a Tuesday.

Specifically, a Tuesday he was supposed to be admiring your lemonade stand. You put all that hard work into impressing him, yet instead, he was hunched over a tiny piano in the school music room, plinking out a melody that sounded suspiciously like a funeral dirge.

You marched over, fists on your overalls. “You’re doing it wrong,” you announced, leaning so far over the piano keys your braids brushed his hands. “Love songs are supposed to be sparkly. Like glitter. Or… or soda.”

Chenle didn’t look up. His bowl cut bobbed as he muttered, “This is sparkly. It’s Chopin.”

“Chopin’s boring. Play our song.” You slammed a juice box on top of his sheet music.

“We don’t have a song—”

“Yes, we do! It’s called ‘Future Mrs. Zhong’s Lemonade Stand Jam’.” You began humming loudly, off-key, while Chenle groaned and covered his ears.

By recess, you’d dragged your lemonade stand and a disgruntled Renjun hauling his security blanket, next to the playground swings. Chenle was there, of course, because the universe hated him. He’d brought his piano again, a portable keyboard balanced on the slide.

“Five cents for lemonade!” you barked, ignoring Renjun’s sigh of, “Unrequited love is statistically improbable before puberty.”

Chenle squinted at you. “Your sign says ‘Psychiatrist’.”

“It’s a package deal.” You shoved a cup at him. “Drink. Then tell me why you’re allergic to romance.”

He took a sip and immediately spat it out. “This is just straight up lemon juice!”

“It’s advanced lemonade.” You crossed your arms. “For advanced love problems.”

Valentine’s Day was your magnum opus. You spent hours gluing sequins to a card shaped like a grand piano, then shoved it into Chenle’s hands during naptime.

“Here. It’s a down payment for our wedding.”

He blinked, cookie crumbs on his cheeks. “…Thanks?”

The next day, you spotted it poking out of his piano book—as a bookmark? How dare he.

You seethed while Chenle played a concerto, oblivious… until you noticed him gently smoothing the crumpled corner of the card when he thought no one was looking.

By fifth grade, Chenle’s desk looked like a war zone.

He’d stacked recorded Beethoven albums into a precarious tower, draped a raincoat over the top as a “roof,” and taped a Lunchables box to the front with a crude drawing of a dragon that vaguely resembled a dog. The pièce de résistance? A sign scribbled in red marker: “NO GIRLS ALLOWED. ESPECIALLY LEMONADE GIRLS.”

You surveyed his fortress, hands on your hips. “Is that a sock puppet guard?”

Chenle peeked over the wall, clutching a pencil like a sword. “His name’s Daegal. He’s allergic to cooties.”

“Cooties aren’t real.”

“Prove it.”

You lobbed a love note over the wall. It fluttered into his lap, adorned with a glitter bomb heart.

“GAH—” Chenle swatted it away, accidentally knocking over his “Moonlight Sonata” CD. “I’m serious! This is an anti-girls zone!”

By lunch, you’d engineered a catapult from rubber bands and a spoon to fire candy hearts into his fortress. One hit Daegal in the eye.

“Ceasefire!” Chenle yelled, waving a white flag that seemed oddly like a napkin.

“Never!” You reloaded with a gummy bear. “Love wins, Zhong!”

Renjun looked at the chaos and merely sighed. “This is why I don’t leave my blanket.”

You were finally 16 now. You hadn’t officially given up on Chenle. You just… upgraded.

“Arguing is just verbal jazz,” you declared to Renjun, shoving a stack of debate notes into your locker. “And I’m Miles Davis.”

Renjun, now permanently fused to his security blanket, sighed. “Jazz doesn’t involve threatening to sue the cafeteria over soggy tater tots.”

“Alleged tater tots.” You slammed the locker shut just as Chenle rounded the corner, his growth spurt leaving him all elbows and awkward angles. He froze, sheet music slipping from his hands like confetti.

“Oops,” you said, stepping over a stray page titled “Lemonade Stand Blues (Draft #47).”

“I— It’s not— It’s a metaphor,” Chenle stammered, scrambling to gather the sheets. His voice cracked. Twice.

You arched a brow. “For… plagiarism? You never paid me royalties.”

He opened his mouth, but you were already gone, heels clicking toward the debate hall where Haechan waited, clutching a wilting daisy.

It seemed like Haechan had asked you out for what you thought was the third time that month behind the gym bleachers, his baseball cap on backward and his shoelaces tied together.

“So, uh… I heard you like justice,” he said, kicking a pebble. “There’s this new documentary about… lawnmower regulations?”

You snorted. “Are you asking me out or questioning me about my interest in running for city council?”

“Yes?” He grinned, all crooked. “I’ll even let you yell at the popcorn guy if he skimps on butter.”

You glanced over his shoulder. Chenle was lurking by the water fountain, pretending to fix his Walkman while blatantly staring.

“Deal,” you said, loud enough for Chenle to hear. “But only if you be a little more careful next time.”

Haechan tripped over his own feet celebrating.

While you seemed to have everything under control, Chenle’s piano compositions had gone rogue.

Gone were the moody sonatas. Now he hammered out synth-pop bangers during lunch, lyrics scrawled in the margins of his math homework. “She’s got a heart like a lawsuit / Lemonade empire, no parachute.”

Yangyang, now his self-proclaimed manager, danced on the cafeteria table with a ketchup bottle microphone. “THIS IS A BOP! CALL IT ‘OBJECTION: NO, THAT’S WRONG, IN THE NAME OF LOVE’!”

“Quiet, if you say ‘bop’ one more time I'll hit you.” Chenle hissed, cheeks blazing as you walked by with Haechan.

You paused, tilting your head. “Sounds peppy. Selling out, Bach?”

“It’s experimental,” Chenle muttered, slamming the keyboard cover shut.

“Experimental garbage, what happened to the classical stuff?” you looked almost sad, but Haechan. sweet, very nice… but dumb, Haechan gave Chenle a thumbs-up.

“Nah, man, it’s fire! Trust. Keep cooking.”

Chenle looked ready to implode.

He also started to realize he probably had a tiny crush on you the moment he started “accidentally” lingering by your locker.

Today’s excuse? A very important conversation about the “Dangers of Over-Caffeination”

“You don’t even drink coffee,” you said, snatching the pamphlet.

“I’m… preemptively concerned.” Chenle’s glasses slid down his nose as he leaned too close. “Also, I heard Haechan eats fries with a fork. Red flag, right?”

You smirked. “Jealousy is a red flag too, Zhong.”

“I’m not— It’s not— UGH.” He stomped off, colliding with a freshman carrying a tuba.

Yangyang slow-clapped from the trash can he’d been hibernating in. “AND THE OSCAR FOR ‘MOST OBVIOUS CRUSH’ GOES TO…”

The first time Chenle asked to tutor you, you thought someone had kidnapped him and replaced him with a fake.

“Hi.” You looked up, startled to see him squinting at you in the library. His fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on the table, his glasses fogging slightly. Inside was a 10-page study guide titled “Algebra for the Romantically Disabled” in Comic Sans. Comic Sans. Of course it would be in comic sans.

You snorted. “Is this a self-help book?”

“It’s efficient,” he muttered, cheeks pink. “And you’re failing.”

“I’m strategically failing. It’s called rebellion.”

“Rebellion doesn’t get you into college.”

You rolled your eyes but flipped open the binder. As the two of you began studying, you noticed how his handwriting was frantic, margins filled with doodles of lemons and tiny pianos.

Yangyang crashed the session halfway through, wearing a fake mustache and a name tag that read “Dr. Love, PhD.”

“I’m here to supervise the tension,” he announced, tossing gummy worms at Chenle’s head.

Chenle batted them away. “This is a library—”

“And this is a crime against chemistry!” Yangyang gestured wildly at the two of you. “You’re sitting three feet apart! The laws of physics demand a climactic moment!”

You lobbed a gummy worm back at him. “Go bother us somewhere else, Snoopy.”

Chenle’s knee bumped yours under the table. He jerked back like he’d been burned. Weird.

By week three, you noticed things.

Like how Chenle’s sleeves were always rolled up now, showing off his… quite boney… wrists. How he’d hum under his breath while you worked before clamming up when you glanced over.

One afternoon, you caught him staring at your debate trophy on the shelf.

“What?” you said, snapping your gum.

“Nothing. Just… you’re good at arguing. Obviously.” He fidgeted with his pencil. “But you’re also… weirdly good at this.”

“At failing?”

“At Math. When you try at least.”

The room felt suddenly smaller. You broke the silence first. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll start charging for lemonade again.”

Chenle’s laugh was quiet, almost shy. “Worth it.”

Jackson’s house was a neon-lit warzone. Music throbbed through the walls, someone had duct-taped a Wii remote to the ceiling fan, and Johnny was screeching, “WHO WANTS TO WATCH ME BEAT MARIO KART BLINDFOLDED?!”

You arrived with Shotaro, your latest and most confusing date. Shotaro was a soccer star with the vibes of a golden retriever who’d never really heard of the word sarcasm.

“This place is… loud,” he said, blinking at the chaos.

“Stick with me,” you said, steering him toward the punch bowl. “Survival tip: Avoid anything labeled ‘Johnny Juice.’”

Chenle had been lurking by the snack table for 20 minutes, holding a soda and glaring at Shotaro’s hand on your shoulder.

Why did I come here? he thought, watching you laugh at something Shotaro said. She’s dating a guy who probably thinks “Beethoven” is a type of kitchen appliance.

Yangyang materialized beside him, holding a suspiciously glowing drink. “You look like you’re plotting murder. Want a drink?”

“No.”

“Want to commit murder?”

“Yes.”

“Okay hear me out…”

Thanks to the help of YangYang’s foot, Chenle managed to ‘trip’ on his way to the punch bowl. Red liquid seemd to soar through the air, making contact and drenching Shotaro’s white hoodie.

“Oh my god,” you said to Shotaro, staring at the stain spreading. “Are you okay?”

Shotaro blinked down at himself. “I… think so? Is punch supposed to smell like gasoline?”

Chenle froze. Why did I do that? His chest tightened. I don’t even like her like that. Do I?

You burst out laughing, taking Shotaro’s hand up. “You look like you fought a ketchup monster.”

Chenle’s stomach dropped. She’s laughing. She’s not mad. Why does that hurt?

“I— I’ll get napkins,” he stammered, fleeing before you could see his face crumple.

Chenle locked himself in Johnny’s bathroom, gripping the sink.

“Ai-ya, why am I like this?!” he hissed at his reflection. “You’re a composer, not some dumb rom-com villain!” He’d written entire songs about her, memorised the way she twirled her pen when she was annoyed, and still couldn’t admit why. Why he was like this at all.

A knock. Yangyang’s voice: “Open up, I’ve got a emotional support Choco Pie.”

“Go away.”

“You’re not a bad person! Just a little deranged. Love makes us stupid!”

“I’m not in love—”

“Then why’d you even think about listening to me?”

Silence.

Chenle slid down the door, head in his hands. “...I don’t know Yangles. Something’s up with me I guess.”

You found him later, sitting on the curb outside, staring at the stars.

“Sulking?” you said, tossing him a juice box.

He caught it, wary. “Where’s Captain America?”

“Emergency stain-removal mission.” You sat beside him. “You’re a terrible actor, by the way.”

Chenle stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The ‘trip’? The glaring? The ‘Algebra for the Romantically Disabled’?” You smirked. “You’re not subtle, Zhong.”

He looked away, throat bobbing. “...I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“You didn’t.” You bumped his shoulder. “Shotaro’s nice, but he thinks Beethoven is a type of kitchen appliance.”

Chenle’s laugh was shaky, relieved. “It’s not?”

“Nope.”

He met your eyes then, and for a second, the world felt still—no pianos, no punch, just the weight of 10 years hanging between you.

Then Yangyang screamed from inside, “THE CEILING FAN’S ON FIRE! THE WII REMOTE IS STILL UP THERE. I REPEAT THE WII REMOTE IS STILL UP THERE.” and the moment shattered.

And so what they say, maybe you had given up on love. You hadn’t exactly lost touch with your friends over the years, but you never chased Chenle the way you used to. You seemed to have forgot about it, that was until you received a letter.

It was buried under coffee-stained interview transcripts. You almost missed it. Almost. Renjun, now a tenured philosophy professor still dragging his security blanket to brunch, plucked it from the pile.

“Fan mail?” he said, eyebrow raised.

You tore it open. Two gilt-edged tickets slid out, along with a note scrawled in familiar, frantic handwriting:

“Lemonade Stand Serenade – World Premiere

You owe me 15 years of therapy sessions. Front row or I sue for emotional damages.

– Chenle”

Yangyang, now a TikTok-famous DJ with a beagle sidekick, FaceTimed you mid-eye-roll. “He’s been working on this for years. It’s like twilight but with less vampires.”

“I’m not going,” you said, tossing the tickets aside. “He probably wrote a symphony about how annoying I am.”

Renjun sipped his tea. “Denial is the first stage of…”

“Don’t.”

The concert hall was all velvet and gothic architecture. You sat stiffly in the front row, arms crossed, as the lights dimmed.

Then Chenle walked onstage.

Gone was the gangly boy with a bowl cut. This, modern Chenle wore a tailored suit, his hair swept back, confidence radiating like a smirk. But when his eyes flickered to yours, he fumbled his sheet music. Same old Zhong, you thought, biting back a smile.

The first notes were a playful clash of piano and synth, like childhood arguments set to music. Then the screen behind him lit up with your doodles. You saw images of the lemonade stand, the “Keep Out” fortress, the Valentine’s card he’d kept all these years.

Your breath caught.

The symphony swelled, weaving pop beats with melodies you vaguely recognized. He played the songs he’d hummed during study sessions. The piece was suddenly interrupted by a loud screech.

“CHENLE, GET OFF THAT PIANO! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO LOVE ME!”

The crowd laughed. You didn’t.

Because suddenly, it all made sense.

You found him pacing behind the curtain, muttering to Yangyang. “—what if she hates it? What if she sues?!”

“Relax,” Yangyang said, tossing a potato chip in the air. “She’s already mentally drafting your wedding vows.”

“Shut up—”

“Too late.” You and Renjun stepped into the light, with you holding up the program with his symphony’s title emblazoned in gold. “Explain.”

Chenle froze. Yangyang saluted and ducked out, dragging a cackling Renjun behind him.

“It’s… a metaphor,” Chenle said, fiddling with his cufflinks. “Of our… dynamic.”

“Dynamic.”

“Yeah. You know. Rivalry. Friendship. Uh.” He swallowed. “More.”

You stepped closer. “Define more.”

He laughed, shaky and raw. “You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

“Say what?”

“That I’ve been in love with you since you called Chopin ‘sparkly’. Thought you were dumb. Didn’t understand you.” His voice cracked. “And yet every song I’ve ever written was about you. And I kept your stupid Valentine’s card like a loser—”

You kissed him.

It wasn’t very romantic or graceful. He stumbled into a prop table, sending sheet music flying. But his hands found your face, and for the first time in 20 years, the world made sense.

“Took you long enough, Beethoven,” you whispered against his lips.

He grinned. “Beethoven was a bachelor though.”

You twirled his tie around playful with your fingers, “And yet here we are.”

tags: @yizhrt @suzayaaa @nanawrlds @sinisxtea @dearlyminhyung @flaminghotyourmom @jisworlds @jenobubbles @nctdreamchaser @lotties-readings @mystverse @chenlezip @blondemrk @17ericas

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themilkman897 · 1 year ago

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Check out this catapult I made with my friends and my dad.

It uses a harrow tine for the spring and a rachet strap to pull back and release the arm. It can and will seriously hurt you if you get in the way of the arm.

The arm started out straight but it bent when we fired it with no stopper cushion

#catapult #fabrication #building #seige engine

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rpgsandbox · 3 months ago

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The 10 Most Anticipated TTRPGs For 2025!

EN World’s annual vote on the most anticipated titles of the coming year, and yes, some games have appeared on this list in previous years.

10) Starfinder 2E (Paizo Publishing) The Starfinder Playtest Rulebook brings Starfinder into a new age of compatibility, as Starfinder switches to using the same rules engine that powers the popular Second Edition of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. Inside this playtest for the new edition, you’ll find six new classes, 10 ancestries, new skills, new feats, futuristic equipment including augmentations and upgrades, new science-fantasy spells, and more!

9) Alien - Evolved Edition (Free League) Expanded and updated core rules and a new cinematic scenario for the award-winning RPG from Free League and 20th Century Studios. Based upon feedback from thousands of players over five years of adventures, the Evolved Edition of the Core Rulebook delivers an updated and streamlined version of the ALIEN RPG fans know and love, along with additional new artwork, new content, and a variety of new tools for players and Game Mothers alike, all fully compatible with previous releases and game material.

8) 13th Age 2nd Edition (Pelgrane Press) A New Edition of the Award-Winning Heroic Fantasy Game! The coolest and most fun parts of traditional d20-rolling fantasy gaming plus story-focused rules, now with updated class and kin powers, fearsome new abilities for your favorite monsters, and revamped icon connection mechanics!

13th Age 2E has been in this chart three years running! In both 2023 and 2024 it came 3rd in the poll!

7) Coriolis: The Great Dark (Free League) Free League's original sci-fi RPG returns. Join expeditions to faraway stars and delve deep into ancient ruins.

6) Dolmenwood (Necrotic Gnome) Dolmenwood is a fantasy adventure game set in a lavishly detailed world inspired by the fairy tales and eerie folklore of the British Isles. Like traditional fairy tales, Dolmenwood blends the dark and whimsical, the wondrous and weird.

This is Dolmenwood's second appearance in this chart, coming in at #5 last year!

5) Terry Pratchett's Discworld: Adventures in Ankh-Morpork (Modiphius) Adventures in Ankh-Morpork, the Discworld tabletop roleplaying game, catapults you onto the streets of the Big Wahoonie, and once you've dusted yourself off you can adventure to your heart's content. With imagination and some shiny math rocks at your fingertips, your story on the Disc awaits. Based on the popular Discworld fantasy series by Sir Terry Pratchett, Adventures in Ankh-Morpork is an officially licensed tabletop roleplaying game set in its most recognisable city, complete with Sir Terry's iconic wit, humour, and humanistic satire.

4) Draw Steel (MCDM) A Fantasy RPG where your character starts, at level 1, already a hero. Maybe even locally famous! You might meet in a tavern, or start in the middle of the action! Whether you’re a group of local heroes sent to investigate mysterious goings-on in the nearby haunted wood, or famous mercenaries plotting and scheming in the big city, the MCDM RPG makes building adventures and fighting monsters fun. Basically, any adventure or story you’re running in your current Fantasy RPG, you can do that in this game. Just, in a more straightforward and fun way, unburdened by sacred cows from the 1970s.

3) Daggerheart (Darrington Press) Daggerheart is a fantasy tabletop roleplaying game of brave heroics and vibrant worlds that are built together with your gaming group. Create a shared story with your adventuring party, and shape your world through rich, long-term campaign play.

2) Brandon Sanderson's Cosmere (Brotherwise Games) The Cosmere® RPG is a "living" RPG that will grow as Brandon Sanderson writes new novels and expands his universe. This original system is designed to tell standalone stories in the Stormlight™ or Mistborn® Settings -- or sweeping Worldhopper™ campaigns that move between different worlds and realms!

1) Legend in the Mist (Son of Oak) A rustic fantasy tabletop RPG based on the acclaimed City of Mist. Spin a fireside tale of unlikely villagers setting out on a quest into a greater unknown world, rife with peril and mystery, in the vein of The Lord of the Rings, The Wheel of Time, Princess Mononoke, and many other classic fantasy stories, or create your own legendary realms with the game’s open-ended system.

#RPG #Starfinder #Alien #13th Age #Coriolis #Dolmenwood #Discworld #Draw Steel #Daggerheart #Cosmere #Legend in the Mist

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novaursa · 25 days ago

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The Second Daughter (to shatter a kingdom)

- Summary: You were born as a second daughter under the watchful eye of a full moon. And just like the moon you were beautiful—and cursed to exist only in the dark.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Note: This is the last chapter. Thank you for reading my story. ❤️

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: the road to ruin

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @l3thal-l0lita @alkadri-layal @ninihrtss @barnes70stark @scarletdfox @idenyimimdenial

The dawn sky was painted in streaks of blood-red and smoke-gray, as though the gods themselves had foreseen the carnage that would unfold beneath it. The banners of House Lannister and House Targaryen fluttered in the bitter morning wind, stretched taut against the breeze as Jason’s forces advanced upon the city walls. His banners bore the roaring golden lion of the West, and beside them, the black and red of the dragon flew high—a declaration of allegiance and wrath.

King’s Landing stood before them, its great walls lined with archers and defenders in green-cloaked armor, banners of House Hightower fluttering defiantly from the ramparts. The gates were closed, barred, and reinforced, but Jason had not come to knock politely.

“Catapults forward!” Jason commanded, his voice ringing out over the clamor of his men.

At his word, siege engines were dragged into position, their wooden frames groaning as they were set up. Rocks the size of oxen were hauled into their cradles, their edges rough with the weight of impending devastation. The first stone was loosed, sailing through the sky with a hollow whistle before smashing into the outer walls of the city, sending stone and dust cascading down upon the defenders.

Another strike followed, and another, the deep, resonant crashes shaking the very foundation of King’s Landing. Lannister infantry, clad in red and gold, pressed forward with shields raised, arrows raining down upon them from above. The clatter of steel upon steel filled the air as they clashed with the city’s defenders in the narrow passages leading toward the gate, blood staining the cobbled streets beneath them.

From the River Gate, Daemon's host surged forward, his men clad in blackened steel, their banners flaring in the wind. The knights of the Vale, sworn to Rhaenyra’s cause, fought alongside them, their lances tearing through Green defenders with unrelenting force.

And above them, the sky belonged to dragons.

A great shadow swept across the battlefield, blotting out the rising sun as Vhagar, the oldest and mightiest of the living dragons, descended with a roar that sent even the bravest men stumbling in fear. Aemond One-Eye sat in her saddle, his silver hair whipping in the wind, his single eye burning with cold fury as he surveyed the field below. He would not allow his uncle, nor Jason, nor any man to take this city from him.

Then came the answering shriek—a deep, guttural roar, like the tolling of a war drum.

Caraxes.

Daemon’s red wyrm twisted through the air like a serpent, his long, sinewy body cutting through the sky as he streaked toward Vhagar. Their roars met like clashing thunder, shaking the very heavens as they barreled toward one another.

The dragons collided mid-air with a force that sent a shockwave through the battlefield below. Vhagar snapped her massive jaws at Caraxes’ neck, but the Blood Wyrm was too fast, twisting away, his claws raking deep into the older dragon’s side. Scales the size of shields were torn free, crimson blood raining down upon the streets of King’s Landing.

Aemond pulled hard on Vhagar’s reins, forcing her to wheel around. He spotted Daemon, his uncle’s expression a mask of cold determination. There was no fear in his eyes, only the certainty of a man who had already decided his fate.

Below them, Jason’s forces continued their relentless advance. A battering ram, its great iron head shaped like a lion’s maw, was wheeled toward the Gate of the Gods. Lannister men pushed it forward, their shields raised against the onslaught of arrows from above. The ram swung forward, slamming into the thick wood of the gate with a deep, resonant boom.

“Again!” Jason bellowed.

The ram struck again, splinters flying from the impact, but the gate held. Jason turned to his men, his sword raised high.

"Hold the line!" he shouted. "No retreat! The city will fall before the sun sets!"

The clash of swords and shields continued, the cries of the dying and wounded mingling with the roar of fire overhead. From the Red Keep, plumes of smoke began to rise as the outer city burned, the siege tightening its grip upon the capital.

Above, dragons circled like vultures, their battle still raging. Vhagar struck out with her tail, catching Caraxes mid-turn, sending the Blood Wyrm spiraling through the sky. But Daemon recovered swiftly, urging his dragon upward once more, gaining altitude before diving down upon Aemond with all the fury of a falling star.

The city trembled beneath their war.

And inside the Red Keep, locked away behind its stone walls, you listened. You felt the tremors in the floor beneath you, the distant echo of battle reaching your ears.

Your husband was coming for you.

And fire and blood would follow.

The walls of Maegor’s Holdfast trembled as the siege outside raged on. Distant screams and the clamor of steel upon steel carried through the heavy stone, muffled but unmistakable. The scent of smoke drifted in through the narrow window slits, carried on the wind that howled through the Red Keep like a wailing specter.

You sat upon the thick cushions near the hearth, but the warmth of the fire did nothing to ease the chill in your bones. Your fingers trembled against the fabric of Aegon’s tunic as his head lay heavy in your lap, his once brilliant hair dull in the dim light. He had curled himself against you like a wounded animal, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, his voice slurred from drink and pain.

“You need to let me go,” you whispered, your voice barely above the crackling fire. “Aegon, please. Jason is coming. If you do not release me, the city will burn.”

Aegon let out a breathy chuckle, his lips pulling into something like a smile, but it held no mirth. His arms tightened where they rested upon your legs, his fingers curling against the skirts of your gown as if anchoring himself. “You always say the same things,” he murmured. “Always warning, always knowing. But tell me, sister, what did you know of me? Did you ever truly see me?”

Your throat tightened, your unseeing gaze shifting toward the ceiling. “I saw you, Aegon.”

He hummed in disbelief. “Did you? Or did you see what our father wanted you to see? A firstborn prince, a disappointment wrapped in silk and wine, a boy with too much weight upon his shoulders and no will to carry it.” His voice wavered, raw and unguarded in a way you had not heard since you were children. “I used to watch you, you know. The way father doted on you. The way he held you close while he barely looked at me. The way you—” He swallowed hard. “The way you were allowed to be free, even when you were caged.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers threading through his hair, an old, familiar habit from childhood. “Aegon, you were never a disappointment.”

He let out a harsh laugh, shifting slightly but still refusing to lift his head from your lap. “Then what am I now, sister? King? Ruler of ashes? A man who cages the only person who ever truly cared for him?”

The words stung, but you pressed forward. “You must listen to me, Aegon. Jason and Daemon are at the gates. The city is falling. If you hold me here, there will be no peace, only fire.”

He sighed, a deep, shuddering breath, his body growing heavier against you. “And if I let you go?”

You hesitated. “Then there is still a chance to end this before it consumes everything.”

Aegon was silent for a long moment, the weight of his sorrow pressing against your thighs like a tangible thing. Outside, another explosion rocked the Red Keep, sending dust from the rafters cascading down like snowfall.

Still, he did not move.

Instead, he whispered, “Do you remember the times we would hide in the gardens? When you would tell me stories of dragons you could never see?”

You closed your eyes, grief settling in your chest. “I remember.”

He let out a slow, bitter chuckle. “I used to wish we could run away. Just the two of us. Far from all of this.” His voice was barely audible now, a drunken confession laced with pain. “But you ran from me, didn’t you? You let him take you.”

Your stomach twisted at the implication, but you did not correct him. It would do no good now.

Another tremor shook the castle, and this time, the faint sound of roaring reached your ears.

Dragons.

Jason had come.

You tensed beneath Aegon, but he remained as he was, heavy, unmoving, caught somewhere between past and present.

“They won’t stop,” you whispered. “Not until they burn the city to the ground.”

Aegon exhaled shakily and finally, finally, he lifted his head, his tired violet eyes meeting yours.

“But don’t you see, sweet sister?” He smiled, sad and weary. “It was always going to burn.”

The battlefield was chaos. A storm of steel and fire, of clashing armies and the deafening war cries of men who had long since abandoned fear. The air was thick with the scent of blood and smoke, the ground a churned mess of mud, trampled corpses, and discarded banners. Jason rode at the head of his forces, his crimson cloak billowing behind him, his sword already slick with blood as he cut down another soldier wearing the green of Aegon’s cause. The roar of war surrounded him, but through it all, his eyes were fixed on the sky.

Vhagar.

The monstrous she-dragon moved through the air like a serpent of death, twisting and diving, her great maw spewing fire that turned entire formations of men into writhing columns of flame. Upon her back, Aemond Targaryen was a pale shadow against the darkness of battle, his single eye alight with the bloodlust of a man who had already embraced destruction. And then, from the east, came another roar.

Caraxes made another turn.

Daemon Targaryen and his lean, wicked beast tore through the sky, the Blood Wyrm screaming its challenge again as it shot toward Vhagar with terrifying speed. The air trembled with the force of their impact, the two dragons locking in a deadly spiral of teeth and claws, their riders nothing more than small figures clinging to their saddles as the monstrous creatures tore into one another.

Jason felt the breath leave his lungs as he watched the battle unfold above him. This was a fight for the ages, a battle between the greatest dragons alive, a reckoning that had been coming for years. But before he could process the magnitude of it, a sound split the sky—a deep, earth-rattling bellow, one that sent his blood running cold.

Vermithor.

His heart stopped.

And then he saw her.

Alysera.

His daughter, his fierce, headstrong daughter, streaking across the sky on the back of the mighty Bronze Fury, flying straight into the maelstrom of death that was Caraxes and Vhagar’s battle.

Jason’s roar of horror was lost in the din of battle. “No! Alysera, no!”

She could not hear him. She would not have listened even if she could.

Vermithor, old and wise, let out a great, earth-shaking roar as he drove toward Vhagar, his massive wings propelling him forward with terrifying speed. Jason watched as his daughter moved with precision, guiding her dragon like a seasoned rider, positioning herself to strike at Aemond’s exposed flank. Vhagar twisted, trying to meet the new threat, but Caraxes struck again, forcing the ancient beast to divide its attention.

Jason felt his stomach turn as the battle in the sky intensified. He wanted to stop her. He wanted to rip her from the saddle, to command her to flee, to do anything but fly toward certain death. But he could not. He was powerless, forced to watch as his child, his flesh and blood, threw herself into a battle she could not possibly win.

His hands tightened around the reins of his destrier, and rage surged through him. If he could not protect her in the sky, he would ensure that no Green soldier lived to see the end of this battle.

He turned his horse sharply, his voice a roar above the chaos. “Forward! Cut them down! No mercy!”

The Lannister forces surged at his command, a tide of red and gold crashing against the Green armies that stood before them. Jason led the charge himself, his blade flashing as he cut through the enemy like a man possessed. The battlefield became a blur of steel and blood, of men screaming and dying as the Westerlands forces carved their way through.

Above, the battle of dragons raged on.

Jason had always known this war would cost him everything. But never, in his darkest nightmares, had he imagined it would cost him his daughter.

The walls of Maegor’s Holdfast trembled, dust falling from the cracks forming in the ceiling above. The air itself seemed to quake with the force of the battle raging in the skies, the deafening roars of dragons shaking the very foundation of the Red Keep. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the thick walls that imprisoned her, you heard the distinct cry of Vermithor—a deep, rumbling sound that made the stones beneath you tremble as though the earth itself feared his presence. Your heart clenched at the realization.

Alysera.

A shuddering breath escaped your lips as you lifted your head, your blind eyes searching the void around you. She had disobeyed Jason’s orders. She was up there, fighting, against all odds, against Vhagar and the beast who rode her.

A violent tremor rattled the chamber again, and Aegon groaned where he lay against you, his head resting on your lap. He had made no move to rise, nor had he spoken of the destruction raining down around them. He did not seem to care. The battle outside, the city burning, the fall of his own reign—it was all distant to him. Instead, he turned his face toward you, pressing closer as if seeking solace in your presence, just as he had done as a child.

"Sing to me," he murmured, his voice raw, heavy with exhaustion and pain.

You flinched as another blast shook the Keep, the sound of stone splintering somewhere above them. "Aegon—"

"Sing," he repeated, cutting you off, his fingers clinging weakly to your skirts. "Like you used to. Like you did for your dragon."

The words struck something deep within you. The memory of Silverwing, of the song you sang in the quiet hours, the melody that once made the great silver beast bow her head to you. The lullaby that had calmed even the most restless of creatures.

You swallowed thickly. "Aegon, I cannot—"

"You must," he insisted, his grip tightening, his voice laced with desperation. "I always knew Jason would kill you. I knew it the moment he married you. And now he's come for you, hasn't he?"

Your breath hitched at the weight of his words, but you had no answer to give. You could not see the battle outside, but you could hear it. Jason was out there, fighting to reach you.

Aegon exhaled shakily, his fingers ghosting over the scars on his face, the burns that marred his once-proud features. "He won't stop until he tears this city apart." He let out a bitter laugh, more of a rasp than a sound of mirth. "And neither will Aemond. That is why you must sing, sweet sister. Before the world collapses around us. Before everything ends."

You felt his weight shift against you, his head pressing closer to your lap as though he longed to disappear within the folds of your cloak, to retreat into the safety of a world that no longer existed.

The walls shuddered again, and above them, the ceiling groaned in protest. The battle outside was intensifying. The Keep would not hold forever.

You knew you had no choice.

With a shaking breath, you parted your lips, and the melody that had once soothed the great beast of Silverwing slipped past your tongue, soft and aching, laced with sorrow. It was a song of old Valyria, of dragons and fire, of home and loss.

Aegon’s breathing slowed, his body curling against yours as though he were a child once more, clinging to the one thing that had ever brought him comfort. His fingers went slack against your skirts, his burned face turned toward the heavens, as if he could still see something beyond the destruction closing in around them.

And so you sang.

Even as the world burned.

The halls of the Red Keep trembled with the weight of war, the sounds of chaos rising beyond its walls like a great beast shrieking into the night. The bells tolled frantically, their desperate cries swallowed by the screams of the dying and the clash of steel against steel. The city was burning. Alicent could smell the acrid smoke seeping through the cracks in the stone, curling into the air like ghostly fingers.

She hurried through the Keep, her heart pounding, her mind racing with the knowledge that the walls were closing in. Helaena and the children had been ushered to the farthest, safest chambers, the Queen Dowager ensuring her only daughter was locked away from the carnage, away from the horrors that already haunted her fragile mind. She had begged Helaena to go without protest, and for once, her daughter had listened, holding her children close as she allowed the guards to lead her away.

But Aegon…

Alicent’s lips pressed together as she reached the chamber doors, the weight of her years pressing upon her. Criston stood before them, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his expression as still and unyielding as the steel he carried.

She didn’t hesitate. "Ser Criston, we must take Aegon and—"

"No," Cole cut her off sharply, his voice as cold as the winter winds of the North.

Alicent’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her gown. "No? What do you mean no?"

Cole did not move, did not falter. "He will not leave, my Queen. He has given his command. He will remain in the Red Keep until the last man falls, or until he burns with the city."

Alicent felt the breath in her lungs turn to ice. She stepped forward, her voice lowering into a fierce whisper. "Jason’s men are within the city. Daemon’s forces press from the Riverlands. The Gold Cloaks have turned against us! The gates will not hold! Do you not understand what will happen if they breach the Keep?"

Criston’s jaw twitched, but his expression remained impassive. "I understand, my Queen. And so does Aegon."

Alicent swallowed the bile rising in her throat. "Then he is a fool!"

Criston did not argue with her, nor did he lower his gaze.

Aegon was not leaving.

A tremor passed through her, fear clawing its way into her bones. She had spent years fighting for her son, maneuvering, scheming, sacrificing everything for his crown. And now he was content to throw it all away, to burn with his throne rather than flee and survive.

The distant roar of a dragon sent another tremor through the Keep, the sound of its great wings cutting through the air like a death knell. Flames illuminated the sky beyond the windows, the distant glow of Vermithor’s fire bathing the towers in an eerie golden light. Jason’s armies tore through the city, the Gold Cloaks had turned traitor, and the streets were painted red with the blood of those who had once sworn loyalty to her son.

And yet, Aegon would not flee.

She felt her hands trembling as she pressed them to her temples, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. She turned away from Cole, staring out beyond the Keep’s walls to the city below, to the chaos and destruction that had descended upon them.

"Jason will kill him," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cole did not respond.

Alicent turned back to him, her eyes burning with desperation. "If Jason reaches him, Aegon will die. And if Daemon reaches him first…"

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. The fate Daemon Targaryen would grant her son was far worse than a clean death.

She exhaled sharply, her fingers curling into fists. "What of the Princess?"

Cole’s expression did not change, but something flickered in his dark eyes. "Aegon will not release her."

Alicent’s stomach twisted.

If Jason did not kill Aegon, then the Princess’s fate was sealed.

A sudden, violent tremor shook the Keep once more, and Alicent gasped as a portion of the ceiling above them groaned in protest. Cole took a step forward, steadying her as she nearly stumbled.

"We must leave," he said, his voice firm, unrelenting. "The city is lost."

But she remained frozen.

Aegon would not leave.

And neither would his sister.

The sky was alight with fire and ruin, a battlefield of winged titans locked in a brutal dance of death. Vhagar, ancient and monstrous, bellowed in fury as her massive claws tore into Caraxes, sending the Blood Wyrm spiraling through the air. The red dragon twisted violently, struggling against the force of the blow, and for a moment, Daemon was lost amidst the storm of scales and fire.

Alysera barely had time to react before Vhagar shifted her attention to her. The great beast’s maw opened wide, revealing the inferno within, but instead of fire, she struck with her sheer size. A monstrous tail lashed out, colliding against Vermithor with the force of a collapsing mountain. The massive bronze dragon was flung backward, his great wings folding awkwardly as he crashed into one of the Red Keep’s towers, stone and mortar crumbling beneath his weight.

Alysera let out a strangled gasp as the force of the impact sent her hurtling forward in her saddle. The leather straps held—barely—but then came the sharp, gut-wrenching snap as the rope binding her to her seat gave way.

The world tilted.

For a heartbeat, she was weightless, suspended between earth and sky, the roar of battle a distant hum in her ears.

Then she fell.

The wind howled around her as she plummeted through the air, the towering spires of the Red Keep a blur as she tumbled toward the city below. Her fingers clawed at empty space, desperate for anything to hold onto, but there was nothing.

Nothing but the endless drop.

Alysera did not scream.

She closed her eyes, the image of her father’s face flashing before her mind.

And then—darkness.

Jason had seen many things in his life. He had witnessed men torn apart in battle, heard the screams of those who burned alive beneath dragonflame. He had seen brothers turn against brothers, had fought through blood and steel and madness.

But nothing—not war, not politics, not even the years of holding his House together—could compare to the horror that gripped him now.

He had been on foot, cutting through a skirmish in the streets, when his gaze was drawn upward—first by the monstrous sound of impact, then by the unmistakable shape of his daughter, falling from the sky.

For a moment, his body refused to move. His mind refused to understand what he was seeing.

Then—

“No…”

Jason shoved forward, his voice raw, desperate, as he broke into a dead sprint. The clash of battle faded into the background, the screams and roars of dragons nothing but distant echoes. He pushed past his own men, past enemies who barely had time to register his presence before he cut them down in his frantic charge.

“Alysera!”

He could see her now, her golden hair fanning out around her like a halo, a cruel mockery of the angel she had been.

His daughter.

His child.

Jason reached her just as she hit the ground.

The sound of impact sent a violent shudder through his bones. He fell to his knees beside her, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Alysera…” His hands trembled as he reached for her, cradling her broken form. Blood stained her pale skin, her lilac eyes half-lidded, barely seeing. A small, shallow breath shuddered from her lips.

Jason’s vision blurred.

“No, no, no—stay with me, my girl, my strong girl—”

Her fingers twitched, barely brushing against his hand. Her lips parted, and for a moment, he thought she might speak.

But then, the light faded from her eyes.

Jason let out a sound that was not quite human. It was torn from the depths of his soul, a raw, anguished cry that echoed across the battlefield, louder than the clash of steel, louder than the roar of dragons.

His men stopped.

The battle stopped.

Even Vermithor, still clinging to the shattered remnants of the Red Keep, let out a long, mournful wail, his great body shaking with grief.

Jason clutched his daughter to his chest, rocking her gently, as if he could somehow will life back into her.

But she was gone.

His Alysera was gone.

The battlefield swayed in Jason’s vision, blurred by the heat of fire and the sting of grief. His arms were locked around Alysera’s still form, his hands cradling her golden head, as if by holding her close, he could somehow undo what had just happened. The world had shrunk to nothing but her—her broken body, her blood staining his hands, her lilac eyes that would never open again.

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Jason,” Damon’s voice was rough, urgent. His uncle had fought through the chaos to reach him, his sword still slick with blood, his armor dented and scratched from the melee. “You need to stand. We need to finish this.”

Jason did not move.

The battle raged around them, but for him, it had already ended. What more was there to fight for? His daughter was dead. His child, his pride, his little girl who had always been the boldest of them all—gone.

Damon shook him harder. “Jason, by the gods, I know—” His voice cracked. “I know. But you cannot fall now. Do you hear me? We are not done. Alysera did not die for nothing. If we do not take the city, if we do not end this now, more will follow her.”

Jason swallowed thickly, his body shuddering. His mind fought against the truth, against the sheer weight of his loss, but Damon’s words rang true. He knew them to be true.

And yet, how could he rise? How could he leave her here, in the dirt, amidst the carnage?

Then came the sound that tore through the sky like the wail of the gods themselves.

A monstrous, keening roar—one of rage, of pain, of vengeance.

Jason’s head snapped upward just in time to see Vermithor, his great bronze form locked in a deadly spiral with Vhagar, the two dragons clashing above the ruined city. The battle between them had shifted, no longer just another skirmish in the war, but a reckoning.

Vhagar, the largest and oldest of them all, roared furiously, her tail lashing as she tore into Vermithor with claws the size of swords. The elder dragon bellowed, the sound vibrating through the very stones of the city.

And then, with terrifying strength, Vermithor struck.

His powerful jaws latched onto Vhagar’s left wing. His teeth sank deep, puncturing flesh and sinew, holding fast even as the she-dragon thrashed and bellowed in agony. Blood rained from the sky in thick, dark streams, splattering across the Red Keep’s shattered rooftops.

A deafening crack echoed through the air.

Vhagar’s wing ripped away from her body, torn from its socket. The great beast let out an ear-splitting shriek as she lost control, her immense form twisting wildly as she plummeted, her remaining wing unable to keep her aloft.

And on her back—Aemond Targaryen.

Daemon was upon him in an instant.

Caraxes coiled around the falling dragon, his long, sinuous body twisting like a viper ready to strike. Daemon did not hesitate. With the precision of a man who had always known how he would die, he cut the leather bindings that held him to the saddle, his sword drawn, his body steady.

Aemond saw him coming.

The prince’s one remaining eye widened, and for the first time, there was fear there.

Daemon grinned.

A heartbeat later, he leapt from his saddle, Dark Sister gleaming in the firelight. He landed on Vhagar’s back, right behind Aemond, and in one swift motion, drove his sword through his nephew’s skull.

The blade burst from Aemond’s eye socket, crimson staining silver, the sapphire he had placed in his empty eye socket glinting one last time before it dulled forever.

The two men tumbled together as Vhagar spiraled downward, her final death throes shaking the very heavens. They fell past the broken towers, past the burning battlements, past the screaming men below—until, with an earth-shattering impact, the great beast crashed into the wreckage of the castle, sending stone and fire billowing into the air.

Silence followed.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Jason felt his breath leave him, his fingers still tangled in Alysera’s blood-matted hair.

Then—cheers.

Daemon had done it.

Aemond was dead. Vhagar was dead.

The city was theirs.

But Jason did not cheer.

Damon’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Jason. We end this now.”

Jason’s eyes flickered from the burning wreckage to the city beyond, to the Red Keep, where his wife was still held captive.

His grief hardened into something else.

Something cold.

Something merciless.

He laid Alysera down gently, pressing one final kiss to her golden hair. Then, he rose.

And with his sword in hand, Jason Lannister marched toward the Red Keep.

The air inside the ruined Red Keep was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, the remnants of battle still clinging to the shattered walls. Jason stood in the heart of the great hall, his armor splattered with the filth of war, his sword heavy in his grip. Behind him, his men fanned out, their blades glinting in the dim torchlight, their faces grim. They had stormed the castle, cut through the last of the resistance, and now, victory was within his grasp.

Before him, rounded up like sheep for the slaughter, stood Queen Dowager Alicent, her face pale but composed, her green dress streaked with soot. Beside her, Otto Hightower, his features drawn tight, his aged hands clasped before him as if he still commanded some measure of power. There were others—Ser Criston Cole, his white cloak stained red, his jaw clenched; a handful of lords and knights sworn to the Greens, their gazes wary and uncertain.

But Jason did not care about any of them.

His mind was consumed by only one thought, one demand that burned through him like wildfire.

"Where is my wife?" His voice thundered through the hall, echoing off the stone walls. His green eyes burned with fury, his breath heavy with the weight of battle. "Give her to me, and I might consider letting the rest of you live."

A tense silence followed. The assembled Greens glanced at one another, hesitation flickering in their eyes. Alicent, for the first time, looked away, her lips pressing together. It was Otto who stepped forward, his spine stiff, his gaze meeting Jason’s with something dangerously close to defiance.

"We cannot," Otto said.

Jason's grip on his sword tightened. "You cannot? Or you will not?" His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "I am not a patient man, Hightower."

Otto's lips twisted, his face etched with something unreadable. "We cannot," he repeated, and this time, his voice was raw. "Because she is gone."

The world tilted.

Jason’s breath hitched, his fingers going numb even as his sword remained clutched in his grip.

"You lie."

Otto shook his head. "I do not."

Jason's chest heaved, his heart pounding so violently he thought it might shatter his ribs. He turned to Alicent, his fury twisting into something frantic, something desperate. "Where is she?"

Alicent did not meet his gaze. Her hands trembled at her sides, her eyes shadowed with grief.

"She was with Aegon," she whispered, and Jason felt as though his heart had stopped beating altogether. "When Vhagar fell."

The words struck him harder than any blade ever could.

Jason stumbled back a step, his vision blurring at the edges.

No.

No, it could not be.

Not her.

Not his wife. Not Y/N.

The air seemed to thin, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to speak, to force the words past the lump in his throat, but nothing came. His body felt frozen, trapped in a waking nightmare he could not escape.

"She is not dead," he said at last, his voice hollow. "You’re lying. She is not—"

Alicent inhaled sharply, but it was Otto who answered. "We do not know," he admitted. "The entire Holdfast collapsed. No one has been able to reach the ruins. But if she was inside when it fell—"

Jason lunged forward, grabbing Otto by the collar and yanking him close.

"You dare," he snarled, his voice shaking with rage, with grief, with something he could not name. "You dare stand before me and tell me my wife is buried beneath the rubble of this cursed castle?"

Otto did not flinch. "I tell you the truth."

Jason could hear his men behind him, could feel their gazes, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered except the gaping, endless void yawning open inside of him.

She was not dead.

She could not be.

Jason shoved Otto away, his hands trembling, his mind screaming at him to act.

He turned to his men. "Find her," he ordered, his voice hoarse. "Search the ruins, turn over every stone, dig through every scrap of debris—I do not care what it takes. Find my wife!"

Damon Lannister stepped forward, his expression heavy. "Jason—"

"Find her!" Jason roared, his voice raw with agony.

The hall fell into silence, thick with the weight of grief and uncertainty.

Alicent lowered her head, her shoulders trembling, and for the first time since the war had begun, Jason saw not the Queen Dowager, not the woman who had plotted against his wife, but a mother mourning her own broken son.

But Jason did not care.

His wife was out there.

And gods be damned, he would find her.

The world had become a hollow, lifeless thing.

Jason Lannister stood amidst the shattered remains of Maegor’s Holdfast, his once-gilded armor dulled by soot and blood, his eyes vacant as they stared at the bodies before him. The air was thick with dust, the acrid scent of burned stone and flesh mingling with the cold sea breeze that swept through the broken Red Keep.

Two bodies.

One draped in golden-red, her long curls splayed out over the dust and ash, the delicate fabric of her dress torn and stained, her hands still curled as if reaching for something—or someone. The other, slighter, a once-proud crown toppled from his head, his body broken and burnt from the fires that had consumed them all. Aegon. The king. His wife’s half-brother.

His Y/N.

Jason could hear voices—his men murmuring behind him, soldiers shifting uneasily, Damon’s heavy presence at his side—but they all faded into nothing. The world had narrowed down to this, to the two lifeless figures that lay before him.

He did not move.

Did not speak.

Did not breathe.

A sound tore from his throat—something raw, something wounded, something inhuman. His hands clenched at his sides, nails digging into the flesh of his palms until they drew blood, but the pain did not register.

This was not real.

This was not happening.

She had fought so hard. She had always been strong. She had been the fire in his chest, the warmth that had pulled him back from the brink time and time again.

But now, she was cold.

Now, she was gone.

Damon shifted beside him, the weight of his uncle’s silence pressing down on him like a mountain. Jason did not look at him. He could not. There were no words that could be spoken.

A horn sounded from the harbor.

Jason barely reacted, though he heard the murmurs ripple through his men.

“Queen Rhaenyra’s fleet has arrived,” someone said.

It did not matter.

Nothing mattered.

Rhaenyra could take the city. She could sit on the Iron Throne. She could burn it to the ground for all he cared.

His wife was gone.

His daughter was gone.

His world had ended.

Damon exhaled sharply, glancing at Jason. “We need to—”

“No.” Jason’s voice was hoarse, his throat raw, but there was steel in it. He tore his gaze away from Y/N’s lifeless form, turning to his uncle with something dark and unreadable in his eyes. “There is nothing left for me to do.”

Damon’s brows furrowed. “Jason—”

“I came for her.” His voice was hollow, emotionless. “I did not come for thrones, or crowns, or any of this.” His gaze flicked to Aegon, to the ruined, broken Keep around them. “I came to bring my wife home.”

Damon’s jaw tightened. He hesitated, then said, carefully, “And what of Rhaenyra? What of the war?”

Jason let out a bitter, empty laugh. “The war?” He gestured around them. “Do you think I care about the war? Do you think I give a damn who sits on the throne? My wife is dead, my daughter is dead. What more can this war take from me?”

Damon had no answer.

Jason took a step forward, kneeling beside Y/N’s body, his hands hovering just above her as if afraid to touch. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his entire body trembling. Slowly, reverently, he traced his fingers over her hair, brushing the strands away from her face.

She looked peaceful.

That was the cruelest part.

It was as if she had merely fallen asleep, as if she might wake at any moment and smile at him, whisper his name in that soft voice of hers. But he knew better.

She would never wake again.

A sharp inhale sounded from behind him. Jason turned his head slightly, enough to see Alicent standing a few feet away, her face pale, her eyes wide and filled with horror as she took in the sight of her son’s body.

She staggered forward, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out.

Jason looked away.

He could not find it in himself to care.

“Take them,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Damon frowned. “Jason—”

“Take my wife and daughter back to the Rock.” His voice hardened, his grief buried beneath something colder, something unyielding. “They belong with their family.”

Damon hesitated, then nodded. He gestured to the men behind them, and slowly, carefully, they stepped forward to retrieve the bodies.

Jason did not move.

He simply knelt there, watching, as the last pieces of his heart were carried away.

The horns sounded again.

The war was ending.

But for Jason Lannister, the battle had already been lost.

...

The Lion’s Lament

Accounts of the Aftermath of the Dance in the Westerlands, as recorded by Maesters, Lords, and Mummers.

From the Recollections of Mushroom:

"The great Jason Lannister rode back to the Rock not with banners held high, nor with the pride of conquest, but with the weight of death upon his back. His wife, the fair Y/N Targaryen, was lost to the fires of war, and his golden daughter Alysera lay cold in her grave. Oh, how the mighty had fallen! Once a man full of mirth and arrogance, the Lion of the West returned to his den not as a conqueror, but as a mourner. And if the men whispered of his grief, the dragons roared it for all to hear. Silverwing, once the gentlest of beasts, was said to have perched upon the cliffs of Casterly Rock and wailed for a fortnight, her sorrow echoing over the Sunset Sea, refusing to eat, refusing to fly. Even the stones of the Rock seemed to weep for the loss of its Lady."

"It is said that when Jason laid his wife to rest, he stood before her effigy for a night and a day, unmoving, unblinking, refusing food or drink. No one dared disturb him. When he finally left, his face was a mask of stone, and he was never seen to laugh again. Even his sons and daughters, his precious cubs, could not stir him back to life."

From the Chronicle of Maester Halford, in service to House Lannister:

"Lord Jason Lannister returned to Casterly Rock not in triumph, but in mourning. The war had claimed much from the West, but none so much as their lord himself. He rode through the gates with his banners still unfurled, but there was no celebration, no cheers of victory. The gates were silent, the halls were dark. His people, his family, his vassals—none could meet his gaze, for in his eyes was only loss."

"The funeral of Lady Y/N and Lady Alysera was a solemn affair. No songs were sung, no toasts were raised. The banners of Targaryen red and Lannister gold hung side by side, but the wind did not stir them, as if even the gods mourned their passing. Lord Jason ordered statues to be erected in their honor—two figures carved from the finest marble, to stand within the halls of the Rock for all eternity. It is said that he would sit before them in the dead of night, speaking words only the dead could hear."

"His children fared no better. Alysera’s twin, Rhaelya, never smiled again after her sister’s death, and she abandoned all pursuits of dragonriding, refusing to go near Vermithor. Aemerys, the eldest and heir to the Rock, was the only one of Jason’s children to keep his dragon, but even he rode less and less, burdened by the weight of his family’s grief. The younger ones, still but children, shied away from all talk of dragons, and none of them ever sought to claim one."

"And yet, even in grief, there was still duty. Lord Jason demanded that Queen Rhaenyra return his daughter Aelina to him, for he had no more trust in Targaryen ambitions, no more patience for the games of dragons. But though she promised, the Queen delayed. And when the war was done and the Iron Throne was secured, Aelina was still on Dragonstone, and she was still promised to Prince Aegon the Younger. A union forged in blood and duty, not love, unlike her mother’s before her. When the time came, she was wed, and thus the Lion and the Dragon remained bound."

From the Writings of Septon Eustace:

"Grief does strange things to men. Lord Jason, once a man of laughter and indulgence, became a shadow of himself. The great feasts of Casterly Rock, once known to be as lavish as those in King’s Landing, were muted. No music played. The halls of gold grew cold. It is said that the servants would find him alone in his chambers, whispering to the air, as if speaking to his lost wife. He kept her memory alive in stone, in words, in deeds, but never in joy. The Rock became a tomb, not just for the dead, but for the living as well."

"And the dragons mourned, too. Silverwing remained at Casterly Rock, but she flew less and less, as if searching for something that would never return. When she did take to the skies, she did not fly high, nor did she breathe fire. The once-gentle beast had become a specter of sorrow."

"In the end, war had not taken the Rock’s wealth, nor its might. But it had taken its heart."

From a Letter by Lord Tyland Lannister to the Queen’s Council:

"My brother is not the man he once was. He does not laugh, nor does he drink as he once did. He speaks little. His children, those who remain, tread carefully around him, afraid to stir his temper, afraid to remind him of what he has lost. I do not know how to reach him."

"He does not fight me when I tend to matters of state in his stead. He does not argue when I make decisions on the affairs of the Westerlands. He simply… exists."

"He is Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, a lion among men. But he is also a husband who lost his wife, a father who lost his daughter. And I fear that he has lost himself as well."

"The war may be over, but I do not know if Jason Lannister will ever return from it."

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #house targaryen #house lannister #the second daughter #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jason lannister #hotd jason #jason x reader #jason x you #jason x y/n

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phoebesbridgers · 10 days ago

Text

What’s His Age Again? Blink-182’s Mark Hoppus (Now 53) Looks Back.

The sometimes fraught relationship between Hoppus and DeLonge is what Ozzi described as the “real bromance” at the center of the memoir. Fellow skate punks and self-taught musicians with a penchant for phallus jokes, the pair first met in San Diego County in 1992. Hoppus — the son of a homemaker mother and an aerospace engineer father who split up when he was in the third grade — was 20 and drifting through college. DeLonge, three years his junior, was a high school miscreant.

FULL NY TIMES ARTICLE UNDER THE CUT

In early March, Mark Hoppus, the singer and bassist for the long-running pop-punk trio Blink-182, and his wife, Skye, were special guests at a Sotheby’s modern and contemporary art auction in London. The sale featured a piece from their collection, a rare Banksy titled “Crude Oil (Vettriano),” up alongside works by Yoshitomo Nara, Gerhard Richter and Vincent van Gogh.

“It was such rarefied air that we’ve never been a part of before,” Hoppus recalled at his home a week later, outfitted in chunky black glasses, a Dinosaur Jr. long-sleeve T-shirt, navy blue Dickies and Gucci Mickey Mouse sneakers. The painting sold for nearly $5.5 million, part of which will go to charity.

It would have been hard to predict such a highfalutin turn for Hoppus back in 1999, when Blink-182 released its magnum opus, “Enema of the State,” which catapulted the band to MTV “Total Request Live” stardom and sold five million copies domestically. The video for the album’s first single, the jocular “What’s My Age Again?,” famously features the band members running unclothed through the streets of Los Angeles. (“Naked dudes are so ridiculous,” Hoppus said. “It just looks comical to me.”) Blink-182 followed up that LP with its first No. 1 album, “Take Off Your Pants and Jacket,” two years later.

Despite Blink-182’s reputation for high jinks, naughty puns and charmingly adolescent hits like “All the Small Things,” Hoppus is remarkably thoughtful in person. Jim Adkins, whose group, Jimmy Eat World, supported Blink-182 and Green Day on a 2002 tour, said in an interview that Hoppus exhibited “human empathy.”

“I know ‘Mark from Blink-182 is emotionally mature’ might seem like an oxymoron if you don’t know him,” Adkins admitted, “but I would say that.”

That maturity translates to the page. In his memoir, “Fahrenheit-182,” written with the music journalist Dan Ozzi and out April 8, Hoppus details Blink-182’s turbulent history and contemplates his own mortality with grace and good humor. The band’s “Behind the Music”-worthy history includes near-death experiences, bitter splits and world-conquering tours. In 2021, Hoppus was diagnosed with Stage 4A diffuse large B-cell lymphoma and underwent an arduous course of chemotherapy. (“I was all decay and poison,” he writes. “Everyone I talked to cried. Every conversation felt like goodbye.”) He now has a clean bill of health.

Hoppus, a 53-year-old California native, was sitting cross-legged on a chair in the round sunken den at the heart of his exquisite midcentury modern house, which was designed by the architect Harold Levitt. “This room is where I’ve suffered the most,” said the musician, who wore his hair, which he had lost during chemo, in a towering front spike. “This room is where I’ve had the most difficult self-reflection and conversations of my whole life.” He compared it to Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.

“When the band broke up, I sat right here on our couch and just despaired,” he said, referring to the first of two times the singer and guitarist Tom DeLonge walked away from Blink-182, only to eventually return. “I was so filled with animosity and hatred and rage, and I just wanted to get back in our band,” he continued, dropping a number of expletives.

But “Fahrenheit-182” never turns meanspirited or dour. “The book has no demons in it,” Hoppus said. He mentioned that he’d discussed his memoir on the phone with his psychiatrist — Hoppus is treated for obsessive-compulsive disorder, intrusive thoughts, depression and anxiety — earlier that day. “I think that writing the book helped solve a lot of ongoing issues in my life, because I was trying to write it with an even hand,” he said.

“Our musical styles fit exactly, and his humor was just as abrasive and as offensive as mine was,” DeLonge, 49, recalled in an interview. “We both came from broken families and saw the world the same way.”

The fast friends formed a band, originally known simply as Blink, with an even younger drummer, Scott Raynor. Blink’s first studio album, “Cheshire Cat” from 1995, did surprisingly well for the independent Cargo Music, and the band leaped to a major label, MCA. In 1997, Blink-182 released the LP “Dude Ranch,” scoring a hit with “Dammit,” a boisterous track with an indelible refrain, delivered by Hoppus: “Well, I guess this is growing up.” Hoppus and DeLonge ended up firing a troubled Raynor and replacing him with the tattooed powerhouse Travis Barker, of another California band, the Aquabats, before recording “Enema of the State.”

It was easy to dismiss Blink-182 in the early days. “When we first came on the scene, the gatekeepers and the people in charge were so focused on Blink’s comedy side, our silliness, that it prevented them from looking deeper,” Hoppus said. “But we did it to ourselves. We played naked. We do mom jokes, Tom and I, back-and-forth onstage, nonstop.” If it weren’t for the many hits Blink-182 scored in the wake of “What’s My Age Again?,” Barker said in an interview, “We very well could have been pigeonholed as the naked band.”

Over the years, Blink-182 only grew in stature among fellow musicians, inspiring emo bands in the 2000s — Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, Paramore — and the latest generation of pop-punk acts, including MGK (formerly Machine Gun Kelly) and Meet Me @ the Altar. “Look how big Blink-182 is now,” said the Meet Me @ the Altar drummer Ada Juarez, 26, who pointed out she was born the year “Enema of the State” came out. “You can listen to it today, and it still fits. A lot of it has to do with Tom and Mark’s parts and the way that their voices just fit so well together.”

The band’s sphere of influence extends to less-expected genres. “There are emo rappers who say, ‘I grew up listening to Blink-182,’” Hoppus said. “There are dudes playing in the shreddiest heavy metal bands saying, ‘I grew up listening to Blink-182.’ The Chainsmokers are like, ‘We grew up listening to Blink-182.’ I love that celebration and that connection.”

Readers coming to “Fahrenheit-182” for gossip will be disappointed for the most part. There is, for instance, barely a mention that Barker is married to a Kardashian. “It’s not ‘The Dirt,’” Hoppus said, referring to Mötley Crüe’s debauched tell-all. “It’s a PG-13 book.” The memoir does, however, provide insight into strife within Blink. After DeLonge’s 2005 departure broke up the group for the first time, he and Hoppus didn’t talk for several years. “It was awful,” Hoppus said. “I felt like my world had been rugged.”

DeLonge called that rupture “a tale as old as time.”

“When you start a band, it’s just you guys,” he said. “You all have the same dream, same aspirations, same work schedule, same passion, same drive. Then each person finds a spouse, might have kids, might start extracurricular activities.” (DeLonge, who formed the alternative rock band Angels & Airwaves in 2005, is a well-known U.F.O. researcher.) “That just creates issues amongst the band members that I wasn’t even emotionally intelligent enough to communicate or understand or be able to remedy.”

Barker’s near death in 2008 — he survived a plane crash that killed four of the six people onboard — precipitated a Blink reunion, but after five years and just one album, DeLonge bailed again. “I don’t think we were all healed, and we didn’t fully trust each other,” he said. This time, Hoppus and Barker replaced him with Matt Skiba, the singer and guitarist for the Chicago punk band the Alkaline Trio.

“I remember that first Roxy show being mildly terrified and looking over at Mark cracking jokes,” said Skiba, who went on to record two albums with Blink. “His joy would just bring me back into the moment.”

Just as the world was beginning to emerge from the pandemic, Hoppus learned he had cancer. “It got really dark,” he said, recounting a conversation with Skye, with whom he has a 22-year-old son, Jack, a video game designer. “We were sitting in our kitchen and I was dying — the medication, the chemo, was just so gnarly,” he recalled. “Felt like I was being crushed between two trucks. I was like, ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’

“My wife goes, ‘What are you saying? Are you going to kill yourself?’” he continued. “And that moment really crystallized the fight for me. That was when I was like, ‘This is a losing battle, but I have to fight the fight. I can’t just give up in front of my wife and son.’”

When DeLonge found out about Hoppus’s illness, the resentments dropped away. “I was very quick to say, ‘I’m all in, Mark,’” DeLonge said. “‘When — not if — you’re done with these treatments, the north star is we’re going to play again. Let’s do that for each other.’”

Hoppus was cleared of cancer in September 2021, and a year later, he, DeLonge and Barker announced that they were reuniting again. In 2023, Blink released its ninth studio album, “One More Time…,” which became the group’s third record to hit No. 1 on the Billboard 200.

“I don’t think the band’s relationship has ever been as healthy or as strong as it is now,” Barker said. “We love this version of our band.” DeLonge marveled at Blink’s longevity: “Plane crash, cancer, top of the charts, breakups. It’s absolutely bananas that we’re still here.”

Blink-182 will continue so long as it’s still fun, Hoppus said. “The one thing that we have all agreed on, and promised one another, is we have no desire to become a legacy band,” he said. “We don’t want to ride off into the sunset playing ‘All the Small Things’ at casinos ad nauseam. I want to play ‘All the Small Things’ forever, but I also want to keep creating new music that connects with people.”

#blink 182 #mark hoppus #tom delonge

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