#eleven who masterpost

[variousqueerthings]

FISH FINGERS AND CUSTARD

doing an obvious title to get into the Eleven Era Masterpost:

Obviously I did an individual episode rundown (not counting the James Corden ones, which aren't bad but do have pre-talkshow James Corden in them, so it's at your own patience level), which I called The Measurement

Secondly I put together a google sheet via a great template by @fabiansociety with every episode of the era, the first tab of which just goes through the ratings for every individual episode, with a total score and a means per season

the second tab looks deeper at each episode, with pros, cons, recommendation, important plot points, and watching importance, as well as the suggested watch I made for my partner and doesn't need to be followed

ON TO THE RUNDOWN:

season five has an average score of 61 out of 100 (not counting the eleventh hour, which at the time was only rated on nine points), a highscore of 71, and a lowscore of 42. The season rated highest on respect for past Doctor Who and relative clarity of episodes, and lowest on companion relevancy and general politics

(highest rated the hungry earth/cold blood, lowest rated the pandorica opens)

season six has an average score of 62 out of 100, a highscore of 86 (shared by two episodes, and a lowscore of 37. The season rated highest on not objectifying women and not making the Doctor too Godlike/overly important, and lowest on companion relevancy, female emotional interiority, and politics

(highest rated the girl who waited and the god complex, lowest rated the marriage of river song)

season seven (including the 5oth anniversary special and final episode) has an average score of 58 out of 100, a highscore of 82, and a lowscore of 36. The season rated highest on not being too annoyingly "sexy" all the time and not objectifying women, and lowest on politics and world-building

(highest rated cold war lowest rated the time of the doctor)

overall the seasons rated low on every season finale and Christmas Special. the writer who overwhelmingly scored lowest was Steven Moffat. Mark Gatiss scores from very low to very high. Chris Chibnall is mostly reliable (with the exception of Dinosaurs on a Spaceship, which I'm willing to give him benefit of the doubt on some of that dialogue being... him)

and now we've gotten some vaguely statistical stuff out of the way (see the rest on the google sheet) I can say how I feel about this era

1 I think watching it the way that I did gave me much more goodwill towards the parts that I very much enjoyed, as well as more words to go through why I didn't like what I didn't. the problem with Steven M*ffat's first run is that it takes some of the worse impulses of RTD's era (the Doctor being presented as overly Super-Powery With A Tragic Past As Trope), went way harder on them, patted himself on the back the whole way, and was incredibly, inordinately sexist and misogynist in treatment of women and worldview of women's roles

2. the interesting thing looking through my ratings is that I don't, on the whole, remember the politics sticking out that much, but that's because M*ffat was attempting to be apolitical with Eleven, which is a way of bringing out some of ones more conservative "unquestioned" inner politics

for M*ffat this looked like a glorification of military, monarchy, and Institutional Powers that aren't beholden to the people, alongside an ableist strand that simplified characters to words like "psychopath," and -- like in RTD's era -- a sort of colourblind approach to character that could often either lead to there simply being less people of colour around or casting people of colour in roles that were quite thankless. there are very very great people of colour in various roles, in The Hungry Earth/Cold Blood, The God Complex, Hide to an extent... but it's way too few and too far between. Correct me if I'm wrong also but Lucian Msamati in Vampires of Venice is the single Black guy we've got who's in a main episode role and isn't presented as villainous, cowardly, or stupid? (do nooot come at me with Journey to the Centre...)

(note that this seems to be much more self-aware going into RTD2, but I want to be clear that not everything in M*ffat's era was only in M*ffat's era, but I do think it was made worse... and the sexism though, oh boy)

3. Now for the more contentious bits: I think Matt Smith is the weakest actor to play the Doctor. that's not to say he's bad, but I don't buy his deep weariness, his anger, his intelligence, or his compassion-born-from-pain. I do buy his playfulness, his childishness, his flightiness, his stubborness, his meanness, and his sadness, but in the end I don't think he could grasp the full 3D complexity of this role, which to me led to a depiction that I could best describe as "that petulant fuckboy you met at a party one time with mommy and tantrum issues who thinks he's smart about the world because he's good at economics." that's a tad unfair, there's definitely more going on than just that, but when the Doctor makes me feel uncomfortably like I'm watching guys I've known at times that I never want to meet again, that's going to make it impossible for me to suspend my disbelief.. you've got to be able to sell that this silly creature is incredibly powerful without that seeming... a bit, well, silly and/or cruel

in episodes that play to his strengths, or in which he plays more of a supporting role, he does a great job, and I particularly think he does well on the extreme rambles while also making some sense, but the second he made a grand speech I was lost. this wasn't helped by M*ffat deciding to once again... up some of the worse impulses of RTD's era (many of these which came from him) and make Doctor Who ostensibly even sexier. Matt Smith very much tried to lean into some of that dialogue, but as M*ffat had River Song say in his own episode, he's got the face of a twelve-year-old

it's also hard to unsee that Karen Gillan was cast for her looks, and how the writing plays into that rather than character building and I think a lot of her acting (possibly directed to be as such) tries to "prettify" her rather than is... good

and lastly, with all that sexism and at-best centrist politics, the childishness of the seasons also makes me uncomfortable at times -- not that this isn't for kids, but when the tone veers wildly from "wow Dinosaurs on a Spaceship!!!" to "I'm going to put this woman over my knee and spank her," I'm going to say that that's jarring (and yes, I'm constantly bringing up that episode, but it happens in many ways in many places throughout the run, more or less obviously)

4. that being said, I really like the overarching plot of Eleven's run being surprisingly simple underneath all the flash:

Ten regenerates under bad circumstances into Eleven, who crashes into a little girl called Amy's garden, and due to the nature that we learn Eleven has -- the most Peter Pan syndrome out of all of them -- constantly lets her down, while trying to outrun the past, and eventually, although she loves him, she grows out of him and goes to live her life

Eleven then steps away from people entirely, becoming sullen, uncommunicative, and unhelpful, until very quickly sucked back into trying to help a woman called Clara who's stuck in some kind of eternally recreating across different times life. after losing her twice, he commits to helping her, and they become quite casually very very good friends, without a lot of the baggage that was around with the Doctor's relationship with Amy

I don't hate this story. I frequently hate how it's presented, how Amy and Clara are depicted, and I am not a fan of River Song's writing in practically every one of her appearances. but if I imagine this Doctor as trying to escape from deep personal connection and therefore eschewing "the average person" in favour of presenting themself as the most impressive being of all time... I can make that work on a meta narrative

if I strip out the very worst episodes and muddle through some of the middly ones, this era isn't bad, and is frequently very very good and works well in tandem with what came before (with Nine and Ten) and what comes after

but boy am I happy it's done with I'm not going to lie, some of that was like pulling teeth!

[oddinary4bts]

Chasing Cars | Masterpost (jjk)

☆summary: when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?

☆status: completed

☆pairings: brother's best friend!Jungkook x younger sister!female reader, Hoseok x female reader, Namjoon x OC, Jin x OC, Jimin x OC, Taehyung x OC and others.

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, some chapters have mature content)

☆genre: forbidden love?au, college!au, slice of life!au, smut, angst (as usual a lot of it), fluff

☆total word count: 218.5k (lmao my fingers slipped)

☆a/n: I got the idea for this fic just a little over a year ago, following a power outage that lasted for a few days where I live and Jungkook's live where he kept coming back with different outfits (the white dress shirt hit me right in the gut). It took me a long time to write, as I was working on multiple other projects at the same time, but I am so so happy to be ready to share this baby with you guys <3

☆Thank you to @moonleeai and @jessikahathaway for beta-ing this monster <3 (and for all your encouragement and support)

☆And a special thank you to @wintaerbaer and @btsborahaee for encouraging me and supporting me whenever I screamed to you about this fic

☆add yourself to the taglist here!

☆discord server link here!

☆☆☆☆☆

If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol

☆☆☆☆☆

➳Teaser (Jungkook pov): the day he met you (1.1k)

You fucking touch her, you're dead.

➳Chapter one: when the Incident happens (11.8k)

Jungkook is Tae's best friend.

➳Chapter two: when Jungkook teases you (10.2k)

You know I hate that nickname.

➳Chapter three: when Valentine's Day happens (13.1k)

You know, Taehyung doesn’t have to know everything.

➳Chapter four: when you and Jeon Jungkook clash (9.5k)

I was just going to say that we should keep this between us.

➳Chapter five: when you have to go back to reality (12.1k)

We just pretend nothing happened, no?

➳Chapter six: when Jungkook hosts his friends over (9.6k)

I really want to kiss you right now.

➳Chapter seven: when doubt makes you question everything (15k)

Why do you want to believe the worst of me so bad?

➳Chapter eight: when secrets are unveiled in New York (13.5k)

I want you.

➳Chapter nine: when a party makes Jungkook jealous (11.2k)

You make me insane.

➳Chapter ten: when time slips through your fingers (10.1k)

I don’t want to lose you, peach.

➳Chapter eleven: when Jungkook visits Taehyung in Paris (8.4k)

Can’t wait for you to be back.

➳Chapter twelve: when it breaks (7.3k)

I can’t be with you.

➳Chapter thirteen: when it's too late (8.9k)

I have to talk to him.

➳Chapter fourteen: when the truth comes out (12.2k)

We never told each other how we felt.

➳Chapter fifteen: when you find your way back to Jungkook (7.4k)

You came?

➳Chapter sixteen: when Jungkook takes you out on a date (8.9k)

I think I was waiting for you my whole life.

➳Chapter seventeen: when forever awaits you (9k)

Getting to love you is the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me.

Drabbles in Jungkook's pov (might add more as the story goes on)

➳Chapter 1.5: the first party (1.6k)

Then why are you bringing him home, peach?

➳Chapter 3.5: Valentine's Day (1.1k)

We should have hung out like this before.

➳Chapter 4.5: a walk through campus (852)

You love it, peach.

➳Chapter 5.5: the return to reality (2k)

You wanted to talk?

➳Chapter 6.5: hosting his friends at the apartment (4.4k)

What the fuck is wrong with you?

➳Chapter 7.5: when he realizes (2.5k)

Isn't she Taehyung's sister?

➳Chapter 8.5: the engagement party (6.6k)

Have fun while it lasts.

➳Chapter 9.5: jealous jungkook (3k)

Shouldn’t I prove to you that you’ve got nothing to worry about?

➳Chapter 10.5: the morning before Paris (1.7k)

I promise I'll come back to you and make it work.

➳Chapter 11.5: the kiss (1.2k)

Just this once.

➳Chapter 12.5: after losing you (4.6k)

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

➳Chapter 13.5: returning home (4k)

What am I supposed to do?

➳ Chapter 14.5: losing you again (3k)

I can't believe you've been wearing the necklace

➳Chapter 15.5: a conversation with Taehyung, and his reunion with you (2.6k)

It’s never been like that with her.

☆☆☆☆☆

All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate.

[hotvintagepoll]

dual propaganda: Dolores del Río and Marlene Dietrich being pals (who are gals) masterpost:

here they are attending a bride and groom themed party together

"Mister and Missus" Masquerade: After eleven years of wedded life, the Basil Rathbones think it's high time to burn a little incense on the altars of the marriage gods - which accounts for this exquisite bride and groom shindig. Marlene Dietrich, left, plays the groom to Dolores del Río's exotic Spanish bride. (of course they had to work "exotic" in there :/)

"Dolores del Río was the most beautiful woman who ever set foot in Hollywood" -Marlene Dietrich

"Ah, this is the real beauty. We blondes have to work at it." -Marlene Dietrich about Dolores

M + D serving cunt at an exhibition of Frida Kahlo's work

+ bonus Dolores with her friends Frida and Diego

[ffxiiiapologist]

Fundraisers to Boost

I would like to highlight the campaigns of six (now eleven) people who have all reached out to me and been in varying degrees of correspondence. Each is living or has family members living in incredibly dangerous circumstances as well as pressing medical needs. I am just one person without a large following, but I want to do what I can to assist their efforts, so I am pinning this as a masterpost of sorts for my mutuals and other followers

Aseel (68,371 / 100,000 USD) (GFM direct link)

Safaa (27,726 / 75,000 USD) (GFM direct link)

Mohi (97,913 / 120,000 USD) (GFM direct link)

Fidaa (69,815 / 75,000 USD) (GFM direct link)

Wafa (60,645 / 85,000 USD) (GFM direct link)

Tahrir (13,207 / 65,000 USD) (GFM direct link)

Hanan (9,378 / 100,000 USD) (GFM direct link)

Hanin (4,135 / 20,000 USD) (GFM direct link)

Essam (2,199 / 100,000 USD) (GFM direct link)

Israa (13,187 / 20,000 GBP, please note exchange rates) (GFM direct link)

Mohammed (11,680 / 40,000 CAD, please note exchange rates) (GFM direct link)

(Last Updated for progress 26 Oct 2024; the five I have just added are new campaigns with few donations so far, please help as you are able!)

Please share either this post or their individual fundraisers and give as you are able, I will try to continue giving regularly as well

[audliminal]

It's Just a Game, Right? Pt 4

Masterpost

"Okay, so like. We start with this video." Bernard says, bumping Tim's shoulder lightly. Huddling over a laptop together is a familiar experience; before they actually started dating they both regularly used laptop videos as an excuse to get close. It's a memory that Tim sort of cringes at, because now it seems so silly to be scared of Bernard not liking him back, and yet now he finds himself thinking back to those early days. The thrill of huddling together to solve a mystery is a little different from the thrill of being around your crush, but there's something there, a sort of excitement in questions yet to be answered.

"All right, hit me." And as Tim leans into Bernard a little harder, his boyfriend presses play.

The video is definitely weird. That much is immediately obvious. It seems to be a slideshow of pictures, complete with audio, but the pictures just seem off in a way that Tim can't describe and the audio is - it's a little sticky, but that is definitely Space Oddity, only it sounds kind of wrong like somebody's playing certain notes off key.

"Oh, that is definitely a Caesar cipher, huh?" Tim mutters. There's a line of text written beneath every photo in the little slideshow, but they're all garbled nonsense - it would seem entirely random, but Tim can already see a touch of pattern, some of the letters definitely appearing more common than others.

"Spy phase, huh?" Bernard teases. "I should've known you would already be on this stuff."

Tim grins and does his best to pretend he's not blushing. He's never been more grateful for his tendency to go overboard with his interests. The last thing he needs right now is Bernard asking questions about why he knows so much about code-breaking. Sure, he wants desperately to tell him all about Red Robin, but it's complicated with the rest of the family being implicated in your own identity.

The video continues in the same line for the whole duration of the song, then abruptly cuts off the second the last note of the song plays.

"Well, my first thought is that it seems kind of basic." Tim offers, at Bernard's expectant look.

"Right? Like when I first watched it I was kind of like what's the hype even about? But like, every video follows this general format, but the gradient of apparent code just keeps increasing, and it's like. What if there's more here and nobody ever realized they needed to look for it?"

"Okay well, the text has already been deciphered, right? So what does it say, and how'd they decode it."

"Here," Bernard switches tabs, to a document with screenshots of the various images. The first image was a simple photograph of a man, with the translated text reading Jonathan, January Thirteenth. The next photo, which was of an empty street, dusted with snow, read Hawthorn Way, Johnny's birthday. The rest of the photos followed in the same line. Simple labels describing who or what the photo showed and when they had been taken. None of the information seemed odd or suspicious, just the kind of photos that a family might take.

"Okay, it's a Caesar cipher, but each time the alphabet is being shifted a different amount."

"Yeah. And I already tried writing down the amounts in order to see if that meant anything but like.... No luck." Bernard gestures to his notes, where there is indeed a long number sequence.

"Okay, but how'd you solve it? Did anybody look for a clue to imply the shift or did they just brute force it?"

"I mean, there's literally websites that will run it for you, so I think people just did that." Tim hums, tapping his pen against his ear. The number sequence Bernard had shown him -

"None of the shifts are greater than eleven." Tim says. Bernard blinks, and glances back over his list.

"Huh. You're right, but what does that mean?"

"Means we need to figure out what's eleven." Tim reaches out and switches back the video and starts it again. The music still seems weird to him. He's no expert musician by any means, but he did take piano lessons for a bit when he was little, and more than that, he trusts his instincts. "There's only seven notes in a scale so it's not that..."

"A scale? Do you think there's something in the music? I mean other than it just being creepy?" Tim stares at Bernard.

"Bernard, you literally told me that you think it's all been more intentional than anyone realized. If that's true then the music definitely means something."

"Huh. Yeah, that is. Oh, we definitely needed new eyes on this, huh?" Bernard's huffs, then leans into Tim. "Okay well some the notes in the song are just straight up rank so maybe it's something to do with that?"

Tim hits play on the video again, focusing on the music. Six seconds in, a note hits, sounding very off.

"See?" Bernard says hitting pause. "It does that sometimes. Just plays a wrong note. I thought it was just to fuck with us, make us on edge, but maybe it means something?"

"We need the sheet music on this."

"Yeah? Do you know how to transcribe it?"

"Not reliably enough. But I know how to find someone who can."

"Babe, you're doing it again." Bernard laughs. "That could not have sounded more like Mafia energy if you tried."

"Oh my god, shut up."

[phoenixeclipse-lmkau]

Cursed Warlords AU Masterpost

This Masterpost is out of date! Go to the new one to continue reading ⬇️

New Cursed Warlords Masterpost

Shadowpeach x Female Reader AU

Sun Wukong and The Six Eared Macaque are mated warlords who rule Flower Fruit Mountain. They plunder and destroy anyone who stands in their way, and they don't care about the consequences. Until one day when suddenly, they lose their powers and get stuck in the form of cubs!

Having to find a way home to break the curse, they run into a monkey demoness who is trailing behind a mortal. Unfortunately, the demoness in question is a lone monkey demoness who doesn't know how to speak monkey. So they are stuck with the woman and the demoness as this strange woman travels.

This woman, who is clearly mortal held no fear towards them. Obviously, because they were mere cubs.

Cursed Warlords Art / Character Designs

Sun Wukong and The Six Eared Macaque - Sketches

Cursed Warlords Asks

#One - Several

#Two - Reader's knowledge on Lmk

#Three - Language

#Four - Language

#Five - Magic Understanding

#Six - Crushes

#Seven - Reader's Abilities and Hobbies

#Eight - How Reader saved Spirit

#Nine - Bathing + extra scene

#Ten - If someone flirts with Reader

#Eleven - Reader's world

#Twelve- Shadowpeach Arc Notes

#Thirteen - Concerns on Artifacts

#Fourteen - More on the Artifacts Debate and ideas

#Fifteen - Spirit's backstory

#Sixteen - Overheard Crushes!!

#Seventeen - 🔞 NSFW Headcannons

#Eighteen - Singing

#Nineteen - Macaque’s Ears

#Twenty - Are the cubs!?

#Twenty-one - Jttw Arcs Idea

#Twenty-Two - Mk

#Twenty-Three - Before and After the artifacts

#Twenty-Four - Reader's Name in the Book of The Dead

#Twenty-Five - Su, Chu Lin and Spirit's dad.

#Twenty-Six - Reader gets mad

#Twenty-Seven - Immortality

#Twenty-Eight - Lmk World bits and pieces

#Twenty-Nine - Time loops

#Thirty - Post courtnapped grooming

#Thirty-One - Monkey's Heights

#Thirty-Two - Big Spoon Cuddles

#Thirty-Three - Annoying Sister In Law

#Thirty-Four - Crumb Block (Didn't know what to call it)

#Thirty-Five - Wukong and Macaque Zoo

Cursed Arc

Meeting The Mortal

Peaches and Plums

Passing Out - End Credits of Chapter

Boat Ride

The Village

The Forest

Burns

Unofficial Chapters

Anger

Reader and Mk Talk

[cenvast]

Rin, Kabru, & Toshiro: On Asian Identity

I have a lot of thoughts about Rin's identity as a second-generation Asian refugee and how it impacts her relationships with other characters, especially Kabru.

I see Rin as being Indonesian specifically. The name "Rinsha" is of Muslim Arabic origin. In real life, Indonesia has one of the largest Muslim populations in the world, so what might seem like a geographically incompatible name works if Rin is the Dungeon Meshi equivalent of Indonesian.

Rin also says that her parents came from an island that isn't Wa, and Indonesia is a series of islands.

In her Adventurer's Bible entry, she's described as having "no real knowledge or attachment to the East" because "she's second-generation." She also clarifies to Mickbell that she was "born here." From this character description and her dialogue, we get the sense that Rin doesn't really identify with being Asian.

As noted in this Rin masterpost, a large part of this is because she was denied her parents' cultural identity by the elves. They likely suppressed any cultural markers she had and denied her information about her heritage. Since she wasn't born in the Eastern Archipelago and her parents died when she was young, she understandably hasn't inherited a lot of cultural knowledge.

Rin seems to have internalized ethnic self-hatred. Her disconnect from the East and her unwillingness to remedy that disconnect suggests that she has shame surrounding her Asian identity.

Again, she doesn't have many opportunities to interact with people from her parents' homeland, and her trauma also impacts her behavior. Remembering her parents is probably painful, considering the horrible way they died, and since they're her main connection to her cultural heritage, it makes sense that she wouldn't broach the topic.

You could also argue that Rin identifies more with her Northern identity than her Eastern identity since she was born and raised in the North for the first eleven years of her life, and as a result, she doesn't feel the need to connect with her parents' culture. But considering her home was presumptively still steeped in her parents' culture and her main association with the North is probably her parents' murders, this seems unlikely.

It's important to note how different her experiences are from the story's other Asian characters', like Toshiro's, for example. Toshiro travels to the Island as an adult of his own volition (technically, his father's). He's completely culturally Eastern. In comparison, Rin's parents fled from the East. Her family had to assimilate into an unfamiliar Northern culture, and later, she was "raised" by western elves, who are coded as colonizers in text. She seems to have internalized the elves' suppression of her culture and the way assimilating to the North required them to discard parts of their heritage. Her lack of interest in her culture seems learned.

Her strong attachment to Kabru further complicates her relationship with her Asian identity. I see Kabru as Indian or Nepalese; his name derives from a mountain on the border between India and Nepal. On top of being the only person who treats her like a human being during her childhood, Kabru is the only other significant Asian person in her life. They share the trauma of their parents having been brutally murdered and being raised imperfectly (much more severely in her case) by elves. While in the elf's care, they're both othered as tallmen— this aspect is strongly emphasized in the text — and in the main story, they're othered as Asian people in its European-inspired setting. Their shared experiences as Asian refugees are the foundation of their close bond.

It's not a stretch to assume that Rin consequently views Kabru as her main connection to being Asian. While they're from very different parts of fantasy Asia, their experiences as Asian refugees still overlap significantly as seen above, and the way she clings to Kabru suggests she wants to connect more with her culture, but for the previously stated reasons, she doesn't prioritize it. Besides, she doesn't have good models for what embracing one's cultural identity as a refugee/immigrant looks like. Just like her, Kabru doesn't seem to have many cultural ties, similarly because of his upbringing with the elves.

Toshiro could completely topple Rin and Kabru's original dynamic. Rin doesn't seem to like Toshiro. Their personalities would probably clash at first, because just like him, she's prone to judgment, out of self-preservation, and she's quiet. One of their canonical interactions is being captured by the orcs together; they don't even speak to each other in this scene.

Kabru and Toshiro become friends by the story's conclusion. Deep down, Rin might feel threatened by this. She's been Kabru's closest Asian friend up until this point. Toshiro, as an Asian person who was born and raised in his culture, might seem like a "better Asian" and thus, Kabru's replacement for her. This would be the worst projection of her buried insecurity over her disconnect from being Asian and how it potentially separates her from other Asian people. Given her personality, I doubt she would express this beyond acting wary around Toshiro.

With time, Rin, Kabru, and Toshiro could resolve her fears and the deeper issues they point to by all becoming friends. Interacting with other Asian people would heal her. She appears unphased by Mickbell's microaggression, implying it isn't an uncommon occurrence; she seems to only hang out with Kabru and their party. Being around other people of color would lessen the amount of othering she experiences and grant her a break from defending her identity.

Beyond the potential for cultural exchange and bonding over being Asian in fantasy Europe, Rin and Toshiro are also very similar in character. They're both anxious, quiet, and caring. If they made a little effort, they'd relate to each other and get along well.

Ideally, Rin would also befriend Hien, Benichidori, and the other girls in Toshiro's party. Kabru and Toshiro have their own issues with their treatment of women, so without positive Asian female friendships, she'd have another issue on her hands. Still, Kabru could be the bridge to a friendship with Toshiro, and Toshiro could be the bridge to friendships with his retainers. And with mutual growth, they could all enjoy each other's friendships.

Rin herself points out the vast cultural differences and language barriers between different parts of the East. The Asian characters of DunMeshi might not always share culture, but because of the story's setting in fantasy Europe, many of them experience being nonwhite in a mostly white locale. A support system of other people of color could allow Rin the space to explore her identity and culture and begin healing from her childhood trauma.

[byler-invested]

Why Will x Chance (bychance) REALLY IS going to happen… 😳

(…temporarily let’s hope…)

Let’s first pay attention to this scene and ask ourselves why it was included at all…

“I see he’s taken a step down from Max…”

Haha such a funny line, get it? Because Erica’s insulting Jason by implying that not only is he gay for Lucas, but also a mediocre option… right? Right???

Except… lines in Stranger Things NEVER mean only one thing.

The actual double meaning/ foreshadowing:

“I see he’s taken a step down from Mike…” 😬

— us Bylers in 2025

But Erica doesn’t stop here. She goes:

“Chances are, he’s with your cheater boyfriend”.

That’s right! In this very same conversation, they included the words “Chance”, “cheater” and “boyfriend” in the same sentence. Very curious.

Now let’s take a closer look at the D&D miniature that Erica is painting in the beginning of the video.

A young male warrior painted in orange?

This surely isn’t an analogy for a young male jock in an orange Tiger mascot uniform, amirite? 🐅

Holy shit, these should be enough clues, right?

Oh, no. No, no… There’s more. 😭

The locker room posted by the Duffers, belonging to “Jock #2”. We’re looking at a basket ball, a physical science book, and…

…a car sketch. Which is “only” the symbol widely used by Netflix to symbolize bisexual men. Cue Steve Harrington’s bedroom, the movie Red, White & Royal Blue, and the show Heartstopper.

(There is an actual post here on Tumblr which details everything about this ^).

Oh, what’s that in Will’s bedroom?

A Tiger wearing a sombrero…

Is it possible Will has a thing for Latinos? 🤭

Not Chance being the mexican jock foil version of Mike…….

Oh Duffers you are SO unserious…….

Funnily enough, there is even one more clue, which I’m however not yet sure of (I have to rewatch the show).

Chance’s real first name seems to be Jedediah (yes, ridiculous). Jason supposedly addresses him by “Jed” in the show (I have to confirm this).

“Beloved of God”.

…Who in the show is God/Jesus coded…?

That’s right… Will. 🧙‍♂️

*the (Byler) plot thickens*

and btw if you wanna read more ⬇️

masterpost:

part 1:

part 3:

[clockwayswrites]

This isn’t me feeding you all this week.

Timeline Masterpost Wc:1535

“Hey, sorry. Do you have anything that’s good at getting out blood stains?”

Jason blinked sleepily down Danny, who was standing at his door with a pair of jeans and a shirt clutched in his hand.

A hastily bandaged hand.

Jason resigned himself to waking up the rest of the way. “What did you do to yourself?”

The answer was lost as Danny ducked his head down in embarrassment.

“Didn’t quite get that,” Jason drawled.

Danny shuffled, peering up at Jason from under his bangs. “I said I was just trying to cook lunch.”

“Okay Tuesday, get in here.” Jason stepped back to let Danny in. He motioned with a little wave when Danny just blinked back at him.

“Tuesday?”

“Because nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday—”

“You’ve said.”

“—and you are just bad luck.”

“I am— no, okay, that’s fair. Guess my name is Tuesday now,” Danny pondered as he followed Jason into his apartment.

Jason steered Danny over to the kitchen island, sitting him down at it while he went to grab the first aid kit that he kept above the fridge. “How’d you cut your hand?”

“Can of beans.”

“Can of beans,” Jason parroted back dryly. “How’s you cut your hand on a can of beans?”

“I opened it and was fishing out the lid, but part of the side was sharp and it cut my hand, just a little bit, but it made me jolt and then I cut myself on the lid and… yep. Here I am, sitting in your kitchen, bleeding. Which really sucks because I need to get my pants clean since they’re my only pair decent enough to wear in public.”

Jason closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You only have one pair of jeans?”

“Don’t judge me. It used to be two but there was that Ivy attack last week and it was me or my pants in the fight against the vines.”

“Tuesday…”

Danny’s brow crinkled adorably. “No, it was Wednes- oh, right, nickname. Really living up to it already, aren’t I?”

“You really are,” Jason said. His words were gruff, but he made sure to keep his touch gentle as he took Danny’s hand and started to undo the bandages. “So I’m going to clean and bandage this up properly. Then I’ll throw your cloths in the wash.”

“I was just going to wash them in the tub, I don’t have enough to waste a load on,” Danny protested.

“It’s fine,” Jason said. He wiped away the blood, getting a sense of the cuts under it. Hand wounds were tricky because they were prone to reopening, but it didn’t look too bad. “I’ve got a washer in my unit.”

“Really? I didn’t think they had the hookups.”

Jason gave a little huff of a laugh at that, which caused Danny to give a scowly little pout. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re new here or you’d know I know the owner. It comes with perks.” Jason ran a disinfectant wipe over the cut, shushing Danny soothingly as the other hissed at the burn. “So like I said, I’m going to thrown your clothes in the wash. Then I’m making breakfast—”

“It’s after eleven.”

“I just woke up, it’s breakfast,” Jason said with the firm tone of someone in the nightlife. “And then we’re going shopping because you need more than one pair of pants.”

Danny ducked his head, mumbling again.

“Speak up Tuesday. And hold your hand still,” Jason instructed as he carefully applied the liquid stitches.

“I said I don’t have the money to buy new pants, that’s why I need these clean.”

Jason tilted Danny’s hand, inspecting his work. Just to be safe he added on a few butterfly bandages. “I didn’t ask if you had the money, I told you we’re going shopping.”

“I— what?”

“I’ll buy you the pants, Tuesday.”

“What?! No! No, nope,” Danny explained waving frantically.

Jason’s hand shot out to grab Danny’s wrist before he could undo all of Jason’s hard work. Danny froze under his grip, which Jason made sure to loosen. “Stop moving until I’m done, okay?”

“Okay.”

Jason watched Danny for a moment to make sure he was actually going to listen before nodding and getting to work wrapping the hand. “I’ll buy you the pants and anything else you need. I’ve got the money for it and I’m not exactly doing anything else with it. Call it a house warming present or some shit if you need a reason to accept it.”

“You already brought me cinnamon buns last week,” Danny pointed out in a mumble.

“Naw, now I know how you eat. Those weren’t a house warming present, those were a survival package.”

“I- that’s not! Hey!” The blush Danny was now sporting made the scattering of freckles he had all the more obvious.

Jason just chuckled as he looked over the first aid one more time before releasing Danny’s hand and peeling off his gloves. “Now be a good boy and sit there while I put your stuff in the wash.”

Danny opened his mouth and snapped it closed before he just gave a meek little nod.

Leaving Danny to sit, Jason took the clothing to his washroom. He prepped the clothing, thankful as he often was for Alfred’s special blend of stain remover. He’d check before putting them in dryer, but he was confident that the blood would come out.

Danny was still perched on the barstool when Jason came back to the main room. He was leaning to the side, almost tipping the stool over in his efforts to looking around curiously, but didn’t seem to have moved from his seat. When he spotted Jason he set back up properly. The stool made thunk as it righted; Danny winced.

“Are you good with eggs and toast?” Jason asked as he rounded the island.

“No toast.” The words were surprisingly vehement— enough to make Jason turn to look at Danny in surprise. Danny rubbed at the back of his neck, ducking his head again a little. “Sorry, I just really, really don’t like toast. But eggs sound great.”

Jason hummed, opening his bread box. “Do English muffins get the same hate as toast?”

“Those are… like the Egg McMuffin things, right?”

“Tuesday, you’re killing me here,” Jason said with a sigh. “Yes, if you want a horrible example, they’re like the Egg McMuffin things.”

“They’re fine?”

“Okay.” Jason pulled them out and then moved to the fridge to grab what he would need to whip up a knock off eggs Benedict. “So, what brought you to Gotham?”

He might as well get some information while he cooked.

“What makes you think I’m not from here?”

“Trust me Tuesday, it’s very clear you’re not,” Jason said, glancing over in timeto catch Danny’s pout.

“Fine, I mean, you’re right. I’m here for college. I got a partial scholarship to Gotham U.”

“Good on you. What are you studying?” Jason asked as if he didn’t already know.

“Engineering, which I know, nerd.”

“No shame in that, the world needs nerds.” The bacon hissed as it hit the heating pan. “How are you finding Gotham?”

“Different. This is nothing like where I can from. But it’s not as bad as everyone said it was. I’ve met some really nice people, some of them even keep cooking for me.”

Jason laughed at that. “Yeah? I hear good enough food gets your a mirage proposal.”

“Sorry, that honor is so far limited to bready things. Did you make these muffin things yourself?” Danny teased.

“Not this time. Like my sorta Grandfather says, they’re a faff to make.”

“And whatever you’re doing now isn’t?” Danny said, leaning over the counter to watch as Jason separated an egg.

“This? This is just a hollandaise sauce.”

“Oh, is that all?” Danny deadpanned.

“Shut it— it’s meant to be a ‘minute sauce’,” Jason explained, tossing the shell and washing his hands. “Just an egg yolk, melted butter, lemon juice, and a good whisking.”

“Huh, never had it before,” Danny said, propping his head up on his hands. “No one cooked much at home— other than my mother’s fudge.”

“Why fudge?”

“It was good motivation for my father, basically. I think she uses it to get him to do the… house work she doesn’t want too. Not that anyone really took care of the things that really needed to be done.”

The bitter note to Danny’s voice was a little concerning.

“Well, I can teach you to cook a few basic things.”

“You don’t hav—”

“Think of it as ensuring you don’t burn down the building I live in.”

It would give him a chance to figure out the minor mystery that was Danny Nightingale, even if it was seeming more and more like a case of Tuesday luck.

Danny narrowed his eyes at Jason for a moment before his shoulders drooped. “Sure. I guess at this point it’s clear I need the help and I can’t afford keep living on take-out.”

“I promise, we won’t jump right to hollandaise,” Jason said as he started whisking vigorously. Sometimes his crime boss muscles came in handy for more than punching.

-----

AN: Danny with Hood: grins like a feral beast I'm gonna bite him. Danny with Jason: gets called a ‘good boy’ and blue screens

Jason is despairing over here. He just cannot. So much despair. At least Danny is cute. Eventually I’ll write some actual sugar daddying lol but at least Jason has offered now.

Goon squad (I tried to catch everyone- best place to be sure to be added to the list is to ask on the masterpost! Please make sure you aren’t already on the list though. I’ve also removed all name that wouldn’t link.) @addie-lover-of-stories @bathildaburp @d4ydr34min9 @sometimesthingsfallapart @vythika96 @worthlesswall @aroranorth-west @chrysanthemum9484 @ver-444 @impulsiveasshole @meira-3919 @lazy-bouqet @cryinginthevoid @thegatorsgoose @cutelittlebeanie @blankliferain @ramblingkat @screamingtofillthevoid @themirrorghost @skulld3mort-1fan @may-rbi @nixthenerd @moonlupine @olivethetreebitch @overtherose @roseinbloom02 @v-inari @nappinginhell @imchildish8775 @leftmiraclechaos @mygood-bitch99 @ailithnight @busterkeel @avelnfear @ravenshadow17 @demigraceling-blog @maskygirl55 @sroomheaddoc @undead-essence @desertbogwitch @addie-lover-of-stories @magic-pincushion @phantom-dc @gin2212 @meira-3919 @apointlessbox @hollowgast1 @cutelittlebeanie @friends-fam-fiends-hellothere @serasvictoria02 @dulceringo @mushroom-jack @icedbluesoul @coruscateselene @escelia @firegirl108 @crystalqueertea @booberrylizard @phoenixdemonqueen @shorterthanadverage @pyramaniac @seraphinedemort @fallenangle67 @chaoticchange @soren1830 @trippingovermyfeet @nutcase8691 @themirrorghost @vehan-tikkun-olam-and-stuff @a-salty-sal @guardianrex @dsabian @8-29pm @consouling @jotaroslooseeyebrowhair @smol-book-nerd @help-i-need-a-cool-username @bianca-hooks123 @girlnic @punderfulfandoms @willakk @orbr

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Twenty-Three

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

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Tumblr Masterpost

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty | Chapter Twenty-One | Chapter Twenty-Two

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Author's Note: November happened but here we are! I would not have gotten through this without the love and support of @vampire-exgirlfriend and @selfproclaimedunicorn. Without you two, I would have just scrapped the whole thing and flipped the table. Also Misa coming in clutch with her Mid-Vizzy voice.

Summary: Ghosts both living and dead stalk Harrenhal's winding corridors and the family gathers for a celebratory meal.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Stars Came Falling On Our Head

The examination was one that Abby had been dreading for weeks. The pitiful looks while the women whispered, “Lady Whent’s maidenhead was said to be torn during her examination and when she didn’t bleed in her bedding ceremony, her husband threw her from the tower!” or, “Lady Swann had no maidenhead and when she claimed it was her betrothed, he denied it and her father…” left her with such dread that she felt the constricting, sick feeling creeping upon her leading up to this.

There weren’t any further explanations as to who Lady Whent or Lady Swann were. Abby had gathered that what was most important were the terrible outcomes of not proving one had been chaste, virtuous, and untouched. By definition, Abby was none of these and she was torn. While she regretted nothing that she and Aegon had done, things she’d actively begged for, she felt the curl of shame that never quite went away. The phantom pain and heat from when the queen had slapped her for being wanton still lingered at the edges of her memory.

Her feet were propped on stools at the edge of the bed and Abby tried not to squirm, face flushed with embarrassment as it was each of the previous times Maester - now Grand Maester Orwyle - examined her. Queen Alicent sat by the fire with Helaena, Wylla and Sarra attending the maester with one of his assistants who was carefully taking notes both for whatever record and for marriage documents. At least it wasn’t with everyone surrounding her.

‘A better girl, a more virtuous girl, would have rebuffed his flirtations’, she thought, though the voice in her head didn’t sound like her own. ‘A girl who held the Faith close to her heart would not have sought such things outside the marriage bed’.

As often as women wanted to whisper horrifying stories of maidens who didn’t bleed, many others also giggled of what clandestine touches they’d gotten into with their own betrotheds. It wasn’t as if she’d been lying with any of the other men at court. She had been only with Aegon and there should be no shame in it, even if they hadn’t done the act itself yet.

Now if only she could stop feeling it at this moment, it would make this whole ordeal far easier.

“And you last bled…?” Orwyle asked in the sort of casual tone one talked of the weather.

“A fortnight. I was a week late but we were traveling.” He nodded in confirmation and the scratch of the quill against parchment filled the silence. Abby continued before he could ask. “Over the past few months I’ve either bled a little early or a little late. I felt more discomfort at the end of the year than I normally have.”

“She was on bedrest with tea,” Wylla said to the maester’s questioning look, prepared and at the ready for any explanation that needed providing. Abby wanted to hide her face against Wylla’s neck and let her deal with this for her. “That seemed to settle her just fine.”

“Good. My lady, have you had any unusual pain here?” He gently pressed along her lower belly. It was a question that she’d been regularly asked since she first bled. Her mother had difficulty conceiving and had been prone to pains. Orwyle had expressed steadfast concern over Abby’s own health

“While I was on bedrest,” she said softly, the cold trickle of trepidation curling through her gut. They’d been worse when she’d been younger but had lessened over time. Orwyle asked more specific questions and she answered each one while trying not to notice the way the queen’s head was tilted slightly in her direction, pausing over the letters in hand.

She knew that her maidenhead was gone. It had happened not long after Aegon’s tourney when he curled his fingers inside where she needed him, the digits streaked with red when he’d withdrawn them. Helaena had casually mentioned that her own was gone due to dragon riding the next morning unprompted. Wylla lost hers due to much beloved forays horseback riding back home at the Karhold.

But beneath the watchful eyes of Queen Alicent, the shame still lingered.

“I see no reason why you won’t be able to conceive a child.” He was dipping his hands into a waiting bowl;Orwyle espoused the benefits of clean hands and she was grateful for it. “You are young, healthy. I would like you to do your best to wait at least another year however.”

“She is eight and ten,” the queen said, voice strained in a way that Abby couldn’t recognize. “Older than I. Many mothers have been made younger than she.”

‘Queen Aemma had,’ Abby thought. ‘And then they said she died because of it.’ She was aware of what the queen meant, however. Rhaenyra had many children, all boys. Aegon had none.

“I understand, Your Grace, but with her mother’s history, I would feel better if she waited.” There was a hint of gentle reproach in his voice.

Abby stared up at the blue damask that made up the canopy of the bed. The silver designs upon the rich fabric were woven in flowers and what seemed like hearts. This was her mother’s bed. This was the bed she herself had been born in, her mother in labor for a full day and night after losing previous pregnancies. The conversation of the other’s in the room turned to rushing in her ears as she stroked her hands over her own flat belly. She wanted children. She wanted little babies with large, lilac eyes and crinkled eyed smiles. Pouty mouths and curls like clouds around their heads. Abby wanted Aegon’s children, she wanted their children, to give him a household full of joyful shouts and let him be the loving and devoted father that he had lacked. To let them make up for the disappointment his own childhood had been filled with.

She twitched when hands moved her skirts and her teeth sank into her lower lip.

“I promise to be quick,” Orwyle assured her in his kind voice. She didn’t nod, nor any sound, eyes fixated on the canopy and imagining her mother there, her face not conjured from memory but by the painting that was fixed in the gallery the floor below.

At least the maester had taken care to warm his hands before he touched her.

Abby looked up at the gallery around the front of the great hall. They called it the Hall of a Hundred Hearths even if the true number was closer to thirty. The cavernous space had been painstakingly rebuilt since King Jaehaerys had held his Great Council all those years ago. Instead of broken stone like the jagged teeth of a maw, the archways had been rebuilt with stone from the ruined tower and the old sept. Instead of bats and spectres, servants were hanging down banners of House Targaryen and House Strong, interspersed with the grey fields of House Hightower and the silver and scarlet of House Reyne. Minstrels lingered on either side behind the servants, plucking lutes and hurdy-gurdys, testing the throw of the sound.

A long exhale drew her gaze back to Aegon’s face, where he stood across from her, their hands entwined, his long, deep green doublet so dark to be nearly black and edged in black braid and a golden dragon embroidered across his chest. “Can we be done with this already so we can practice the bedding ceremony?” he complained. His voice was not loud but it carried and the Queen snapped a quick, “Aegon!” While her cousin, Martyn Reyne, snickered from his place to the side next to Aemond, who had been tasked with holding the cloak for the ceremony. While Aemond looked dutifully at attention, Abby knew him well enough to notice he was bored out of his mind. He nudged the snickering Daeron beside him, which only spurred on the younger boy’s giggles.

Lord Roland, the king’s Master of Ceremonies, sputtered at being interrupted, his thin face flushed. “My prince,” he said, and Abby raised an eyebrow at Aegon and t the tight control Lord Roland had on his final threads of patience, her own amusement barely held by her tightlipped smile. “The wedding ceremony will be witnessed by the realm at large and must be perfect.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed at the perceived slight to him and she squeezed their joined hands.

“What my prince means to say is that so few will actually be able to see what’s happening, let alone hear us.” Aegon turned his narrowed eyes to her but she continued on. She didn’t want to be here for another hour either, but his complaining wasn’t going to help matters. “They’ll all be far more interested in how entertaining the feast is.”

Lord Roland’s indignation eased with an exaggerated sniff and he flounced away, a peacock in garish gray and lemon yellow. With a dramatic flourish, the Master of Ceremonies gestured towards the dias beneath the decorative canopy. Behind the pair of thrones that had been brought from King's Landing, the royal banner proudly displayed: A tri-headed dragon in shimmering obsidian on a field of scarlet, declaring House Targaryen's current claim on the castle.

Is that what it looked like all those years ago when House Targaryen had last claimed this hall?

“Their graces will sit here, presiding over the ceremonies,” he continued. They were still fixed to the spot where they’d stand during the ceremony and Abby didn’t understand why they had to be there. It appeared that the pompous entertainer liked positioning his audience as if they were names on a board. Perhaps it made it easier for him to go on as he did without considering they were real people who desperately wanted to sit down. Abby had attended weddings before and she knew this had all gone on far longer than what the actual ceremony would be.

At least, that’s how it felt.

Aegon resumed rocking back and forth on his heels, puffing his cheeks and exhaling in boredom. Her gaze drifted to the others. The queen had approached Lord Roland with Uncle Simon, Lady Lysa her ever present shadow. Cousin Garrett was also there with more note-taking, her uncle cutting in at specific moments where Lord Roland drew breath to ask questions that she was beginning to suspect were designed to frustrate the man.

“I thought this place was supposed to be a ruin,” Martyn’s soft voice carried from where he was attempting to whisper to Aemond. She did her best to ignore it, instead looking back up at the diamond glass windows made from Westerland quarries that had been set into the newly rebuilt arches. They were not stained as the great window was at the front of the hall, but instead her house’s sigil was inset into the panes in frequent intervals.

Her father had attended the Citadel for a time, earning links in history and money, even ravenry, the black iron, copper, red and yellow gold links winking out between the numerous steel links that signified his mastery of the law. He’d told her that the decoration of the great hall reminded him of the Citadel, that his grandfather, Bywin, found master stonemasons and glassworkers to rebuild at least this place and try to salvage the ruin that they were granted after Princess Rhaena’s death. The Citadel had been good to them. Garret’s elder brother, Garsey, was a Maester, and their uncle, Petyr, was still travelling Essos in his old age, learning the mysteries of the world.

Would one of her sons follow in those same footsteps? Would her boy hunger for knowledge of the great unknown? Wish to become familiar with the law as her father had? Or history? Or discover something that had been long forgotten to time?

“A curse sent in Harren’s demise… Burning bright with flaming glow… this tale of woe read long ago…”

Abby looked up to the gallery, trying to find the source of the singing. It was the same voice she had heard on the day of their arrival, singing of dragons and fire. Servants leaned over the balustrade affixing the heraldry banners, the musicians moving up and down the gallery looking for the ideal spots for their placements, and a lone woman she didn’t recognize drifted amidst the bustle. Abby could not make out her facial features, but the fall of silver hair marked her as a Targaryen.

At first, she thought it was Princess Rhaenyra coming to observe the goings on, but her soon to be good-sister was more voluptuous, favoring rich, royal purple and Targaryen scarlett, her hair in luxurious braids. The woman Abby watched now was reed-thin and clad in a samite gown, a veil of black over her hair and a matching black wrap over her shoulders, drawing her further into shadow between the shafts of afternoon light.

“In the black of night the dragon did rise…”

The woman paused in her wandering, turning to look at her, and Abby’s mouth filled with the taste of ash and copper. The woman’s face—

A sharp tug on her hands had her lose her balance and with a small ‘oof’, she fell into Aegon’s arms.

“You were wandering again,” he told her, his voice the whisper of a breeze barely heard. Abby felt the heat rush into her cheeks, a sharp shock as the rest of her shivered. Martyn was busy flirting with Sarra Frey, who looked both amused and bewildered by it, and Daeron was watching the exchange with his own curious speculation. Amidst the group of ladies and companions, it was only Aemond and Wylla who were watching her closely, fixed points on either side pinpointed upon her like prey.

“I was caught up in the singing,” she said and did her best to ignore the confusion on his face. Instead, she stayed where she was, too hungry for the warmth of him to pull away, letting herself give in to his strong frame and the way his hands stroked over her arms, his fingers catching on the golden ties of her brown and cream patterned sleeves.

The rehearsal had finished not long after Abrogail’s eyes drifted and glazed, the sight of it curling fear through Aegon’s ribs. The look was similar to the one Helaena had when her mind went elsewhere, but that was expected from his sister; Helaena had always been that way. Abrogail was always present, though not in the calculating and predatory way his brother was. A rabbit among predators, seeking to be useful, seeking to avoid claws and teeth. Anxious and ever at the ready. She’d been off since their approach and it had made sense. This was her long-since-lived-in home and their wedding was approaching without her family, without her parents. Abrogail had not been so far from him since they were children and grief was the black mourning shroud she wore.

His father had ordered Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin’s deaths…

Three days.

Three days until the wedding. Three days until the waiting was done and he could be put out of his misery from the anticipation. Three days until he could lock them behind closed doors and let everyone get drunk and celebrate and Aegon could be done with it and not leave the bed. He meant it. Not that he minded the attention and he knew he was doing quite well considering the lack of snapping and yelling that had been conspicuously absent from Mother and The Tower.

Once they were gone, he wouldn’t have to put a show on for them, he wouldn’t have to strive any further. He could simply keep his attention on his wife and draw the smile back to her eyes, distract her and comfort her in the best ways he knew how. It would only be them and no one else and that was all he wanted.

Yet…

That wouldn’t happen for another three weeks. Not only was there the wedding, but the king and council would be holding court for those who normally could not make the trek all the way down to King’s Landing.

His father ordered the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong and Jace was, indeed, a bastard, as well as his two brothers.

Aegon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and suppressed a yell. Instead, there was the distant call of Sunfyre who rumbled in his chest, reassuring and warm and there where he needed him. Another call eventually followed, the warbling of Caraxes and the vague honking call of Syrax in turn. He gritted his teeth.

Three weeks, or maybe sooner, until Rhaenyra and her retinue departed. Sooner if she wanted to get away from the same things he longed to escape, longer if she wished to reassert her position as their sire’s favorite. He’d only seen his sister upon her arrival, the lot of them lined up as the carriages pulled in, Rhaenyra swathed in rich plum and crimson and black; shapely, with eyes like chips of amethyst, cutting into the meat of him. The whole spectacle left him frustrated and anxious with no outlet but to drink in his rooms, prevented from sneaking away into Abby’s with all the fuss of the women about her.

“Aegon?”

He pulled his hands through his hair and gripped the locks, gaze cutting to Daeron who lingered nervously at the end of the great bed, tracing a finger over the knotted weirwood. A dead bed of dead souls. Aegon did not pray to the old gods, but even he knew a bed of weirwood should be a bad sign. His previous night’s sleep in the thing had been plagued with strange dreams half remembered, including one where Lyonel Strong was standing over him with bloody eyes and the smell of burning flesh.

“Hm?” Aegon fumbled with the goblet, sending it rolling across the table and each attempt to grab it pushed it further until it rolled to the floor. Frustrated, he kicked it away with his foot and grabbed the other more carefully, pouring some of his favored arbor red into it.

“Is Abby alright?” Daeron asked, his brow furrowed and his dark eyes uncertain.

‘I don’t know,’ he thought, growling into his cup. He couldn’t fix it, he couldn’t see what was wrong, only that she was drifting away again and he was scrambling to pull her back. If he tied a ribbon around their wrists, would it keep her there? Would it prevent the memories, the melancholy, from gripping her as it had those years ago?

Aegon was the melancholy one, not her, not Abby who was gentle touches and sunlight in the gloom, and to see her like this, like how she’d been after the fire, terrified him beyond description.

“Are you worried for her?” he asked.

Daeron looked uncertain at first, chewing on his lower lip and looking at his hands before he nodded. Even as his uncertainty lingered on his face, his shoulders straightened and he met his eyes. “Uncle Gwayne says Abby will be my lady now that we’re here, like Lady Sam was in Oldtown, and that I should watch her and look after her for you, for a knight’s duty is to protect those who need it.” The boy grew more decisive as he spoke. Aegon was certain that the tenet had been drilled into him as much as the sword training had.

“Then you may go check on her and report back for me,” Aegon instructed with a gesture of his goblet towards the door. The lad grinned and nearly ran from the room, closing the great door behind him with more force than he intended, for there was a muffled, “Sorry!” that he could barely hear. He reached up to tug the laces of his shirt loose, the light linen untucked from his unlaced trousers and headed out onto the balcony. The scent of wisteria and roses assaulted him and Aegon reached up to run his fingers through the hanging purple blossoms before looking down upon the bustling courtyard below.

“So where am I staying?”

“Not here,” Aegon replied, gaze still fixed on the gardens below. The day was cool but the sky was bright and blindingly blue, cloudless, and filled with dragons. Below, figures too small to identify celebrated the start of the wedding festivities surrounded by bards, jesters, and enough food to feed an army. The wine and ale were flowing and wouldn’t stop for the rest of the week.

Martyn scoffed and leaned on the balustrade beside him, scratching at his long nose, dark, strawberry blonde hair falling across his forehead. “Then where?”

Aegon jerked his head. “One of the towers. That one,” he gestured vaguely to their left, “or the one my parents are staying in.”

“Don’t they call that one the Tower of Dread? You’d put me in the most dreadful place? Me?”

“I told Abby we could rename them if she wished.”

“But—”

Aegon’s gaze didn’t move but he did reach up to clasp Martyn’s shoulder and jerk him closer. Yes, the place was a ruin, full of ghosts and phantom fire if the stories were true. He thought of the spectre of his dead good-father. “Martyn, that’s all of Harrenhal, but this is my wife’s home. Careful how you speak of it.”

“Not your wife yet,” Martyn said, not as chagrined as Aegon wished and that drew his gaze. Ser Martyn Reyne, first cousin to Lady Abrogail Strong by way of her mother and his father, and Aegon’s own… however distant relation. Good brother to Ser Tyland, Martyn had come to court, a scant few years older than Aegon himself, when the Lannister had become Master of Ships and married Martyn’s elder sister. He’d gone back to Castamere the year before due to the ill health of Lord Rodrik’s wife and his sister, Elayna’s, own pregnancy. It was oddly sentimental, given Martyn’s general lack of any outwardly care for anything outside of a good ale and blonde with big tits.

Aegon had few friends and Martyn had proved to be a decent companion over the years, mucking about Flea Bottom together, and enjoyed when Aegon paid for rounds of drinks or got them access to the most private of rooms in the best brothels. “Look at you,” the young man continued, unperturbed. “I know Harrentown doesn’t have the most exciting offerings, but surely that’s going to change. We could go and christen each new whore, really make sure they’re up to- fuck!”

Aegon’s fingers dug into the soft meat of Martyn’s shoulder, the fine red fabric of his shirt wrinkling beneath the grip. Martyn may have a few inches on Aegon—most did—but Aegon was a dragon with a treasured hoard he would protect, and he would not take the insult or let anyone think they could.

“Martyn,” he said, his voice sharp when he met the other’s gaze. “You’ve been gone quite some time so allow me to catch you up since you missed my nameday and the announcement of my wedding. I’m marrying Abrogail Strong and I happen to be very much in love with her. She also happens to be close kin to you, thus, I expect you to be as invested in her wellbeing and safety as I am. You are one of my oldest friends, Ser Martyn, and I’m happy to have you as a guest in our home. Martyn?” He squeezed and the other man winced further.

“Yes?” Aegon raised an eyebrow and Martyn fumbled. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Aegon’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Fuck all the whores in Harrentown that you want, I don’t care, and I’ll make sure you’re given the honors you deserve, but things are changing and you’re not going to fuck it up for me, are you?”

“No, Your Grace.”

Aegon released him and headed back inside, letting Martyn stumble and find his footing behind him. He exhaled heavily through his nose, throwing back the rest of his wine and contemplating another when Daeron returned, scratching at his cheek in his uncertain way.

“Um… Aegon? They won’t let me in.”

Aegon looked bewildered. “They won’t?” Daeron shook his blonde head with a wordless confirmation and Aegon dragged his toes against the rich, dark blue patterned rug. “Huh. Did Wylla say anything?”

“No, it was one of the other girls who answered. Um, Lord… Royce’s daughter, I think? The new one.”

“The one with the big tits?” Martyn chimed in, his hands gesturing towards his own chest with a laugh. The laughter cut off abruptly into a yell as Aegon threw the goblet right at Martyn’s head, smacking him in the nose.

“I don’t want to see your fucking face until dinner,” he snapped. He didn’t particularly care what Martyn thought or who had big tits or who didn’t, but Aegon was not about to have Martyn talk about Abrogail’s comely ladies around him, lest someone decided to run off to whisper in her ear that Aegon was the one complimenting Rhea Royce’s impressive tits. Abby was welcome to initiate that conversation.

He was trying so hard to be good for her.

Aegon dropped to his knees at the foot of his bed and shoved the blankets off the chest to dig through for what he needed. His sire had said something about too many gifts to angry wives and while Abrogail wasn’t angry, she had shut herself away. And with her continued strange behavior, he needed to stop it immediately lest she go too far from him to reach. “Where the fuck is it?”

“Where’s what?” Daeron asked. Martyn had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and Aegon was only dimly aware of the door closing, presumably behind him since the muffled annoyance of a bloody nose was no longer heard.

“A box about this big,” Aegon gestured and the boy immediately began looking on the other side of the room. Everything had been unpacked from their arrival so it couldn’t have gotten far.

The longer it went without finding it, the more panicked Aegon started to feel until Daeron gave a triumphant shout, carefully brandishing the box that had been buried somewhere in the wardrobe. Aegon pressed a kiss to Daeron’s forehead and headed out down the connecting stairs of the joined balcony. He ran his fingers through the wisteria, plucking a strand of vibrant, purple blooms before heading down the stairs toward Abby’s rooms.

“Can’t you just say no?” He didn’t recognize the woman’s voice wafting through the open, leaded diamond glass window. He paused before it, tracing the colored glass of the window beside it, blues, greens, and reds laid in pretty, geometric patterns like a fan of peacock feathers.

“I can't say no.” It was Abby’s voice, high pitched and distressed. “She’s the queen. It doesn’t matter if it’s in my own home, she is our queen and my good-mother.”

“You know, I thought most other women were as awful as her,” the first voice said again, a little muffled now - they must have been eating. “But it turns out, my cousin is simply awful. You are all quite lovely.”

“Thank you, Rhea,” Abby said, identifying the unknown voice. Aegon grabbed the door handle only to find it locked.

How rude.

“Hey!” He rapped his knuckles against the decorative glass of the door, peering through the clear parts to squint inside. “Let me in!” He tried the door handle again. Why was it locked? Why was he being denied? Aegon rattled the door again until a mass of dark hair and pointed fox features appeared on the other side of the glass. “Wylla, let me in.”

“Your command, my lady?” Aegon frowned. That was unusually hostile. What had he done? They were talking about his mother, not him. The last he saw Abrogail, he’d left her at her door with a gentle kiss on her forehead and a stroke of her freckled cheeks. Only hours later he was being denied.

The door opened and instead of Wylla, it was Abby. Her copper curls were a halo around her face in the late afternoon light, the sun catching at the bits of gold in all the red. Little tendrils of hair framed her normally sweet face, but the expression she wore had his ears turning red. Like him, she was half dressed, the wide neck of her silk chemise falling off her shoulders and his gaze raked over her bare neck and the tender dips of her collarbones. Had her expression not been so upset, he would have tugged at the neckline to peer down to the sight of her breasts that he spent most of his time thinking about. Even with whatever perceived upset she had, he could not deny the need that surged in his belly at the impassioned sight of her, and he forced down the need that growled inside of him, demanding satiation.

“You look-”

She cut him off, closing the distance between them to poke her finger in the center of his chest. “I look like I’m trying to find the earthly reason why the queen just told me that Cassandra Baratheon would be joining us as a companion of mine when you promised she wouldn’t.”

“What?” Why was she speaking of Cassandra? “I told her when we made our agreement months ago.”

“You didn’t know?”

He should be offended by the assumption but the way that Abby’s anger flushed her features was an indulgence and one he was relieved to see compared to the half-vacant and distant look he last saw on her face. His response clearly robbed her of words and so Aegon tucked the wisteria bloom behind her ear and guided her backwards into her chamber with his hand cupping her neck, thumb stroking against her pulse. Wylla rolled her eyes at the pair of them and tugged Rhea and her half eaten apple with her.

“Come on, we’ve got to make sure everyone else is prepared for the feast.”

When the door shut, Abby shoved at his chest and he took a step back but his free hand remained resting against her neck. “Stop distracting me,” she complained. “I’m upset with you! You promised me Cassandra wouldn’t be here!”

“Well of course she’s here for the wedding,” he said slowly, trying to understand what he was missing. He tugged her back with his hold on her neck and his thumb stroked against her fluttering pulse. Aegon delighted in her shiver, the way he could see her nipples tighten beneath the delicate fabric. “Then she’s leaving-”

“She’s not,” Abby interrupted, breathless.”I just told you!” She swallowed and Aegon relished in seeing the war within her, caught between the ember of arousal he was stoking and what annoyance at his mother she was trying to push on him. Gods help him, this was frighteningly easy to see the effect he had on her, how easily he could sway her from being upset with him, especially when there was no need to be. He would make a good husband in knowing what she needed and how to get her out of her head and stop worrying about everything. “The queen said that Cassandra would be staying at Harrenhal after the wedding. I don’t want her to be my companion, I want her gone!”

“I want her gone as well. I promised you that she wouldn’t be here and I’ll speak to Mother about it, alright?”

He didn’t know what the matter was. Floris was engaged to Aemond so Lord Borros got his dragon and prince to soothe whatever imagined slights. What he knew of the man, he was inept at politics, but Cassandra was sly. He could not see Borros strong-arming his mother, but perhaps a manipulation from the man’s daughter… Well, at least there was Martyn to act as a shield should she attempt anything.

Abby’s hand came up and curled into the loose fabric against his shoulder, tugging his attention while she turned her head and nuzzled against his wrist. “It will be fine,” he reassured her.

He watched the anger in her eyes gutter out, not altogether gone, but pushed away for a moment. “Aren’t I the one supposed to tell you that?” she teased and Aegon shivered at the brush of her mouth against the thin skin of his wrist. Groaning softly, he forced her head back so she’d look at him and swept his tongue past her lips, drawing in whatever else she wanted to say. No more thoughts in her pretty head, no more shadows darkening the blue of her eyes or furrowing her brow. He tasted the familiar tang of arbor red on her mouth and he chuckled.

“Did you get into my wine?” he asked her, pausing in the kiss to look at her heavy eyes.

“There was no cider,” she shrugged, yelping softly as he nudged her to the bed. She automatically parted her thighs expectantly, leaning back on her hands. He exhaled and pressed the box he still held against his mouth. The short hem of her chemise had pulled up and he admired the scarlett garters around her stockings, golden letter As entwined with silver As. Their initials.

He hated to deny what her gaze was asking for, but he’d come with intent. “I’ve brought something else for you,” he said, only briefly palming his aching cock. Abby raised her eyebrows at him, eyes going to where he’d touched himself and reached for his waist.

“A surprise?” He let himself be pulled forward with a sly grin and tapped her nose with the edge of the box.

“Close your eyes and lift your hair,” he instructed her and she obeyed while Aegon opened the box and carefully pulled the necklace from the soft inside. Sunfyre had lost scales in a scuffle with Dreamfyre that night on the cliffs long ago and he’d gathered them, knowing what he wanted to do with them… sort of. He hadn’t been able to decide until he observed her wearing the heavy, citrine necklace at his nameday feast.

Aegon ran his thumb over the dragonscale choker, the back lined with soft, deep black velvet to protect the tender skin of her throat. Hanging from the center was a tear shaped ruby, so deeply red as to look like a drop of blood, that nestled in the hollow of her throat. He tied the ribbon just tight enough so it wouldn’t move, enough for her to truly feel it and then leaned back to admire the glitter of his mark upon her.

It was the irrefutable proof that she was his, the wife of a dragon, so beloved by him that none could challenge nor take her.

“There,” he murmured with pleasure and pulled her up. Abby’s eyes flew open and he took in the look of surprise and delight, the red flush spreading across her skin as he set her in front of her full length mirror, the silver surface polished to the perfect shine. His hands rubbed her shoulders and he leaned forward to brush his mouth against her cheek and met her gaze. “Do you like it, rabbit?”

Wordless, she nodded. Abrogail turned in his arms and pulled him into her, sealed her lips over his, plundered his mouth with her tongue and tugged at his shoulders, his arms, desperate for him. Aegon would not deny her, he hungered for her, the gaping maw in his chest that sought her and the comfort and warmth demanding to be filled, gathered her against him, pulled her soft body into his. She tasted of arbor red and of apple and cream. She tasted like his downfall and his resurrection, like he’d been dead and born anew just beneath her touch and with her taste.

They stumbled back into the chaise by the fire and she climbed onto his lap, pushing him back full of demanding. Aegon’s hands went beneath her chemise to grip her pert ass and rock her against his aching cock, swallowing her whimpers and he moaned her name. He tugged the fabric of her smallclothes aside and-

The door banged open and Wylla Karstark clapped, her new, heavy chain of keys hanging off her belt jangling in her wake as she’d taken to doing to announce her presence.

“Off!” she called out, clapping her hands. “Off of him, Abby, we’ve got to get you dressed.”

“I don’t want to,” Abby mumbled but they parted nonetheless, Aegon’s toes curling in pleasure even at being denied.

“Really, Wylla,” Lythene said from the door, but she sounded less exasperated and more that she was full of amused giggling at the spectacle. Abby pressed a kiss to his nose and he smiled at her.

“Do you feel better?”

She nodded with swollen lips and a pleased smile that pushed little dimples into her cheeks. “Yes, I do. Thank you, mo réalta gheal.” She continued to evade what the words meant but at that moment, he didn’t mind. Rhea appeared over Abby’s shoulder to bodily hoist her from him, earning protests from them both and guided Abby towards the wardrobe. Wylla returned, eyebrows raised and offered a hand to tug him up.

“All better?” she asked, worry in her low voice.

“So you aren’t mad at me?”

“Och!” she swatted at his arm and shoved him back towards the balcony. “You are vexing. Begone!”

“Ah, so that’s where she’s getting her annoyance with me from.” He laughed as Wylla made to throw a slipper at him and darted back out the door.

Kingspyre Tower held its own great hall on the ground level, bigger than the Queen’s Hall in King’s Landing and entirely too much space for what was only a gathering of the family. It was a large family, all told, between the Targaryens and Velaryons, the Strongs and the Reynes, the Hightowers and a handful of Florents. Even with all of them seated around the cleared floor for dancing, Aegon was certain that they could comfortably fit double the size. Three great fireplaces were roaring to warm the space and minstrels played from the gallery a story above them.

Greens and golds, scarlets and silver, it was a sea of colorful fish that rose to clap as they entered the room. Abrogail jerked in surprise at the wave of sound beside him, fingers spasming against his sleeve. Aegon’s own reaction was automatic. He waved and she followed the gesture, laughing nervously at the intimate attention of the gathering. Great-Uncle Hobert was closest, stepping forward immediately to clap him on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, my boy!” he called. The exuberance that Lord Ormund Hightower expelled was so unlike Lord Otto’s that it continued to take Aegon by surprise and he let himself grin in return, basking beneath the warm glow of congratulatory adulation.

“Our thanks, cousin,” he said as Ormund’s new wife, Lady Samantha Tarly, appeared at his elbow. She was Abrogail’s age, equally red of hair, but her own skin was dusky and her eyes large and vivid green. Aegon kept his eyes on her narrow, smiling face and not below where her golden necklace hung with a sapphire as large as the one in his brother’s eye.

“They’ll return to us for much gossip later, my love,” she told Ormund, the man giving Aegon’s shoulder a final squeeze before letting go. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you, Lady Samantha,” Abby said as the other pressed a kiss to her cheek before they were finally released. It was slow moving along the right side of the hall to where the servant was guiding them to their seats at the top table. Handshakes and kisses, everyone seeking to get in a word of well wishes and congratulations.

Finally, they reached the top table where the king sat, looking better now that he’d rested for a few days. He raised his glass and Aegon’s steps faltered for a moment as he came face to face with Rhaenyra who stood beside him, and with her, Daemon, who was looking at Ser Simon with an incredulous look as the shorter, elder man espoused the way the lamb for the night’s feast had been prepared.

“They stuff it full of cranberries, you see,” Aegon heard before his attention fixed upon the woman in front of him.

Before sickness had hollowed the king’s cheeks, Aegon always thought that Rhaenyra looked like him, but he could now see their similarity. He was closer to his elder sister than he’d been since… Well, Aegon couldn’t remember the last time he was so close. Even during her arrival, there had been distance between them, two orbiting suns competing for the strongest pull.

Always competing, even if he never wanted to in the first place.

Now, this close, he could see the shape of their nose, and while Rhaenyra’s face was plumper due to her recent pregnancy, it was still her. Still the woman he remembered all these years but now with the clarity he hadn’t before. He could see Jacaerys in her features. The nose and mouth were the same, as well as the purple of their eyes. Were those Aemma Arryn’s eyes? Were those his eyes?

‘Is this why Mother can’t stand to look at me? Because I look like Rhaenyra?’

The Realm’s Delight. It was an apt name, if only by how beautiful she was. Her silver hair was long, with four braids pulled away from her head, woven with black and scarlet ribbons strung with charms. They reminded him of Syrax’s horns. Her crown was a band of gold that looked like scales with rubies interspersed that matched her earrings. Her gown was black, the rich pattern only visible when one was close. Further away it glimmered like scales, and the elegant, gold braiding was studded with pointed obsidian chips.

Rhaenyra had come wrapped in the opulence of House Targaryen and armored in her own way, shoulders bared and neckline plunging, throat dripping in a heavy necklace of onyx and rubies and her light cape a fall of netted black.

“Rijnondi, Āegos.” Husky voiced, the clip of King’s Landing hadn’t faded since she’d departed, but the Valyrian accent was stronger than even Aemond’s. Her lavender eyes flickered to Abrogail, and she said in the common tongue, “And congratulations to you, Lady Abrogail.” The smile that crossed Rhaenyra’s face did not reach her eyes. Her lavender gaze was shuttered, on guard much like Aemond’s could be. Her fingers were held before her, delicately rolling one of the many rings she wore in what Aegon thought might be nerves at best and a play at coming off nervous at worst.

“Thank you, Princess,” Abby said, not soft spoken like she usually was. Her cheeks were flushed and her voice was a little loud. Endearing, to be sure, but also entertaining. “And thank you once more for coming to celebrate with us. It’s been so long since we’ve seen you. You’re looking well!” Her words rushed at the end, loud enough to draw the attention of Daemon.

“My brother tells me that you are being given the title of ‘princess’ upon your marriage,” he said, cutting over whatever Ser Simon was about to say next. His black doublet matched the design of Rhaenyra’s gown but was edged with red and black braid instead of the goldenrod that his wife wore. “I remarked at how unusual it was for such a title to be given, since that’s reserved for the heir and their family. Not even my late wife received such an honor and she was of Valyrian blood.” His face took on a thoughtful expression, mouth pursed and eyebrows raised. “Some fascinating negotiation on that front.”

“Prince Aegon is the king’s eldest son.” From the other side of the king’s chair came Otto Hightower, his graying beard neatly trimmed, his black doublet edged in green braid to match Mother’s gown. The golden hand that announced his office pinned his decorative cloak in place. “It is an honor he is entitled to.”

“Entitled?” Daemon’s voice was arched, his lips curling back in the same sort of smile Aegon had seen on his dragon’s face. He looked towards his sister, whose lavender eyes were on the play, fingers twisting her ring around. Perhaps it was not a play at nerves. Aegon glanced at the door the servants were going through, longing in his heart.

“Which do you think will become apoplectic first?” Abby asked in what he was certain she meant to be a teasing whisper in his ear, but wine and nerves had made it audible for the gathered group. Aegon’s eyes widened, a nervous and amused giggle escaping him as Rhaenyra’s own gaze flitted back to them, surprise and amusement on her features.

Ser Simon let out a hearty laugh, clapping Daemon with most familiarity on the shoulder. “Let us sit, eh? Now, while the cranberries offer such splendid tartness, it’s truly the persimmons that bring such spark to a roast boar…”

Aegon’s stomach growled at the thought of roast boar, but Rhaenyra did not move from where she was standing beside their father and in front of the chair that was meant to be his. It had been his for his birthday, the attention of the realm upon him in celebration, his father smiling at him with kind words. He was aware of the warm weight of his crown circling his brow; the hammered crown of gold with the seven dragons that was his. The crown that had once been Prince Aemon’s, then Prince Baelon’s, and then his sire’s before he became king.

It was his now and for tonight, for this time, so was that seat.

Rhaenyra had so much. She had titles, she had affection, she had every acknowledgement without fighting or scraping. Of course she assumed what was his for once was hers by rights, everything else was.

Aegon sighed through his nose, something that could be excused as a particularly loud exhale. He wanted the warmth and positive attention, even if only for a few moments, but was this even worth it? Sitting by their sire, threatening the tense peace for a chair he wouldn't want most of the time? With a nod to his elder sister, he motioned towards the seat at their father's side.

“Thank you for coming so far.” He gestured with a nod towards the chair they stood over. “You’ve been away at Dragonstone for so long, it must be good for the two of you to catch up. I believe I’ll engage with Ser Simon on the delicacy of the roast boar.” He felt the warmth of Abrogail beside him and took comfort in it.

‘I am my father’s true born son,’ came the sober thought, his eyes briefly flicking to where Jace was leaning down to speak with Lucerys, thinking about the way his shoulders shook as he sobbed in the gardens. ‘At least I have that.’

When Aegon looked at his sister again, her shoulders had slumped and it was then that he realized how tense she’d been since he approached. There was a curious look on her face, one of surprise and uncertainty, her eyes studying his own face as if words were written there, his thoughts on display. Aegon met her gaze unflinchingly. She didn’t know him, just like those Riverlords didn’t know him. Just like so many of those men who whispered about him didn’t know him.

“Sit down already.” The king’s rasp broke through the space between them. “Rhaenyra, you are a dear.” He reached out a hand to pat her arm. “There’s no harm in letting the lad sit here. It’s his wedding after all.”

Rhaenyra turned, mouth opening as she tried to grasp for some response, shaken from her thoughts by their sire’s words. “O-of course it is.”

The king chuckled again. “What good conversation I must have for the both of you to be bickering over the chair.” Aegon raised his eyebrows and found himself catching Rhaenyra’s eye at the strange statement. Did something pass between them? Some understanding or mutual confusion? Or had he imagined it? “Come, Aegon. Let us start this feast already.”

“I’m starving and Aunt Mya said that she had them prepare candied plums!” Abby pressed a kiss to his cheek as the servants pulled the chairs out for them, Rhaenyra taking her seat to Abby’s left and murmuring to Daemon as she did so.

“You need more than candied plums for however much you drank,” Aegon said, bending his head close to her.

“I did not drink that much,” she protested, her face turned so close to kiss but if he did, he wouldn’t stop and this was not the ideal audience for such a thing.

“You drank on an empty stomach which makes it that much. I should know—”

“---Because you drink more than a Braavosi sea lord?” The words were Aemond’s but the innocent tone was entirely her own. Blue eyes gazed at him from beneath her lashes, flashing with her annoyance. Aegon gave her a look and shifted to allow their goblets to be filled, a local wine by the winemakers in Harrentown. Claret drops splashed over the rim and ran down the silver, snaking over the swirls and whorls etched in for the rivers to the stems shaped like weirwood trunks, their leaves creeping up the bottom of the cup. Abby reached for hers and Aegon snagged it. “Aegon!”

“Not until the bread comes out,” he shrugged, sipping from her goblet for good measure and set it out of her reach.

She scowled and snatched his goblet instead of reaching over him like he’d hoped and he began to protest before he caught the gaze of his sister from around Abby’s head. He stilled, staring back at her and her inscrutable gaze before the tap of a goblet rang through the hall and his father was raising his hand for quiet.

"Tonight we gather in private celebration for the pending marriage of my son, Prince Aegon, and Lady Abrogail. House Strong has long served House Targaryen loyally and faithfully, and it is only right that now they are to be joined in marriage. Lord Lyonel was a steadfast Hand and a good man, would that he could have seen our children come together. Alas, something he did not have the opportunity to see." He raised his goblet ever so slightly higher as he looked towards the table where House Reyne sat. "An honor that Lady Celeste would have enjoyed for her daughter and her family as well. But there is no need to dwell on those no longer with us. Please, everyone, eat, and be merry. There is only more of this to enjoy in the coming days."

As the room clapped politely for his speech, Aegon exhaled with relief to the sounds of the musicians starting their songs, letting it wash over him. He reached beneath the table to rub his hand along Abby’s thigh, seeking out her twisting fingers and distracting her from where he knew her thoughts had gone. He felt the return squeeze, longing to strangle his sire for the moment in such dwelling over the dead and what he’d done for Rhaenyra, the thoughts of the truth beneath threatening to choke him.

Mercifully, the servants appeared with the first course. While the wedding feast would last for hours, this night would not shy away. Platters of pies stuffed with eggs and cheese, smelling of parsley and thyme, were set in front of them along with ones brimming with venison and dates and reasons, smelling of pepper and ginger. They were all small hand pies, and Aegon saw Daeron gleefully loading several onto his plate across the hall. There was a pottage of barley with raisins and berries and fresh loaves of bread still steaming slightly from the oven. Aegon immediately loaded several pies onto his plate even though there were more courses to come.

After sex, food and wine were welcome escapes and the only path he had in the moment.

The hall descended into merriment, plates being passed and laughter accompanying the merry tunes surrounding them like snowfall. The anxiety was palpable beneath it all, the subtly held breath that something would happen and hadn’t yet. Two pies down and Aegon had yet to see her eat and so he pushed one of the pies on her plate closer towards her. Abby swatted at his hand and he laughed.

“Are you going to vex me all evening, Aegon?” Abby asked before delicately biting into one of the meat pies.

“Are you going to challenge me all evening, Abrogail?” The wine was light and fruity on his tongue and he took a larger gulp, letting it warm pleasantly down his gullet.

Abby scoffed. “Clearly, I don’t challenge you enough.” He felt his lower belly tighten at her words and looked over at her, a quiet snort coming from the other side of her. Rhaenyra was looking at her plate though and not at them, so he was uncertain if the sound had come from her. His bride, however, did look at his sister, goblet paused in midair. “I am appreciative of you sitting beside me, Your Grace. You have saved me from my own sister ruining my appetite.”

Aegon choked on his bite of meat pie and this time he knew Rhaenyra had laughed. It was short, if a little awkward, clearly she was just as startled by the glib statement as he was coming from Abby. It reminded Aegon of Syrax.

She hummed and took a sip of her drink. “She is quite keen to insert her opinion constantly and I’m grateful that you do not appear to be the type.”

He looked at his plate, eyes wide at the exchange. Silent prayers were said and he was listening intently should Rhaenyra say something to upset her. Abby’s fire was often hidden and to have it come out now was both exhilarating and terrifying given the company.

“Lady Corynna and I were companions in our youth,” Rhaenyra said, voice low with curious amusement. “It does not surprise me to hear that she hasn’t changed. You’d think Johanna Lannister would have curbed that habit of hers.”

“I don’t think there is very much that can curb her habits.”

Silence fell once more and then the brush of warm lips against Aegon’s cheek startled him as he inhaled rose and red currant of Abby’s skin. “I love you,” she whispered against his cheek. “I’m still upset about Cassandra.”

His cheeks flushed deeper with arousal and his hand found her leg again. “It’s only the first course, hunītsos.”

The look she gave him was heated, annoyed, and vulnerable all together and it was everything in Aegon, the awareness that he had been forced into over these past few months, that kept him from indulging as he wanted. Instead, he reached up to rest his hand on the back of her neck, his fingers running against the golden scales that circled her throat and delighted in her shiver. She was new to this game and he’d make her work for it. The distraction it provided was welcome, softening the jagged edges of tension in his gut.

Plates were cleared and all were appropriately in awe of the large boar that took four servants to carry out, setting it upon its own table before the main table. It was a great beast, its skin deliciously darkened and tusks gilded with gold. The clapping and approving cries of the crowd nearly overtook the music from above.

“Five men to take it down,” Ser Simon’s voice came from the end of the table. “Two spearmen and three crossbow. Do you enjoy boar hunting, my Prince? The Red Wood has a healthy sounder we’ve cultivated since I was a lad. The cloves add such a depth of flavor-”

“Along with the cranberries?” came Daemon’s dry reply.

“And the currants!”

“And the currants,” Aegon whispered against Abby’s ear, sending her into a fit of giggles while a plate of fritters smelling of honey and elderflowers was set before them, a vegetable pottage of beans and dishes of several sort of sauces were set before them. Dishes stacked high with lace thin crepes were also set down to wrap the pork in should one so choose.

The servants brought platters of the fresh sliced meat, bits of cranberries and currants, chunks of persimmons and juicy chunks of pork fat glistening across the pieces. It was set before Abby and Aegon and his fork immediately reached to stab a piece only to knock into Rhaenyra who had leaned over at the same time for the same piece of meat.

Their eyes met, Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed with surprise, her own cheeks a little flushed from either drink or who knew what else. Maybe Daemon was toying with her beneath the table as well.

“Don’t mind me,” came Abby’s soft sigh, her loosened tongue spilling out what Aegon was sure were meant to be her own thoughts. “I’ll just sit here and wait.”

“Please,” Aegon broke the stalemate first, removing his fork and gesturing. “You first, you are the elder.” It was not meant to be any sort of barb or biting remark, only off-handed, but as soon as the words left him, Aegon tensed, two dogs over the last bone.

Finally, Rhaenyra’s lip curled in a smirk that reminded him so strongly of Aemond that the resemblance unnerved him. She stabbed a piece of the succulent pork and deposited it on Abby’s plate. “For you, sweet sister.” Rhaenyra helped herself and Aegon took his piece, the feeling enveloping him strange and uncertain. The flash of Jace sobbing beside him the other night flashed once more across his memory, the position that his mother had put him in.

His sister was a strange collection of memories, many of them colored by the ugliness in Driftmark’s great hall and her turning her back on them, for demanding Aemond’s torture, for twisting something so horrible to some personal attack to her.

Then what their father did…

Did Rhaenyra know? Did she know it was actions done for her sake that had Abby sitting here fatherless while the king made overtures of how unfortunate it was that Lord Lyonel was not here to celebrate his daughter’s marriage? Was that why she was being kind to her? Was it guilt? As he dumped cuts of pork onto his plate, Rhaenyra had stolen the plum sauce and he sullenly contented himself with the lighter, strawberry sauce that Abby was using.

Even with the moments of darkness snaking through his thoughts, the occasional holding of his breath when someone shouted through the room, bracing himself for something to break out, the rest of the feast passed without expected calamity. Looking down the table to where Heleana once more stuck between Aemond and Jace revealed resignation on his brother’s part, Jace’s frown rarely leaving his face.

The course passed in relative ease, Abby relaxing beside him with another goblet of wine nearly finished, her cheeks flushed with it and her hand occasionally sliding up his thigh beneath the table. Bowls of water and linens were brought out after the meat was cleared to wash their hands and the sweet confections appeared as the minstrels struck up merrier tunes for people to dance and mingle too, their bellies full of good food. Custard tarts, sunny yellow with saffron and smelling of ginger and piled with juicy berries, tarts filled with apples and figs and smelling of cloves and cinnamon, and of course, little almond comfits and marchpane dragons, one which Abby promptly bit the head off, pale sugar coating her mouth so enticingly he had to steal a kiss.

Aegon licked his mouth when they parted, his tongue caressing her mouth and her flush matched her hair. “Did you want to dance?” The floor between the ring of tables already sported some of the family, Lord Corlys spinning a smiling Princess Rhaenys and Martyn being pulled against his will by one of the Florent girls.

“Maybe in a little while,” she murmured, and he was relieved that she lacked the melancholy cloud that had settled over her since their arrival. The diamond tear drops that hung from her tiara tinkled as she rested her head on his shoulder and Aegon slid an arm around her shoulders, twirling a copper curl around his finger. Rhaenyra made a quiet excuse and headed towards the Velaryon table where the twins sat with Luke, curiously bypassing Jace. Daemon remained speaking with Ser Simon, or perhaps held hostage by the old man, but curiously had not appeared to escape quite yet.

Aegon’s eyes were heavily lidded with contentment, even stuck sitting next to his father who had said little to him over the course of the feast, and so it took a moment for him to notice the whispers beneath the fresh tune the minstrels played.

Helaena had gone on the dance floor, her silver hair contained in a net studded with sapphires, an overdress of Targaryen black with beautiful, floral embroidery in bright blue, the sleeves and skirt opened to reveal the matching blue undergown. His younger sister looked strange in black, so rare it was on her. She reminded him of one of the birds she once had. The feathers had been so dark they looked black, but when the wings flapped and the sun caught, they shimmered in so many jewel tones.

The murmuring was not about Helaena.

Jace had followed her onto the floor, his tunic a rich, black velvet with the three headed dragon embroidered upon his chest. The red cape clasped to one shoulder swished behind him and Aegon thought it excessive, poncy, and he was more than a little envious. Perhaps he needed to add a cape to his wardrobe. His face was flushed, his eyes darting around nervously, and Aegon saw his mouth move in some quiet hiss to Helaena but she ignored him.

No one else ignored Jace. No one else was ignoring the dark curls around Jace’s face. Aegon looked down the table towards Larys, but the man had vanished when Aegon wasn’t looking. Instead, Ser Simon and Daemon were looking towards the dance floor, his uncle’s face inscrutable, Ser Simon looking concerned. House Strong’s looks were blatant from the table they shared with the Velaryons. Lord Corlys’ brother, Vaemond, was scowling into his goblet. Rhaenyra stood behind Luke’s chair where he sat next to Rhaena, her hand gripping the wood as she paused in her conversation with her son to look at the pair now dancing.

Cold slithered down Aegon’s spine and he ran his tongue over his teeth behind his lips. He tilted his head back to look to where his mother sat to the king’s right, finding Larys behind her murmuring in his mother’s ear, his grandfather absent from his chair.

It wasn’t Jace’s fault.

Aegon thought of the time he met Alyn’s brother, Addam, and the lilac eyes that stared back at him.

It wasn’t their fault either.

It wasn’t Aegon’s fault. Sometimes, it wasn’t even Rhaenyra’s fault, or his mother’s fault.

“Come on,” Aegon murmured, tugging Abby out of her chair and pulling her behind him. He really needed a cape too, but for now, it was fine. For now, the gold crown shone around his head, the diamonds tinkled and shimmered through Abby’s curls. This was their night and everyone should be paying attention to them.

As a reminder, no hate (except for vizzy hate) in the comments! We have two more chapters left of this arc! There will be a sequel so make sure you are following/got notifs/etc! I'd love to know what you thought of the chapter, as I know many of you expected chaos to reign during this family dinner. Well, good news is we still have a wedding to go ;)

Reblogs let me know you're reading and enjoying the story so far!

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 4 - Le Rideau Tombe Avant La Fin

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is reader and Eloise's farewell to Paris. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Paris, September 1939

The next three days are a blur, fleeting but at once memorable, lived on borrowed time. 

Knowing the inevitable is happening - that you will need to leave Paris soon - you give notice at work; so sad to have only been there for a matter of weeks rather than the planned months. On a brighter note, however, you are able to spend the days with Benedict, showing him all you have learned about art in the city in the short time you have had. Many a happy hour is spent in galleries. Both of you tripping over your words to share what you know about the art and the artists in a breathless, excited fashion. Kindred spirits in your appreciation of the works. Sometimes lost in a reverie as you stand in front of a canvas as large as your entire living room, the scale and complexity literally dumbfounding. 

And, of course, a little of your heart is stolen with each moment together - the first person you have ever met who truly seems as enthused as you about the subject matter. That it's all wrapped up in that handsome face adds more complexity and confusion. You can't deny the skip in your pulse when he looks at you, weighted, a touch of reverence, so focused as you speak passionately on the subject you love. And you are certain your face is a picture of devotion as he waxes lyrical, too. You know you are getting swept up into the almost cliched romance of it all - the city of love, a handsome stranger, the no doubt impending invasion giving a sense of urgency and finality to every hour- it's a powder keg that feels dangerous as it is intoxicating. 

—

Early evening of the second day, as you wander back from the Louvre, you pass by the offices of the cruise company you came from America with. 

“Oh! I should speak to them about swapping my return ticket,” you comment, seeing the men standing outside in the smart red livery of the company, speaking in English to crowds of people inquiring about escaping France.

“See if you can move it to the day after tomorrow,” Benedict counsels. “That is the day we are due to set sail. We can all go to the coast together on the train.”

“That would be nice,” you admit, realising it will be lovely to have someone to wave farewell to, even if there is a little stab in your chest at the idea you may never see Benedict again. Or, of course, darling Eloise.

So, a couple of hours later, after an early dinner, you are back on this same street, your ticket in hand, waiting patiently to speak to one of the young men in uniform. 

“Mademoiselle?” he beckons you forward.

“Good evening. I have a ticket to New York for eleven months, hence, 12th August 1940. I am hoping I can swap to a sailing in a few days? Ideally, the day after tomorrow?”

The men exchange glances, and there seems to be a swirl of excitement as they crowd around you.

“A real ticket?” one of them pipes up, an excitement in their tone which strikes you as rather odd.

With a nod, you hand it over, and they all seem to confer, then grab a pad of tickets and transfer some details. 

“Not a problem at all, Mademoiselle. Here, this is for a sailing two days hence. Thank you for travelling with us!”

They seem inordinately pleased as you walk away clutching your new ticket, a mix of emotions swirling. The finality of your time in Paris suddenly so real, the date on the newly issued ticket, ink still drying, sinking in.

—

When you push open the door to your apartment, still with a tinge of melancholy, you are taken aback by the whirlwind you encounter.

“How did I amass this many mugs?” Eloise decries, standing amidst a complete bomb of possessions scattered all over the surfaces of your apartment.

“Well, you can't take them all home,’ Benedict points out wearily, “you have your case, and that trunk there, Eloise, and that is all.”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “Well aware of that brother…” holding a blue and red mug in each hand, assessing which she likes more.

“I suppose I'm lucky I've only been here a matter of weeks,” you pipe up as they both turn to look at you, Benedict shooting you a lopsided grin as Eloise barges forward and loops your arm in hers, dragging you across the room.

“Just the person I need!” she declares. “Help me! What mug screams, ‘I had a life in Paris once, and it was amazing’?” She gestures to the array of drinking vessels she has pulled out to the cupboard.

You ponder the question with a thoughtful pout. “Why not just leave them all for the next tenant? I'm sure Solene would appreciate the ability to rent out the apartment with kitchen supplies?” you try to be diplomatic.

“Yes, I know that,” Eloise sighs, “there were mugs when I got here. That, of course, got mysteriously broken after a few days, which is a blessing as they were all hideous…”

“You broke some perfectly good mugs?” Benedict frowns disapprovingly.

“Do you live here?” she shoots back pointedly, raising an eyebrow, “I am only seeking the counsel of those who live here… not a squatter,” she sniffs.

You share a look with Benedict -  yours contrite, his bemused - as if this is just another day with Eloise. Which, to be fair, it sort of is.

“If I had to choose one…” you point to the cherry red earthenware mug that looks French in a way you can’t quantify; it just does.

“You’re right as always,” Eloise grins, seizing it. “Much better help than that one,” she adds, sticking her tongue out at Benedict as she wraps the chosen item in yesterday's newspaper.

“Packing going well?” you breeze, your eye again meeting Benedict’s as he pulls a face that makes you giggle hard.

“You try cramming nine months of freedom into a teeny trunk,” Eloise grumbles, heading towards her bedroom.

“I am just taking my clothes…” you admit. You only have a few additional items you purchased since you arrived in Paris that should all fit if you pack smart enough.

“That’s yours, by the way…” Eloise gestures to Benedict’s painting on the wall before she disappears out of sight. “I have no room for it, and it seems strange to carry a picture of a house I'm headed to…” she calls out down the corridor.

“I would love it…” you inhale, looking at the artist imploringly as if somehow you need his permission.

“Y-you want it?” Hesitant, disbelieving almost. 

“If you will permit me,” you confess, clasping a hand over your heart.

“It is yours,” he replies, his face a mixture of pleasant surprise and humble acceptance.

You rush forward and take the painting off the wall, reverentially cradling it between your hands. 

“Thank you, Benedict,” you sigh, a little fizz in your stomach at the idea he wants you to have it. Like you will always have a piece of him with you once you are apart.

“I can paint you others...” he offers quickly, in a rush of exhaled breath. “Whatever you want…”

Something in the tumbling sincerity of his words has your heart beating fast.

“I can think of nothing more appealing than a wall full of your works…” you confess while trying not to think that room would be thousands of miles away.

He blushes adorably, casting his eyes down until suddenly, his head jerks up again. “Wait I…I have something I want to give you, actually,” He scurries across the room and gathers a sketchbook. “I'm sorry it's not framed, but here…”

He carefully tears out the page from his pad. And your heart stops.

It's you from two days ago. Sitting on a bench overlooking the Seine, the Eiffel Tower over your shoulder as you read a book. You wondered what he was doing sitting a few feet away that day as you took a lunch break. Now you know. It's a perfect pencil rendering of the scene, each sketched line a wondrous recreation of that sun-soaked afternoon.

“Benedict….” all other words fail. 

“I want you to have it,” he murmurs, “your time in Paris may have been unexpectedly brief, but you deserve a memento of the happiness you found here, however fleeting it had to be.”

Tears prickle in the corner of your eyes; you want to rush to him, to throw your arms around him, thank him profusely, but you are scared to. Scared that in the moment you would get carried away, press your lips to his…

“Thank you...” is all you can struggle out, inadequate and awkward.  

“De rein…” Again, that perfect accent has you practically swaying

But the spell is broken when Eloise reappears, complaining loudly about the size of her trunk, and part of you is grateful for it. Guilt floods your being as you think how bad of a person you must be to covet your best friend’s brother when you have a fiance back home. One you will, in fact, likely see in a matter of days now… tamping down that disquiet, you excuse yourself to your room, placing your ticket on the mantel and refusing to look at it as you pick up a book to read.

—

Solene’s hug is so tight you feel like she is crushing your ribs. Or perhaps it's that you feel a little too fragile today.

“I shall miss you, ma cherie,” she mumbles into your hair before pulling back and seizing your jaw. “You will come back when this is all over, oui?”

“Oui,” you agree, knowing it’s more of a wish than a promise.

Once again, she pulls you in for a tight hug before turning to Eloise and clinging to her just the same, lingering longer.

“Souviens-toi, ma sœur,” she reminds Eloise, having told you the previous night that her sister lives just outside the port city of Le Havre should you need a place to stay for any reason.

It's two days later, the day of your departure, and your eyes ping around the now-tidy apartment, only furniture left where once there was a jumble of life. It looks much less like home, making handing over your key a little less painful. One final wistful glance at the Eiffel Tower out of the window is all you can manage before picking up your case and walking out, scared to look back.

Benedict is loitering in the corridor outside and shoots you a sympathetic glance as you exit, eyes glassy.

“You will return,” he offers solemnly, even as you both know it's just a platitude, before turning his attention to the apartment door. “Hurry up, Eloise, we need to get to the train…” he calls.

You start to move towards the sweeping staircase, preferring a long amble down its winding loop than the lift, your case feeling much heavier than when you arrived mere weeks ago…

—

You watch the puffs of steam float past the window as the train picks up pace, pulling out of Gare Saint-Lazare. Perhaps aptly, it begins raining soon after, streaks of water lashing the glass as you rest your head back into the seat.

“I can't bear to look at it,” Eloise sighs, closing her eyes so as not to see Paris slipping away.

You reach over the table between you and grasp her hand, and her eyes open to give you a nod of thanks before closing again. 

“Why do you have to be American?” she whines. “I would do anything to have you come to England. We could get a little place together in London…” She winds her feet around yours like a vine, needing the connection in your last few hours together.

“If only…” you agree, a weight akin to a heavy boulder settling in your stomach at the idea you will soon be back on Long Island, a world that seems so…. staid to you now.

Benedict shoots you a sympathetic look across from his seat next to Eloise on the aisle but says nothing, going back to reading his book as it's your turn to sigh, the city now a blur outside the window as you speed towards the end of your time in France.

–

Half an hour later, Eloise is sleeping, her head lolling lightly on the glass with the gentle rocking motion of the train, now following the meander of the Seine just outside Poissy.

“She didn't sleep well last night,” Benedict observes, looking up from his book and following your line of sight. “I don't think she wanted her last night in Paris to ever end.”.

His words take you back to just hours ago, a rousing evening in your favourite local bistro filled with wine, camaraderie and song. Benedict didn't accompany you and Eloise, preferring to stay home and read, he said, but part of you wishes he was there to help commiserate and toast your final night chez Paris.

“You should have come out,” you opine with a slight pout, which makes him chuckle.

“It's not me who had to have the fitting farewell,” he points out with a sympathetic smile.

“Still, it would have been nice if you were there…” The idle thought is out of your lips before you can think about how that might sound, and you know you are blushing when his mouth opens a fraction in surprise, a dot of colour on his cheeks, too.

“I'm sure you still had a wonderful time,” he placates demurely.

You smile and nod, feeling a little twinge in your ankle from all the dancing you have done.

“Are you excited?” he asks, changing the subject.

You frown. “Why would I be excited to leave Paris?”

To be reunited with your fiance?” he answers slowly, a look of puzzlement on his face that it had not occurred to you.

“Oh…” you pause, your mind recalling Stanley’s smile, although somehow it seems faded now, like an out-of-focus photograph, as if you cannot wholly remember it now.  “I… I suppose…”

His face is a picture of concern again. “You do not sound certain…” he hedges.

“I am not, to be honest,” you sigh for what seems like the hundredth time today. “These few weeks have… shown me so much of the world,” you explain, “I have had so many novel experiences, met so many wonderful new people…” you can't help but let your gaze meet his as you say it. “It makes my life before seem… small? Parochial?” you are clutching for the right words as his hazy eyes track your every facial move.

“Like an old shoe that used to be comfortable but now suddenly feels too tight?” he offers a metaphor that is so apt you can't help but nod.

“Exactly!’ you agree, enthusiastically waving your hand. 

There is a quiet moment where your eyes meet again, a tingle over your skin, a pulse of energy so enlivening.

“Do you feel there is perhaps something out there better for you?” his ask feels loaded, a quiet murmur that carries so much hidden meaning but is nearly lost in the rhythmic sound of the train clattering over the tracks. So much so you could likely pretend you didn't hear, but you don't. 

“I just might…” you answer softly, even as you are unable to look away. Something about this man makes you daring, unwilling to do anything but be bold.

Long, elegant fingers reach out over the table and are about to brush the back of your hand when Eloise suddenly startles awake between you. His hand disappears rapidly, pulling back as if burned. All you can concentrate on is the ashy taste of regret at your best friend’s timing.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

[veronicaphoenix]

zutto — chapter eleven | wc: 5.9k | series masterpost | prev. chapter

Chapter summary: Noah and Lia get answers from Noah's Grandma to all the questions they've had since Koi No Yokan.

Reading time: 25mins aprox.

Tags and trigger warnings: established relationship, slight angst, japanese folklore*, chinese folklore*, magical realism, fluff, a few tears, therapy, mentions/allusions to everything that has happened until now, including lia and noah's troubled childhood, lia's abusive relationship with mitch, and the time noah and lia slept together when they were drunk. Answers to all the mysteries that happened in Koi No Yokan.

General trigger warnings: this work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

The house welcomed them with the earthy, lingering fragrance of incense. It was a scent neither Lia nor Noah could identify yet, for it was unfamiliar—perhaps it was woven from cedarwood. Perhaps sandalwood. Nevertheless, the scent and warmth of the house wrapped them in a sense of home despite knowing they were far from their own. It was an odd mix of comfort and respectful distance; they knew they were guests in a house where every detail was arranged with thoughtful care by someone else, and yet, it felt like being home in a way. But it wasn’t the place which gave them that feeling, no. 

It was Grandma. 

They slipped off their shoes at the entrance, following tradition, and as Lia wiped her eyes, Noah leaned into a hug to envelop his grandmother, a gentle but steady wrapping of arms that worked as a reminder of everything she had quietly done for him. As a boy, he had been unaware of it all, but now, as a grown man, he was aware and full of gratitude and admiration. 

“Why don’t you let Emi take your things upstairs?” Hana suggested, a familiar sparkle in her eye that meant she felt very joyful at having them home, finally. “I’ll prepare some tea, and we can sit in the tea room.”

At that, they both turned to see Emi, who had appeared with graceful timing at the entrance. She was a woman with short black hair in her late forties who had been assisting Hana for years. Noah and Lia knew her from their previous visits, and once again, as she stood with her hands neatly clasped and she nodded politely in their direction, her expression remained the same as always: serene and carrying a formality that made her seem both close and reserved at once. Though Hana managed the house alone, Emi’s help had become essential as of lately. The house was spacious and slightly too big for a woman alone. There were countless small details to tend to, and Hana, with her body aging with every passing day—that pain in her right leg, the backache—found herself struggling with certain tasks. Emi was there to lend her hands, as she had likely done for others throughout her life.

Emi’s presence had taken on a near-reverent quality since the moment she was hired, and that attitude applied not only to Hana but also to any guests arriving at the house. Her English was very poor, and that had led to some awkward exchanges between her and Noah and Lia in the past. Once, Lia had tried to bridge the gap and she’d asked Emi to sit with them at the tea table. But Emi, polite and respectful as ever, had simply smiled, bowed, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Lia feeling guilty at the thought that, while they were indulging in pastries and warm teas, the woman was cleaning the kitchen. Perhaps it was a cultural legacy of deep-seated respect, rooted in the tradition of servitude where service was considered a quiet honor, but it still didn’t sit too well with neither Lia and Noah. Hana told them, after a few times, there was nothing they could do and they had to accept the way she was, and so they never really said much else, not even when they felt a tinge of guilt.  

Noah thanked Emi gently, shaking his head when she made to lift one of their heavy suitcases. There was no way he was going to let that woman carry those heavy bags upstairs. But as expected, Emi insisted, saying something in Japanese and bending down. Noah exchanged a look with Lia, as if asking for a help she couldn’t provide. Emi attempted again to lift one of the bags, her intent clear even without words and ignoring Noah’s hands. 

“Can you tell her I’ll take care of it?” Noah asked Hana. “They’re too heavy. She’ll hurt her back. I can manage.” 

Hana nodded, understanding, and with a sweet voice but reverence in her tone, indicated to Emi—in Japanese, of course—to leave the task to Noah. Emi listened to Hana with more will than she had listened to Noah, for she nodded in understanding immediately and retreated after offering Noah another nodding and a smile that he tried to weirdly reciprocate. 

Lia trailed behind Noah as he took both suitcases upstairs at once, her carrying their backpacks, and once they reached the top of the stairs, she paused in front of the guest room door where she had always stayed. 

Noah kept walking towards his room until he noticed Lia standing far from him.

“You don’t think we’re sleeping in separate beds, let alone in separate rooms, do you?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head, but her voice softened as she glanced toward the stairs. “I just don’t want to be inconsiderate. Maybe we should talk to Grandma about it first.”

After a brief pause, Noah nodded.

“Yeah. Sure. We’ll talk to her.” He extended a hand to her, and he waited until Lia took it to lead her into his room, sliding the doors open. 

The room was bigger than the guest room, square in shape, with a big futon laying on a wooden tatami, clean soft bedding drapped over it and an array of pillows. There was a small desk next to the door, facing the bed, and two more sliding doors on one side that led to a cozy balcony overlooking the distant mountains. Noah had never really stopped to appreciate how cozy the room was, but now he imagined how much warmer it would feel, having Lia lying in his bed. 

Noah set the suitcases in one side and Lia placed their backpacks on the desk. 

After spending a few minutes sorting through her toiletries and hanging up some clothes in the wardrobe, Lia slipped away to the bathroom for a quick break. Just then, a knock on the door startled Noah, causing him to turn around. He found Emi by the threshold, carrying more pillows in her arms and two colorful blankets. A sigh escaped him; he couldn’t find a way to explain they didn’t need so many, and he didn’t want to discharge her and offend her, so he simply stowed the extras in the wardrobe, thanking her.

Lia came back from the bathroom with her hair gathered in a comfy bun, and both headed downstairs. 

Grandma was in the kitchen, a space that carried the comforting smell of teas being prepared and food being cooked. Hana was placing an iron kettle on a tray and arranging three delicate porcelain cups beside a plate of traditional sweets when both stepped into the room. 

As Hana looked up, her eyes softened, the faint creases at their edges deepening. She paused, noticing the way Noah and Lia lingered at the door as if feeling shy about something. 

Before she focused on that, a surge of disbelief spread through her. It was always a little surreal to see them grown up, these two who had shared so much, tethered by a bond she had always sensed. To her, they were still the children who’d once sought refuge in her kitchen after school, where she would braid Lia’s hair and smile at Noah’s pleas to grow his hair long like hers, that little girl with torn clothes and that boy who used to escape the struggles of his family by playing guitar.

“Is everything to your liking?” Hana asked, her gaze soft but searching.

“Yes,” Lia replied quickly. Noah nodded in agreement, but then Lia glanced at him before adding, a hint of hesitation in her voice, “We were wondering if… if Noah and I could… share a room?”

Hana’s attention drifted downward, catching the subtle movement between their bodies. Noah’s fingers reached for Lia’s, and she quietly laced hers with his. Hana’s eyes lingered on their joined hands for a moment, before her lips curved into an understanding smile.

With a quiet satisfaction that neither Noah nor Lia fully comprehended, Hana lifted the tea tray and moved gracefully around the kitchen island, gesturing for them to follow without saying a word. Despite her petite frame, there was an elegance and authority in her movements.

Noah and Lia exchanged a look, then followed her into the tea room.

Hana’s tea room was minimal yet spacious, containing a square wooden table in the center surrounded by floor cushions. A single cabinet along the wall held a modest assortment of teacups and plates and a bouquet of dry flowers that had been there since she moved into the house, crafted by Lia, of course. On the left, the panneled windows made of washi paper let in the soft, diffused light from the garden at the back of the house. The room had always felt like a sacred space. 

Noah and Lia sat side by side, waiting in a reverent silence as Hana kneeled down in front of them across the table and poured the tea, the steam unfurling in delicate wisps that mingled with the scent of sencha. Lia wrapped her hands around the warm mug only to be warned by Hana. 

“It’s hot, dear. Be careful.”

It was always the same warning, and yet, Lia never seemed to care about it. Hana would always say the same, and Lia would always keep her hands around the mug because instead of burning her hands, the heat brought a sense of grounding to her that spread from her hands to the rest of her body. 

Next to her, Noah, normally patient, was growing a bit restless. He was expecting an answer. Yes. No. It had been a simple question, right? Can we share a room? Can Lia sleep in my bed?  He just needed a simple “yes” or “no” —a “yes” better than the other option because truth was, he didn’t know what he would do if Hana said he wanted them to keep distance while in the house. But Hana had to be so cryptic. She had to draw things out and keep him on this toes. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Hana’s old but wise eyes met his just as she finished pouring herself tea. Her expression was one almost… mischievous. There was softness in it, but she had a knowing smile on her lips that hinted at secrets only she knew. 

Just as Noah opened his mouth to speak, she said, “There’s something I want to show you.”

She started to rise, and instinctively, Noah made a move to help, but she waved him off. 

“No need, my dear. Just give me a moment.”

She dissappeared down the hall, her footsteps a soft patter that didn’t quite fade entirely as she retrieved what she went looking for in a nearby room. She returned moments later. In her wrinkled hands, she held a small, dark wooden box. She settled back onto the cushions. 

“Is that where you’ve been keeping my old baby teeth?” Noah joked, gesturing to the box with a smirk. Beside him, Lia chuckled, but Hana’s silence—her smile still serene—quickly quieted them. 

“Not quite,” was her reply. 

Hana placed the box on the table, facing her. Her own cup of tea steamed right next to it. She slowly opened it, but the attached lid created a barrier that made it impossible for Lia and Noah to see what was inside. Lia shifted, hands on her knees, lifting herself slightly and stretching her neck to catch a glimpse of whatever that was. 

Hana grabbed whatever was inside with such care that Noah and Lia’s curiosity and confusion just increased. A moment later, she placed something in the palm of her other hand and extended it towards them, revealing a piece of red string. 

The string lay delicate and faded in Hana’s palm. It was fraying slightly at the edges where time had worn it thin. Once bright red, it had softened to a muted, dusty crimson. Unbeknownst to the young couple in the room, it had stubbornly survived, first wash after wash, and then travel after travel until it was kept safe in the box that now lay on the table. 

“What’s that?” Lia asked, her eyes jumping to Hana’s, for she couldn’t make sense of the mystery that a tiny worn string could hold. 

She hadn’t noticed Noah going stiff, his eyes frozen over the piece of red laying in Hana’s hand. 

“That’s…” Noah began. He blinked, frowning a little as if he was trying to put the pieces together. He extended an arm and as gently as Hana had done, he took the string in his palm. “That’s a lose string from one of Lia’s socks,” he responded, more to himself than to Lia or Hana. 

Lia’s confusion only deepened at Noah’s words and at his reaction. He kept staring at the string in his palm as if it was made of gold. 

“What?” she uttered before shaking her head. “How could that—? I don’t own red socks.”

“You did,” Noah corrected her as he snapped his head up to look her in the eye, “when you were six.”

Lia wasn’t following. Noah continued.

“It got stuck on the pedal of my bike the first day we met, when I let you ride it. I gave it to Grandma right after I went back home. I thought…” The memories hit him, one after another. He nearly chuckled at his innocence back then. “I thought it needed to be sewn back or something. I got worried you wouldn’t have any more socks or that those would fray.”

Lia’s gaze flickered between the delicate string and the grandmother’s wise, knowing expression. She understood why little Noah, with his big heart and innocent worries, would have been anxious over the lost string. But Grandma? Why had she kept it for so many years? Why had she held on to it so reverently?

Unsure of what to say or feel, Lia found herself at a loss for words. She glanced at Noah, who was just as silent, both of them looking to Grandma.

“Have you heard about the red string of fate?” Hana asked then. 

Noah’s brow furrowed, and he nodded slowly. “I think I might’ve heard something about it… Isn’t that Chinese folklore?”

Grandma gave a gentle nod with an understanding smile. “Yes, it is. But that doesn’t mean it applies only to that region.”

Lia held her tea cup close, her fingers tracing the warmth that seeped into her palms. She took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving Grandma’s face as she waited.

“According to the myth,” Grandma continued, “the string of fate is an invisible red thread tied around the fingers of those destined to meet, especially soulmates or true loves. The ones connected by this thread are bound to find each other, no matter the distance, time, or obstacles. Though the cord may stretch or become tangled, it is said to never break, symbolizing a bond that is unbreakable and meant to be.”

“Folklore,” Lia concluded, a tinge of dubiety in her tone.

“Folklore, indeed,” Grandma agreed with a tilt of her head. “Life is not that simple, or beautiful. Some people are meant to be, but they never find their way to each other. However, sometimes they do. Sometimes they find each other at the strangest of times; sometimes when they are old, carrying the weight of their lives with them, and sometimes… when they are merely kids, with everything still ahead of them.”

“This is a broken string, Grandma,” Noah pointed out, extending his open palm as if trying to prove a point.

“And I said the red thread is invisible,” she replied with a soft smile touching her lips. “When you came home with that string in your hand, I kept it in a drawer for days, just because you were so concerned about Lia’s socks. But weeks later, when I found it again, I remembered the old myth, the one that had traveled from family to family, village to village, weaving its way across countries. By then, you and Lia were already inseparable, and I couldn’t help but wonder…” She trailed off, tilting her head as she looked at the thread as though it might reveal a hidden truth, as if it held the memories of years gone by. “I wondered if there was something to it. So, I kept it, out of curiosity. And as I watched you both grow—the more time you spent with each other, the more obvious it became.”

“What was obvious?” Lia asked, quietly. 

Hana’s smile deepened.

“That you were soulmates.”

Noah and Lia didn’t say a thing as they absorbed her words in quiet wonder and daze.

“When you moved in with Noah on your eighteenth birthday, I remember Noah calling to let me know that you’d settled in. There was something different in his voice—a blend of joy, contentment, and peace I’d never heard from him before. And then, the day you graduated, the look on his face when you came down the stairs in that beautiful dress, with those shoes you didn’t want to wear… Do you remember that, Lia?”

“I remember,” she replied as the memories flooded back. 

She recalled dancing with a classmate whose name had long since slipped her mind. She recalled Jolly telling her he was suspicious that Noah liked a girl. She remembered sneaking vodka shots with her friends in the restroom, and later that night, Noah giving her a piggyback ride to her room. And yes, she remembered the way he looked at her before any of that—a look she had assumed was the fond gaze of a best friend to whom you mean the world. Nothing more.

She turned her head to look at Noah. He was focused on Grandma, though there was a faint blush coloring his cheeks.  

“There was something…” Grandma went on. “It was’t just the string. There was something else, a feeling around the two of you, as if the world itself was telling me your place was with each other. When I look back, I’m convinced it all started the moment Noah first saw you, Lia. The thread may have existed long before, but the day your sock got caught on the pedal of his bike… it might have been a sign—a signal from some higher power that didn’t want you straying away from each other. I never wanted to interfere, to disturb the natural flow of things… so I did the only thing I could. I held onto this little piece of rope, believing somehow it would help keep you two together. I was afraid the thread might snap or get lost—that something would come between you and your relationship would strain.” She looked intently at them for a while. “I’ve never seen anything as beautiful and intense as what you two have. I said some people are meant to be but they never find their way to each other,” she looked directly at Noah, “but you, my dear child, you never left her side.” Not even when the thread threatened to break, when there were circumstances that hinted at a separation such as when Lia moved on her own, or when other people came between them—every one night stand, every girlfriend and boyfriend, Mitch, the night they slept together when alcohol was running through their veins. 

Be that as it may, Noah had always remained close to her. She had, too, in her own way and despite trying to push him away.  

“So,” Noah ventured, “you’re saying that we’ve always been meant to be together?”

“Yes. Lia has always been meant for you, and you for her. That’s what I believe, even if it sounds unreasonable, fantastical—you have every right to feel that way,” her voice flattered as her gaze drifted to a spot on the floor, unfocused. Lost in thought, her expression softened, and tears welled in her eyes. “But you’re here now. You’ve come back to me, together,” she continued, a smile breaking through the weight of years past, “after everything you’ve been through, all the struggles my children have faced so far away from me… I can only imagine how difficult it’s been, and I’m so sorry I couldn’t do anything for you. But now, you’re finally here, as you were always meant to be.”

Seeing Grandma’s silent tears trail down her cheeks was almost too much for them to bear. Even with the joy in this moment, the pain she’d carried across the years was evident, stretching from L.A. to this quiet town in Japan. She had watched, powerless, from afar as Noah and Lia overcame struggle after struggle—every little and not so little thing that threated to keep them apart. She’d been alone, helpless against the silent ache that crossed oceans—the butterfly effect.  

Lia resisted the impulse to react to Hana’s tears, instead setting her cup of tea down quietly on the table. Without a word, she reached over and took the string from Noah’s hands, holding it with a calm resolve.

The moment the fabric touched her skin, she was pulled back to that morning, twenty-one years ago. 

She remembered waking up alone in a crumbling house, piecing together a small breakfast from what she could find in the kitchen. She’d dressed in clothes that had piled up at the foot of her bed, unsure of how to wash them or make the machine downstairs work. Hoping to give them a different smell, she’d played in the garden among the flowers until her clothes smelled of lavender and thyme. Inside, she’d lost herself in her sketching and coloring, hours slipping by in a quiet solitude she barely noticed anymore. When hunger crept in, she’d scavenged an apple from the fridge, slicing away the bruised parts and eating what was left. Eventually, she’d perched by the window, watching the world pass outside, dogs barking in the distance, occasional cars rumbling by. Finally, she climbed the stairs back to her room to put on some red socks and boots. She’d opened the house door, stepped outside, and settled herself on the concrete. A while later, Noah had appeared.

And in that moment, her life changed. 

Noah saved her. 

With the back of her hand, Lia wiped a stray tear as she blinked. She rubbed the string between her fingers, its fibers stiff but delicate, like a fragile relic of the past that carried the memory of those early days—painful and sweet at the same time. 

Both Hana and Noah waited for her to speak. It took a moment, but finally, she opened her mouth, her voice quivering as she looked at Hana, eyes glassy. 

“Can I keep it?”

Noah half-expected Hana to hesitate. After guarding this small piece of their past—of their beginning— for so many years, he thought she might be reluctant to let go, fearing that releasing it might somehow weaken the bond between them. But Hana’s response was instant. Her smile brightened as she nodded.

“You can keep it, darling.”

Maybe, Noah thought, seeing them together after all these years had finally soothed Hana’s fears, rather than fueling them. He was still taking it all in, not so much the fact that she’d kept this string for over two decades, but the meaning behind it. 

But it made sense.

Every little thing made sense. 

And if he was honest, it was exactly how he wanted it. 

He’d wanted Lia since that Saturday morning when she was six and he was seven, in one way or another. 

He watched her fingers play with the red string, as if she were trying to understand if it was just a scrap of her old sock or a sign of something greater. It might have been nothing more than a forgotten string. Or perhaps it was indeed the physical proof of a bond that had been with them since childhood.

His tea sat untouched, forgotten as he focused solely on Lia, watching the worry etched into her expression. He couldn’t look away. He whispered her name, hoping to see if she was all right or if all of this was becoming too much. Her big brown eyes met his, unguarded and glassy with emotion. She didn’t smile, didn’t speak, just looked at him, and then, her concern shifted toward him. Just as he was about to tell her he was fine, she turned to Hana.

“What happened to Noah?” Lia’s voice was steady but edged with urgency. “The coughing. The fever. All those flowers.”

Hana’s gaze softened, though her expression remained unreadable. 

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” she replied, sensing Lia’s growing distress.

But Lia shook her head. “No. Now. We need to know.”

Hana hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. 

“Lia, my darling,” she began gently, “you just got here. Maybe one story is enough for today.”

“We’re fine,” Noah interjected, his tone resolute. He rested a hand on Lia’s knee, squeezing it lightly. “We’ve been waiting months for this, Grandma. We need to know. Please.”

For a moment, Hana’s shoulders slumped as though she were carrying the weight of something long-buried. She took a slow breath, then nodded, her gaze drifting somewhere beyond the walls of the room, as if she were looking back into a distant memory.

“When you were little, Noah,” she began, “I used to tell you folklore stories… so many you probably couldn’t keep track of them all.” She offered a bittersweet smile, her voice tinged with nostalgia. “Do you remember any those?”

“Some. You even got me a compillation book one Christmas.”

Hana nodded. “Yes, I did. And you’d beg me to read them, even when you should’ve been fast asleep.” She paused, eyes unfocused as if seeing the past replay in her mind. “There was one story—the tale of a boy and a girl. This girl loved the boy, loved him so much that it seemed to consume her. But the boy…” Her voice trailed off. “He didn’t feel the same way. It was a one-sided love, and because of that… she fell ill.”

Lia’s brow furrowed. “Ill?”

“Yes. In our culture, we call it Hanahaki disease. It begins with a feeling, a weight in the chest, but then it grows. Flowers begin to bloom inside you, filling your lungs with every unreturned feeling. And the more the love festers, the worse it gets.”

Noah frowned, his mind racing. The name felt vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t recall ever hearing the full story. 

“That’s not exactly what happened to me,” Noah intervened, lowering his voice. “I got sick every time Lia was physically away. But got better when she was around. And then one day, all of a sudden, the entire thing disappeared. On top of that, it was never a non-reciprocal feeling, so it cannot be the reason why I was coughing up flowers.”

“Not everything happens as its written in the books, my dear. As for the cough stopping one day and never coming back, maybe Lia can tell you more about that.”

Noah turned to Lia, surprised to see something in her expression he hadn’t expected—a trace of guilt, a hint of something she’d held back. She had listened intently, but now it was as if Hana’s words had pulled a thread that led to a long-kept secret. Her gaze met his, a small crease forming between her brows, her face shadowed by a reluctant admission.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Hana said, her voice gentle but decisive.

Both Noah and Lia looked up, startled.

“But we just sat down,” Lia protested. “The tea…”

“Don’t worry about the tea,” Hana replied, already rising with her cup in hand. She smiled warmly at them both before turning, and with a gentle slide of the door, left them in the quiet intimacy of the tearoom.

Noah turned back to Lia with a deeper frown, a look of weariness in his eyes that said he was done with so much overwhelming. There were still questions in the air and he wanted answer for all of them. Now.

“What was that about?” he asked, his voice edged with frustration. 

Lia took a steadying breath, sipped her tea, and set the cup down beside the string as she searched for the right words. 

“I think she’s right,” she started. “I know I brushed off all those times you mentioned Grandma’s theories—that being close to you somehow made you feel better. But after hearing about this string, that story, how long she’s held onto it… maybe there really are things beyond what we can explain and understand. Maybe this strange flower-coughing disease is one of them.” 

“I’m with you on that,” Noah replied, his gaze holding hers. “But it wasn’t one-sided when I fell head over heels for you, Lia.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” she said, meeting his eyes. “But it took me months to realize it myself and then, accept it.”

Noah’s eyes—and mind—were clouded with confusion. Sensing his need for clarity, Lia took a deep breath and tried to lay it all out, piece by piece. 

She’d been in love with him for longer she could admit. Deep inside, her heart had always belonged to him, but over and over, she had refused to believe it, to accept such a thing. She couldn’t jeopardize this near-perfect friendship they shared—that meant everything to her. And they had made a promise. So, she buried those feelings, ignored her heart, told herself over and over that whatever she felt was just a passing infatuation and that it would go away in time. She lied to herself because she hadn’t been willing to admit to herself, let alone to Noah, that she was in love with him. 

In the end, it was her denial that made him sick. It wasn’t that his love for her wasn’t reciprocated; it was that she couldn’t bring herself to believe in her own love for him as more than just a friend. Yet, despite her efforts to bury it, her love always found a way to surface—whenever she made him laugh, whenever she comforted him, whenever she showed up at his door just to be with him. Somehow, Noah’s heart had always known that hers belonged to him, and that was why, whenever she pulled away or tried to distance herself, his sickness would worsen. 

Only after countless hours spent in therapy did Lia finally begin to admit the truth that her own heart, her own body, had been trying to show her all along. She remembered that session vividly: 

“No.”

“Lia—” Dr. Reynolds insisted. 

“That’s not how it is,” she assured nearly through gritted teeth. Her voice was tight with resistance.

“It is, and you know it. You’ve known it for a long time, but you refuse to accept it. For me to help you, you must acknowledge it. You have to say it out loud and accept it. I know you’re scared, but you have to admit what you feel.”

Lia felt the words crawling up her throat, her heart racing, her palms damp as she gripped the arms of the chair. Her breathing grew shallow, and she looked at the doctor with wide, glassy eyes, the truth trembling on her lips. 

“Lia,” Dr. Reynolds pressed, “you are in love with your best friend, Noah. Say it.”

Her heartbeat was rapid and erratic, each beat hammering against her ribcage. She was terrified—terrified of what admitting it would mean, what it would change. But perhaps the only way to stop the ache was to finally speak the words aloud.

“I’m…” Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper. She took a shaky breath, her nails digging into the armrests of the chair as she steadied herself. “I’m in love with Noah.”

Back in the tearoom, Lia took a deep breath, her gaze landing on the steaming cup of tea. Noah's hand was no longer on her knee, and she missed the warmth it’d provided.  

“The day after meeting her,” Lia continued, “Jesse called me. He said you were worried something had happened to me.”

“That was the day the coughing stopped,” Noah acknowledged. “The day before had been Hell. I’d been so fucking sick, and then… from night to morning, I woke up and felt fine.”

“It was because I admitted to myself what I’d been refusing for so long—that I loved you. You were sick all those times because of me.” 

Noah hesitated, his lips parting slightly as he processed the rising panic in Lia’s voice. He shifted to face her, still seated in a lotus position on the cushions 

“That’s—” After a moment’s deliberation, he shook his head and squared his shoulders, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down on them. They could continue down this path, but it would only lead them to the painful memories of the past, and that was no longer what mattered. “It doesn’t matter now. That’s all in the past, Lia,” he concluded, his voice steady yet tender. They had endured so much together. Neither had been at their best; they had made mistakes and harbored regrets. How could they have paid heed to some whimsical folklore tale—much less the reality of it manifesting in their lives? Considering everything, there was no sense in revisiting those moments or blaming each other for every obstacle they had placed in one another’s way. “We got the answers we wanted, and what matters is that we’re here, and we’re real, right now.”

Lia blinked back tears, but a few slipped free despite her efforts. She brushed them away. When another tear fell, Noah reached over and caught it with his thumb. Before she could think, she climbed onto his lap, wrapping her arms around him, clutching him tightly. He quickly wrapped her in his arms and held her close, resting his cheek against her hair, and she felt his steady breath as he nuzzled into her neck. The weight of her in his lap felt so nice and natural, and the way his arms encircled her made her feel safe, almost fragile but in a good way, because she knew she was out of danger with him. Would always be. 

“I’m so scared of losing you one day,” she whispered, her words barely audible against his ear.

Noah pulled back just enough to look at her. Glancing at the small, coiled red string on the table beside them, he reached for it and held out his hand to Lia. 

“Give me your pinky finger,” he ordered. 

She looked at him questioningly but placed her hand in his. He laid his own pinky alongside hers and began to wind the red string around them. 

“Help me with this?” he asked, giving her a soft smile.

She did. When they finished the knot, their pinkies were tied together with the thin red thread. He tugged gently to make sure it held, then grinned. 

“Now we’re really tied together. See? Problem solved.”

Lia’s laugh came out, light and clear, the tension in her shoulders easing as she looked down at their fingers entwined by the string. The sound was so full of life, of relief, that Noah couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through his chest. He lifted his hand to her face, cupping her chin with two fingers, and leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, savoring the way her smile lingered against his own.

When he finally pulled back, he whispered, 

“I told you. You’ve always been mine, Lia.”

— prev. chapter | chapter twelve

Author's note: 100 points for those who guessed it was the red string 🤭 You can reread about that moment in Chapter 1 of Ikigai (literally the beginning of the story). It's no more than a couple of paragraphs, if I don't recall wrong, right at the end, but it was a very important detail for the future. Thank you once again for reading and being with me in this journey :)

*I've done some changes to the original folklore stories mentioned in this chapter to adapt it to Noah and Lia's romance story. I hope everything was more or less clear regarding all those weird things happening in Koi No Yokan. I never had this story planned in detail before I started writing, so it got tricky at some points, but I think I managed to make everything fit reasonably within its flow.

🔖 Taglist:

@somebodyels3 | @respectfulrebel | @thecoyotescry | @bluestdai | @lma1986

@sweetwombatpizza | @missduffsblog | @shilohrosechicken | @jilliemiw86 | @alwaysfightforwhoyouare

@chey-h | @ferduttini | @dominuslunae

[strangerthingsbigbang]

Title: Momento Mori

Author: Skepsis_Ree Artist: @the-aphelion-archives Beta: knormalizeknitting Characters:Steve Harrington, Wayne Munson, Eddie Munson, Chrissy Cunningham, Eleven | Jane Hopper Relationship(s): Steve Harrington & Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Warnings: Mention of death, mention of suggested homophobia Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff and Angst, back from the dead, Eventual Romance, Drama & Romance, Ghosts, Love Confessions, Supernatural Elements, Post Season 4, Bisexual Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Fluffy, Fluffy Ending Wordcount: 24,914 Summary:

Steve gradually falls in love with the memory of Eddie Munson, while creating a deep bond with the uncle Eddie left behind. Eddie Munson has died. He died and left behind people who care for him—more people than he knew. Despite his reputation, and the slander thrown at him, Eddie is deeply and fiercely loved by the people in his life. Wayne is one such person, and the hole his nephew left in his heart is something he didn’t think could ever be filled. Surprisingly—to all involved—Steve Harrington is another person who cannot shake Eddie’s death from his mind. Gradually, Steve and Wayne bond over their mutual loss, and share their fond memories of Eddie with one another. The living must move on after all… even if the dead don’t remain gone for long.

Momento Mori by Skepsis-Ree

art masterpost by the-aphelion-archives

[falconearring]

Zombie Apocalypse AU Masterpost

On a planet plagued by harsh weather and the undead, abandoned by those who survived the initial upheaval, somebody from the Hermit's group was bound to be lost to the storm eventually. Nestled deep in the wilderness, in the confines of an abandoned saw mill, Cleo and Bdubs mourn the death of their closest friend. Meanwhile, Etho is alive and gradually entangling himself into a less than ideal situation.

It is about time I gather up some stuff here! Not much yet, but I'll update this as time passes.

Comic by Chapter:

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Comic by Individual Upload:

Cover: October 4th 2023

One: February 7th 2023

Two: February 12th 2023

Three: February 8th 2023

Four: February 13th 2023

Five: March 9th 2023

Six: April 8th 2023

Seven: April 27th 2023

Eight: May 9th 2023

Nine: May 20th 2023

Ten: June 3rd 2023

Eleven: July 14th 2023

Twelve: August 31st 2023

Noteable Asks/Posts:

World Notes-March 12th 2023

Etho's Face Covering-May 16th 2023

Cleo/Etho/Bdubs Highscool-May 22nd 2023

Is Etho Partially Blind?-May 22nd 2023

Ages-May 25th 2023

Accents-June 23rd 2023

How Did Grian and Scar Meet?-July 22nd 2023

Flowers-July 23rd 2023

Is Joel Hallucinating?-July 23rd 2023

Scar's Scars-July 25th 2023

Depressing Content-July 26th 2023

Siblings-July 30th 2023

More About Field Bindweed-Sept 1st 2023

How Did Etho Get His Scar?-October 15th 2023

Additional:

I have a lot of playlists on my Spotify relating to this AU, and I'm continuously updating them. Below are the main ones, but the others are all public on my profile.

AU Playlist

Etho

Joel

Cleo

Grian

Lizzie

[lividstar]

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤTHE CITY OF LOVE

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Eleven: You Wonder why I’m Bitter

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ < previous | next >

masterpost

៚ wc: 8.2k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ Alone and aching for the connection that once felt so natural, you reluctantly turn to an unlikely companion: Pompidou, who listens to you pour out all the longing you’ve fought so hard to bury. While you grapple with the emptiness left by Hongjoong’s sudden withdrawal, he, too, finds himself lost, wrestling with the very feelings he’s tried to deny. Haunted by memories and choices he can’t quite reconcile, Hongjoong is caught between the familiarity of the past and the confusing reality of the present.

a/n: was supposed to upload this on the 27th cause that’s my birthday but i just can’t wait any longer 😅 keep an eye out for the littlest of details because nothing is as it seems in this chapter :P lmk what you guys think!

tags: @beabatiny @babymbbatinygirl

First of all, I hate myself. Second of all, I hate myself. Oh, and did I already mention that I hate myself? I just don’t know what to do anymore! It feels like it’s been a whole decade ever since I last picked up a pen to scribble on this godforsaken journal… I wish I could just go back to the time I was writing the page behind the one I’m writing on right now and just cancel my flight to Paris. This is all so frustrating, you know? Fashion Week is nearing, and I am not prepared at all—no, not even a little. I’m supposed to be spending my hours inside the studio practicing runway walks and testing out facial expressions, but no! I’m way too afraid of crossing paths with Hongjoong to even think about the consequences of not taking my preparations seriously! And speaking of Hongjoong…

He’s driving me to the edge of my sanity. I don’t know what’s going on with him—okay, scratch that, I definitely do. I just don’t get why he’s acting so avoidant all of a sudden… I mean, like, okay, I would understand his unprovoked need for distance between us if we actually kissed that night, but we didn’t. The farthest step we were able to take was just him holding onto the sides of my face and me looking at his lips like I’m a starved dog looking at its first meal of the day before Wooyoung fortunately interrupted us—so why is he acting up?

He’s like one of those girls you’d befriend in highschool who’d show up on the hallways suddenly judging your entire soul on a random Wednesday, and I don’t like it. Seriously, what’s his problem? He made me accustomed to his usual sweet and caring persona, and all of a sudden, he wants to act like this? What have I done wrong? Wasn’t it literally him who initiated the… whatever I’m supposed to call what happened that night?

I’m just concerned, you know. It’s been two weeks, and yet he’s still avoiding me like I’m the plague. I haven’t been receiving any messages from him at all lately, either. Even Madame Dupont is asking me why she no longer sees the “small young handsome boy” waiting for me outside the apartment building while leaning against his car. Wooyoung’s been trying to persuade me into confirming his theory that Hongjoong and I are going through a lovers’ quarrel for three days now, too. And guess who’s the most troubled of them all? Seonghwa. He’s been doing his best to put us back into speaking terms for a while now, and I don’t know why—I swear I didn’t ask him to do that.

Everyone is worried. Everyone but him.

You know, this brings me back to that unrecognizable faceless guy I see in some of my blurry flashbacks. I remember him asking me how long I’ve been bottling up my emotions, and when I told him I’ve been doing so for pretty much my entire life, he told me to consider writing in a journal.

What does the unrecognizable dude have to do with Hongjoong and his unreadable behavior? Nothing.

I just noticed that it’s been a while since I last wrote a journal entry, and… it’s been a while since I last let my emotions unravel. I remember the words that came out of his mouth that day.

“When you can’t figure out what you’re feeling, or if you need to let it all out, the only thing you have to do is pull this out along with a pen, and from then on, you can start writing away. Let yourself get lost in your own world.”

You know what, in a way, I think he and Hongjoong actually have something in common. I know I can’t say much because I only have one memory of this guy, but he spoke with as much wisdom as Hongjoong does. Also… “let yourself get lost in your own world.” That’s honestly the most Hongjoong-ish advice someone could ever give, given how he himself gets lost in his own world of artistry, too.

I just wish he’d stop ignoring me. I can’t help but feel like this is all somehow my fault… Am I just hurting myself by expecting things to suddenly go back to the way they used to be?

As you closed your journal with a weary sigh, your eyes drifted to the dim glow of your bedside clock reading 2:37 a.m. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of distant traffic, yet you felt far from at peace. It was a night for sleep, yet your mind wouldn’t quiet; thoughts of Hongjoong twisted and turned within you, refusing to settle.

“Why does it feel like this?” you murmured, pressing your palms into your face, as if that could somehow soothe the ache in your chest. You longed for comfort, for answers, even for a brief respite from the confusion that had become your constant companion. “If only that faceless guy could telepathically whisper some words of wisdom to me right now…”

Two weeks had passed since you last shared any words with Hongjoong—two weeks where every glance, every passing moment, felt laced with an unspoken tension that only deepened the rift between you. It was all becoming painfully real, the shift so clear to everyone around you. But no one knew the truth—the moment you almost kissed, the silent proximity that had left you dizzy and wondering. Even Seonghwa, in his genuine concern, couldn’t know the pang of vulnerability that had filled that night, the fear and excitement mingling as you’d come closer than ever before.

Your mind flashed back to the other day when the ache of his absence had been sharpest. You passed by him in a hallway, hoping for a flicker of his usual warmth, his soft gaze that once reassured you of your place in his world. But he’d brushed past with such indifference—not even nodding to acknowledge your presence, a chill in his demeanor that left you hollow. And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving you alone with a rising sense of loss.

Without thinking, you picked up your phone and opened your gallery. Photos of Hongjoong filled your screen, and your eyes drift over candid snapshots—some of you and Hongjoong working late in the studio, others of him laughing or looking thoughtful, moments caught by your camera that now feel like glimpses into another lifetime. There’s a picture of him outside your apartment building, waving you goodbye one evening. Another shot of him hunched over his desk in concentration, unaware that you’d snapped the photo from across the room. Then, there’s a particularly precious one of the two of you, taken in his office—which was likely Wooyoung’s doing.

As you scroll, an ache blossoms within you, spreading in slow, insistent waves that make your chest feel tight. You can feel the sting of tears welling up in your eyes, and it catches you off guard. Why now? Why does he, of all people, have this power over you? You swipe at the tears, frustrated by the sudden swell of emotion. It’s not supposed to be like this, you tell yourself. Hongjoong is supposed to be your friend, your mentor, the one person in Paris who helped you find your footing when everything felt foreign. But as the images blur beneath the glisten of unshed tears, you can’t help but wonder if that’s all he’ll ever be—someone whose warmth once felt like home, and whose absence now feels like a loss you’re not ready to face.

The soft scratching at your window pulls you abruptly from your thoughts. For a moment, you freeze, glancing back at the phone you’d just placed on your desk. Carefully, you grab your journal—a flimsy defense, maybe, but it’s better than nothing. Heart pounding just slightly, you step forward, inching closer to the window.

When you peek over, you’re met with a familiar sight: Pompidou, the resident stray cat who had made the apartment building his kingdom, sits with one paw pressed to the glass, his usual unamused expression aimed your way.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, feeling the tension drain from your shoulders as you let out a soft laugh. Setting your journal on the bed, you reach over to open the window, letting him slip inside with practiced ease. He slinks past you with the air of someone who owns the place and makes himself right at home, hopping onto your bed and circling until he’s claimed his spot in the center.

You sit beside him, running a gentle hand over his soft fur. It’s strange how much you missed him. For the past few weeks, your room felt emptier without his occasional visits—without that extra little creature who just… understood you, in a way. And now, with Hongjoong’s absence haunting you, Pompidou couldn’t have come at a better time.

The thought hits you harder than you expect: here you are, at your lowest, relying on a cat for comfort simply because the one person you’re used to confiding in has become distant, almost like a stranger. The ache in your chest intensifies, and before you know it, you’re lying down next to him, resting your head on the bed and gazing at his calm, indifferent eyes. It feels silly, pathetic even, to be speaking your heart to a cat, but in this silence, with no one else to turn to, you let yourself unravel.

“Pompidou,” you whisper, voice barely holding steady, “I… I don’t know what I did wrong. Everything was fine, wasn’t it?” Your fingers tremble as they thread through his fur, a warmth grounding you in the midst of your unraveling. “I don’t know how we ended up here. He’s always been there for me, and now… it’s like he’s vanished. And I’m trying, I really am, but every time I reach out, it’s like he’s miles away.”

A sharp breath catches in your throat, and you look up at the ceiling, fighting against the tears stinging your eyes. “It’s probably all my fault,” you confess in a whisper that breaks. “Maybe I was too much, or maybe I should have… I don’t know, said something differently, done something better. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited him to eat dinner that night so that…” A bitter chuckle slips out as you squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s funny, you know. All my life, I’ve been terrified of being alone, of people walking out… and now here I am, trying to be okay with him pulling away like it’s nothing.”

Pompidou shifts slightly, his warm body pressing into your side, a small reminder that he’s there, and he’s not leaving. You let your hand drop to your chest, feeling the dull ache that’s settled there. “I just miss him, Pompidou. I miss the way he used to look at me like I mattered. Now, he can’t even look me in the eyes. And I don’t know why I’m clinging to that, why I’m hoping he’ll suddenly turn around and go back to being who he was.”

The silence swallows you for a moment. “Maybe it’s because, deep down, I’m still the same pathetic teenager from Arcadia Bay who’s scared that she doesn’t deserve anything better. That she’s always going to be left behind, and this… this is just proof.” Your voice falters, words thick with pain you can no longer hold back. “And if he leaves, then maybe it’s what I deserve.”

“Maybe I was the one who left him in an alternate reality, and this is the price I have to pay for it,” you joke, but it only feels like a pathetic attempt to make yourself feel better.

The pain is so sharp it almost feels physical, a hollow ache that makes every breath feel heavier than the last. You close your eyes, fighting against the helplessness clawing at your insides, but the words keep pouring out, jagged and raw, as though voicing them might lessen the weight—even if it’s only to a cat who can’t respond.

“Do you know what’s worse?” you whisper, fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt over your chest as if you could hold yourself together by sheer will. “It’s that I can’t even be mad at him. I want to be—believe me, I’ve tried. I tell myself he’s the one pulling away, that he’s the one who’s changed, but then I start wondering… what if I pushed him to this? What if I’m the reason he’s slipping through my fingers?”

A soft tremor runs through your hands, and you curl them into fists, teeth gritted as you force the tears back. “I keep thinking… maybe he’s right to distance himself. Maybe there’s something broken in me, something that just drives people away. And the worst part is, I keep wishing he’d come back, like I’d somehow be enough if I could just—”

Your voice catches, breaking into a whisper as you bury your face in your hands, barely holding in the sob that threatens to spill out. “I just don’t understand. He was my safe place, Pompidou. For the first time in so long, I actually felt like I mattered. He made me feel seen. And now… now I feel invisible all over again, like everything we shared was just temporary, like it didn’t mean anything.”

Pompidou shifts closer, his soft purr rumbling beneath your fingertips as you stroke his fur, a small solace in the middle of this storm.

“I try to convince myself that I’m fine, that I can go on without him,” you continue, voice cracking as the words spill out unchecked. “But the truth is, I’m terrified. I’m scared that if he leaves… if he’s really gone, I’ll be alone again, just like before. And I hate myself for feeling this way, for being so… so weak.”

The tears finally break free, slipping down your cheeks in a silent flood. “What does that say about me? That I’m so dependent on him, that I can’t even imagine my life without him? I thought I was stronger than this, that I’d learned how to stand on my own. But now… now it’s like I’m right back to that scared, lonely kid I used to be, clinging to anyone who shows me a hint of kindness.”

You pull your knees to your chest, holding yourself as tightly as you can, as if you could somehow shield yourself from the emptiness swallowing you whole. “I can’t stop thinking that maybe this is all I deserve. That maybe I’m meant to be alone. Maybe he’s finally seeing me for who I am, and he’s realizing I’m not worth it.”

Your shoulders shake as the sobs escape, quiet and raw, each one cutting through you like glass. Pompidou curls closer, his little face pressing against your arm, as though he understands in his own way. But his silent comfort only deepens the ache, a reminder that the person you need more than anything isn’t here, and you’re left holding yourself together with nothing but frayed threads of hope.

With a shuddering breath, you finally admit the fear you’ve been trying so hard to ignore. “What if he doesn’t come back, Pompidou? What if this is it? I don’t think… I don’t think I can handle losing him. Not like this.”

Your voice drops to a whisper, the words coming slow and soft as you gaze out the window, eyes unfocused. “I just… I miss him, Pompidou,” you murmur, fingers absently tracing patterns against the sheets.

“I miss all the little things that made it feel like he was a part of me, like he was woven into my days without me even realizing it. I miss the way he’d send me random sketches, the ones that made no sense but made me laugh anyway, like he was letting me in on his little worlds. I miss… I miss how he’d always have this ridiculous drink order for me every time we’d meet up at the café where we switched up our notebooks with one another before we met for the first time. It’s like he knew exactly what I’d need, even if I didn’t.”

The memories wash over you, and you can’t stop the warmth from pooling in your chest as you picture those moments. “I wish we could go back to that time when things were… simple. When I could sit beside him without feeling like the whole world was shifting under my feet. When he’d laugh and look at me like I was… like I was something special, you know?”

Your voice trembles, and you tighten your grip on the sheets. “And the thing is… it was just easy with him. He’d be there, always making me feel like nothing could go wrong as long as we were together. He’d be there with his quiet, comforting presence, and I could just… be. I didn’t have to pretend or put on some mask. It was like he could see right through me, and somehow, he didn’t care about all the mess he found.”

You take a deep breath, the words spilling out like a plea. “I just want to go back, Pompidou. Back to before everything felt so fragile, before that almost-kiss, before this… this distance. I wish I could reach out and take it all back. I’d give anything just to have things feel normal again.”

Pompidou tilts his head, eyes blinking up at you, and you can’t help but laugh, a soft, broken sound that catches in your throat. “I know it sounds silly, doesn’t it? I mean, how could I expect anything to be the same after that? But I can’t help it, Pompidou. I want to go back to when he’d smile at me like that, when I didn’t have to wonder if I was the one pushing him away.”

You close your eyes, feeling the weight of each memory anchor you down. “I miss his laugh. I miss his stupid jokes. I miss the way he’d lean closer when he talked about his dreams, his voice getting all serious like he could see every detail in his mind. And I miss… I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere, like I belonged with him. I miss how he’d look at me with this warmth, like I was enough, just as I was.”

The words come out like a broken whisper, a confession you’ve been holding inside for far too long. “I can’t stop missing him. I wish… I wish I could go back to that last night before everything shifted. Before the night we nearly kissed, before I even realized what I felt. I wish I could’ve just stayed there, in that moment, without letting any of it change.”

You hug your knees, curling up as the ache settles deeper, heavier. “But I can’t. And now it’s as if I’m left with pieces of him in everything around me, and I don’t know how to put myself back together without him.”

You pull yourself up, exhaling slowly, and walk over to your desk. The room feels quiet, still heavy with everything you’ve let out, yet somehow emptier too, as if releasing the words has left you hollow. With a shaky hand, you pick up your phone and make your way back to bed, curling up beside Pompidou, who has already claimed his spot against your pillow. Settling into the blankets, you scroll through your contacts, your thumb hovering over Hongjoong’s icon.

It’s just his initials next to a simple photo he once sent—a candid moment he probably forgot about, something so ordinary that it’s precious now. The way he looked when he didn’t realize anyone was watching: a slight smile, eyes softened by something he found funny, maybe even a bit endearing. The sight makes your chest tighten, and you let yourself scroll up, reading through old conversations like leafing through the pages of a treasured book.

Each message brings back flashes of shared laughter and late-night ramblings, little moments where time seemed to pause, and it was just the two of you—untouchable, safe. You linger on a message he sent on a rainy afternoon, a random joke he thought would cheer you up. Your lips curl into a faint smile, but it’s bittersweet. There was a time when it was so easy, so effortless, like breathing. He had a way of knowing exactly when you needed a reminder that he was there. But now, that comfort feels distant, unreachable.

A tear slips down your cheek again before you realize it, and you hastily swipe it away, but the sorrow wells up again, slipping past your guard. As if sensing your pain, Pompidou extends a soft paw, resting it gently below your eyes, and you feel his fur against your cheek, grounding you in a way that words can’t. His small gesture tugs a quiet, breathy laugh from you, despite the ache in your chest. It’s as if he’s trying to catch your sadness, pulling it away piece by piece, his wide eyes fixed on yours with an empathy you can almost feel.

You let your head fall, hugging Pompidou close, allowing yourself to finally surrender to the pain and let it wash over you without restraint. The loneliness, the longing, the hollow spaces Hongjoong’s absence has left in you—all of it spills out as you clutch the feline tightly, letting his warmth and steady breathing lull you into a fragile sense of comfort. The room seems to blur, softening around you as the weight of everything you’ve been holding back presses into you.

The tears come faster now, unstoppable, and your quiet sobs fill the silence, raw and unfiltered. It’s just you and Pompidou, and for a moment, it feels like you’re not truly alone. There, in the quiet solace of your room, you cling to that small comfort, letting yourself feel every ounce of longing, letting yourself miss him—fully, desperately, hopelessly.

—

Meanwhile, Hongjoong stood in his office, the warm, nostalgic tones of “La Vie en Rose” playing softly from the record player behind him. His gaze fixed on the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back, and he fought to keep his emotions in check. Each note lingered in the air, pulling him deeper into the web of memories he was desperately trying to forget. This song, of all songs—he could still remember how it had been playing when the two of you had stood together in the flower shop, laughing over bouquets and trading light-hearted jokes as if the world beyond didn’t exist.

Part of him knew he could walk over and turn it off. The music was his to control, after all. And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to stop it. The melody was the last fragile thread that kept him tethered to you, a reminder of the warmth he felt in your presence, the comfort of knowing someone understood him.

The dim light from the city outside cast a soft glow over his office, illuminating the expanse of papers scattered across his desk, the outlines of unfinished sketches and hastily scrawled notes, all reminders of the whirlwind he’d buried himself in since he started pushing you away. Each corner of the room felt saturated with memories of you—and it was strange how a space that had once felt so alive now seemed hollow, absent of the warmth you’d brought into it.

He tried to focus on the skyline again, his eyes tracing the glittering lights of the city. It was an attempt to ground himself, to pull himself back from the turmoil inside him. But tonight, every bit of stillness he attempted felt false, every piece of composure barely hanging by a thread. All he could think about was you—the absence of your presence filling every empty space in his mind, as if refusing to be silenced.

He turned slowly from the window, allowing his gaze to wander over his desk. It was almost impossible to remember the last time he’d felt fully at ease in this room. The stacks of designs that had once held so much promise now felt like hollow accomplishments, each one only reminding him of the fire you’d helped him ignite. His eyes landed on a small pendant lying amidst the clutter. The flower encased inside had faded slightly, its once-vibrant petals softened by time. He picked it up, cradling it carefully in his hand, feeling a strange tenderness rise within him.

You’d given him that flower, pressing it into his hand with a shy smile as you murmured something about it bringing him luck. He could still recall the way your fingers had lingered against his, the brief but electric touch that had left him wondering if you felt it too. “For good luck,” you’d said, your eyes sparkling in that way they always did when you felt especially close to him.

Hongjoong swallowed, feeling a tightness in his chest as he held the pendant closer. How was it that something so small could carry the weight of so many memories? He closed his eyes, and the warmth of your smile flashed in his mind, as vivid as if you were standing beside him. But now, as he held the pendant, it felt heavier, like a tiny piece of the past he was terrified of losing forever.

In his mind, he slipped back to that night—the one that had started as an ordinary work session, yet had unraveled into something far more vulnerable. He could still feel the closeness of the room, the soft glow of the lamps casting long shadows as you both worked side by side, immersed in the quiet moment you shared.

You’d shared things that night that were never meant to leave the room. He could still hear your voice, low and hesitant, as you revealed the fears you held closest to your heart. “Being left alone,” you’d admitted, your words raw and unguarded. The truth of it had lingered between you, a quiet vulnerability that had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

When you turned the question back on him, he’d hesitated, feeling the weight of his own guarded secrets pressing against his chest. But in that quiet space, under the gentle glow of the lamp, he’d found himself opening up in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years. “Losing myself,” he’d whispered, his voice barely audible, but enough for you to hear. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Now, standing alone in his empty office, Hongjoong felt the irony of it all washing over him. He’d tried so hard to protect himself, to build walls so high that even you couldn’t reach them. But now, it felt as if he had developed a new fear bigger than losing himself—losing you.

A quiet knock on the door broke his reverie, and he tensed, slipping the pendant into his pocket as he turned. Wooyoung’s face appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of Hongjoong standing alone, the haunting strains of La Vie en Rose still spinning softly from the record player across the room.

Wooyoung’s eyes flickered to the player, where the melody had been looping for what must have been the better part of an hour. “Still here?” he asked quietly, a hint of concern threading his tone.

Hongjoong forced a slight smile, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Wooyoung stepped further into the room, his gaze sharp as it settled on Hongjoong. “You know…” Wooyoung began, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall, “the world can see how miserable you are. Including her—especially her.”

Hongjoong stiffened, the forced nonchalance slipping from his face as he turned away, staring intently at the record player as if it held all the answers he was struggling to find. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, the words feeling hollow even to his own ears.

“Hongjoong,” Wooyoung’s tone softened, a hint of exasperation breaking through. “I know you. I know how much you care about her. And I know you’re running from something you can’t outrun. But you’re not fooling anyone by pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened, his mind racing with all the reasons he’d built to keep you at a distance. Each one felt logical, safe, a way to protect himself from something he couldn’t quite name. But here, with Wooyoung standing there, watching him with that steady gaze, he felt every layer he’d built start to unravel.

“I’m not pretending,” he said quietly, barely audible above the music.

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning softer, almost pleading. “Then what are you doing, Hongjoong? Because from where I’m standing, all I see is someone too scared to reach for what he really wants.”

Hongjoong’s heart twisted painfully, Wooyoung’s words hitting far too close to home. He felt the weight of everything he’d tried to suppress rising within him, a tidal wave of emotions he’d buried so deeply he’d convinced himself they were gone. But Wooyoung’s words had brought them to the surface, and now, there was no escaping them.

A silence stretched between them, and Hongjoong’s gaze fell to the floor. In that moment, he felt utterly vulnerable, as though Wooyoung could see right through him, could see the aching desire he’d tried so hard to deny. He didn’t have to say it—Wooyoung already knew.

Hongjoong’s fingers were still curled around the pendant in his pocket when Wooyoung let out a quiet sigh, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. “So,” Wooyoung began, breaking the silence, “are you really going to stand here, pretending everything’s fine?”

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing. He wanted to brush off Wooyoung’s words, to deflect with some casual response that would keep the carefully built walls intact. But his mind was a battlefield, each memory of you cutting through his defenses like a blade.

“Everything is fine,” he replied tersely. He didn’t meet Wooyoung’s eyes, focusing instead on a spot just beyond his shoulder.

Wooyoung’s brows knitted together, clearly unconvinced. “Right. That’s why you’ve been playing her favorite song on loop for the last hour. That’s why you’ve been holed up in here, avoiding anything that reminds you of her.” He shook his head, his tone equal parts exasperation and worry. “Hongjoong, you’re not fooling me. I know you, and I know you’re running from something—from someone.”

Hongjoong let out a low, frustrated sigh, finally looking up at Wooyoung. “Wooyoung, just drop it, alright?” He forced a tense smile, attempting to sound dismissive. “This… whatever you think is going on, it’s all in your head. We were just friends.”

But Wooyoung didn’t budge. “Friends?” He let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it, just the weight of disbelief. “You really want to go with that? Because the way you’re acting… it doesn’t look like you’re just missing a friend. You’re avoiding her like she’s a stranger, but then you’re here, playing her favorite song over and over, clutching onto that pendant like it’s the last piece of her you have.”

Hongjoong’s fingers instinctively tightened around the pendant, and he felt a pang of frustration rise within him. He didn’t want to admit that Wooyoung’s words struck too close to home. “I told you, it’s nothing like that,” he bit back, his tone sharper than intended. “You’re turning this into something it isn’t.”

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, his gaze not faltering. “Am I? Because from where I’m standing, you’re acting like a guy who’s desperately trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t even believe.”

“Wooyoung—”

“Hongjoong, you can’t keep lying to yourself.” Wooyoung’s tone softened, his voice carrying a gentleness that seemed to cut deeper than the words themselves. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but I do know that you care about her. You’re not fooling anyone by pretending this distance is ‘better’ for either of you.”

Hongjoong’s patience began to fray, his frustration morphing into anger. He shot Wooyoung a glare, his voice rising. “It is better, Wooyoung. She… she deserves better. She doesn’t need to be pulled into whatever mess I am.” He paused, catching his breath, his anger mingling with something closer to desperation. “I’m not what’s best for her. And it’s better for the both of us if I keep my distance.”

Wooyoung’s expression shifted, his gaze hardening as he stepped closer, unwilling to let Hongjoong brush him off. “So, what? You think pushing her away, acting like she means nothing, is somehow good for her? You really think she’s better off without you?”

“Yes,” Hongjoong replied, his tone final, but the conviction in his voice was starting to waver.

Wooyoung gave him a long, scrutinizing look, and for a moment, the silence between them was thick with unspoken truths. Then, Wooyoung shook his head slowly. “You’re lying to yourself. And honestly? It’s pathetic, Hongjoong. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

The words hit Hongjoong like a slap, and a flash of anger surged within him, simmering beneath the surface. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “I’m doing this for her, so just… stop.”

But Wooyoung wouldn’t relent. “You’re not doing this for her. You’re doing this because you’re afraid. Afraid to admit how much she means to you. Afraid of what might happen if you actually let her in. Whatever you’re afraid of, whatever you think is keeping you from being with her… maybe it’s worth rethinking. Because if you keep running like this, you’re going to lose her. And then what?”

Hongjoong felt his control slipping, the carefully constructed barriers he’d built starting to crack under the weight of Wooyoung’s words. He clenched his fists, his gaze dropping to the floor as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “This isn’t about fear.”

“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung’s voice softened, a hint of understanding breaking through the frustration. “Hongjoong… I get it. You’re scared of losing yourself. Of losing control. But she’s not the one who’s going to make that happen. You are, by doing this. By trying so hard to keep her out.”

Hongjoong stayed silent, his chest tightening as Wooyoung’s words began to sink in. He wanted to deny it, to push back with the same conviction he’d clung to for weeks, but he couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew there was truth in Wooyoung’s words.

Finally, Wooyoung let out a sigh, his tone softening even further. “Listen, man. I don’t know what almost happened, or why you’re so determined to stay away from her, but you have to ask yourself… is this really what you want?”

Hongjoong closed his eyes, his mind flashing back to that night in your apartment—the feeling of your hand brushing his, the way your gaze had lingered on him, the unspoken tension that had nearly pulled him into something he couldn’t name. He’d wanted so badly to close that distance, to feel your lips against his, to let go of the fear and doubt that had held him back. But just as he’d leaned closer, Wooyoung’s call had snapped him out of the moment, bringing him crashing back to reality.

“Do you even understand how much she’s hurting, Hongjoong?” And there it was again—the harshness in Wooyoung’s tone. “Seonghwa told me she’s tearing herself apart over this. She doesn’t eat right anymore, and she barely even sleeps. She spends her nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where things went wrong, wondering if she’s the problem.”

The words landed like a punch to Hongjoong’s gut, leaving him breathless. Images of you flashed through his mind—moments when he’d caught glimpses of your smile faltering, your laughter quieting, the spark in your eyes dimming little by little. He’d told himself it was just his imagination, that you were fine. But Wooyoung’s words shattered that illusion entirely.

“She thinks she did something wrong, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung continued, his voice filled with barely contained anger. “She actually believes she’s the reason you’re running. Every time you disappear, every time you pull away, she thinks it’s because of something she did. And the worst part? She doesn’t even blame you. She blames herself.”

Hongjoong’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as guilt clawed at him.

“Seonghwa told me she asked him if she was too much. Can you believe that?” Wooyoung’s voice cracked. “She actually thinks she’s too much for you. That she’s somehow burdening you, dragging you down. She’s convinced herself that if she were just… less, maybe you wouldn’t be running.”

Hongjoong’s breath hitched, a wave of nausea rolling over him as he realized the full extent of the pain he’d caused. You—who had always been so vibrant, so unapologetically yourself—were now questioning every part of who you were, trying to shrink yourself down to avoid scaring him away.

“She’s not even angry at you, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice barely above a whisper now, each word a dagger aimed straight at Hongjoong’s heart. “She doesn’t hate you for this. She just… she thinks she’s not enough. Or that she’s too much. Either way, she’s convinced that she’s the problem.”

Hongjoong closed his eyes, his mind reeling. He could feel the anchor of your pain weighing down on him; He’d done this to you—turned you into a shadow of yourself, left you grappling with doubts and insecurities that weren’t yours to bear.

“You’ve been so busy hiding behind your own fears,” Wooyoung continued, “that you haven’t even stopped to consider what this is doing to her. You’re so terrified of being hurt again that you’re hurting her—over and over, every day, with every step you take away from her.”

Hongjoong opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but the words caught in his throat. What could he possibly say to justify this? How could he explain that he’d been running not to hurt you, but to protect himself? It sounded so selfish, so small in the face of everything you were going through.

“And you know what’s really twisted?” Wooyoung’s voice dropped, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “She’d take you back in a heartbeat. Despite everything, she’d still look at you the same way she did before you started pushing her away. She’d still forgive you, still try to see the good in you, because that’s who she is. That’s how much she cares.”

Hongjoong felt something break inside him, a quiet, shattering realization that left him reeling. You would forgive him. He knew that. He could see it in his mind—the way you’d smile softly, the way your eyes would fill with understanding, even now. Even after everything, you’d welcome him back, arms open, heart exposed, waiting.

“She deserves better, Joong.” Wooyoung’s words were softer now, the anger replaced by a raw, unfiltered honesty. “She deserves someone who doesn’t make her question her worth. Someone who doesn’t make her feel like she’s somehow wrong just for being herself. And if you can’t be that for her… if you’re too wrapped up in your own fears to let her in… then you need to let her go.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened, a hollow ache spreading through him as he struggled to process it all. He didn’t want to let you go. He couldn’t. But the thought of holding onto you only to keep hurting you, to keep dragging you through his own tangled web of insecurities and fears—it was unbearable.

“She’s barely holding up. She hides it well, but Seonghwa can see it. He told me how she sits alone for hours, just staring off into space, like she’s lost something she can’t find. She keeps her phone close, hoping maybe, just maybe, you’ll reach out. But every time you don’t... it breaks her a little more.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened painfully, each word slicing through him like a blade. He could see it so clearly now, every painful moment he’d forced you through. How you must’ve waited for messages that never came, must’ve spent countless nights wondering where things had gone wrong. The thought of you sitting there, lost in your own pain, while he’d been so focused on his own fears, was more than he could bear.

“And don’t think she hasn’t tried to talk to you.” Wooyoung’s voice turned sharp, accusatory. “Seonghwa told me how many times she’s wanted to reach out, just to make sure you’re okay, just to see if you’d give her even a scrap of reassurance. But every time, she stops herself. She doesn’t want to bother you, doesn’t want to seem needy. She’s holding back everything she feels because she’s afraid it’ll push you further away.”

Wooyoung’s eyes softened slightly, but the fire of his conviction remained. “You need to understand, Hongjoong. This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about her too. You’re hurting her, and if you don’t start realizing that, it’ll be too late. She’s going to break, and I don’t think she’ll come back from it.”

Hongjoong felt a cold wave of dread wash over him. The thought of you shattering into pieces because of his cowardice was unbearable. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, to say that he was doing this for you, for the both of you. But deep down, he knew it was a lie. He was only trying to shield himself from the fear of loss, the same fear that had haunted him since that girl from his past had walked away.

“I can’t… I can’t lose anyone again, Woo,” Hongjoong finally admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. “What if she sees me for who I really am? What if she realizes I’m not worth it?”

Wooyoung shook his head, frustration flashing across his features. “That’s where you’re wrong. She already sees you, and she loves you for all the parts you’re trying to hide. You think you’re protecting her by staying away, but you’re only pushing her further into despair.”

Hongjoong’s heart raced, a whirlwind of emotions colliding within him. “How do you know? How do you know she feels that way?”

“Because I’ve talked to Seonghwa, and he cares about her, Joong! He’s seen her cry over you. He told me she broke down one night, just sitting on the floor of her room, wondering why you were so distant. She kept saying she must’ve done something wrong. Do you want that for her? Do you want to be the reason she loses herself?”

The image of you curled up alone, tears streaming down your face while grappling with your worth, sliced through Hongjoong. The sheer guilt of it settled heavily in his chest, suffocating him. He had wanted to protect you, but in doing so, he had only hurt you more.

Hongjoong lingered in silence, the weight of his unspoken fears casting a shadow over the room. He could feel Wooyoung’s gaze on him, a

persistent pressure urging him to confront the thoughts he’d been too afraid to voice.

“What if…” The words caught in his throat, his voice strained with the vulnerability he couldn’t hide. “What if I take the next step, and she leaves? What if she ends up leaving just like—”

Wooyoung interrupted him by reaching forward, pressing his fingers gently but firmly to Hongjoong’s lips, shushing him with an authority that surprised them both. “I know what comes next, Hongjoong,” he murmured. “You don’t need to say it.”

Hongjoong stiffened, pulling back ever so slightly, a touch of annoyance flickering across his face. “You think it’s that simple?” he muttered, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You think it’s easy to just… forget?”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, though he held firm. “I think you’re holding onto something that’s long gone, Joong. And you’re letting it get in the way of something real.” He paused, leaning forward. “So what if the girl you loved back in middle school left you? You’re still letting her be the one who decides what happens now?”

Hongjoong’s mouth opened, then closed, his defenses crumbling under Wooyoung’s scrutiny. He could feel the words bubbling up, the excuses he’d used to justify his fears over and over, but this time, they didn’t come. The silence between them grew heavier, and he felt himself shrinking under Wooyoung’s eyes.

“It’s not about her,” Hongjoong finally managed, his voice a strained whisper. “It’s just… this was exactly how it started back then. The same moments, the same feelings, and then…” His voice broke, a haunted look creeping into his eyes as the memories clawed their way to the surface. “And then it all just fell apart the moment she left without a word.”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, his gaze filled with something close to sympathy, but there was no pity there, only an understanding forged through years of friendship. “Joong,” he said softly, leaning even closer as if he could bridge the distance that Hongjoong had placed between himself and everyone around him. “So what if some things feel familiar? They’re not the same person, are they? You’re not the same person, either.”

Hongjoong clenched his jaw, a flicker of anger sparking in his chest as he searched for a way to deflect, to deny the truth in Wooyoung’s words. “It’s… it’s not like that, Woo. You don’t get it.” His voice grew sharper, frustration edging his tone as he tried to hold onto the walls he’d built.

Wooyoung shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Really? Because it doesn’t look that way to me.”

Hongjoong looked away, his gaze hardening as he stared at the floor. “It’s not that simple, okay? You don’t know what it’s like to… to risk everything and then lose it.”

Wooyoung sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Hongjoong, I may not know exactly what you went through, but I do know one thing: you’re letting something from the past dictate your future. And that’s not fair. Not to you, and definitely not to her.”

Hongjoong’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as he felt the weight of Wooyoung’s words settle over him. Part of him wanted to argue, to cling to the fears that had kept him guarded for so long, but another part—a part he’d buried deep—knew that Wooyoung was right.

“What if I let myself try?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his words laden with the weight of years of doubt and self-preservation. “What if… what if I take that risk, and she ends up leaving?”

Wooyoung’s gaze softened, and he leaned forward, resting a reassuring hand on Hongjoong’s shoulder. “Joong, if she’s really the person you believe she is… then maybe it’s a risk worth taking. Because people leave, yeah. They walk away. But the ones who matter, the ones who are meant to stay—they won’t go anywhere.”

“You’re saying I should just… trust that?” His voice wavered, the question more for himself than for Wooyoung, as if he needed to convince himself that he could still believe in something other than his own fears.

Wooyoung’s mouth curved into a gentle, understanding smile. “Yeah. Trust it. Don’t let something that’s already gone keep you from what could be right here, right now.”

“What if I let her in? What if I let her see the real me? What if it’s not enough?”

“Then you fight for her,” Wooyoung replied. “You show her every day that she’s enough. You fight for her instead of running away. You have to be brave enough to take the risk, Joong. And if she does leave, at least you’ll know you tried. You can’t live in the shadow of your past forever.”

“But what if she sees me as weak?” Hongjoong countered, bitterness lacing his tone. “What if she thinks I’m broken?”

“Then you show her that even broken pieces can fit together to make something beautiful,” Wooyoung shot back. “You’ve built this wall around yourself, but you’re just hurting the one person who’s tried to break through. You need to trust her. You need to let her help you. She wants to be there for you, but you have to meet her halfway.”

The truth of those words echoed painfully in Hongjoong’s mind. He had been running, terrified of the vulnerability that came with love, terrified of the chance that he could be left once more. But he could feel the edges of that fear beginning to fray under the weight of his guilt, unraveling with every word Wooyoung spoke.

“You can’t let the past dictate your present, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice softer now, a mixture of empathy and frustration. “You can’t keep running away from what you feel. If you do, you’ll end up losing her, and it’ll be your fault.”

Hongjoong’s heart raced as he thought of you—how you had lit up his life in ways he never thought possible. How your laughter had become a soothing balm to his weary soul. He couldn’t keep ignoring the truth that was staring him in the face. The realization washed over him like a cold wave. “What am I supposed to do?” Hongjoong whispered.

“Fight for her, Joong. Show her that you’re not afraid. Be honest with her, and don’t let fear win this time.” Wooyoung leaned closer. “She deserves that much, at the very least. Fight for her—before it’s too late.”

“But what if it already is?”

🪞 — lividstar.

[raz-writes-the-thing]

second masterlist

this masterlist is closed (has hit the link limit). please see masterlist masterpost for more works.

fandoms are in alphabetical order.

BAD SAMARITAN

Cale Erendreich x Reader

Headcanons

Cale NSFW Alphabet 18+

Cale x GN!Reader comfort HCs

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Violent in Nature - (Cale Erendreich x FTM!Reader)

Cale catches you doing something you shouldn't be.

Eight-Legged Horror - (Cale Erendreich x GN!Reader)

There's an eight-legged horror in your lunchbox. Cale is not impressed with your response to it.

Not The Bamboo Sheets - (Cale Erendreich x GN!Reader) 18+

Cale has some bratty behaviour to correct.

Focus Please - (Cale Erendreich x GN!Reader)

Cale takes care of you when you get a nosebleed.

What's For Dinner? (Cale Erendreich x GN!Reader)

Cale catches you eavesdropping on his phone call.

BOYS (THE)

Billy Butcher x Reader

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Something New - (Billy Butcher x Fem!Reader) 18+

Slapping Billy doesn't go the way you think it would.

Little Kreature - (Billy Butcher x Fem!Reader)

The mission goes well and Butcher's found a surprise for you.

Soldier Boy x Reader

Drabbles (600 words or less)

My Command - (Soldier Boy x GN!Reader)

Soldier Boy knows just how to push your buttons.

BROADCHURCH

Alec Hardy x Reader

Headcanons

Alec Hardy NSFW Alphabet 18+

Alec Comfort HCs

Full-Length Fics (600 words plus)

A Reception Worth The Miss - (Alec Hardy x Fem!Reader) 18+

You were pretty far from where the ceremony had taken place by now and you were sure you were probably missing the opening bits of the reception.

New Years - (Alec Hardy x GN!Reader)

Neither of you have had a New Years kiss before- it's time that changed.

Gallery Shenanigans - (Alec Hardy x Masc!Reader) 18+

Alec gives you a handjob in the art gallery bathrooms

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Beanpole Icepack - (Alec Hardy x GN!Reader)

Alec runs cold. You run hot. Match made in heaven.

Ask Me Again In The Morning - (Alec Hardy x Masc!Reader)

Alec's drunk when he confesses his feelings for you.

The Way You Taste - (Alec Hardy x Fem!Reader) 18+

Alec loves the way you taste.

Nip To The Park - (Alec Hardy x GN!Reader)

Alec discovers your newest yappy crime.

DOCTOR WHO

Missy x GN!Reader hcs 18+

Tenth Doctor x Eleventh Doctor x Reader

Full-Length Fics (600 words plus)

The Opposite Effect - (Tenth Doctor x Eleventh Doctor x GN!Reader) 18+

Was it a mistake riling the two of them up? Possibly. Will you do it again? Most definitely.

A Little Paradox Never Hurt Nobody - (Tenth Doctor x Eleventh Doctor x Fem!Reader) 18+

It's been six months since Eleven joined you both, and it's safe to say things have escalated a little.

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Keep 'Er Steady - (Tenth Doctor x Eleventh Doctor x GN!Reader) 18+

It's about time you learnt how to fly the TARDIS

Tenth Doctor x Tentoo x GN!Reader

Headcanons

NSFW general headcanons

Tenth Doctor x Reader

Headcanons

NSFW ALPHABET

Ten with shy singing reader

Dark!Ten aftercare HCs

Ten x AFAB!GN!Reader eating out hcs 18+

Ten x Tall!GN!Reader HCs

Ten x Short!GN!Reader HCs

Subby!Ten x GN!Reader HCS 18+

Full Length Fics (600 words plus)

Need A Ride? - (Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader) 18+

You’d fucked him many times, of course, but never like this. Never on top.  

Oval Office Adjacent - (Dark!Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader) 18+

The Doctor gets a little jealous when an alien race turns its carnal sights on you.

Unbidden - (Dark!Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader) 18+

The Doctor's gone too far this time.

Sometimes All We Need Is A Good Cry - (Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader)

It's all in the title, babes

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Worth It - (Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader)

It might be time to reflect on the choices that brought you here.

Devoid of Attention - (Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader)

The Doctor is oblivious as per usual.

The Whole Time - (Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader)

The Doctor finds your love letters.

Fun Tonight - (Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader) 18+

Overstimulation with the Doctor

Mine - (Dark!Tenth Doctor x Fem!Reader) 18+

Dark!Ten would do anything to keep you with him.

Not For Lack of Squirming - (Dark!Ten x GN!Reader) 18+

Oral with Dark!Ten

Merry Christmas, Doctor - (Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader)

The Doctor plans a Christmas holiday

Eleventh Doctor x Reader

Full-Length Fics (600 words plus)

Still Out There - (Eleventh Doctor x GN!Reader)

There were few things you’d never seen by this point, but the Doctor crying? That was definitely not something you’d seen before.

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Do It Together - (Eleventh Doctor x GN!Reader)

Prompt: “When have I ever been wrong? … except about women. Generally.”

Unplanned Surprise - (Eleventh Doctor x GN!Reader)

You have an unplanned surprise to tell the Doctor about.

President of the World - (Eleventh Doctor x GN!Reader)

You don't believe the Doctor when he tells you he's President of the World.

Twelfth Doctor x Reader

Headcanons

Twelfth Doctor NSFW Alphabet

Full-length Fics (600 words plus)

Decidedly Not A Design Flaw - (Twelfth Doctor x GN!Reader) 18+

The Doctor catches you fantasising about his hands.

No More Leaking - (Twelfth Doctor x GN!Reader)

The Doctor discovers you're not sleeping well.

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Magazine Florets - (Twelfth Doctor x GN!Reader)

Catch and release prompt "animals"

Unofficial Fifth Member of the Beatles - (Twelfth Doctor x GN!Reader)

the Doctor has a new and unexpected accessory.

Terrible Idea - (Twelfth Doctor x GN!Reader)

The Doctor catches you watching Jurassic Park. Again.

Better? - (Twelfth Doctor x GN!Reader)

The Doctor comes to realise his lack of physical affection has been having more of an impact than he thought.

GOOD OMENS

Aziraphale x Crowley x Reader

Headcanons

Reader with long hair HCs

Aziraphale x Reader

Full-Length Fics (600 words plus)

Sinning With Lust - (Aziraphale x GN!Reader) 18+

Aziraphale catches you reading a spicy novel.

New Year's Kiss - (Aziraphale x GN!Reader)

Aziraphale asks to be your New Year's kiss.

Scar Tissue - (Aziraphale x FTM!Reader)

It's been one year since your top surgery.

Snowed In - (Aziraphale x GN/GF!Reader)

It's time you came out to Aziraphale as genderfluid.

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Very Entertaining - (Aziraphale x GN!Reader)

Aziraphale cannot fathom why you enjoy horror movies so much

Spent and Sated - (Aziraphale x GN!Reader) 18+

Aziraphale knows you can take one more load.

Crowley x Reader

Headcanons

Reader with period HCs

Karaoke with Crowley HCs

Full-Length Fics (600 words plus)

You Didn't Say The Magic Word - (Crowley x GN!Reader)

Crowley isn't the biggest fan of your house guest.

First Picnic - (Crowley x Fem!Reader) 18+

You talk Crowley into going on a picnic date with you.

Drabbles (600 words or less)

An Unexpected Cosplay - (Crowley x GN!Reader)

Crowley is small, and a pain in your ass.

Talk To Me - (Crowley x GN!Reader)

Crowley never fails to comfort you when you need it. Particularly when your mother is involved.

The Way You Look Tonight (Crowley x GN!Reader)

You might be sick, but you'll be damned if you don't get this dance.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Headcanons

Daemon x Masc!Knight!reader hcs

Full-Length fics (600 words plus)

A Fruit So Sweet - (Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Reader)

Daemon's noticed you before, and tonight he makes his first move.

Something In The Way - (Daemon Targaryen x GN!Reader) 18+

You reflect on the way Daemon touches you.

Rhaenyra Targaryen x Reader

One-Shots (600 words plus)

Gaze of the Moon - (GN!Reader)

You and your wife, Princess Rhaenyra steal a moment of peace together as you prepare for the coming birth of your child.

MARVEL

Eddie Brock/Venom x Reader

Headcanons

Venom x GN!Reader Relationship HCs

Full-Length Fics (600 words plus)

Is That A Promise? - (Eddie Brock/Venom x GN!Reader)

Telling you about Venom does not go entirely how Eddie planned.

Naughty Thoughts - (Eddie Brock/Venom x Fem!Reader) 18+

Venom discovers your dirty thoughts about him and his tongue.

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Sweet Like Chocolate - (Venom x GN!Reader)

Venom's enjoys it when you're his host.

Safe Together - (Venom x GN!Reader)

Venom has a confession to make to you.

Loki Laufeyson x Reader

Drabbles (600 words or less)

A Hug? - (Loki Laufeyson x GN!Reader)

You ask Loki for a hug. He's very Loki about it.

OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH

Ed Teach/Blackbeard x Reader

Full-Length Fics (600 words plus)

On Your Knees, Love - (Ed Teach x GN!Reader) 18+

You find out Ed has a thing for having his hair played with.

Stede Bonnet x Reader

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Show Business - (Stede Bonnet x GN!Reader)

Stede is teaching you a thing or two about piracy.

PRODIGAL SON

Martin Whitly x Reader

Headcanons

Martin Whitly NSFW Alphabet

Giving Martin head after dinner hcs 18+

Martin Whitly x GN!Reader Snuggle HCs

Full-Length Fics (600 words plus)

Study Bunny - (Martin Whitly x GN!Reader) 18+

You ride Martin's thighs.

Doctor's Orders - (Martin Whitly x GN!Reader)

You're feeling unwell. Good thing there's a doctor on hand.

SIX OF CROWS / SHADOW AND BONE

Kaz Brekker x Reader

Full-Length Fics (600 words plus)

Passing The Baton - (Kaz Brekker x GN!Reader)

To your knowledge, your crush on Kaz is unrequited. Apparently, this is not the case.

Paying Attention - (Kaz Brekker x GN!Reader)

You're a little clueless, but the Crows are trying their best to get you to see the light.

Heated Gaze - (Kaz Brekker x GN!Reader) 18+

Kaz likes to watch you play with yourself.

SUPERNATURAL

Team Free Will x Reader

One-Shots (600 words plus)

Monthly Pity Party - (AFAB!GN!Reader)

Your cramps are kicking your ass this month, though you do wish the boys would quit throwing pity parties for you.

Castiel x Reader

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Sudden Appearances Make For Good Times - GN!Reader 18+

Castiel learns his best moves from the pizza man.

Casifer x Reader

Drabbles (600 words or less)

The Odd Cuddle - (GN!Reader)

Flirty Casifer cuddles. That's it, that's the fic.

Dean Winchester x Sam Winchester x Reader (no Wincest)

One-Shots (600 words plus)

Anything You Need - (GN!Reader)

The boys discover you've been having some... unpleasant thoughts.

Dean Winchester x Reader

One-Shots (600 words plus)

Cute As A Button (AFAB!GN!Reader) 18+

smut prompt based on the word "button."

A Very Bisexual Revelation (Cis!Masc!Reader) 18+

Dean Winchester's never had trouble with the ladies, but this is brand new territory for him.

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Hurricane Dean - (Dean Winchester x GN!Reader)

All Dean wants is a vacation. If only the MOTW would allow such a thing.

Sam Winchester x Reader

One-Shots (600 words plus)

Bored and in Need of Entertainment - (GN!Reader)

You're bored and it's Sam's turn to entertain you.

Polish and Shine - (GN!Reader)

Sam chews on his nails a lot. Too much. You come up with a plan to break the habit.

WALKING DEAD (THE)

Negan Smith x Reader

Drabbles (600 words or less)

Not Part of the Plan - (Negan Smith x GN!Reader)

Negan discovers that you've been sent to spy on the Sanctuary

A Good Show - (Negan Smith x (cis)Masc!Reader) 18+

Negan likes a good show. He also likes seeing you handle Lucille. Match made in heaven.