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inkmonster21 · 5 months ago

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Sing for Me

11. The Missing Songbird

Cooper Howard × Fem!Reader / The Ghoul × Fem!Reader

She's a singer the nation adores. He's the actor everyone respects. What happens when these two get entangled in a heated affair? Passion, regret, rage, and even murder will commence.

From before the bombs drop to the vast wasteland, these two souls live for one another.

Previous Chapter

Series Masterlist

Tagged: @fallout-girl219 @harmfulb1tch @themadhattersqueen @one-of-thewalkingdead

(Y/n) (l/n) lay frozen in that chamber for centuries. Stuck in a dreamland where everything was perfect. He should’ve left her there. She had peace in a sleep filled with dreams that would never come true.

But he was bored. He wanted a life, and a family, and no one was letting her out on their own accord. So why not him? He already knew everything about her. He could praise her and provide a good life for her here in the Vaults.

Henry, now commonly known as Hank MacLean wanders to Vault 31. Searching row after row of frozen chambers until he came across what he was looking for. Posted up in the seat, blue lips, and frosted lashes (y/n) (l/n) lay undisturbed. He smiles, pressing all the needed codes for her release. He injects her with a syringe. Just a little memory wipe to make the process easier on his part. He transports her to Vault 33, setting her up on the metal examination table and hooking an IV into her arm. All he could do was wait. He wouldn’t be so bored anymore with her around.

I open my eyes but quickly close them again due to the bright white light. I reach out into the air, my body weak. “Help,” I whisper with the little energy I have in my bones. My throat was dry and my lips were numb. My vision comes soon after the feeling in my fingertips. I look down at myself, seeing a blue suit lined with yellow. I choak out a sob, not entirely sure of why I’m sad. I was so confused. I couldn’t remember anything. The overwhelming feeling of fear taking root.

I look around quickly through tear-soaked eyes. I’m lying on a table, an IV drip in my arm. I start to breathe heavily. Was I sick? Did I pass out? Where was everyone? Where was I?

Who am I?

Then I heard it, “You’re alright. Would you like some help sitting up?” A single voice that calmed the nerves. I looked up to see a man. A small, weak man, with a wide friendly smile, “My name, is Hank. Everything is okay. Do you remember where you were before you fainted? Why you were running?” I stare at him in confusion. I shake my head, covering my eyes. “I… I don’t remember anything.” Hank pressed a smile and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Well, you’re safe now. I’ll grab a tray of food and some water and be right back. You must be starving.” I feel my anxiety rising as he steps away. The fear of being alone again with unanswered questions claws at my brain. “Wait…” I reach for him, this stranger. “Would you stay? Please?” Hanks's smile spreads over his cheeks, “of course I will.”

Day after day Hank would arrive with breakfast, spending the hours of the day teaching me about the Vaults and how the community functions. It sounded like a dream. “I have your file from the Overseer of 31,” Hank excitedly says as he types away on his Pip-Boy. “So soon? I thought you said it would take them a week.” Hank smiles down at his screen. “It has your name.” A smile grows on my face.

A real name. My name! Something factual I could hold onto in this sea of uncertainty. I grab his arm tugging him close, looking down at the screen. I read the name slowly, the information warming my chest. “Melody Richards.” Hank smiles at me, “I think it’s a beautiful name.”

I sit with a grin, content with being Melody. Content with being someone.

“Everyone will love you, Melody,” Hank reassured me as he walked us down the corridor, arm in arm. Vault 33 had put together an entire function just for me. To welcome me into their community.

Life was good. I felt right at home in Vault 33 with Hank. He took care of me. He made sure I was always happy. It was hard for me to believe sadness was still an emotion I could have. We married soon after, and my days were happy. I was assigned to teaching, which I was surprisingly good at. Maybe I was a teacher in my past life. It had been a year and Hank and I were just so happy. The daily routine is memorized by my brain. Every day just like the last. A predictable happy day. Until one individual day when everything changed.

“Girls, is there something you’d like to say,” I ask politely as a group of 3 girls. The bell has rung, and class is over, but yet they remain in their seats. They giggle as they look at me. I feel myself shrink. Was something on my face?

Becca, a 13-year-old girl with long blonde hair smiles at me. “You look just like Mary from that movie we just saw last night. She’s so pretty.” I tilt my head, “I didn’t know I missed movie night! I wish I had known.” The girls jump in excitement, “We’re about to go watch it again! Do you want to come? We need a chaperone anyway.”

It was only 3:00, I didn’t have to make dinner for another hour or so. I could use a little break. I shrug my shoulders, “Sure, why not? Lead the way, girls.”

They skipped down the hall telling me all I needed to know about the film. “So Mary is a singer and she works for this bad guy who owns the club. Bill, the detective is trying to catch the club owner but falls for the singer in the process. He saves her and then she tells him off! And he chases her in the rain! They are so cute! Ugh! I wish I could meet someone like that.”

We take our seats in the theater, waiting for the picture to roll. The screen lights up, and a nightclub scene appears. The picture drifts to a stage where a stunning young woman walks through the curtain. She begins to sing. Her voice swims through the room beautifully. I watch in amazement as she belts the song. I wish I could sing like that.

A man enters to club and is instantly taken by Mary. She sings to him, reaching out. He trails from table to table until he takes a seat in the very front. She walks down sits on his table and finishes her song. The man smiles at her. It warms my chest to see a new love.

I did look similar, but in no way was I more than a resembling face to the old actress.

At the dock Bill pulls her away from gunfire, shielding her in the street. “You have to go, Mary.” She shakes her head, “I told you. I can handle myself.” He turns to her, cups her cheeks, and brings her in close for a passionate kiss. “I know you can, but if you get hurt. I won’t be able to handle myself.” He stroked her cheek lightly.

In such focus, I don’t think twice about the cold ghostly touch on my own cheek. I watch in a trance as they express their feelings. I run my fingertips over my lips, feeling a light tingling. What a reaction! This film was something else. The two actors sold the roles. They acted just like they really loved each other. The film finished and I was hooked.

The next few days I rented every film and every record by (y/n) (l/n). I danced in the kitchen as I made dinner. Spinning around I place the meal into the oven.

Hank walks in, a confused look present. I giggle and grab his hands. “Dance with me.” I hum lightly to the song as I attempt to get him to join. He doesn’t. Instead, he walks over to the radio and turns the record off. I watch him, and an unfamiliar clench in my chest rises. His eyes bore into mine. “Melody, where did you get that?” His stare is lined with a nervous smile. “The library. They’ve started renting out movies and records now.” He nods as he watches me. I return to cooking dinner silently. I turn my head to look at Hank. He reads the back of the record case with furrowed brows.

The cover stands out. She really was beautiful. Clad in a silky red dress, her hair done nicely, and makeup to perfection. “Some of my students said I look like her.” I smile at the thought of being that stunning. Hank looks at me, no expression on his face. “I don’t see it.” He gathers up the films and records into a pile. “I’m not a big fan of this type of thing. You’re so much better, Melody. I don’t want you to get a complex." Hank exits the vault without another word.

The right thing to do would be to listen to him. he was my husband and the voice of reason in the dynamic. However, I can hear someone. Someone deep down calling out. Begging me to sing those songs. I lay in the bed staring blankly at the wall. Someone won’t let me rest. Someone is clawing at my skin from the inside out begging to escape. I look at Hank. The man I had come to know seemed like a stranger. Such an out-of-character act for him. He loved music, any type.

I feel the haunting pull. Forcing me to get out of bed and slowly creep down the illuminated hall. I wonder, feeling my feet carry their way. I stop at the doors to the theater. The invisible tug pulls me into the room. The only light was upon the stage. A ghostly smile grows on my face as I advance to the stage. I stand on the elevated wooden floor, looking out over the rows of seats.

I can’t explain why or how, but I began to sing. A song I had never known or heard begins rolling out of my mouth. Emotion taking over my body. This lost soul pulling their way to the light.

“I can hear you but I won't

Some look for trouble while others don't

There's a thousand reasons I should go about my day

And ignore your whispers, which I wish would go away”

I see the mist of a figure seated in the middle. His eyes are bright and his smile is wide. He feels so familiar. Something inside myself was wrong. This wasn’t me. I wasn’t a singer. I wasn’t a performer.

“You're not a voice, you're just a ringing in my ear

And if I heard you, which I don't, I'm spoken for I fear

Everyone I've ever loved is here within these walls

I'm sorry, secret siren but I'm blocking out your calls

I've had my adventure, I don't need something new

I'm afraid of what I'm risking if I follow you”

The figure is closer now, allowing the light to bleed into their frame. He stands from his seat, taking slow steps towards the stage. I fall to my keens awaiting him. It was the only thing that felt right.

“What do you want? 'Cause you've been keeping me awake

Are you here to distract me so I make a big mistake?

Or are you someone out there who's a little bit like me?

Who knows deep down I'm not where I'm meant to be?”

It’s him. The man from the films. He pulls himself onto the stage, cupping my face in his palms. The warmth of his hands has me believing he’s real. He’s here with me.

“Don't you know there's part of me that longs to go

Into the unknown

Into the unknown”

I cling to him as I sing. His smile couldn’t widen anymore. His eyes dazzling as he watches me. His touch pulled the lost soul to the surface. Pulling her out and tossing Melody inside the cage.

This has been an entire trick. I see my entire past in his orbs. The movie, the secret meetings, the months of sadness, the party, the divorce, the engagement, Barb, and Vault Tech…

I breathe heavily as I finish the song. I stare at my hands I allow a tearful laugh to escape. I'm back... I'm me... The heavy weight of the unknown universe is gone.

It's just Cooper and I. I look up expecting to see him, but I'm alone. "Cooper?" I call out only to be met with my echo. The doors in the back open swiftly. I smile watching his figure walk down the dark path.

"Cooper." I go to run into his arms, but I stop at the sound of the voice, "You just couldn't leave it alone. Could you?" Hank advances the stage, stalking me with his eyes. "Henry." I back away with each step he takes.

"Where is he?" He shrugs, "Probably dead." He extends a hand, "Why don't you just come back with me? We have a good life." I shake my head, my back hitting the lush red curtains. "You tricked me!" Henry tosses his head back with a dark laugh. "I saved YOU!"

He lunged at me, grabbing my frame in his grasp. I scream as I struggle against him. "No!" I kick against him, "I'm not going back!" Tears fall from my eyes, "COOPER!" I ball as I violently thrash against Henry. He pulls out a syringe from his pocket. Shaking his head he holds me down. "I've got an idea on how to make you more... compliant." He stabs the needle into my neck. Second after second, I feel my limbs weaken. I fought to keep my eyes open, but I lost. Falling into my death that was disguised as a restful slumber.

Hank MacLean buzzed around the lab, watching the machine craft such a perfect specimen. “She’s beautiful.” He whispers lowly, in shock, he had never seen such an astonishing creation.

Fastened in a tube lay a newly built machine, recreated from past generations, but was lost, until he reconstructed it… reconstruccted her. He recreated her from the ruins she once was. Sitting in the dark storage unit, rotting away in the grave of all the failed experiments and equipment. Where the past had failed the future will succeed.

The young Hank overlooked the newly finished machine. She was sparkly. Her skin was smooth, her lashes long, her cheeks the color of rose, her lips plump, makeup drew on to perfection. She looked just like she did in the movies.

With one finger he types a single code into the computer system with haste. As the shield opens fog rolls out of the tube, kissing the floor. Her eyes open, knitting her brows together. A calmness washed over her. She steps out of the chamber completely nude. She smiles at the small madman. “Hi there, I’m, Melody. How can I be of assistance, Mr. MacLean?”

She was easier to… control. Hank had an easy life in the vaults, mostly because his synthetic humanoid wife listened to his every command without question She cooked his favorite meals, and cleaned until the home was spic can span. She was the perfect wife. What else could he want?

Short answer? He wanted Rose. One of the newcomers in a trade with Vault 32. He had become obsessed with her. Her beauty was impeccable. Not fake like Melody’s drawn-on liner. She was the sweetest creature he had ever come to know. Rose was made for him. Unlike Melody who Hank crafted to fit his narrative. However, this had to be fate. No one had made his heart beat like Rose. That night as he returned home for dinner. He had a plan. One final act and he would be free to woo Rose. To have and to hold her forever. He just had to get rid of Melody first.

He hauled her mechanical body to the top floor, disposing of her and all of the remaining items. Her belongings, movies, albums, clothes. Anything Hank had hidden away to shield the truth from her. It worked for some time. He wanted more. He had the perfect wife, but he wanted real raw emotions. Yes, she has a real brain and a heart, but it never truly belonged to him. She would forever feel the attachment to the old actor long gone with the land.

He set everything down with a huff. He took one glance at her cold emotionless face before looking down at his wrist to input the codes. The codes to shut her off, to put her to death once and for all.

Just as he brings his finger down to hit the last number, his finger curls around his hand, and forcefully turns it upwards. The synthetic copy of (y/n) holds Hanks's wrist with a bone-crushing grip. She leans in, dark eyes as she bends his wrist to look at the screen.

“You were going to shut me off?” She twitches her head. An internal battle raged in her mind. Two lives battle for dominance, but clash together in a confusing mixture. Hank yelps as he tries to hit the last number, but she is faster. She quickly breaks his other wrist. He screams in agony, glaring at her. “You bitch!” He grits his teeth as he tries to grab ahold of her. She kicks him in the face knocking him out cold.

Get the box and go.

She twitches as she grabs the box in her hands.

Run.

RUN!

The internal voice screams the commands. She swiftly opens the vault door, the sunlight shining in blinding her. She doesn’t look back at the sorry excuse of the man who had created such a machine. She left in search of something unknown.

#cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #fallout #fallout imagine #the ghoul #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard fallout #fallout ghoul #walton goggins #the ghoul fallout

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kining-the-evil · 2 years ago

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Heyy I was wondering if you would write up some good ole' Greg house angst? His gf didn't make it through her surgery kinda stuff. Make it as heart breaking as possible >:)

Lova ya work ! :D

Whatever You Think Is Best

//Summary// Greg makes a call, but was it the right one?

//Warnings// Reader is dying, being extremely sick, hospitals, brain surgery, death, feelings of guilt

//an// thank you so much anon! I’m glad you like my writing!

House md Taglist: @tuttifuckinfruttifriday

House md Masterlist All masterlists

The first time he met you, Greg decided immediately that you were just like every other person in the world. Completely miserable, but pretending to be kind to everybody. When you started showing up more and more, he considered it a fluke that would fix itself. He’d say something insensitive, and your storm out with plans to never see him again. But you didn’t. You kept coming back, making him actually talk instead of just insulting each other and forcing him to be more, human. At one point, he almost thought fate existed. There was no way someone like you could just accidentally themselves onto his lap. But you were there, holding him up in the best way you knew how during hard points in his life. He didn’t think he’d have to try and repay the favor.

“Good morning,” You greeted as Greg walked into the kitchen. You set the dishes you’d been cleaning down to walk over and greet him, but he frozen when you kissed his cheek.

“What did you just say?”

You pulled back, a slight frown on your face. “Good morning?”

He looked down at his watch before glancing back at you. “It’s 4:55. Pm.”

No, that couldn’t be right. You’d gotten up, made breakfast, started cleaning… then what? Your mind seemed to not be sure.

“You’ve also already said that to me, this morning. You did exactly what you just did…” Greg passed you to glance in the sink. “And you were washing the same plate. Let me see your hands.”

You held them out, and the moment they touched them it felt like they had been set on fire. That’s when you realized that they were bright red with blotches of white, bleeding in multiple places.

“Wha- I didn’t, I didn’t even notice.” You hissed slightly at his touch, pulling them back. Now that you could feel the pain, it was awful.

“We need to get to a doctors.”

————————

One week. 7 whole days. That was how long you’d been in the hospital, and Greg was getting impatient. When he checked you in you were frazzled and had second degree burns from the hot water running on them all day, but now he wished that all it was.

You were having episodes of memory loss and confusion, Extrems head aches, vision that went back and forth with being blurry, and your vitals were getting worse and worse. You were dying and he had no idea why.

“Nothing,” Wilson sighed, allowing Greg to snatch the test from his hands. He had forced his friend to test for any possible cancer, even if it didn’t fit your symptoms.

“It can be ‘nothing’” he snapped. “ ‘nothing’ doesn’t kill you!” Before Wilson could think of a response both of their pagers went off, once again dragging them to your room.

“Don’t touch me!” You yelled at Chase while messing with the I.V in your arm.

“What happened?” House questioned, seeing you through the glass door.

“Another episode,” Forman mumbled. He and Chase had gone in to check your IV, and something set you off. “She doesn’t know where she is house, she wants to leave.”

Greg sighed, but walked into the room. When you saw him, you seemed to relax a bit. “Greg! What- what’s happening?” Your voice cracked a bit, and he walked forward to take your hand away from where your IV was.

“Don’t mess with that, you’ve just got to trust me.” He watched as your kind tried to catch up with what he was saying.

“I don’t-“

“House!” You both looked over to where Chase was still standing. “Look at her ear.”

Greg moved your head a bit, reaching up to touch the side of it. He pulled his hand back while you frowned at him. “What is it?”

“Blood, you’re bleeding from your ear.”

————————

“New symptom, bleeding from the ear. What could it be?” Greg write it down on the board that had far to many symptoms on it, in his opinion. After a moment of silence, he turned around to look at the group. “Hello? Am I Talking to anyone?”

“She needs a craniectomy,” Forman finally said. “The brain is swelling, would explain the bleeding and if something is pushing on the brain then it could be messing with her memory.”

“Yes, let’s take off a portion of her skull on the scientific explanation of ‘could.’” He mocked, making a face at Foreman.

“He’s right,” Cameron spoke up. “Any other patient and you would Have agreed.”

Greg took a breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He knew fully well they were right, that if the swelling didn’t go down then their wouldn’t be anything to diagnose.

“Fine, get the forms signed and an OR booked.”

—————

“You want to remove a part of my skull?” You asked the three doctors. Your legs were tucked under you, your right hand handcuffed to the bed, just incase you go off again.

“Just to get the swelling down, then we will put it back.” Forman explained. “All three of us will be in the OR during the surgery, but it is a dangerous surgery. You could, like with any surgery, bleed out while it’s happening. But you could also get an infection in the brain, and given how weak your immune system is right now, that could be bad.”

You glance at each of them, unsure of what to say. “What-what does Greg think?” You finally ask.

“He, agrees this is the next logical step,” Chase said.

“Then I’ll do it,” you quickly decide. “He’s the one in charge of medical decisions if I’m unable to make them, so if he thinks I should then I will.”

“Are you sure-“

“Sign here,” Chase cut Cameron off, handing over the forms. “And we will get an OR prepped.”

You took the paper, quickly signing everything and handing it back. “Could you call Greg for me?”

“Of course,” Forman gave you small smile before all three of them left.

While waiting you glanced down at the cuff keeping you in the bed. Despite how hard you tried to not fight against it, the skin was still rubbed raw. It hurt, but was just another pain to add to the rest of them.

“You agreed to the surgery.” You glanced up to see Greg walking into the room. “With little encouragement.”

“They said you thought it was the right move,” you shrugged. “I don’t know anything about this stuff and I trust you.”

“Why Are You so calm about this?”

“I told you, if you think it’s the best idea, so I’ll do it.”

“No, that’s your reason to do it.” He corrected you. “Any sane person would be terrified to have a surgery like this.”

“Greg, there are moments where I have no idea what is happening or where I am. That’s what scares me. This… just doesn’t seem as bad.” He watches you like your an animal at the zoo, like he’s trying to decipher whatever is actually happening in your head.

“Ok.”

—————

Greg stood watching the surgery, eyes jumping between where you were being cut into and where your vitals were being monitored.

“It can’t be healthy to watch this,” Wilson spoke from beside his friend.

“Just checking on my patient.”

“She’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” Greg quickly snapped. He didn’t like this, the emotional connection to a patient. It’s easier to suggest things like this when you don’t love the patient.

A sudden movement caught his eyes, making him frown. Everyone in the room was rushing around, and when he looked at your vitals he found a flat line.

“Shit.” Greg moved as quickly as he could, even excepting Wilson’s help so that he could get there faster. Just as he opened to OR door, the word ‘clear’ was being shouted followed by a small shock.

“Get him out of here.” Chase pointed over at house, and a few people walked over to led him out.

“Get off me!” He snapped, trying to push towards you. It wasn’t until he hit one’s foot with his cane that he got through, grabbing the paddles from Chase.

“Clear,” a shock.

“Clear” another shock.

“Clear.” Another

“Cl-“

“House, Stop!” Forman attempted to grab the paddles, but Greg would let go. If he let go, it lent you would die.

“No,” he mumbled. His mind was going a million miles a second. “No, I can’t stop.” He was so in his mind that he didn’t notice Wilson behind him until he was being dragged out of the room.

“Don’t,” Wilson snapped after shoving Greg onto a seat outside of the OR and saw him try to get back up.

“I’m not just letting her die!” Greg yelled, but Wilson just stood there, making sure his friend wouldn’t try and run back in. Luckily, it was only around 20 minutes before Cameron came out.

“She’s on Life Support, but is brain dead,” she explained. “Cuddy said half an hour before they pull the plug. So you can say good bye.”

“No point,” Greg spoke. “She can’t hear me. She’s already dead.”

“God damn it, just go do it,” Wilson snapped. “I’m going to, she was my friend. And you need to, or you’ll regret it.”

Although telling anyone who would listen that it didn’t matter, he waited outside of the room you were in. He watched as multiple people walked in to say final goodbyes, waiting until he was the only person left. He had five minutes.

Greg knew what it looked like when a person was hooked up to something like this, but seeing you like that felt wrong. A tube down your throat, multiple needles in your body, all meant to keep you alive for a little longer. He wanted to walk out, but with Wilson’s words echoing in his head he didn’t. Instead, he walked closer to the bed.

Slowly, he reached a hand out to touch your face lightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have figured it out, you shouldn’t be here. It’s my fault.” He felt tears burning his eyes, and as bad as he wanted to hold them back, he just couldn’t. “I’m so sorry.”

He just stood there, letting tears fall while rubbing your face. It was cold, to cold. Only a week ago you’d been your normal, smiling self, and now you were here. All because he couldn’t solve the puzzle. A hand came to rest on his shoulder that he immediately recognized as Cuddy.

“It’s time. You may want to step out.”

He made no move to leave, and When Cuddy realized he wouldn’t she just nodded. He wouldn’t look at anything else but your face as the sound of the machines being turned off or the sound of you flatlining. Your chest stoped moving.

“Time of death, 11:45 pm.” Cuddy’s voice spoke. With a nod Greg leaned down, planting a kiss on your forehead and whispering a final apology.

—————

Fungal infection. The autopsy showed you had a simple fungal infection in the spinal cord, which had caused everything. The swelling in the brain was caused by the meds they had given you. A round of anti-fungal would have saved you. If they had figured it out, you would have been fine.

#request #house md #greg house #greg house x reader #gregory house #gregory house x reader #tw death #tw reader death

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literary-motif · 5 months ago

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V. Les Aubes Sont Navrantes

In which an unexpected guest ruins Xanthus' pretence. ~3,600 words

Warnings: memory manipulation

Overview // IV. The Abyss Also Stares Into You

You awoke with a start.

The darkness was still heavy, with no indication of the dawn being near. As you looked into the inky blackness, your heart beating frantically as the nightmare slowly bled from your mind, you longed for nothing more than the dawn’s soft rays and its gentleness to chase away the horrors of the night.

Your sleep was troubled.

The encounter with Mr. Fint and his warning the night prior would not leave your mind. Caressing the fabric of your night clothes, you thought of its twin fluttering on the roof.

The air of the estate was suffocating you with an evil you were only now beginning to comprehend but for which you still could not find sufficient cause.

The mystery of the picture Mr. Fint had shown you felt like a faraway dream. Had it been real at all? You were in a daze during that time. Perhaps you had imagined the whole thing? It seemed too absurd to be true, and yet—

What was the cause of the hostility between Xanthus and his meager staff? Did they know something you did not? Did they suspect something? Had they completed a puzzle you were only slowly finding the pieces to?

You went through the night’s events in your mind — the iron grip on your shoulders as you looked down the tower, the searing kiss against your lips, the peacefulness you had felt on the lake, the hunger in Xanthus’ eyes as he looked at you.

Retrieving a box of matches, you struck one to light the candle on the nightstand. In the dim light, you checked the time on your pocket watch. It was three in the morning. You sighed, too restless to fall asleep but too tired to do anything substantial.

You dressed slowly, opening the window over the desk and looking out into the darkness.

There was a stillness particular to mornings that allowed for self-reflection. Time hardly seemed to pass in the early hours, and it was only in these seemingly frozen moments that you allowed yourself to feel the heaviness of the letter folded neatly in your right pocket.

The best-kept secrets were those close to oneself. You inhaled the cold morning air, fighting the urge to light a cigarette.

Could you trust Xanthus?

Infatuation had a way of creating illusions, and you feared you had allowed him to get too close to you already. Had you disregarded Lady Alderton’s warning because of your blind curiosity and the easy escape he had offered from a life you never wanted to return to?

A brief respite was a break nonetheless. Still, you felt you should heed the warnings Mr. Fint had so adamantly conveyed. Something told you he was right to urge you to leave, and you had better listen this time before it was too late.

The thought of returning to London made your heart heavy. With Xanthus’ kiss fresh in your memory and the security of darkness, you allowed yourself to recall a love confession uttered there some five years ago.

What was love, after all, but a disappointment to your parents?

You had wanted to leave the city with him and start anew in Paris, where you thought things would be simpler. Nobody would know you there, not personally. Nobody would bat an eye at your discrepancy in social rank. You had offered him a way out of his bleak life when you extended your invitation for him to accompany you on your travels.

“Have you lost your mind?” he had hissed in the dark alley, pointing an accusing finger at you as his eyes blazed with an anger you had rarely seen. “I don’t expect someone as disgustingly privileged as yourself to understand, but I have responsibilities here. I can’t just leave! What happens to my mother? You know she is sick. Do you think I will just let her die? What about my sisters? Do you think my father will care for them when he finishes his bottle? I am all they have! I cannot be as selfish as you and leave everything behind! This is insanity!”

The air had turned stale in the city. You could no longer breathe in London, but that did not mean you wanted to be alone. You longed to leave your life behind, but not him.

“I love you,” you had said, selfishly hoping that would be reason enough.

He had scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief as hurt and rage shone in his eyes at your poor attempt at manipulation. “I never want to see you again,” he had said, turning away from you.

You clenched your fists, watching his retreating back as you wracked your brain to get him to stay, to be with you, to leave with you.

“I will pay you,” you had called out.

He had stopped in his tracks.

“Your family will get an allowance. Your mother, your sisters — I do not care. I will make sure they are looked after. They will be provided for if you come with me.”

He had whirled around. The hatred in his expression caused you to step back in shock.

“No!” he had yelled, face twisted in seething rage and utter disgust at you. “Never! Not for all the money in the world would I leave them behind to be with you!” He had stormed away, disappearing from your view forever and taking a piece of your heart with him.

You struck a match, watching the flame flicker as you lit the candles in the drawing room. The canvas with all your painting supplies was where you had left it, waiting for your return.

With the sketches you had made on the boat to use as reference, you continued Xanthus’ portrait. This way, he would only need to pose for a few more hours for you to give the painting the finishing touches it needed. You might leave today already or tomorrow at the latest.

The estate was not good for you.

It dug up things you would rather keep buried. Memories tugged on your mind, images flashed behind your eyelids that threatened to lift a coffin that had long been sealed. What was it about the mansion that clung to the past?

Was it the stained glass window? The old architectural style of centuries past? Were it the prayers seeped into the walls from people long dead? Was it the spirit of the catholic guilt desperately clinging to sins committed and long since absolved?

Was it your host, filling the air around him with a foreign antiquity? Was it he himself who did not belong in the present, a relic of the past that should not have endured this much?

Or was it your own inability to let go of the past, ever chasing as you grew weary of running? It was licking your heels, only a pace behind, no matter how fast you tried to outrun it.

It was gaining on you.

You had already completed the details of the background and were nearly done with the expression of mischievous severity on his face when the gardener walked in.

You looked at her. She stared back, blowing out the candle burning uselessly.

Too engaged in your work, you had not noticed the sun streaming abundantly through the windows. She continued to eye you closely. You clenched your jaw, continuing your work. You were too tired for the ominous feeling settling over you again.

The shade of red in his eyes was not quite right, you noticed, making it darker until it was almost blood red. Rosaria startled you out of your thoughts again by placing a pot of garlic flowers on the table beside you. An odd choice. You returned to painting as you caught a whiff of smoke rising from the remaining candles she was blowing out.

When you were adding onto the lines of his hair, you were interrupted again by a gentle knock, only to find the man himself standing in the doorway. You had not heard him approach.

“Would you like to have breakfast with me?” Xanthus asked.

You declined, accepting only his offer of tea.

“There is no need for you to sit yet,” you said as he handed you the cup. You noticed his disdainful glance towards the garlic flowers. “Feel free to take your time with breakfast.”

“No need,” he said smoothly, “I had an excellent dinner.” Walking up behind you, he leaned over your shoulder to look closely at the painting.

“I am nearly done,” you said, sipping your tea before setting the cup aside and continuing the detail of his hair. “Now it may wither and distort while you remain forever young, beautiful, and untouched by your sins,” you said, only half joking as you remembered Mr. Fint’s picture.

You suppressed a shudder as he leaned closer, hoping he could not hear the hitch in your breath.

“I do not need a portrait to do that,” he said dryly, with a tone so serious it made your blood run cold. You did not comment on it, afraid of what he would answer. He took his seat in the armchair.

You cleared your throat, taking another sip of your tea as your mouth went dry. “This will be done today,” you said, motioning to the painting. “I will take my leave this evening if I may.”

He raised an eyebrow, and you saw his eyes crinkle in amusement. He opened his mouth to reply but frowned, the playfulness in his expression turning into confusion before morphing into annoyance.

His gaze darted towards the drawing room door. There was nothing there, but he sighed as if his favorite game had been ruined.

A door fell shut heavily. Footsteps approached. A moment later, a tall man stood in the doorway, shooting Xanthus a dazzling smile.

“Lawrance!” the stranger greeted cheerily, opening his arms wide.

Lawrence?

You blinked. Surely—?

Xanthus remained seated, looking at him in annoyance.

“Come on,” he said with a pout, “I travel across the Atlantic to visit my favorite vampire, and I don’t even get a hug? Unacceptable.”

Vampire? Your eyes widened.

“Dontis,” Xanthus greeted monotonously, pursing his lips in displeasure. “Do you know how boring it is when I have to compel them? Now look” — he complained, motioning at you. He rolled his eyes at your shocked expression as you slowly put the pieces together he had been dangling in front of you since the very beginning — “you’ve revealed the mystery already.”

You stood frozen, eyes darting between Xanthus and Dontis, trying to make sense of it all. Xanthus was Lawrance. They are the same person. Mr. Fint was right. The photograph showed him looking the same today as he did forty years ago, maybe longer.

How old was he? What— a vampire?

“I go by Xanthus nowadays,” he said, looking pointedly at Dontis, whose eyes fixed on you. He had not noticed you before, his expression almost regretful.

“Apologies, Xanthus,” he said, turning to look at him.

You backed away in horror, eyes landing on the garlic flowers. You picked them up and held them out in front of you protectively. Rosaria knew more than you. They were some sort of protection, you hoped.

Xanthus muttered a curse, setting down his cup of tea. He rose from his seat.

“No,” you said shakily, pressing your back against the glass door. The panic was rising, turning you numb with fear. You fumbled with the handle, not daring to take your eyes off Xanthus’ approaching form.

The garlic flowers did not work as he stepped closer and closer.

Your heartbeat was deafening to your ears. You heard nothing but the rushing of blood, making you feel dizzy. The door would not budge. You could not think clearly.

“Stay—” you choked, letting the flowers tumble to the floor as you took a thick book instead, raising it threateningly. “Stay back,” you warned, your voice sounding faint. “Stay back, I say. I am not afraid to use—”

Xantus was not deterred, backing you further into a corner.

You lunged at him with the book, trying to hit him. He slapped it out of your hands. You yelped, attempting to run. He caught you, holding onto your shoulders tightly and forcing your fearful gaze to meet his.

“Forget this conversation and continue painting!”

Your brush hovered over the canvas.

“Let’s try that again,” Xanthus muttered, sitting down in the armchair and motioning for something. You were about to ask what he meant when a tall man stepped into the room.

“Xanthus, what a pleasure,” he greeted cheerfully, his eyes finding you. “I did not know you had company, my friend.”

“Dontis, this is my portraitist,” Xanthus said, motioning toward you and looking pointedly at him.

You inclined your head towards Dontis. “Hello, it’s a pleasure,” you said politely, returning his warm smile. “We can take a break if you would like to catch up in private?” you asked, looking at Xanthus.

“That will not be necessary,” he said, motioning for Dontis to take a seat. “Speak freely, please. What brings you to England? Unannounced, might I add.”

“A change of scenery, really,” he said, pouring himself a cup of tea. “I was pulled towards here, you could say. There was no time to waste when such a call comes over one. You understand I’m sure.”

Xanthus grunted in agreement, his displeasure at Dontis’ interruption not lessened by the explanation. “When are you leaving?”

Dontis clicked his tongue, shooting him a half-hearted glare. “I love what you have done with the place,” he said instead, gesturing around the room. “The last time I was here, High Gothic was all the rage.”

You froze, letting out a quiet gasp.

Either Dontis did not know anything about architectural history, or he was over six centuries old. The latter was entirely impossible, you thought, raising your eyes from the canvas to glance at him. He looked about as old as Xanthus.

“The cathedral was lovely,” he continued, and your heart picked up in confusion.

Xanthus had told you the estate had been repurposed centuries ago.

Your hand shook, the blond strand of hair you painted coming out crooked. You tried to keep calm, thankful the two of them were on the other side of the room and could not hear your quiet gasps.

“I prefer it like this, however. It feels—”

“Dontis!” Xanthus hissed, cutting him off with a glare. “They are quite the architectural enthusiast, and I can hear their heartbeat from here without special hearing when you declare confidently that you were here last in the 13th century. Forget the last few seconds and continue painting!”

Your brush hovered over the canvas.

The silence in the room was tense. Dontis cleared his throat awkwardly while Xanthus continued to glare at him. His eyes found yours, an expression akin to pity in them.

“I can recommend Paris for a true change of air,” you said lightly, breaking the silence and trying to elevate some of the tension. Drawing room conversations were not your forte, but you had plenty of experience with maneuvering society and suffering through meaningless small talk.

Dontis sipped his tea, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

“It has blossomed in the last few years, especially in the fields of art,” you continued, making conversation. You frowned, cursing your absentmindedness for having red on your brush when touching up on the hair.

You blinked, eyes darting across the painting. When had you done the lips? You had to be more exhausted than you thought.

Xanthus scoffed. “Perhaps Greece instead,” he added disinterestedly, clearly abhorring the light chatter you tried to fill the silence with. His eyes lit up with a glint when he saw you squirm at the mention of the country. “Your parents seemed taken with it, no?”

You cleared your throat, keeping your eyes fixed on the canvas and missing Dontis' questioning look. “It is a beautiful country,” you rasped, continuing to paint and hoping he would not catch you in a lie with your mind scrambled from sleep deprivation.

“So beautiful some people might trip over themselves to leave old England in a hurry to get to it,” he said, pouring himself a cup of tea. “Would you like some more?” he asked, nodding as you declined. “Some society gossip instead, perhaps?”

“I am not one for gossip, Xanny. You know—”

“It is rather amusing, really,” he interrupted, smirking with the mischievousness a cat might have when toying with a mouse.

He had given up on this round as well, the novelty of compelling you fading away until his inhibition was nearly gone.

“Imagine my surprise when, upon coming to a soiree, I hear siblings recount a nearly identical story, down to the word choice, with only one key detail being different.”

You felt your heart drop. Slowly, you raised your eyes to meet his gaze.

How long had he known? You swallowed thickly, the evening’s conversations flashing through your mind as you tried to figure out what detail separated your story from Theodore’s and how you could fix this.

“Do you not remember?” Xanthus asked with a condescending chuckle.

When had this rift appeared between you? Had he been pretending to be fond of you since the evening of the soiree only to toy with you? Was this what Lady Alderton meant when she had warned you that he took souls?

“Who of them is sick?” he asked.

You opened your mouth to reply immediately but hesitated at the last second. Your mother, you wanted to say, but you were not certain anymore.

What had Theodore said when you had hatched the plan? He had been complaining of an ache in his bones. It was your father. You gasped quietly, remembering how you had spoken of your mother’s illness at the soiree.

Xanthus laughed at your terrified expression. “An important detail one would think their child would remember. Liar.”

He turned to Dontis, who was staring into his tea as if trying to hide from the uncomfortable conversation.

“Let me tell you what happened,” Xanthus said, chuckling as you shook. “Their parents left London without a word. To save face, they and their siblings constructed a scheme of them having gone to Greece — Athens or Crete, the accounts differ. I can only imagine they are waiting for the right time to forge a letter announcing their deaths to ward off a scandal.”

Before you could even begin to utter a word of protest to the secret you wanted to keep hidden—

“Forget the last few seconds.”

Dontis hummed disinterestedly. “I do not care for gossip, Xanthus.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, leaning back in the armchair with his tea, savoring the taste of the Chinese blend he had found stored away.

You blinked a few times. Xanthus had broken his pose when you had been paying close attention to the curve of his mouth not a moment ago.

Touching the brush to the canvas, you cursed under your breath as you painted a streak of brown on his lips. A sense of déjà vu hit you, turning the scene hauntingly familiar.

Dontis rose, setting down his cup on the coffee table and walking over to you with a gentle smile. He stood beside you, his gaze flickering from the painting to Xanthus, a dark scowl on his face.

“You are very talented,” he said, leaning over your shoulder to catch your eye. He shot you a playful grin. “I must say,” he began, looking at Xanthus, “I see a small smile on the canvas. Perhaps give us another one for reference.”

His glare hardened.

“Alright,” Dontis said, raising his hands in surrender. “I am sure your— your victim of the hour can paint it without a frame of reference.”

You frowned.

Xanthus was peculiar and rather reclusive, but you did not consider yourself a victim for being in his company nor for being on his beautiful estate. You contemplated jumping to your host’s defense but settled on chuckling awkwardly at what you decided had been a joke.

Xanthus was not in the mood for Dontis’ teases. “They are my meal,” he said sternly. “Get your own.”

Your eyes widened, and you stuttered in confusion.

He groaned, having slipped up this time himself.

“Come now,” Dontis said, “I have had a long trip. A little familiarity with them should not spark your jealousy too much, should it?”

“They are mine. Forget the last few seconds.”

Dontis backed away, putting more space between you as he sat back down. “Pity,” he grunted, raising the tea to his lips.

Your mind was scattered, and you sighed in frustration as it kept happening — blue in the eyes, white on his jacket, and red on his hands.

You were shaken, beginning to doubt your memory. What was happening to you?

Had the reminder of your lost love truly stunned you so much? It had been years! Was it the kiss? Was it the picture you had seen?

“Pardon me,” you muttered, setting down the brush. You turned your back to the two men, slipping out through the glass door to get a fresh breath of air as you felt a headache approaching. You needed a cigarette.

Painting was a composition during which you kept every minuscule detail in harmony. Never had you lost track of the color on your brush.

Annotations // VI. Vengeance Is Mine, I Will Repay

#the past is close behind #xanthus claiborne #xanthus x reader #dontis #sakuverse #zsakuva

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psychic-refugee · 1 year ago

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Wenvier Bingo - Hospital

Wednesday was already on the edge of sending someone to the Jericho Memorial Hospital, Weems was pushing her luck by assigning her to play her cello, without even the courtesy of allowing her to practice, at Outreach Day with the Jericho High Pep Band.

The Amazonian woman added insult to injury when she was assigned to read to sick patients at the hospital.

Wednesday didn’t quite understand the insult until she got there, and she was assigned to the coma ward.

It was bad enough that people were myopic, small-minded idiots who would cross the street rather than pass her by. Now they thought she was so ill-fit for human interaction that they wanted her to read to people who weren’t conscious.

There was a macabre sense of hopelessness to the coma ward, she had to admit and felt more at ease there than at Nevermore.

It was as quiet as the morgue with the exception of the beeps and whirls of machines that kept the patients alive. She walked deftly through the hall, her hard shoes against the linoleum almost echoing as very few inhabited the ward, even fewer visited.

She was surprised to see her roommate’s crush sitting next to the bed of a boy their age, hooked up to IV lines and looked so pale he was almost an Addams. Ajax was quietly speaking to the boy, perhaps hoping some part of him could hear him.

Wednesday looked down at her assignment and at the name on the chart.

Xavier Thorpe

She thought the name seemed familiar, but it eluded her where she had heard it.

She was in the right room, what was Ajax doing there?

“Did they double assign us to the same patient?” she asked quietly when Ajax didn’t notice her standing there.

He almost jumped, surprised that someone would come as he was the only one that visited Xavier.

“No…I…I just come by whenever I get the chance to come to town,” he stood up and stuttered to her, slightly afraid of the new girl who had a reputation before she stepped foot in Jericho and only got worse as time went on.

She chose to ignore that he stood protectively between the bedridden and herself, she almost rolled her eyes at his fear.

What challenge or point would it be to attack someone in a coma?

“What happened to him?” she recognized him from a memorial table set up at Nevermore in the foyer once she got closer and could see his face. It was one of the first things she saw when she first stepped foot into Nevermore. A photo of Xavier surrounded by flowers and candles.

Her loquacious roommate had spoken too fast for her to take in what happened, but she had guessed he had died, but apparently, she was wrong.

“He was found severely beaten last Outreach day…he hasn’t woken up in a year.”

Unfortunately, attacks on Outcasts were not that uncommon across the States. She was a little surprised, however, that it had happened so close to the school.

“What happened to the attackers?” she was hoping to hear a rather bloody revenge story.

She was disappointed.

“They were never found,” it was the first time Wednesday had seen the normally calm and flighty Gorgon actually sound angry.

“Everyone knows who did it, but he was found alone and all the boys were each other’s alibis,” He explained when she raised a questioning eyebrow. “It doesn’t help that one of them is the son of the mayor and another is the son of the sheriff.”

Wednesday understood perfectly what happened. Although it was not revealed in her face or demeanor, she loathed bullies and was particularly in a rage that such a heinous attack had occurred with no repercussions.

“He’s my best friend,” he said, almost shrinking into himself. “I just…hate to see him like this…I hate that he’s been hurt.”

She could tell he was all but begging her not to be another person to hurt his friend.

“I’m not the monster you all think I am,” she said coldly, and Ajax had flinched.

As he scurried away, she got herself comfortable and took out a book. It was her own novel, she figured she may as well read him something he definitely has never heard before.

She was a few chapters into the adventures of Viper de la Muerte, and she couldn’t help but notice his hands. There was a peripheral line placement in his hand, but otherwise he had strong, long fingers that she had an urge to touch.

She looked around and saw there was no one around and placed her own hand gently onto his.

An artist’s hands.

She literally had no other way of knowing that other than her own instinctual opinion.

Her gift of Sight kicked in and proved she was right.

She saw him standing in front of a wall with a freshly painted mural. He looked particularly proud of himself, as it was a gorgeous rendering of a raven in flight. It was probably meant to be an homage to the school, but she almost gasped as it was a raven she had seen in her dreams.

She swallowed hard and blinked rapidly when the vision version of Xavier looked her dead in the eye as if he could see her, which had never happened to her in a vision before.

Before he could say anything to her, four boys, two she recognized as the ones Ajax had mentioned, had brutally attacked him, and left him broken and bleeding. One of the cans of paint he had been using had been thrown at the mural, ruining all of Xavier’s hard work.

Wednesday was brought back to the hospital, and she had her proof of who attacked him.

Not that it would do me any good.

She had no doubt that her vision would be mocked and ignored. Weems would do nothing as she was the Normie’s lapdog, and from her own time in Normie High Schools, boys like Lucas and Tyler closed ranks when accused of abuse.

No, if she wanted justice for Xavier, she would have to do it herself.

She was good at getting revenge.

Weems was happy to hear that Wednesday wanted to continue to do her volunteer work at the hospital, so she was allowed to read to Xavier every weekend. She and Ajax switched off, and her care for his friend had warmed him to her.

If the sudden almost fatal injuries to the four he suspected had attacked his best friend, he didn’t say anything.

“Carter had an unfortunately fall down several flights of stairs…in a building with only two stories, it was odd,” she told him in a soothing cadence. The staff at the hospital thought she was still reading from a book, but instead she was telling him of her own fun adventures. “I believe the doctor had used the words ‘pulverized’ and ‘the worst open fractures’ they had ever seen. One of the nurse’s vomited when he was wheeled into the ER.”

Wednesday took the continuous beeping as a “job well done,” and continued on.

“Jonah…well, lets say some Normie’s just can’t hold their arsenic.”

“Lucas and Tyler are unfortunately well connected, and their fathers aren’t as incompetent as I would have hoped. They’re no longer in Jericho and probably put two and two together that someone is getting revenge. They can’t make accusations on Outcasts without putting attention on why someone would want revenge on them, so they’re keeping quiet of their suspicions. While they have power in this Podunk town, Addamses have the ultimate power, the true power in the States…money. I promise, no matter where they go, no matter where they try to hide, they’ll pay for what they did.”

She placed a gentle hand on his, hoping he could feel her sincerity. Part of her also hoped that he could feel the psychopathy and enjoyment she was getting out of this, and that it comforted him that his attackers were getting exactly what they deserved from the one person who could make all their nightmares come true.

Wednesday felt a bolt of warmth and electricity shoot through her body, as if she had been struck by lightning from a raging storm.

All the equipment in the room had buzzed and exploded, sparks filling the air like a star filled night. The lights went out and the room became hazy from the small electrical fires.

In the dimness, she could see Xavier move and for the first time in over a year, his beautiful green eyes opened.

There she was, the girl of his dreams. The Raven who guided him through the darkness and brought peace to his nightmares.

“Does Viper ever find who stole the body from the morgue?” was his first question, his voice raspy from disuse.

Wednesday almost blushed and gave a small smile, glad that he liked her story.

Card under cut

#xavier thorpe #wenvier #wednesday addams #wednesday netflix #wenvier bingo

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szayelapowo · 4 months ago

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fuck i know what i am now i finally figured it out

originally i thought i was a hellhound that tried to escape hell and was punished by being born into this sick diseased human body, but that never felt quite right. or at least not the first part. the second part is sort of right though.

what i actually am is a rogue church grim. i was a normal dog at first. i had an owner but he betrayed me by burying me alive in a newly built graveyard. then after i became a ghost i found out what happened and that i would be forced to protect the humans that were buried there after me and i was pissed. i thought my owner cared about me. i thought i could trust humans but i was wrong so i decided i wasnt gonna do what they wanted. why should i be forced to guard humans after what they did to me?

my memories are still pretty hazy and theres a several hundred year gap between when that wouldve happened and when i was born into this existence but i remember being stuck and miserable there for a while. i had another owner at some point though. like an evil thing, not human. i could shapeshift into a red dragon and white cat (and maybe other things?) for some reason too. what i think happened was the evil thing gave me that power and freed me from being bound to the cemetery, but in exchange for that freedom and power i had to agree to eventually be reborn as a severely disabled human (as punishment for the intense hatred i had of them).

idk what will happen after i die again. ig probably ill go to hell. was it worth it? idk but at least i got to meet szay, so yeah ig maybe it was. i just hope i can stay with him after bc hes my owner now and always will be.

but it all makes too much sense.

a) why i havent died yet despite the ridiculous amount of diseases i have. its because im not allowed to die, my punishment hasnt ended yet. i guess it wont end even when my body finally gives out since my hatred and negativity are only getting stronger the more pain and trauma i experience. i was born a month early and almost died at three days old. i should have, the doctors said i would likely have brain damage (i do). only reason i survived was because i hadnt fulfilled the agreement with the evil thing yet.

b) why i hate humans and never trusted them. i know there are good ones out there but how would i know which ones they are when the one i thought was good fucking murdered me? so i just dont allow anyone to get too close because how do i know they wont do it again? i cant trust anyone.

c) why im obsessed with the idea of being someones pet, of having an owner (szay now). because thats how it was before the pain started, when i felt loved. and then again after that, but that was a more negative experience.

d) why i refuse to take orders from anyone except my owner/mate (szay). why i get so pissed off, violent, and suicidal whenever someone tries to tell me i "have to" do anything, especially cops or the government. id literally rather die again than be forced to do what they want just because they say so. they have no right to make me do anything. if they threaten me with imprisonment for refusing then ill just kms out of spite. fuck them all, theyre not my owners. only szay has that kind of authority over me.

e) why ive had nightmares since i was a toddler (maybe before that but i dont remember anything from this life before age 2-3) of humans trying to kill me and turning into a black dog or red dragon to either defend myself or escape.

ive also always had a natural instinct to growl and bite when humans look at me or get too close. even as a toddler, before the abuse and trauma started (or before i perceived it as that and it started affecting me emotionally anyway).

ive always been able to feel my claws, fangs, ears, tail, and fur, (and rarely wings) and my joints always hurt because theyre in the wrong places, (and my buttcrack constantly aches because my tail aint there gdi) but the feelings get more intense when im scared or pissed. i itch and feel invisible bugs on me all the time too, probably fleas? my guts always hurt too either because theyre built wrong or because im not supposed to be able to eat human food (but you can take my chocolate away from me when i die for good lmao)

that last part (the phantom body parts, pain, and bugs) i guess is probably hallucinations from being schizospec, but everything else is real. i know its not a delusion, its just what i was before this existence.

...this post is a mess im sorry. there was more i wanted to say but i forgot. the pain in my intestines and joints is getting bad again. ugh.

#nonhuman #otherkin #dogkin #caninekin #ghostkin #churchgrimkin #church grim #hallucinations #delusions #<- like i said its not a delusion but tagging in case this post is triggering for anyone #abuse #suicide mention #ask to tag im not sure what else this needs im sorry #ugh

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goodeapple · 2 years ago

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i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you

HOOOO LORDY, hi everyone! please excuse the delay on this behemoth; your girl was sick as shit not once but TWICE this whole month and cold medicine doesn't help my writing. as always, be kind, rewind, and REVIEW if at all possible. I cry at every single one of your's comments, I really do (imma Pisces, go figure)

AN : I also realized that last chapter I mixed up Rhaena and Baela and who was raised as Rhaenys' ward andddd for that, I will be retiring. nah, I'm just kidding but I'll be leaving it there because I am dumb and stupid and need to be humbled. I also love how that part flows and I am lazy as shit to fix it rn so enjoy my mistake.

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : oral (F and M receiving), some anal, and a big ole dose of whipped!Aemond

word count : 9000+

masterlist

114 A.C

Aemond wrinkled his nose, the squirming babe bundled in maroon blankets screwing its red face up and giving a piercing screech. He hid his face into his mother’s skirts, shying away from the unhappy little dragon.

Alicent chuckled, smoothing a stiff hand over her son’s hair, the locks just barely beginning to edge passed his shoulders.

“It’s alright, my boy, she’s just hungry.”

Aemond’s nurse had tugged him away from practicing with his wooden sword in the courtyard to accompany his mother to meet his sister’s new babe. He had scuffed his shiny shoes the whole way, grumbling about the interruption of his daily schedule.

He seldom remembered ever being allowed in this part of the castle, his mother forever steering him in the opposite direction of his sister’s rooms.

The King sat across from his oldest child in an overstuffed chair, Rhaenyra’s hand grasped warmly in his, their speaking soft and muted. Helaena sat criss-cross on the bed at Rhaenyra’s feet, blonde curls dangling with her as she continuously swayed forward to steal peeks at her niece. Aegon’s hip rested against the bedside table, bright indigo eyes swirling between indifference and curiosity as he watched the newborn yawn and wiggle in her mother’s arms.

His father turned at the sound of Aemond’s entrance. A rare joyous smile brightened every one his aging features; the sight startled Aemond. He couldn’t recall in his young memories ever seeing his father aim such a loving look in his direction.

“Aemond, come here son.” His mother’s hands squeezed his upper arms so tightly that Aemond let a whimper slip from his lips, but after a moment she relented and urged him forward. Aemond took steps on uncertain legs, feeling the absence of his mother’s presence as she stayed fixed in place behind him.

His father’s free hand met his back when Aemond drew close enough, and guided him closer to the bed.

Rhaenyra’s sweaty face was blank as her littlest brother saddled next to her, face carefully unreadable. Even so, she angled her arm slightly towards him, the cocooned babe coming into his full view as her other hand still gripped her father’s.

“This is your niece, Aemond.” The King spoke faintly, adoration swimming in his voice.

Leaning up on his tiptoes, he braced his hands on the sheets and peered forward. Big, clear eyes blinked up at him, mouth pulling into a dainty “O” at the new face greeting her. The tiniest of nostrils flared, feet stretching under the layers of cloth. Aemond had never seen something so small before, the youngest himself of his siblings. Curiously, he reached forward and poked gently at the bulbous round cheek.

His father made a strange sound and Aemond felt a flash of worry that he did something wrong, but it eased as Rhaenyra laughed, a tired sound but still happy, as a tiny fist unclenched and lifted to curl around Aemond’s offending finger. A deceptively strong grip squeezed the tip and he shook it just so, but the babe remained locked on.

“I think she likes you.” Rhaenyra hummed, a modest grin making Aemond blush and smile unintentionally. He settled more firmly along the bed. Helaena leaned in and giggled at their niece, small fingers brushing away an errant dark curl.

“What is her name, sister?” Helaena whispered, almost afraid to break the sweet moment with her question.

Rhaenyra’s grin widened, eyes dropping down and looking upon her daughter with so much love that it threatened to spill out of the corners of her eyes.

“Her name is Ysilla.”

Aemond’s thumb brushed along the babe’s knuckles, a cooing sound escaping her, and Aemond could’ve sworn the babe smiled at her name.

“Ysillaaaaaa…” he whispered in wonder.

Current day. 14 days left.

Ysilla buries her nose into Visenya’s dusting of straw-colored hair, eyes closed and a serene look gracing her features. She breathes deep, an appreciative hum sounding from her throat.

“She smells so good, I can’t get over it.”

Her mother laughs, folding the blankets knitted tirelessly by Rhaena and Helaena in the moons leading up to her second daughter’s coming. A patchwork of harrowly stitched threads gifted from Joff also laid in the pile, and Rhaenyra pats it lovingly.

Visenya is only a few weeks old, not even reaching her first month yet, and Rhaenyra is sure the babe has barely known the cushions of her cradle as she’s been continuously passed from wetnurse to uncle to father to mother. Today, it seems like older sister wants all of her attention.

“Well, she was just bathed about an hour ago darling, and her cloth hasn’t been soiled yet.”

Ysilla shakes her head in avid disagreement before her mother even finishes her sentiment.

“No, it’s not bath oils or balms. It’s all her- she smells like a fresh flower. I could just eat her up in one bite, especially her little toes!” Ysilla moaned sweetly, her voice pitching high and kisses smooching along the tiny thing’s closed fist.

Rhaenyra smiles something soft and happy, relaxing into an armchair in her spacious regent apartments. A room fit for a queen, but it felt too reminiscent of her young life spent in these castle walls. Her father’s voice still echoed off the stones; her mother’s too, if she listened hard enough.

It was taking some time to adjust to, as were all the things that came with her crowning. All her life, Rhaenyra clung to this moment. The moment where she would be the ruler her father anointed her to be; Queen of all, protector of the realm, leader of the people. And now that she was here, it all felt strangely… anticlimactic. Like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, a raucous huzzah! to ring in her destiny. But no such luck; a three-day feast and celebrations with the people did nothing but remind her of mummer’s play she paid witness to many years prior, uncertain thoughts swirling about her head day and night.

Her mind is an unwelcome deterrence from her daughters’ company, and Rhaenyra focuses her attention on her now silent child.

There’s a peculiar dim shading her daughter’s gaze, her signature smile that shines brighter than the sun above clouded over to something akin to a grimace. Ysilla feels eyes upon her and she tries to sneak a glance at her mother. Rhaenyra’s eyes cut into hers. Ysilla pretends not to notice the worry in her stare.

“What troubles you, my girl? Are you… having second thoughts?” Rhaenyra tries to keep her words affable but even she can hear the twinge of hope in them.

Her last born brother is an enigma of a man. The rider of the biggest dragon since Balerion, a one-eyed shadow and a master with a blade, the cool facade over his honed cruelness terrifies Rhaenyra. Not for herself, of course not, but for her first child. Her lovely little one, Ysilla. That man being tied forever to her daughter brought only worry to her mind, dread coursing thickly through her veins. Every day, Rhaenyra pours over if she made the correct decision, the right decision to betrothe Ysilla to Aemond.

Rhaenyra remembers being so young herself, screaming prayers and curses in her mother tongue, the feeling of her womb being squeezed in a vice grip still vivid over fifteen years later. How her little bump had blossomed into a thing so tiny, it swam in the crimson blanket gifted from her soon-to-be grandsire. How the unwavering weight of protectiveness that crushed her stole all air from her lungs. How Rhaenyra knew fully and without doubt, she would rip any being apart who dared to lay a heavy finger on her daughter’s head.

Ysilla’s eyes widen a tad, a disbelieving smile curling her mouth. She bounces Visenya anxiously, nervous energy buzzing along her skin.

“No mother,” her words are sharp and spoken through tight lips. “Aemond and I are set to marry and we have no doubts about our coming union. No matter how much you and Daemon wish otherwise.”

Rhaenyra lets the retort roll off of her like oil over water.

“All I wish is for you to be content, my heart. No more, no less. That is all.”

Ysilla snorts, shifting Visenya slightly as the babe stirs in her wrap.

“And father? What does he wish for me? For my future husband?”

Her mother lets out a simple sigh, a familiar sound that seems to come frequently after Daemon’s name.

“Daemon only wants what’s best for this family. Aemond is a strong fighter, a quick learner, and a fierce foe. He will do wonderfully in our home and aid us in any troubles that the years may bring.”

Ysilla measures the weight of her words, eyebrows still pinched together. Rhaenyra wishes to smooth her thumb over them, to steal away her girl’s unease. The curse of being a mother- to endlessly wish to take her children’s pain and make it her own. To bear the brunt for them.

“He’s more than just a soldier awaiting orders.” Ysilla whispers. Rhaenyra has to strain to hear her.

“He’s… he’s funny. He makes me laugh even when I feel like doing the opposite. He’s smart, more-so than some maesters I’ve met throughout the years. He’s quiet and reserved at times, but when he speaks, I hang on his every word.” Ysilla’s eyes grow a touch glazed and her smile has a kiss of love at the corner. “He loves his family- his sister and mother, his niece and nephews- even his brother, though he will never admit it aloud, with such ferociousness it feels as if it is a living and breathing thing. He loves me, the same way.” Ysilla’s cheeks bloom hot, avoiding her mother’s knowing gaze.

Yes, Rhaenyra knows all too well how much Aemond has fallen for her daughter. Finding the duo together the night following Ysilla’s ball- in the same room Ysilla had her first moonblood in at ten-and-two- tangled in the sheets as naked as the day they were born had killed something in Rhaenyra’s soul. The girl she had borne in her own girlhood, becoming a woman right before her eyes. The childlike innocence had disappeared right along her maidenhead.

Rhaenyra’s only regret is that Daemon punched Aemond before she could.

“But, I do have fears.” Ysilla’s voice grows quiet and a touch uncertain, so unbecoming of her nature that it pulls Rhaenyra to her feet and across the room in a moment’s breath. She tucks a curl behind her firstborn’s ear, laying a kiss to the corner of her eye. Ysilla’s exhale is a shaky one, and she sways into her mother. A rock, grounded and unwavering; her mother is a woman of strength and fortitude- a Goddess amongst men. Ysilla will always think that blasphemously.

“Tell me, Ysilla. Let me carry this burden with you. Mother is here.” Rhaenyra whispers it like a secret to Ysilla’s temple and suddenly, it’s many moons ago, and the two are curled safe and warm under the covers, spinning tales of hellhounds and sorcerer’s spells and toppling kingdoms while the winds howl through the night.

“Fears for the future, fears of the unknown. I’m sure every coming bride feels these too.” Ysilla tries for a laugh, but it’s watery and her lips shake even when she presses them tightly together. Rhaenyra catches the first tear as it falls, but the second and third carve streams down the apples of her cheeks.

“What if… I’m not meant to be a mother? I couldn’t even hatch my own dragon egg, muña, what if it was for a reason that the Gods already know but they haven’t yet shared with me? What if Aemond doesn’t want babies, or worse, doesn’t want them with me? What if we tire of each other and he looks elsewhere?” Ysilla’s words start to jumble together, tears dripping off her chin and splashing onto a snoozing Visenya. The babe gives a whining cry and Ysilla jumps, arms tightening around the bundle but tears only coming faster at the distress she caused.

Ysilla murmurs soothing apologies to her sister, wiping the splatters with unsteady fingers.

Rhaenyra’s palm finds Ysilla’s back, rubbing firm circles against the crushed velvet and consoling shhhhs pressing into her hair.

“Now I may not know much but what I do know my girl, is that you are my daughter, through and through. The blood of my blood, you are a dragon. No matter if you marry one, no matter if you carry one, you alone are the strength and the power of our family name. Your husband is a man blessed by Gods above to have you on his arm.” Rhaenyra swallows, biting her tongue’s instance to sway her daughter in a direction opposite of Aemond Targaryen’s. But the young Queen knows it to be pointless, the vision of two dancing dragons burned forever behind her eyes.

“There is not one doubt in my mind that he’ll hold steadfast beside you, until the end of your days.” Rhaenyra strokes her cheek, a humorous little grin twisting her lips, attempting to lighten her spirits. “Trust me, a mother knows.”

Rhaenyra hoped that her speech would bring comfort to her daughter’s frazzled mind but it seemed to do the opposite, as hiccuping sobs break through Ysilla’s throat and her face crumbles like stone. Rhaenyra gathers her up, Ysilla’s head along her chest, the steady thumping of her mother’s heart beneath her ear a lullaby that croons a pacifying melody.

Rhaenyra holds her daughters in her arms, the crown of only motherhood balanced atop her head. The day ahead of her is long and stretching; plights of the common people waiting to be heard, harvest numbers to account for, petty squabbles to squish before they multiply to issues that she’ll lose sleep over. Rhaenyra doesn’t have much time to spare, all her minutes scheduled and ticked as they fall but by her hand alone, she’ll halt the sun itself if she must. She’ll make more hours in the day and push off the moon’s rise if her daughter needs her here, with her.

They’ll do all things together, as they always have.

10 days left.

Ysilla moans into her palm, clutching at the edge of the table to ground her to the earth. The writing quill nearly snaps in her grip, a bend in the thick stem twisting it to an angle. The neat script of her penmanship hidden now under several splattered ink drops, the prose of her heart blurring into lines of inky black that are undecipherable.

A harsh slap tears through the air and Ysilla arches away from the jolt against her bottom, but she only succeeds in rocking her spread cunt further against Aemond’s ravenous mouth. His tongue laps deviously at her bared entrance, thick fingers sliding into her and tickling her silken walls.

“I thought I told you to not fuck it up again. Are you immune to following orders, niece?” Aemond’s voice is drenched in lust, notes of false disappointment lost to the shine of her slick on his chin.

Ysilla whines, nails digging divots into the old oak.

“I’m trying, fuck, Aemond, take pity on me.” She pines for his locks threaded through her fingers, wants to tug them like reigns of a horse bridle to steer his tongue just slightly left. But per his very clear instructions, Ysilla was not to move her hands from the table as she was to focus on writing out her Valyrian vows, committing them to memory so that their ceremony would go off without a hitch. If she disobeyed the laid out rules, Aemond would stop his ministrations and only begin again after she was able to scribble out a few lines.

The pile of crumpled up parchment across from her proof as to how well she is doing.

Aemond laughs at her begging cruelly, fingers dragging in and out of her with lazy disinterest.

“Pity is for the weak, byka zaldrītsos. You can take it.” He whispers his praise, lips brushing the inside of her thigh, sparking fire every where he touches. He doesn’t need Vhagar to cause destruction- Aemond does that all on his own, with his vicious mouth and wicked tongue.

Sweat trickles down Ysilla’s temple, and she flexes her calves before snatching up a new sheet of parchment. Singling out every ounce of concentration she possesses, Ysilla attempts to begin again, the letters of the ancient language flowing from her memory and through her fingers.

Mazeman ao sir, Aemond Targārien, hae ñuha mēre.

Aemond’s tongue flattens, a sweeping lick from hole to button causing her ankles to shake. He sucks one of her lips into his mouth, fingers drenched in her wetness. He glides them along her cleft, a sizzling threat that causes Ysilla's eyes to blur. Her hand continues across the page, the quill scratching out shaky black letters.

Ñuha gīda.

He sucks at her nub, a jagged cry escaping her mouth. It bounces sharply off the walls and a tear splashes next to the paper. Ysilla wipes frantically at her face.

Ñuha valzȳrys.

Thick fingers spread her cleft, Aemond massaging gently at her back entrance. A slicked finger breaches her and Ysilla bites into her wrist, blood springing hot and acrid on her tongue. She sucks it down, the pain welcome as it clears her head.

Naejot iōragon ondoso se support.

Aemond hums his praise, tongue becoming frenzied as he works her open on one finger. And then two. Ysilla is like a dog with a bone, wrist impaled on her sharp teeth, teardrops and saliva mingling in rivelets as they drip down her forearm.

Naejot cherish se jorrāelagon.

She fucks herself forward, backward, meeting his tongue, shying away from his fingers. The pain and the pleasure a line she can no longer distinguish. She feels light-headed, her breathing short and shallow.

Syt se rest hen ñuha tubissa se beyond, ēva se mōris hen jēda.

The coil in her cunt tightens, her legs nearly giving way, forcing Aemond’s fingers deeper inside her. His tongue too, and Ysilla can feel the brush of his narrow nose against her. Ysilla loses breath, forehead dropping to burrow in the crook of her elbow. Aemond snarls a hungry sound, free arm coming around to loop at her hips, yanking her down to ride his face. His fingers drive in and out of her, the burn a nice drag that causes her to gush over his mouth.

Īlva ānogar, hēnkirī, binding īlva isse bisa ābrar se se hembar.

The words are crooked and surely misspelled, Ysilla writing them through a slanted gaze, quill on the verge of becoming two pieces. She’s nearly there, nearly finished. As if he can hear her desperate thoughts, Aemond slides his fingers into a curl, his thumb sinking into her clenching cunt and he arches them towards each other. He plays her like a fiddle, her noises a ballad of their carnality.

Iā bond daor vala kessa qūvy apart.

Ysilla shatters as the last word etches onto the page, sobbing pleas begging for her beloved’s mercy as she comes in waves, soaking Aemond’s face with her pleasure. He slurps lewdly, catching all she has to offer in his mouth, drinking her down as if she’s a rare wine he can’t get enough of. Ysilla would blush in shame if her mind wasn’t fogged over by unrelenting lust. He slides his fingers carefully out of her, Ysilla screwing her face up in displeasure at the vacant feeling

Aemond straightens along her back, fixing down her skirts and collecting her curls off to one shoulder to cool her off. He presses forward, reading her sloppy scrawl over her shoulder. His eyes trail over the words, possessiveness coursing through him ferociously. He can nearly hear her sweet voice reading out the vows and the thought that he’ll only have to wait a few more days to experience them nearly drives him over the edge.

Aemond winds his arms around her waist, tugging Ysilla upwards and flush against him. Her head lolls along his shoulder, her breaths still labored and he fights a smile of pride at his handiwork.

“You did so good for me, Princess. You listened so well.” Ysilla whimpers at the innocent kiss he places on her cheek, so opposite an act considering where his mouth just was. Her legs still quiver beneath her, but the retribution growing inside her strokes strength up her spine.

Drawing forward a chair with her foot, Ysilla maneuvers Aemond into it, his ass crashing down to the unforgiving wood. He arches a brow, thighs spreading on instinct as Ysilla steps to him. Her palm slams against the table, dragging to him a smudged piece of blank parchment. The bent quill and inkpot are an arm’s reach away from him. She bends towards her lover, hands bracing on the arms of the chair. Her lips are bloodied and wet, spit dripping viscously off her chin. Her tongue flicks out, a flat lick from the jut of his chin to the top of his lip makes her own taste burst sharply on her palette.

Aemond could tear through his breeches with how achingly hard he is. He wants to wrap a hand around her throat, force her to straddle his lap, and fuck his cock so deep inside of her, she’ll be bowlegged until the wedding. The image his brain conjures makes his hips thrust upwards involuntarily and Ysilla smiles a grisly thing, her teeth tinged red. She looks ghastly and Aemond licks his lips like a man half-starved.

“Your turn, husband.” Ysilla drops to her knees, voice wrecked, lithe fingers tearing through his laces and freeing him. His cock pulses and jumps in her hand, and Aemond curses as she blows cool air over the weeping slit. It isn’t until he clenches the warped quill in his fist that Ysilla swallows him down to the root. And then removes her mouth just as swiftly as he lets his eyes roll to the back of his skull. He fixes her with a glare. She pumps him just a touch shy of not tight enough, and winks at him.

Revenge is a dish he finds absolutely maddening.

6 days.

Alicent pulls Aemond along the edge of the room, arms linked at the bend of their elbows, the polished floors of the Starry Sept catching the light of midday’s sun that pours prisms of color through the stained glass windows.

There’s flurries of servants about, cleaning and decorating the holy room to prepare for the Royal Wedding. Soon, Oldtown will be bursting at its seams with visitors from all over Westeros, eager to attend the most anticipated union of the last century.

Targaryen weddings happen from time to time, of course, but this one is causing quite the stir all over the Realm. Queen Rhaenyra and Alicent Hightower’s feud has been long-standing and impossible to ignore as the years have passed and now, they were to be joined together by way of marriage. Drama fed the people more than bread ever could, and the buzz surrounding Aemond and Ysilla’s union only grew as the date drew nearer.

Alicent had been here over a week already, perfecting the town to welcome the wedding guests. Aemond had arrived on Vhagar a few hours ago, reluctantly leaving Ysilla sound asleep in their chambers. They hadn’t been apart since that wretched ball and even with three of his most trusted guards posted outside their door, the impulse to cling to her side nearly sent him crawling back to her. Weak for only her, he certainly is.

“And the windows will be cleaned by the morrow and once more the morning of the ceremony, to ensure they truly shine. All of the candles will be replaced with new ones, and we’ll finally fix The Father’s scales so they appear balanced.” His mother prattles on, laying out her thoughts, Aemond nodding at the parts he is supposed to. He couldn’t spare a single fuck if he and Ysilla were to marry in the damned Dragonpit, as long as they married.

Ironic that the closer the day came, it seemed more and more out of reach.

“I’m so happy you made the trip out here, my boy.” Alicent pushes back a platinum strand that came loose in his flight. Her fingers quake, drifting over the band of his eyepatch, forever haunted by that accursed night.

“It’s so hard to tear you from Ysilla’s side these days. It’s like you’re already gone.” Alicent snivels, pressing a juniper colored handkerchief to her nose. Aemond fights a roll of his eye.

“Mother,” Aemond starts, frustration bleeding into his tone.

“My son, please, humor me.” Alicent digs her nails along his forearm, not harshly but enough to cause him to halt. Aemond sighs gratingly through his nose but concedes, head bowing forward to urge his mother to speak her mind.

“Ysilla is a great match, one that has become more and more well-suited as I see the two of you together. She is lovely and wonderful and beautiful. She’s well-read and primed for perfection but she reminds me so much of her mother that it strikes fear in me, Aemond.” Alicent’s voice grows a sliver ragged, nails picking at the cufflink at his wrist.

“Rhaenyra was spirited and lively, when we were girls. We spent every waking moment together, never parting far from each other’s sides. Her fixations however, bordered on all-consuming. They narrowed her focus on one point and everything else became inconsequential. I don’t want you to lose yourself to any predilections that may have passed on to her daughter. I don’t… I don’t want to lose you too.”

Aemond sees something swim in his mother’s green gaze when she reflects on her past she shares with his older sister. A look none-too distant from the way he knows his eyes soften when they’re fixed on Ysilla. He finds it curious.

“I am not losing a part of myself, mother; this is not a sacrifice I’m committing. I am gaining something here. A wife, a family, a future.” He keeps going, pretending the hurt that dawns on her face doesn’t feel like a blade in his belly. “Youare gaining something here too. A daughter, grandchildren… a friend in the form of her mother.”

Alicent turns from his ceaseless stare, unable to hold it any longer. Tears, unwelcome and unbidden, irk her in their appearance. She doesn’t wish to shed any more grief over years lost and possibilities wasted. This newfound friendship she’s attempting to forge with Rhaenyra has brought more ease to her heart than she can recall experiencing since she was a girl. But the past refuses to stay buried, even in her own mind, and the thought of her most precious son leaving her behind threatens to spiral her down a dark path.

Aemond’s hands rest on her shoulders, lips pressing a peck into her hair and she breathes as evenly as she can.

“We can find joy, mother, I know it. We just,” Aemond exhales, almost preaching the words to himself. The Mother and the Maiden bore down on him with their stone stares, forcing him to avow his purest desires. He’s always hated this place. “We just have to reach out and take it.”

2 days.

“Bloody hell, ‘Silla, be quiet.” Lucerys’ hissed whisper rockets through the hall, breaking the stretching silence of the twilight. The hour is late, most likely waning into the very early hours of the morning and the occupants of the royal quarters are fast asleep and readying themselves for a final day of preparations on the morrow before setting off for Oldtown.

That is, all but the bride-to-be and her little brothers.

Lucerys, a whole head shorter than both Jace and Ysilla, has somehow been settled with the duty of dragging his two very drunk siblings through the winding halls of the castle and attempting to get them safely to their rooms.

They had slipped from the Keep, a hidden passage in Ysilla’s chambers, an opportune getaway that was too tempting to ignore. Aegon had always slurred about his most cherished taverns and while his nephews ignored him without thought, a few choice places had wiggled into their brains and whispered their allure.

And a final visit to their sister for old time’s sake, before her impending marriage that the boys were dreading, had quickly turned to a night of mischief prompted by a particularly strong bottle of Dornish wine.

You see, Ysilla and Jace had a terrible competitive streak, stemming back before Lucerys was even born. Mother had told him that the two would come near to sparring over who got to read to him, who got to untangle his curls, even who got to dress him for the day. Jace had sworn once, hand placed over the bark of a Weirwood tree, that Lucerys’ first word was Jac-ey. Ysilla had clobbered him over the head with her sketchbook, outrage burning in her words as she proclaimed That is absolutely false, you little weasel! It was “Sill-i”.

And once they were seated at a far back table in one of the less crowded taverns the trio had come across, a bottle of mulled cider had fallen victim to the two elders' attempts to one-up each other.

Lucerys had only reached the bottom of his first pint when Jace and ‘Silli polished off their second bottle, choosing rum as the next liquid conquest.

“You’re such a good brother, Lukey.” Ysilla slurs, feet still somehow thankfully beneath her, as Lucerys doubted he had the strength to carry both of his siblings into the castle. She was his favorite tonight, more-so for the fact that she wasn’t the one who had spewed spirits all over his shoes. But Ysilla also tended to get very lovey-dovey when she fell too far into her cups, and the tears that seemed to follow always made Luke awkward and distressed.

“Yes, ‘Silla, I know. You’ve said that twice already.” Lucerys huffs, taking a moment to catch his breath, and right a swaying half-asleep Jacaerys. He applauds himself for not letting either of them tumble down the steps they just had to summit. A win in his eyes, really.

“Well it’s true.” Ysilla grumbles, hiccups and the occasional belch escaping her. Luke tries not to laugh, toeing open the hidden door that leads to his salvation. He could shout in celebration; they’re finally home.

The door swings open and Lucerys tries not to choke on his spit.

Aemond Targaryen twirls his blade lazily, leaning casually amongst the throws of Ysilla’s bed. Twin knights in the form of Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk stand guard by both the balcony and the door leading to the hall of the castle.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Aemond catches the dagger he throws up in the air by the dull side of the blade, sheathing it as he rolls to his feet.

“Aemondddd.” Ysilla’s voice is a dreamy sigh as she hears her almost-husband, head rolling forward along Lucerys’ shoulder to aim a blinding beam at him.

Aemond scoffs, all resentment leaching from his eye at the sight of his sloshed lover. A fond annoyance finds its place, and he drifts closer to the wobbly Velaryons.

Lucerys, still after all these years, can’t seem to look Aemond in the eye but tonight he is tired, hungry, painfully sober and Jace smells of vomit so he puts his past guilt to the side and pushes his sister into his uncle.

Aemond catches her readily, narrowing his lone eye at the middle Strong son. There is no love lost between him and his bethrothed’s brothers, especially the one that slashed the eye from his head at only five years of age.

“She likes mint tea after a night of drinking, with goat’s milk and too much honey. She has some stashed away in her vanity; her handmaid knows how to prepare it properly.” Lucerys offers his knowledge as an olive branch, turning full attention to pull his brother along, staggering under the deadweight of the drunken boy.

Aemond says nothing, Ysilla cooing and mumbling happy noises into his throat, arms slung about his neck. Lucerys takes his dismissal with a farewell nod, pulling Jace along as they try to make their way to their quarters.

“Ser Arryk,” Aemond’s voice never fails to frost over Lucerys’ skin. “Make sure these two find their way back to their rooms safely. My bride would have my head if anything were to happen to her brothers.” Ysilla giggles girlishly at my bride and Lucerys exhales a relieved breath.

“And make sure the Queen knows exactly where they were tonight- I’m sure she would be very interested to know of her son’s whereabouts.” The smugness in his uncle’s voice makes Lucerys wish he had taken his other eye.

Aemond smirks, watching the knight take hold of Jacaerys’ arm as they disappear behind the door. He spares a glance down at Ysilla, finding hazy eyes staring up at him with unveiled devotion. He snorts, wrapping arms around her hips and nearly lifting her off her feet.

“Your breath stinks.” Aemond asserts, nodding at Ser Erryk as he pulls the door shut behind him, leaving the two alone.

Ysilla scoffs indignantly, shoving at him with sloppy aim, kicking herself away as he plops her on the bed.

“You stink! Dragon smell is not very becoming of you, husband.” Ysilla shoots back childishly, tugging roughly at her boot’s laces with a very pinched look of concentration.

Aemond pulls a chair from in front of the lit hearth, angling it at the foot of her bed and sits himself down. He grasps at Ysilla’s ankle, ignoring her squeak as he pulls her towards him. He works at the knot she’s achieved in her drunken frustration.

“I thought you said I smell of orange blossoms and sword polish.”

Ysilla shoots up, curled fringe falling into her eyes that she tries to blow away with puckered lips. Her stare is a bit unfocused, but the inquiry building there is undeniable.

“I never said that to you.”

Aemond’s lips curl at the end, pulling off one boot before starting on the other. He keeps his eyes on the task at hand, not avoiding her gaze, per say. Just occupied.

“Not out loud, you didn’t.”

The haze of alcohol slows her realization, but Aemond is quick to catch her foot as it shoots out to collide with his stomach when it dawns on her.

“You cretin! You absolute fucker, you read my diary!”

Aemond laughs at her outburst, releasing her hostage foot as she drags herself up the bed and away from him. Ysilla curls into a ball, eyes blazing and attempting to burn him to a crisp.

“You sleep in late and I tire of mapping your beauty to my mind. You left it open one night and I found it pleasing to pass the time.” Aemond’s voice is too sweet and Ysilla rolls her eyes, crossing her arms and dwelling in her dismay. Aemond wants to sink his teeth into her pouty mouth.

“Busy yourself with something else then! Go ride your dragon or read an actual book or swing a bloody sword, but leave my thoughts alone.” Ysilla rolls over, burying the last of her sentiment into her pillow and Aemond slips soundlessly into the bed behind her. He winds his arms around her waist, pulling her petulant form to meld against him.

“I couldn’t leave your thoughts no matter how hard you try.” He brushes a kiss to the skin behind her ear and Ysilla shivers. “And I don’t want to leave our bed without you joining me to start our day. My body might depart but my mind would stay with you as long as you’re absent from my side.”

Ysilla is silent for a moment before she turns to face Aemond. Her eyes are trained on his chest, fingers fidgeting with the buttons of his tunic.

“Are you nervous?” Aemond doesn’t ask what about- he’s already irked his bride enough tonight, he doesn’t wish to cause a fight. No matter how tempting she is in her anger.

“Not one bit.” Aemond’s hand comes up to tangle with her fingers, pulling her palm flat over his heart, making her feel the organ that beats only for her.

Ysilla sniffs, bleary eyes raising to find his singular stare, nuzzling closer to him, her bare feet intertwining with his legs. Her cheeks are flushed from the ale, hair a bit wild, and Aemond regrets never taking to art. How he wishes he could commit Ysilla’s beauty to paint, to coal, anything so that he could be surrounded by her face no matter where she be.

She brushes her thumb feather-light over the end of his scar and the chill it leaves him with soothes any phantom aches. He refuses to close his eyes before she does.

“I can’t wait to marry you.” Ysilla breathes out, speech slurred only slightly and at last, her lashes flutter shut and her breaths even out. Aemond nudges off his boots, unwilling to part from his betrothed, the comforting scent of her lulling him to sleep. Ysilla’s hand is still placed over his heart, and the beats slow as Aemond drifts off.

“Me either, my love.”

The day of.

Ysilla’s feet are clouds beneath her, floating her out of the Starry Sept and into a private room meant for the bride.

The deafening cheers and claps of the wedding guests still ring in her ears, lips puffing from Aemond’s insistent mouth. She presses her fingertips to them, quivering at the hot rush of want that spins in her stomach from the bruising ache. She had bit him slightly, barely a press of her teeth, to chase him back from plundering her mouth with his skilled tongue in front of all their witnesses- not to mention the Gods. But the look he shot her could’ve made The Crone’s lamp tumble from her hands and shatter into a million little pieces. Ysilla had to hide her face in his shoulder in the semblance of an embrace to hide the flames licking up her neck. As if that would help, as Aemond only whispered the most unholiest of dirty thoughts into her ear. Ysilla is sure there are apples that paled in intensity to her face as she descended the steps, hand-in-hand with Aemond.

A knock amongst the wood whirls her around, a blonde head popping in before she can call out her greeting. A relieved smile graces her face, pleased to not have to entertain anymore Septons.

“Rytsas kepa,” Ysilla welcomes, Daemon closing the door behind him. “Skoriot iksis muña?”

“Readying Syrax and Caraxes for the flight to Dragonstone. I think we’ve frightened the folks of Oldtown enough with their presence.” Dameon grins gleefully, not a shred of remorse in his visage. His smile drops though when he takes in her choice of attire.

“You have to change, Ysilla. Dresses don’t fare well when riding dragonback.”

“And how would you know? Spent much time in gowns, father?” Mirth tickles her pink, happiness exuding from every pore of her being. Daemon chuckles at her silliness, his dismay regarding the entire day melting slightly at his daughter’s elation.

“I’ve lived a long life, maybe I’ll share that story with you someday.”

Ysilla chuckles, nodding affirmatively, taking a moment to breathe.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Ysilla spins in a circle searching for her trunk, patting down her dress, hands coming up to tuck her curls behind her ears. Her face feels hot but she can’t stop smiling; just one more ceremony and it’ll be complete. She and Aemond will be tied together forever.

Daemon catches her hand and Ysilla stops short, the heavy twirl of her skirts continues to twist around her and pulls at her hips.

His eyes are aimed at the floor and Ysilla worries she must’ve gotten something on her dress with how hard he’s staring but his voice quiets her fears.

“Say the word, little one, and I’ll whisk you away from here. I’ll load you onto Caraxes with half the gold the Iron Bank has locked away, and I’ll take you anywhere you have ever wished to see.” Her stepfather’s voice is uncharacteristically earnest and her heart swells tenderly.

Ysilla finds herself blessed- she has more fathers to count than some get in a multiple lifetimes. Ser Harwin, always hovering about in case she called on him, was a kind, warm man who never failed to remind Ysilla of home. Laenor, more absent than not but vivid and tender when he was present, had carved a hole into her heart with his demise, never to be filled again.

And Daemon; he had dropped into her life at the peaking dawn of her womanhood with two daughters in tow and a past so entwined with her mother’s it had made Ysilla’s head hurt. Tepid at times and boiling at others, Ysilla remembers she wasn’t too sure what to make of him at the beginning. But with time and commitment, he had earned himself a place in her family. He always treated her with respect, listened to her fantastical stories with half a keen ear, trailed behind her dancing across the beach, and put a heavy blade in her hand when he was sure she wouldn’t slip with it and lose a finger. He was a father in all the ways that weren’t rewarding but in all that mattered.

“Well, Dorne has always been a sight to behold, I’ve heard.”

A conspiring grin pulls at her stepfather’s mouth, an expression Ysilla always aimed to drag out of him. Dameon always looked more approachable that way- contentment softening his ruggish features.

“I could get you there before the sun would set.”

Ysilla hums, a tempting offer she acts like she contemplates, nibbling along her bottom lip and brow furrowed in false pondering.

“The weather would be quite beautiful. The flowers in bloom, the waters warm, the wine flowing.”

Daemon nods, a bigger smile taking over, plucking a speck of lint from her garments. He swings a curl back behind her, making sure her jewelry is sparkling and faced forward. He’s busying himself for the answer he knows is coming.

“But unfortunately,” Ysilla squeezes his hand in her’s, Dameon answering with a squeeze a fraction tighter. “I think that ship has sailed, father.” She wiggles her shoulders, the weight of Aemond’s cloak draped around her barely shifting with her movement.

His eyes are lit with begrudging acceptance of Ysilla’s choice, the joking air dissipating as he voices an agreeing groan.

Ysilla’s eyes are misty, and her cheeks ache pleasantly from her wide stretching smile.

“Plus, he’d find me on Vhagar and drag me back with him.”

Daemon pfffts out a humorous burst of air and Ysilla knocks her forehead to his shoulder as he pulls her into a one-armed hug.

“He’d have to get through me first.”

The night of.

Aemond and Ysilla stumble into his room their room, slurred whispers and uncontrollable giggles the song of too much celebrating and way too much wine.

The newlyweds bar the door behind them. Ysilla flings off her shoes, moaning at the rushing relief of freedom for her feet. Aemond’s arms wrap themselves around her, pulling her back tight to his front. He noses at her temple, a rhythmic growl rolling from his chest.

“All night long you’ve forced me to lend an ear to your moans and expected me to do nothing about them. The fruits, the pigeon pie, the imported wine, the cake, all followed by the sounds of your pleasure.” Aemond presses his teeth to the meat of her cheek and he feels it pull upwards at the grin Ysilla dons.

“What can I say, it was really good pie.”

Ysilla twists around, her fingers braiding through his hair and Aemond moans a pleased sound. Ysilla’s fingers are magic, constantly seeking out the knots and tangles that appear at the end of a long day. She refuses to rest until the twisted locks sweep down into a blonde river of gleaming strands.

“Mmmm, who's moaning now, my love?” Ysilla challenges, desire floating in lavender irises. She sucks at her lip, wincing and releasing it at the sharp crack of pain left behind by the Dragonglass’ cut. Aemond’s thumb finds the wound, smearing her blood along his finger before rolling the digit around his tongue. The way that that depraved act spears thirst through her makes her dizzy.

“You taste divine, Ysilla.”

Ysilla purrs, pulling him down by the hair to lick at his lips but he dances away before their mouths can meet. Ysilla frowns, feeling entirely too empty without him pressed against her. Only a day spent fully together and she can’t stomach them being apart. Gods help her.

“A plan?” Ysilla raises a dark brow, bliss still lingering in every fiber of her being. She tries a grin, and Aemond’s answering curl of his lips banishes all distress from her heart.

“Yes, little one, one that you may not be privy to. Now, make yourself comfortable and I’ll be along for you soon.” Ysilla laughs at her husband’s antics (her husband, her husband, her husband. She’ll never tire of that, she hopes) and she shoos him away to go about his mission.

Aemond stalks off, slipping into an adjoining room and behind a changing partition, nodding his approval at the set-up he directed the servants to prepare.

A large brass bath, filled halfway with flame-boiled water, scented with rose oil and loose peony petals . Candles are lit in every corner, a table set with two glasses and Ysilla’s favorite plum wine waiting to be consumed. Almond oil, Aemond’s choice, is by the foot of the bath and he grows restless. He plans to press into all her muscles, chase away her stress and soreness, make her pliant and boneless before slipping inside of her, at last their coupling right and true in the eyes of their ancestors.

Husband and wife. Valzȳrys se ābrazȳrys.

Aemond spares a final glance at the room, rubbing his hands together before marching back to his and Ysilla’s room. But Aemond can’t suppress a laugh, scratching at his brow at the sight that greets his arrival.

Ysilla is curled under the furs, pants and shirt in a pile in the corner of their room, soft snores the only sound besides the logs burning in the hearth. He tosses his eyepatch on the table, coming closer to the bed and making sure she’s tucked in tight. He blows out the bedside candle, darkness blanketing the room. The glow from the fireplace’s flames give Aemond a last glance of his wife’s sleeping face. He sighs as he trudges back to the bath, regrettably alone. He strips down, a trail of clothes marking his path.

Aemond swings his legs over the rim of the tub, dunking himself under the boiling water, hoping the scald chases away his undying want for the woman dozing in the other room.

It doesn’t and Aemond starts to count down the minutes until sunrise, where he can awaken his wife with his mouth upon her cunt, her moans singing alongside the twittering of the owls.

“Don’t look so frightened, wife.” Aemond growled the last part into her ear, woozy and whirling from the day’s events.

Ysilla dared an amazed laugh, stare unwilling to break from the behemoth emerald beast she was expected to mount. Looking at her now, Ysilla was dumbfounded of how a young boy gambled his life, and chanced a death by flames or fangs to claim her.

Her husband, one-of-a-kind he is.

“You face me with meeting the only other woman in your life and expect me to be all smiles?” Ysilla tried her hand at a jest but it fell flat, her voice a few octaves too high.

Aemond grinned, securing his gloves and tightening his hair band, coming forward and pulling her towards him. He double-knotted the tie of his cloak at the base of her throat, tucking her curls beneath the black stitchings. She had shed her wedding dress before leaving the Sept, electing a pair of dark brown breeches and a billowing ruby houppelande much more appropriate for dragon riding. She kept the cloak wrapped around her though, and Aemond’s heart sailed at the sight of his protection swathed about her.

It wasn’t a long journey by any means, a little less than an hour to Dragonstone, where they would be joined in the customs of Old Valyria. Ysilla and Aemond had made the decision it would be just the two of them for the ceremony, and chose Maester Gerardys, a man who had watched over Ysilla since her birth, to officiate the union. Daemon and Rhaenyra didn’t take immediately to the decision, but a bat of Ysilla’s lashes and a pleading twist of her lips had quieted their objections. But they weren’t swayed enough not to be waiting on the newlyweds at the castle across the cliff’s way. Getting there was the only obstacle now.

Aemond settled his hands on Ysilla’s shoulders, pulling her attention from the sleeping dragon to fixate on him. He chuckled at the apprehension she couldn’t hide on her face, and he felt a small victory at the breathy laugh she released, nerves fleeting with the sound.

He tugged on her hand, every small step forward a win he wore like a crown.

“Come now, my love, our life awaits.” Aemond gifted her a perfect smile before turning and climbing up the rope ladder along Vhagar’s neck. The old beast snuffled, puffs of smoke drifting from her snout as her rider dared to awaken her from her slumber. Ysilla’s legs wobbled once Vhagar aimed her yellow stare at her, something akin to a question building in her huge eyes.

Ysilla dropped forward in an almost curtsey. “Rytsas Vhagar.” Ysilla stilled, locking eyes with the magnificent creature. The seconds stretched on, but Ysilla refused to retreat. Vhagar cocked her head to the side, perhaps scrutinizing the tiny girl before shaking her mammoth head, the gust of wind it conjured nearly knocking Ysilla over. She arched her giant claws, bones cracking vociferously and Ysilla realized she was stretching. Ysilla had seen street cats do the same and she suppressed a chuckle, starting up the flimsy ladder, Aemond’s hand securing around her elbow and guiding her in front of him.

“Alright you, so make sure you don’t move too much. Hold on here and here, and loop your feet through these.” Aemond directed her, prodding at her and Ysilla rolled her eyes fondly.

“I’ve ridden a dragon before, thank you.” Ysilla shot back, memories of her and her mother on Syrax stirring up dormant instincts. It’s been years since she did that and Ysilla cried in fear the whole time, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He hums dismissively, arms encasing her so that he can grip at Vhagar’s reigns.

“Not like this, ñuha prūmia. Hold on tight.”

And then all at once, following a Valyrian command, Ysilla jolted forward, gasping in a breath as Vhagar took off over the seaside cliff, She wished for a free hand to cover her mouth to stunt a scream, but her teeth would have to do as she was too terrified to release the hold she had on the saddle. Ysilla’s stomach was thrown into loops, the weightlessness in her legs unpleasant and she never imagined she’d miss the ground beneath her until that moment.

She hadn't realized her eyes were squeezed shut, partially hoping she just passed out but Aemond’s voice at her ear drifted over the roar of the wind.

“Open your eyes, Ysilla.”

Ysilla did so reluctantly but once she did, oh, it was life changing.

She had never seen the sea from this height before, never leveled her stare with white puffy clouds, seen above the sun as it began to set. The air was thinner this high up, but all the more clear. Ysilla was slack-jawed, awe taking over for debilitating fear. Her eyes soaked in everything and it still seemed like there was more to see.

Even with the sun setting ablaze the ocean in its descent, the summit of the moon close behind, Aemond couldn’t tear his eyes away from his wife’s face. Nothing felt more right than in that moment; a Targaryen bride in his arms, his dragon soaring beneath him, a bright, opportune future laid out further than the stretch of the sea. Happiness, a once alien emotion that seemed to become more familiar each day spent by Ysilla’s side, bloomed like a spring flower in his chest and took root. Finally, Aemond let himself breathe out, let himself just be. He grasped Vhagar’s reigns tighter, secured Ysilla against him, and directed the dragon higher into the sky, racing against the sunset, basking in his wife’s rollicking laughter all the way.

byka zaldrītsos

little dragon

muña

mother

Mazeman ao sir, aemond Targārien, hae ñuha mēre. Ñuha gīda. Ñuha valzȳrys. Naejot iōragon ondoso se support. Naejot cherish se jorrāelagon.

Syt se rest hen ñuha tubissa se beyond, ēva se mōris hen jēda.

īlva ānogar, hēnkirī, binding īlva isse bisa ābrar se se hembar. Iā bond daor vala kessa qūvy apart.

I take you now, Aemond Targaryen, as my one. My equal. My husband. To stand by and support. To cherish and love. For the rest of my days and beyond, until the end of time. Our blood, together, binding us in this life and the next. A bond no man will tear apart.

Rytsas kepa. Skoriot iksis muña?

Hello father. Where is mother?

Valzȳrys se ābrazȳrys

Husband and wife

Rytsas Vhagar

Hello Vhagar

ñuha prūmia

my heart

i hope you all loved this family feels chapter because the next one... i'm just gonna apologize in advance because the next one is a DOOZY.

forever thankful for every single kudos, comment, and read this story has gotten. you all rock my world! xx

#hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen smut #ysilla targaryen #i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you

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kidsomeday · 9 months ago

Note

I was going to ask for Magical Medieval Vashwood Thing for WIP Wednesday, but I definitely want to request you work on your original story, whatever it may be

You get so much extra writing this go around, because you get both! Thank you for the asks. Both stories apparently wanted to get lots of woods. Felt good to have words just sort of do their thing. -

Medieval Magic Vashwood Thing Wolfwood moved back over to the window for another cigarette, though judging by the way Roberto was waving his own around at the table it wasn’t a necessary courtesy. Still, it got him away from the group again, a chance to calm down after more socialization than he normally had in a month. And the night air smelled sweet coming in off the little garden and somewhere a night blooming flower was sharing itself with the world. Vash and Millie came back in, carrying a tray of sweet breads, butter, and jam. Tea was refreshed, and from somewhere Millie produced a glass of something hoppy smelling for Roberto. They provided a calm background to the passionate debate between the others- it had veered from Roberto’s card play to some archaic rule about animal husbandry- and Wolfwood was stuck with something that might have been nostalgia but wasn’t because he’d never been allowed this kind of life, never been close enough to another person to have their weirdness become rote, never known people so well they could hand out bread with the exact amount of butter and jam you like, never laughed at a joke so well worn a simple look was enough to cause another burst into laughter. He knew that longing well enough, the memory of being so cold and hungry and looking in to warmth, happiness, little families sitting around the table and smiling. The nuns did the best they could, but there were so many other children, and food was so often scarce, and their clothes more mended patches than original garment. But he had sat there at the table. He’d made Millie laugh and Roberto snort in surprise. He’d made Vash compete in a secret game. Meryl had even given him a compliment at one point. It made him feel strange and unsettled. Sitting away from everyone was better, for now.

Original Story Thing

Caleb was staring at him like they’d never met before, and Henry had to assume it was hard for him to process things before. It was quite the situation to have to be in. As troubling as the situation was for him it had to much, much worse for Caleb. It wasn’t either of their fault that he was that sick. It was his fault that he hadn’t told anyone and had been apparently willing to curl up in a corner and suffer through the weekend, but Henry had long since stopped trying to figure out why people did anything. “There shouldn’t be any permanent damage to the chaise lounge,” he added, thinking that may have been contributing to Caleb’s anxiety. “I ordered some of the best cleaning supplies I could find. Veronique will be pleased. She’s consistently on me to purchase, and I quote ‘the supplies our antiques deserve.’” By now Caleb was looking around, his face getting progressively whiter. He took in the IV in his arm, the blankets spread over his lower half, and the slew of supplies Henry had to started to gather. “I’m going to throw up,” Caleb said, then proceeded to do so.

#wip wednesday game #wip fanfiction #wip writing #wip wednesday #my fanfiction #my writing #wip original writing #wip vashwood fic #yay words words words!

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stayarmytinyzenmoa-l · 2 years ago

Text

Covalence [Ch. 4]

University AU

TW/CW: Language, Mentions of a Previous Toxic Relationship (Lack of Trust), Huge Timeskip (Is this a CW?)

Pairing: Qian Kun x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Angst

(Y/N) Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 4.0K

(Part 4/4) [First] | [Previous]

[NCT Masterlist] | [Covalence Masterlist] | [Full Fic Version]

Notes: This fic has been here for a while but I've decided to break this up into chapters since I had a couple of people say they prefer it as opposed to a full fic for pacing reasons, but just for y'all I'll include the link to the full fic! I hope you all enjoy! That and I also want to get some traction on the blog again hehe

Disclaimer: Please remember that this is an AU and a work of fiction, obviously the idols mentioned/written about in this story would never partake in or condone these actions. I would never wish any of these actions to occur to the Idol(s) mentioned in the writings of these stories, nor do I wish any harm on them.

IV. Strangers

Love was a flittering thing. It’s funny how the concept championed loyalty but could be gone in the blink of an eye at the slightest rupture of belief if the people holding it were not careful. Most people don’t know what they had until they lost it, which was a concept that can be applied with many things, but it constantly found itself in the presence of affection. Some people found love ridiculous, and in some aspects it was, and though their opinion is one to be respected, many people cast it aside and willingly, blindly, walk into it. Some people can’t live without it, and others get by perfectly fine. Many will come to find that love is such a controlling thing, subconsciously playing into one’s everyday life and decisions without even actively thinking about it. To put it simply, it makes you do thinks you’d never actually do, and sometimes it makes you do things you come to regret.

Kun found that out the hard way.

“I’m off then,” he signed the timetable and waved at his boss.

“Get home safely, Kun, it’s dangerous at night,” the old shopkeeper bid his employee goodbye before he closed the shop.

Kun rubbed his hands together fighting off the cold winter night. The streets weren’t busy around this time, a car would pass here and there, but other than that there were no disturbances, aside from the tracks he was leaving behind him, that is. He pulled his phone out as soon as he heard the ringtone.

“Mom, hey, yeah. I just got off shift and I’m on my way home now,” Kun stands by the bus stop. “How’s dad?” Kun listened carefully to his mother’s words.

He had been in China for eight years now. It almost felt like he never left sometimes. He didn’t remember much of when he was abroad, actually. He graduated despite their circumstances but was still unable to land a steady job and, as a result, he’s been picking up as many odd jobs as he could. Sadly, his father only got more sick as the years continued, and the bills kept piling higher than Kun could have ever imagined. At this point, Kun had resigned himself to eternal servitude, as dramatic as that sounds, he couldn’t put it any other way. He had stopped talking to a lot of friends he had, both abroad and at home, he just couldn’t find the time to relax anymore.

“You getting on?” The bus driver spoke up, effectively silencing the man’s busy thoughts.

“Yeah, sorry,” Kun stepped on quickly, taking a seat by the window as usual and feeling the bus jerk forward. He pulled his backpack onto his lap, his eye catching the small pin on the side. A small sigh left his lips when he stared at it, he hadn’t kept it in good condition, and he was surprised that he even kept it for this long, but his sentimental personality prevented him from ever properly disposing it. It was chipped at the sides and the shine it once had was worn through, but the stories it held within it were left untouched. He pulled his headphones on and shuffled his playlist, falling into the memories of a time long passed.

That morning, eight years ago now, Kun woke up first. He was still in his clothes from the night before, and he was in a rather awkward position on his bed. He sat up and went through his brain, trying to remember the events of that dumb party Ten insisted on having, but he drew a blank. He stretched his arms over his head and noticed the Advil on the table and took it without a second thought, it did well for the hangover. He yawned while he walked into the main room, but did a quick double take when he noticed you, that person he fell in love with so long ago, asleep on the couch and in his clothes.

Then he really tried to remember what happened the night before.

He remembered his thoughts exactly in that moment: ‘He didn’t do anything to you, did he? He didn’t do anything that he might regret later? How much did he drink last night?’

He recalled looking over to you again, you weren’t in his bed, so that was a good sign— Wait, no, no it’s not. He had a guest over and he made her sleep on the couch? And what was it about you that he found so endearing right then? What made him realize that he was so helplessly in love with you at that moment? Was it the way his shirt was too big for you? Was it the way you were asleep so comfortably? He didn’t have a clue, and still didn’t for that matter.

It was just… something.

He ended up making breakfast for you instead, whatever it was that happened he figured that a good deed would be a sufficient way to make up for it.

He was glad that nothing happened, don’t get him wrong, but maybe a bit disappointed that no life changing event happened that would’ve been the link to bring you both closer. Maybe he should’ve said something before you left, but there he was, walking you to the door. He had even opened it for you and let you out himself. He was about to close it when he figured that now was the perfect chance, and maybe the only one.

“Do you want me to drive you home? I think you mentioned something about your apartment being on the other side of campus.”

Well he fucked that up.

He meant to say that he wanted to do it again, he meant to say that he wanted to make you breakfast again, he meant to say that he wanted to see you like that every morning, he meant to say that he wanted to be apart of your life.

He wondered if you felt the same, if you had that same thought in your head and that same want for something more. He wondered if, hypothetically, he confessed to you right then, would you have said yes? Would you have responded with the same amount of enthusiasm or more than when he finally mustered up the courage in the cafe? If he told you what he was really thinking of, would you both have had more time together?

But nope.

He offered you a ride instead.

He cleared his throat silently, so as not to disturb the other riders on the bus. He couldn’t deny the slight ache in his chest whenever he thought about you. For a year and longer, and even so now, whenever he thought back to that final night, he wondered if there was anything he could’ve done differently. Sometimes he wondered what everything would’ve been like now if he stayed, if you both never broke up.

Kun was always a romantic. Where most of the boys he knew were thinking about their newest toys or their next sports game, Kun was planning out his dream wedding. He could see it perfectly, how he wanted to meet the special someone, how he’d ask that person out, how he’d show his never-ending bouts of love and affection, how he’d finally propose, how he’d plan the wedding, he had it all planned to the very detail. He even took it a step further, he dreamt about his future house, his future family, and everything in between. His head was always stuck in the clouds, and he remembered that when he’d tell his parents about them, they’d just laugh softly and tell him that, although it was a perfect dream, that’s not how it was like in reality.

He thought they were ridiculous, he was a child at the time so such was the explanation. He lived his whole life with everything planned and structured, he always knew the outcome of things, or at the very least was confident in how things would result. And, with all this thought of perfect dreams, Kun’s train of thought ended with you. You threw his life off the rails, and he didn’t mean that in a bad way, it was unexpected and at the very least exciting. All of that dreaming and all of that planning he had done for years was suddenly irrelevant when he met you. You were just different, and although it was a stark difference to what Kun had originally wanted, he can’t say that he didn’t want it again.

But now, at this moment, all you are to him is a distant memory. One that he didn’t want to forget, but one that he felt was slipping away like a paper airplane in a hurricane. There were days when he never thought about you entirely, and there were days he’d remember that final night word from word. What a hypocrite he is, he always preached living life without regrets, but look at him now, thinking about what could’ve been…

Or, more accurately, what should’ve been.

He can never take back what happened that night, but part of him wished that you both worked through it instead of going your separate ways. He never did forget the blank look on your face when you left his apartment, leaving all of your things behind with a simple ‘Just sell them.’ He did with a few of them, actually, but there were some things he couldn’t part with and they’re sitting in the attic right now in a box titles ‘School Work’ to keep his parents from going through it, and there was the one he was playing with between his fingers right now.

It wasn’t until recently, maybe a year ago, when he realized that it was him who was primarily wrong. He knew that he shouldn’t have betrayed your privacy like that, or doubted you like that at all. In fact, it was mostly on him for not listening to you properly that first time you told him about it. And after he finally got his parents’ side of the story it was nothing but regret he felt, and yes that’s another bout of hypocrisy. He didn’t know what exactly it was that kept him from reaching out to you again. Was it his own pride? Was it fear? Or was it the huge gap in time that separated the two events? Did he want to know?

Looking down at his phone, he stared at your contact. He never deleted it, and he never got rid of the messages either. He stared at the last message you had ever sent him, and one that he didn’t even bother to reply to: ‘Have a safe flight, make sure you eat well before hand, and take care, Kun.’

There were no bad intentions behind it, all it felt like was a melancholy goodbye. A final word in this relationship that started out as a romantic pop song and ended as a ballad.

He looked around himself, every person on the bus was either fast asleep or tuned into their phones, then he looked at the time, it would be morning where you were right now, wouldn’t it?

Holding the phone to his ear, he listened to the dial tone.

“Hello?” A voice he didn’t recognize.

“Oh, sorry, I got the wrong number,” Kun speaks hurriedly, about to hang up.

“Look, if you’re calling about (Y/N) we don’t know where she is either,” to this Kun’s breath caught in his throat. “You a friend of hers?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m her cousin who just happens to be the poor person who phone number redirects to. It’s been four years, we really don’t care anymore. If she doesn’t want to be found, then she doesn’t. She’s alive, at least, always sending us postcards, or whatever, all I know is that she wanted to finish her schooling abroad, or some shit like that. Anyway, I’m going to hang up now.” The line went dead and Kun pulled the phone away, staring at the recently called contacts screen.

You had been missing? Just dropped off the face of the Earth with no signs? That wasn’t like you at all, or at least, the (Y/N) he knew would’ve never done that. He remembered you being a very structured person, always planning ahead and telling everyone what you were up to. But it seemed to be your choice, considering you’d send some sign of life every now and then.

At the sudden ring of his phone once again, Kun rushed to silence and answer it.

“Mom,” he addressed quietly. “You want me to drop by the hospital really quick?” Kun dug through his backpack and pulled out his father’s empty prescription bottle, not recalling that he ever put it in there in the first place.

“Yeah, I can refill it,” Kun answers his worried mother, and once she hangs up he sighs. She could have just told him earlier instead of cornering him like this, he would’ve said yes and refilled it before going to work. With tired eyes he watches his original stop disappear behind him, having three more to go to reach the hospital. With the extra time, Kun’s mind returned to you again, the sudden worry welling up inside of him, something that hadn’t happened in years.

Maybe he was overthinking it now, maybe it was his tired reminiscent mind romanticizing that first day he met you more than it really was. But he never really forgot that morning, when he rushed over to who he thought was just another student struggling to get by and paying for a simple latte for them. That’s how it started for him, at least, just another face that he just happened to have decided to do a good deed for.

Then came the surprise of when you asked to sit with him at Coffee Bean. He recognized you immediately, but he could tell from your expression that you didn’t at all, he was a bit hurt by it, but he couldn’t blame you. At that point, your relationship was nothing more than strangers. But, he figured, why not? Where’s the harm? And he obliged. Never did he expect for any kind of relationship to be born out of that, a simple exchange of notes between two students struggling to understand something as simple as atomic theory.

A small smile was on Kun’s face, he didn’t think of you as often, but when he did it was always good things. As he walked off of the bus, he scrolled through some old drafts of his and hovered his thumb over that one assignment that he never really finished. It was titled rather bluntly ‘Untitled 4’ but he knew exactly what it was. As soon as he stepped through the automatic doors of the hospital he pressed it, hearing the soft piano ballad. He had removed every other instrument, just leaving the piano melody and a toned down harmony, really just out of pure frustration of not being able to get the tone right, then he ended up abandoning the project altogether. But now that he was listening to it, he couldn’t help but think it was perfect now.

Lost love. That was the assignment, the one assignment that he failed on. How could he compose a piece about something he had never experienced? He never turned it in, the syllabus specified that the professor would drop the lowest grade, and thus Kun took this rather safe risk and kept the demo to himself. But, as said earlier, now that he was listening to it, it was perfect. It captured the feeling and the subject perfectly despite him never have changing anything aside from removing the strings. He wondered what was really different about it. Maybe it was only because he now knew what it felt like. To have something so sweet, so lovely, then to lose it.

He was in line at the pharmacy already, and Kun decided that he had enough of the sad and unfinished track, shutting it off entirely and sliding his headphones off as he neared the front.

But the melody didn’t stop.

Kun looked at his phone, the recording app closed and not playing, and the device still connected to his headphones.

So, where was it coming from?

He stepped out of line, the sudden curiosity forming in his thoughts while he followed the melody. It’s impossible for anyone to have known this melody, he never turned in the track and he never even showed anyone the demo. Well, except for one person.

“Hey! Let me go!” The sudden shout of a small child caused Kun to turn around to it, seeing a little girl trying to pull her hand away from a nurse. She yanked her arm away and ran over to Kun, the confusion must have been clear on his face, because the nurse sighed and tried to reach out for the girl.

“Your mother is looking for you, I’m just going to take her to you!”

“No! You’re going the wrong way and I don’t recognize you,” the little girl ran behind Kun.

Now, Kun knew better than to assume, and maybe he shouldn’t have done this, but he was already here so why not?

“Is everything alright?” Kun asked the little girl, and the nurse straightened herself.

“Yes, carry on,” the nurse smiled and nodded, trying to pull the child away. “These damn foreign kids… where do they get this energy from?” The nurse mumbled under her breath.

“No! I don’t know this person, and they’re trying to take me away from my mom! And I know who all of my mom’s coworkers look like…” The child cried. She couldn’t have been older than seven, he thought, and already she had a sharp tongue, almost too smart for her own good.

“Do you even know this man?!” The nurse grimaces.

“Yes! He’s my mom’s neighbor and he knows what she looks like!” The little girl lies. Maybe not that smart, actually, if she’s trusting a stranger more than a worker, but she looked scared of this nurse, and Kun was smart enough to put two and two together.

“Right, yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll take it from here,” he clears his throat. “Come along now,” Kun gestures for the young child to follow him away from the nurse.

“You heard him! Bye now!” The little girl waves at the nurse and walks ahead of Kun. “Thank you, mister! You can go now… my mom said that whenever a nurse I don’t recognize comes up to me and tells me that she told them to get me I should run, but she wouldn’t leave me alone so I went to you instead,” the little girl nods and runs off.

Towards the melody that Kun had initially been following.

He stopped by the piano in the lobby, seeing someone sitting at the grandiose instrument. Normally, whenever he would be there, it would be some old musician the hospital hired to fill in the dead air of the already depressing atmosphere with equally depressing music. Instead, now, in place of those graying pianists, was a rather young woman. Her lab coat was draped across the seat next to her while she played the simple melody, and the little girl was standing next to her, watching in complete awe.

“There you are, I was wondering where you had run off to,” the woman rubbed the little girl’s head affectionately. “You didn’t give the nurses trouble, did you?” He knew that voice, and he found himself moving towards the two before he could even think about it.

“Only one, this lady in a pink uniform who said that you sent her to get you.”

“Ah! She’s new to my unit, I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, but don’t worry she’s trustworthy,” the woman sighs.

“Oh, okay! I like that song!” The little girl gushed.

“I know you do, that’s why I played it so you’d show up, you silly girl. Let’s go home now.”

“Wait!” Kun was acting before thinking, something he usually never did, but he had to know.

You turned around, holding onto your daughter’s hand tightly.

“Can I help you?” Your voice was tired from the 24 hour shift you had just finished. But your groggy eyes focused on the person in front of you, and you felt your heart skip a beat. And here you thought you’d never see him again. Instinctively, you pushed your daughter behind you. Surely, he didn’t remember you. And if he did, you doubted that he was any different than when you last saw each other. Kun’s eyes moved from you to the little girl behind you.

“I see you’ve been well, (Y/N),” Kun says quietly.

“Oh! This mister helped me escape from the nurse,” the little girl tugged at your shirt. “You know my mom? Mom you know him?”

“I do, it’s been a while since we last talked though… But he really helped you?” You turned to him briefly before exhaling quietly. “Well, we’d have to thank him properly then, right?”

“Yes,” the little girl’s eyes shone.

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” Kun waved his hand politely. He was just glad enough to know that you’ve been doing well.

“Nonsense, you helped out my energetic little girl here, let me repay the favor,” you insisted.

“I know a really good candy shop you’d like,” the little girl adds in quietly.

“How could I say ‘no’ to that?” Kun chuckles softly.

“How’s Wednesday for you?” You asked. Kun scrolled through his calendar quickly, seeing the shift he had picked up that day.

“Sure, just send me a time and place,” he smiles. He catches himself quickly, he just made the assumption that you kept his number, but after that night, he wouldn’t be surprised if you deleted it, but when his phone pinged with that familiar ring tone he had assigned for you, his suspicions were debunked.

“Don’t be late, or else you’re getting the same coffee order you liked eight years ago,” you said with a slight teasing edge to your voice. “Time to go,” you gently tugged your daughter along.

“Bye, Mister!” Your daughter waves exaggeratedly. “Wait! What’s your name?” Your daughter called out to him while you were walking away.

“Oh, it’s Kun!” He answers.

“Kun? As in my da—” your eyes grew wide and you swept her up in your arms, effectively silencing her with the fit of giggles she burst out in as soon as you spun her around.

“I’ll have to tell the nurses not to give you anymore sugar past ten, I’ll see you on Wednesday!” You said quickly, waving goodbye to him while you sped out of the hospital.

Kun stood for a few moments more, staring at the now closed automatic doors. He had so many questions for you, but they would just have to wait for five more days. That was enough time to sort through his thoughts, maybe. He pushed his hands in his pockets, feeling the empty prescription bottle in them.

‘Right, that’s why I was here in the first place,’ Kun thought to himself. He rotated it in his hand and walked back to the pharmacy. He glanced out the window, seeing your daughter run up to it and jump up and down, seemingly trying to get his attention, and you ran up behind her in a small panic, looking around you before carrying her in your arms. Again, the small smile appeared on Kun’s face while he held his hand up as a small gesture of goodbye. With a wide smile, your daughter points towards the parking structure, and with a silent laugh you obliged, and soon you were completely out of sight. Kun opened your text, a location attached to it with a simple ‘thank you.’

V. Covalence

Covalence: (n) Relating to or denoting a relationship formed between the mutual sharing and understanding of both people’s negatives in order to balance the positives and together form a stable bond.

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