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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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North To The Future [Chapter 13: Don’t Look Back In Anger]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, sexual content, medical stuff, discussions of suicide, chilling with the parentinis.

Word count: 6.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @hinata7346 @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl @charenlie @thewew @eddies-bat-tattoos @minttea07 @joliettes @trifoliumviridi @bornbetter @flowerpotmage @thewitch-lives @bearwithegg @tempt-ress @padfooteyes @teenagecriminalmastermind @chelsey01 @anditsmywholeheart @heliosscribbles @elsolario @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @tillyt04 @cicaspair418 @fan-goddess

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“You need to go to the hospital,” Aemond says.

You’re sitting on the threadbare floral couch in Aegon’s apartment, melting snow dripping from your hair like rain out of a bleak sky. You’re still wearing Aegon’s parka, but you’re freezing; you feel like you’ll never be warm again. Sunfyre, whimpering and pacing restlessly, periodically nudges your arm with his nose. “No.”

Aemond studies you. “Why?”

“I don’t want anyone else touching me.”

Aegon looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor in only his green flannel pajama pants, skin and scars and ink. When he lifts the towel he’s had pressed to the outside of your thigh, there is a six-inch gash in the flesh: silent inferno, scarlet lightning. His palms are stained with your blood. “I’ll kill him,” he says, low and fierce.

Aemond sighs. “No, you won’t.”

“I will.”

You tell Aegon: “No, really, you won’t. You’re not going to prison for Trent.”

“Well something has to happen to him!”

“The hospital is really not negotiable,” Aemond says. “You need stitches.” And he shudders, just enough that you notice.

“We could call the cops,” Aegon starts. “We could—”

“You get to leave,” you say, and neither of them understand. For the first time, your eyes snag on the pattern of the couch rather than just skate over it: ivy, red roses, calla lilies white like bones. You take a trembling breath and begin again. “In a week, or a month, or whenever, you both get to leave this city, and it won’t matter what anyone here knows about you. But everything I have is in Juneau. And it’s too small for secrets. If I tell anyone about what happened, they’re going to end up hearing Trent’s side of the story too. The cops wouldn’t see this as a warning sign or part of a pattern of violent behavior. They’d see it as a domestic disturbance, at least in part caused by me. I’ll spend the rest of my life as the girl who got caught fucking around on the local football hero with some degenerate drifter. The same drifter who Trent saved from drowning in the channel a month ago.”

“He did what?” Aemond asks, confounded.

“It’s a long story.”

“Okay, okay, Appletini,” Aegon soothes. “Just tell me what you want. Tell me what you want and we’ll do it.”

“You should wash the blood off your hands.”

“Why? It’s just you.”

After a moment, you smile down at him. He smiles back. And suddenly you’re warm again, warm everywhere like there are embers tumbling through your veins instead of just biconcave cells and menacing lineage. Aemond’s gaze darts between you and Aegon, a little intrigued, a little scandalized, like it’s not something meant for him to witness. Sunfyre’s tail wags hopefully.

“So,” Aemond says. “Your preference for confidentiality notwithstanding, you do actually still need stitches.”

“I’ll do them,” you reply.

“You’ll…what…?”

“I’ll do the stitches myself. I have all the equipment at the vet clinic.”

“Okay,” Aegon agrees immediately.

Aemond stares at you, his lone eye narrow and incredulous. Then he turns to Aegon. “You think this is a good idea?”

“If she wants to do it herself, she can do it herself. She did a great job stitching up Sunfyre’s face. You can barely see where the bear clawed him.”

Aemond raises an eyebrow. “Why did I believe you might serve as the voice of reason? Why was I that delusional? Yeah, alright, let’s go do some impromptu surgery. That can only end well.”

You examine the wound on your thigh. It’s a relatively clean cut, but deep; it will leave a mark that you’ll carry for the rest of your life. It’s about the same size as Aemond’s scar, you think disjointedly, your skull clouded with shock and searing pain. The bleeding has slowed, but beads like rubies brim at the edges of the severed quilt of flesh. “I need to wrap it with something so it doesn’t bleed all over my Jeep.”

As you and Aegon improvise a solution—a fresh towel secured around your thigh with duct tape, the white fabric soon splattered with red—Aemond goes to the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his face grave and distant. Sirens build outside in the frigid darkness.

Aegon whirls to his brother. “Did—?”

“No. I didn’t call them.”

The police cars zoom by the apartment building in a screeching procession, heading north towards the lakes. Flashing lights paint Aemond’s ivory skin in shades of fire and sky. Lines etch across his forehead, perplexed, wary.

“What’s that about?”

“It happens a lot around here,” Aegon says. He tests the duct tape, making sure the towel won’t get jostled when you move. “It means they’ve found another body.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Lidocaine, povidone-iodine, scissors, forceps, tweezers, surgical thread, bright lights and no shadows. The bruises on Aegon’s face from where Aemond slammed him against that Dodge Ram last night are vivid blooms: violets, irises, blue-dyed roses, things that don’t grow here. He stands beside the metal exam table as you work, running his hands through his wild, white-blond, blood-flecked hair. You’re both wearing the clothes that you left on the floor of your Jeep; you’re both back in that moment, or at least halfway in it, soundless electricity in the florescent-lit air, longing drenched with maroon pain, rage, feverish anxiety. You cut the right leg off your blue flannel pajama pants so you could suture your thigh without being practically naked again. Aemond duct taped a black trash bag over the missing window of your Jeep to keep the worst of the wind and snow out. You’ll have to explain that to your parents eventually. You’ll have to explain quite a lot to them.

Aemond roams between the exam room and the lobby like a leopard behind iron bars, not really wanting to be in either. He is unnerved by your suturing, unnerved in a way that is obvious and deeper than words; yet he is irritated by the news coming from the television in the lobby. He’s turned it on to see if they’re reporting on the Ice Fisher’s latest victim yet. Instead, they’re covering the weather. The blizzard that’s expected to hit Juneau tomorrow has picked up speed, arriving by noon instead of the previously estimated late-evening. It will drop several feet of fresh snow, enough to shut down the city for two or three days. This is a great inconvenience for Aemond. This will delay his clandestine plans.

Aegon is watching you stitch with awe in his eyes. He’s nearly sober and must be desperate to remedy that, but he’s hiding it well. “You are so fucking badass.”

“I am so fucking stupid. I forgot all about the bear mace. It was right there in the front of the Jeep with my purse, I should have told you to grab it, I just…I wasn’t being especially logical at the moment. It completely slipped my mind.”

“I think that’s a very understandable oversight.” He skims his calloused thumb across your cheekbone, light and fleeting just like the rest of him. One of these moments will be the last time he’ll ever touch me. “How are you feeling?”

“Everything hurts. Not just the leg. My back, my ribs, all over.”

“Appletini,” he says, deadly serious. “What are we going to do if Trent shows up again?”

“He won’t come here.” You’re sure of that. “He won’t make a scene in front of my parents. He has a temper, obviously, and when it first hits it blinds him. We’ve seen that over and over again. But he’s not as stupid as he seems. He won’t want to ruin his reputation. Juneau is his whole world.” Just like it’s mine, you think unwillingly, horribly. “Maybe he’ll go home and unwind with a few Heinekens and realize the best thing he can do is move on. Maybe he’ll just consider us even and never speak to me again.”

“That’s optimistic,” Aegon says flatly.

“It’s a catch-22, right? He can’t tell anyone I was with you without it coming out that he attacked me and vandalized my Jeep. I can’t tell anyone he’s a violet psycho without admitting what I was doing when he found us.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You think that. I think that. But other opinions may differ.”

“You don’t belong in Juneau,” Aegon says suddenly, forcefully. “This place can be beautiful but it’s so fucking small. The people are small, their minds are small, any future here would be a waste of everything you’re made of. You feel that, right? I know you do. You don’t have to stay here.”

Aemond peeks into the exam room, observes that you’re still suturing, winces and vanishes into the lobby again. The news anchors are talking about snowfall, an estimated thirty to thirty-six inches.

“We should spend the blizzard at my parents’ house,” you tell Aegon.

“What, all three of us?” He remembers Aemond. “All four of us?”

“Definitely. We’ll have room to spread out in, we can shovel a section of the yard clear for Sunfyre, we won’t have to worry about Trent showing up for an encore. And…you know. I won’t have to be away from you.”

He grins. “You can’t get rid of me, Appletini. Not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet,” you agree, low and wistful. You finish suturing and bandage your thigh with gauze. Then you slide off the exam table, peel away your latex gloves, scrub your hands in the sink, and step out of your disfigured pajama pants. “Reach into that drawer. I keep an extra pair of jeans in there in case some animal gets its fluids all over me.”

Aegon passes you the jeans and pauses for a long time before he speaks. “Do you think Trent’s the Ice Fisher? It has to be him, right? After what happened tonight?” But his bruised face is full of doubt; his oceanic eyes are searching.

“I don’t think it’s him. I can’t really explain why, but I don’t.”

Aemond appears again, hesitating in the doorway. “Hey, idiot,” Aegon says. “We’re all going to wait out the blizzard at her parents’ house.”

“Why would we do that?”

“So I don’t have to spend three days alone with your oppressively stressful self, obviously.”

Aemond should jab back, but he doesn’t. He covers the damaged side of his face with one long agile hand and squeezes his remaining eye shut, flinching, uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“Nerve pain?” you ask.

“No,” Aemond snaps defensively.

“Here…” You paw though the cabinet and find a small white tube. “I have topical lidocaine, not just the injectable kind. It might help…”

“No,” he says again, stepping away from you.

“Aemond, let me—”

“No!”

“I’d leave him alone,” Aegon cautions you. You don’t listen. You follow Aemond as he retreats into the lobby and backs himself against a wall.

“Don’t touch me,” he lashes out, still holding his face in his hand, repulsed that you’re seeing him this way, repulsed by his own weakness.

“Fine. Then you do it.” Too swiftly for him to resist, you grab his wrist, squirt a plentiful amount of the lidocaine gel into his palm, and press his hand back to his ruined cheek, eyelids, forehead. He gapes at you, stunned. “Rub it in, then wait a few minutes. It should start helping.”

Aemond begins massaging the gel into the area around his scar. “Thank you,” he says huskily, averting his gaze from you.

“I don’t know what you have to be so shy about. You’ve basically seen me naked.”

Remarkably, Aemond smiles. He has dimples, you realize. He isn’t just marble or stone; he isn’t just formidable. He’s a little beautiful too. “I have things at home for it, but I forgot to pack them before I flew out of Miami.”

“Yeah, I bet you were in a real hurry to get here.” To find Aegon before he left for the next city. To bring back the long-lost prodigal son.

On the television, the news has pivoted to the Juneau Police Department’s latest discovery.

“Reports are coming in now that officers have found the eighth victim of the serial killer known locally as the Ice Fisher. The remains were recovered from Dredge Lake late this evening. While we are waiting for the victim’s identity to be publicly confirmed once the family has been notified, Chief of Police Eugene Baker has shared that the victim is a female in her mid-thirties. He has also reiterated the vital importance of Juneau residents not leaving their homes alone—no matter how briefly—until the killer is apprehended. The impending blizzard is expected to temporarily postpone the investigation…”

“Mid-thirties,” you consider. “Not Heather or Joyce or Kimmie. The Ursa Minor coincidence lives on.”

“The what?” Aegon says.

“No one from the bar ever gets murdered.”

Aemond watches the blue-white glow of the television, the edges of his face smoothing as the lidocaine gel dulls the erratic electrical signals of his severed nerves: fire, blades, tremors like tiny cataclysmic earthquakes. “Hm.”

The wheels in his skull turn, and then faster, and then faster.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s 11:00 p.m., and your parents are still awake. They’re working on a 1,000-piece puzzle at the dining room table and sipping Earl Grey tea when you walk in. The puzzle box is propped up so they can reference it as they click the jagged fragments together. The picture shows the skyline of London.

“Hey, ladybug!” your dad calls. “Want to help us? I can’t seem to finish this fucking clock.”

Your mom laughs, slapping his broad shoulder playfully. “It’s called Big Ben, you caveman.”

“You don’t complain about my caveman ways when you need wood chopped for the firepit—”

“I have an unorthodox request,” you say. They both turn their full attention to you.

“What is it?” your mom asks.

“I would like Aegon to stay with us until the blizzard is over. And Sunfyre. And Aegon’s brother.”

“Aegon has a brother?” your dad says.

“Yes, and he’s…um…” What’s the word for it? Is there a word for it? “Kind of…different. But he’s very well-mannered and won’t cause any problems. He’s nothing like Aegon. He’s essentially the complete opposite.”

“What’s his name?”

“Aemond.”

“So Greek,” your dad marvels.

Your mom blinks at you, clutching her cup of tea with both hands. Steam curls up around her face like smoke, like fog. “And you and Aegon are…getting along again?”

“Yes.”

She looks to your dad. “As…friends…?” he says.

“No. Not as friends.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah, that’d be just fine.” Your dad is trying to act nonchalant, but they’re both worried; they don’t understand, or maybe they understand too well, and that’s worse. You can hear Jesse’s ghost in the next room, in the attic, in the walls. He’s like that type of silence that starts to feel loud.

“I really, really appreciate it. They’ll be here soon.” Aemond drove himself and Aegon back to the apartment in your Jeep to pack up some essentials and get Sunfyre. “I’ll find the extra sheets and pillows. Aemond can sleep on the couch. And…there’s one more thing.”

“There’s a third brother and his name is Aristotle Onassis.”

No, Daeron. “If Trent shows up, don’t let him in.”

Now they’re really rattled. “What happened, ladybug?” your dad asks softly.

“I tried to end things with Trent. He didn’t take it well. He found out I was with Aegon and he smashed the back window of my Jeep with a rock. There was a whole…situation. I don’t want to talk about the specifics. I don’t need a hug or anything. I just need you both to know that he’s not welcome anywhere near me or Aegon.”

“Oh my god,” your mom gasps, her palm pressed to her heart. “Trent did that? Really?”

“Did he hurt you?” your dad asks; and his voice sounds nothing like the man who raised you. He sounds red and serrated and vengeful. He sounds like when he spoke to you about Jesse.

“No,” you lie, apparently convincingly enough. “But I’m afraid of him. I don’t think he’d try anything in front of you guys, but just in case…”

“Understood,” your dad says with a nod. “No need to elaborate. Trent is hereby banished from the premises.” He makes a cross with his hand like a priest performing an exorcism.

Your mom shivers as she drinks her tea, peering down at the half-finished puzzle. “Horrible. Just horrible. And he always seemed so nice…”

People aren’t always what they seem, Mom, you think bitterly, treasonously. Jesse seemed like he was getting better.

By the time you’re finished putting out food and water for Sunfyre and readying the couch for Aemond—your dad insists on helping you, though you try to refuse—there is a knock at the front door. The Targaryen brothers enter along with a frigid gust of Arctic air that blows the door wide open. Sunfyre, shaking snow from his fur, immediately makes himself at home by jumping up onto the couch and rolling all over it, kicking pillows to the floor.

“Great,” Aemond says tonelessly.

Your parents don’t even register the bruises on Aegon’s face, the dried blood on his hands and in his hair…not with Aemond in the room. They gawk at him: lofty height, long white hair, scar, sapphire, green Louis Vuitton suitcase, black Christian Dior sweatsuit. Eventually, your mom pulls her jaw shut and rises from the dining room table. “Hello!” she manages in an overcompensatingly enthusiastic warble.

To everyone’s surprise, Aemond goes to her and folds both of her hands into his own. “I wanted to personally thank you for welcoming me and my brother into your home. We will not forget your generosity, and it will be greatly rewarded. You will forever have the resources of Targaryen Enterprises at your disposal.”

“Have you ever tried not acting deranged?” Aegon asks him. “For maybe five minutes?”

“It’s our pleasure,” your mom stammers, transfixed by Aemond.

Your dad flashes a smile and gives Aemond a fatherly pat on the back. “Hell, if you’re ladybug’s friend, you’re our friend too. Do you have any pets, Aemond?”

“Yes, a Norwegian Forest cat. Her name is Vhagar.” He pulls a photograph out of his wallet to show them. The cat is freaking enormous.

“Goddamn, I’ve never seen one of those!” your dad exclaims. “How much does she eat? Do you let her outside? Does she hunt? What’s the life expectancy…?”

As they chat, Aegon rummages through the kitchen cabinets until he finds a bottle of red wine. You offer to get him a glass. “No point,” he says, winking. He drinks straight from the bottle, taking frequent little nips like taps of Morse code, sanding the edges off the present, the future, the past. When your parents retire to bed—no doubt to do some stealthy gossiping about their temporary houseguests—Aegon stumbles upstairs to shower, leaving you and Aemond alone. He sits down at the dining room table and moves puzzle pieces around with one index finger, linking them together faster than you would have thought possible.

“I forgot to tell you about him drinking wine,” you say.

“Well, wine is a given.” The rippling blue water of the River Thames is taking shape. “Make no mistake, it’s still suicide, what he’s doing now. It’s just slower. It’s the scenic route, sure, but it ends in the same place. You think he’ll make it to thirty?”

“No,” you answer quietly.

“He’ll overdose, or he’ll drive off the road, or he’ll fall into the ocean, or he’ll pass out somewhere and get claimed by the elements. He’ll be bones wrapped in roots and soil and we’ll never find him, we’ll never even have a body to bury. I’m not trying to hurt him. That couldn’t be further from what I want. Do you see that now? Do you understand?”

“You can’t fix him, Aemond. He has to want to fix himself.”

Aemond shakes his head. “He’ll never do it on his own.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” you say, heat like cinders in your throat. “I want the same thing you do. I’ve tried to get him to go to rehab, I’ve offered to help, I’ve given ultimatums, I’ve left him, I’ve come back, I don’t know what else there is to do. I’m watching him kill himself right in front of me, just like you are. It’s excruciating, loving someone like that. It’s hell.”

Aemond looks at you, a cold, razor-sharp warning. “I know.”

And he does love him, you realize. In a harsh way, in a tangled way, in a way that is burdened with years of betrayal and disappointment. But he loves Aegon too. If only that was enough. “He said that you were trying to protect him on the night of the accident. That your parents were always screaming at him.”

“They did a lot more than that. They hit him. My father harder, my mother more frequently. My grandfather broke his arm when he was ten.”

You can see Aegon as a sullen boy in a hospital bed, as an untamed streetlight-glowing teenager with the night wind in his hair, as a body floating in cold water. “And you think it’s a good idea for him to go back to that kind of environment?”

“Things are different now,” Aemond says, in a tone that offers no further explanation. “Is there a place where I can get some work done tomorrow?”

“Sure. The study is down the hallway, the second door on the right. There’s a desk and a phone in there and everything. Knock yourself out.”

“Oh, I don’t think it will come to that,” Aemond says, a sly smile on his half-ravaged face. And then he goes to the couch—not shooing Sunfyre away but merely shoving him aside to make sufficient space—and turns on the television so he won’t miss any of the news coverage, sliding his BlackBerry out of his pocket and clicking away on it.

When Aegon wanders into your bedroom—black Foo Fighters T-shirt, fresh green flannel pajama pants, dewy and flushed, aggressively rubbing his hair with a towel—you’re waiting for him. He holds up his hands to show you, grinning and proud. “No more blood. Happy now, vet lady?”

“Very.”

“It’s a problem, you know. I never seem to want to wash you off me.” His racoonish eyes flick to the mirror. It’s still decorated with the photographs he remembers, but there’s something missing: the magazine cutout of the Pacific Coast Highway, of California. “What happened to the convertible guy?”

“He got demoted.”

“Since when?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

But still, he knows: since New Year’s Eve, since everything started going wrong. Aegon glimpses his reflection in the silver glass and quickly turns away.

“Your face isn’t that bad. The bruises should start fading soon.”

He smirks. “You’re always looking in the mirror because you’re still trying to figure out who you are. I don’t like looking because I already know.” His eyes catch on the cardboard box full of Jesse’s journals, jutting out from under the bed like the monster of a child’s imagination. “Old birthday and Christmas cards? High school yearbooks? Hot Wheels? Legos?”

“No. Journals.”

His eyebrows shoot up, intrigued. “Yours?”

“Jesse’s.”

“Oh,” he says tentatively, treading lightly, not wanting to offend. “You’ve read them?”

“Bits and pieces. I think it would take years to finish them all.” And then you add: “If you’re ever curious and want to take a look, I don’t mind.” Maybe it would be good for you. Maybe it would show you what you have to look forward to if you don’t change. “Now come here.”

Aegon crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath his knuckles and knees. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you gently, unhurriedly, like you’re made of glass that’s already beginning to splinter. You hurt everywhere, yes, but one ache is worse than all the others. It is an emptiness rather than the pressure of trapped blood or the mending of skin and sinew. It is the cavernous void of a missing piece in the shape of him.

You reach out, graze the backs of your fingers over his bruised cheekbone, tuck his damp lock of hair behind his ear. “I guess we got interrupted earlier.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Aegon murmurs. He smells like wine and soap, your soap. The heat of his skin is rising and infectious, a swelling wave, a fever. He’s holding himself back. He always seems to be holding himself back with you.

“I won’t be yours forever. But I am right now.” You press your lips to his jaw, your fingerprints to the kaleidoscope of bruises on his face. “Take me, all of me, I want you to have it.”

Aegon drags off your jeans agonizingly slowly, mindful of the bandage. He lifts away your oversized T-shirt, your doubts, your pain, your fear of the future. You strip him bare like winter pillages the earth. He is careful not to put any weight on your right thigh. He is tender and whispering, and when his hand slips beneath your blue silk panties you are stunned by how starved you are for him, how desperate, smothering moans against his throat, Aegon swearing that he won’t fuck you until you’ve come first; and then you do, so hard you see pinpoint stars like an unnamed constellation, like the glimmer of the Northern Lights. And then he is inside you, covering you like ivy, growing over you and through you and into dark needful corners that you hadn’t even known were there. He is freeing like an open sky, like the infinite line of the ocean. He is a memory you’ll never be able to mine from your bones.

When you wake in the morning to see white powdery snow falling heavily beyond your bedroom window, Aegon is sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping through an olive green journal. The pages, riddled with spikes and loops of untidy ink, rustle against his calloused fingers.

“He’s funny,” Aegon says. “I don’t know why I didn’t expect that. I should have.”

“Why would you expect it?” Why would you expect anything but ruin, but tragedy?

He smiles. “Because you’re funny too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your parents are in full entertaining guests mode; the kitchen rings out with clangs and thumps as they try out new recipes, cookies and muffins and reindeer chili with green chilies and cheddar cheese. You and Aegon are playing Mouse Trap on the coffee table in the living room, one of practically endless board games your parents kept from your childhood. Intermittently, as commercials appear on the television, Aegon jots down notes on the back of a Taco Bell receipt he found under the couch. Sunfyre alternates between collecting pats from you and Aegon and licking up fallen scraps in the kitchen. He trots around the house buoyantly, tail wagging, eyes bright and twinkling; it’s not often that all of his favorite humans are in the same place. An Oasis album rotates on your dad’s record player. Don’t Look Back In Anger reverberates through the house like a heartbeat.

Aemond is working in the study. You can sometimes hear the low melody of his voice, or the beeping of his BlackBerry, or the jangling of the phone. Each time it goes off, he picks up on the first ring. About once per hour he appears in the living room to switch the tv channel from the X-Files or Buffy to the local news before retreating back into the study. The Ice Fisher’s eighth victim has been officially identified: Nikola Kozlowski, an adjunct professor of Marine Biology at the University of Alaska. She was snatched, strangled, sunk into water too cold for you to imagine. Aemond stares at the television, artificial light dancing on his face.

“Hey, you want to play Don’t Break The Ice?” Aegon says, swigging red wine straight from the bottle.

“That’s in poor taste,” Aemond mutters as he leaves.

Aegon shouts after him: “It was a joke!” He sighs, flips the channel back to the X-Files, observes the commercial with peculiar interest. “You like Chia Pets?” he asks you.

“I don’t know, I’ve never had one.”

“Interesting.” He makes a scribble on the receipt, takes another gulp of wine.

Just before lunch, you and Aegon venture out into the blizzard together to clear a space for Sunfyre to run around in, tilling fluffy mounds of snow until you can no longer feel your cheeks or your noses, catching snowflakes on your tongues, dashing back inside for steaming cups of Earl Grey tea and bowls of reindeer chili.

“Aemond?” your mom calls, knocking timidly on the study door. “Dear, would you like some chili? It’s homemade! It’s a brand new recipe! We have bacon bits!”

Perhaps reluctantly—although he tries to disguise it—Aemond emerges for a lunch break. At the dining room table, he sits next to you instead of Aegon. Your mom attempts to compulsively feed him cornbread muffins; your dad asks him about Targaryen Enterprises. Aemond answers quite a few of the questions, gracefully evades others. He is someone who has a genetic gift for holding cards close to the vest. After a while, Aegon takes his half-empty wine bottle and staggers off. He’s wearing his black crewneck sweatshirt, cuffed jeans, combat boots, and his white-blond hair in a man bun. Aemond palpably disapproves of this.

“That’s a fascinating setup you’ve got there,” your dad tells Aemond, pointing at his sapphire. “I hope I won’t offend you by mentioning it, but I couldn’t let you leave without ever saying how brilliant I think it is. It’s the sort of thing a tech magnate would come up with. Innovative. Futuristic, even. In a humble Alaskan’s terms, it’s really goddamn cool.”

“No offense taken.” No, and in fact, you think Aemond is trying not to let on how pleased he is, how…touched. “I was given something disfiguring and pathetic and made it an asset. Now people look at me with astonishment instead of pity. Tech and finance companies name their products after sapphires, after me. Teenagers dress up as me for Halloween.”

“I bet the women like it too,” your dad notes with a grin.

“Well…” Aemond stirs his chili, avoidant. “I’m a little too busy for women.”

Your dad mumbles, rubbing his forehead: “A sexy genius billionaire…too busy for women…now I’ve heard it all.”

And Aemond smiles, even blushes, dunking a cornbread muffin into his chili. It’s the strangest thing: you don’t suspect that he had any desire at all to eat lunch with your parents, but now he doesn’t seem to want to leave. When Aemond at last returns to the study, Aegon plods down the stairs and throws himself onto the couch, flipping lazily through the television channels. Within two minutes, Aemond bolts into the living room.

“Where’s my Visa?”

“Oh, whoops.” Aegon takes it out of the pocket of his jeans and tosses it to his brother. The credit card sails across the room like a paper airplane. Aemond grabs it off the floor.

“What the hell were you doing with it?”

“Buying thank you gifts to show the Appletinis how appreciative we are for their hospitality.”

“Thank you gifts…?”

“Yeah. A George Foreman Grill, a Rainbow Art set, some Ginsu Knives, a lifetime supply of Zoobooks, a BeDazzler—”

“A what?”

“A BeDazzler,” Aegon repeats impatiently. “It bedazzles things. A Kidz Bop cassette tape, a Betty Crocker Bake n’ Fill, a Chia Pet…five Chia Pets, actually…oh, and a Psychic Reading with Miss Cleo for me. She said I recently received an alarming and unwelcome visitor. Sounds like she really has talent.”

“You’re useless,” Aemond says, glowering at him.

Aegon guzzles his wine. “How’s Mom?”

“Oh, you’re suddenly interested?”

Aegon shrugs, gesturing vaguely with his wine bottle. He’s very drunk. “It’s polite to ask.”

“She’s terrible,” Aemond says. “She misses you, she worries about you, she blames herself for everything. It never gets better. It only gets worse. Every year it gets worse. She wants to make things right. She wants a second chance. We all do. Mom, me, Helaena, Daeron—”

“Dad?” Aegon flings mockingly, like he knows it won’t be true.

Aemond watches his brother for a long time before he answers. “He’s dying.”

The shock hits Aegon’s face, slow but marrow-deep, spreading beneath the surface like dark tendrils of blood poisoning. “He’s…?”

“That’s not public information yet. People will panic…stock prices, you know…but the company is in good hands. The company will still be here in a year. But Dad won’t.”

Aegon shakes his head, not understanding. “What happened?”

“Cancer. Pancreatic, inoperable.”

“Jesus Christ,” Aegon whispers, swigging his wine.

“He wants to see you before it’s too late. He wants to apologize.”

Again, Aegon shakes his head. He stares out the window at the falling snow, at the cold grey sky. “I have nothing to say to him.”

“Aegon, please—”

“He never liked me, and if he thinks he does now it’s only because of the omnipotent, looming threat of the Great Beyond. Me showing up in Miami won’t fix anything. Not for him, and not for anybody else.”

“It will,” Aemond insists.

“Because you’re so happy to see me, right?” Aegon says; and he grins, a horrible, dazed, triumphant, venomous grin. “You’re so proud of the person I’ve become, the person I’ve always been. You’re beaming with it. You’re fucking ecstatic.”

“Stop.”

“Admit it, Aemond. You should have been born first. You should have been the heir. It always should have been you, and now it is. Can’t you just enjoy it? Can’t you just go back to your little conference calls and your conventions and your equity negotiations and leave me alone?”

Aemond’s hand juts out, seizes Aegon by the collar of his sweatshirt, wrenches him to his feet. Sunfyre growls, showing long canine teeth. “Why, so you can destroy yourself in peace?” Aemond seethes. “No, not a chance. You’re not going to be the weight we’re all forced to carry on our backs. You don’t get to become the Targaryen family ghost. You don’t get to haunt us. You’ve already done enough. Do you hear me? You’ve done enough.” He shoves Aegon back onto the couch, storms into the study, slams the door behind him.

Your parents peek skittishly from of the kitchen. “Everything okay out there?” your dad says.

“Yeah,” Aegon slings back. He drains the last of his wine, takes your hand, presses his still-healing lips to your knuckles. His face is a wasteland, miles away, years away. Sunfyre, whimpering, rests his head in his lap.

“Aegon,” you begin, laying your palm against his cheek. I would do anything to help you, to fix you. What can I do? What can any of us do?

“I’m not going back.” He gazes out the window, cold grey void filling up his eyes. “I’m never going back.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The days are seasons: silent colorless mornings, snow-glare afternoons, violet dusk peppered with star-fire, nights as black as volcanic glass. Rumbling, monstrous plows pass by on the street outside. Trucks and SUVs begin revving back to life, exhaust fumes melting icicles that hang like fangs. The long hours that Aemond spends in the study yield no revelations that you can see. He is courteous to your parents, jarringly so. Before he leaves, he places an envelope on their dining room table. You open it while he and Aegon are loading their luggage into your Jeep.

“Don’t bang my suitcase around,” you can hear Aemond commanding, muffled through the house’s frosted windows. “Hey, what did I say—?!”

Inside the envelope is a handwritten note and a check for ten thousand dollars. The note reads:

Thank you so very much for your remarkable warmth and hospitality. You have a beautiful home, and an even more beautiful family. Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you ever require anything. In Targaryen Enterprises, you have a friend for life.

Yours most sincerely, Aemond

P.S. I apologize about my delinquent brother. I am indescribably mortified by his conduct.

P.P.S. Your daughter is far too good for him.

Once back in his apartment, Aegon sets a pot on the stove. He gets two mugs out of the cabinet—the large blue mug for you, the green mug with tiny gold stars for him—and dusts a kiss across your cheekbone, one of his swift weightless kisses, the kind that feels routine and limitless, like he’ll be doing it for the rest of his life. Sunfyre frolics around you both, panting happily, accepting ear scratches and high-pitched praises.

Aemond goes immediately to the television. He turns it on, flips through the channels, finds the local news. There is a flurry of words you can’t get a grip on right away: breaking news, the Juneau Police Department, the Ice Fisher, suspect in custody.

What appears in the little black box doesn’t make any sense. There are random, disconnected fragments—flashing blue and red lights reflecting off fresh snow, Trent’s apartment, officers in uniform, florescent yellow crime scene tape, Trent being led to a police car in handcuffs—and then they all come together in a boom like thunder. And then all the pieces fall into place.

“I made a call reporting Trent for suspicious behavior,” Aemond explains calmly. “I got a judge to issue a search warrant. They went into his apartment with dogs and UV lights and found hiking boots with blood on them. A lot of blood. Human blood.”

Trent?

“And not just boots. There are trekking poles too, and snowshoes, and chisels, and fishing lines, things that match evidence left in the areas where the bodies were discovered. All with blood on them.”

TRENT?

“They’re waiting for lab results to confirm that the blood matches one or more of the victims’ DNA, but I’m confident they’ll find what they’re looking for. He’s their killer, the worst one Juneau has ever seen. He’s not a mystery, and he’s not a legend. He’s just a man.”

You and Aegon are staring at the television, horrified, hypnotized; you can’t look away. Your heart is racing. You’ve forgotten how to breathe. Your pulse is a deafening roar in your ears, a storm over the ocean, crashing waves and winds that capsize ships. Trent’s face isn’t colored with rage, audacity, remorse. When he flips his long hair out of his eyes, he looks bewildered. He wears the blank, fumbling confusion of a child.

It can’t be Trent, can it? Can it?

“No more excuses. No more delays.” Aemond turns to his brother. His pale eye is savage and determined. His sapphire glints like a blade. “It’s time to go home.”

#Aegon Targaryen #Aegon II Targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #Aegon Targaryen II x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #nttf #north to the future

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brainyrot · 20 days

Note

The people of IM Universe (those you remember) going to BATIM in full detail! Or the dog gets it 🐶 🤺/j

"the..hell?.." ink dripping from the walls, yellow everywhere, posters about people he seems to know but..not quite.

it's a studio, he thinks, maybe he's just dreaming. Or he's drunk, that's also an option, but he doesn't remember neither drinking nor going to sleep.

as he gets up, he touches his face, realizing he has a crack. "Ugh.." what a pain. "Mugman?" He asks, quietly, who knows who or what's in here.

but now that he gets a full view of things, this is weird.

There's posters of..Boris. of..Alice? Of bendy? Portraying different adventures, like some kind of tv show or cartoon. But neither of them had a history of..being in any kind of stuff like that.

"what the cuss is this.." he whispers to himself, already thinking of shooting in the face the first thing he sees moving, but it's so dead in here the only noises you can hear is his own breathing.

the more he wanders in, the more it gets freaky. There's various desks of what seems to be animator's desks, doodles of bendy, of his own best friend? Who is the freak drawing bendy so much?

there's studies of bendy, animations..or.. recordings. He can't tell, there's even stuff written on the walls. This is just creepy.

"he lied to us"

"dreams come true"

"beware the ink demon"

There's a demon here now? Just GREAT. just what he NEEDED. And by the name he's..an ink demon. Frankly he never saw one, nor heard of one. He assumes it's some subspecies of a water demon, or something like that.

..so the ink all over the place is from that demon guy, huh? Okay..

the door is shut, he can't go back out, so the only other solutions aside from standing in one place until he rots and dies, is keep walking and (hopefully) find another way out.

the posters just keep appearing on the walls, even cutouts now are around which makes things even more..weird. it's all about cussing bendy. Why is it all about bendy? Are they some worshipping demon cult? And the demon they are worshipping is bendy? That's just..weird. eugh. He never understood these kind of people.

but it would also explain the "ink demon" deal. But then, why "beware"? Bendy is anything but dangerous or something to be cautious of.

but the more he looks around the more disgusted he gets. It smells like rotten corpses in here, and he doesn't know why since the only thing here is ink.

maybe the ink were all victims of the ink illness..but it doesn't explain the smell..no one ever smelled like an actual corpse after melting. Rather, it smelled like ink, and that's it. That's why it was so horrifying to look at.

It's ink.

There's no trace of the person left anymore.

oh but Boris' corpse cut open on the table can explain the smell more than the ink.

"wh- BORIS!" The cup shouts, horror in his eyes and air leaving his lungs.

What the hell happened here?! who did this?! Why is Boris here..cut open with..

The dark.. puddles... awaken.."

Okay this is bad. REALLY BAD. The kid didn't deserve it, and now- there's a possible threat around.

if-

..if this happened to boris- then- then what about mugman? If they even dared to lay a finger on him, he'll blow this place up.

finger up, bullet ready.

But no one is there.

breathing, not his own.

faint laugh, not his.

ink.. coming..out of the walls?

there's surely a demon here, and..and no.

No it couldn't be the demon. it just can't be. The demon would have been way too brutal, maybe someone that works for the demon? A debtor?

where the hell did he end up to? Where the hell did they get Boris?! who did this?!

how is he gonna explain this to bendy?! He can't deal with something like this! Not right now! Not- ever.

"-HEAD?! CUPHEAD?" mugman.

MUGMAN! "MUGS!" oh stars. Is he here too?!

"MUGS WHERE ARE YOU?! ARE YOU HURT?!"

Run. Run as fast as you can.

"uh- NO! but..you gotta see this.." see what?

"..wh-"

"I think we found..the ink machine."

A voice. A soul. The ink speaks to me.

It tells me your secrets.

#so...#i may kr may not #started #a fic.#from an ask.#oh I'll definitely continue this #it's nust taht it's 4am #so #that's all you get for now 😈#bendy and boris in the inky mystery #babtqftim #bendy and boris the quest for the ink machine #batim #batdr #bendy and the dark revival #bendy and the ink machine #answer #answers #batim fanfiction

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fizzypopsoda-comics · 7 months

Text

Here's my entry for "The Missing Co-workers" Event by @springbon-t-art! My Cuphead Oc, Elliot, AKA Employee #193, is one of the many new employees to work here in the office. She's very anxious when it comes to working at a new place like this, especially with how big it is, but she makes sure to follow the dress code and do whatever assignments that's given to her by the other coworkers. One day, when she found that she was the only known employee here with none of the other coworkers to be found, Elliot started becoming more and more nervous, and began sweating a lot. Eventually, she notices her ink sweat was dripping all over the place and staining everything it touches, and so she found an empty bucket lying around to bring along with her to keep her ink from dripping everywhere. But as time goes by, her ink sweat started nearly filling up her bucket, and out of pure Toon Logic, has given her bucket pure sentients. Although surprised, Elliot was also relieved that she had a little companion with her to cope with her loneliness it this empty office. And so now, out of worry and desperation, Elliot, along with her little Ink Bucket friend, has set off to search for her fellow missing co-workers to find out where everyone has disappeared to!

In case you couldn't tell, my favorite ending is The Confusion Ending! From the many endings that I've seen or know about, this one I really enjoy, I just really enjoyed how we, as well as the Narrator, ended up lost from the story, and so we end up venturing together to find it and continuously getting lost as a result. The whole Adventure Line was so all over the place with this fun music playing in the background, I just can't help but had fun with it! Thought I give a little background info into how Elliot found herself in this predicament, I hope you like it! ^^

#fizzypopsoda comics #springbon t art #the stanley parable #the missing coworkers #cuphead ocs #my ocs #my art #Elliot

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theladyofbloodshed · 8 months

Text

The final part of the Neris fake dating AU :-)

Her paleness continued throughout the waning morning. The getaway headache didn’t need to be feigned because it felt as if a sledgehammer had been smashing into her temple since she started the drive home from their busy morning. At one point, Nesta pulled over near a sheer drop to hurl up her brunch while her sisters gripped the seats, hoping the car wouldn’t roll over the edge as she retched.

Feyre and Elain practically chased Nesta up to her room; the latter believing she had sun stroke. They promised to check on her later on. As the door closed, she heard Elain’s mumblings that she hoped Nesta wouldn’t be unwell for the wedding.

With the air conditioning churning out as much frigid air as possible, Nesta sprawled out on the bed, hoping a few hours sleep would chase away the hangover from hell.

Thankfully, it did.

In the late afternoon, Nesta wasn’t back up to one hundred percent but the thought of food didn’t leave her completely nauseous either.

Most of the small wedding party was to be found at the poolside. The sight of Cassian dripping wet with gleaming muscles and rugged tattoos would have once stirred something in Nesta. Now, she wrinkled up her nose at his cheap, cliched inking and wondered how many hours he spent grunting and sweating in the mirror to achieve his physique.

Rather than join the unwanted extension to the family by the pool, Nesta made a beeline for Feyre who was some distance away in the shade with Nyx to keep him out of the sun.

‘How is your heat stroke?’

The sarcasm dripped from Feyre’s tone.

‘Much better. I need something full of ice and sugar. Can I get you two anything?’

Feyre perked up at that. ‘A babysitter would be delightful.’

She couldn’t help the snort that came out. Her sister never did struggle to palm her child off on others. ‘Does the child have no father?’

Rhysand was also preening by the pool – no dad bod in sight. He basked in the attention of roving eyes.

‘We haven’t had a holiday in ages. Please, Nesta.’

She picked up the squirming Nyx to blow a kiss on his bare belly. ‘It’s a good job that I like you.’

They spent a nice hour together dipping between the shade and the shallow baby pool. Although children were tiring and Nesta had given up a lot of her youth to taking care of her sisters, there was still a yearning in her chest for one she could call her own. She wanted to be called mama. Wanted somebody to need her as much as she needed them. Nyx lay on the blanket beside her, tugging a thin, cotton blanket over his eyes and giggling each time she yanked it off.

‘You’re a natural, Nes.’

‘Not you,’ she said with a drawn-out groan.

Uninvited, Cassian sat at the bottom of the blanket. Nyx waddled over to his outstretched arms as he babbled.

‘Traitor,’ muttered Nesta.

‘Can’t help it if everybody loves me, Nes.’

‘Debatable.’

Cassian flashed a broad grin then sprawled out on the blanket.

‘You should come and join us.’

Nesta gave him a saccharine smile. ‘I’m afraid I might drown you which would put a damper on my little sister’s big day although I think I would be doing everybody a favour.’

His large, tan hand reached to rub along her calf, but she drew it away from him with a scowl.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

He pushed himself up onto his elbows. ‘I miss you. Everywhere I look, couples are in love and it’s got me thinking about us.’

She pressed her fingers against her temples, fighting against the wave of anger blighting her vision. ‘There is no us. I hate that there ever was an us. I’m sure Morrigan is available for a quick leg over.’

Dark hair was shaken from his face. ‘Nesta, look. It’s a wedding. We’re both in the wedding party. It could just be casual while we’re here.’

The audacity of this man. No, she did not want a relationship – and no, she definitely did not want to hook up with him ever again.

‘I’ll be sure to tell my boyfriend that I’ll be having a casual fling with my ex while we’re here.’

Cassian narrowed his hazel eyes at her then tilted his head like a predator sizing up its prey. His lips pursed, about to pass a comment when Elain, mercifully, joined them. A bright smile lightened her face.

‘Lucien has returned from a day spent gallivanting with his family. We’re going to grab an early dinner if any of you would like to come.’

‘Maybe Nesta and her imaginary boyfriend would enjoy it.’

Elain turned her head sharply in her direction. ‘What’s this?’

‘Yes. My imaginary boyfriend.’ Nesta rolled her eyes.

‘Well, who is he?’

Elain sat forwards on her knees. ‘You have a boyfriend? Why didn’t you say anything?’

Just then, she spotted the vivid, red hair of Eris. He looked as worse for wear as she felt, thankfully. The thin, white shirt he wore was rumpled as badly as his hair and she wondered whether his sunglasses were more to hide his own hangover than to fend off the sun.

She said a quick prayer to anybody who was listening that Eris would play the game rather than leaving her with egg on her face.

Nesta waved a hand, catching his attention then beckoned him over.

He murmured something to his father and – for a split second – there was a sinking feeling in her gut that she would be the butt of his joke too, but then Eris diverted from the path and took a slow, confident walk their way. It brought her an immeasurable amount of joy to see Cassian noticeably stiffen at his approach.

A lie hadn’t been able to formulate quick enough on her tongue. Elain greeted him jovially while Cassian outright ignored him. Nesta fumbled with her tongue, trying to concoct something quickly that was convincing enough to pull the wool over their eyes, but not complex enough to confuse Eris about why she’d called him over. At the moment, her brain felt like cotton wool that ideas couldn’t formulate upon.

‘May I steal your lovely sister, Elain? Top secret wedding plans,’ came Eris’ deep, smooth voice.

Elain, who had always loved surprises, made an excited squeal and nodded vigorously. His long, pale fingers were extended to Nesta. She wasted no time and clasped her fingers around the hand reaching out for her.

They said nothing until they were out of earshot from the others. Eris nudged her. ‘I can recognise a damsel in distress when I see one. Are you okay?’

Nesta let out a sigh. ‘Yes. Cassian being his usual delightful self. And now we need to think of a surprise for the happy couple.’

When they rounded the corner, Eris led the way inside the hotel. Only when the elevator doors closed, locking them into mirrored lift, did Eris let out a long groan. His shoulders slumped as he collapsed against the wall.

‘Please tell me you feel as shit as me. I have never been hungover like this in my life.’

Nesta raised the sunglasses from his nose. He appeared as if he’d smeared ash beneath his eyes.

‘How do you look like a supermodel and I look like I’ve crawled out of a gutter.’

Supermodel? She liked him.

‘I did spend the morning throwing up my breakfast, but I’ve had the luxury of taking a nap rather than sight seeing with mama and papa.’

The elevator pinged and Eris gestured for Nesta to lead the way. She wasn’t entirely sure where they were going. Not to his room again. That had been a mistake. Hadn’t it? She still hadn’t decided. Despite her head warring with itself, her feet were leading them down the tiled corridor towards her room anyway.

‘Nesta, I think I need to vomit in your toilet.’

She grimaced whilst unlocking the door. ‘A very interesting way to gain access to my bedroom – but effective nonetheless.’

Eris murmured in agreement beside her, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow while his lips were pressed firmly together. He wasted no time in jostling past her to reach the bathroom and – rather than hear him retching – she headed out onto the balcony. The sounds of laughter and music from the pool below were preferable to his vomit hitting the toilet bowl, poor thing.

A broken man joined her a short while later, shaking his head. ‘I have never had a hangover like this.’

‘Then I regret to inform you that you have a storm coming your way too.’

Eris glanced at the balcony then Nesta, perhaps debating his chances on survival if he jumped. Unlikely on the sixth floor.

She brandished her phone at him, only realising afterwards that maybe it wasn’t the wisest decision to show him her naked body sprawled and spread open again.

‘Do you want to watch it together or something?’

‘Watch it? No, Eris. I would like to know why I have a video of you having sex with me on my phone.’

This bastard had the audacity to grin at her.

‘You were very insistent we film it.’

She sucked in her gasp. ‘I would never-‘

‘That was your favourite phrase last night too,’ he continued. He shucked back his head with a laugh then carried on, in a poor imitation of her voice, ‘I never have one-night stands. I never do this on first dates. I would never let a man-’

‘Enough.’

Heat crawled up her neck. It was unwanted evidence testifying to her embarrassment of whatever had unfurled between her and Eris the previous night. She stormed inside, emotions grappling to seize control of her. Eris’ slow, sure steps followed a moment later and he took a seat on the edge of the bed.

‘I promise you, Nesta, that you have the only copy of what we did. I will not speak a word of it – on my honour as a Vanserra.’

She scrubbed her face with her hands then reluctantly sat beside him. ‘I am mortified.’

His voice carried the softness of the first days of spring. ‘Why? We had fun. We’re single. We used protection if that’s what you’re worried about. You can’t remember any of it?’

There were flashes of memory that had come to her throughout the day. Her bare back pinned against a wall with her thighs wrapped around Eris’ waist. The hot press of his tongue as he went down on her. Using the mirrored wardrobe to full effect.

‘I’m not like that,’ she murmured.

An entire high school being called a prude because she refused to date any of the braindead boys it had to offer. Her reluctance to even date in college because her education was the priority, balanced with working to claw as much money as she could. Even now when she had the time to date, Nesta could come up with a list of excuses not to, and a longer list to turn down every date who managed to get close enough.

‘I don’t have one-night stands.’

‘Well,’ said Eris before taking in a breath and leaning back on his elbows. ‘Why does it have to be a one-night stand?’

Her gaze snagged his. She’d never met anybody with eyes like his. They reminded her of the autumn sun filtering through trees.

‘Because you’re…’

‘Irresistibly handsome? Intimidatingly intelligent?’

‘We both have busy jobs.’

‘By choice,’ he countered. ‘I can easily drop hours – and so can you.’

She exhaled through her nose. ‘Okay, but it would be weird for Lucien and Elain.’

‘No, it wouldn’t. I see Lucien twice a year and I would wager you see Elain only a little bit more.’

Damn this man. Nesta threw up her hands. ‘You have about nineteen dogs.’

‘Twelve – who are all very well trained and I’d even get a cat because I have a feeling you’re a cat person.’

Nesta was, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. All of her usual rebuttals weren’t able to be thrown his way. He had a job. Yes, he did technically live at home but he had his own annexe away from his family. He had savings. He had no baggage – no ex-wife or children for her to play wicked step-mother to. He had never been to jail, didn’t smoke, didn’t have tattoos. She was running out of reasons to say no.

Eris trailed a finger down her bare arm towards her elbow in a deliberately slow movement. ‘I thought you wanted a fake date for your sister’s wedding?’

The sensation of his skin on hers again elicited a shiver of pleasure. ‘I can manage a fake date.’

‘Is that what you would like me to do?’ Eris had sat back up and his arm curled around her back, drawing her closer. ‘Do we just tack “fake” in front of it and pretend none of this is real?’

‘None of what?’ she lied.

‘This,’ he murmured.

His fingers drifted down her spine. It made her eyes shutter close.

Flashes of last night came to her – not just the passion, but the softness too. The pair of them giggling when Eris’ knee slipped off the bed, taking the rest of him down to the floor. The way he held her after she came, kissing her forehead and calling her beautiful. How he had stroked her hair as they were drifting off to sleep.

Eris moved forwards, lips parting slightly.

Nesta intercepted him with a finger. ‘I don’t care how handsome you are. Half an hour ago, you were throwing up in my toilet. Not a chance.’

***

After a couple of hours holed up in the bedroom – not repeating the previous night – Nesta’s stomach gave a loud grumble. Eris, in his swift thinking, had come up with a surprise for the bride and groom. They’d assemble a photo montage of the happy couple throughout the years to play over his speech. He was digitally savvy so could access every photo ever taken via an online portal whilst Nesta was a digital hoarder who carried her hard drive with her everywhere. They’d scoured their memories, pausing occasionally to show each other pictures of themselves in their younger days. There was one of Nesta taken at a ballet recital. Neither parent could attend so another girl’s mother had taken pity on Nesta and taken her photo too. There was one of Eris holding baby Lucien. His beautiful red hair had been massacred by a buzzcut and he looked less than impressed with his younger brother’s arrival. Another had Eris brandishing a puppy at the lens while Lucien stood next to him, sucking a thumb.

‘Both my sisters married off,’ she lamented.

‘And you’re left to be a lonely, old spinster,’ he said, patting her hand.

‘I will have you know that Cassian has offered to be my fling this weekend. No strings attached, lucky me.’

That did make Eris laugh then he pretended to retch. He had offered to be her fake date retrospectively, so perhaps it was time for the truth. Nesta closed her laptop then turned to face him.

‘Eris,’ she started.

‘Nesta,’ he said, offering a smile.

‘I may have told Cassian that I didn’t need his offer because I was here with my boyfriend.’

His brows raised. ‘More than a fake date, a fake boyfriend. I’m honoured.’

‘But,’ she continued, pressing her fingers into his chest. ‘Feyre heard us last night. Or, you and the floozy you were with. So, if you have any quick-talking plans to get us out of this trap, I am all ears.’

Painfully slowly, Eris shut his own laptop as his mind ticked away. He stared at nothing in particular, but Nesta could already tell a plan was formulating in his mind.

‘I can think of a few options. The first is that I was with a “floozy” and cheated on you – or that we aren’t serious or have an open relationship.’

She wrinkled up her nose. ‘Really? The first night of vacation and you’re already in someone else’s arms? Do you want Cassian to punch you?’

Her body slipped down the pillows, stomach emitting another rumble of hunger.

‘Or, we own it. Yes, we had incredible sex all night. Your sister has a child. I’m sure she understands how they’re made.’

‘But,’ Nesta said, but her own protest couldn’t formulate on her tongue. What was it that was holding her back? That people would know she was having sex? That Cassian would know?

‘Let’s get dinner. If your stomach keeps making that noise, I’m worried for my own safety.’

How could Eris be so collected about this? Men never had to shoulder the same burdens as women when it came to these matters. Where Eris would be applauded, Nesta would meet whispers and raised brows.

Their dinner was relatively pain free. Neither of them exhibited any sort of physical affection in the hotel’s restaurant, but their conversation surged with an electricity Nesta had not encountered before. Eris met her every step of the way intellectually. He showed photos from his day sight seeing and they discussed the history of the island, mythologies, then the conversation took them to architecture and economics. Not once did she feel like she needed to dumb herself down or hold back, and Eris never needed to explain concepts to her delicate, little mind. It was wonderful.

When Nesta went to grab her second pudding from the buffet, a formidable figure tailed her to the table. Cassian invited himself to the table. The wooden legs of the chair scraped noisily on the tiled floor as he drew out the chair to sit on. Eris regarded him with cool contempt.

‘We meet again.’

‘How’s your surprise for Lucien and Elain going?’

Nesta tamped down on the fury that he’d insert himself here just to irritate her.

‘You’ll see it tomorrow,’ continued Eris, voice not wavering from the utterly bored tone it exuded.

Cassian made a show of looking around the room like it was a pantomime. ‘Where’s your imaginary boyfriend, Nes?’

Beside her, Eris gasped. ‘You have an imaginary boyfriend?’

Nesta gave a bland smile. ‘Apparently so.’

Her silver eyes turned to Cassian like a cat bearing down on a mouse. ‘He’s sat here with me, can’t you see him?’

Somebody called his name. Nesta caught sight of Azriel striding through the doors, Mor at his heels followed by Rhysand. She couldn’t imagine herself being part of that group. She hadn’t really been back then either. Nesta had tried to take on their hobbies and hated every minute of it. She would count down the hours until she could go home and be herself again. The rare times that she did show herself, Mor would ask what her problem was and why a stick was jammed up her ass because she didn’t want to do shots with dinner.

Cassian did not say a farewell – nor did he tuck the chair back under the table – when he departed.

‘Maybe we’re in the Sixth Sense. Only you can see me.’

‘You’re pale enough to be a ghost,’ she said softly before digging into her green jelly.

Eris touched the spot over his heart, gasping slightly. ‘I’m ginger. I will burn if I go out there.’

Despite spending nearly half of the day with her, Eris was still not tired of Nesta’s company. He made her feel as if she was good enough exactly as she was. They took a stroll along the beach as the sun began its descent, with Nesta teasing it was the only time Eris could go out in the daylight hours without turning into a tomato. When he snaked his fingers into hers on the walk back, Nesta made no noise of protest. In fact, it was rather lovely.

As the hotel came into view, tension clawed up her spine and had her releasing Eris’ hand before she could question why. There was no reason to stop her from holding his hand. No reason except the confounded emphasis she put on others’ opinion of her. Nobody here mattered except for Elain, Feyre, and Nyx. Well, maybe Lucien a little bit. If they cared who she held hands with then maybe they didn’t have her best interests at heart because these hours with Eris had been easy. And that was how it was supposed to be, wasn’t it?

Against her mind who told her it was a bad idea from the start, Nesta’s heart took over. She reached for the hand hanging limply at Eris’ side. Surprise had his shoulders straightening then he squeezed her fingers.

‘I am just an imaginary boyfriend escorting his not-one-night-stand back to her sisters.’

‘You are more than that,’ she replied.

‘Am I?’

‘A dog dad too whose entire phone memory is consumed by photos of them.’

That made him smile. It stretched across his cheeks, brightening his amber eyes. He brought her fingers to his lips to kiss them.

***

That night, her room was invaded by Feyre and Elain except the former checked her phone constantly for messages from her beloved and the latter had a head filled with Lucien. Nesta could not complain too much. Her own heart was fluttering with thoughts about a different Vanserra and she couldn’t help but divert questions towards him while Elain babbled about the family she was marrying into. So far, she had discovered very little that was unpleasant about Eris. He seemed to have no skeletons in his closet – none that Elain spoke of anyway. By all accounts, he could be aloof and impersonal, but not a bad person. One committed to his work and ambition.

‘Lucien says he’s his mother’s favourite but Eris’ is his father’s. I feel sorry for the other brothers.’

‘Parents shouldn’t have favourites,’ replied Feyre, the curtness in her voice sharp enough to cut.

Easy to say when they’d watched Elain doted and adored by their father for years after their mother died. His beautiful brown-eyed girl, he used to say.

Oblivious, Elain went on. ‘We had a family dinner once. Lucien said they never happen because his parents despise each other but her family don’t approve of divorce, it would cause a scandal in their social circle, and he won’t let her take his money. Lucien thinks his parents have both had affairs too.’

Nesta’s grey eyes flickered over to the bottle of wine in Elain’s hands. It had been drained a lot quicker than Feyre’s. To protect her younger sister from a hangover on her wedding day, she gently prised the bottle from her hand then traded it for water and snacks from the minibar.

Eventually, Feyre returned to her room when the pull of Rhysand became too strong then Elain settled into Nesta’s bed for the night. Wrapped up in excitement for a lifetime of love, sleep found her sister easily. She pulled the thin sheet around Elain, turned the air conditioning down, then lay on the lounger out on the balcony. After spending time with others, Nesta had always needed to decompress. It was still warm despite the darkness. The moon hung like a pearl in the sky, scattering silver light onto the black waves. Distantly, she could make out the sounds of crickets chirping near the dunes.

With another glance over her shoulder that Elain was fast asleep and not peering over her shoulder, Nesta turned down the volume on her phone and trawled back through her gallery. The intention had been to watch the video for a few seconds then delete it, but once she had pressed play, Nesta found herself unable to stop watching. She hadn’t realised she was that flexible.

One watch through was enough. It didn’t leave her curling with embarrassment as she expected, but as she clicked the delete button, a sudden jolt of sadness rocked her. She supposed she had thirty days to retrieve it from the recycling bin. Or, a voice which sounded a lot like Eris’ said, they could always film more.

***

When Elain turned to her that morning, veil peeled back so Nesta could see her beautiful face, she had to force down a sob. Nesta wasn’t her mother, but she had done her part in raising her. Her gorgeous, little sister was now a bride.

‘You look stunning,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes.

Elain fanned her face. ‘Please don’t set me off crying again, Nesta.’

It only happened three times that morning: as soon as Elain had woken up, when Feyre had arrived with the flowers, and then when she’d shown her a picture of Nyx already in a darling waistcoat with a bowtie.

‘This is why I eloped,’ said Feyre with a sharp-toothed grin from the vanity.

Nesta held back her comments. They married quickly so Feyre didn’t have time to consider it properly or to run away from her prick of a husband.

‘It will be you next, Nesta.’

The confidence in Elain’s voice was admirable. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. While they continued with the finishing touches on their hair and makeup, Nesta did find herself daydreaming about her own nuptials one day. Not a beach wedding like Elain – if she ever had to see sand again, she’d scream. Destination weddings were ruled out largely too because Nesta spent enough time travelling on planes to every corner of the country. A small voice whispered that Eris would probably want his dogs at the wedding. She felt herself blushing at her own thoughts. Why the hell was she thinking about what Eris would want at a wedding?

Elain had both of her sisters walk her down the aisle, declaring she wouldn’t be where she is now without them. The wedding went off without a hitch. Despite the sand. Despite the heat. Everything was beautiful for the newlyweds.

She did spare some sympathy for the pale-skinned, red-haired Vanserras who would burn if exposed to the sunlight for too long. Seemingly catching her thought process, Eris threw her a grin.

When it came to photographs, it was no surprise when the tallest siblings were paired together. Eris’ hand slid around her hip as they stood sidelong besides Lucien and Elain, with Feyre and Rhysand the other side of them.

‘I am so sorry,’ murmured Nesta. ‘I have not stopped sweating since we woke up.’

‘Heat or nerves?’

They flashed bright smiles for the camera.

‘Both.’

Another few rounds of dazzling camera lights fizzing at them coupled with the sun overhead had Nesta fanning her face during the respite. Eris slid over to her.

‘If you can handle smelling like me and the fact it’s been smeared all over my armpits,’ he said, ‘here.’

From his pocket, he produced a roll-on deodorant. And Nesta had never been so thankful for deodorant in her life. Using Eris as a shield, Nesta smeared her sweaty pits with a cool kick fragrance, whatever that was then stood with her hands on her hips to let it dry. This should have been awkward. A man offering her deodorant shouldn’t have had her breathing a sigh of relief or feeling glad that he was around. Yet, Nesta found it easy to be around Eris. Even from the first day that they’d met when she had sprinted into his house to escape Cassian and the dogs, it had been easy between them.

The venue for their reception was small, intimate and blessedly air conditioned.

Nesta had already done her duty at the engagement party so she could sit back and listen to the speeches after their meal. Maybe she was biased, but Eris’ had been the best. It was quick and clever, set to the backdrop of their photo presentation down memory lane – which he gave her a heaping of praise for to the crowd. Elain clutched her hand, tears steadily falling as she watched and listened. They did a good job with the hurried surprise.

Once the first dances were done and more feet descended upon the dance floor, Eris glanced at her. Her lips twitched in response. It took only heartbeats for him to rise and extend a hand once more to her.

‘You cannot look at me like that and expect me not to sweep you off your feet.’

‘Am I at risk of being swept off my feet?’

Her fingers curled around his palm as she stood, hands fitting together perfectly. Her chest brushed his sending a pulse of need through her body. It was not the same need that had made her shed her clothes and loosen her inhibitions. This need started off slow, unfurling like the petals of a flower as the sun rises. She wanted to be held by Eris, wanted to spend an evening at his side.

‘Definitely. Your imaginary boyfriend is an impeccable dancer.’

And that he was.

A band had been hired which suited Lucien and Elain’s tastes perfectly. They were a folky group, singing their favourite songs, and some of which Nesta actually knew.

Eris spun her once, twice, three times, then she was in his arms. Her own looped around his neck. The heat of his palms brushed against her spine. For once, Nesta was not aware of who was watching or what they’d think. The thought never even crossed her mind because there was only him.

‘I never went to prom,’ she murmured. ‘This is like one of those moments, isn’t it?’

The band played a song she knew from a film. It was slow and tugged at her heartstrings.

Eris gave her another coy smile. ‘I never went either. I had a national debate competition in the morning.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘Because you already know me. Just as I felt like I already knew you the first time we met. Because we’re the same. We’re twin flames.’

‘Oh.’

She had whispered it, voice tender and fragile.

‘Eris.’

He tipped his face closer to hers so she could feel his breath on her skin, feel the thrumming of his heart against her own chest.

Nesta whispered, ‘I think I am being swept off my feet.’

His hands clamped to her lower back as he lifted her and took a slow spin on the spot, while her own arms remained locked around his neck. Her smile was real. It refused to go even when Nesta wanted to banish it.

‘Well and truly swept?’

‘Well and truly swept,’ she agreed.

His lips brushed against the delicate shell of her ear and she was nearly brought to her knees from the tenderness of it. ‘Not bad for an imaginary boyfriend.’

Nesta kissed his cheek. Her lips brushed against his hard, elegant cheekbones. ‘This is the best fake date I’ve ever had.’

#neris

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artypartyartparade · 4 months

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Yay, after listening to the nowhere king on repeat I came out with a Golden freddy design for my FNAF Au (still trying to figure out a name-) His soul purpose? He wants to make Springtrap’s life a LIVING. HELL. His body is decayed and dripping with dark ink, which leaves a trail everywhere he goes. Also Made him have a scythe to reference to the grim reaper. He wants Springtrap to know that he is going to bring Suffering, pain, agony And won’t have remorse. I like the idea of his Scythe dragging on the ground where he goes, and it gets closer, and closer and you can hear the scraping sound of the metal against the ground. Lets just say, hes kinda crazy 💕

ALSO, FEEL FREE TO ASK ANY QUESTIONS ABOUT MY AU! <33

#artists on tumblr #artwork #digital art #sketch #art #fnaf #fnaf fandom #my art #idk #Au #golden freddy #au design #fnaf au

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pengychan · 3 months

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[Baldur's Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 1

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur's Gate. Some inside help from 'the devil they know' would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

Do I want to see Karlach free at last? Yes. Do I want Wyll to be free from his pact? Also yes. But do I want to put Raphael through Some Shit? Absolutely. That's it, really, that's my recipe here.

***

Much like Hell itself, Raphael had rules and principles. Although he had long since memorized all of them, he still had them all carefully written down in a book he always kept at hand. They added up to precisely six-hundred and sixty-six paragraphs; some may find it a bit on the nose, but he always thought it fitting. It kept to the hellish theme, and he always found having a theme to be extremely important. Almost as important as keeping to the rules of the game.

And the first rule of that game was written large enough to take up the entire page, in red ink, underlined several times for good measure.

DO NOT LET MEPHISTOPHELES CATCH YOU.

But archdevil Mephistopheles had him, and was not letting go. How he got to him was a question he could not answer; last thing Raphael recalled was being felled in his own home by those treacherous, double-crossing vermin, wielding the hammer he’d taken such pains to craft and which he’d offered them at a more than fair price. He’d blacked out, felt his life slipping away… and then he’d opened his eyes again in the grip of Mephistopheles, who was none too pleased to see him.

“Did you think I would not see? Did you think I would not know what you were trying to do?”

The voice came from around him, within him, everywhere, the rumbling of a volcano and the howling of the icy winds of Cania. Dangling helplessly from the archdevil’s grip, blood blinding him and choking him and dripping from more wounds to count, Raphael had a distinct feeling he wouldn't recover from that slip up. But he could yet try, he had to: this was not supposed to be his final act. So he coughed up the blood clogging his throat, and tried to speak. His voice came out hoarser than he’d have liked, but it would have to do.

“My liege Lor--”

The grip around his leg tightened, and words turned into a wordless scream as broken shards of bone shrieked against one another. Raphael convulsed, choking and screaming, wings beating uselessly - or trying to, with one wing barely hanging onto his body through scraps of muscle. Then Mephistopheles reached up, and tore it off entirely himself. Steaming blood rushed forth, and Raphael screamed again.

“My Lord--” he managed, but more steaming blood was filling his mouth, and he could only cough, shattered ribs turning his coughs into a symphony of pain.

“Your liege lord, yes. Yet you’d try to take the Crown for yourself, and use it against me.”

“I would have-- gifted it to you--”

A roar, and Raphael knew the lie had been a mistake.

“You think you can lie to me? To the father of lies?”

The grip around his mangled leg was gone and he fell, down toward Mephistopheles' maw, towards teeth as long as his arm and made to crush, to annihilate. He tried to slow his fall, to teleport somewhere else - anywhere else - but his powers eluded him, and the only thing to stop his fall was Mephistopheles himself. With a laugh, he caught him with a hand around the waist mere inches from his teeth. He clenched his fist, snapping his spine and crushing something that may have been vital, once, when it was working. Raphael could barely let out a strangled noise.

“I will devour you, and you deserve nothing less. But I will not make it this quick, for your treachery and for the shame you brought to my court. My blood, bested by mortals!”

Raphael instinctively grasped the hand clenched around him; his claws wouldn't even break his sire’s skin. He still tried to pry that grip open, blinking blood away to meet the rubies of malice that were Mephistopheles’ eyes.

“Father,” he choked out. “Please.”

A laugh, low and rumbling. “How he begs, the halfbreed. Sweeter words than any of the tripe you ever uttered. Let me hear more,” he said, and tore off the other wing.

***

“You know, love, just once I’d like to see you not stopping to read every single book we find in every single crate abandoned in the middle of the woods. Or… to open every single crate we find abandoned in caves in the middle of the woods, come to think of it. All these crates have no business being in caves in the middle of the woods. That’s how a mimic is going to get you someday.”

Astarion’s long-suffering sigh made Durge - a silly placeholder name Gale had come up with in jest at the campfire a while ago, yet it had grown on them - smile faintly, but they did not look up from the book. It looked old, pretty close to crumbling to dust, but they could tell the cover had been quite elaborate once. Squinting in the light of the torch, they could barely make out the worn-out title.

Mother of Flames, it read. Interesting. Something about dragonborns, perhaps?

“It’s a good thing, then,” they muttered, opening the book, “that my immortal lover is here to protect me from mimics with his amazing perception.”

“Mph. Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“... Since when?”

“Well, fine, it is absolutely working. Don’t get too smug about it.”

“When do I ever,” Durge replied, smugly. Considering that they had defeated a Netherbrain only a few short months earlier, they felt they had gained themself the right to be smug.

“You’re worse than Gale, both with books and the absolutely unwarranted smugness. See if I let you in my bedroll today,” Astarion muttered, but it was an empty threat and they both knew it. Even when absolutely nothing beyond mutual holding happened, Astarion had grown to enjoy the almost feverish warmth of the dragonborn’s skin against his. “Anyway, this place is as damp as it gets. If we’re to camp here for the day, I’ll get a fire started.”

Outside the cave, dawn was breaking. As they could only travel at night, Durge often took advantage of it to stand a little in the sun before retreating back to camp with Astarion, but this time they were too taken by the book - which was not at all about dragonborns after all. It was rather short, chronicling the life of a minor human lord in the last days of the Calimshan empire. But the man’s name had been lost to history - and soon enough, the focus shifted on his wife.

… As the collapsing empire was torn in city states following the Year of Clutching Dusk, the Tethyrian clan went to war to claim its independence, and the lord lent his sword. Alone in their small fort, his wife was tormented by visions of her husband’s violent demise in war, one dream of blood after the other. Driven half-mad with terror, desperate to avert this fate, she turned to occult means and soon enough, she summoned not just any devil, but an archdevil.

Durge lifted a scaly eyebrow, and turned a yellowed page as delicately as they could manage. They could already tell this tale was going to be a sorry one; nothing good ever came from dealing with devils, after all - with archdevils least of all.

They were not wrong.

The archdevil promised the woman he’d ensure her husband would survive the war and return home unscathed - ‘But,’ he told her, ‘your firstborn child will be mine.’

The desperation of faithful love, the human folly of believing you can outwit a devil! The unfortunate woman signed the deal believing it would be null and void; for her husband was past his prime, and believed to be barren, as both his doomed first marriage and their own union had been childless.

She signed her name, lost to the ages, thinking there would never be any firstborn to give, and she was lost. For what the archdevil’s careful wording hid was the true nature of his demand: that he beget his spawn on her. Bound by contract, fearful for her husband’s life, she could not avert that fate.

Ah, of course. Very archdevil, that. The distinct feeling that the story would end in tragedy was now a certainty: no human woman ever survived the birth of a cambion… and this tale was no exception.

On the very same day the lord returned unscathed from war, the devilish spawn came forth into our world in blood and flames. The unfortunate man returned to a dying wife and a horned monstrosity shrieking on the charred, bloody mattress. He drew his blade to kill it, but his wife stayed his hand with the last of her strength. Whether it was for fear of what may become of him should he harm the child of an archdevil, or out of misplaced affection for her ill-begotten offspring, no one knows. All that is known is that she died shortly thereafter, leaving a broken body in the arms of a broken man.

Both their names have been forgotten, but she would be remembered for a time in Tethyr as the Mother of Flames. As for the devil’s spawn, what became of it is also lost to time. Some said it was killed, or locked away in a dungeon, or sent someplace far away; others yet believe his most unholy father came to claim it when it came of age, and took it to the Hells with him. Perhaps only the archdevil who sired the creature knows whether any of these claims are true, or if the entire sorry tale is nothing but legend, seeping into ancient Tethyrian history.

“... There was a depressing ending, right? You get that look when it’s a depressing ending.”

Durge looked up to see the camp was pretty much ready, the fire crackling and food out, along with a bottle of blood for Astarion. Only one bedroll out, incidentally. They nodded, putting the book away. “Quite. Thank you for setting camp - I’ll dismantle it come evening.”

A grin. “Oh, I hope you’ll do a lot more than dismantle the camp,” Astarion said, all smoothness and charm, the bottle of blood already in hand; Durge mentally estimated that the odds of Astarion actually falling asleep on them the second they were in the bedroll were in the vicinity of eight out of ten.

Of course, they were correct.

Once they were settled, Astarion asleep against their chest, Durge spent some time looking into the fire. Perhaps the book had affected more than they thought, because soon enough they were thinking back of their brief visit to Avernus, in the House of Hope… and about Raphael.

He was a devil who played games with mortal souls, so it wasn’t like Durge was particularly pained by the way things had turned out. On the other hand, he had dealt with them as fairly as a devil could be expected to, and they did steal from his home. It could not be helped - only a fool would have let him have the Crown for himself - but it was not something Durge had enjoyed, either. That Raphael would not appreciate being double-crossed was a given. It just had to be done.

They’d thought they had killed him then, in the House of Hope. Later, when they’d seen him in the Orb of Infernal Envisioning - broken and bloody, dangling above the maw of Mephistopheles - they’d assumed the archdevil would finish him any moment, and averted their gaze.

Except that when they returned a week later, to buy supplies before they set off with Astarion for what he’d dubbed with some pomp their ‘quest for daylight’, they had looked again... and they had seen the same thing. Raphael, reduced to a broken and bloody mess, dangling above Mephistopheles’ maw like not a moment had passed. They’d asked Helsik whether the orb showed current events, the past, or the future; she had looked back and shrugged.

“The Orb shows you what is fitting for you to see,” she had said, and that was that.

And that, Love, was that.

The rhyme Raphael had been so fond of surfaced from the back of Durge’s mind just as they were about to fall asleep. But they were tired, Astarion’s body against them a pleasant weight, and sleep claimed them before they could spare the devil another thought.

They used to be scared of falling asleep, but not anymore. With the Urge gone, their dreams were no longer of blood and guts and screams. Nothing more than the occasional nightmare, either way, and no nightmare would come that night. When they fell asleep now, they did not dream of blood.

But they did dream of fire.

***

Raphael did not know how long he’d been there.

Time in Cania flew at Mephistopheles’ pleasure, and his pleasure was a fickle thing. It could have been days, or months, or years since he’d awakened in his father’s grip. He did not know. All he knew was that sooner or later, the game would end and so would he. At this point, many would think it a mercy.

After tearing off his wings, he’d snapped his horns like twigs between thumb and forefinger. Something else had been torn from him, something intangible and yet fundamental, leaving behind only his weakened human form. A form that was now in only scraps of clothing and kneeling in a cell, shackled to the ceiling, a scold's bridle strapped to his head holding a spike through his tongue. His last weapon, made silent.

The wardens outside his cell were, however, far from silent.

“Lord Mephistopheles is going to devour him at last, I hear.”

“Tonight?”

“-- at the feast, as an example--”

“-- can’t wait--”

“-- cambion like us, but he thought he was all that--”

Down came the claw, Raphael enough, and he could have laughed if not for the pain any movement brought him. He dropped his head instead, listening to the fading voice of wardens and the clinking of his own chains. It spoke volumes of how powerless he was now, that no magic was required to keep him shackled: only old, rusted chains. One last insult before the grand finale, and not the kind of finale he’d envisioned.

Here in Mephistar, he was the mouse who’d thought he could outfox the cat.

When the door of his cell opened, he didn’t look up at first. He only closed his eyes and wondered if he’d be able to hold it together when the moment came - if he could at least go to his destruction with some remnants of dignity intact. It took him a few moments to realize something was not quite right, that the steps did not sound like those of a warden. They were too light, too careful, too secretive. He blinked his eyes open when someone grasped his chin and tilted his face up.

It was indeed not a warden. Before him was a human woman with dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a nose that had clearly been broken and healed badly. Either someone was playing an odd trick on him, or this was one of his lord father’s Eternal Debtors.

“I need you to listen. There isn’t much time,” the woman said, paying no mind to his obvious confusion. “Are you listening? Do you understand me?”

Too taken aback to protest at being spoken to in such a way by anyone’s Eternal Debtor - and held back from doing so by the inconvenient spike through his tongue either way - Raphael found himself nodding. The woman let go of his chin, and quickly put something at one of his fingers. Raphael turned to see a small unassuming ring shimmer for a moment around his finger before becoming invisible - but it was still there. He could still feel the cool metal band even though his hands had gone mostly numb, the cuffs biting deep into his wrists.

“There is some power in this ring. Not much, but just enough. When you use it, it will allow you to switch places with somebody who’s wearing the matching one. Don’t use it now. Listen to me,” the Eternal Debtor added, and crouched in front of him. Dark brown eyes found his own, and held. “Mephistopheles cannot know you escaped until you’re well away from Mephistar. He and his entire court must think he devoured you, so you need to use this ring at the right moment, as you fall into his maw. He will devour someone all right, and will think it’s you. It’s the only way out of here. Am I clear?”

Raphael had no idea what in the nine Hells was going on, and he was too savvy not to guess that if someone was truly looking to save him, there would be a debt for him to repay afterwards. Nobody - not in Cania, not in Avernus, not in any of the Hells - would simply help someone without gaining something else in exchange. Who would want him alive, and out of there? What had they promised this Eternal Debtor, and what would they expect of him?

Vexing questions, but as had been the case with the many mortals who had taken his deals, the prospect of salvation was too enticing to pause too long and consider other consequences. He really did not like that reversal of roles, but he found the prospect of being devoured by Mephistopheles even less alluring. If he survived it, he could find a way to make things work out in his favor. If he was devoured… well, his story would end there with a less than impressive final act.

The freedom of choosing the only option left.

He used that line often. Ironic. He’d never hated irony more.

Unable to voice any of his thoughts, Raphael looked back at the human and nodded. She stared back at him in silence for a few moments, almost as if looking for something on his face , but it didn’t last long. She finally pulled back, and stood.

“Use it too soon, and they’ll notice the trick. Wait too long, and you’re as good as dead. No pressure, but you absolutely must get the timing right.”

Raphael glared, hoping to convey his thoughts - tell me something I don’t know - through his eyes alone, but she was already turning to the door of the cell. She checked to ensure the route was clear, looked back at him one last time and then she was gone, closing the door quietly behind her. She left him with far more questions than answers, and the first sliver of hope he’d had since he’d been taken down in his own house.

***

“Hope you don’t mind traveling at night too much, Halsin.”

“Oh, not at all. Nature shows a particular side of its beauty at night. Softer, more--”

“Gods, is there a way to shut you up about nature for five minutes?”

“There is indeed a way to shut me up about anything for more than five minutes, Astarion. You know it very well. Made use of it, even.”

“I’d threaten to do it again, if I didn’t know you’d love it.”

“How could I not? Nature made your body into a masterpiece.”

“... You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

As much as Durge had missed traveling with all their companions - what a surprise it had been, getting to see all of them again the previous night! - they found they’d particularly missed Halsin’s company. Accepting his invitation to accompany him back at the Last Light Inn, to see the cursed lands healed, had taken no thought at all. When those two were not bickering, and when all three of them were not making extensive use of their bedrolls, they talked about their other companions and how well they were doing for themselves.

Durge had little doubt that Gale would do well once the orb was out of his chest, or that Shadowheart would be perfectly capable of looking after herself as she began her journey to learn, once again, who she was meant to be. They were not surprised, either, to know Lae’zel was leading the githyanki to battle against the lich queen as fiercely as ever.

But Wyll and Karlach… they were a surprise, and the most pleasant one they could imagine. Durge had hoped they would do all right together, even in Avernus, but not knowing it for sure ate at them sometimes. Seeing them whole and well, and even hopeful they could find a way to fix Karlach’s heart to the point she could leave Avernus again - and permanently - had relieved them beyond words.

If there was indeed a way for that heart to be fixed, they were certain they’d find it, as they were certain that whatever devil Mizora wanted Wyll to kill wouldn’t be a challenge. And if it was… well, Durge would be more than happy to lend a hand.

They had killed a devil once before already, anyway.

***

When wardens took Raphael to his father’s grand hall that evening, they didn’t bother to keep him in chains. He was weak, stuck in his human form, and powerless; his legs and spine were broken, as were several of his ribs, and he suspected at least one lung had been punctured.

The chains would give at least the semblance of a devil who could yet put up a fight, be any sort of threat, and his esteemed father clearly saw fit not to give him even that. Let him be dragged, broken and helpless, the rags still clinging to his frame doing nothing to hide his wounds. The only thing they left on was the scold’s bridle, the spike through his tongue. At least his words, Raphael told himself with something close enough to real conviction, were something Mephistopheles feared enough to keep at bay.

The hall was crowded, celebrations loud as always, but the crowd fell silent the instant Raphael was pushed onto the floor, before the pit where his father stood, ever looming and shrouded in flames. Rumbling laughter, and the massive hand was around him again, holding, squeezing, turning his ribs into shards of agony as it lifted him up in the air. An example for all to see.

“Behold,” archdevil Mephistopheles announced to gales of laughter, “Raphael, the cambion who thought he’d rule the Hells.”

Unable to breathe, knowing full well that he may break if he allowed himself to look down at the jeering faces or at his own father’s eyes, Raphael closed his eyes against the pain and waited. He focused, he had to focus. Not a moment too soon, and not a moment too late. It was his only chance to survive, given that the ring did what it was supposed to.

It may as well have been a jab at his expenses, a worthless trinket to make him think he could save himself after all, get his hopes up for nothing. It was something he may appreciate, and quite a lot, when not done at his expenses.

“All you ever had I gave you, ungrateful wretch, and yet you wanted what is mine,” Mephistopheles thundered. Like wanting more was not at the core of every devil, like hungering for anything beyond their reach was not in their very nature, including his own. Like he, in his place, would not have done the same, coveted the same things. “A waste of my seed if there ever was one. I shall waste no more words on you. Let everyone see what becomes of those who set their sights too high.”

Raphael was lifted up in the air, and he finally opened his eyes. Beneath him, his father’s maw opened up like an abyss, all jagged teeth and churning flame. His hand opened, and Raphael fell. Through the sheer terror of it all, he forced his mind to keep working.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

He almost waited too long, and landed on Mephistopheles’ tongue with a groan, every broken bone in his body crying out in protest. Still, he forced himself to move; a mere instant before the teeth snapped shut above him, he lifted up his hand. The ring shimmered and that, Love, was that.

***

“Ah, here you are, my little brat. I’m almost happy to see you. Your unfortunate replacement was getting so very tedious, I couldn’t have kept entertaining him for much longer. He was getting really stupid ideas about the ring I gave him.”

Raphael was almost adorable, really, looking up at them with wide eyes from the middle of Haarlep’s bed. A very large bed, which had seen plenty of use since their return to Cania following Raphael’s downfall. Very often while Haarlep wore Raphael’s likeness, as they were doing right now. Come to think of it, he’d probably felt that, in whatever dungeon he’d been in.

Ah well. At least it must have been a pleasant distraction from… everything else, really.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to indulge you, but we have little time as is,” Haarlep spoke again, and reached to undo the straps of the scold’s bridle around Raphael’s head. They pulled it away as gently as they could manage, but removing a spike from one’s tongue had to be rather painful, going by the groan that left Raphael.

And by the mouthful of blood he promptly spat on Haarleps nice sheets. Pretty rude, that, but nothing that couldn’t be cleaned up once they got Raphael out of there. Sooner rather than later.

“Haarlep,” Raphael rasped. It was likely the first thing he was able to say in months, and Haarlep couldn’t say they weren’t flattered. Or maybe he’d just said ‘help’. Hard to tell, with a hole in his tongue and all the blood in his mouth. “What-- where--?”

“Still in Mephistar, but not for long. Be a darling and sleep, why don’t you? You’ll make everything soooo much easier,” Haarlep replied, and pressed a hand over Raphael’s eyes. He tensed, but only for a moment: it took that short a time to make him fall into a slumber. He didn’t look peaceful in it, not the way he would after sharing a bed with them in less pressing circumstances, but it would have to do.

“Did it work? Is he here?”

Ah, that voice. Haarlep turned, and nodded at the human - an Eternal Debtor, one of the many - standing in the doorway. “It went without a single hitch, I’d say. Don’t you want to come in and say goodbye? After all, it’s been a while since you last--”

“I was in this to spite Mephistopheles, not out of any concern for him,” she cut him off. “Just get him out of the Hells and leave him someplace he may find a healer. I have done enough.”

“Fine, fine. If he wakes, should I tell him--”

“No. Not one word,” she snapped, and was gone before Haarlep could say anything. Ah, those bursts of temper. Highly unusual from an Eternal Debtor, yet so annoyingly familiar.

The incubus shrugged, and looked down at Raphael. The tatters that had once been his clothes would do nothing to protect him from the biting cold outside Mephistopheles’ palace, so they resorted to taking the sheets from their bed and wrapping them around him. Once satisfied his former master wouldn’t be turned into an icicle the moment they were outside, Haarlep picked him up - a hiss of pain, but he did not awaken - before walking to the window.

Across the windswept courtyard, there was a window that should have been left unlatched specifically for them. It led, Haarlep knew, to the room holding Mephistopheles’ outer portals. From there, they just had to pick one to get Raphael in the material plane. From that moment on his survival would be up to him, and to whatever mortals he encountered.

It wasn’t much, but it gave him better odds than going down the gullet of an archdevil at least.

Haarlep opened the window, adjusted their grip on Raphael’s body, and took flight.

***

[On to Chapter 2]

#bg3 #baldur's gate III #astarion #raphael bg3 #the dark urge #wyll ravengard #karlach #halsin #baldur's gate 3 #haarlep #hell to pay

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yanban-san · 1 year

Note

Alright but they way that my tiny touch-starved being is, I can imagine how comfy hugs are from each set of twins-

Plain ol’ twins; just barely hiding in their coats as they hug you from the front-

Droids; might be a lil cold from the metal but I bet they got some heat core tomfoolery to warm the both of us up-

Eldritch; I’ve always wanted to know what hugs from shadows and feathers both feel like, just being lost in their innumerable wings, claws, scales and whatnot- every hug could be different depending on the day!

Driders; fluffy back and legs + the little clicks and buzzes they make when they’re happy, sign me up-

Hydreigons; wrapped up in their six wings to the point where you can’t tell human from hybrid-

I want ALL OF THEM to help my attention-starved existence. Thank you for listening to my Ted talk.

-lemon tea anon 🍋 🍵

Honest to god that's how I feel 🥲 Lemme just have hugs from my boys, pretty please-

I always thought the image of the twins having a small darling would be really cute- Like Emmet is hugging you and then he just wraps his long coat around you and you're squirming trying to escape while he's laughing- A Depot agent comes up to see what all the commotion is about and Emmet shushes them, telling them to be real quiet like- Before he asks the Depot Agent if they'd like... to purchase... a Darling- And swishing his coat open to reveal you glaring at him. Woe be unto the Depot Agent that actually tries to purchase you though. You're priceless to your sweethearts, after all. Ingo loves hugging you, or using you in the middle of the day as a pillow to squeeze while he rests his head. He'll wrap both of you in his coat- It makes a lovely impromptu blanket.

I decided to say the 'droids have quantum computers inside of them- But if you don't know, quantum computers... In their current states require temperatures as close to absolute zero as we can possibly get in order for them to work. So if they do have qubits running their brains, they are probably venting a lot of heat all the time- Especially because they have a generator inside of them as well. Hugging them is toasty, and during the Summer they are extra toasty. Of course they also run on pokemon-logic, so maybe they just have some NeverMeltIce jammed into those processors of theirs. I have also been playing around with some- Dare I say, body horror- that might get invoked with their physical interactions with their darling. But I digress; Their hugs are generally toasty, and they will grab you from afar to pull you in for one.

Eldritch boys just constantly hold you. The rare times you're alone, you can almost always feel their presence- Lurking in the shadows and out of sight- And sometimes you get pulled into darkness when you step into the shadows- Only to find yourself in Gear Station, being held by Ingo. "I missed you," He explains, tendrils and shadows coiling around you. His body dripping with the inky void that makes up his true form. Emmet grows jealous, and takes you away the moment he can. Whining as he holds you against him, a thousand voices wondering why you didn't ask him to come cuddle you too? He wants your affections- He's far softer than his brother, and prettier too! And then they spend your sleeping hours curled around you, a bed of fluffy feathers and scales and ink and light, cradling you in their claws and arms- Their precious soulmate. Their darling soulmate.

Driders have a difficult time with the hugging thing- Humans are much shorter than them, and though they have their four arms and their pedipalps, it's difficult for them to hug you- But you can hug them easily, especially if you're riding on their back. It's a place of honor, really- To be allowed on their fluffy back side, cuddling them while being carried everywhere. Their only complaint is that they cannot look at you. Though that is easily fixed. They can hug you easily by placing you in a hammock of webbing, or trapping you under them... They can also carry you- Supporting you in one set of arms and hugging you close with the other pair, kissing you with their spider mouths.

The hydreigon boys have an easy time hugging you- You just have to avoid being nommed on by them. Being bitten is their love language. Bite them back. They'll bite you in their sleep, they'll bite you while they're awake- They'll trap you in a cage of their wings, enjoying the fright on your face- That looks to them like adoration. Together, the six wings become twelve, and they lock you against them- Snapping at each other if they think the other is causing you discomfort. They kiss you, nursing on your skin, refusing to let up- Nesting with you in a lovely bed they've prepared of furs and moss and bones and flowers, while your feet are wrapped up in their tails.

#Ingo X Reader #Emmet X Reader #Emmet/Reader #Ingo/Reader #Eldritch AU #Hydreigon AU #Drider AU #Monster AU #Seth.asks #Seth.anon #Lemon Tea Anon #Hello Lemon Tea!#monster submas #Hugging

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mssf-milk · 7 months

Text

Chara's reaction on different Sans aus (headcanon thingy)

Warning: just for fun and not canon! These are my Chara's opinions on these Sanses, not mine.

1. Classic (Undertale)

- mine.

2. Killer (Something New)

- damn just like me fr

- brother killer

- his chara really did a number on him

- a shame i can't have a conversation with them, could be useful

- barely recognizable as sans anymore

- probably because he is something in-between monster and human, relatable tbh

- could be entertaining company

- but way too scattered and unstable

- one day that will be his undoing

- should take note of his situation for future discretion

2. Horror (Horrortale)

- how is he even still alive?

- made everyone eat human flesh, yet does not indulge himself, baffling

- it's not like he has much to lose...

- do understand how he feels due to undyne's and alphys's betrayal

- keeps his village fed and turned the lizard into a vegetable, respect

- but then destroyed the core leaving the underground without any solution

- mixed feelings

3. Murder (Dusttale)

- damn... kinda hot

- would hate my guts, also hot

- interesting eyelights

- hallucinates papyrus everywhere, has gone coocoo lol

- is similar to killer in some ways

- both killed everyone to get out of the cycle

- except he did for a clear purpose, not to "feel something different"

- now is doomed to either battle his human forever

- or live completely alone for years on end

- was it all worth it, sansy?

4. Fell (Underfell)

- edgelord

- go outside

- is just annoying in all honesty

- the dynamic with his brother is weird

- as his choice of clothing

- quick to anger, could be fun to annoy

- but mostly just pathetic

5. Outer (Outertale)

- same thing different font

- except even the font is the same

- yet is still just somehow boring

- i am not even sure how that is possible

6. Error (Errortale)

- what the hell is this

- manchild

- hobo

- also likes chocolate, but is that supposed to make me like him?

- if not for his strings he'd just be too easy

- you can see how vulnerable he is behind it all, renders him also pathetic

- but aside from that, could be a capable opponent

- when he's not glitching over just some light touch again

- better not interfere with my universe

- or i'll put his phobia to the use

7. Ink

- forgetful and childish

- also should steer clear of me

- might kill him even if tried to hold it in

- is soulless like flowey

- will probably one day just grow bored

- but hopefully can keep the hobo busy

8. Fresh (Underfresh)

- goodbye.

- don't even breathe in my direction please.

9. Blue (Underswap)

- papyrus in sans's body

- would whimper

- and be fun to break

- but not my cup of tea

10. Cross (X-Tale)

- also killed everyone

- why is that so common?...

- also kinda of an edgelord

- used to have a male version of me in his body, cool i guess

- don't have much to say really

12. Lust (Underlust)

- whore.

- but at least he recognizes that.

13. Dance (Dancetale)

- my sans but can breakdance

- is that really it

- how exciting

14. Nightmare (Dreamtale)

- we are not so different you and i

- i can respect a man with class!

- but don't touch my universe

- you'll regret it

15. Dream (Dreamtale)

- has some drip

- but too positive for my liking

- his entire worlview is naive and foolish

- nightmare was right about you

#haphephobia #maybe? chara makes fun of it #suggestive #chans #chara #headcanons #undertale au #so many aus that i don't feel like listing them all sorry

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master-sass-blast · 2 years

Text

Paint the Future.

Summary: "He’d locked away the sketchbook with the nursery designs. He’d needed to be present for you as you cycled through anxiety, grief, self-blame, and depression. And, if he was being honest, it hurt too much to have the sketchbook out.

Piotr flips the key into his palm and curls his fist shut –though he’s careful not to apply too much force. 'Don’t break it.' He takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly through his nose. Then, he kneels down and slides the key into the drawer’s lock with a quiet click."

aka Piotr has trauma from all the Reader's miscarriages, too, which start to come to the surface.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Rating: G but as a note there are mentions of miscarriage and reflections on Piotr's trauma from the Reader's previous miscarriages.

Word count: 3.6k.

Set after "The Long Awaited Arrival."

Piotr is a man of principles, high among which is organization. A tidy space makes for a tidy mind, in his opinion. He likes having order in life –which certainly includes his art studio and supplies.

Granted, Piotr knows that mess comes with art. Paints stain, pencils leave shavings and smear, ink bleeds and drips, erasers leave little scraps all over the place, paper tears, chalk gets dust everywhere… The work process is seldom clean; that doesn’t mean his studio can’t be.

Sure, things get chaotic when he’s in the middle of multiple projects, or if things with the Institute and X-Men get busy. But, as a rule, he keeps his studio tidy. Clutter makes it difficult to focus, which leads to mistakes, which leads to ruined drawings and afternoons spent brooding over simple slip ups.

He has a massive bookshelf that spans one wall of his studio space. He designed and built it himself. The bottom half is built like rows of cubbies; it’s designed to hold bins of his bulkier supplies –tubes of paint, extra erasers, tins of pencils, cases of markers, and the like. The enclosed sides mean that knocking something over is less likely, which means damaging his (often expensive) supplies is less likely. The top half are proper bookshelves, which is where he keeps his art reference books, less delicate supplies, and stacks of sketchbooks. The whole thing is painted white –which seems counterintuitive, given that he works with very pigmented tools, but painting the shelves white means that he can scrub the shelves down as hard as necessary without lightening the color of the paint. Aside from his art desk, which has a mechanism that lets him adjust the angle of the desk to his needs, it’s one of his best builds.

His angled desk sits in front of the windows, adjacent to the couch that you like to sprawl out on while he works. It has an adjustable lamp clamped to the top, and several wooden cubbies built onto the sides to hold supplies while he’s in the middle of working. The chair that goes with it was a custom-ordered piece; no other stool or chairs could accommodate his height properly.

He has a second desk that he keeps in the corner of his room, too. It’s a traditional desk he found at a thrift store, made out of dark stained wood with built in drawers. He mostly uses it for grading (or as a makeshift table if he needs a lot of supplies out at once).

But the desk also has a drawer that locks. And, fortunately enough, the key was still with the piece when he purchased it at the store.

Presently, he’s staring at the locked drawer. His chest feels painfully tight with nerves. He purses his lips, mind whirling with indecision.

He doesn’t keep anything in the locked drawer –save for one sketchbook he saw fit to isolate from the others.

He’d started some drawings about a year after the two of you had gotten married; by then, the two of you had settled into your new home and union. You’d started talking about kids. Even though you hadn’t started trying yet, he’d started making designs for the nursery –a mural to go on one of the walls and a few smaller thematic paintings to go on the others.

Piotr swallows hard, then stands from the couch he keeps in his studio and crosses the room to his other desk. He opens the center draw and pulls out the key to the locked drawer. He spins it in his fingers, absently studying the curves of the key’s teeth. It’s so small.

And then you two started trying. It took months for you to get pregnant –and then you’d lost the baby mere days later.

It’d been devastating –but these things happen, you’d both reasoned. Sometimes life was painful and unfortunate, but it didn’t mean that one couldn’t carry on. So the two of you had tried again.

And then you’d miscarried again. And again. And again.

He’d locked away the sketchbook with the nursery designs. He’d needed to be present for you as you cycled through anxiety, grief, self-blame, and depression. And, if he was being honest, it hurt too much to have the sketchbook out.

Piotr flips the key into his palm and curls his fist shut –though he’s careful not to apply too much force. Don’t break it. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly through his nose. Then, he kneels down and slides the key into the drawer’s lock with a quiet click.

But now you’re pregnant again. And, what’s more, your specialist says that things look promising. You can’t afford to take any unnecessary risks, and you need regular check ups, but…

Piotr opens the drawer.

The sketchbook leans at an angle, spiral binding down so the pages didn’t get creased. The cover –a generic sketch of a vase printed on the cover of every sketchbook by this particular brand–stares up at him.

He gingerly picks up the sketchbook and flips it open. It’s mostly empty; it hadn’t felt right to toss such precious drawings in with another, more utilitarian book. He checks them over, noting what he’d change now and what he’d keep, then closes the drawer and tucks the sketchbook under his arm as he stands. Maybe bit of hope is good.

***

He shows the sketches to his mother first.

He feels guilty for not showing you first. You’re his wife. You’re carrying the baby that the nursery will be for. Out of anyone, societal convention dictates that you should see the sketches first.

But it’s not like he’s not going to show you at all. No, he fully intends to show you so you can give equal feedback; you’ll use the nursery just as much as he does, after all. He wants you to enjoy how it looks, too.

But after… everything, he needs… a certain kind of support. A certain style of comfort.

He feels small, like he’s six years old again. He’s six years old, and he’s just fallen and scraped his knees on the concrete block that hosts the water troughs for the horses’ paddock. He’s whimpering and sniffling, and his mother has just scooped him up and is carrying him towards the main farmhouse to patch his wound.

He wants to feel like that again. Just for a moment.

As always, his mother delivers her verdict in as few words as possible. She peers down at the page, gives it a once over, then nods. “Looks good.”

Piotr sighs –albeit fondly–and rolls his eyes. “I was hoping for a bit more than that, mama,” he says in Russian.

“Then you should’ve asked your father,” Alex replies in kind. She smirks, then shakes her head before studying the main mural sketch again. “No, medvezhonok, it looks very good. You always do immaculate work.”

“It’s just a sketch,” he mutters.

Alex tsks. “None of that. Accept the compliment, malenkiy.”

“Spasibo,” Piotr murmurs, ears turning pink with sheepish satisfaction. He stares down at the page, but he can’t really take in any of the details from the sketch. His mind still feels distant; his gut feels like thorny vines are curling through it. He swallows hard, then tries to feign nonchalance. “Do you like it?”

“I’m not the one who needs to answer that.” Alex cocks her head back and studies her son for a moment. She crosses her arms loosely over her chest. “And I suspect that’s not what you’re really here to ask me.”

He flinches. He looks away, opting to stare at the ground instead. Nausea creeps through his gut. His breathing shallows. Why is this so hard?

“Alright.” Alex’s hands are on his shoulders, guiding him towards the porch. She nudges him forward until he sits on the front steps of the farmhouse. “Sit.”

“I don’t–”

“Yes, you do. You just went paler than snow.”

Piotr swallows hard. He closes the sketchbook and sets it aside. I don’t want to lose this baby, too.

“Hey.” Alex kneels in front of him when he lets out a tight, shuddering breath. She cups his face in her hands and gently strokes his cheeks with her thumbs. “Talk to me, medvezhonok.”

Piotr lets out a ghost of a laugh, lips briefly twitching into a smile. “Do as you say, not as you do?”

“Exactly.” Alex smirks, but the expression fades when Piotr’s frown returns. “What’s wrong, Piotr?”

He sighs, weak and wavering, then lets himself lean forward when his mother pulls him into a hug. He buries her face against her shoulder and closes his eyes. “I’m scared.”

“Okay.” Alex strokes her fingers through his hair. She kisses his temple, then asks, “Scared of what?”

“Of –of another miscarriage.” His throat constricts with grief and fear. He can feel his eyes burning with tears. “Of losing the baby. If –if I paint the mural, if we get the nursery ready, and then–”

“Tische.” Alex hugs Piotr tighter when he lets out a sob. She cups his head with one hand and rubs his back with the other. “It’s okay–”

“No, it isn’t!” Piotr snaps. He pulls back and scrubs his face roughly with the heels of his hands. “Nothing about this is okay!” He purses his lips, falling silent as the onslaught of emotion lodges somewhere between his chest and his throat. Nothing about watching my wife blame herself for things beyond her control is okay. Nothing about hoping things will be different, only for everything to be the same is okay. Nothing about losing over, and over, and over– He lets out a ragged sigh, then slumps against his mother. “How do you hope? How are you not afraid?”

“Bozhe ty moi.” Alex sighs, then kisses his temple before patting his back. “Hold on. Let me think.”

Piotr sits up, then shifts to the side so his mother has more room as she sits on the step next to him. He studies her –the way she braces her forearms against her knees, how she’s tucked her tongue against the inside of her lower lip, the tightness around her eyes–as she thinks.

When Alex is silent for several moments, though, he turns his attention to the farm; your uncle had found a beautiful, sprawling plot of land to teleport the Rasputin farm to. The whole space is surrounded by towering trees, encapsulating the house and farm plots from view. The house is positioned atop a hill that slopes towards the back of the property, where the farm, animal pens, and crop fields are.

It’s a beautiful day. Sunny, pleasantly warm, not a cloud in the late summer sky. There’s a soft breeze in the air that rustles through the tree canopies. Birds chirp overhead, and the chatter of squirrels and chipmunks are audible around them.

If he were in a better mood, he’d want to paint the scene in front of him. A nice big canvas –or, better yet, a large piece of watercolor paper, pre-soaked and stretched…

“I don’t know if I was ever not afraid.”

Piotr inhales sharply, abruptly tuning back in when his mother finally speaks. He blinks a few times to focus himself, then frowns when her meaning settles in his mind. He turns to face her. “What do you mean?”

Alex shrugs. She leans back, bracing her palms against the step behind them. “I remember… I was always on alert, I guess. Every time I was pregnant with one of you, I was always like ‘okay, this is happening, what do I need to do to keep everyone safe?’” Her mouth twitches into a brief, distant frown. She shrugs again, eyebrows raising and lowering. “I was scared, but I knew I had to move forward.” She pauses for a moment, then lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “You should’ve asked your father. He’s much better at platitudes than I am.”

“But he didn’t go through it like you did.”

“He did in his own way,” Alex corrects, “but I understand what you mean.” She cocks her head to one side, considering, then adds, “I think… it’s okay to be happy. I had to learn that one from your father –taking time to be happy with things, instead of always focusing on what’s going to go wrong.” She smirks, but the expression is distinctly melancholy. “You got that from me, unfortunately.”

Piotr shakes his head and wraps one arm around his mother’s shoulders. “I’d rather have part of you than none of you.”

“Far better things to take than perpetual pessimism,” Alex scoffs.

“I have your hair, too,” Piotr points out with a smile.

Alex snorts and rolls her eyes. “Yes, you do have that. But, to stay on target…” She smirks when her son chuckles, then continues. “I had to learn that it’s okay to be happy –to do things that make you happy. Even when you’re afraid. Even when things could fall apart.” Her expression goes distant for a moment; her lips curl into a faint frown. “I’m not so sure I’ve mastered it. Your father’s always been better at this type of shit.”

Piotr shrugs, then mulls the suggestion over. But… if we prepare the nursery… if we put in all that work and let our guard down… and then everything… He swallows hard. His hands curl into tight fists. He draws in a shaking breath, then quickly reroutes his mind to avoid the anguish of inevitable conclusion. “But –but if… if we do, and–”

“Nothing you do –or don’t do–is going to make that baby die,” Alex interjects, level-headed and unapologetically blunt. She cocks her head to the side, studying Piotr as he grumbles under his breath. “Would painting the nursery make you happy?”

He thinks about it –truly thinks about it. He lets his mind wander to a daydream he’d abandoned a while ago, back when it was first apparent that you might not be able to keep a pregnancy. He’s in the nursery space, sketching out the main mural while you work on some other details for another wall. He’s smiling, and laughing with you, and you’re overjoyed in a way he hasn’t seen in so long…

He’s happy. So much so that it terrifies him.

Piotr blinks –then quickly wipes his cheeks when the unexpected wetness of tears. He sniffs, then nods when Alex rubs his shoulder. “It would.”

She nods along, watching as he tries to collect himself. “Would it make her happy?”

“I think so.” Piotr smiles as he thinks of you. “This pregnancy has been… hard for her. She’s been very sick. I think this may… ‘boost’ her.”

“Then do it.”

“But if we…” His throat constricts with anguish, and it takes a couple tries before he can continue. “If we… if we lose the baby–”

“You’ll adopt.” Alex lifts one hand and wipes the tears off his cheek. “There’s more than one option, medvezhonok.”

Piotr shakes his head. “Not for mutants. We’d get blacklisted before we got anywhere.”

“You don’t know that,” Alex insists. She ducks her head, staring Piotr down until he meets her gaze. “Okay? You don’t know that. A lot has changed in the past decade, and you two would be perfect candidates. Don’t shut yourself down before you’ve even explored the possibility.” She waits until Piotr nods, then adds, “Besides, there’s plenty of mutant kids the government would be glad to have off their hands. Those fucking pigs would probably think you’re doing them a favor.”

He rolls his eyes, but the clouds of concern quickly overshadow any hope he might have. “But… if they don’t…”

“Then we’ll figure it out. All of us.” Alex arches one eyebrow when Piotr shoots her a quizzical look. “We’re here for you, malenkiy. The two of you have a lot of resources and connections that you haven’t even tapped into yet. If you want a family, we’ll do whatever we can to see that you get one.” She pauses while Piotr nods slowly, mostly to himself, then adds, “Besides, babies are easy enough to steal.”

Piotr’s head whips around, eyes wide with shock. “Mama!”

“I’m kidding.” She smirks when Piotr sputters, then claps him on the shoulder. “Be happy, Piotr.” Her smirk falters for a moment, then settles into a melancholy smile. “Do what I couldn’t –didn’t. Be happy. Let yourself enjoy this time.”

I don’t know if I can. Piotr draws in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. But… I can try. He nods, then leans over and draws his mother into a hug. “Thank you, mama.”

“Of course, baby.” Alex winds her arms around his shoulders, holding him tight. “Of course.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, malenkiy.”

***

You’re puttering in the kitchen when he gets home, humming along with a song playing on your laptop. You turn when you hear him walk through the front door, then pause the music before greeting him in English. “Hi, baby!”

“Privet.” He sets his keys and wallet in the dish the two of you keep by the front door, then strides back to the kitchen. He smiles when he sees you, then draws you into a hug. He basks in the simple comfort of holding you for a moment, then kisses the top of your head before letting you go. “What are you doing, myshka?”

“Making chocolate covered strawberries.” You hold up what looks like a mug of mostly melted chocolate chips, then gesture to a plate in front of you; it’s covered with parchment paper and laden with some –admittedly sloppy–chocolate covered strawberries and random drippings of chocolate. “Don’t look in the sink. It took me a few tries to get the melting process right.”

“I will not look in sink,” Piotr promises (even though he already saw the small collection of bowls and mugs filled with seized chocolate when he came in). He reaches down and gently rubs your swollen belly, then presses his lips together when you use a strawberry to scrape down the side of the mug. “Ah… myshka…”

“Yeah?” You ask. You place the chocolate covered berry –there’s practically a mountain of chocolate on the poor thing–on your plate, then lick a smear of chocolate off your thumb. You hum to yourself, content, then look up when he doesn’t continue. “What?”

“I…” He pauses, considering his words carefully. “Are you going to eat these all at once?”

You scrunch up your face. “No. I’m making these for the next few days –and to share, which you should be so lucky.”

“Indeed I am.” He kisses the top of your head, then clarifies. “I was merely concerned. It is important to watch sugar levels.”

“Gestational diabetes and all that, I know,” you agree, nodding. “But my bloodwork’s been good so far.”

“I know,” Piotr says, though the tightness in his chest and throat doesn’t ease. “But is good to be careful.” He waits until you use up the last of your chocolate, then clears his throat. “I… I have something to show you.”

“Ooh, what is it?” You ask as you carry your plate of strawberries to the fridge.

Piotr swallows hard as anxiety crests over the back of his head. He takes a deep breath, steels himself, then lets it out. It is okay to be happy. “I have sketches for nursery.”

“Really?” You gasp, delighted, and beam at him. “Let me wash my hands, then show me!”

He opens the sketchpad and sets it upon a clean portion of the counter. He puts one arm around your shoulders when you come over to inspect his work. “This is for main wall, and these are accents to go on other walls.”

“Oh my gosh,” you coo. You press your hands against your mouth and bounce lightly on the balls of your feet. “It’s Winnie the Pooh!”

“Da.” He grins, delighted that you recognized the references he’d pulled from. “I combined styles with traditional zhostovo art.”

“It looks so beautiful!” you gush. You clutch your hands against your chest. “Oh, Pooh’s house! Piotr, this is incredible!”

He bends down to kiss your temple. “Spasibo. Mama liked them as well.”

“Oh.” You twist to look up at him. “You showed your mom?”

Your tone and face are still bright, but he cringes all the same. Why did I say anything? “Ah –yes.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “I am sorry. I know I should have showed you first–”

“I didn’t know there was some kind of rule about it,” you interject, face scrunched up in confusion. “I mean, it’s not like you were trying to get her approval before mine.” You pause for a moment, then squint your eyes in a dramatic, obvious caricature of suspicion and point at him. “Unless you were!”

“Nyet, nyet,” he laughs, holding up his hands.

You laugh along with him and lower your hand. “No, I know. I don’t think your mom even has the capacity for bullshit like that.”

He snorts. “You have that right. I think she’d rather chew her arm off.”

You chuckle and nod, then go back to fawning over his sketches. “These are so gorgeous, honey. Oh my gosh, I can’t wait to have these up on the walls! What kind of background color were you thinking?”

“Probably green or yellow. Goes best with colors of forest and flowers.” He places his hands on your shoulders, holding you close as you continue your fawning examination. His whole body still feels keyed up with anxiety and foreboding –his chest is tight, and his stomach’s churning–but he forces himself to take another deep, slow breath. It is okay to be happy.

And he’s going to be. One way or another, he’s going to be.

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #FINALLY #I CAN FINALLY POST FICS #i'm so relieved yall have no idea #tw: mention of miscarriage #the baby's fine i promise #but there's mentions of miscarriage #and a lot of emotional trauma on piotr's part #just as an fyi #emotional hurt/comfort #x men fanfiction #deadpool fanfiction

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