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lesservillain · 9 months ago

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inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader

cw: drinking, explicit fantasies

September 16th,1994

The idea to you was asinine from the moment Principal Williams brought you into her office to explain the program details to you. How no one else thought that the idea of thirteen-year-olds becoming “pen pals” with prisoners wasn’t insane baffled you. It was dangerous at worst and inappropriate at best, but, despite your best efforts to reason with her, your opinion as a “newer” teacher was dismissed.

Now here you are listening to the speech of the prison rep, Mr. Bridges, as he explained the program to your 7th grade class. Not like you had a lesson planned for them today.

Mr. Bridges stands a whole 5 feet and 6 inches with a short stack military fade and the most unsettling sunny disposition. He reads as incredibly fake, like a snake oil salesman, and his shiny, white, slightly too big for his mouth veneers not doing him any favors. It doesn’t surprise you that your newly divorced principal was able to be persuaded by this guy's charms, but thankfully you’re used to his kind of tactics from your own previous relationship.

Before leaving, Mr.Bridges approaches you at your desk. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he starts, leaning too far into your space. One of his thick fingers points at a paper he had given you before he started his speech, “but is a student absent today? We have an unassigned inmate—”

“We had a student move,” you say shortly, keeping your voice monotone and not bothering to glance at his paper, “so I’m short one student in this class.”

Bridges nodded, clearly deep in thought. His brows furrowed for a moment before perking up.

“Maybe you’d like to take on a pen pal?’” He proposes, his chipper disposition coxing on the migraine that wants to break through behind your eye.

The look on your face must have said it all as he tried to convince you further. “The inmates that signed up are all trying to better themselves before being re-released into society, ya’know?” His eye’s shift, landing on the floor with a solemn look. “We thought talking to kids that grew up while they were incarcerated would help them get in touch with the times, be able to cope with time they’ve lost. Give them something to look forward to when they get out.”

The pads of your fingers dig into your temples, eyes rolling to the back of your head before finally giving him the eye contact he so desperately craved from you.

“Fine, I’ll take whoever you have left, I guess. What’s his name?”

“Perfect!” Bridges hands clap together next to your ear, “The leftover inmate wants to go by The Banished One and he—”

“Banished what?” You ask, confused.

“Oh, The Banished One! It’s his nickname for the project. We have all the inmates disguise their names just in case the kids may be related to one of them.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, resting your head in your hand, “Okay, fine, sure I guess that makes sense.”

Bridges continued to assure you that all the letters are anonymous and would be vetted both ways, adding that only ‘good behavior’ inmates were allowed to take part in the program as a last push for your participation, you reluctantly agreed. Mostly just to get him to leave your classroom before your head explodes, but not without the stipulation that if you thought it was too much for your kids that you would pull them out. That seemed to be enough to satisfy him.

October 7th, 1994

The first writing session took place on a Friday, the soft sound of music from your mixtape playing for the kids to help them relax. It had been a long week of testing and you felt like an easy day was in order for both you and the kids, most of your other classes would just be doing free work.

You grabbed the stack of letters from your desk, Pictures of You by The Cure filling the air as you hand each student their respective letter.

“Don’t forget to keep personal information like names and where you live out of your letters. Once you’re done, bring them to my desk.”

Once the kids were settled, you returned to your desk and grabbed your own letter. The envelope before you had “Teach” written across the front, the pen name you chose to go by. The handwriting was like chicken scratch. Not much different from the 13 year old boys whose papers you grade, though, so you were confident in your ability to decipher the rest of the letter. But still had a roughness, an edge to it.

As you opened your letter, unfolding the paper to it’s full state, the first thing to catch your attention was the graffiti like drawings along the margins of the paper. It reminded you of a flash sheet at the tattoo shop your friends took you to for your 21st birthday, a permanent reminder of that day on your inner ankle in the form of a small butterfly that was already starting to fade. There was nothing too offensive; a rose, a sailor ship, a dove with an olive branch, all impressively done for just being pen on paper.

Once you got past the artwork, you began to take in the letter's contents. The single page was filled from front to back, barely any room for the signature at the bottom.

“Hey there, “Teach”... if that is your real name…” the letter starts. The lame opener makes you crack a small smile that you quickly cover with your hand. You read on, taking in each sentence, and you start to get the idea that your pen pal doesn’t take this pen pal assignment too seriously.

The letter is casual, a few puns here and there, with some Tolkien references that would have been missed if one wasn’t familiar with his work. It’s clear that this person is young, or at least young at heart, which saddens you to think about, but you try not to dwell on it.

Getting into the meat of the letter, your pal explains that went to prison in 1989 for drug related charges, but is set to get out in about a year if he keeps up his good behavior.

“I’m ready to get out of this place and get back to my hometown in Hawkins.”

A shiver goes down your spine for a moment when you read that he’s from Hawkins. Bridges assured you that the inmates wouldn’t know what school the kids would be from, but you weren’t expecting to be talking to someone from this small town. You wonder if Bridges knows more than he’s letting on with his comment about the kids being related to the inmates.

Once the creepy feeling dissipates you continue to read on. The details your pal gives about himself tell you that he’s very different from the people you usually hang out with. His favorite genre of music is metal and he used to play guitar and do vocals for a band every week before he started working as a mechanic full time. They’d have a crowd of 20 or so some nights, but it was usually just the regulars at the place they would play at.

The final paragraph of the letter consists of a seemingly scripted warning about the dangers of drugs and that no one should make the same mistake he did. You wondered if this was obligatory for the project. At the bottom of the page your pal signs with his chosen moniker “The Banished One.” When thinking about it, you find that it’s very fitting for an inmate.

After taking a moment to check in on your class, Morrissey’s somber voice serenading them as “I Know It’s Over” plays from the small radio’s speakers, you pull out your own pen and paper to start your response.

As you ponder on where to start, a thought that crosses your mind; does your pen pal even know they’re talking to an adult? The pen name you chose might be on the nose but you didn’t want to assume. Granted, your handwriting itself may be a dead giveaway if you were to compare it to a teens.

It took you a couple of tries to start your letter. Instinctively, you wanted to be formal, but the longer you thought about it the more you didn’t want to come off as a boring writing companion. You tried and failed to come up with something witty to match the vibe of your pal, but comedy wasn’t your strong point, though you’d argue that it wasn’t his either. Instead, you approached it as if you were writing to a friend.

“Hello! Nice to meet you “Banished One." Though, it sounds like you won't be banished much longer.”

Erring on the side of caution you chose to only respond directly to things he wrote, slipping in that you also enjoyed the works of Tolkien with your own reference. You mention that you listen to metal from time to time, more into radio rock at the moment, but you’d really listen to anything.

It took you a minute to calculate how to respond to the reveal of his dealings in drugs, ultimately deciding to lightly say that you hoped he learned his lesson unless he saw himself returning to prison in the future. You shared that you were familiar with Hawkins, noting that you loved the milkshakes from the old diner in town, but left it at that. As you closed the letter you complimented his artwork, informing him that the rose was your favorite and that you looked forward to seeing his artwork on future letters.

You’d manage to write enough to cover the majority of the back of your lined paper, signing your pen name a few lines away from the bottom. Going over your letter again, you can't help feeling like it’s a bit dull. Safe, but that’s what it's supposed to be.

October 24th,1994

It only took two weeks for Mr. Bridges to return with new letters for your class. Truthfully, you had almost forgotten about the letters entirely while trying to keep your students on track as the holiday season approaches. The emotional whiplash of seeing your ex out with his new, younger girlfriend while you were out looking for Halloween decor for your apartment wasn't helping either. It felt like no matter what you did, how much your friends tried to help, you just couldn’t catch a break. At least the manager of the local liquor store was nice to you.

When your students seemed too preoccupied with the stack of letters on your desk to pay attention to your lecture, you decided to call it a day and give all of you a break. You click on your small stereo and let the tune of Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah take over the room while you pass out letters.

Once the letters were distributed, you settled at your desk where your eyes met with the same chicken scratch handwriting as before. It was tempting to reach for it… until you glanced at the pile of ungraded papers that sat next to it, taunting you. You desperately needed to go over them, the deadline to turn in grades fast approaching.

You deliberated on what to do. You had to admit you were curious about the letter. Part of you wondered if you’d even get one back. You didn’t want to give any personal information away, so you couldn’t blame the random man in prison for not responding if he thought he was talking to an old lady teacher.

But the stack of papers is practically glaring at you.

A thought; you could always finish your papers later at home. But you did tell yourself you would be better at bringing so much work home with you this year…Your friends had an influence on that decision, making sure you took at least every other weekend to go out and do something — anything to keep you from shutting yourself in again.

With a sigh, you tuck the letter into your work bag, grabbing your pen to start grading.

“Damn it, why can’t I find one stupid pen!”

Slamming drawers and stomping around, the red liquid of your cup sloshing around in your glass as you grew more and more frustrated in your search for a pen to write out the checks for the coming month’s bills.

After searching the kitchen, you make your way to the living room and spot your school bag on the coffee table. In your rage, you slam the glass on the table and begin haphazardly pulling the contents out of the bag, praying you still had a pen that hadn’t been “borrowed” to never be returned by one of your students.

The feeling of plastic on the tips of your finger almost brought you to tears of joy. Pulling out a purple ink pen you decided that it would have to be good enough if your landlord wanted your rent on time.

After finishing with the checks, you return to your bag to put the envelopes inside to drop off tomorrow at the post office. As you lift the bag, your eyes meet with chicken scratch again away. A burst of buzzed excitement runs through you at the sight, even if for just a moment before you shook it off. It was just an envelope from some random man sitting in a jail cell, why are you getting so excited? Is it because you’re at home and not feeling the pressure to be uptight and rigid?

Or maybe it’s because you can’t remember the last time you received a letter that wasn’t a bill. It sort of gave you a feeling of nostalgia, taking you back to a time when you wrote letters to your mom when you were at camp, or when you would write to your grandparents around the holidays. It even reminded you a bit of writing in your diary, if your diary could write back that is. It’s not like he would have room to judge you from his jail cell, right?

You snatch the letter from the bag and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing the dark bottle of wine to refill your glass and plopping down at the table. Ripping open the envelope, you pull out the letter and immediately notice that it is covered in artwork just as the last one was.

This time you notice a 20-sided dice with a banner that read “critical hit”, a very detailed dragon head, and a stylized version of the skeleton guy that you’ve seen on the cover of Iron Maiden albums. The biggest piece was of another rose, but in the fully bloomed center was an eye. It was…interesting. Well done, but not what you were expecting. Not that you were expecting anything anyway.

Getting the artwork out of the way, you take a large sip of your drink and begin reading.

“Hello again, Teach,” the letter starts, “I think we need to discuss the elephant in the room before I can write anything else.” Your brow quirks up, a slight nervousness begins to creep in your mind.

“I was already suspicious when I was told the person I was writing to wanted to go by Teach. And no seventh grader I’ve ever known can write as nicely as you. Not that I know a lot of seventh graders...Anyway, can I ask how I ended up being pen pals with the class teacher? I know I could ask Bridges, but I think it would be more fun to hear it from you.”

Your lips tug into a smile, but this time you don’t feel the need to cover it. Why did it feel like a game he won or a riddle he solved? It wasn’t exactly like you were hiding it. But something about him figuring out something about you was…exciting.

As you get into the meat of the letter itself he goes on to ask you what subject you teach and how long you have been teaching. He asks if you like working with kids and if they ever made you want to pull your hair out. The phrasing of his words make you giggle.

“I was never good in school,” he states. “It took me three tries of my senior year to graduate. I used to blame my teachers saying that they didn’t like the way I dressed or my taste in music. I guess now I have to admit that it was probably because I didn’t bother to show up to class or do any of my homework…”

A full laugh shook you in your chair. Was he actually funnier in this letter? And why did it come off feeling so personal? The air about it was different, like you were talking to a long-distance friend rather than a felon, your cheeks starting to ache from smiling as you continue read his sketchy handwriting.

He went on to ask more about you, like what your favorite band was since you “liked rock so much more than metal,” with a little frowny face to punctuate his disagreement. He says the prison lets them watch MTV sometimes, which has been his main exposure to new music. Sometimes he gets a hold of new music every once and a while, but usually just listens to his old cassettes on his Walkman that his uncle gave him when he first entered the system.

“Some people have tried to steal it from me, but they learned pretty quickly that I have my ways to get things back, and that I'm not one to be messed with.”

That left you curious. A small glimpse into the inner workings of prison. You never really thought about what a person in prison could or couldn’t have. It was nice that he could have at least a small luxury, an item of value if it was under constant threat of being taken. You also couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by not being messed with.

Before you know it you’ve hit the end of the letter. You can’t help but feel a little disappointed. It felt like there could have been so much more to say, but his pen name barely fit at the bottom of the paper as it is. You take a piece of paper out of your notebook, pulling the frayed pieces off the edge and replacing the one in front of you with it. Hopefully your pal won't mind the purple pen or the probable lack of coherence compared to your first letter as you feel the wine really start to kick in.

Referring back to the paper like a student answering a question in class, you make sure to answer all of his questions to the best of your ability.

“Hello again, Mr. Banished. I see you have uncovered my secret that I am, in fact, a grown woman and not a 13-year-old. I hope that doesn’t bother you. I have been teaching English since I graduated college, coincidentally in 1989. It's like we traded places; I got to leave the prison of being a student in college and you went to prison for whatever drug related charges you acquired.” You laughed at your own joke as you continued.

“As for why you are stuck with writing a late 20’s school teacher rather than one of my students, that would be because of the aforementioned Mr.Bridges. We had a student move a few weeks into the school year and Bridges practically got on his knees and begged me to take on a pen pal.” You left out the detail of not being totally comfortable with the program. Not that you weren’t still hesitant, but the last thing you wanted to do was offend him by insinuating anything about the type of person he was for being in jail. The wine had rationalized with you that sometimes good people do bad things when they’re in dark places.

Continuing on, you wrote that he was probably right in both his opinions on why his teachers failed him. The older teachers at your school were stuck in their ways and judged students before really trying to help them. You did your best not to be the same way, hoping to be a teacher that your students could trust and come to if they needed help. It was a passion of yours since you were small, wanting to help people learn and grow, so what better way to do that than to teach?

“I am interested in what you wore that would call for such harsh judgment. I try to be as unbiased as I can with all my kids. If you asked them, they would say that I’m stuffy or rigid most of the time, but it’s mostly because I care about their education. And partly because being a new teacher is…really freaking tough if I’m being honest. These older teachers don’t take half of the things I say seriously because their own kids are older than me. It’s kind of bullshit, actually, but I just deal with it until I can get more experience under my belt.”

A sigh slips through your lips, pen tapping against the kitchen table as you feel the frustration bubbling. It’s not fair to dump these feelings on him, but the anonymity made it so easy to just put everything out there. He doesn’t know anything about you, and if you were to weird him out by getting a little real, then he could just not write back, right?

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you decided to just move on to a different topic.

“Sorry, that was a lot of feelings on my part. Is it too personal to ask what you do in prison? You mentioned getting to listen to music, but what else do you do? I’ve seen in movies that inmates work out a lot and play basketball outside. Is that real or made up for the audience? If it is real, does that mean you are super buff from working out all the time? Do you beat people up if they try and take your Walkman, or do you stab them? I’ve seen people do that in movies, too. I hope you don’t stab them, that would be scary.”

You can feel yourself getting a bit rambley in your tired state, so you decide it’s time to call it a night. You wrap up the letter by telling him that you’re going to go to sleep and that you were looking forward to his next letter. You sign your name and draw a small doodle of a flower next to it.

November 18th,1994

It was 3 am when you woke up the first time. A nightmare had you shooting up from your pillow, cold sweat drenched the collar of your sleep shirt, chest heaving as you caught your breath.

He had been knocking at your door, your pen pal. You never saw his face, but heard the anger in his voice as he yelled for you to let him in. You remember sitting in front of the door begging for him to leave you alone, telling him it was too soon. That you weren’t ready.

The nightmare became reoccurring, waking you at least 2 or 3 times a week. Sometimes it’s your ex, but most of the time it’s your pen pal. Even though you have no inkling of what he looks like, you just know it’s him on the other side.

The disturbance in your sleep was starting to affect your daily life, one of your coworkers asking if you were okay after over pouring a cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge.

“Are you okay?” Mr.Clarke asks, helping you mop up the spilled coffee with some paper towels.

“Yes, I’m sorry, yeah,” you say, trying and failing to reassure him.

“Hey, I know that midterms can be rough with the holidays coming up. But, try not to stress out about it too much. I’ve heard good things about you from the kids in my classes that have you this year. You’re doing a good job, so don't kill yourself, okay?”

It was damn near impossible not to burst into tears at your coworkers words, but you held it together until you could hide in the faculty restroom.

The dreams didn’t stop though. Even Mr.Bridges felt the need to comment.

“Holidays stressing you out?” he asked with an energy that seemed inhuman to you, his sunny disposition could make the snow outside melt.

“No.” You stated shortly as you looked through your lesson plan for the day.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he said with a nod, “This is the most wonderful time of the year after all. We try to stay busy at the prison, keep the morale high and what not.”

He placed the stack of letters on your desk, along with a small box that read “Greeting Cards” with a wintery scene displayed on the front.

“These are for the students to give to the inmates.” You look at him with “no shit” written on your face. He cleared his throat, “But, uh, I’m sure you could figure that out. I know this time of year can be hectic for everyone, but we all deserve some holiday cheer, right?” Your expression remains unchanged as he continues on.

“Right, well, I’ll be giving the inmates their own cards to send to the kids with their letters. It might be a bit difficult for me to come back before Christmas, family affairs to attend to and all that. So, I went ahead and wrote the address and stamped the envelopes for the cards. If I don’t come back by, oh, let's say the 15th? Just go ahead and stick those in the mail and I’ll make sure the inmates get them!”

Before you could protest having to go out of your way to do his job, Mr.Bridges quickly made his exit as the warning bell rang, wishing you a happy holiday as he disappeared.

With the lack of free class time as you all crammed for test week, you decided to let the kids take their letters and cards home for the weekend to work on. As you passed them out, keeping the addressed envelopes in the box, you told the kids to write something nice in their cards.

“This may be the only card some of these men get, so think about that when you’re writing them this weekend.”

Getting to the last letter, you feel your stomach twist as you read your actual government first name in the familiar chicken scratch handwriting instead of your pen name. You hadn’t even realized that you had stopped dead in your tracks until the sound of the bell brought you back to your body.

“U-uh, ge--get your letters done by the end of class Tuesday!” You yell over your class as they begin migrating out of the room.

Quickly, you return to your desk and rip open the letter. Unsurprisingly, it’s once again covered in artwork. The pumpkins and bats and other Halloween inspired art felt out of place, putting in perspective how long it had been since your last letter. But before you could look much further into the writing your next class began to file in, forcing you to set the letter aside for later.

You’d felt nauseous the rest of your morning classes, You wracked your brain about how the hell your pen pal could have figured out your actual name. You may have been...a little tipsy when you wrote that letter a month ago, but you’re sure you didn’t say anything personal enough that he would know who you were. Could he have asked someone on the outside to look into you? No, Mr.Bridges assured you that the inmates don’t know what school they are writing to. Maybe Bridges said your name to someone at the jail and the inmate overheard?

As soon as the bell rang for your lunch period, you practically rushed your students out the door and closed it. Throwing yourself into your chair, you grab the letter and begin reading.

“Well, well, I wasn’t expecting to be getting more lore in your newest letter! You have a very cute name by the way…Sorry I hope that wasn’t weird. Anyway! I guess I can tell you my name, too. Call me Eddie.”

Eddie.

So you had included your own name in your letter somewhere. You sigh with relief, though it still makes you a little uncomfortable that this stranger knows something personal about you. Sure he’s been nice, but he was still a felon. Though knowing his name made you feel a little better. Made him feel a tad more human to not use silly nicknames.

“Can I start by saying I loved reading your last letter?” Your eyebrows raised in surprise.“The purple pen was a nice touch. Something about a teacher complaining about other teachers is really funny to me, too. Nice to know the torment of some teachers isn’t just limited to students! And I doubt your kids think you’re stiff or whatever. You seem pretty cool to me. Even if I’ve only gotten to talk to you through a couple letters, you talk to me a lot nicer than I probably deserve.”

The smile that had made its home on your lips from his sentiments dropped into a frown. You felt yourself wanting to get defensive, wanting to tell him that he shouldn’t think that way about himself. That even if he was a felon, he still deserves respect.

“Being a younger teacher must be hard. You did all the college stuff to be a teacher so that should be enough to get their respect in my opinion. I don’t think I had a teacher who wasn’t at least in their 50s so they probably can’t see anyone under 30 as anything other than a kid I guess.”

“Hit the nail on the head,” you say to yourself with an airy chuckle.

As you keep reading, he changes the subject to something you don’t remember asking in your previous letter.

“So you wanna know what I look like, huh? Well back before I was in here I would wear my band shirts, Metallica and Judas Priest and all the bands that make the old ladies cringe. My jeans had holes in them, too. And I have this battle vest that I’ve put together with some patches of my favorite bands on it. My uncle Wayne says he’s keeping it safe for me at home. It’s not much, but I learned how to stitch patches on by myself, so it means something to me. Gives me something to look forward to when I get out.”

Your mind paints an image of a gangely teen trying to look cool to impress his friends or scare off the old ladies at the mall. Sounds like the kind of guy you had crushes on in high school. There may have been a picture or 2 of Kirk Hammit or Vince Neil or Eddie Van Halen tapped to the inside of your locker door in high school, but you’d never admit that now.

“I also had long hair when I was younger. Can’t call yourself a metal head without having long hair ya know. But I’ve had to cut it since I’ve been in here. I’ve got pretty curly hair and it was getting hard to keep up with it. It’s short enough to keep out of my face most of the time. I’m actually due for a haircut, so thanks for reminding me! Hair cuts are free in prison so I get it done way more than I ever did on the outside. You gotta tip your barber though or else they might “accidentally” shave all your hair off next time. Learned that one the hard way.”

He goes on to answer some of your questions about the inner workings of the jail. They do get to work out a lot, but says he’s not a “big meat head” like some of the other inmates. He doesn’t like basketball for “personal reasons” so he prefers to run laps. “When you’re trying to get out of a big fight it’s better to be faster than stronger.”

“I am also proud to admit that I have never stabbed someone. Almost been stabbed myself, but I used to get my shit rocked in high school so I’ve learned to dodge over the years.” Your hand comes to your face, almost forgetting that you asked such a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t stabbed anyone. You could excuse it if it was out of self defense maybe. But then you recall him saying before that he doesn’t get “messed with”, so what is he doing that people aren’t bothering him if not stabbing them? Your head spins with possibilities as you think about it more.

As you are about to read on, you are interrupted by a knock on your door, the sound causing you to jump in your seat. Quickly closing the letter and shoving it into your bag, you rush to the door to find a student from your 3rd period class, a shy one at that, needing clarification on the newest assignment. You let her in, forgetting the letter for the rest of the period.

The rest of the period then turns into the rest of the day. It goes by like a blur as everyone seems to be getting last minute things turned in for the week. Grades for the upcoming report cards would be due by the end of next Tuesday, so you told your classes to get any missing work in by today and you would give them partial credit. It was setting yourself up for a busy weekend, but anything to keep your mind off the upcoming holiday was welcomed.

It would be your first Thanksgiving single in almost 10 years, and your 4th since your mom passed. Your soon to be ex-husband, Henry, had convinced you to move to his hometown of Hawkins after your mother died to be closer to his family and to help his dad’s business as his accountant. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, and after looking back on the situation, you realized that he had used your vulnerability to get a lot of what he wanted.

Things seemed fine at first. His parents bought your house and he had a good paying job. All you had to do was cling to his arm and keep quiet. You were kept well manicured, your appearance catered to his liking as he paraded you around at office parties.

The not so hushed whispers from the women in his office always talking about how lucky you were to bag an older man reached your ears. But you kept your tongue against your cheek. They could be jealous all they want, because if they knew what happened behind closed doors they wouldn’t be singing the same tune.

Waking up early in the morning, way before he ever did, just to put on your face. God forbid you weren’t presentable to him always. Afterwards you’d iron his white button ups and khaki slacks, make him a huge breakfast, present his clothes to him, and be waiting by the door on your knees for him to use your mouth before he walked out the door.

At the time, you felt like you had a purpose. That being a housewife was what you were meant to be. But the degree you had worked so hard on stared at you as you cleaned the house everyday. Your passion was just in reach, boring you every day.

That is, until fate, and the well timed retirement of your predecessor, gave you the opportunity to start teaching that year. When you got the call, you were over the moon. Henry even said he was proud of you.

Until you forgot to iron his clothes. It was just a stern talking to the first time, an anger in his eyes like you’d never seen before had you on edge the entire first day of class. You made it up to him by waking up extra early, using your mouth to start his day since you couldn’t be at the door for him anymore.

But, then you started falling behind on chores during the week as grading papers took up most of your free time when you weren’t tending to his needs. It’s not that you didn’t clean, it just wasn't the only thing you had to do every day anymore. Passive comments about becoming lazy were brushed to the side until they collectively spilled over into your first big argument. You told him he could help, too. He smacked you across the face.

Too busy juggling work and cleaning the house full time caused you to miss the signs that things were declining. It started when Henry had to start staying late for work, claiming that they had a “big project” that was going to require him to stay over longer. He made it seem like a temporary arrangement that ended up becoming a pattern for months. But, he assured you that a raise could come from his hard work. So you continued to sit at home, a cold, untouched plate sitting across from you as you finished another bottle of wine. At least he wasn’t there to put his hands on you.

Then it was the pair of panties that you didn’t recognize when you did his laundry. When you confronted him, he told you that it must be a pair you owned back in high school that was mixed in with his clothes somehow when you moved. When you pressed on, he gave you a black eye.

Then it was the perfume you didn’t recognize on your pillow case when you came home from a weekend trip to see your new nephew. He told you it smelled like your perfume, you just hadn’t been home all weekend to smell it. You didn’t argue this time.

Then it was his father’s secretary, Missy, calling your home and telling you that she was sleeping with your husband. She had been nice at last year's Christmas party when you first met her. Nineteen, dumb as a box of rocks.

“Are you and Henry still married?” she had asked with her valley girl accent, “Because when I stayed over I saw that he still had pictures of you two at his house.”

Now you’re stuck in this tiny town, your closest relative being your brother who has his own family out in Chicago. Thankfully, you had made friends with the ever charming Steve Harrington, who’s father also worked with Henry. He came as a package deal with his roommate Robin Buckley, and the two of them quickly became your best friends. They were as blindsided as you about Henry’s affair and helped you move into your new apartment. Steve offered to let you live with him and Robin, but you didn’t want to live in the same house as your ex’s coworker, even if he was never there.

“We should make a grocery list for next week.” Robin called from the kitchen to where you and Steve were sat in the living room. “Do we want to bother making a turkey or should we do something easier?”

“Do you know how to make a turkey?” you asked looking over the top of your wine glass as she taps a pen to paper scowling.

“She can barely make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, d’ya really think she can make a turkey?” You watch as a roll of paper towels is launched from the kitchen into the side of Steve’s head and your laugh erupts.

“Well, then were fucked,” you say between giggles, “because I can’t make a turkey, and I know Steve “grabs a pan without a mitt” Harrington also can’t cook one.”

“Oh, that was ONE TIME!”

Steve goes to throw the paper towel roll at you, but you dodge, “One time is enough to never let you live it down, Steven. Maybe we should get some chicken instead.”

“Oh, I can make us some potato salad!”

After some back and forth about what to make for your “Friendsgiving” as Robin had been calling it, claiming inspiration from a new episode of Friends, Steve was begging to talk about anything else.

“School seems to be better this year,” he looks at you carefully, “You haven’t been talking about it as much lately. Not negatively at least.”

“Yeah the only thing you’ve complained about is that prison thing your class was supposed to be doing.” She looked at you with a look of curiosity, “How’s that going?”

You blink and suddenly remember the letter that you had gotten earlier. It was sitting in your bag back home where you had left it on your coffee table again. You were so busy getting ready to go to Steve’s that you had forgotten to finish it.

“It’s going okay. Hey, did you guys go to high school here?”

They both look at each other, then back to you. “Yep, graduated a year after dingus, though. Class of ‘86.”

Steve gave Robin an annoyed look at the nickname before returning his attention to you, “Why do you ask?”

You pondered for a moment if it would be okay to tell them about Eddie. The program was supposed to be anonymous, but that was just to protect the kids. If he wasn’t allowed to give you his name they would have confiscated the letter, right? Bridges said the letters were vetted both ways, so if it was a problem he would have told you. But this seemed like a breach of privacy. You only had a first name to go off of and a vague description. He never said his age, so could be older than even you, or younger than Robin.

“Um, do you guys know anyone that goes by Eddie?”

They both perked up at the name, giving each other a look that you couldn’t read. You swore they could communicate telepathically.

Steve was the first to speak after a moment of silence. “Yeah, we know an Eddie. Why?” His tone was curious as he side eyed you.

“Oh, well my pen pal from the, uh, the prison thing. See his name is Eddie, and he told me that he’s from Hawkins. I don’t know much about him, but I think he may be close to my age and maybe he was in school with you guys-”

Robins laugh caught you off guard. “If it’s the same Eddie we know, then yes he was in school with us. Way longer than he was supposed to be, and we didn’t really get close until the end of my senior year.”

The look on your face prompted Steve to elaborate, “Eddie was -- is, a friend of ours that we got to know better through a mutual friend. He did go to prison a few years ago, but it was because he was scapegoated by a guy he bought weed from. We thought he was gonna go to jail for, like, the rest of his life or something. I had to convince my dad to get our lawyer that he keeps on retainer to represent him in court. The guy owed my dad a favor and he did it, Eddie only got five years.”

“There’s no way,” you said incredulously. Your jaw had to be on the floor. You knew this town was small, but was it really this small? Robin and Steve would be the type to forget to mention they had a friend in prison, too.

“What’s his last name?”

“Munson. Eddie Munson. We still talk to him on the phone every once in a while. Usually his uncle gets a hold of us, tells us that he’s going to call at a certain time so we can stay by the phone. Oh!” Steve stands up from his spot on the couch, clapping his hands, “I have my senior year book up stairs. He should be in it as long as he showed up to picture day.”

As Steve walks away, you turn to Robin, who has an amused look on her face.

“What?” You laugh, still in disbelief at the information that has been given to you. She shrugs, lips turned in a downward smile, “Nothing. So what do you and Eddie talk about?”

“What do we talk about? Not much really. We’ve only sent maybe two letters to each other. He always covers the letters in artwork though. They look like little tattoos.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely our Eddie,” She shakes her head, “His notebooks that he would carry around with him are covered in art. He told us he’s given himself some tattoos while he’s been there. We keep telling him he’s going to look like a felon when he comes out.”

“Isn’t he a felon, though?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to look like it!”

“Found it!” Steve yells as he comes back into the living room, blowing the dust off the book. He plops down on the couch between you and Robin and starts to look through the pages. “See, the funny thing about Eddie, he was supposed to graduate in ‘84, but he kept fucking around and ended up repeating his senior year -- three times.”

“Holy shit,” you were in absolute disbelief, “he told me that in one of his letters. He said he was because the teachers didn’t like him, too.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something he would say,” Robin chuckles.

“Ah-ha, He did show up! Here he is right here!”

Your eyes snapped to where Steve’s fingers pointed to the tiny black and white square. Eddie wasn’t kidding when he said his hair was super curly. The close up of his face makes his hair almost completely take the background out of the picture. You can barely see it but it looks like he’s wearing a Judas Priest shirt under a leather jacket and what you suspect to be the leather jacket he seems to treasure so much. When you finally let yourself focus on his face you’re met with a bright smile and dimples on either side. Dark eyes scrunched up from how high his cheeks were. You definitely would have had a crush on him if you had gone to the same school.

“Soooo…what do you think?” Robin sing-songs with an expectant look on her face.

You can feel yourself smiling and try to reign it in, “Well, he’s not a 40 year old biker looking guy with a beard so that makes me feel better. He looks nice, actually.”

“He’s a good guy,” Steve starts flipping through the pages of the book, “but everyone gave him shit because…of…this.” Stopping on another page in the book, you see a picture of a group of students leaning up against a wall, all of them wearing matching shirts.

“Hellfire Club?” You look between Steve and Robin.

“He hasn’t mentioned Hellfire Club?” Robin was baffled. “That’s like, his whole thing!”

You shake your head, brows furrowed,“What is it?”

“His D&D club? He’s seriously never brought it up?”

“No, not yet at least.” Taking the book from Steve, you get a better look at the picture. “Like I said, we've only sent a few letters back and forth. I wouldn’t say we’ve exhausted all of our topics for discussion yet.”

“You’ll never run out of things to talk about with Eddie,” Steve states sarcastically, “You’d think prison would have had an effect on his social skills, but that guy could talk for an hour about a crack he saw in the sidewalk.”

Hearing that made you wonder if he ever held back when writing to you. His letters were usually front and back all the way to the bottom of the pages. You wonder if they only allow him one page or if has to pay for the paper. Hopefully he wasn’t wasting his money to talk to you.

“When was the last time you guys talked to him?”

“Uh-“ Robin starts.

“It was still hot outside I think,” Steve interjects, “Like early September?”

“Yeah,” Robin nods, eyes wide, “September sounds about right.”

“Hmm, that’s around when we started writing to each other. I guess he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t know about me yet.”

“If it’s been that long we’re definitely due for a call from him.” Robin looks to Steve, you miss the mischief in her eyes, nor do you see the look he gives her back. “Maybe you could talk to him next time he calls us?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide meeting Robin’s gaze. You saw the look now and immediately started shaking your head in protest.

“No, no, Robin I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You stand up from your spot on the couch, handing the yearbook back to Steve. Taking a few steps back to look at them, you bite one of your nails, thinking about the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. “Actually, if he does call, I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t tell him you knew me either. I’m sure he’s a nice guy but…”

“Hey,” Steve stood up and placed a hand on your arm, “It’s cool. You didn’t know Eddie before, and you barely know him now. I think Robin just meant that you could get to know him more since he is our friend. He’s gonna get out of prison eventually and we promised him that we’d just continue on like how things were before.”

“But,” you look at Steve with worry in your expression, “being in prison that long can change a person.”

“Eddie is too stubborn to let anything break him of being himself. He didn’t repeat his senior year twice because he’s dumb. He did it because he was too busy with what he wanted to do to bother with his schoolwork.”

“Actually,” Robin says, “he said prison is easier because he gets three meals a day and doesn’t have to do math, so…”

“But,” Steve gets your attention again, “My point is that you don’t have to go out of your comfort zone to be his friend for our sake if you don’t want to. Just keep talking to him on your own and see how you feel.”

You swear these two really were the only good people in Hawkins.

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded,” I’ll keep writing him, but I won’t mention that I know you two. Not yet at least.”

November 27th, 1994

Ever since your talk with Robin and Steve, your nightmares have changed. Now that you have a face to the name they’re not really nightmares anymore. Instead of a nameless, faceless voice at your door, you can see him through the peephole. He’s not knocking on your door with rage, but out of desperation. Still begging to be let in, but the lock is on his side. You hold the key in your hand, you just have to slide it under the door…

A sharp, grating ring wakes you from your sleep, eyes shooting open and taking in the room around you. The sun peaks from behind your bedroom curtains, the light just bright enough to pester the hangover migraine that’s already in full effect. You have to strain to get your eyes to focus on the numbers on your alarm clock that read just past noon.

The continuous ringing of the phone finally throttles you out of bed and into your kitchen. When you pick up the phone you hear Steve on the other end.

“Oh, good, you lived,” he exclaims, “Robin, she’s still alive!”

A muffled, “oh thank god” comes from the background in the receiver. You hadn’t anticipated being so emotional the night before, thinking you were past feeling sorry for yourself that you were alone on a holiday while your bastard ex had someone keeping your side of the bed warm every night.

All the emotions came up at Steve’s during dinner. It was just the three of you there, all with broken families. They had other friends who were home for the holidays, but they were doing their own thing this weekend. Robin and Steve insisted that you join in on the festivities but you declined, using not knowing them as an excuse.

Really you just wanted some alone time. Time to yourself, to let yourself feel whatever you need to feel without having to mask in front of strangers, brush off any awkwardness if the topic of your failed marriage were to arise.

You think Robin and Steve could tell that you were in your own head. They suggested taking you out to the only dive bar in town still open on the holiday, and assuming the place would be pretty dead, you said fuck it and all piled into Steve’s car. Sharing drinks and playing pool while metal music that made you think of your pen pal. You wondered what he was doing as you stepped outside to smoke a cigarette you bummed off an older, balding guy sitting at the bar.

After drinking so much that Robin had to drive your car home for you, their phone call really didn’t come as a surprise to you.

“Yes, god, I’m alive. Don’t yell into the phone, please.” You pinch the bridge of your nose to try and relieve some of the tension. The phone call is brief, Steve just wanting to check in on you and confirm that you didn’t want to participate in their outing.

“We’re going ice skating! And if you can’t skate, our friend Max would enjoy having someone sit on the sidelines with her.”

“Sorry, Steve,” you press your forehead against the cool wood of the door frame, “I’m sure everyone is very nice, but I’m just not feeling up to it.”

After a few cups of coffee and a long shower, you settle on your couch, flipping through the channels on the tv for something to watch and settling on a Beverly Hills: 90210 rerun marathon. It didn’t take you long to lose interest and you began fidgeting for something else to keep your mind from wandering into dangerous territory.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your work bag on the floor at the end of your couch. The memory of tripping and knocking the bag over last night comes back to you, making you internally cringe at yourself. You grab the bag and see that the contents were an unorganized mess compared to how you normally keep it. The longer you looked the crazier it made you feel, so you carefully took the papers and folders out, laying them in front of you.

When you picked up your first period folder, the familiar envelope that you had forgotten a week ago fell out, landing in your lap. You quickly pick it up and open it, remembering that you hadn't even had the chance to properly finish reading it.

Something about seeing the letter again made you feel good. As you look at the artwork, you see the picture of the shirts his club members wore and smile as you realize he made the shirts himself.

You reread the description of himself and can laugh because he must have worn the same thing every day, recalling the holes in his jeans and his battle vest from his pictures. It was hard to imagine the wild mane of hair he had being cut short. Do they get conditioner in prison? Because his hair must be a mess without it.

Finally, you get to the part of the letter you hadn’t read. You felt your heart beating in your chest, an anxiousness building that you couldn’t explain.

“I’m running low on space to write and I don’t know when I’ll hear from you again, but I just wanted to ask-“

You’re thrown off when you see two lines of the letter have been blacked out with a black marker or sharpie. There’s no way to make out what was written, and the last line is just him wishing you a “happy whatever holiday you celebrate,” his real signature greeting you at the very bottom of the page. “What the hell?” You asked the empty apartment. The first assumption that comes to mind is that Eddie must have messed up what he was going to write and decided to black it out since he wrote in pen. Or maybe he wanted to write more, but realized he was running out of space? That would go with your theory that they are limited in the paper they can get.

There’s also the possibility he said something inappropriate and whoever checks the letters made him redact it. That was probably the least likely, but it makes you laugh to think about. Robin and Steve brought him up a few times while you were drinking and gave him the highest praises. But, you never know what someone would be willing to say or do when they’ve been touch starved for almost 5 years.

Butterflies invade your stomach when you think about it more. He’s probably had to take care of himself quite a bit while he’s been locked up. Where does one even do that in prison without prying eyes?

Your thighs clench together at the image you’ve conjured in your head. Steve had shown you some pictures of Eddie that he found from not too long before he went to prison. Sure, he resembled his yearbook picture, thin and lanky he once was. But the picture of him and Steve at a lake, both of them shirtless and clearly soaking wet, displayed muscles that he had likely gained from the mechanic job Robin mentioned he had. The tattoos that he had on his body were taking over, almost covering one of his arms completely.

The image of soaked curly hairs clinging to his face as he’s leaning into a shower wall comes to the forefront of your mind. Toned arms flexing as he holds himself against the wall with one hand, stroking himself with the other. You imagined his hands were rough and calloused from playing guitar and working on cars. He was long and hard as he pumped himself, water dripping off the tip with each down stroke. God, you can only imagine his face as he cums, a loud groan falling from his lips as he spills onto the shower floor, calling your name…

You throw yourself into the couch cushion next to you and physically cringe. Where the hell did that come from? Was this the result of your dry spell since you left Henry? A guy that you’ve never even met before gives you a little attention and your brain automatically goes into the gutter. Sitting up, you rub your face in your hands in an attempt to keep the scenario from replaying in your mind. At least you had successfully distracted yourself from the self pity you were wallowing in.

You roll onto your back, holding up the letter in your hand. You admire the artwork, the sloppy handwriting. A person wrote this letter. Someone who did something illegal and paid the price for it. Someone who is very loved and has an uncle waiting for him somewhere in this town, and friends who would do anything for him. And now, he’s writing you letters, and you wonder if he is feeling the same way that you are starting to feel…what are you feeling, exactly?

Sitting up from the couch, you grab a pen and paper from your bag.

“Hello Eddie” no.

“Hey, stranger” no.

“What’s up!” definitely not.

Another balled up paper tossed to the ground.

“Dear Eddie,” sure why not, “I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season yourself. Hopefully your uncle can come and see you for whatever you celebrate. If not, at least a phone call would be nice. Does the prison give you anything special for the holidays? Like a turkey for Thanksgiving, ham for Christmas, the traditional stuff. I spent the holiday with-”

Steve and Robin. You know them! I know who you are, too. Totally not weird, right?

“-my friends. They called it “Friendsgiving,” I think it had something to do with a TV show. None of us like to cook, so we ended up just picking up stuff at the store and then going out to a local bar. I’m writing this letter the next day, a little hungover I have to admit. But, writing this letter has helped distract me from the migraine I’m trying to stave off. It’s been very busy at school lately with projects, exams, a choir…thing? All that means for me is that I have mountains of paperwork to grade, and I spent the last month trying to get kids to turn in anything missing. It’s like trying to get squirrels to stay in a basket.

Winter break is just around the corner, though. Which means two weeks of getting to sleep in late, watching terrible TV reruns, and using the cold weather as an excuse to stay inside. Although, I think my friends will manage to get me out of my apartment one way or another. I feel like a cat who was adopted by two dogs who share the same brain cell. But, they have helped me a lot over the last couple of months so I owe it to them to be their voice of reason sometimes.”

You pause and have a laugh to yourself. You think about all the ridiculous adventures the two of them have taken you on in the last few months, doing things that you would never have done before Henry. They’ve taken the hard metal bones out of your binding and started loosening the strings. You wonder if you would have even said yes to doing this letter thing if you hadn’t already had your boundaries pushed a little.

“I hope this isn’t too much to ask, but do you have any big plans for when you get out? Places you want to go? Food you want to try? People you want to see?”

You smile when you dot the last question mark. It feels sneaky to ask when you know that your meeting is inevitable, and there is a small voice in your ear telling you that he wouldn’t want to meet you. You’re boring. Simple. Dull. Only shades of grey fill your wardrobe, your heart, where there was once colour. Broken.

The new bottle of wine you got at the gas station stares at you from the kitchen.

Anyway.

“Hopefully you’re able to get out in time for the summer. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk outside as a free man and get to feel the sun on your skin? I think Hawkins is having a Rose festival again next year. There could be some inspiration there for you for your art, and if not, the funnel cakes are worth the admission price. Everything else is overpriced, but what isn’t nowadays?”

Filling the last bit of the back of the page, you felt it only fair to give a few details about yourself. Just a general description, nothing too revealing. Not that there was much to give away since becoming a professional educator has taken any creative freedom from your sense of style. You did tell him that on the weekends you treated yourself by wearing comfy clothes all day. You didn’t tell him that you only felt okay to do that recently, since your ex husband always expected you to look your best.

As you reached the bottom, you remembered the redacted section of his last letter. Do should you ask about it? Would he even be able to tell you? You went ahead and brought it up.

“Before I close this letter, I am curious to know why the last bit of your letter had been marked out. I can only imagine what you could have asked that it had to be taken out. I hope it wasn’t inappropriate, Mr.Banished.” You added a little “ha ha” in parentheses so he knew you were just joking, careful once again not to offend.

“Looking forward to your next letter,”

You signed your name, fighting the urge to draw a heart next to it like the girls in your class writing notes to their crush. There was no way that feeling like this for someone that you’ve only had correspondence through letters and the bit of hype from your mutual friends can be healthy. Grabbing the box of greeting cards that you had sat on the coffee table, you wrote some well wishes and folded your letter to fit within the confines of the red envelope. You took a look at it for the first time since Bridges had handed them over and your heart dropped.

In one of the ethics classes you took in college a classmate did a presentation on Pendleton Prison. It had just come out the year before that there had been an abuse of power and prisoners were basically being tortured. It was hard to observe but informative. You couldn’t even imagine something like that happening to Eddie. You wondered if the reason they were participating in this program to begin with was to help with their reputation. We’ll let them talk to some kids and it will seem like we’re not abusing our inmates.

You look at the wine bottle again.

It’s fine. If Eddie was going through something like that, surely he would have told Steve and Robin, his uncle. But you wanted to be sure. You walk into your kitchen.

December 25th, 1994

“…You can say hello when you see me. You don't have to be afraid. There's a lot of things going around about me, but none of it's true. Okay?”

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly close them when the harsh light of your tv playing Home Alone was too bright. Another dream about Eddie had taken over your mind in your sleep. You sit back to the door, the key in your hand. He doesn’t push you anymore, says to only give the key if you want to. That he enjoys your company no matter what.

Sigh.

As you sit up from the couch where you had dozed off the night before, you decide to make a cup of coffee and ring your brother.

“I could have come to get you. And brought you back. You know I don’t mind-“

“No, no, it’s okay, really. You have your own family now, I don’t want to dampen the mood,” you say as if you mean it. Coffee swishes around in your mug as you talk. It was true that your brother had a family of his own and was living the American dream. You liked that he invited you to be part of that, but you just couldn’t get past the notion that everyone would just look at you with pity. You’d rather be alone

Steve and Robin also invited you to Colorado with them. Steve’s parents had a house in Aspen where they were hosting Christmas this year. Steve insisted his parents wouldn’t care if you tagged along since they started to become fond of Robin. As much as seeing the beautiful snow covered mountains of Colorado sounds like a great reprieve for your mind, you still lied and told them you were going to your brothers. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

The sound of Kevin McCallister’s hijinks in New York got your attention. The movie distracted you for a while, until it didn’t. You watched the tv -- well, rather you looked at it for until you stood up, deciding to get out of the house, even if just to drive around.

The movie-esque scenery of small town Hawkins covered in snow was quiet and still, say for the few cars that you passed likely on the way to see family, traveling between houses. Something you and Henry did to make things fair for both of you. Your mom’s house first, then his parents.

Cars sat outside the Hideout, piquing your interest as you watched a man get out of a pick up truck and walk inside. It was close enough to five o'clock that you decided to pull into the lot, pulling into a spot by the door. Inside you were surprised to see it fairly occupied, mostly by men who looked like they worked at the factory in town or drove the big rig that was parked on the side of the building. The patrons seemed to talk amongst themselves, some semblance of holiday cheer keeping their spirits alive as their glasses clanked and boisterous laughs filled the air.

Sliding into an empty bar stool, you grabbed your purse to get your ID and some cash.

“Ain’t ya little young to be sittin’ alone at a bar on Christmas?”

You looked up from your purse at the man sitting next to you at the bar. He sipped from his glass, cigarette smoke seeping from his lips, attention set on nothing in particular. He was an older man, bald on top and plenty of aging on his face, but you had the feeling he was younger than he looked. Some of his features felt familiar to you but you weren’t sure why.

“Um, well, I guess so,” you stutter as you set your purse down between your feet. “But, uh, I really didn’t want to spend Christmas alone.”

A hum and a nod, “I guess loneliness knows no age.” He huffed a laugh before getting the bartender's attention. “What are you drinking?”

“Oh, no, please, you don’t-” you begin to protest, but he puts his hand up and waves you off.

“Trust me,” he takes a long drag from his cigarette, “I would be buying it for someone else if they could be here.”

Ah. You tell the bartender your order and the man tells him to put it on his tab.

“Thank you,” you give him a genuine smile, turning towards him to speak as the bar patrons become louder. You paused for a beat before speaking again, “I’m sorry you’re alone today.”

“Makes no difference to me really, just another day to me,” he takes a sip of his beer. You almost miss it, but you see the flash of a smile on his face.

“Just another day, huh,” you say smugly, dipping your head into his line of vision. He must have realized he was smiling because he covered his hand with his mouth shyly, the motion a contradiction to his hard exterior. Clearing his throat, he sat up in his seat, opening from his hunched position to talk with you properly.

“It’s just another day, always been to me, but,” He looks at you for a moment, then back down into his beer, “I used to celebrate, for my boy. Haven’t gotten to do that properly in a while. I’m hopin’ this year will be the last, that next year will be different.”

His endearment made your eyes misty. “That’s so sweet,” you coo, putting a hand on coat covered arm, “I’m sure things will work out.” You pull back when your drink is dropped off, quickly taking a few sips.

The man watches you, his head shaking in your peripherals. “So, what’s really got ya out here celebrating with Hawkins finest? Besides the, uh,” he gestures vaguely, “cheerful atmosphere.”

You stay quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the straw floating in your drink. Deep breath in, and out. “Do you want the half truth or the full truth?”

His body bounces from a chuckle, “I got a little time.”

Pouring your heart out to a stranger over drinks felt therapeutic, and not in the same way as talking to Robin and Steve. He just listened, nodded his head, grunted in what you assume to be agreement. This man, who looks like he hasn’t taken a day off in his life, made you feel more valid with no words at all than anyone else has in your entire life besides your own mother.

“And now I’m, like, kinda into this guy, but he doesn’t know I exist,” your words are a little slurred as you take down another drink. “Sorry, no, he knows I exist, but he knows nothing about me. Like, he knows some things, but he doesn’t really know me, ya know?”

His head bobs up and down, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I feel weird feeling this way, because I would never have even considered a guy like him before. Henry, I told you about Henry, he was super uppity, snotty. A real tight ass. But, this guy is funny. Genuine, and his friends talk him up. Who wouldn’t fall for a guy like that? Even if he is rough around the edges.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out with you and this guy, I outta introduce you to my nephew. He was always picked on in school for being different, but he’s a good kid. Just got into the wrong stuff,” the mans face sunk a bit, “My fault really.”

You tilt your head in confusion, “How so?”

“Heart attack. Had one while at work. Stayed in the hospital for a few, got the bill and almost had another one,” he chuckles at that. “I wasn’t even gonna tell ‘em, but he came over to visit and I forgot about it. Saw it sittin’ on the counter. Next thing I know he’s callin’ me sayin’ he’s booked on ‘possession with intent to distribute’. Buncha bull for some grass.” He put his cigarette out with a harsh stab. “But, he’ll be good soon. My deadbeat brother’s been keepin’ an eye on him in there and he’s been keeping his good behavior streak.”

“He sounds like a good kid,” you rest your cheek against the cool counter as you smile up at him.

“Yeah, he is.” His smile reaches his eyes, and so does yours.

“Well, gotta go, darlin’,” he slaps a couple bills on the counter and nods to the bartender, “Excpectin’ a call here soon. Get you some pretzels or somethin’ before ya take off.”

“Thank you,” your brows come together, “sorry, I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

“Names Wayne.”

“Nice to meet you, Wayne.”

thanks for reading.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x teacher!reader #eddie munson x yn #inmate!eddie munson #inmate!eddie munson x reader #inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader #oto!eddie #eddie munson series #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson st

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empirearchives · 3 months ago

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Alexander Suvorov on Napoleon:

“Oh, this young Bonaparte, how he strides! He is a hero, a miracle-giant, a sorcerer!” wrote another great commander, Alexander Suvorov, about the young hero. “He defeats nature and he defeats men. He crossed the Alps as if they were not there at all. He has hidden their formidable peaks in his pocket, and concealed his army in the right sleeve of his uniform. It seemed that the enemy only noticed his soldiers when he thrust them out like Jupiter with his lightning, sowing fear everywhere and striking the scattered crowds of Austrians and Piedmontese. Oh, how he moves! As soon as he entered the path of a commander, he cut the Gordian knot of tactics. Not caring about numbers, he everywhere attacks the enemy and breaks it in pieces. He knows the irresistible power of onslaught, and that is all there is to it. His opponents will persist in their sluggish tactics, subordinate to the office pens, while he has a council of war in his head. In action, he is as free as the air he breathes. He leads the regiments, fights and wins according to his will!”

Letter of the Russian general written during the Swiss Campaign

Source:

Олег Соколов. (2022). Битва двух империй. 1805-1812

#‘he is as free as the air he breathes’#Napoleon #napoleon bonaparte #Alexander Suvorov #Suvorov #quotes #description of Napoleon #quotes about Napoleon #napoleonic era #napoleonic #first french empire #french empire #19th century #history #france #Russia

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 2 months ago

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Procedure Part 3

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Notes: ...Four parts it's going to be four parts I'M SORRY

Length: 5.2K

Warnings: Angst; fluff; explicit sexual content: vaginal sex; fingering; oral sex; unprotected sex; semi-public sex

Summary: What was the standard operating procedure when you slept with your ex-husband?

It had taken a lot of practice, but you’d learned over the course of your divorce not to ask questions that you didn’t want to know the answers to. You didn’t ask Borracho if he and Jessa had gone out. When Alyssa asked her within earshot of you during practice, you did your best not to listen, but you couldn’t help but catch on the words,

“Nice,” and “not sure,” and “next Friday.”

Next Friday? Borracho had been taking Olivia on Friday for months. He hadn’t asked you to take her for the evening yet. Was he going to get a babysitter? What was the point of wasting money like that just to keep you out of it? You didn’t have any plans next Friday, you could take her, no problem.

Your mind started combing through ways to bring it up, some subtle tactic to hint that it wouldn’t be an imposition. What if something happened and Borracho got called into work? Would he call you after that to ask you to take Olivia for the night? Fork out a fortune on overtime for that poor babysitter? And what if they couldn’t stay latte—?

“So I was thinking of putting Olivia on first base next weekend—”

“I’m free on Friday!”

It left you before you could think about it. Borracho didn’t answer for a moment. He blinked at you, his pen hovering over the notes on his clipboard. You cleared your throat, tightening your arms around your chest as you looked around. “I mean, um—First base is good, she likes first base.”

“...Yeah, I remember. You said.”

“Yeah. So—Good. Good choice.”

“Okay. Maybe stay out of Alyssa’s thermos of special juice, huh?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to tease back, just offering a small smile as you refocused on the field. It took a moment longer than it should’ve for Borracho to walk away, but that was fine enough for you—you were already stewing in your idiocy. The hell had you been thinking, blurting it out that way?

Well, whatever. The door was open now, Borracho knew you would be free on Friday. It was up to him to ask you to look after Olivia now. The ball was firmly in his court, and he knew what to do with it.

He would ask. He would cave. He just needed a couple of days, that’s all. You knew Ben, and the way he operated. He needed to come around to an idea himself. Of course, it may take a little longer because you’d blurted it out so stupidly. You could just hope his pride wasn’t wounded, or that he went out of his way to move the date.

No. No, he would ask. You’d hear from him by Wednesday.

You couldn’t answer too quickly. Third ring, you decided. You wanted him to squirm a little.

Well, maybe it was rude, but he deserved it! Leaving it until 5 o’clock on Friday to ask you to look after Olivia—it was short-sighted of him. Or had it been his pride? Maybe telling him that you were free had been a bridge too far. That was Ben, though: ridiculous, stubborn, absolutely maddening—

Shit, it went to voicemail.

You swiped open the missed call notification, hurriedly calling him back. You raised the phone to your ear, listening to the steady burrrrr…burrrrrrr…Was he leaving a message, or—

“Hey, there you are.”

You rolled your eyes. There you were. The nerve of him.

“Yeah, sorry,” You leaned back against the couch, propping your head up on your hand. “I was um—I didn’t hear my phone ringing until the last second. What’s up?”

What’s up, that was good. It didn’t indicate that you knew exactly why he was calling, or that you were annoyed that he’d taken so damn long.

“You still free tonight?”

“Uh…” You glanced around. “Sure, why?”

“You wanna do something?”

Your mouth opened, a half-scold, half-tease sitting on your tongue, but you froze. Do something? What had happened to his date? Did he cancel? Did Jessa?

“Um…” You cleared your throat. “Do something like—I mean, what would we, uh—What’s the plan?”

“No plan, just. Dinner, I guess?”

“Sure. Are you letting Olivia pick?” You couldn’t just not ask about her anymore.

“Liv’s at a sleepover at Amanda’s. From her class?”

Amanda, of course. You’d completely forgotten about the sleepover.

“Dinner sounds good. You wanna come over here or should I go over there?”

“I was thinking we’d go out someplace.”

He was thinking? Since when?

“I can pick you up,” He added. “Seven alright?”

What was happening? What parallel universe had you fallen into where this man was making (albeit last-minute) dinner plans and offering to pick you up?

“Sure,” You managed, “I can um—Yeah. Seven sounds good.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

“See you.”

You pulled the phone back from your face, watching the call blink away before it disappeared, leaving your lock screen of Olivia in her little league uniform. 5:02pm. You had time to get ready, and a helluva lot of questions to mull over as you did.

It felt so foreign and strange to be out with Borracho and having such a good time. Maybe that was unfair to both of you—you’d been relating to one another as adults, not just as parents for the last couple of months. And for as badly as you’d wanted to ask about Jessa, you didn’t find a chance to bring it up.

This evening had you noticing a lot of things that seemed to have gone by the wayside over the course of your marriage. There was a lightness to the two of you, a teasing, warm energy that you had missed on the dates you'd been on recently.

“What’d you get?”

“Cinnamon.”

“Gimme some.”

“No!” You laughed, pulling your ice cream cup out of the reach of his questing spoon as you slid down in the passenger seat of his car. “You should’ve gotten your own scoop of cinnamon ice cream.”

“Chocolate and cinnamon don’t go.”

“Well that’s bullshit and we both know it.”

“Swear jar.”

“I’ll take it off your monthly.”

“Generous of you.”

The two of you ate your ice cream in silence for a few moments, nothing filling the car but the scrape of your plastic spoons against the little paper cups.

“...Ben?”

“I’m not sharing, either.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head.

“Never mind.”

“Was that it?”

“No.”

“So?”

“I said, never mind.”

You felt Borracho turn his head to look at you, and realized that the scrrrrrrrape of the spoon against the cup had stopped on his side of the car.

“What’s up?”

“No, nothing…This is nice, that’s all.” It felt dangerous to say, like acknowledging the thing might break it. But—

“Yeah,” He agreed quietly. “It is.”

“Can I, um.”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t have anything else going on tonight?”

You heard Borracho shift in his seat, swirl his spoon around in his ice cream.

“No.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. “Really?”

“I didn’t.”

“You weren’t supposed to see Jessa?”

“No.”

You turned your head finally, taking Borracho in closely. You knew him well—you knew the way his face pinched up and closed off when he was lying to you. But his expression was smooth and honest as he turned to meet your eye. You considered for a moment before you nodded, looking back down at your ice cream.

“You like her?” You prodded.

“Talking about this doesn’t bother you?”

“No. Why should it?”

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?”

“Because I like this shirt and I don’t wanna get any ice cream on it.” It was a lame excuse, but you stuck to your guns, pointedly stabbing at a melting lump of cinnamon swirl and raising it to your mouth. Some of it dribbled off of the spoon, and before you could clean it off, Borracho’s thumb swiped across your lower lip. You eyed the smear of it and watched as Borracho drew it back to himself, sucking it off of his thumb. Heat rushed your face, and you turned to look through the windshield, swallowing thickly.

“Not bad.”

“See?” You finally managed. “Told you cinnamon and chocolate go.”

“What about you?”

“Hm?”

“No date planned tonight? You takin’ a break from the apps again?” Yes.

“No,” You sniffed. “Just…Didn’t have one tonight.”

“Meet anyone you like lately?”

Just you. “A couple,” You fibbed.

“You’re dating couples now?”

“No, I mean I went on a couple of—Oh—” You spluttered, whacking Ben’s shoulder as he cracked up. “I’m gonna drip some of my ice cream on this seat and then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“Thanks for dinner.”

“Sure.”

“And the ice cream.”

“Yeah.” Borracho leaned back against the car, hands tucking into his pockets. You shifted from foot to foot. You could just go inside—you should just go inside, but you had hardly been able to pull yourself away from Borracho since he first picked you up. You’d realized when he’d opened your car door for you that it felt like it had at the beginning, when you’d first been together.

“I’ll get Olivia from Amanda’s in the morning and drop her off,” Borracho offered.

“Yeah, no, that sounds good. You could get breakfast, if you want, I mean. Take your time. I don’t have much going on tomorrow. Wide open, so, no, uh—No drop-off time or anything to worry about.”

“Cool.”

What was it about finding yourselves on your doorstep that had cut the evening’s ease dead? Go inside. Go inside so he can drive away, so he can go home, so he can go to bed and be ready to pick Olivia up in the morning— “Do you want to come in for a drink?”

It was a quiet, heart-stopping moment of quiet between you before Borracho swiped his tongue across his lip, glancing around.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Oh. Shit.

“No, sure,” You shook your head, taking a couple steps back. Fuck, that was embarrassing. You could keep it together until you were alone.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hang on, c’mere.” Borracho reached out, gently grasping your hand and drawing you in again. You moved slowly, dragging your feet a little as you focused on his chest. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“I didn’t think you meant it like anything.”

“Look at me.”

“You should go—”

Borracho lifted his other hand cupping your cheek and tipping your face toward his. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes sweeping across his face as his thumb swept gently against your skin.

“I want to come in.”

“Then come in. Why are you making it so complicated?” You hissed.

“This doesn’t feel complicated to you?”

“We went to dinner, Ben.”

“I know.”

“Which was your idea, by the way, I don’t know if you remember that?”

“I remember.”

“So—So come in or don’t, do whatever you want, you always do whatever the fuck you want—” You hardly got it all out before you felt the warmth and weight of his lips pressing against yours. You went still with surprise, eyes wide-open and watching as he melted into you. His hand smoothed down to your neck as you chased the kiss. You leaned into him, letting your eyes close as your hands curled in the fabric of his shirt.

Why did he bother to argue with you about coming in if he was going to stand outside and do this?

Ben’s tongue teased the seam of your lips and you parted them with a hungry moan, pressing your body against his as he curled his arm around your waist. You drew back just enough to get a good look at him, to see the way he drew his lower lip between his teeth, to hear him draw in a deep breath.

Was he panicking? Was he as surprised as you were that he’d done what he’d done? Was he waiting for you to tell him to fuck off? Or was he envisioning a large, flashing, neon sign over your head that said, BAD IDEA!

You pressed as close as you could, leaning up and brushing your lips against his jaw.

“Come inside, Ben,” You breathed. “Please come inside.”

Toward the end of your relationship, when the love had gone and touch had become perfunctory, you’d been certain that whatever your sex life had once been was canned. Sometimes, for its speed and mechanical nature, you’d almost wondered how you’d ever managed to make Olivia.

And you didn't expect it to be like that again from the way he’d kissed you outside—not quite as mechanical or routine.

You hardly separated from one another as you’d fumbled to lock the door before letting him steer you down the hall. Ben’s hands were everywhere—guiding you by hips; cushioning your head to keep it from thudding against the wall as the two of you came to a brief halt in the hall, his lips drifting from your lips just long enough to trail along your neck; teasing beneath the hem of your shirt before dipping to swipe beneath the band of your jeans.

Your knees hit the edge of the storage bin at the base of your bed and you wobbled, letting go of him to reach back and steady yourself against the mattress. You scooched back, face going warm as you watched Borracho reach down, tugging his shirt up and over his head. You didn’t bother to hide your open appraisal of his muscled body.

Ben had always been in good shape when you were together, and you’d caught the odd flash of it a time or two at little league practice—when he stretched further or jumped to catch a pitch or throw that had gone higher than planned or expected; when he lifted the hem of his shirt to swipe at a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face. But those little glimpses were all accidental, and fleeting, and this…This was something that you were going to file away for your lonely evenings.

Your eyes swept up to his face as he kicked his shoes off and crawled onto the bed, his hands bracing on either side of your head.

“Your turn.”

You tipped your head to the side, brows raising.

“I’m not going to get up and flex, Ben.”

“That was not flexing.” “Pretty sure your pecs were winking at me.” “Maybe we should slow down. I think you’re seeing things.”

“So far,” You slid your hand down, palming his hardening cock through his pants, and grinning as he groaned, head tipping forward, “I don’t think I’ve seen enough.”

Borracho tipped his chin to catch your lips in a heated kiss, slipping his hand up under your shirt and easing it higher. You squirmed, pushing yourself up just enough to help him tug it off. You didn’t see where he threw it, already preoccupied with twisting to reach for the light, but—

“Leave it on.” Ben crushed up against your back, catching hold of your hand and intertwining your fingers. “I wanna see you.”

You shivered as his kisses trailed across your shoulders, his free hand making short work of your bra. You shrugged the straps down, letting it fall to the bed and arching back against Borracho. His lips and fingers trailed lower, and you shivered as his hand dipped into your pants. Damnit, why hadn’t you worn cuter underwear? He couldn’t see them yet, but he could surely feel the granny panties that you’d put on earlier.

The first swipe of his rough fingertips against your clit made you bite your lip to halt an embarrassing, desperate moan.

“C’mon,” Ben groaned against your skin. “You can do better than that.”

“Maybe I’m not the one that needs to do better.”

The goad was out of your mouth before you could stop it, and the next thing you knew, you were shoved onto your back, staring at the ceiling. You watched, stunned, as Borracho unbuttoned your pants, tugging them (and your granny panties) down over your ankles. You had been joking, but it had seemed to light a fire in him that you hadn’t seen in a long time. He spread your legs with his broad shoulders, smoothing his hands up your inner thighs. You didn’t even have a chance to feel embarrassment before Ben is lapping broadly across your pussy.

You let your head fall back against the pillows as his fingertips curled into the meat of your thighs. He moaned against your skin, sucking slick kisses against your pussy. You slid your hands into his hair, toes curling in your sheets as he firmly flicked his tongue across your clit. You gave his hair a tug, whimpering as you felt him growl against you.

“Forgot how good you taste,” He murmured.

“Forgot how good you are at this,” You laughed shakily.

Ben hummed, sliding his fingers up to tease at your aching opening. He tutted softly as you tipped your hips down into his touch.

“When’s the last time someone took care’a you, huh?” He asked, easing two fingers into your pulsing cunt. You don’t answer—you can’t. You just push your hips hungrily down into him.

“Must’a been a while,” He went on, “Look at you—Fucking dripping for me.”

“Ben.”

“I know,” He cooed, curling and spearing his fingers. And he must know, because his movements are so precious, so sure–as if the two of you were together just days ago, not years. “That’s it…Fuck, I missed—”

He groaned, giving your clit a swift suck. You pulled in a shocked breath, shuddering and shaking as you came suddenly. Your feet shoved at the sheets as your hips tipped up into his hand. Goddamn, you couldn’t remember the last time you came so fucking fast for anyone, Ben included. He drew his hand back, and you watched dazedly as he raised his fingers to his lips, sucking the taste of you from them.

“Condom?” He asked.

“In the drawer,” You nodded toward the nightstand. Ben knelt over you to fish through the door as you took hold of his belt, undoing the buckle before turning to the fastenings as you heard the drawer open.

“Quite the stockpile in here..." You heard. “What’s this?”

You tipped your head to the side, warmth washing over your face and neck as you spotted Ben holding up your vibrator.

“The competition.”

“Different color than the last one." “Same model, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Can we get back to matters at hand, please?” You whined, pushing the waistband of his pants down. Ben leaned back, setting the condom down on the bed beside you before climbing off of the bed to remove them completely. You scooched over on the bed, steadying one hand on his hip and taking hold of his cock with the other. You stroked him a few times before leaning in, lapping at the pearl of precum beading at the tip.

Ben moaned softly, and you watched as his eyes slipped shut, his tongue sweeping across his lips. You turned your head, lapping across your palm and taking him in hand before you scooch forward, pressing a kiss to his hip. The kiss is chased by a nip, then a suck, then a lick before you lean away, eyeing the bright red mark left behind.

“Lay back,” Borracho ordered, giving your shoulder a gentle push. You scooched back, smiling as he caught your chin in his hand, tipping your head up for a sweeping kiss. You watched as he picked the condom up from where he’d left it and ripping the packet open with his teeth. Your stomach flipped as he rolled it down over his length—god where did that come from?

You could still stop. You could still tell Ben that you had changed your mind—had you changed your mind? Were these butterflies nerves or anticipation?

But as Ben teased the head of his cock against your pussy, you knew it was anticipation. You slid your hands up his arms, fingers curling around the swell of his bicep, nails digging in as he eased into you. Your shared moans filled the room as he curled over you, his forehead resting against yours as your eyelashes fluttered shut. Neither of you hurried the other along, you just waited, and felt—the weight and warmth of him on you, in you, lips and breath brushing one another’s as you each adjusted, and remembered.

And when he did move, if he had a problem with the marks that you laid on his shoulder and chest, he didn’t say a thing about it.

And when he did move, if you heard his bitten off swears, his murmurs of, “Missed this,” you didn’t say a thing about it.

The regret should’ve been instant. The moment you woke up wrapped in that man’s arms, feeling the rough brush of his cheek as he peppered your shoulders with kisses, that should’ve been it. There should’ve been a sinking sensation in your stomach, two eye blinks before you were hit with absolute clarity that the two of you had done something supremely stupid.

Instead, you rolled over in Ben’s arms and caught his lips with yours. He hummed against them, sliding a hand down to palm your ass and pull you closer.

“Time is it?” You mumbled.

“Who cares?”

“You have to pick up Liv.”

“We got time.”

“How much time?”

“Just relax.”

“I’m relaxed, I’m just making sure you’re not late to pick her up.”

Borracho groaned, rolling onto his back and lifting his hands to scrub at his eyes.

“Why did I think that last night would’ve mellowed you out a bit?”

“In the whole time you’ve known me, when have I ever been mellow?”

“Not often.” Borracho tipped his head to the side to look at you, a tender smile curling his lips.

And—oh, god, did the regret hit you like a freight train then. The man had no right to look at you like that, and hadn’t had it for a long time.

You managed a tight smile before you hurriedly pushed yourself up.

What were you supposed to do? Cuddle up? Jump all the way out of bed and shoo him out? Make him coffee and offer him toast (to be eaten hastily in the front hall, because there was no way he’d eat something so crumbly in his car)?

What was the standard operating procedure when you slept with your ex-husband?

“Hey.” You could hear his frown. “Where’re you goin’?”

“Gonna make some coffee.” You leaned over, grabbing your sleep shirt from where it was hanging over the edge of the hamper and dropping your bedsheets just enough to pull it on. “Want some?”

Your hands moved on autopilot as you measured out the coffee grinds and filled the water reservoir. You could hear Borracho in your bathroom, the hush of the shower just on the edge of your focus. Your mind filled with sinful images—Ben’s hands scrubbing soap across his pecs, over the hickies that were no doubt blooming on his skin. Oh, god. Where had you left them? His chest? His hip? His thigh?

You scrubbed your hands over your rapidly heading neck, puffing a stressy breath out through your nose. God, not now. Get the man out the door before you start combing through the night’s events.

Toast, you could make toast. Once the coffee was made, that would occupy your hands. You wouldn’t be able to reach out and—

The creaking of the floor behind you pulled you from your disarrayed thoughts.

“You hungry?”You asked. “I mean, I know you’re heading out—” That was good, reinforce that, lead him out kindly, “And you’re probably going to get breakfast with Liv.”

“Coffee’s fine.”

“Okay.”

“Mugs in the usual place?”

“Yeah, but I’ll—”

“I got ‘em.”

You set your eyes on the coffee maker, eyeing the steadily filling pot as Borracho’s arms came into view, reaching for the cabinet. Your gaze swept up over the expanse of skin, traveling up over the tight slip of his bicep and landing on the bright red mark marring his left shoulder. Oh. Shit. And why the hell had he slung his shirt over his shoulder instead of putting it on?

Borracho set two mugs down, glancing at the mark before reaching for the coffee pot.

“Thanks for avoiding my neck.”

“Sure,” You nodded dazedly. “Old habits.”

Borracho grunted, nudging a mug toward you as he took up his own. The two of you sipped quietly for a few moments, nearly hip to hip as the coffee maker ceased its burbling.

“You wanna join us for breakfast? I can grab Liv and we can come pick you up,” He offered. “Give you time to get ready.”

You should cut it dead there, you knew that.

But Olivia always seemed to have such a good time when the three of you were together.

Still, after the night you’d had, could you really sit through breakfast without spending the entire meal in your head? And what about after breakfast? What if you were looping into going to the park with them again—?

You cleared your throat, glancing down the hall.

“I should probably get back to the bathroom remodel.”

Borracho nodded a little, peering into his mug.

“Anything I can help with?”

“Oh—No. I’m just gonna paint today, I think.”

“I can help tape. I know you hate getting the corners.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I don’t wanna cut into your time with Liv.”

Borracho tossed back the rest of his coffee before gritting out, “Alright.” You watched him set his mug in the sink and yank the shirt off of his shoulder, tugging it on over his head. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that his tone had something to do with your answer—and you did know better, but it was so easy to dismiss it as the fact that he’d just chugged some insanely hot coffee.

Maybe he was trying to get out of there as quickly as possible—maybe he had only invited you to breakfast to be polite—

Borracho turned, brushing past you and making for the door. You should’ve been relieved, but the sight of his rapidly retreating back made your stomach twist. Jesus Christ, what the hell did you two do?

Things had been in such a good place, clicking along so well—he was going on dates, you were going on dates, why had you gone so fucking insane—

“Hey.”

You snapped to attention at the sound of Ben’s voice. He was lingered by the still closed door, one hand on the knob, the other clutching his jacket from there he’d scooped it off of the floor.

“Yeah?” You asked.

His mouth moved wordlessly for a few seconds before he closed it, jaw tensing.

“I’ll—Later.”

Two disjointed words, and then Borracho was out of sight, your door clicking shut behind him.

Breakup sex. That’s what you decided, standing in the paint aisle of Home Depot as you tried to decide between the swatches of Eggshell and Harvest Wheat for the bathroom.

By the time you and Borracho had reached the decision to divorce, physical affection had gone right out the window. There hadn’t been a last hug, a last kiss, a last fuck—at least, not one that you had known was the last, when it had happened. So last night’s temporary insanity was actually much-delayed, absolutely normal, totally-within-the-bounds-of-every-other-fucked-up-relationship breakup sex.

And most importantly, it wasn’t going to happen again.

One-and-done.

The two of you had moved on before, you’d do it again. You would go back to casual conversation and regular, Olivia-only related phone calls now that you’d both…scratched that itch.

Harvest Wheat.

Harvest Wheat, and a new light fixture, and absolutely no more fucking your ex-husband.

“Shut up,” He groaned, breathing hot against the skin of your throat, “Fuck, you want everyone to know what we’re doing in here?”

“You shut up!” You hissed, fingers winding through his hair as his thrusts became more harsh.

Oh, this was bad. This was not what baby changing stations in public restrooms were meant for.

Going out for pizza after the game with a few of the other parents and Olivia’s teammates had seemed so innocent on the face of it. The kids had won a game, and had more than earned a couple of slices and an ice cream.

But it had been Ben’s fault for following you into the bathroom. And maybe it had been your fault a little, too, for telling him, when he pulled his jacket off and briefly bared his shoulder when his opened button down slipped, that his shoulder looked like it had healed up nicely. But it had been even more of Ben’s fault when he’d asked if you wanted to change that.

Either way, the fact that you’d gotten up to use the restroom and opened the door to find him waiting there had been a surprise, and for him to guide you back inside with a kiss had caught you even more off-guard.

You could’ve told him fuck off, to stop, and he would’ve. But where your hands had come up to push him away, you’d grasped his shirt and hauled him closer as his hands fumbled to undo the latch on the baby changing table.

You curled your arms around his shoulders now, praying that the slight rattling of the table wasn’t loud enough that it would reach the patrons in the restaurant. You turned your head, blindly searching for Ben’s lips and whining as his tongue dipped into your mouth. You used your hold on his hair to guide his head as you liked. His hands braced on the wall behind you, pace becoming more and more harsh.

“Hurry up,” You breathed, “Someone’ll come looking—Oh!” You gasped as Borracho lowered a hand between you, swirling your clit with his fingers. The speed and angle were just on the right side of rough, and Borracho’s pace began to falter as you came. You tipped your head back as you felt Borracho’s hips twitch, and he spilled into you.

You drew in a deep breath as the two of you settled. Borracho’s hands smoothed to your waist, easing you off of the changing station before he took a step back. You tugged up your pants as he fixed his, and when he caught your eye, you shared a smile.

“Should get back out there before someone comes looking,” You nodded toward the door.

“Yeah.”

You made it two steps closer to the door before you heard, “Forgetting something?”

You turned back, and had to bite back a smile as Borracho lightly tugged his sleeve aside, baring his shoulder to you. You stepped closer, leaning in and sinking your teeth lightly into his skin. You hummed, pulling back and lapping across the dented skin.

“Did you like biting this much when we were married?” He teased.

“I dunno. Were you this biteable when we were married?”

Borracho smiled, ducking in for a quick kiss. “Go back to the table. ‘M gonna sneak out back for a smoke.”

“Don’t take too long.”

“Go,” He repeated, giving your ass a light slap as you turned away from him.

You weren’t sure what was worse—returning to the table and getting a suspicious look from Alyssa, or the realization that you’d need to pick up Plan B on the way home.

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@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ;

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ;

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ;

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ;

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

#Procedure #Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon x You #Benny Borracho Magalon/Reader #Benny Borracho Magalon/You #Benny Borracho Magalon fic #Benny Borracho Magalon imagine

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generic-sonic-fan · 1 month ago

Text

Tensile

Summary: Shadow says he is drawing a model of a combat encounter. Omega suspects there's more going on.

796 words

---

“YOU ARE STILL AWAKE.”

Shadow looks up from where he’s sitting on the living room floor. His hands hold a pen and paper against the coffee table.

“ORGANICS REQUIRE AT LEAST EIGHT HOURS OF REST.” Omega says.

“I’m modeling a combat scenario.”

Omega approaches and, with only a little bit of clattering, sits down on the floor beside him.

Shadow spreads the paper out, revealing a crudely-drawn oval. At the top of this oval is a symbol that might represent a door. Six red dots are placed loosely around it. On the other side of the oval is a square-shaped symbol.

“They enter here.” Shadow points with his pen. “Blocking the entrance.”

“THEIR ARMAMENTS?”

“M16 rifles, 40 round magazine size. Secondary HK-45 tactical pistols. For each of them.”

Omega knows immediately these were not Badnik armaments.

“They enter here.” Shadow repeats. “The only other exit is here. It requires external activation.”

He gestures to the square-shaped symbol across the oval from the attackers. There’s a smaller station drawn just outside of it.

“There is one person with adequate power to fight. And there is a civilian.” Shadow says quietly. “They are trying to get through the other exit to escape.”

“WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU TRYING TO MODEL?”

“How the defenders could escape.”

“THE COMBAT-EQUIPPED DEFENDER COULD UTILIZE THE FREE-STANDING EXIT OR ITS LEVER AS COVER.” Omega points.

“No, the pod- it’s glass. Any bullets hitting it would damage the exterior and cause problems during re-entry.”

“THE COMBAT-EQUIPPED DEFENDER COULD CHARGE THE ATTACKERS, PROVIDING DISTRACTION FOR THE CIVILIAN TO ESCAPE.”

“No, you don’t understand! They’re already trained on her, they’d fire the moment I’d-” Shadow stops himself. “The moment he moved.”

Omega stares down at the sheet of paper, at the six red dots, the pen marks pressed down so hard that they’ve almost torn through the page. And he analyzes Shadow’s use of pronouns. And the time of night he is modeling this “combat scenario”.

And he replies, “THERE IS NO POINT TO FURTHER ANALYSIS.”

Shadow clenches his fist, breaking the pen he’s holding in two, spilling ink across his glove.

“YOUR BEST COURSE OF ACTION DURING THIS EVENT IS ALREADY APPARENT TO YOU. THERE IS NO FURTHER VALUE IN RE-SIMULATING THIS.”

Shadow shoves Omega, smearing the ink across his chest.

It’s a paltry gesture, not enough to actually move him. “THIS IS WORTHLESS SPECULATION.”

“Worthless?” Shadow hisses. “You think this is worthless?”

“AFFIRMATIVE. YOU HAVE ALREADY LEARNED AND IMPROVED FROM THIS COMBAT ENCOUNTER LONG AGO.”

Omega recalls more sophisticated tactics Shadow had employed seconds after awakening from stasis, to save an startled Rouge from a hail of gunfire greater than any squad of GUN agents could hope to muster. Gunfire from Omega’s own targeting.

He does not mention this.

Shadow stares down at the page.

“THERE IS NO PURPOSE IN UPSETTING YOURSELF OVER THIS AGAIN.” Omega grabs the paper from the table.

Shadow doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t stop him when he rips the page in half, either.

“RETURN TO YOUR QUARTERS. WE HAVE A MISSION TOMORROW.” Omega draws a flame thrower and with a small puff incinerates the remains of the combat model.

But before he can stand, Shadow throws himself against his chest.

He freezes as Shadow’s hands scrabble for purchase on the sides of his plating as his body begins to shake. As the first sob registers in the air. As he closes his eyes and moisture begins to spill out.

Omega sheathes his flamethrower, and in a motion he has to calculate from only a few quickly-retrieved memory files of Amy’s posturing, he lowers his hands until they settle around Shadow’s back.

Between his fingers he can feel Shadow’s diaphragm spasm with every breath, along with the trembling bundle of muscles in his core, feeding arteries that pulse just beneath his skin. Fragile mechanisms laid bare.

For two tenths of a second, Omega worries that a single movement might disrupt the erratic combination of rhythms keeping Shadow alive. A recall of data from countless combat encounters puts a stop to that worry, however.

“YOU ARE STRONGER THAN THIS," he mutters.

Shadow stiffens. “You’re right.”

“STRONGER THAN THE MEMORY.” He adds quickly.

“Are you sure?”

Every response Omega tries to calculate stops at the third word in. His language processor is woefully unprepared for the task.

So he simply replies, “YES.”

Shadow presses his forehead against his chest plating.

“NEVER DOUBT MY ANALYSES.”

Shadow gives a strange combination of sounds, something between the classifications of a laugh and a gasp.

“Thanks.” Shadow says. “Don’t tell Rouge.”

“LIKEWISE.”

He pulls against his grasp, and Omega lets him go. He watches as he wanders off to his room, and does not move until he is sure Shadow has fallen into the rhythm of sleep.

#e-123 omega #e 123 omega #shadow the hedgehog #hurt/comfort #Shadow has PTSD #not intended as shadomega but I give you full permission to tag it that way if you'd like

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a-ikuoliver · 7 months ago

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denki + a cosmopolitan pretty pleaseeeeeee

LUKE MY LOVEEEE i hope u like it, i tried to lean more into the flirtiness but im unsure if it translated well lmao but i hope u like it nonetheless <3 birthday bash intro + rules + menu | event masterlist

you weren’t exactly a regular at the local bar, you didn’t know every employee by name, but you’d been here enough to know you’d remember seeing him around. you’d have remembered the shock of yellow hair, glowing neon under black lights, the static electricity surrounding him, the flirty, cheshire smile planted on his pink lips. how hadn’t you seen him around before?

“cosmo? good choice.” he practically purrs at you, his hips like a magnet for your eyes when he twists around, reaching high on the shelves for the vodka, the twinkle in his golden eyes enough for you to know he caught you staring at the sliver of his abdomen exposed by his shirt lifting. averting your eyes from his, you look down to his hands, slender fingers topped with cracked black nail polish, a bracelet on one of his wrists.

watching him work was like foreplay, the way he cradled the shot glass, fingers curled around the bottle as he poured the shot of vodka, the confident smirk on his lips when he held the bottle higher and higher mid-pour, tipping the bottle back when your shot was perfect. if he wasn’t so attractive, you might’ve thought his flair was over the top, but watching him, you find it impossible to find every movement anything other than mesmerising.

adding ice, the measured shots, and the juice to the cocktail shaker, he leaned closer, his name tag flashing in the light, his name messily scrawled in capital letters across the plastic, denki <3.

finally, shaking the cup in one hand, he leans on his elbow, getting closer than he needs to get, his cologne overwhelming your senses, his proximity giving you no choice but to watch his lips instead of his hands, “so, you come here often?”

his voice is so, so, smooth, like a siren’s when you lean closer as well, his orbit impossible to escape, “‘cause i think i’d remember someone like you in here.”

as if testing the waters, his tongue darts from between his lips, dark golden eyes watching you track the muscle as it wet his lips. clearing your throat, you glance up at his eyes through your eyelashes, “this a new tactic for tips?”

your voice is light, flirty, bringing a grin to his lips when he steps back to finally pour your drink (you’d never known any bartender to take this long making a cosmo, maybe you’d order a more complex drink when you come up next, just so he doesn’t have to stall to keep you close), garnishing the glass with a fresh orange peel twist.

“maybe, maybe it’s just to get your number.” denki slides the drink towards you with a wink, the glass sat atop a cardboard coaster (blank, you note, free from any advertisements the others were plastered with), “on the house, gorgeous.”

you giggle at his joke, leaning nearly your entire upper body over the bar to hand him the free-drink token, closer again to drag your fingers over his shoulder, down to the pen tucked beneath his name tag. like this, you can see the lines of dark brown littered between the yellow of his eyes, the way his pupils dilate at your proximity, the affect you had on him.

scribbling your number down, you hold the coaster back out to him between two manicured fingers, holding your cosmo in your free one, biting your lip at the lovesick look in his eye, “i’ll see you around, denki.”

#mercurys birthday bash #「mercury writes」#「mercury answers」#「luke <3」#「denki」#kaminari drabble #denki kaminari x reader #kaminari denki x reader #denki x reader

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oriistar · 1 year ago

Text

All I Want For Christmas..

König x GN Reader ᐤ Fluff

Summary: Your loving boyfriend is currently deployed. As the holiday season creeps closer to Christmas, you feel lonely knowing that König wouldn't be there, or so you thought..

Warnings: Mentions of seasonal depression.

The seasons had been creeping by slowly, bringing the changing of weather and leaves. The warm and inviting hues of Autumn were always comforting but as November passed and you were eased into December and the thrall of the winter season, it became harder to ignore a dreadful feeling in your chest. The frosty streets of the Northern American city you lived in was decorated with bright Christmas lights and decorations. You saw the decorations and happy families every day when you walked your little corgi, Bagel, but for some reason the infectious joy was lost on you. You struggled most of your life with seasonal depression and usually you found ways to preoccupy yourself turning the holiday months but none of your tactics were working this year and you knew exactly why.

Around two years ago you had signed yourself up for a pen pal program, created to boost morale in troops across the globe. This program wasn't specific to American troops though, it was meant to randomly assign you a soldier in any allied countries army including private military contractors. You figured it'd be fun in your free time, to send an occasional letter and possibly learn about a foreign country depending on what kind of soldier you were assigned to. You just so happened to be assigned to a KorTac soldier stationed in Austria. For an entire year you had sent letters back and forth, getting to know the soldier named König. After a year of continuous letters, you started to develop feelings for the man who seemed so sweet yet mysterious. You had no clue what he looked or sounded like, you only knew as much as he told you but it was hard not to feel some kind of affection for the man. A year of letters later, you had decided to meet him in person next time he had leave.

It was awkward and he definitely wasn't what you were expecting. König was a huge man and even if you knew he was kind and quite a gentleman, he still scared you shitless when he locked on you at the airport and approached you with such meaningful strides. He was so sweet though, and even if he did scare you at first, you grew to find an immense comfort and safety in his presence. The meeting only made your feelings for him grow and unbeknownst to you, he was certainly feeling the same attraction. More letters and a few visits later, you two had confessed your feelings and began a loving a healthy relationship together.

This was your first holiday season with König as your boyfriend but the excitement of it quickly wore off when you remembered that he was deployed halfway across the world and wouldn't be able to take the holidays off. It only served to make the seasonal depression worse with the knowledge that the love of your life wouldn't be there on Christmas Day. You had received a letter from him just last week, saying how much he wished he could be with you but you didn't have the heart to send one in return. You desperately wished he was allowed to have a phone on base so that you could call him on Christmas Day at the very least. You couldn't even send him any actual gifts, it wasn't within KorTac regulations.

It was a very frustrating scenario with no real solution. Eventually you decided to try your very hardest to pretend like it didn't bother you but often you'd catch yourself snuggling sadly, on the verge of tears thinking about your lover and how much you missed him. It made you feel kind of pathetic too. You knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to start dating him, he had even warned you that he would often miss important holidays and such but that didn't make it hurt any less now that you were experiencing it.

With a soft sigh, you decided to compose your letter in response to the one König had sent you a week ago. He was probably worried about not having a response yet and you didn't want to give him any additional reasons to be an anxious mess.

Dear König,

I'm missing you a lot. I know you're busy, I just wish you would have been able to take this Christmas off. Bagel misses you a whole bunch too, he's always sitting by the door waiting for you to come back. Sometimes I consider sitting with him…

I hope you're keeping warm and safe. I bet the snow over there is much deeper than it is here. Do they decorate on base for the holidays? I don't think I've ever asked you that now that I think about it.. I've been trying very hard to keep myself happy but I can't help but think about you constantly. I miss the way you hold me through the night, or when you kiss my forehead, and hold my hand.. I miss listening to your stories from missions and antics with your teammates. I miss everything about you but I know you knew that already, it's usually all I talk about in these letters.

Here's to hoping next year I get to keep you for the holidays. I'm sure my family will love to have you over for your first Thanksgiving, I know we talked about you wanting to experience that American tradition eventually. I got you some Christmas presents too. I put them under the tree and they're all wrapped even though I know you won't be able to open them until February, at least it'll still be a little chilly out then. Maybe we can recreate a little Christmas, I'll even set the tree back up before you get here.

I can't wait to be in your arms again. Please come home to me safely.

Love, y/n

You sniffled a little as you finished the letter but you wouldn't let yourself cry again. You spritzed the paper with a spray of the usual perfume you'd wear, something König had said before that he loved. He had written in his letters how the scent of your perfume would make him relax after a long day and occasionally those letters would delve into more intimate territories.

You folded the letter and slipped into an envelope. You quickly wrote down the required information and pressed a stamp onto the top corner of the envelope. You got up to get dressed in something warm, simple jeans and one of König’s thick jackets that he had accidentally left behind the last time he had come to visit you. Although you referred to your apartment as you and König’s home, he didn't actually live with you yet. He lived in Austria but honestly spent more time on his vacations with than at home, only staying long enough to see his family before he caught a flight to America to see you. As a result, he often left behind clothing. König was a big guy so the jacket he left behind was quite over sized on you and did an amazing job at keeping you warm.

The post office wasn't very far from the apartment complex you lived in so often you'd just take Bagel for a walk and mail the letters from the post office directly. The little corgi was already excited and was jumping around as you slipped on his harness and leash. You walked out the door, letter in hand with a sigh, hoping that König would get the letter soon..

𓆩♡𓆪

Halfway across the world, on the Austrian KorTac base, König was in just as bad shape as you were. Winter was his favorite season and he didn't suffer from seasonal depression like you but he was devastated at the fact that he wouldn't be able to see you for the holidays. He had been mopping around quite a bit and it definitely didn't go unnoticed by his teammates. König wasn't the most sociable person but at the very least he'd talk with his team during their daily PT or meal times but he'd been more closed off than usual the past few weeks.

Truly, he was feeling very anxious about you. Worried to leave you all alone even though he knew you were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. He had sent you a letter in the last week of November and it's been over two weeks with no return letter. Usually your letters were delivered quickly so he didn't understand why he hadn't heard back from you yet. He swallowed thickly as he lay in the bed of his private room. He felt awful, and all he wanted was to see you and hear your sweet voice welcoming him back to your small but cozy little apartment. To put his large hands on your hips and kiss the life out of you. He groaned, his face flushing pink behind his sniper hood. It was only midday but he didn't have much to do, being a commanding officer surprisingly left him with some time to himself for once as he didn't have anything really important to tend to.

A loud knock on the heavy metal door to his room pulled him out of his thoughts and with a groan, he rolled his large frame out of the squeaky bed that was far too little for him. He pulled the door open to find one of his comrades, Horangi, at the door. The small Korean man held and envelope out to him with a rather disinterested look on his face. “Surprise, your beuja finally sent you a letter.” Horangi said. König’s face flushed red at that, not bothering to correct Horangi when he called you König’s ‘spouse’. “Danke..” He muttered as he took the letter and Horangi headed off to hand out a few other letters, not one to pry in König’s personal business.

As soon as the door was shut, König resisted the urge to hop around his room like an excited child. He ripped the envelope open and nearly salivated at the smell of your sweet perfume. His excitement was snuffed out though as he read the letter and he frowned deeply. “Oh, mein engel..” he muttered sadly. Although it sent a thrill through him that you thought about him so often, he was also incredibly saddened to hear that you were so caught up about his absence. König bit his lip and cast a glance at the calendar hanging up by his door. It was only December 15th and he tried to think of something he could do to ease your troubled mind.

He wasn't scheduled for leave until February, but he was a Colonel, surely there were some strings he could pull. He smoothed out the folded letter with his large thumb before he brought the paper up to his covered nose, breathing in deeply so hebcould inhale the scent of the perfume. Yes, surely he could find a decent enough excuse that would let him take an early leave, he had enough influence with his ranking.. he would just have to try, even if it meant getting turned down and having to endure some physical punishment for asking.

𓆩♡𓆪

As time wore on, you were getting more and more restless. You hadn't received a letter back and if König had written one, you probably wouldn't get it until around New Year's due to how crazy the postal service was around this time of year. You'd be surprised if he got your letter either.

It was Christmas Eve and only around 6 pm. You were in the kitchen preparing a small Christmas dinner for yourself and Bagel. All of your friends were busy with their own families and your family lived across the country so you were left alone for the night. Although your heart yearned for König, you tried not to let it completely ruin the holiday. You had planned to make a small ham and a few sides, something you could eat tomorrow night for leftovers as well. You were going to watch Christmas movies with Bagel curled up in your lap, wearing his cute little Christmas sweater that your mom had crocheted for him last year. It was lonely and a little sad but you found a bit of comfort knowing that you weren't the only person in the world spending Christmas alone. You just hoped that König was having a nice time on base.

As you were putting the finishing touches on the small dinner and singing along to the Christmas music you had blasting through the apartment, Bagel's ears perked up and he jumped from his spot on the couch, rushing over to the door. You weren't paying attention, the music too loud to hear anything but it and your singing along.

The lock turned and the front door was carefully pushed open. Bagel started barking, his nubbed tail wagging a mile a minute as he excitedly jumped around the stranger's legs. You couldn't hear the barking over the music and you danced around the kitchen as one of your favorite Christmas songs came on.

König stood in the doorway, carrying a very heavy duffle bag and looking very exhausted. Despite how tiring his traveling was, his blue eyes immediately softened at the sight of you cooking in the kitchen and the sound of you singing along to Mariah Carrey’s ‘All I want For Christmas’. His heart swelled with love and he reluctantly pulled his eyes from you as he closed the front door and scooped Bagel up so he would finally stop his barking. He pulled down the mask he was wearing, thankful that the cold weather was a good excuse to wear one so he could feel a little more comfortable, and peppered kisses over Bagel's fluffy face. He set the dog down, unable to resist you.

König’s large frame moved silently behind you, not that you'd hear his heavy boots over the music anyway. His hands reached out and gently rested on your hips. This elected a scream from you, and you whipped around ready to defend yourself against whatever intruder thought you'd be an easy target. Immediately König released you and cursed softly, not thinking about how easily that could scare you. “I'm sorry, mein schatz, I didn't mean to scare you.” He apologized but smiled warmly as he saw the realization on your face.

Your eyes widened and lips parted in awe as you looked up at him, unable to comprehend that he was here and in your apartment. König shifted anxiously as he considered that maybe his surprise wasn't as well thought out as he hoped. Your hands drifted to his chest, resting them against his toned pecs and gently gripping at the soft grey shirt he was wearing. He was still wearing the KorTac regulations cargo pants and his combat boots. From the way he was dressed it seemed like he didn't even bother going to his own home before he got on a plane to get to you. He even still smelled a little earthy, just like the dusty training grounds on the base.

“König.. I.. I thought you weren't going to be able to see me again until February, how..” you were a bit lost on what to say. You weren't expecting him to show up at all and it left you in a bit of a state of shock. You let your hands roam his clothed torso but your touches were innocent, just a way for your mind to solidify that he was really here. König smiled softly and you felt breathless seeing his handsome face for the first time in months. “Ja, don't worry, I took care of everything.” He said with a nod of his head as he grabbed your smaller hands and held them in his own.

You were average height, but König was still quite a bit larger than you and it showed in the way his palms swallowed your hands. He had to lean down just a bit to press your lips together but when he did, you felt fireworks and butterflies each time. This time was no different and as your lips connected, you practically melted right into his arms. König loved that he had such an effect on you and he quickly wrapped his arms around you and tugged you into a strong embrace. As you broke the kiss to gasp for air, König pressed his forehead against your own. “I missed you so much, mein schatz.” He breathed out in a husky tone. “I'm all yours..” His accent deepened with his words, his eyes boring into you with a hunger you were all too familiar with.

He reached past you to click off the stove, abandoning the dinner you were making as he practically dragged you to your bedroom. He would be more than happy to cuddle with you and watch cringe Christmas movies while drinking hot cocoa but first, he needed to show you a different reason for you to be happy during the winter months..

All of my writing is original work created by me. Please do not repost, translate, or alter them in any way.

#call of duty #konig x reader #könig x reader #konig #könig #konig mw2 #könig mw2 #cod #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #konig cod #könig cod #fanfic #writing #x reader #oriistar

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oliviaischillin1204 · 1 month ago

Text

library (tickletober day 4- “hide and seek”)

word count: 2,402 words

i love these silly boys aksdfhghdj

Roman snapped up with a yelp. Something... just touched him.

He turned, but Logan wasn’t looking at him, his eyes focused on whatever he was working on at his own desk. Even in the gigantic library that existed within the Imagination, the two sides chose to work near each other, not close enough to get in each other’s way but still able to ask for suggestions or brainstorm sessions every now and then. Right now they were sitting at two large desks with their backs to each other. Logan’s pen was scratching away on his paper just like it had been this entire time, and aside from that brief movement of his hands, it didn’t look like he’d moved even once since he sat down.

Yet Roman knew, he knew, that he’d felt someone small jab into his back. Roman watched for a few seconds longer, before slowly turning back to his desk.

A long silence stretched, long enough that Roman wondered if nothing else was going to happen, long enough that he had nearly managed to immerse himself in his writing again.

Then--

“Ah!”

He whipped around yet again. He knew he’d felt something touch him-- it’d dug into the back of his ribs for less than a second before disappearing again. It didn’t hurt, it was too minor a touch to hurt him, which meant that ‘whatever’ was doing it wasn’t trying to hurt him. Nor did the person responsible seem to be trying to get his attention, given that Logan was still steadfastly ignoring any of Roman’s reactions.

Roman blinked, narrowing his eyes. Now Logan’s pen wasn’t even moving.

“You are playing a dangerous game,” he informed the other side’s back.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Logan replied, eyes down and voice flat.

The tick of the analog clock on the wall behind them seemed much louder as Roman turned around again, his hands back on his keyboard as he typed nonsense into the document.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick--

Roman was spinning around in his rolly chair the instant he felt his back being poked again. He forced himself to not flinch away from the sensation, instead darting forward to catch Logan by the wrist.

The logical side froze, arm outstretched with his criminal pen dangling from his fingers, inches away from Roman’s chest. He met Roman’s gaze, unflinching.

“Apologize.”

“No.”

A beat, and then Roman was yanking Logan out of his chair and pulling him towards him, but Logan was faster. He lunged forward and shot the fingers of his free hand underneath Roman’s arm, wiggling haphazardly. Roman snorted, loudly, and tried to curl his arm in without letting Logan go, but the logical side easily slipped his wrist out of Roman’s grip.

Without a moment’s hesitation Logan turned on his heel, darting around his desk and diving amongst the tall shelves. By the time Roman stood up, he had disappeared from sight.

Roman allowed himself one incredulous, delighted laugh. So that’s what Logan wanted?

Well. Two can play at that game.

The dull carpet muffled Logan’s steps as he traveled down another row of shelves. For a moment he’d considered taking off his shoes to step totally silently, but the thought quickly vanished into a flustered daze when he realized how much more vulnerable that would make him when-- if Roman caught him.

He had no doubt that Roman was after him-- aside from the fact that Roman hadn’t safe-worded, the creative side was absurdly competitive, and very vengeful. Logan’s little escape tactic was more than enough reason for Roman to get revenge.

Logan paused at the end of one row, ears straining for noise. The library was impressively large, but not limitless, and he and Roman were sure to find each other any moment now.

... Well. Roman would find him. That was his role, in this little game Logan had devised. Roman was the hunter. Logan was the prey.

A rush of air escaped Logan’s mouth, just this side of a whimper, and he slammed his hand over his mouth. No. He was not going to give himself up so easily.

But now that he’d started, it was so much harder to stop. Everywhere he turned, he was reminded of all the little fantasies he’d had about this library: Roman tazing his sides as he reached for a book on the highest shelf, Roman forcing him to read aloud as he tickled all over the soles of his feet, Roman pinning him against the wall and murmuring about how this is a library, Teach, so you better keep quiet no matter what--

No! Focus!

Logan dragged his hands down his face as if to wipe away the stray giggles bubbling in his chest. He would not lose. He’d started this tickle fight, and he was determined to finish it.

Roman prided himself of being fairly light of foot, but it was hard to avoid making noise in the dead silent library. His ears kept tricking him into thinking he was hearing footsteps, but it just as easily could’ve been the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He loved this. Logan was so rarely in a mood to play. No wonder he’d asked Roman to join him in the library today. How long had he been planning this?

Another sound came from behind him, and Roman whipped around before standing stock-still.

“Logan...”

He took a moment to pat himself on the back for the acoustics in the room; his voice seemed to echo and carry, the deep timbre reverberating as his taunting tone rose and fell.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are...”

He began walking again, slowly. Picked up a book and flipped through it casually before putting it back on the shelf. Humming lowly and letting out little vocal stims, singing sweetly through the aisles. Oh, he wasn’t worried about finding Logan quickly. In fact, he hoped he took his time. He was quite enjoying the hunt.

Damn Roman, for real. Damn him for being so nonchalant about the game they were playing, strolling through the aisles with barely a look cast to either side of him. Damn his for going no further than singing sweet teases that echoed around the whole room, leaving Logan to feel phantom tingles against his ears each time. Damn him for not even hurrying to find Logan, as if he were waiting for the logical side to, what, tire himself out?

Or turn myself in, Logan’s brain supplied unhelpfully. No! He wouldn’t think like that.

Logan straightened himself up. He started this game, yes, but he wasn’t going to make it easy. He was just as competitive as Roman, and Logan wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

And without another thought, Logan grabbed a book from a nearby shelf and launched it in the air, listening with satisfaction as it slammed down halfway across the library.

Immediately Roman was running towards the sound. His mind was spinning, and his eyes darted around for even a glimpse of a black polo shirt or the glint of Logan’s glasses lens.

He entered an area with lots of sofas and armchairs, but no Logan. Nothing was out of place, except--

His vision narrowed on a book on the floor. Logan would never let something stay out of place, which means he must’ve done it on purpose. He bent over, picked it up, and burst out laughing.

“‘Catch Me If You Can’, huh?” he muttered to himself. Logan’s subconscious clearly couldn’t hide itself from picking up just the right book for how he felt right now. What’s more, he knew this book, knew it was semi-autobiographical. He spun on his heel and hurried away, heading straight towards the nonfiction section.

Logan moved into the next aisle. Idly, he looked to the side-- at the exact moment Roman’s face appeared in a gap through the shelf.

They both froze.

Until Logan sprinted back the way he’d come in his own aisle, and Roman turned heel and followed along.

“Logan!” Roman sang as they darted through the stacks. “I think I found you, my little bib-lee-ophile! Don’t you want to come out and play?”

Logan didn’t answer; Roman thought he could hear stray giggles escaping in between his breaths. He ducked around the end of the next aisle and found himself and Logan face to face, with only a large round table in between them.

Roman went left. So did Logan. Roman went right, and Logan followed. They bobbed back and forth, staying on opposite sides of the table the whole time.

“Ha!” Roman said. “What’s wrong, Teach? Didn’t think about finding an escape route? You must really want me to catch you, huh?”

Logan clamped his lips shut and tried to put on a brave face. “I think you shouldn’t be so cocky, Roman. I know things you don’t about this library.”

“Oh, yeah?” Roman asked. He continued circling, smiling as he saw how Logan was now blocked in next to another bookshelf. “And what might that be?”

But he got no response. Instead, Logan whipped around, yanked a book out of its place on the shelf, and-- disappeared?

Roman froze. “What?”

He moved closer, just in time to see a panel on the back of the bookshelf slide back into place. His jaw dropped.

“Oh, you sneaky little scholar,” he muttered. “Why didn’t I think of secret doors?!”

So Logan wanted to play dirty, huh? Well, two could play at that game. He rubbed his hands together, conjuring some sparkles as he did just for panache. He clapped once, loud, and everything went dark.

Logan had only just climbed out of the trap door when the room went dark with a loud clunk. He froze, off balance and disorientated. Roman had shut off the lights? How would that help anything?

He strained his eyes, trying to make out any shapes in the dark. Luckily, the library had a fail safe for this kind of thing-- it was a clever little system that Logan had created to limit the amount of energy being used, by utilizing motion sensor lights that only illuminated whatever aisle the person is standing in--

It clicked. Logan’s eyes widened, but before he could do anything his vision was flooded by a sterile white light. He shielded his eyes and looked up; above him one row of lights were on, while the rest of the library was dark.

... The rest of the library except for a row near the nonfiction sectioned, where Logan had just come from. Where Roman still was.

He couldn’t look away from that distant light until it abruptly shut off-- and then another light turned on, one row closer.

Then another. And another.

Logan’s stomach dipped with panicked delight. He turned, ran, but with every new aisle he ran down, the light overhead turned on, creating a perfect map of his location throughout the entire library. His ears were filled with the clunk, clunk, clunk of the lights, creating a staccato rhythm that joined the rapid beating of his heart.

He looked over his shoulder. The lights turning off and on in the distance were getting closer. He could feel the giggles rising in his chest.

Clunk, clunk. Clunk, clunk. Clunk--

Logan barely looked up in time to realize he’d reached the end of the aisle. As in, the only thing in front of him was a wall. He skidded to a stop, bracing his hands on the wall to catch him. He looked around, scanning the ceiling, but couldn’t find any other lights. Only the aisle he stood in was illuminated.

It clicked, and his stomach dropped. As if the world were in slow motion, Logan turned and lowered his gaze to the end of the aisle.

“Found you,” Roman said sweetly. He took a step closer.

“Wait.” Logan backed against the wall.

“Hm?” Roman continued, unfettered. “Wait for what?”

Logan couldn’t think; his brain was already fuzzy. “Wait!”

“You said that already, Teach,” Roman replied. Slowly, like he had all the time in the world, he moved closer and closer. “No more trap doors, huh? I’m surprised you let yourself get stuck like this. Unless you wanna trying scaling the bookshelf.”

Logan’s eyes darted between the two tall shelves on either side of the aisle, and Roman laughed.

“No, I don’t think you’re gonna do that.” Finally he stepped close enough to pin his hands on the wall, boxing Logan in. The logical side bit his lip; Roman’s breath on his neck sent heat rushing to his face.

“You’re very silly, you know that?” Roman said. He leaned closer, letting his mouth graze delicately over Logan’s throat and collarbone. “Starting a game just so you can lose it. Knowing I was always going to catch you.”

His lips trailed up to Logan’s ear, startling a high pitched whine out of him. Roman laughed, stepping even closer to press his chest against Logan’s.

“Any last words?”

Logan opened his mouth at the exact moment Roman latched his hands onto his sides and squeezed.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” Roman said cheerfully after Logan stopped screaming. “Say it again?” He poked rapidly up and down Logan’s sides, migrating over to his ribs and down his tummy. “Jeez, Teach, what happened to all those big words? Do we need to grab you a dictionary?”

“Roman-- Romahan-- Roman!” Every poke and squeeze sent Logan into further giggles; he could do nothing but say Roman’s name. Finally his knees gave out, and he slid down helplessly to the floor, Roman guiding him and tickling him the whole way.

“Is this what you wanted?” Roman asked. He was so smug Logan could’ve hit him, if his hands were able to do anything other than weakly grab at Roman’s wrists. “I mean, if you want to play again later, we can, but I think I deserve a prize for winning, don’t I?”

He paused, leaning closer with a devilish grin. “Logan?”

His hands stilled, just resting on Logan’s belly, but giggles still fell freely from his lips. He cracked open an eye, already teary from the giddy tickles.

Roman’s grin softened just slightly. “You are an excellent prize.”

Logan couldn’t respond with Roman’s fingers already digging back into his tummy, but if he could, he just might agree.

#my posts #my writing #tickling #tickle fic #tickletober 2024 #augtickletober2024 #tt24 #sanders sides tickling #lee!logan #ler!roman #library #drafted on october 16 2020 #edit: i have no idea how or why this fic ended having so many weird double spaces between words #but i cbf to fix it so here we are lol

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angelofacidx · 9 months ago

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Mine

((@bunnyreaper V day exchange for @literatecowboy . I do not write fluff but here’s my crack at it, enjoy))

Ghost x reader fluff.

Valentine’s Day is a stupid Hallmark holiday meant to put pressure on couples to over perform and shower each other with gifts so that they may forget about how they treat each other the other 364 days of the year, or to make people feel isolated and lonely for not having a partner in their life. At least, that’s what you’d told yourself for most of your adult life. A self soothing consultation? Maybe. Valid? You’d like to think so. This view was swayed however, when Simon slipped his way past the iron gates of your heart and made himself a home there, rent free, the bastard.

A poorly folded note sat on top of your endless pile of risk assessment paperwork to go over before the end of the week, looking sorely out of place on your otherwise tidy desk. The note found itself clutched between your hands and splayed open as your curiosity surged. The handwriting itself was harsh, pen pressed too hard, angrily or nervously, and akin to what you’d expect a serial killer’s penmanship to be.

‘Be my valentine? -S’

Good lord, this was cheesy for anyone but especially for Simon. Regardless you felt the heat rise to your cheeks and your lips half quirk up involuntarily and awkwardly. Tucking the note away into your desk drawer, you headed to the rec room in pursuit of it’s sender. Thankfully, he was hunkered down on the peeling leather couch, tea in hand as he scrolled through an article on his phone. Probably about WWII. Men love WWII.

“You know you didn’t have to ask right?” You speak up, causing Simon’s gaze to tear away from his phone and fall onto you.

“Pardon?”

“The note. You didn’t have to ask. It’s kinda like…implied since we’ve been uhm..” You cough, clearing your throat and hoping he understands the implication.

“Is that a yes?” He asked, an eyebrow raised, and not bothering to humor you.

“…Yes, but no corny stuff.”

“So a string quartet to your office. Got it.” He says, turning his attention back to whatever he was reading.

When you wake, Simon is out of your bed and gone, his side neatly made with the corners of the sheets and duvet hospital tucked and the pillow fluffed. This wasn’t unusual for the two of you by any means. He’d come over after work, get fed, rearrange your internal organs in a way he saw fit, retire with you for the night, and then be out before his conditioning regimen started.

You sit up in bed, arching your back like a cat and stretching your body out with a content moan, shrugging off the sleepy feeling that ran bone deep. Your phone lit up on your bed side then, calling your attention to the string of ‘happy Valentine’s Day!’ texts from your friends. Cute. No text from Simon though, as you suspected. You wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot about the whole ordeal and the note was just a manipulation tactic, hoping you’d fawn over the gesture and suck the soul out of him harder than you had before.

Your morning routine went by without issue. Shower, brush your teeth, get dressed and apply makeup, a small spritz of perfume to your wrist. Making your way to the dining room, the usual resting spot for your keys, you’d noticed an iced coffee from your favorite cafe sitting on the table. It was a kind gesture, although the cup was sweaty and the ice was slightly melted, it was sweet of him nonetheless.

Your day at work dragged on as usual. Typing, filing, placing new recruits in their respective units and then completing the paperwork that went with it. Although you were just a desk jockey, you were the backbone of every goddamn task force on this base. Nature called you out of your office to relieve yourself and upon returning, your eyes mimicked an owl’s; huge pupils the size of saucers. Your desk was overtaken by a flower arrangement. Two dozen roses, babies breath, carnations, and eucalyptus all bunched together with a big silky black bow and overflowing the poor glass vase.

This was too much and beyond embarrassing. Your face heated, palms gathering sweat, and heart hammered somewhere deep in your chest. You mentally cringed at the image of carrying this home, the walk of shame off base and the sure to follow childish “ooo”’s from your colleagues. You had to admit though, it was a beautiful arrangement. He had to have picked it out and put some thought and consideration into it, which meant a lot to you even if you didn’t want to admit it.

With a determined pace you left your office, aiming to find Simon. After checking every nook and cranny of the base and leaving no stone unturned, you came up blank. He definitely knew you were looking for him, and saw you before you could see him. Though he was massive, he was able to be elusive and slip right through your fingers like sand. You admired the ability and wished you could do the same, but in the moment you hated him for it. Feeling defeated you headed back to your office, hat in hand, to see another note on your desk.

‘I’ll see you at home. -S’

Home. The word echoed in your mind. Though he stayed over at your place most nights during the week he’d never called it your home. The word itself sent you reeling, a giddy chuckle escaping you before you could stop it. Jesus, get a grip. He’s a guy you’re monogamously hooking up with who just so happens to return to your house every night like a stray cat, not your boyfriend. Totally not.

The end of your shift could not come faster. You sped walked to your car with your arms around the comically large vase, careful not to spill any water as it sloshed around and threatened to soak you. The vase ended up in your passenger seat, buckled in like a person as you made the trek back home.

Entering and kicking off your shoes, the smell of garlic, basil, and onion hit you. Simon sat at the table, two plates of pasta on either side and two glasses of wine. Carefully, you set the vase down as a centerpiece and ruffled a hand through his hair.

“You didn’t need to do all that Si. I appreciate it but you totally could have gotten away with a card or something.” You said, placing a kiss on his forehead before taking a seat at the table. Everything looked amazing.

“You’re better than a card darlin’ M’ almost offended for you. Have some standards will ya?”

“If I had standards you wouldn’t be sitting across from me.” You teased, which pulled a chuckle from his chest and the shake of his head. Your hand found his, giving him a reassuring squeeze that you were joking before letting it fall to your side.

“Did you cook this?” You questioned, stabbing a fork into the pasta and swirling it to gather some on the fork.

“…No. But I plated it so that counts for somethin’ right?”

“It does.” You assured, digging into your food.

The dinner and wine was delicious but silent, how the both of you liked it. Life and work was so busy it was nice to just sit together and exist without noise sometimes.

After you’d both finished you attempted to stand and clear the dishes but he stopped you with a hand to your chest, taking the duty on himself.

“They are beautiful, really. The flowers I mean. I appreciate them and I appreciate you, you really didn’t have to—.”

He cut you off with a wave of his hand, drying them on the dish towel after he finished cleaning up.

“You’re goin’ all soft on me and haven’t even opened the best part.”

“The best part? What is it?” You questioned too fast, mentally scolding yourself for sounding eager.

He fished a small box out of his pocket, placing it on the table in front of you and nodding his head, a silent tell to open it. Your hands found the box, opening it at its hinges carefully. Inside and sitting on the plush black velvet of the box laid a small silver chain necklace with the initial ‘S’.

Your eyes once again widened in awe as he moved to grab it from you carefully.

“Hold up your hair.” He said barely above a whisper.

With your hair out of the way he clasped the necklace around you, adjusting it to his liking before letting your hair fall back to its resting place.

“I uhm.. This.. What does this..?” You trailed off, anxiety twisting in your stomach.

“It means you’re mine, yeah?” He said in a hushed tone, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“..Yeah.” You agreed, breathily and hugging him to your chest.

You were his.

#cod #cod x reader #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod

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dougielombax · 4 months ago

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Thank fucking CHRYSTE!!!!

Some sanity at last.

More or less….

Whatever keeps that DREADFUL woman and her sycophants as far away from power as possible!

A lot of press outlets have been covering this as if they almost WANTED the fascists to take power.

Platforming their insanity and bigotry for the sake of perceived “balance”. To hell with that shite!

Feel free to reblog.

Make fascists eat SHIT!

#dougie rambles #news #political crap #france #leftism #anti fascism #feel free to reblog #elections #voting #french politics #european politics #europe #nfp

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winters-rose-daughterofcain · 11 months ago

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Nobody understands Lucy Gray Baird like I do. She resonates in a deep part of me, she means the absolute world to me. A lot of characters do, but she's different. I can and will talk about her for hours. She is beautiful and complex and tragic and by the end free and ever a mystery.

She is doing what she has done from the beginning, driving people mad trying to understand her, to fit her into boxes and stories and familiar narratives they can understand. People hate the vague, the ambiguous, the open ended; people hate and fear what they cannot understand. People say they love an enigma, they will use the word positively. They find it charming, endearing, a personal challenge of sorts. But an enigma is only fun when it starts out that way, an enigma is fun only so far as you can learn to understand it, to find a neat conclusion an ending. But Lucy Gray doesn't give people that, and she's never made any pretence to.

Lucy Gray is a girl who was forced to a place that was never truly home. She is a girl who lived by her charms as nothing but a child, she preformed to survive. She is a girl who will constantly adjust her appearance, always making sure she looks her best, who loves colour and who wears her mothers dress to her death. She is a girl who is always preforming, every careful word, every moment, every note she sings. She sings when she has something to say, she sings to have a voice, and she will not be bullied into relinquishing the power of her own words. Because the covey love colour and Lucy Gray more than most, but Lucy Gray also understands the power of words, a power no one can take from her. No capital, no arena, and no boy.

She is a girl who loves wild and dangerous things, she loves a boy she grew up with, a boy who betrayed her. The bet he lost at the reaping. She is a girl who was forced by life to be cautious, to love yes. But to never make the mistake of placing it above trust. She is a girl who loves a lot of things she can't trust; storms and snakes, but they will never matter more to her than trust.

She is a girl who despite all the suffering of her life, all the tragedy and all the betrayal is untimely kind. She looks after the people around her, the younger and older, the children and the the people her age. She is a girl who tries her best to let other children be the girl she was never given the luxury to be. Even the capital children, the very people whose parents and government have her in a cage, who treat her like an animal, who are sending her to the slaughter. It's a tactic yes, it is performance, but it is also kindness. There remains something genuine in her performance, a genuine love and compassion and kindness she shows as she lets a capital child, arm sticky with melting ice cream, touch her mothers dress through bars.

She's not perfect, not always nice and good, she is human. She is a survivor and no surviver has clean hands, but she makes it her life's work to stay on the right side of the line, to stay good. She is a girl who will grieve in private and to the people she trusts, forever preforming, forever observed. Because after all is that not what girlhood is? Is that not what survival takes?

She is a girl who even filtered through the point of view of a man who thinks she belongs to him, who goes from idolisation to contempt to infatuation, to his uttermost hatred, even through the perspective of a man who never saw her as fully human proves herself to be. She is unapologetic, she is alive and she is free and she is loving and bright and hurt and traumatised and she is an artist. She is not the art, she is not the muse, she is the one with the pen, with the voice. She is unabashedly human, and despite everything she retains her humanity, even through a narrator who denied her it.

Lucy Gray I will never forget you. Always and forever one of my favourite characters ever written.

#hunger games #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #ballad of songbirds and snakes #lucy gray baird #lucy grey #coriolanus snow #the covey #thg #tbosas #I am so very normal about her #someone ask me about her please I'm begging I need to talk about her #Lucy Gray my love

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sky-kiss · 1 year ago

Note

for the raphael prompt (if its allowed i am sending more than one, if not feel free to ignore or choose which one(s) you like, but the temptation was too great XD):

Love Worth Hope Father Empty Loneliness

A/N: All of these were top-tier prompts for the boy. Apologies for choosing two! Just in the interest of time. Second prompt is under the cut.

_______

Love:

_______

It’s a deliciously mortal concept and a useful tool. Raphael is no stranger to love. Mortals are too eager to throw themselves into hopeless and idiotic contracts, not even a glance at the fine print!, if love is on the line. Throughout his long life, he’s watched the carnage it wreaks with queer curiosity. It is a perfect encapsulation of mortal chaos.

Mortals say love is beautiful, but it leaves death in its wake, shattered hearts and broken bodies. Love is kind, but the jealous lover is too happy to kill. Love is patient, but he has watched a man sell his soul for a chance to fuck his unwilling “love.”

He recognizes love, even if he will never feel it. The mortal stares at him with open affection, and he wonders if they’ve gone mad. Raphael can use this, will use this, to tear them apart. And if they hope to manipulate him with such pedestrian tactics, he’ll cast fragments of their soul to every corner of the nine hells.

The baffling truth is they don’t want anything. The little idiot touches, listens, and supports him (which is a beastly oddity to contend with). Beyond that, he doesn’t pretend to understand.

Mortal chaos, he’ll call it, and the uncomfortable churning feeling, the nausea, will fade to a tolerable hum.

______

Worth

______

Cambions have no place in the hells or Toril. It’s one of the first lessons he learns, freezing in Cania’s unearthly cold. There’s no mother to rely on, only the tutor’s Mephistopheles assigns.

His sire does not hate him. Hate requires thought. Raphael is nothing at all. He lacks his half-sister’s beauty and elven blood, and so he is less. He lacks the Burning Soul’s exotic nature and capacity for destruction, and so he is less. Magadon goes his own way…

…and even in that regard, Raphael lacks.

Raphael seethes. The nobility in his blood, an archdevil’s blood, demands more. He will not languish as one of his father’s tools; he will not serve. He will not stagnate as the Hell’s demand.

He makes deals across the Prime Material. He builds his spy network and crafts his schemes. Other Cambions are lucky to find a place to lay their head; Raphael builds the House of Hope. He amasses knowledge, treasure, and servants. An army of his own! Warlocks! Kings squabble for his attention.

And in the hells he is nothing. Mephistopheles’ mongrel boy, reaching above his station.

Raphael rages, and he schemes. The Crown is the answer. The Crown of Karsus will elevate him above those damnable creatures. He will cast Asmodeus down, and they will finally understand.

Raphael is so near to greatness. A delirious satisfaction fills him when Tav finally puts pen to parchment. The deal is struck; the crown is his.

Which is why the end is so confusing: they’ve struck a deal; he’s won. He doesn’t understand why the insolent little beast brings chaos to his house, stealing, and killing. He doesn’t understand how, after everything, he still isn’t enough. This upstart hero, this child, stands above him at the end, their face twisted in contempt and pity.

He hates them for it. The taste of the blood in his mouth and the pain in his twisted, broken body pales in the face of his hate.

In the end, Raphael still falls short.

#raphael bg3 #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #prompts #my writing #raphael x tav

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neverendinggracelessness · 6 months ago

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AKA, Loki doesn’t know how to accept romantic sexual intimacy.

You can also read below the cut!

“Sex, Mobius,” Loki idly played with his pen, twirling it between his fingers. “Is a currency, nothing more.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

The pen came to a halt, his eyes snapped up at the admission, but Mobius wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he nonchalantly skimmed over the words on the paper without a single flicker of emotion, body loose and confident. The only give away was the dissatisfaction in his voice, and perhaps a hint of sadness.

“What?”

Mobius’ eyes fluttered back up to him, his brows scrunching up slightly, and then he let out a sigh.

“I guess that’s what sex is for some people,” He started, voice simple. “But it could be something more. A trust exercise, even.”

Loki scoffed. “A trust exercise?” He chuckled, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back in his chair. “That is ridiculous.”

The corners of Mobius's mouth quirked up, but the rest of his face stayed neutral, almost disappointed. Loki shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

They fell into silence after that. Loki was sure it was a tactic to get him to spill his feelings, but he would rather be pruned than talk about feelings. Mobius returned to his work, seemingly uncaring, but Loki knew better. He was waiting.

Loki wasn't going to play along. He didn’t owe him anything.

He would wait.

Wait.

Loki cleared his throat.

"Well," Loki said, breaking the silence. "You could say it's the same concept. It is a currency, you could trade it."

"That's not the same."

"I disagree.” Loki smiled with wild eyes. “You can trade your currency for goods, services. You can give it to someone else, or keep it for yourself. It can be used for selfish gain, or a kind gesture. In the end, the transaction is what matters."

"It doesn't have to be that way. People don't need to be so... transactional. That's not the only way."

"That's not true, Mobius. The TVA is proof of that. You take people and give them purpose, a reason to exist. To work, to live, and in the end, you kill them. That is a transaction, Mobius."

"What are you trying to say?"

"People don't do anything for free, and even if they do, it’s no longer a transaction. It’s a lie."

Mobius was still for a second, and then he put down his pen and looked up at him. "What do you want, Loki?"

The question caught him off guard. He was prepared to argue, to defend his opinion and his truth. He didn't know how to respond to a question, let alone one that was asked so earnestly.

He thought about his answer, truly thought about it. What did he want? Why was he so insistent on his view of sex? Was there a reason, or was he simply being contrary?

The answer wasn't as hard to come by as he would have expected.

"I don't know. I just-" Loki shook his head, frustrated. "I know what I like, and that's all I need."

Mobius hummed in acknowledgment but didn't speak. "Why are you so concerned with my sex life, anyway?"

"I’m not.”

"Oh, please. You've been trying to get me to fuck you ever since you got here. " Mobius accused, and the blunt words sent a shiver down the Asgardian's spine. "If you're so sure you don't want anything from me, then why do keep acting this way?”

"Maybe I’m curious."

"Or maybe you just want to feel in control, to get the upper hand. It's not the first time, isn’t it?"

"It's not-" Loki inhaled sharply, clenching his fists. "It's not like that."

"But it was before. You tried to whore yourself out to me just to steal my Tempad." The agent said sharply, and Gods, it was as if they were right back in that time theater. "I know you. So, what changed, Loki?”

Loki did not respond. Instead, he looked down at the papers below him, thinking what changed? Was it when Mobius so bluntly and respectfully denied him back in the time theater, or the way Mobius was staring at him right now, his eyes searching, needing to know what Loki was thinking?

His thoughts were interrupted when Mobius abruptly stood from his desk, haphazardly pushing in his chair.

"Follow me," He said. And that was it.

Loki stared after him, confused. He didn't move. "What?"

"Come on, Loki." He called out, walking out the door. Loki scrambled to his feet, following him down the hall.

"Where are we going?" Loki asked, walking two steps behind the other.

"You have zero patience."

He scoffed. "How could I possibly have patience when you are leading me to Gods knows where."

"Oh, relax." He turned the corner and made his way to the elevator, and Loki followed, watching the agent's every move. "It's not the first time you've had sex."

Loki felt the tips of his ears heat up as he stopped walking for a split second before his body kickstarted again, his heart acing as his mind caught up with Mobius’ words. There- there's no way this is actually happening. Except, it is. This is real, Mobius was finally going to give this to him. And the thought was... exhilarating.

The elevator opened, and they stepped in. Mobius pressed the button for the lobby, and the doors closed. They were quiet as the elevator descended, the silence almost overwhelming. Mobius didn't look nervous or excited, he didn't look like anything. His face was unreadable, but his body was relaxed. He was a picture of calm, and Loki wanted to scream- to ravish him, anything.

"We don't have to do this," Mobius said after a moment, his eyes flicking over to the God. It struck him the wrong way, the glimmer of thoughtfulness, the hesitation. He was no stranger to the bashful Midgardian’s he had taken, ruining them for anyone else.

Sex with God was nothing short of divine, and Loki could understand that even the mere thought for some was overwhelming. But never has anyone asked if Loki was unsure, or held the same genuine care in their eyes as this simple TVA agent did. Except, Mobius was not simple. If he were simple, Loki would have already pleasured him beyond comprehension, except…

"I want you," Loki replied immediately, his voice sounding more desperate than he intended. "I do."

"Okay," Mobius said simply, and the elevator came to a stop. The doors opened, and Loki followed him out, his mind racing with what was about to happen. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his hands were shaking, but he wanted this. They walked through the lobby and out of the main building, towards the cluster of apartments that had been provided for the agents. Mobius led them down the rows of buildings until they reached one that was close to the edge. Loki had never been inside any of the apartments before, the idea that Mobius lived in a space outside the TVA was strange, to say the least. He knew the rooms were small, but he was eager to see it anyway.

Mobius took his keys out and unlocked the door, opening it and gesturing for Loki to enter first. He did so, stepping inside and looking around. The apartment was small, but cozy, with a small kitchen and living room, and a short hallway that led to what Loki assumed was the bedroom and bathroom.

"It's not much, but it's home," Mobius said, closing the door behind them and walking over to the couch. "Do you want anything to drink?"

"You did not bring me over for drinks, Mobius." Loki smirked, looking down at Mobius under his lashes. "Though,” He cocked his head to the side, unbashfully taking in the other man. “I’m rather thirsty for something else.”

Mobius rolled his eyes, a hint of a smile gracing his lips. "I'm sure you are." He said, reaching up and cupping the back of Loki's neck and finally pulling him down into a kiss.

It wasn’t electrifying or even unfamiliar, but it was still unlike anything else, the press of his lips soft and tender. Loki sighed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around the other's waist and pulling him closer. He could feel Mobius's hands running up his back, gripping his shoulders. He shivered, letting his own hands roam up and down the agent's sides. Mobius's mouth opened, and Loki deepened the kiss, licking into his mouth. They pulled apart for a second, and Loki looked down at the man. His pupils were blown wide, and his lips were shiny with spit.

“I adore you.” Mobius whispered, and Loki froze for a split moment, something jagged and ugly twisting in his chest that made him furrow his dark brows.

He didn’t want to think about it right now. Instead, he surged forward, pressing their mouths together once again. The agent was more than happy to oblige, kissing him with an urgency he hadn't expected. Mobius was gentle, but there was an intensity there that made Loki's skin burn.

Loki pulled away, giving the other a small little smirk. “Should we move to the couch?”

Mobius chuckled, then shook his head.

“No, you deserve something nicer than that. How am I supposed to properly worship my God from a raggedy old couch? My bedroom is down the hall.”

Loki blinked with parted lips, taken aback.

His God.

"Is that okay?" He asked, his eyes searching. Loki could see the concern etched into his features, and the realization hit him like a truck that Mobius was genuinely checking in.

"Yes." Loki said, his voice coming out a little breathless. "Of course.”

They make their way to the bedroom, their hands clasped together. The room is small, but neat, and there's a bed pushed against the wall.

Mobius guides him to sit on the bed, his hands resting on Loki's thighs. He leans down and kisses him, slow and languid. Loki wraps his arms around the agent's neck, pulling him closer. He can feel Mobius's warm hands on his body, slowly moving up his thighs and then back down. He shivers, pulling the agent closer. They break apart, and Mobius looks down at him, his blue eyes dark. Loki stares back, his mouth open slightly.

"Are you okay?" Mobius asked.

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?" Loki raised a brow, a challenge in his voice. The agent merely shook his head with something Loki didn’t quite understand and leaned down, trailing his lips along the God's jaw.

"You're beautiful." He murmured, his hands finding their way under the Asgardian's shirt, gently pushing it off his shoulder and discarding it to the side. It wasn't the first time someone had called him beautiful, and it probably wouldn't be the last, but he couldn't help the way his chest tightened at the admission. It felt different, more intimate, and it brought that ugly feeling back in full force, a shrill cry in his head.

This is not how this is supposed to go.

Mobius trailed kisses down Loki's chest, his tongue flicking out and tracing the scars. Loki inhaled sharply, his hand coming up and tangling in the agent's hair.

"You didn’t deserve these,” the man whispered, his lips brushing against his scarred skin. “You’re so strong.” Mobius fixed him with a look.

Loki squirmed underneath the weight of Mobius' bright eyes, suddenly finding himself pinned by them. There was something in his look that made Loki want to hide, but there was nowhere to go, no way to escape the care that showed there, so vulnerable and open. Mobius' hands were firm, but gentle on Loki's waist, holding him in place as he hovered over him.

"You still okay?" Mobius asked, his breath ghosting over Loki's lips.

Loki swallowed thickly, his mouth dry and his head spinning, and nodded.

Mobius' hands slid to Loki's neck in an instant, gently cupping his jaw as he kissed him. The touch was so light it made Loki shiver delightfully. He could feel every little brush of the calloused pads of Mobius' thumbs as they stroked along the curve of his cheeks, the way a hand slid up to thread through Loki's hair and tugged just hard enough to make his eyes flutter closed and part his lips to let the other in deeper.

He was used to the roughness, the bruising force and the taste of blood on his lips. Letting himself be used was nothing but a simple manipulation tactic for his gain. A kiss from Mobius was a balm, soft and slow and tender, his mouth gentle against Loki's as he pressed closer and focused solely on making Loki feel good. It was overwhelming, to be kissed like this, to feel every ounce of love that Mobius was pouring into it like he was someone worthy of being cherished, of being worshiped.

Mobius' teeth scraped across Loki's bottom lip and he outright moaned, trembling when the other responded in a light hum.

Loki broke the kiss with a soft sound, resting his forehead against Mobius’. The agent’s eyes were wide and dark and searching as they locked onto Loki's, looking for any sign of hesitation.

He was fine. It was just a kiss. A very good, very thorough, very nice kiss. A kiss he had never quite experienced in this way before, that shook him to his very core. Loki's chest felt like it was on fire, his head was swimming, and he couldn't quite catch his breath, but he was okay.

"Do you want to stop?" Mobius asked. And, Gods, why couldn’t he just stop caring about him?

He had that look again, his eyes full of concern. Loki didn't know how someone could be so open, could look at him like that. He could feel it, the warmth of the affection in Mobius' eyes, the trust in his touch. He didn't know what to do with it. He wanted it, desperately. But it was terrifying to be looked at like that, and he didn’t know if he deserved it. If he deserved him.

Loki didn't trust himself to speak, so he shook his head and hoped that was enough. He couldn't tell if the smile Mobius gave him was sad or not, but he wasn't given much time to think about it because Mobius was kissing him again, his tongue sliding across Loki's. He was still being so gentle, his kisses careful and almost too sweet, making Loki ache.

"Please," he begged, not knowing exactly what he was asking for, but knowing that he couldn’t decide whether or not he needed Mobius to keep touching him, keep kissing him, or release him from the torture.

"Talk to me, Loki." Mobius whispered. He was breathing heavily, his eyes searching and his pupils blown. “You don’t have to beg. Tell me what you need.”

Loki didn't know, and that bothered him, especially now. He didn't know how to want anything like this. He didn't know what it was to truly crave anything, not in the way that Mobius did. Mobius was all open words, wearing his heart on his sleeve and driven by curiosity- nothing like the self-hatred that pushed Loki to do every awful thing he did to prove that he was meant for something- that he had worth. That he was more than the monster he truly was.

But here was Mobius, looking at him like he was something precious, someone worthy of being loved. It was…overwhelming.

"I don't know," Loki admitted, his voice shaking.

He didn't know what it was to desire anything outside of violence, outside of bloodshed and pain and punishment. He’d always been hungry for power, but that’s the last thing he wants right now.

"That's alright," Mobius said, smiling and stroking Loki's cheek with his thumbs. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with."

"I am comfortable," Loki said.

"Are you?" Mobius asked, raising his eyebrows.

Loki frowned. He could hear the doubt in his own voice, the tremor that he knew betrayed his nervousness.

"It's okay to not be sure about this, Loki," Mobius said, brushing a strand of hair off of his forehead.

"I am a God, I am never unsure." Loki muttered- a lie that Mobius chuckled at.

"It's a little different with this kind of thing though, don't you think?"

"I suppose," Loki admitted.

"You're not used to being close to someone this way.”

"Certainly." The God replied. "I'm usually trying to kill them- or they have ulterior motives."

Mobius smiled sadly. “I know.”

Loki felt like he was being cut open, every nerve laid bare. He didn't know how Mobius could do that, just look at him and know, understand, and accept him. He supposed eons of studying- watching him, probably helped. Mobius probably knew exactly what was going to happen as soon as Loki propositioned him. That bastard.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Mobius asked, sitting up and settling himself beside the other man. Loki sighed and let his head fall back against the pillows, his eyes fluttering.

"I'm thinking," he started, and stopped, taking a deep breath and forcing the words out. “That I’m not quite ready for this.”

Loki didn’t know what he expected Mobius to do, maybe be disappointed and leave him be. But giving him a wide grin certainly was not that.

“What?” Loki asked, quirking up a brow and studying the other man.

“Nothing,” Mobius smiled, and Gods, wasn’t it lovely. “I’m just proud of you for telling me.”

The Asgardian rolled his eyes with a scoff, sitting up and settling across from the agent. “For what? Admitting that I cannot handle something as minuscule as sex? That is hardly anything worth such high praise.”

“Ehh, maybe,” the man shrugged. “But I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Loki asked incredulously. “I-” And when Mobius fixed him with that look again, the one that shot right through him, Loki paused.

“Sometimes the strongest thing someone can do is admit when they aren’t ready for something.”

Loki was quiet then, and he appreciated when Mobius said nothing more, simply letting the God think.

And then, Loki let out a sigh.

“Is that why you didn’t want me?” He asked, his voice low and downcast. “Because I can’t give you this?”

“Loki, no.” The agent spoke earnestly. “Of course I want you, I always have, more than anything.” Mobius flushed, an endearing little splotch of pink. “But I know what you need, and it isn’t…a transaction.”

Oh. That’s what he meant.

Loki hummed.

“…I am not accustomed to this. I don’t know how to allow myself to be loved by you, and I’m positive that I do not deserve it.” He said bluntly. Mobius frowned at that, but sat silently.

“However,” Loki continued, “I’m willing to try- I want to try.” He corrects. “Just…slowly.”

At that, Loki took the other’s hands into his own and pressed a tender kiss to his knuckles, taking delight in the way the agent’s cheeks lit aflame and diverated his gaze. It was heartwarming that Mobius got so flustered over such a simple gesture, and it soothed a wild anxiety lingering in his chest.

With a smile, Mobius looked back up at him, his blue eyes bright and full of something akin to wonder. He was positively beautiful.

"Slowly." He promised, pressing a kiss to Loki's temple. "We have all the time in the world.”

“If it’s no trouble, I’d quite like that drink now.”

Mobius snorted.

“That isn’t familiar at all. Of course.”

#loki laufeyson #loki series #lokius #mobius #loki x mobius #loki fanfic #maddie’s lokius fics

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