#my migraine must be fading

[vodika-vibes]

So. I've just started a new story, and I'm leaning towards it being a x reader story, but I might switch it into an OC story based on how it goes.

Summary: With the Fall of the Republic, and the destruction of the Jedi Order, your specific talents have made you a target for the Empire. Luckily for you, with the right ambience, you can make even the most determined Inquisitor think that you’re a fraud. Unluckily for you, your fraud has caught the attention of some very dangerous spirits, and they will stop at nothing to see you punished.

Prompt: “The spirits are very displeased with you.” “Yeah? Feeling’s mutual. Little shits.”

Pairing: Hunter x Reader (or Hunter x OC)

[rinhaler]

DEATH IS NO MORE !

you know you shouldn't be here, right? what would possess you to visit an underground fight club? one of the fighters is kinda cute though...

✧˖*°࿐: 18+ only, no minors.    ✧. ┊ underground fighter!ryomen sukuna x f!reader

Genre: porn with a plot Notes: ty penny for beta reading again! picturing sukuna like this art by @innaillus bc i have had nothing else on my mind for days. Warnings: 18+, fem!reader, violence, blood ♡, daddy!kink, size difference ♡, age gap, degradation, fingering, orgasm denial, pussy spanks, dacryphilia, finger sucking, vaginal sex, choking ♡, creampie, squirting ♡, pet names (princess, sweetheart, baby). Words: 10k

As your heels snap against the pavement, you can almost feel the pulsing bass from the music surge from your toes and throughout your entire nervous system. The music is loud enough to hear, even from a distance, and it only gets louder as you step closer and closer to the abandoned warehouse.

You shouldn’t be here.

The voice is yours, internally. Though it feels like an out of body experienced as you venture head first towards a destination you have no business being anywhere near. The music muddies your thoughts. It’s confusing you, deeply.

Is there a dress code?

That doesn’t matter, because you shouldn’t be here.

The bass is hypnotic. That pounding bass that makes you feel weak and ethereal all in one dizzying bout. It’s like you’re going to a rave, though you’re not even close to being dressed the part. You’ve been at work all day. The last thing you should be doing is trespassing into a building that has been off limits for five years.

You just couldn’t resist, this.

Not with the rumours flying around and the hushed whispers of secrecy luring you in to investigate for yourself.

With the double doors in sight, you finally see that the entrance is being manned. Is it security or just a ticket holder? You aren’t sure you want to find out. They might take one look at you and shoo you away. There’s no way you can leave until you get what you came for.

You slip out of sight as you see another pair of men get out of a car parked near the entrance and approach. Your breathing is egregious, though you try to calm it. The adrenaline swirling through your every vein and muscle is enough to make you pass out. But the agonising desire to enter and see the truth for yourself is holding you steady.

$100 for a ticket.

“Christ.” you whisper to yourself.

You put your hand in your pocket and fish out your purse. As you open it and begin to look, you halt. The way your hands are trembling is abnormal, even for being this worked up. The pumping of your heart transfers to your brain. The pink, mushy organ pounds dramatically against the inside of your skull, and really, you think melodic beat of the music inside must be slithering its way into the creases of your braincells.

There’s a pain behind your eyes. You feel a migraine coming on and you’re all too familiar with the agonising feeling as you often leave your work days suffering from them.

You deepen your breaths in a bid to steel yourself. And eventually, you find the money to pay the fee. So you wait, patiently, for the other two men to enter the warehouse before you reveal yourself from the shadows. There’s an air of confidence to you as you approach the entrance.

Though it fades, slightly, as the man holds his hand up like a crossing guard.

“Women don’t come around here,” he starts, checking a clipboard that looks too small in his comically large hands. He flips through the pages and then looks at you again. “You’re not on the list.”

“I have the fucking money.” you tell him, slapping it on top of his stupid clipboard hard enough for him to almost drop it. He tries to stop you as you attempt to barge by him, though it isn’t a strict action.

More like a warning.

“It’s not a sight a lady should see, I think.” he tells you, still putting your hard earned money into a tin of other generous donations, you expect. His eyes focus on your own as he continues to speak. “You’re rich. Expensive clothes… shouldn’t have worn those here. Gets messy. Be careful.” he tells you. And with that, you enter the warehouse and heed his warning.

You walk slowly, but with purpose. A chill stabs down your spine as you approach a flight of stairs a group of men are running down. They wolf whistle upon seeing you and it curdles in your stomach. You try to keep your head held high as you climb and follow the sound of that intoxicating bass. Wherever the music is coming from is surely the source of the action, too.

The time of day is indicative of the lighting. It’s pitch black outside and it it’s even darker, still, in the warehouse. Though the moonlight manages to break in through the shattered windows enough to illuminate your path.

There’s a smell that you’re beginning to notice that invades your senses. A potent stench that is so specifically masculine and territorial. It’s sweat. Blood, too.

Once you get to the top of the stairs, there are double doors with a red light bleeding through the cracks. The music is louder, too, as well as the vociferous shouting being contained solely by the big, heavy duty doors.

And now, truly, you worry things have gone too far. The doors part and you slink into the shadows, still approaching without hesitation. You’re scared. God, terrified, really. But the adrenaline keeps you from retreating. There’s one goal you have in mind, and once complete, you can return back to your peaceful, suburban life.

A man holds the door as he waits for a friend to leave with him. You watch them walk away together, bragging about their earnings before you slip inside inconspicuously.

The red light contrasts from the rest of the building. And you think your retinas might explode from the change, you don’t let it divert your attention, though. But it’s hard to deny how distracted you are.

As the atmosphere has changed you begin to feel heady from the scent of sweat and testosterone. You do your best to continue undetected as you try to keep to the edges of the crowd. But a few eyes find you. Nudging and laughing when they see a woman, God forbid, enter their sacred male space. You notice there’s no malice mostly. It’s more leering and ogling despite doing all you can to not give them any attention or feed into their sex drive.

But you scream.

Scream could even be an understatement as you feel a tight squeeze on your upper arm flesh yank you away from the crowd and into the background of the room. Your adrenaline seems to die the instant one red eye matching the ambient lighting filling the room like a brothel in a red light district stare into yours.

Half of his face is covered by some sort of black mask.

Protecting his battle wounds, you assume.

There are a few laughs and stares before they’re pulled back to the main attraction. There’s a feeling of embarrassment rushing through you, but you can barely dwell on it as you look up at the man who had dragged you away so carelessly.

He’s easily the tallest man you’ve ever met. At least 6’5 and towering above you like you’re a puny child as you try and stand confidently beneath him. But the little gasp you emit when he bends down to whisper in your ear gives you away, instantly. He smirks, knowing just how scared you are. He knows just how worried you are and how out of your depth you are.

“And just what is a fragile little thing like you doing in my club?” he asks, a tantalising lilt in his words that would have your knees folding like outdoor furniture if you didn’t have one reason and one reason alone for being here. He pulls away from your ear, an intimidating glare staring back at you as he waits for an answer. “You don’t look like you can fight. Not that I’d allow it, anyway.” he tells you.

“I’m looking for someone.” you blurt out, unsure if you should have said that or kept it to yourself. It’s too late, now, and you see a sadistic smile transform his ravenous expression into one of sheer entertainment.

“Oh? Don’t tell me you’ve got a boyfriend you’re worried about fighting here.” he laughs, and it doesn’t go unnoticed how his eyes move from your face to your breasts. They’re covered, entirely. The decision to wear a turtleneck for work has come back to bite you as the sweltering heat feels enough to knock you unconscious.

It’s suffocating.

He isn’t really looking at your tits, however. His eyes instead seem to hone in on the silver necklace you’re wearing. And you can see how his eyes squint as he tries to think of anyone fighting here who’s initial begins with M before letting his dirty mind race at the thought of the letter slipping between your cleavage had you opted to wear something a little more revealing.

“You look like a cop, sweetheart. Not a good place for you to be all by yourself.” he informs you. A cop? You hadn’t even thought about how you’d stand out in that way. “I don’t need the fuzz poking around here, what do you want?” he asks, his voice a little more pointed and venomous as he raises your necklace with a single finger to toy with it.

If you weren’t so frozen in fear, you would have backed away and hid your necklace down your sweater. But you were scared, statuesque. The only movement you were able to perform was moving your lips.

A pretty trait for you to possess, he thinks.

“My brother is here, I think.” you tell him, calmly, hoping your honesty will earn you some favour in his eyes. His eyebrow quirks as he thinks about you possessing a family resemblance to anyone here. “He’s underage.”

He smiles at that. The pieces suddenly all fall into place as he knows exactly who you’re talking about. And he parts space between you both, grabbing the collar of your white, wool coat and pulling you along with him. The two of you get through the crowd with ease until you’re standing at the front.

A shriek leaves you as the losing opponent hurtles towards you, though your self-appointed escort gets in his way before your clothes can become ruined by the blood that has now smeared on your saviour’s skin. You’re sure he’s thankful that he wore a black vest so that you can’t really see the stains on it. Realistically, he probably doesn’t care, you think.

He wouldn’t be running a fight club if he cared about something as tedious as stains.

As he moves out of the way to reveal the victor, your own blood begins to simmer and spill from you. Megumi raises his arms triumphantly, spitting a glob of blood onto the ground next to the wounded man he’s evidently just beaten to a bloody, unconscious puddle. And you could tear his head off with your bare teeth with the rage that you feel.

But you can’t.

Not when the man who led you here steps into the makeshift ring of people surrounding them and hands him his earnings. And your brother smiles, gratefully, as he accepts and counts it.

“There’s someone here to see you, kid.” he tells him, tilting his head in your direction. Your foot taps against the dirty warehouse floor as you wait for him to notice you. And boy does he notice you. “Oh, are you that scared of her?” he laughs, noticing all of the colour draining from Megumi’s face as he processes the fact that you’re here. That you’re really here.

“The fuck are you doing here?!” he asks, running up to you and attempting to conceal the money as best he can. But it’s too late, you snatch it from his hand and look at him with contempt.

“Me? What are you doing here?! You’re seventeen! You’re not Tyler fucking Durden, Megumi.” you slap him upside the head and drag him away from the crowd. “I’m furious, I don’t even know where to start with you.” you tell him as you approach the heavy doors that are keeping this disgusting little community trapped in the sweaty, blood soaked room.

“Get off.” he shakes himself loose. “I left my stuff in Sukuna’s office.” he announces, leaving before you give him permission. You huff, following him up the steel stairs as you continue your onslaught of verbal abuse and anger at his sheer stupidity.

He should see a doctor, really. But you worry he’ll get in trouble if the police get involved. And he might end off worse, still, if he rats out this place and gets everyone else in trouble. It’s too much, you know you’ll have to cover for him.

You could cry, now. But you aren’t sure if it’s anger or genuine upset. And honestly, you don’t want him to see you cry over this. Weakness is not something you need him to see right now, you want to keep it together. You’re his guardian and you can’t be soft with him just because he’s your brother.

He picks up his gym bag from a locker in the room. Your eyes are laser focused on him, all of the trust you felt towards him is long gone. And now, you aren’t sure if you’ll ever be able to take your eyes off him again.

“Megumi… how did you even get involved with this?” you ask him, earning nothing more than an infuriated grunt as if you have no right asking. How dare you care about him and his wellbeing when you’re all each other have? You want to scream, to fucking scream at him for being such an idiot. “I thought you were getting bullied at school. I asked you if—”

“Drop it. Can we just go?” he asks.

“Tsk.” you kiss your teeth. Your gaze suddenly stolen as the man you can only presume is Sukuna walks into the office like he owns the place. He does. You close the distance between yourself and Megumi as his sadistic boss sits on a comfy looking chair behind an old battered desk. “Give me your phone. Go wait in the car. Do not go anywhere.” you warn him as you hand him the car keys.

He sighs, placing his phone in your hand before turning to leave. You don’t look at him, though, too focused on Sukuna to even pay him any mind.

Your blood continues to boil, bubbling under the surface of your skin as you look at Sukuna. A smarmy smirk plastered on his face as he kicks his feet up onto the desk. So, Megumi leaves. He knows better than to push you when you’re this pissed.

“Before you start, princess,” Sukuna stands back up and circles around the desk. Your eyes vibrate with fury as you watch him, backing up as he gets too close. “I didn’t force him to do this.”

“Don’t call me princess.” you tell him, shutting down the cutesy pet name in an instant the minute you get an opening to speak. You rest you hand on your hip as you point at him furiously. It’s rude, you know it’s rude, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not after seeing your little brother like that. “He’s just a kid. I don’t want him involved in this stuff, I’m trying to be a good role model and you’re fucking everything up. He’s not coming back, ban him.”

“Fuck no.” he chortles. “He might be a kid but he’s good. I pay well. ‘n I like him, I do. He’s a moody little brat but he makes me laugh and earns me a shit ton. I’m not banning him for you. Or anyone.”

“Maybe I should call the police, see what they have to say about all of this.” you threaten, immediately regretting it, when the smile drops from his face and is replaced with something akin to bemusement. He hadn’t expected you to threaten him. But the incredulous stare is soon replaced by another smile.

“You wouldn’t risk getting Megumi in trouble… nice try though.” he speaks, leaning back against his desk and crossing one ankle over the other as he folds his arms. He’s thinking. Genuinely thinking of a way to compromise. “What do you do?”

“I’m… a doctor.” you tell him. Earning a set of raised eyebrows and an amused scoff as he looks you over once more. He supposes it explains the fancy clothes and snooty attitude.

But—

“You’re too young to be a doctor, aren’t you?” he wonders.

“I’m a primary care physician.” you tell him. He nods in understanding, but you’re confused now. You shake away his questions and his interest in you before staring at him again with intent. “This needs to stop. I’m not going to call the police but I’m not letting my brother come back here, it’s too dangerous. He’s a child.”

“He’s a man, you’re babying him. He made three grand tonight, he’s earning money and staying out of trouble because he has an outlet for his anger.” Sukuna tells you. The amount of money he’s made surprises you, and you’re holding it in your coat pocket right now. He’s going to be down $100 after you take it out of his earnings, though. But still. Even you can’t deny that it’s impressive. “Stuck up princess. Snooty doctor. Think you can come in my fuckin’ club and tell me what to do? Fuck that.” Sukuna claims.

He doesn’t say anything else as he waits for you to speak. But, truthfully, you’re still thinking about Megumi. The fact that he needs an outlet for his anger is worrisome. You’ve tried to get him to see a therapist, but he isn’t interested in the least.

It’s been hard being a single parent to him when you’re too selfish and irresponsible to even look after yourself, let alone a teenage boy. He probably thinks you’re useless. You have no control over him, really. All you do is make sure he’s fed and has a place to sleep and get his school work done.

But after discovering this, you’re sure he hasn’t even been bothering to attend school.

“Oi.” Sukuna speaks, stealing your stare again as you’re finally brought out of your troubled gaze. “You’re a sheltered little princess, aren’t you? A place like this is just full of scum to you.”

“I don’t care about this.” you laugh, minimally, not really seeing the funny side but you have nothing else to offer by way of expression. He hesitates a little, seeing the defeated look in your eye. “The injuries and psychological damage these places can cause…”

“Not everyone’s got a fancy college education like you, girl.” he tells you, patronisingly, as if you don’t know that. But he doesn’t let you interrupt. “Some people need a quick buck to get out of trouble. Other’s like the thrill. But who the fuck are you to come into my club and tell us all we’re wrong? Comin’ in here in your doctor clothes… looking down your nose at us.”

“That’s not—”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what you’re doin’, sweetheart.” he continues. “You get to sit behind a desk all day and tell people what pills to take to feel better and then go home to your cosy house in the suburbs without a care in the world.”

“Don’t fucking patronise me.” you warn him, though you don’t have the muscle or means to back it up. He reminds you a lot of how your dad used to be. You didn’t particularly take shit from him, and you certainly won’t be taking it from Sukuna if you can help it. “If you’re letting a seventeen year old walk away with three grand, I’m sure you’re making a lot more money than I am behind my desk. I work hard. You’re lining your pockets from other people’s pain.”

“Only a little,” he smirks at that, knowing you’re right but not entirely. “I fight. I bleed.”

And you scoff. It’s so fucking archaic and you can’t help but pace around with your hands on your hips as you try and decide where to even start with that. What can you say, really? Congratulations? No, definitely not. You stop in your tracks as you realise how close he is to you, now, deciding he wanted to close the gap between the two of you while your mind was elsewhere.

You breathe a little heavier as you fall backwards onto the couch behind you while he towers above you. His eyes rake over your body as he drinks you in. The slight fear lingering below the surface, shrouded by a cloud of false confidence as you do all you can to not succumb to his intimidation.

His arms almost cage you in.

Almost.

He’d let you free yourself if you tried to escape.

But you aren’t trying.

You’re just staring into his eye.

And he likes that.

“Watch me.” he orders. The sentence is soft but with a hard, seductive edge. It’s an offer despite it sounding like a command. You aren’t sure what he’s asking you to watch but your heart rate is imploring you to decline, whatever it may be. He tilts his head, it’s barely noticeable, and somehow you do notice. You notice the way his eye flits from your eyes to your lips. Not once, multiple times. He has no shame, he doesn’t care that you know he’s looking. He doesn’t act on it, anyway. “Watch me fight.”

“Pardon?” you ask, instantly. Bewildered that he would even dare to dream that you’d do something so idiotic. Your brother is waiting, patiently, for you to take him home. Unless he’s stolen your car, of course. But you’d like to think he knows he’s in enough trouble than to do something so stupid.

“You’ve never seen a fight. Watch the best at work, you might change your opinion. Watch me.” he repeats.

He watches as your eyes glaze over with a watery sheen, smirking. There is a breeze left in the wake of him quickly freeing your body from his caging arms and heading towards the entrance to his office. Your breathing is intense and your hands begin to shake. You think to text Megumi and check he’s okay, before remembering that you have his phone.

You look over your shoulder to see Sukuna leaning over the railing. He’s yelling about something but your ears are ringing in your confusion. The music isn’t helping, either. You look down at your phone to check the time, not even really taking it in before you place both Megumi’s and your own in each of your pockets.

Sukuna returns, entering with a cool swagger before leaning on the edge of his desk again.

“You’ve got ten minutes to decide.” he tells you.

Decide?

You’ve already decided. There’s no way you’re sticking around to watch him beat someone within an inch of their life. Or vice versa if his opponent proves to be too much. But with his physique and confidence, you doubt he’ll lose. And almost as if he’s read your mind, he smirks.

“I’m going to win.” he informs you, a cocksure grin saturating his lips as he drinks in your reaction to his words. You cross a leg over the other and fold your arms, still determined to remain and appear defiant as you listen to him. He can sense you’re weakening resolve, though. “I always win, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” you remind him, and he tuts in response. You can’t tell him what to do. You can try, but he won’t listen. And he hears the wavering in your words. Your desire to appear cold and callous towards him crumbling the longer you spend time in such close proximity to him.

“I think you like it.” he tells you, smiling. “Why are you still here?”

“I’m thinking.” you tell him in turn, scowling as you decide whether or not to leave right now or actually think this through. If you leave, you know your pride won’t allow you to change your mind.

“Don’t have all night for you’re thinkin’, doll.” he speaks. “Oh… I know, how about we make a little wager?”

“No.”

“Awe, c’mon, live a little.” he laughs, menially. He smirks as he hears you gasp whilst lifting you up like you’re nothing. He sits you down on his desk and for some reason you find yourself tightly wrapping your legs around his waist. Your chest heaves, panicked from the process. You aren’t sure how that happened and you can’t seem to shake any of it away. Not when your fingernails are digging into his biceps and your lips are ghosting each other’s. What is he doing? “How about if I lose, I’ll tell Megumi he can’t come around here anymore.”

“You said you’ll win.”

He smirks, at that. Scarred hands nip and grab at your entirely covered flesh. He wishes he could just rip the material off you right here, right now. But he wouldn’t feel right about sending you to your car in torn clothing, telling your little brother exactly what kept you busy for so long.

“That, I did…” he speaks as if recollecting an ancient memory. But he looks at you, eyes traversing your body again. “So what—”

“’m not betting with you. I know you’re gonna win.” you tell him, moving your head back slightly so your lips are no longing tracing each other. Instead, you’re looking at him intently. “You’re just trying to get me to agree to something that I won’t be able to back out of. ‘m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not stupid.” he agrees. He tucks some hair behind your ear and grabs your chin so that you can’t break your stare from his own. “I know we both want the same thing right now, though. That pride will do you no good, y’know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” you lie, feigning ignorance as the heat between your legs begins to pool and seep into your panties. You hope he doesn’t notice. God you hope he doesn’t fucking feel it. You hope that your trousers will protect you, the fight should be starting soon. “I’m taking my brother home… but I hope you enjoy your little fight.”

“You’re not going anywhere or you would have left already.” he tells you, matter-of-fact. “The things I could say… I’m gonna say it all after I win.”

“I won’t be here. ‘n I’m not giving you my number.”

“You’ll be in the front fucking row watching me.” he sneers.

You inhale a sharp breath as he forcefully moves your head. A finger hooks into the collar of your turtleneck, lazily pulling it downward to reveal the bare skin of your neck. His lips are close, breath dancing over the expanse of your skin. It’s a battle to withhold the shudder that is creeping through your veins. It makes your eyes water, a tear threatens to spill but you refuse to let it. You weld your eyes shut as he continues to torment you, and they appear even more watery when you open them again. The way your body trembles is harder to mask, though it’s nearly imperceptible as you accept you need to release it. All you can do is hope that he hasn’t noticed.

But he does.

The intensity of your breathing increases as you think he might kiss your neck. Your eyes flutter shut in preparation, but all he does is tease. And when you feel a near empty chuckle fan across your neck, your eyes widen once more.

“It’s time, princess.” he tells you, pulling away completely. He doesn’t wait for you to respond, heading towards the exit to his office before turning back to face you. “Come.”

And like you’re a voice activated toy, you follow him. He quick steps down the stairs while you struggle in your heels. You cling to the railing as you descend, and he waits patiently for you at the bottom.

He’s agnate to a God in this warehouse. You see how people respect and admire him as he enters the room. People part for him so that he can walk through with ease with you in tow. You’re really going to watch an authentic fight.

You wonder how different it will be in comparison to movies. You’re scared, shaking, but part of you is telling you that you need to see it. You need to see the state that Megumi could one day end up in if you don’t scold him correctly.

“Should I go easy on him, sweetheart?” he asks, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “She’s going to decide your fate tonight, listen up.” Sukuna tells his opponent. You want to kill him yourself for drawing everyone’s attention to you. You struggle to find words, mouth drying every time it opens.

“Just… don’t kill him.” you shrug. “But don’t get yourself killed, either.”

He laughs, shrugging his shoulders too. Neither of them look scared, though you suppose that’s the point. Neither of them would be doing this if they didn’t think they could win. They wouldn’t be here if they were afraid of getting hurt.

“She wants me to go easy on you…” Sukuna smirks.

You watch, nervously, as they circle around the ring for a while. He looks at you, briefly, as you fiddle with your necklace as you try and occupy your mind.

A ragged breath leaves you as they both lunge at each other. The way Sukuna dodges and weaves away from each and every attempt that should be hitting him is almost like watching a beautiful ballet.

It’s art, here.

Between these walls and amongst this audience. It is a true art form that is celebrated and enjoyed. The casualties don’t matter, not even a little. Everyone is a willing participant, even you, now. You could have left but decided not to.

It’s for Megumi, you tell yourself.

You need to be better and act better for him. And you can’t possibly do that without the knowledge of how truly dangerous this can be.

But now, seeing it for yourself, you’re starting to understand.

Sukuna is strong. Heavy fists affix themselves to his opponents face again and again until he’s on the ground. Blood pours from the man’s nose and you think he might suffocate from lost teeth and gurgling blood pooling in his throat.

And Sukuna… he’s been starved of this.

You start to think that maybe he doesn’t fight as regularly as he claims. It seems too easy for him, now. No one can beat him, so what’s the point? But he has missed this feeling. The feeling of seeing blood gush from an adversary who whole-heartedly believed they could take him on.

He takes pleasure in it, violence. Particularly the brand inflicted by him. He profits from it regularly, but this is a rare treat nowadays. He’s happy to sit in his office and let idiots do what idiots do as long as his pockets and wallet fill with each event.

This fight… it was on a whim.

Was it just to impress you?

He straddles his opponent as he repeatedly smashes the same fist into his face again and again and again. And he’s laughing. It’s maniacal, borderline insane laughter as you see blood spatter and clots form and congeal against the poor man’s skin.

And why…

Why are you loving this?

You can practically feel hearts and glitter adorning your eyes as you watch on in horror, unable to turn away. You’re mesmerised by it. You should be ashamed, really, you’re meant to be a doctor.

If you were a good person, you’d be breaking this up. You’d be rushing to the man’s side and calling an ambulance to help him. Instead of watching on in astonishment, you should be doing all you can to keep him alive after such a vicious assault. But instead, you’ve sunken to the balls of your feet so that you can be on their level and watch each and every punch land with excruciating detail. You don’t want it to stop. You could watch this forever.

Watch him forever.

You’re sick.

This is sick.

“Sukuna!” you yell, standing upright again and looking down at him. He stops short of landing one final blow to his opponents bulging and split nose so that he can look up at you. There’s worry in your eyes, and it makes his brows furrow. His eyes squint as he examines you. He isn’t sure how to read you or what you might be thinking. But he realises worry isn’t the only thing lingering behind those glimmering, wide eyes.

Something else entirely resides there that he’s longed to see since the moment he set eyes on you.

“Sorry, I got carried away.” he speaks down to the near dead man beneath him. “Were you done or did you want to keep going?”

“D… Don—”

“Thaaaaat’s great.” he responds to the man’s choked attempt to end the fight. Sukuna jumps to his feet, barely a scratch on him, and walks by you without looking back. You hasten behind him, almost unable to keep up in your stupid shoes. You see a man hand him something before walking away. You scrunch your brows as you look between them both.

Oh, he’s been paid.

He reaches the top of the stairs to his office and holds the door open for you to pass through. You duck by him, hiding in the room like you shouldn’t be there. You shouldn’t. You feel so small and inconsequential when you’re near him.

It’s his height, you realise.

It’s effortless intimidation. He’s a giant and you have to crane your neck just to look up at him when he’s close to you. His giant frame and bulging muscles don’t put you at ease, either. If you make him mad enough, you wonder how far he’d go. Would he use his strength to his advantage? Maybe he’d just take pity on you.

“You’re still here.” he rasps, locking the door behind himself and closing the blinds to the room. He likes the privacy as he counts his money. It excites you, for some reason, to see so much in a big fat wad. He looks up at you briefly before focusing back on it. “You liked it.”

“No.”

“Yeah ya did,” he laughs. You watch him as he collects a heavy looking bag from another locker in the room. It’s different to the one Megumi used. It looks shinier, newer. Sturdier. “I can tell you liked it.”

“Well, I’m going now.” you start, turning to walk away before he stretches out an arm to stop you in your tracks. He walks you backwards until your ass collides into the edge of his desk. He doesn’t pick you up, though. He just sizes you up, slowly, purposefully. And what a pathetic size you are in comparison to him. “Megumi needs me…” you whisper, meekly.

His presence is truly all consuming as he lords above you. You’re trapped between his large frame and the tattered old desk that resides in this seedy office. He could afford something nicer. But what would be the point if the place gets raided?

“We wanted the same thing earlier,” he starts. His voice quiet but commanding, still. You look between his lips and his pressuring gaze. He smiles, at that, he can see the way your mind is running rampant with thoughts of him. The dirty criminal who wants to fuck you on his desk. “Bet ya want it even more now.”

“N-No.”

“Yes.” he argues, placing a bloody hand on your pristine coat and making a mess of it. His hand snakes around to your waist, eventually. You gasp when you feel him tug your body closer to his by your belt loops, grinning as the little noise you make hits his ears. “Stutterin’ over yours words and making pretty sounds for me, sweetheart. Did you get all excited from seeing the blood? Bet ya did… bet you’re wet from seein’ daddy get violent.”

You gulp, heartily, your breathing gets heavier the more he speaks. His words rush straight to your cunt and you can barely ground yourself. The only thing keeping you from floating is your fingers curling around the edge of the desk as he continues to tease you.

“You’re fucking frigid.” he continues. Your eyes begin to water as he undoes the button on your pants and goes to pull down the zipper. You grab his hands to stop him, though it’s in vain. “Why are you so frigid, huh? When was the last time you had a good, hard, fuck?” he asks you, each word dripping like venom in a bid to make you squirm.

“That’s none of your—”

“Stop being such a bitch.” he tells you, slight laughter leaving him as he speaks. “Let me guess… got too occupied with your career, right? Bet you had a long term boyfriend who wouldn’t know how to fuck you properly if his life depended on it. ‘n then you got saddled with the kid… bought a vibrator and a plastic cock ‘n thought that would make do… you’ve never been fucked before.”

“Stop it.” you tell him. You turn your head away but he quickly forces it back with one heavy, dominating hand. “I have to go.”

“Sure.” he agrees, not letting go or moving aside for you to leave.

Nothing is said, not another word. Several beats of silence pass by as you stare at each other. The hypnotic music continues to play outside, though it’s muffled slightly by the locked office door. It isn’t enough to mask how hard either of you are breathing. Panting. Unable to break your stare from each other as the silence, that cogent fucking silence gets louder and louder.

Not another word is spoken as his lips press roughly against your own. You kick off your shoes and he kicks them aside as you continue to kiss him. Your hands are all over his body, grabbing and squeezing his skin as you lose yourself to the feeling of his lips. He forces down your trousers so that they’re resting around your thighs before lifting you onto the desk. You moan, desperately, as he breaks the kiss to fully remove them from your legs.

He lets them fall and kicks them away in the opposite direction of your shoes. The kiss breaks once more as he laughs lightly as your hips begin to rock eagerly for him.

“Knew you were wet for me earlier, y’know.” he tells you, kissing you briefly before deciding to tease you further. “Felt how your cunt was droolin’ when I lifted you on here before.”

“You’re vile.” you tell him, not caring that much as you lock your lips with his again. His attitude, the way he talks, the way he is. It’s all so nauseatingly macho and you thought you were better than this. You thought you knew better and wanted better for yourself. But having it presented so perfectly for you… you were always going to succumb.

“You like it, you like me.” he continues, forcing your snow-white coat down your arms and off your body. The way his knuckles continue to gush blood, you expect the liquid to seep and stain the white material and paint it the same red as his eyes. “Mmmm, I’m right. Why else would you be so wet?”

The air is snatched from your lungs as he pushes your legs apart from each other one at a time. You don’t dare close them as you watch him pull his vest over his head and reveal his perfectly chiselled body in all of its glory. It’s pervasive. It’s gorgeous. You aren’t even sure it’s humanly possible to look this good.

A soft ‘unf’ sound leaves you and you feel him sink his bloody knuckles inside of your panties. Deft fingers swirl and tease around your firm clit, and your mouth seals shut.

“Tell the truth, princess.” he swipes two fingers over your clit at a heightened pace, desperate to coax another utterance of admittance from your soft lips. “You wanna get fingered by a dirty old man. Go on, let me be your bit of rough, sweetheart.”

“Fuck.” you breathe, unable to withstand his filthy mouth. You’re truly powerless to being spoken to like this. Maybe you’re tired of people speaking to you so politely day in day out.

He doesn’t respect you, though.

Right now you’re nothing but a wet, desperate hole, with a pretty face attached.

“Let daddy finger you, yeah?” he asks, and you can’t stop your eyes from filling with water. He thinks it’s adorable. How the mighty hath fallen for nothing more than a few little rubs on your neglected clit. It makes him sick, truthfully, how many precious little things like you go without being touched properly. You’re about to learn, now, just how quickly you can become addicted to a person and the way they touch you.

“I should- I r-really have to go!” you tell him, still so desperate to remain defiant to the bitter end. He knows you’re bound to crumble any second. You’re biting your lip to keep quiet, but it will do you little good. Not when you are instinctively widening your legs for him. Wider than you knew they could go.

He pushes a single finger into you, hissing when he feels just how tight you really are. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume you were a virgin. He presses the heel of his palm against your clit, constantly adding pressure to the needy nub as he continuously pumps and curls his finger in and out of your sopping hole.

“Sukuna! I can’t d-do this, I shouldn’t be here.” you tell him as you wrestle with your guilt.

“This is exactly where you should be,” he tells you. “You’ll feel better when you cum f’me. Maybe you’ll stop being such a stuck up bitch.” he laughs, again, because you don’t dispute it.

No, instead, you lean back and rest your hands on the desk. Your hips roll urgently against his hand, chasing the stimulation to your clit. He looks down between you, tugging at your panties with one hand until you take the hint. You stop rutting against him, closing your legs so he can pull them down without stopping his rough touches.

They come down enough, the white lace dangling on one ankle as he forces your legs apart again. His vision meets your cunt. The way you’re swallowing one finger with ease now calls him to add another.

And you hiss from the stretch, but your humping doesn’t relent. You’re taking his fingers all of the way to the bloody knuckle until your eyes cross from the pleasure. And he grunts, at that, an attempt to conceal the moan lodged in his throat.

He revels in the way your cunt clenches as he allows a glob of spit to drip to your clit. His jaw hangs low as he massages the heel of his palm into it harder. The way you wriggle from his touch is better than any drug he can imagine existing. It’s addictive, seeing a once so proud woman regress to a needy little pet from the touch of a common man.

“D-Don’t stop.” you whisper, unsure of where that even came from. It was entirely involuntary. Your brain begins to fog as he repeatedly batters your g-spot again and again until your vision turns white. “Fuck, fuck! ‘m cumming, Sukuna! Ah- aaah~!” you cry out.

And just as it was getting good. Just as you were about to topple over the edge, he withdraws his fingers.

“You’re a real slut when you get going, aren’t you?” he smiles, landing a wet slap on your twitching pussy. You yelp, but don’t speak. “Barking orders at me like you’re in charge. Remember who’s office you’re in, now. It ain’t yours, princess. You’re spread open on daddy’s desk. Know your place.”

“I’m s-sorry.” you whimper, trying to focus and ignore the aching pulse you feel between your thighs. You need to cum, now. You need him to make you. It’s not fair, you can’t comprehend how close you were before he stopped you from reaching your high. “I’ll be good, d-daddy, just don’t… please don’t stop.” you beg, the title feels foreign on your tongue. But you don’t hate it.

He tuts, slapping your cunt again and again, repeatedly striking until tears spill from your pathetic, wet eyes.

“Fuckin’ love it when you look at me like that. Needy little whore.” he chortles, moving away from you entirely as he goes to grab something. “I’m gonna do something no one else will ever be able to do for you, jus’ because you look so pretty.”

“Wha—?”

“Lose the sweater, now. Wanna see your pretty tits,” he commands, lifting up the bag he grabbed from his locker earlier. “Hurry up. You need to be naked for this, you’ll enjoy it more.”

You do as you’re told, hurrying to strip yourself of the restricting material that has been suffocating you all night. And you toss it God knows where, breathing a sigh of relief as you feel cooler despite the sweaty heat that is trapped in the office with you.

“Good, good girl.” he smirks, unzipping the bag. You brace yourself for whatever he’s about to pull out. Some kind of sex toy, you assume. Knowing his ego, it’s probably a mould of his cock, hoping he can double stuff you.

But he doesn’t pull anything out.

Instead, he tips the bag upside down. There’s no time to think about what horrible things he could be pouring onto you. Because it doesn’t happen. Instead, you’re showered in bank notes. You laugh, excitedly, as you feel a never-ending stream over hundred-dollar bills pour over your body and onto the desk.

Sukuna laughs, too, admiring the sight of you dressed in nothing but money.

His money.

And it’s everywhere.

You writhe around on the desk before looking at him. He pulls down his sweats, hungrily, just enough to free his length. And, fuck, he’s huge. You knew he would be just by looking at the rest of him. It’s a scary sight, but you don’t care. He was right, no one else will ever be able to do this for you.

“Fuck me.” you request, opening your legs for him again. “Want daddy to fuck me stupid.” you finish.

And he doesn’t need to be asked twice. His fingers are shoved between your lips for you to suck as he lines his threatening cockhead up with your throbbing cunt. You’re too distracted by the taste of his fingers to properly react to how he stretches your hole.

The taste of copper stains your tastebuds along with the flavour of your essence. He watches you, intently, as he bullies his cock all of the way to the hilt without remorse. Though he hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath while examining you, panting desperately when he’s fully sunken into your restricting walls.

“Took that like a champ,” he praises you, withdrawing his fingers from your lips and opting to squeeze the sides of your neck instead. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, swallowing me like this.” he smirks, thrusting his hips shallowly to help you adjust. But the composure is lost when he feels how tight you’re wrapped around him. Like you’re claiming what yours as if he belongs inside, buried deep in your cunt to depths no one has been before.

He's yours.

“Fuuuu—” you start, cutting yourself off as you pout and groan through every pummel of his hips against yours. “Daddy! D-aaddy!” you wince, unable to believe how perfectly each vein adorning his cock stimulates you so beautifully. His leaking tip serves as a painful reminder to how irresponsible you’re being to fuck a literal stranger raw.

But you don’t care.

You honestly don’t care as you think about the desperate desire you feel burning between your thighs for him to fill you up like you’re his. To be claimed in such a disgustingly primal way by this behemoth of a man while you just lie there and take it is the only thing higher on your list of priorities than actually getting to cum yourself.

“No one will fuck you like this again, hear me? No one.” he reminds you. And all you can do is nod dumbly as you can’t even find it in you to formulate one word on your tongue to say in response. “Not a doctor, not a lawyer. No one will fuck you in the money they earn like this. And you look so pretty, princess. Knew you’d like it, can act high ‘n mighty all you like, but you like the blood money, don’tcha?”

“Y-Yes.” you barely managed to squeak out.

“Yes what?” he repeats.

“Y-es, daddy,” you pant, forcing yourself to fix your eyes on him as you speak in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. “I l-like the money.”

“Little money slut.” he chuckles, the angle he fucks in you seeming to hit deeper and deeper the longer it goes on. “I should fuck you up against the window, let everyone see how fucked out you are. Hah? Show everyone you’re not such a stuck up princess after all.”

“N-No, please, don’t.” you beg, gasping as he pulls his cock out of you and drags you away from the desk. He pushes your face against the window and you instinctively close your eyes. Your back arches as he slots himself into you from behind, powerless to his body as he starts fucking into you again. And you’re so thankful for the blinds, despite the fact the ridges dig into your skin as he ploughs you. “Fuuuuck, ‘Kuna, fuck, s’big!” you tell him, feeling him deeper still as he hits you from behind.

“I should let them all see what a whore you are.” he laughs, fingers gripping deeply into your sides as he uses you for leverage to pull you down on his length whilst battering into you. “Pretty mouth is droolin’ for me, look like you’re gonna break.”

Your heart begins to race as he reaches for the cord to open the blinds. There’s no doubt in your mind that it’s something he’d do. You brace yourself, preparing to be put on show for all of the lecherous men below to see.

But instead, he picks you up and forces you to bend over the table again. Your feet don’t even touch the ground as rams his cock into you again and again and again.

“Megumi wouldn’t be able to live it down if everyone knew how much of a slut his sister is,” he tells you. “He’d get the shit kicked out of him every time someone described what your face looks like when you cum.”

Fuck, Megumi.

You’d forgotten all about him, waiting in the freezing cold car for you while his pseudo-boss fucks your brains out.

“Don’t,” you huff, “tell him, about this.”

“Of course not, I’ll be your dirty little secret.” he laughs. “You are a vessel for my cum and nothing more.”

You’ve never felt such self-hatred for yourself as those final, scathing words have you cumming violently around his cock. You tremor and shake as you finish, collapsing entirely onto the desk as he continues to plough into you.

“Fuck, fuck!” you cry, feeling even more embarrassment wash over you as you think you might have pissed yourself. But he gasps, amazed, admiring the stream of clear liquid gushing from your cunt drenching him and his money on the floor.

“Awe, baby just squirted. What that your first time?” he laughs, fucking into you harder so that he can follow you along in your bliss. He bends over, his mouth lining up with your ear so he can whisper more of his rendition of sweet nothings into your ear. “You’re shaking ‘cause of me. A-And now, you’re gonna have to drive your little brother home with every drop of my cum in your cunt.”

“Please, please fill me up. Need it s’bad. Wanna be full of you…” you babble, reality still not fully resonating with you as he carries on fucking into you at a brutal pace.

He grunts and moans as he cums deep inside of you. You’ve made some mistakes in your life but this has to be one of the better ones. Despite your healthcare knowledge telling you that you should know better, you’ve never felt so content as you feel him shoot rope after rope of searing hot cum into your womb.

He pulls out, wiping his dick off on your ass cheek before fingering you slowly.

“Keep my mark inside of you.” he utters, forcing you to squeeze your thighs together so you don’t waste a drop while he gathers your clothes for you.

He hands you your underwear first while he keeps looking, and you pull them up quickly. It feels so revolting and lewd as his cum leaks into the seat of your panties. You sigh as you feel the cold letter M on your chest before you can dress yourself.

“I don’t have a first aid kit here.” Sukuna speaks, not looking at you as he hands you the rest of your belongings.

“I’m fine.” you tell him, quickly pulling on your sweater and instantly feeling sick as the warm material meets with your hot, clammy skin.

“I’m not.” he tells you, watching as you pull up your trousers and fasten them in a hurry before slipping into your high heels again. “Bet you have one at home. You’re a doctor, you’ve gotta look after people.”

You eye him up, cautiously, before your expression changes to a smile. “You’re asking to come home with me?” you wonder, pulling on your coat and making sure you still have two phones in your pockets as well as your purse and Megumi’s wad of cash. “But Megumi will—”

“I’ll drive behind you. C’mon, princess, don’t want my cuts do get infected, do ya?” he asks.

You cannot believe you allowed his dirty fingers inside of you. As good as they felt, it was so stupid. You’re sure there’s probably blood stains on your inner thighs because of him.

Though the thought of him all over you makes your cheeks fill with warmth.

You just nod, opting not to speak as you head towards the office door. You walk ahead of him, finding confidence in your strides again. He puts his vest back on and makes sure he’s decent before leaving the office. He watches you leave ahead of him and stops to talk to his favourite subordinate.

“Clean the mess up there. And I’ve counted the money so don’t get cute.” he says, handing the key to the office over before following your path out.

He’s a little surprised how far ahead you’d gotten. Long gone from the building as you approach your car.

The guilt of leaving Megumi alone for so long got to you, he thinks.

“Hi.” you say, simply, sitting behind the wheel of your car and hoping not to have to talk much for the ride home. He’s a moody teenager who rarely has a word to say to you. And for once, you’re hoping it’ll stay that way. You adjust yourself and quickly put on your seatbelt so that you can drive off without another word.

“What took you so long?” Megumi asks, huffing as he looks at you. His eyebrows knit as he sees his bossapproach with a confident swagger. He wonders if he forgot something or he didn’t pay him the right amount.

Sukuna leans into his open window with a shit eating grin on his face. He wants to question it, to question you. But his eyes meet your not so pristine white coat as he turns to look at you again. “Is that blood?” he asks, eyes looking up at you as he waits for an answer.

You look down at your jacket, holding your eyes closed with a sigh as you realise what a nightmare it’s going to be to remove the stains. Megumi leans in closer to you, moving your hair out of the way as he examines you.

“Um…” you mutter, too frozen to even continue starting up the car.

“It’s on your face and neck too. What did you—?” he stops, turning around to look at Sukuna and see if he can fill in the blanks in his mind with any form of answer. But they’re filled, instantly, as his eyes fall to see Sukuna’s bloody knuckles. “For fuck sake.” he speaks, quietly, covering his face with both hands as the revelation dawns on him.

“I’ll be right behind you, lead the way.” Sukuna winks as he walks away from your car and heads towards his own.

You don’t say anything, copying your brother’s action as you both sit in silence and absorb the never-ending supply of cringe filling the atmosphere. Until eventually you decide, this won’t do. Sukuna honks the horn of his Mercedes to signify that he’s ready.

So you start to drive, fleeing the scene while your partner in crime follows behind.

“Fucking good role model you are.” Megumi speaks sarcastically. “I can’t show my face there again. Why do you ruin everything?”

“Nothing happened!” you lie, earning a scoff from him.

“Let me get this straight. You came here to tell me to stop fighting, and then you fucked the man who pays me to do it. So, am I allowed to fight or not?”

“Obviously not, Megumi.”

“You’re a fucking hypocrite.” he scathes, turning his head to face away from you while he sulks. “You can’t tell me what to do after this. Some fucking moral compass you got there.”

“Oh shut up.” you respond, trying to keep a cool head as you continue. “Nothing. Happened. I watched him fight and I hated it, we talked it out and here we are. Stop being so pissy.”

“Why’s he following us home, then?” he wonders, turning to face you and see if he can detect an honest answer or a lie from you.

“He doesn’t have a first aid kit.” you tell him, which is true though it isn’t really an answer. And you feel his green eyes burn into the side of your face as he waits for you to elaborate. “I’m a doctor, he needs his wounds tending to.”

“… Oh my God.” he starts. “Oh my God you actually fucking like him. You’re so embarrassing.” he huffs, pulling a cigarette out of his jeans. He closes the window to light it and opens it again just as quickly. You’ve never liked that he smokes, but you know nothing you say or do will stop him.

Just like the fighting.

And then, you find yourself laughing. Unable to stop yourself as you think about what a stereotypical angsty teen your little brother is. And, God, you’ve made yourself into his biggest enemy just because you care about him. But now… Christ, you’ve gone above and beyond.

“I lied. We fucked. And it was great.” you laugh harder when you see Megumi’s horrified expression the longer the conversation goes on.

“I can’t stand you.” he sighs. “He’s never gonna let me forget this. What is wrong with you?”

“Serves you right, you little shit. Lie to me again and see what happens.” you warn him, your laughter lets up a little as you try and focus on being serious.

You’re never going to be his mother, and you’d never want to be. But what you can be is his big sister. You can be an annoying pain and embarrass him whenever he acts up. But you’ll always be here to take care of him and keep him on the right track when needs be.

“I love you, shit head.” you smile, and he sighs.

“… love you too… bitch.”

© 2023 rinhaler

m.list | chapter two

[straydolll]

Being your big sister pt²

You must change your pads every 4 hours at least, this avoids the accumulation of bacteria and diseases

Charcoal pills help to stop poisoning in your dog!

Never and ever wash your lace clothes in the washing machine please! I learned the hard way (ruined my favorite corset 😭)

Your armpits are dark and stained because you use spray deodorant, these sprays dry the area, prefer to use roll-on or cream deodorants that moisturize more

Never put out a pan on fire by throwing water! This will make it explode, throw a damp cloth over it and put out the flame, if you spilled boiling water or oil on your skin immediately go to the sink and rinse under running water for a few minutes before doing anything else

Wash your jeans stuff by hand and with neutral products because they fade easily

Mix your perfume in a moisturizer of the same fragrance (similar) or unscented and apply it to your body, this will enhance the fragrance and last longer on your skin

Magnesium pills are the holy grail for us anemic girlies, it boost our energy, help with fainting and migraines

Research more about connectives before writing an essay, learning to use new forms of connectives will diversify and increase the level of writing essays

Bathing in very hot water destroys your skin and hair by drying out and weakening it over time

Person is not happy with your achievement=stay away from these people and remove them from your life

That's it for the day and i hope i was of some help, luv y'all 🪽

[happy74827]

Bittersweet Moments

[Peter Maximoff x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Your best friend (if you’d even call him that), is an annoying piece of work 99% of the time. But that 1%? That 1% is pretty special.

WC: 1513

Category: Fluff, Irritated!Reader, Mentions of Migraines

My first Evan Peters fic? Lets go.

『••✎••』

Being friends with that white-haired speedster meant you never had a moment of quiet. The guy was just so fast that you never had a second to blink without him pulling a prank on you, which is why you were constantly on edge around him. You could never trust him.

But that didn't mean that he didn't have his moments.

You were on the floor, eyes shut, attempting to fade the raging migraine out. You made your room into a dark cave and had been there all day, and yet, the pain in your head only grew.

By the time you heard your door creak open, you already felt the presence and the air in the room shift. It was almost like a ghost was floating through the doorway.

"No." The voice was quiet, and the sound was barely audible.

The soft footsteps stopped, and you opened one eye, seeing the blurred white figure. Your vision was blurry, and everything was doubled, but you could make out the face.

"You locked me out." The tone wasn't accusatory or playful. It was a soft, concerned tone that made your chest squeeze.

You rolled your head back, trying to look up at him.

"Sorry," you croaked. "But I’m also not sorry. I needed the silence."

"Yeah, yeah," he said dismissively. He crouched down his hand landing on your arm. His skin was cold against yours. "I know you secretly look forward to our little hangouts."

"No, I don't," you grumbled. "And I especially don't right now."

"Can’t even handle my presence without getting whiplash? Man, I must be really awesome."

You could faintly make out his smug smirk, and it made you snort, only worsening your headache.

"Just..." You waved your hand at him. "Get out. Leave."

He, in fact, did not leave. Instead, he stood up and went over to your bed.

You watched him in confusion as he took off his shoes, and then, with a quick flash of light, he was beside you once again, a blanket suddenly wrapped around him.

"Wh-" You were cut off as the blanket was draped around you, and you found yourself pulled up from the ground.

Peter's arm slipped around your shoulders, and he led you over to the bed. He pulled back the covers, and you climbed in, still unsure of what was going on.

Once you were in bed, he pulled the covers back up, and before you could say anything, his headset was ripped from your dresser. He placed them over his ears and lay down beside you.

He looked at you and nodded his head, giving you a thumbs-up.

You just stared at him, completely confused, but his gaze was unwavering. You let out a sigh, deciding to just roll with it. You were too tired to deal with Peter's bullshit anyway.

You rested your head on the pillow and shut your eyes.

A few moments later, a tune started playing, the music filling your ears. Not the loud, classic rock he usually blasted, but a soothing acoustic.

"You’re a fan of the Beatles?" You asked, surprised. You fluttered your eyes only to see Peter's face correctly. He looked like he was in deep thought. And with the soothing music from his Walkman (that he obviously lent to you) and the quiet, you couldn't help but feel a small tug on your heart.

He shrugged. "It just felt like the right song for the mood."

"Meaning… me dying?"

"Oh, stop being dramatic," he rolled his eyes. "Your little brain is just confused from having a devilishly handsome man lay in bed with you."

"You do realize I’ve had this for days now, right?"

"Alright, so, a devilishly handsome man around you. Is that better?"

"I can’t believe I let you in here," you grumbled, closing your eyes once more.

"Don't lie," he said, a little louder than usual since the music was loud in your ears. "You know you like my company—that and my box of sweets."

What box of—

Your eyes opened, and you looked up, seeing him holding a box of chocolate-covered almonds. Your heart did a flip.

"Is this... " You reached for the box, and he handed it to you.

"They're the good stuff. None of that cheap candy crap."

"Wow, you eat something other than Twinkies? I'm impressed," you teased, taking a piece and popping it into your mouth.

"Hey, don't hate the Twinkies. You ever try them with ice cream? It's great. It's like cake, but it's not, ya know? They're just so squishy, but the flavor is there."

"Uh, ew?"

"What, are you some fancy girl? Too high class for my delicious desserts?"

"Yeah, that's exactly it," you laughed, shaking your head. You rested your head on the pillow again.

"Whatever," he chuckled. "Eat your expensive ass almonds. I had to pay actual money for those, and I'm pretty sure Hank's going to notice they're gone."

That made you sit up despite the pounding in your head. "You stole them?! Oh my god, what's wrong with you?!"

"What?" he looked at you innocently. So I stole a box of chocolates. Big deal. The guy's rich. He never notices when I swipe his food. He'll just assume he forgot to put them away or something."

"Ugh, you are such an ass."

"You say ass; I say awesome."

"No," you said, putting another almond into your mouth. "Ass."

"Alright, fine. But, hey, look, who’s still eating the stolen chocolates?"

"Yeah, well," you smirked, taking another one. " Technically, I didn’t steal it. You did. So I can have a clear conscience."

"Ah, I see," he grinned. "Well, in that case, have another. Grab as many as you want. My treat."

You stared at him. "Okay, who are you, and what did you do with Peter?"

"What?"

"This," you gestured towards him. "All of this. You're never nice."

"Well, when you've had a migraine that's lasted for three days, you kinda learn to have a little empathy for that person."

"Three days?" you said, shocked. "Wait, how did you know the exact amount of time?"

"Don’t let anyone tell you you’re just a pretty face… I’m an all-seeing god, remember? Nothing can get by me."

"Except when Apocalypse broke—"

"Okay! Okay, I don’t need to relive that, alright? Sheesh, you're worse than Raven."

You grinned, taking another almond.

"Thanks," you said sincerely.

"For what? Comparing you to the blue lady? Anytime."

"No," you rolled your eyes. "I mean, for not pulling a… well, you. I really do appreciate it."

"Does this mean you’re leaving the Batcave? If we're getting sappy, then I should probably head out. I don’t want to risk my rep."

"You and I both know you have no reputation."

"True," he smiled. But hey, a guy can dream, right?"

You laughed, shaking your head. You were about to lay back down when he spoke up again.

"Actually," he said, looking at the ceiling, "there is one thing I'm good at."

"What's that?"

He didn't say anything. He just stared at the ceiling.

"Pete?"

His head whipped around to you, and with the same speed, he was leaning over you, his face inches away from yours.

"Peter, what—"

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your ear, and the comment you were about to say died in your throat.

"I can shut up."

The sound of his voice, so soft and low, sent shivers down your spine. He pulled away and gave you a quick smile.

"Just something to think about," he said, and you could see the red tint on his cheeks. He sat up and stood in front of you before you could say anything else.

"You can give the Walkman back whenever, so, uh, don't worry about it. Anyway, I gotta get going. You know, stuff to do and snacks to eat." He turned towards the door. "Anyway, feel better. Later."

And before you could comprehend what had just happened, he was gone just like the wind.

You sat in your bed, still feeling the phantom feeling of his breath on your ear.

And ironically, the pain in your head was starting to fade.

So, yes. Despite him being an annoying little shit, he did have his moments. Genuine, quiet, caring moments. And it always made you question whether or not he was secretly a clone.

You were still staring at the door, your mind running a mile a minute.

But then, as if he could read your thoughts, he peeked his head back into your room.

"Oh, and if you tell anyone about this, I'll tell everyone you're a huge Star Wars nerd."

He vanished, and a second later, he was back once more.

"Also, I definitely didn’t steal that Walkman from a certain someone, so, uh, have fun with the mixtape!"

With that, he was gone.

You rolled your eyes and laid back down, putting the headphones back on.

"Ass."

You will definitely be visiting the white-haired speedster tomorrow. He may have his moments, but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve some good old-fashioned payback.

[lunajay33]

Migraine🕷️

Summary: You get frequent migraines but they’ve been mia since the apocalypse but even since you got to the farm they’ve returned but you didn’t wanna bother anyone until Daryl finds you balled up on the floor in pain

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader

Request by @avrmee

•Masterlist•

Soul crushing migranes were always a struggle to deal with before the world ended, but there was ways to try and relieve them, medicine, piercings, acupuncture but now that it’s been about a year and there was no more medicine or anything really the migraines came back and almost stronger than before

They’d come on when the heat was high and the sun was near blinding, triggering what ever it was in your head to cause crippling pain that no matter how much pressure you applied to your eyes or the amount of water you drank it didn’t matter, but in this world you couldn’t afford to take a day off especially with all the work the others were putting into the prison it was only fair you pull your weight even through the pain

Walking out of prison, opening the door to the blinding white light that was the Georgia sun stung just hoping it didn’t flair up another episode, walking out to the court yard where Daryl was tinkering on his bike you sat next to him

“I missed you this morning” you said leaning your head against his shoulder as he used a wrench against…..well you have no clue but you loved watching him work

“Sorry ya know I’m an early riser plus ya’ve been sleeping lot longer now, ya okay?”

You didn’t wanna worry him and tell him that after these long days of over exerting yourself in the heat that the pain in your head kept you awake late into the night causing you to wake up later than everyone else

“Oh yeah I’m fine, just tired is all, plus I got a beautiful sight next to me at night it’s hard to fall asleep” you laughed poking his side making him gruff out a laugh

“Well I have to go work on the crowd of walkers around the fence, if you need me I’ll be there” I said leaving his side walking down to the entrance gate, using a pole to take down as many walkers as you could working your way down the fence, working for hours when you felt an aura around your head, the groans and snaps of jaws became louder and overwhelming, your knees became weak, you became nauseous as your vision became blurred and specked with black dots, all topped off by the painful pressure in your head

Losing control you dropped to the gravel clutching your head in your hands, knees tucked up to your chest, whining from the pain, this is one of the worst it’s ever been, in the distance you could hear your name being yelled but everything was so overwhelming you couldn’t even process it until the screams got closer

“Y/n baby what’s wrong” Daryl asked holding your body close to his, your head in his lap as he rubbed your back

“It…….it hurts so much” you whined as you clutched your head more wishing for this pain to fade

He just held you for what felt like half an hour trying to comfort me, the walkers noises started to dwindle someone must have came down with Daryl to take them out, you huffed out a breath as the pain subsided a bit giving you enough strength to sit up, seeing his worried expression

“What happened?” He asked brushing my disheveled hair back

“I get this awful migraines, I didn’t wanna say anything and use it as an excuse but they keep me up at night but sometimes they get so bad, like this and I don’t know how to stop them”

“Darlin ya should have said something, we’d understand, I could’ve tried to help ya at night”

“I know how hard you work all day you need your sleep”

“But if yer feeling sick yer more important, promise me you’ll let me help ya”

You bit your lip hesitant not wanting to be a burden

“Y/n” he said sternly

“Okay I promise”

“Good, ya know yer damn stubborn”

“You love me” you said smiling

“Yer lucky I do”

[lesservillain]

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.

[folkookie97]

❝fighting for our love❞ — jjk

— SUMMARY: ❝Jungkook always hated arguing with you. But your relationship was doomed to this habit since you rejected his wedding proposal.❞

— PAIRING: boyfriend!jungkook x girlfriend!reader

— TYPE: angst | non-idol!au, established relationship

— WORD COUNT: 585

— WARNINGS: argument, couple issues, ambiguous/open ending (?), curse words

— NOTES: maybe Seven's MV teaser drove me crazy and i wrote this shit almost crying.

— RELEASE DATE: July 13, 2023

— CROSSPOSTING: ao3, wattpad, spirit fanfics

Jungkook wasn't a contentious person. What he looked up to the most in his life was tranquility; he hated being surrounded by conflicts. Arguments stressed him out and even gave him an intense migraine. It was almost as if his head could explode at any moment. He always felt like his head would explode at any moment during these situations.

The habit of arguing with other people surely has never been present in his life. However the past few months triggered his mind with an almost masochistic habit. A sudden change in his routine accustomed him to disagreements and made him competent when he needed to defend his point of view.

Jungkook always hated arguing with you. But your relationship was doomed to this habit since you rejected his wedding proposal.

"Can you at least look at me while we're arguing?" You gestured impatiently and let the silverware fall onto your still full plate.

For the first time that night, Jungkook brought his deer-like eyes directly to the woman. Her delicate face looked so pretty with the flush on her chubby cheeks and the slightly parted lips; a consequence of your breathlessness.

You looked so fucking beautiful that Jungkook almost felt guilty for his mean behavior that night.

Just almost.

"We're not arguing. You are." He calmly sipped the wine that had been served just a few minutes before.

"You must be fucking kidding me." A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you clenched fists to refrain punching your boyfriend's face.

"I'm not." Jungkook shrugged after putting the glass of wine back on the table. "Have I ever been a bad boyfriend to my darling before?"

His rhetorical question carried such a bitter tone that it instantly made you feel nauseous.

Your stomach hurts as much as your heartbroken. Intrusive thoughts about flipping over every table and smashing every piece of the restaurant flooded your mind as you noticed a smile on Jungkook's lips.

You knew it wasn't appropriate to get angry in public. However your boyfriend's expression carried a sarcastic acidity that made you consider losing your first offender stabbing his tattooed hand.

"You're a fucking asshole."

"Seriously? I'm an asshole for not fighting with you?"

You overwhelmed by Jungkook's sadistic insolence under the curious gazes of the other customers.

"YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE FOR NOT FIGHTING FOR OUR FUCKING RELATIONSHIP!"

An absolute silence settles in the establishment as your scream comes to an end.

The mocking expression fades from Jungkook's face as the absence of sound takes over. He allows himself to stare at you with wide eyes and noticing dense tears flowing down your cheeks.

Jungkook knew he had no right to wipe away your tears when he was the one who made you cry. Despite everything the desire to comfort you in his arms never leaves his heart.

Jungkook remains seated when you curses at him in a pained whisper and walks towards the restroom. Time passes while he recalls about the past few months and regrets all his choices that brought your love to ruin.

He wished he hadn't proposed to you during a family dinner.

He wished he hadn't gotten angry when you said you weren't ready to get married yet.

He wished he had understood your reasons.

He wished he hadn't been a terrible boyfriend to you because of his wounded ego.

Jungkook wished never to argue again with the woman he loved so much.

Jungkook would fight for your love. He would fix it.

[jokeringcutio]

Otis B. Driftwood X F. Reader - Migraine (Explicit 18+ ficlet)

Fandom: House of 1000 Corpses, Pairing: Otis B. Driftwood x Reader Warnings: Period/Blood, Menstruation Kink, Migraine!Reader, Headache!Reader. Dub-con situation, Dom/Sub tones, Explicit Smut, 18+ material, Dark Romance stuff. One-shot/Ficlet/Drabble written on a whim for my dear @myers-meadow 💜Hopefully this will elevate some of your pain.

Otis B Driftwood x Reader ->  Headache.

The ache was incredibly bad today. The blinding light was too bright for your eyes, the sounds the other family members made were too loud for your ears, and the smell of the decaying bodies was too putrid for your sensitive nose.

You rolled over in the bed, curtains drawn so you basked in a peaceful silent darkness. A breath of relief escaped your lips. Your arm was drawn over your head, elevating some of the pain you felt like a band around your forehead, pushing against your temples, stabbing into your skull on occasion.

All you wished for was a little peace and quiet. A wish that was denied when Otis came barging in under loud noises. The soles of his boots creaked, his clothes rustled, the gun in his hands clicked and he was cursing. None of it quiet.

He was followed by Baby who wasn’t nearly as loud, but neither was she quiet. She chuckled as she came to stand in the doorway and observed you. “Bloody dark,” you heard Otis say, then flinched when he switched the light on. You drew your arm even tighter over your face, covering your eyes which you squeezed shut tight.

“I need some goddamn release, babe,” you heard him say. Then felt how his hands were upon your thighs, prying them apart until he pushed himself roughly in between them. “Open up those pretty eyes, sweet cheeks.”

When you refused, you felt his grip falter. “Open up, sweetpie,” he tried again, his voice growing darker. Like a warning.

You heard a huff, then felt his grip on you tighten.

Behind Otis, you heard Baby push herself away from the doorpost. “She ain’t into it, Otis,” she said. You heard her footsteps and the sound of her voice coming nearer to you.

“What’s wrong?” Otis asked, but it was met with silence. “Is she broken or something?” Must be to Baby. “Are you broken?” Otis asked gruffly, this time obviously to you. You felt a slap against your inner thigh, then felt how he moved out from between your legs with a growl.

“Let me guess,” Baby said, her sweet voice near your ear. She must be leaning forward to you, you guessed, for you felt her hot breath roll against your ear. “You’re having a headache,” here she hesitated to give you a once-over, then licked her lips. “And you’re on your period.”

You grunted, and Baby straightened again with a smile. “See!” she said, sounding way too happy. “I am a real people person!” Yeah, when those people are toys you can play with or dead, you thought grumpily.

But the fact was, you were suffering from a really nasty migraine attack. It had crawled upon you all too slowly, and yet you hadn’t noticed it had until it was there. Your head hurt, it throbbed and was pierced all at once. Your tummy hurt, your abdomen squeezing painfully while the first of your monthly blood was violently brought forth. Really nothing was pleasant about this situation. You felt tired, angry, sick. Moody to a point you didn’t even want to meet yourself at this stage. Could they not fuck off and leave you here to die?

Well, not really die, but… You felt horrible, and not at all in the mood for anything. You just wanted to lie there until the pain inside your head faded and the ache in your belly subsided.

“Then we can fuck in the dark,” Otis said, the words instantly followed by the clicking of the light switch. Darkness surrounded you once more. You heard Baby click her tongue, probably shaking her head.

“Yeah, you do whatever,” you heard her say. “I’m off to my own room. Come join me if you want some daylight fun.” Then she was gone.

The bed dipped again as Otis came to sit over you, a knee pressed at either side. He dipped his head forth. Warm hands grabbed your wrists, pulling them away from your face until your arms were trapped above your head. You felt how his long hair tickled your skin before his warm lips were placed over yours, capturing them in a kiss.

So he was truly doing this? You gasped once the kiss broke and opened your eyes to stare up at him in the darkness the room provided. The vague outline of his shape was visible, like an angry grey silhouette that moved in the dark. Only, his shape was filled with colorful blocks, little colored lights that your head filled in despite the darkness. A method of torture, you were sure. A reason you hated to have headaches like these. Even with the lights out, your eyes still managed to hurt, and in effect, so did your head.

“You’d better not be fucking with me,” the angry growl came from above you, where Otis sat up to take off his top. You could hear him unzip his pants before his hands sought yours to unzip them as well. He started to tug them down your hips. “If this headache stuff is just bullshit,” he warned you.

“It’s real,” you croaked, then flinched as you tried to look at him. “I wouldn’t fake-“ you flinched again, then tried to wiggle when you noticed he was trying to take your underpants down. The attempt was miserable. Your hips hardly moved. Your head spun too wildly to coordinate your body.

Then you felt how his hand came to rest between your thighs, pushing them apart. A slap of his palm against your bare cunt alerted you that he had succeeded in taking your pants off. A growl escaped your lips as you arched your back again. A finger slid roughly into your slit, pressing deep until you felt his knuckle. His nail scraped past your sensitive walls that instantly fluttered around the digit, earning you a rough laugh.  “Not want this, eh?” you heard Otis say. “Liar.”

You gasped again, arching your back. A wet squelch was heard when he retracted his finger till only the tip was inside, then he pushed in again.

“I said no,” you gasped, breathlessly. “I’m not feeling well. I’m bleeding.”

“So?”

That caught you speechless. Because indeed. So? So what? Why wasn’t he bothered by it?

And then you reminded yourself who you were dealing with here. If anyone wouldn’t be repulsed by blood, it would be this artistic murderer. While you were still in a daze, he kneeled between your legs. A sinful sound came from your cunt when his lips engulfed your sensitive bud. You felt his lips upon you, joining his finger while he pumped, eagerly suckling your clit and licking your cunt. as if he were hungry for your blood. You gasped, this time in pleasure, then you moved your arms down until your hands came to rest on the top of his head. Your fingers curled in the strands there before tightening and pulling him closer, effectively forcing him to slobber and suck and nip at your aching cunt until you had your fill.

He lapped at you eagerly, desperate for the nectar that spilled from your core. Slick mingled with blood. Your womb clamped painfully inside of you, but the pleasure was making the sensation more and more bearable until you’d forgotten your period pain completely.

You were moaning, guiding Otis up and down and closer. His nose against your pussy lips while his tongue dove in deep. His finger was joined by another. The two thick digits curled and twisted inside of you. And then, when he considered you ready enough for him, he jerked from your grip and sat up between you.

He propped your legs up and over his shoulders and nearly folded you in half as he bent over you. The tip of his hard cock, throbbing and dripping pre-cum, pressed against your opening, then slid in without little resistance. Both of you cried out in tandem while you felt him bottom out. A growl escaped Otis, and you saw the white glint of his gritted teeth in the dark.

Otis’s hands were upon your arms, gripping you while he set a steady pace. Slick sounds filled the room while you shortly worried about staining the bed. A stupid notion, you thought. The bed had been stained by the blood of so many others before you.

Otis was a murderer after all. An Artist. A lover of gore.

No wonder he took you with such fervor while your blood spread across his shaft. Your pussy was sensitive, more than you remembered it to have ever been before. It pulsed around his shaft, milking him, begging for each and everything he could give.

You heard how it affected him. How his low grunts and husky curses became more passionate and more desperate with each thrust and with each pull of your cunt. All too soon, he had you arching your back in pleasure while an orgasm washed over you. Your nipples peeked against your shirt, your cunt clenched down tight. And still he kept thrusting.

“Fuck,” he groaned. It took him more effort to enter you when you clamped down on him like a vice. He had to forcibly pull back his cock and slam it in again, time after time, until the head of his cock hit a pleasurable spot deep inside and your walls started to flutter again.

Your toes curled with delight. He fucked you through your first orgasm, and onto the next. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, but he was thrusting mercilessly, pounding you deep and hard, battering that sweet spot deep inside of your cunt until you saw stars again. This time not from the migraine. These were the stars of horny pleasure. Stars of eroticism. Of sheer luck.

Of him giving you his essence.

Because you felt it. Felt how his hips stuttered and how his warm cum shot deep inside. You heard his hoarse yell, the obscenities he uttered while his hands sought your face and cupped your cheeks.

Then you felt how his lips captured yours in a kiss. His hips pressed tight against yours, his softening cockhead nudging your cervix with the last spasms of his orgasm. Then he slid out.

“Fuck, I think I’ve found a new favorite pastime,” Otis said while he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. You squinted your eyes when he clicked on the bedside lamp, and quickly hid your face behind your arms again. Okay, so the migraine hadn’t gone away. But the pain in your lower region had been replaced by the soft tingling of your afterglow. That was an improvement.

You watched through half-lidded eyes how Otis smirked down at you. He was still undressed, pants tucked to his ankles while yours were discarded halfway across the room. Then he bent over and dipped a finger into a pool of juices that stained the sheets. You watched, mesmerized, as he lifted his finger. He held it in front of his eyes to study it. The bright red blood glinted in the light of the lamp.

Then his eyes turned to you, a similar glint within them, while a smile spread on his lips. “Oh, we’re definitely gonna do this again, pumpkin.” You parted your lips to protest, but he saw the attempt and quickly interfered. “Na-ah,” he tusked you patronizingly so. “Need I remind you? You’re mine.”

And then he was upon you again. His lips ravishing yours in a fiery kiss. Besotted with twisted love and hungry for more of your blood.

He was inside of you before you could protest. And you knew, your life would never be the same again.

[sicknessbysalem]

if it still works with the lore can we get a migraine fic with lex and soren? i have a preference for Lex (im a sucker for characters who have been through so much that they try and hide their issues). Maybe with the prompts “you dont look do good” and “i promise i’m fine”? Im so happy to see them again!

if you have anymore requests, comments, etc., please send them my way!

of course nonny! i love migraine fics!

tw migraines, nausea, vomiting

Lex blinked his eyes open, barely catching the edges of sunlight peeking through the curtains, the faint morning light casting soft, blurred patterns on the walls. Even that minimal brightness was enough to make his head throb, a sharp, pulsing ache blooming just behind his eyes, spreading out in jagged waves that made it feel like every nerve in his skull was on edge.

He let out a low, unsteady breath, bringing his hand up to press against his temple, trying to ease the pain with his palm’s dull pressure, but it only seemed to dig the ache in deeper.

He lay still for a moment, hoping the headache might fade on its own, but the heaviness only deepened, settling over him like a leaden weight. He knew this feeling too well—the telltale signs of a migraine brought on by the season’s fluctuating temperatures.

The chill of dawn was already giving way to a warmer day, and his body had fallen into its unfortunate habit of punishing him for every shift in the weather, as if each drop and rise in degrees had the power to settle under his skin and scrape against his nerves.

With a small, pained sigh, Lex reached over for his phone, blinking against the light of the screen, which only intensified the migraine’s sting. The notifications swam before him for a moment until his gaze landed on a message from Soren, the preview lighting up the screen in a soft glow.

Hey, heading out for errands. Figured you were finally getting some sleep—don’t worry about today. Text me if you need anything.

Lex let out a breath, caught somewhere between relief and frustration. He knew Soren must have noticed the past few nights, the way Lex’s sleep schedule had unraveled into odd, uneven hours, but he hadn’t expected him to head out alone.

The plan had been to run a list of errands together, one of those small domestic routines they’d fallen into recently—a grounding ritual he’d come to enjoy. But the ache pounding in his head was already making everything feel like an effort, and even the thought of leaving the apartment felt like a distant impossibility.

His gaze lingered on Soren’s text, a soft warmth blooming beneath the pain as he read the words again, taking comfort in the thoughtfulness behind them. But even as he closed his eyes, letting himself sink back against the pillow, a quiet sense of determination took hold.

The ache in his head was fierce, and his stomach had already started to churn with that faint, sickening nausea that came with migraines, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him from trying to make something for Soren’s return.

With a careful, slow breath, Lex forced himself to sit up, his movements measured as he tried to keep the nausea from settling too heavily in his stomach. The world tilted slightly as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his vision blurring at the edges, and he closed his eyes, willing the room to stop spinning.

But the pain only intensified, a sharp, stabbing sensation that radiated from the base of his skull to his temples, leaving him feeling disoriented and unsteady.

He glanced over at his nightstand, where his migraine medication sat in its familiar bottle, but the acidic taste in the back of his throat and the way he couldn't even look at his phone for thirty seconds without wanting to vomit or pass out from the sheer pain told him it was too late.

The migraine had settled in too deep, past the point of any quick relief, and he knew that the only way out was the hellish hours of riding it out until the ache loosened its grip. A wave of nausea rolled through him as he stood, his stomach lurching in response, and he pressed a hand to his abdomen, breathing shallowly as he fought to keep the discomfort at bay.

With painstaking slowness, Lex made his way to the kitchen, the dim light in the hallway already feeling too bright, each step sending another ripple of pain through his head. The soft buzz of the fridge, usually a background hum he barely noticed, seemed to reverberate through his skull, amplifying the migraine’s intensity.

He winced, bracing himself against the counter as he steadied his breathing, willing the nausea to settle long enough for him to do something, anything, to feel like he was contributing to their day.

He reached for a glass, the motion feeling sluggish, as though his limbs were weighed down by the feverish ache. The simple act of getting water took on a new difficulty, his hands trembling slightly as he steadied the glass under the faucet.

He drank a few careful sips, the coolness soothing against his dry throat, but the nausea only intensified, a cold, twisting sensation settling low in his stomach.

The thought of making lunch for Soren to come back to tugged at him, an instinctual gesture of care, something that felt grounding and tangible even through the migraine’s haze. But as he reached for the cabinet, the effort of standing became too much, and he slumped against the counter, his fingers gripping the edge as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

He closed his eyes, the throbbing pain pulsing in time with his heartbeat, each wave of nausea growing stronger, more insistent. Every instinct in him was telling him to sit down, to rest, but the thought of lying back down, giving in to the discomfort, felt somehow like a failure. It was as though a part of him believed he should be able to push through this, to handle it on his own, even as his body protested with every breath.

Another wave of nausea surged, sharp and unyielding, and Lex felt a cold sweat break out across his skin, a chill settling over him despite the warmth of the apartment. His hand flew to his mouth as a small, dry gag escaped, a harsh, involuntary reflex he couldn’t quite stifle. The taste of acid lingered faintly on his tongue, and he clenched his jaw, willing his stomach to settle, his grip tightening on the counter.

The quiet of the apartment seemed to press in around him, amplifying each sound, each subtle shift in the air, until he felt like he was drowning in the silence. His head pounded, the pain radiating through his temples in sharp, searing bursts, and he could feel the familiar panic rising, a quiet, insidious fear that only seemed to make the nausea worse.

Another surge of nausea rolled through him, and this time he couldn’t fight it, the sickness overtaking him with a force that left him breathless. He stumbled back, one hand pressed tightly to his mouth as he tried to keep himself steady, the room spinning around him in dizzying, disorienting circles. It felt like the migraine was clawing its way through him, a relentless ache that refused to let up, and he was left to endure it in the silence, his body a vessel for the pain.

As he braced himself against the counter, he felt a faint buzz from his pocket—a new message from Soren, he figured, the screen lighting up with his name. The sight of it sent a small, fragile comfort through him. But even with the message sitting there, he couldn’t bring himself to respond, the effort of typing back feeling monumental, an impossibility.

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers trembling as he lowered the phone, the nausea settling like a stone in his stomach.

For a moment, he leaned against the counter, his eyes closing as he willed the pain to ease, the nausea to settle. But the migraine only dug in deeper, and he could feel his strength waning, his body refusing to cooperate.

The nausea twisted in Lex’s stomach, sharp and unrelenting, each breath a struggle as he tried to force it down, to will it away. He braced himself against the counter, his grip tight as though holding on might somehow ground him, give him the strength to push through. But the sickness had dug in, a quiet insistence that pulsed in time with the throbbing ache in his head, a reminder of the migraine’s unyielding grip. Each shallow breath brought a fresh wave of nausea, an uncomfortable queasiness that refused to settle, and he could feel his control slipping, the sickness rising up like a tide he couldn’t hold back.

His stomach clenched, the nausea cresting sharply, and he barely had time to push himself away from the counter before his body gave in, the sickness overtaking him in a harsh, involuntary reflex. He stumbled to the sink, his hand gripping the edge as he doubled over, his stomach twisting in painful waves, each heave sending a fresh surge of nausea through him.

The force of it left him gasping, his throat raw, the taste of acid lingering on his tongue as he fought to regain control, his body wracked with tremors. The relief was brief, a fleeting respite that left him feeling hollow and exhausted, his limbs heavy and unsteady. He closed his eyes, willing his breathing to slow, to settle, but the pain in his head remained, sharp and insistent, a constant reminder of the migraine’s grip.

Lex gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white, the cold surface grounding him as he fought to keep the nausea from rising again. He let out a shaky breath, his vision blurred, his head pounding with an intensity that left him feeling disoriented, almost detached. The room felt stifling, the walls closing in, and he knew, with a sinking clarity, that he wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything today. The thought sent a wave of frustration through him, a quiet anger at his own body for betraying him, for making something as simple as standing feel like a monumental task.

Swallowing against the lingering nausea, Lex forced himself to leave the kitchen, each step feeling heavier, his body weighed down by exhaustion. His vision blurred as he made his way back to his room, his surroundings shifting in dizzying patterns as the migraine pulsed with each beat of his heart. By the time he reached the doorway, he was trembling, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin, leaving him shivering despite the warmth of the apartment.

With a weak, unsteady hand, he closed the door, the quiet click echoing in the silence as he shut himself off from the brightness of the outside world. His room was dim, the curtains drawn, but even the faint slivers of light that seeped through the edges felt too bright, too sharp, each glint sending a fresh spike of pain through his skull.

Lex stumbled to his bed, his movements sluggish, his body dragging him down as though every ounce of energy had been drained. He reached for the familiar weight of an old tour sweatshirt, the fabric worn and soft from years of use, a comfort that grounded him in the midst of the pain. Pulling it over his head, he tugged the hood up, the fabric falling over his eyes, shielding him from the light, cocooning him in a small, fragile sanctuary against the migraine’s assault.

As he sank onto the bed, he pulled the blankets around him, tucking them close, the weight a small comfort against the cold that seemed to settle in his bones. He lay there, curled up beneath the layers, his hood pulled low, his body tense as he waited for the pain to ease, for the nausea to settle. But the migraine held fast, each pulse a fresh wave of discomfort, a reminder of the body’s quiet betrayal.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the darkness behind his eyelids a small comfort, though even the faint pressure of the hood felt like too much, each touch, each sound amplified by the migraine’s intensity. The quiet of the room settled over him, thick and heavy, a suffocating silence that only seemed to make the ache in his head sharper, more pronounced. He could hear his own breathing, shallow and uneven, the soft rustle of the blankets as he shifted, trying to find a position that offered some measure of relief.

In the dimness, wrapped in his hoodie with the blankets pulled tight, Lex felt the familiar frustration rising, a quiet, simmering anger at the way his body had forced him to retreat, to abandon his plans. He had wanted to do something simple, something small to show Soren he cared, but even that had been stripped away, leaving him with nothing but the relentless ache and the faint, lingering taste of sickness on his tongue.

-

Soren pushed open the front door, a few bags balanced in one hand as he stepped into the quiet apartment. The air was still, undisturbed, with no sound of Lex’s usual music or the faint hum of conversation they often shared when he got home. He glanced around, half-expecting Lex to be in the kitchen or lounging on the couch, but the space was empty, the silence thick and unusual.

As he moved into the kitchen to set down the bags, Soren noticed Lex’s phone resting on the counter, the screen dark, untouched. A small crease formed between his brows as he set his own phone beside it, his gaze sweeping over the empty room. Lex had left his phone behind before, but something about the stillness, the quiet, felt off. Lex was never one to leave his things unattended, especially when they’d planned to spend the day together.

He took a moment to gather the groceries, arranging a few items in the fridge with the quiet efficiency of someone used to their routine. But his thoughts kept drifting back to Lex, to the faint edge of concern that had lingered ever since he’d left, the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.

A faint sound from down the hall broke the silence—a soft, muffled noise that Soren could barely make out, but it was enough to catch his attention. He paused, listening, his senses attuned to any hint of movement. When he heard it again, a soft, strangled sound, he felt a flicker of worry settle in his chest. Moving quickly but quietly, he made his way down the hall, stopping just outside Lex’s room, his hand hovering over the door.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the light, and as he opened the door, Soren’s gaze fell on Lex, curled over the small trash can by his bed, his hoodie pulled low over his face. Even in the low light, he could see the tension in Lex’s body, the way he was bracing himself, his shoulders hunched as he leaned forward, his breaths shallow and strained.

Soren’s heart clenched, a quiet sympathy settling over him as he watched Lex, his back to the door, unaware of Soren’s presence. Soren saw a stream of saliva clinging to Lex’s lips.

Soren moved closer, each step careful, his movements softened by a desire not to startle Lex, to approach with the same gentleness that he knew Lex needed in these moments. It was only as he reached the edge of the bed that he caught sight of Lex’s face, pale and drawn, his lips pressed together in a thin line as he fought to keep the nausea at bay.

Lex’s head lifted slightly at the sound of footsteps, but his eyes barely opened, a faint wince pulling at his brow as he tried to make out who was there. Soren knelt beside him, his presence quiet, his hand hovering for a moment before he rested it lightly on Lex’s back, his touch warm and grounding.

“Hey,” Soren murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, soft enough not to disturb the fragile quiet that Lex seemed to be holding onto. His thumb rubbed gentle circles against Lex’s back, each movement slow, reassuring. “Rough day, huh?”

Lex let out a faint, pained sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, his head dipping slightly as he leaned forward, another wave of nausea rolling over him, sharp and insistent.

“I’m fine, I promise…” Lex forced softly, the words foreign on his tongue.

The migraine was like a vice, pressing in from all sides, each pulse of pain radiating from the base of his skull, twisting through his temples until it felt like his head was caught in a relentless grip.

“Angel,” Soren said, “Your breakfast in the trash can says otherwise.”

“Dinner, actually,” Lex said, “Got out of bed and felt… felt… fuck-“

Soren’s hand stayed steady on his back, a quiet, grounding presence that seemed to ease the tension, if only by a fraction, as Lex heaved.

“Yeah, angel, you’re fucking stellar,” Soren said sarcastically, chuckling softly and holding Lex by his shoulder.

Soren’s touch anchored Lex, it always did, but the nausea surged, a relentless, overpowering wave that left him breathless, his body giving in to the sickness with a force that left him shuddering. His grip tightened on the trash can, his shoulders hunched as he braced himself, his throat raw as he heaved again, harder than before, the effort of keeping anything down slipping out of his control.

Soren’s touch was light, careful, as though he knew the migraine had made everything sharper, every sound, every sensation amplified by the pain. His fingers brushed against Lex’s hair, a gentle, soothing motion that didn’t press, didn’t force, just offered a quiet, unspoken comfort that kept Lex grounded, steady through each wave of nausea. Lex felt Soren reposition his hood, tugging it more to cover his eyes.

Lex felt his breath catch in his throat, everything freezing for a second, but when the breath released, Lex was pitching forward with an even more violent wave of stomach contents splattering into the trash.

“Ah, shit, angel,” Soren said, “Really bad, huh?”

Lex forced himself to nod as he choked up another round, spitting with a soft groan. Every heave was making Lex’s head hurt so much worse and Lex wanted to scream even though that absolutely would make things worse.

When the worst of it passed, Lex let out a shuddering breath, his head falling forward, the hoodie slipping slightly as he sagged, exhaustion settling over him like a weight. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, the nausea lingering like a dull ache, but less insistent, less pressing. His body felt weak, spent, each breath a careful effort to stay calm, to keep the discomfort from spiraling.

“Better?” Soren asked quietly, his voice a gentle presence beside him, warm and understanding, as though he could sense every ounce of Lex’s reluctance to accept his help. His hand stayed on Lex’s shoulder, steady, a quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone, that he didn’t have to carry this alone.

Lex nodded faintly, his head still bowed, his voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… it’s just… pain,” he managed, his words strained, each syllable a careful effort. The ache in his head pulsed in time with his heartbeat, each throb a fresh reminder of the migraine’s grip, of the discomfort that lingered just beneath the surface.

Soren’s fingers brushed against the back of his neck, a gentle, familiar touch that seemed to ease the weight, the tension that had settled in his shoulders. “I know,” he replied softly, his tone filled with a quiet empathy that seemed to cut through the pain, grounding Lex in the present, in the warmth of Soren’s presence beside him.

With a slow, careful movement, Soren took the trash can from Lex’s hands, setting it aside with a quiet understanding that didn’t ask for words, didn’t press for explanations. He reached for a tissue from the nightstand, gently wiping it over Lex’s forehead, his touch light, soothing, a quiet comfort in the midst of the migraine’s unrelenting grip, before wiping Lex’s mouth too.

“Here, water, catch your breath,” Soren said, handing Lex the glass of water on the nightstand. Lex took it, drinking slowly.

Soren got up, going behind Lex’s curtains and cracking the windows.

“I know the weather messes you up, but I also know…” Soren said, coming out from the curtains and grabbing the trash can, “That fresh air helps your nausea, migraine nausea or random episode of nausea. I’m going to toss this, you just try and catch your breath and lay back down, okay?”

Lex let out a small sigh, nodded slowly.

Soren was back before Lex fully processes everything, a new bag in the trash can that he set at the edge of the bed before crawling in by the foot and laying behind Lex.

“Come here,” Soren said, opening his arms. Lex chuckled softly and laid down, curling up in Soren’s side, melting into Soren’s touch, his body exhausted, every ounce of strength drained by the migraine, by the sickness that had overtaken him.

“You’re too good to me,” Lex said softly.

Soren gave Lex a gentle squeeze, kissing the top of Lex’s head.

“I don’t think I’m good enough sometimes,” Soren said, “But I’m right here, angel. Just let me know it you need anything.”

Lex’s throat tightened, a faint, unspoken gratitude lingering beneath the discomfort, a quiet acknowledgment of the comfort, the care that Soren offered so freely, so gently. He nodded, his voice barely more than a whisper, a soft, reluctant acceptance. “Yeah… okay.”

Soren’s hand rubbed up and down Lex’s back, his touch a steady presence that kept him anchored, a small, fragile comfort that cut through the pain.

“I’m right here.”

And Lex knew he could believe it.

[marvelmusing]

Morning Tea

Pairing: Vampire!Aleksander Morozova x Vampire!Fem!Reader (Modern AU)

Part 2 of the Tender Loving Care AU

Summary: Aleksander kept his word, staying with you for the night, and he plans to keep his word by teaching you how to make blood tea.

Warnings: blood consumption, allusion to sex, usual vampire vibes, aside from that it’s all fluff

A/N: not extensively proofread, I started writing this when I was half asleep and the words just sort of happened?

My Masterlist

The first thing you notice is how warm you are. For the past few days you’ve struggled to heat up your undead body, or retain any warmth once you’ve gained it. Yet here you are, lying cosy in bed. Then the scent hits you.

Familiar and safe. Those are the only two words your sleep-filled mind can gather together to describe the scent. A steady heartbeat and even breaths are what makes you realise there’s someone else in your bed, and the sound of a turning page alerts you to the fact that they aren’t asleep.

“Aleksander?” You mumble, your words are still soft and sleepy. His answer is a very low sound, that vibrates against his chest where your head is lying.

“Hm?”

“You stayed.” He closes whatever book he’s been reading softly, not wanting the noise to startle you.

“Of course I did.”

In your sleep, your arm has been curled up between his chest and yours, so you stretch it out with a minute groan of exertion before you let it drape over Aleksander’s middle. He pets the top of your head tenderly.

“How are you feeling?”

You blink a few times, before you remember your migraine. Assessing your body, the only thing you’re feeling currently is the urge to never leave this bed. Nuzzling closer to Aleksander, you drop your face down into the crook of his neck, which is where you mumble out your answer.

“Right as rain.” He breathes out a small laugh at your choice of expression, and places the book he had located back down on your bedside table.

“Regardless, you should take it easy over the next few days.”

You hum in acknowledgement, but soon become distracted by his scent. It’s so much stronger near his neck, and you know it’s due to the arteries there because your fangs are beginning to ache with an urge to affectionately bite him. Briefly you wonder whether that’s something vampires do to one another.

“You smell really really good.”

He chuckles in response to your quiet musings.

“You smell rather delectable yourself, milaya.”

“I do?”

There’s surprise in your voice. You always assumed that any appeal your blood had once had must have disappeared on the night you were turned. Of course Aleksander smelled divine, but you couldn’t even fathom him feeling the same way for you.

“Yes you do.”

A giddy feeling fills your chest, and you shift your body even closer to his. His arm curls around you, pressing you right where you want to be. The two of you spend a long moment in each other’s space; you can’t remember the last time you felt so contented.

The sound of his breathing is so steady and resilient, you find yourself eagerly waiting for the next inhale, allowing the motion of his chest to rock you further back towards sleep.

“Milaya.” He murmurs softly in such a low voice even you barely hear it. Lazily, your eyelids flutter open and you look up at him from under your sleep heavy lashes. A soft smile curls at the corner of his lips. “Do you need a nap, little one?”

You nod sleepily. His lips press against your forehead in a soothing gesture of reassurance.

“Go back to sleep.” He encourages you. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

His words are already in the distance, as your body grows heavy and your mind slips away back into sleep.

As your thoughts fade you come to a realisation. Usually when you awoke you were overwhelmed by the noises of the city outside, jolted into anxiety at the slightest of sounds: the apartment above you, a breeze against your window, sometimes even Alina’s heart beating in the room next to yours was too much.

But this morning, all you had focused on was Aleksander, and what a peaceful moment that had been. Once you’ve drifted off, Aleksander takes the opportunity to look around your room in the daylight. From his position on your bed of course. If he moved it’s likely you would wake, and he doesn’t have the heart to pull you away from such well needed rest.

He observes the large bookcase in the corner, that vaguely resembles a dragon’s lair with how you’ve hoarded the volumes that line the shelves. There’s piles of books on your desk, under the desk, and in the corner where a few cushions and a blanket have been nestled in a spot now illuminated by the sunlight filtering through the curtains.

All vampires have a sensitivity towards bright light, which Aleksander supposes is what started the myth that they were adverse to sunlight. Your light sensitivity seems to be particularly delicate, given the lack of any large lighting fixtures in your room. There’s a set of string lights hung along the wall and a salt lamp stashed away in your reading corner. Aside from that, there’s no other lighting.

Given the placement of your designated reading corner, in direct sunlight, and the sheer number of cosy cushions and soft blankets in your space, you were a vampire who liked warmth. His heart aches a little at the thought of you, a little fledgling vampire shivering in the cold and unable to produce your own body heat.

Subconsciously, he adjusts his arm around you, keeping you close as you snuggle into his chest. Closing his eyes, he tilts his head and rests it against one of your pillows that he had propped up against the headboard when he woke. Inhaling deeply, he begins with the scent furthest away from him.

Your perfume sits on the desk, a delicate little bottle adorned with a simple flower on its lid, the smell is light and fresh, a perfect compliment for your own natural scent. His attention trails over each and every bottle of lotion and moisturiser, breathing in the differences in how they smell.

Every one of them acts as a layer of who you are, and as his focus comes closer to where he’s sitting he can smell your shampoo’s sweet scent, accompanied by your body wash and lotion, which all soften when he shifts his attention solely onto your body.

Underneath all these layers, he can still smell the unique fragrance of your body, sweetened by your blood. You had seemed surprised earlier, when he had mentioned how enticing your blood was for him. You smell even more delectable now that you’re well fed, warm and cosy from sleep, and so hooked on his own scent.

Turning his head aside, his eyes open slowly and he spots the book he had been reading when you awoke earlier. A notebook. Curiosity has always been a weakness of Aleksander’s. Imagine his surprise when he opened up the notebook and read his name on the very first line. The first few pages had been filled with random pieces of information. Harmless things. His birthdate. His favourite books.

It was clear you had been saving this notebook for something special. It was quite an old notebook, with a deep teal cover, adorned with thin golden embellishments and a worn gold clasp to keep the yellowed pages sealed away safely. It really was a lovely notebook, and to have his name be the first thing you had deemed important enough to spoil the empty pages with has a warm feeling settling in his chest.

Aleksander hears your breathing shift, and you stir lightly. It won’t be long before you’re awake again. He spends the rest of his time watching the slow rise and fall of your chest. Your hand slides up the mattress, smoothing over the sheets as you stretch slightly.

“Aleksander.” You mumble, blinking blearily up at him before you press your face back into the crook of his neck.

“Yes, milaya?”

“What time is it?” He hums as he turns to look at the clock on your bedside table.

“Approaching noon.”

Once those words leave his lips he begins to shuffle away from your body, towards the side of the bed.

You whine, a needy desperate noise, as he attempts to detach himself from your arms. He garners some success, managing to sit up on the edge of the bed with one of his feet on the floor.

“Just a few more minutes, please?” He presses a pacifying kiss to your forehead and you wrap your arms around his waist tightly.

“I can go make our tea and bring it to you.” He suggests. You shake your head against his stomach as you protest with a small pout on your lips.

“You promised to show me how to make it properly.”

“Well you’ll just have to join me then, won’t you?” He teases with affection in his voice. Tilting your head aside, you listen to the sounds in the rest of the apartment for the first time since you woke up.

“Alina’s home. With company.” You state. Aleksander merely nods, it’s likely he will have noticed their presence before you had.

“They’re both still asleep.” He adds. His forehead crinkles slightly as you push the bed covers away from you and he stands. “I thought Alina said she doesn’t know any other vampires?”

Confusion pulls at your brows, then you realise why Alina’s scent is different this morning, because she’s currently sleeping next to a vampire.

“She doesn’t. Or didn’t. I assume she met her new friend last night.”

“Ah.” You pick up a pair of fluffy socks, pulling them onto your feet one by one. “Is that a regular occurrence?” You shrug lightly.

“On occasion. Alina certainly isn’t afraid of the supernatural.”

Tugging on an old sweatshirt that hangs low enough to cover the shorts you’re wearing, you follow Aleksander into your kitchen where he begins to make enough tea for the both of you.

With a small jump, you hoist yourself up onto the countertop, opening a cupboard and selecting a mug each for you both. Aleksander opens up your fridge, picking up a carton of milk as his eyes scan over the clear glass bottles filled with blood.

“Do you prefer it softer or stronger?” You hesitate for a moment, swinging your legs lightly as you consider his question.

“Stronger in the morning.” He nods, picking up a particular bottle. Aleksander doesn’t need to look at the label, from the scent alone he knows what type it is, but he glances at the expiry date just as a precaution. Still in date, as he thought.

Blood tea is more of a colloquial term for a drink that isn’t actually tea. It’s similar to tea, but different types of blood act as a substitute to whatever variety of tea leaves a human would use.

Aleksander explains the process as the water begins to boil in the kettle.

“Water first, then stir in the milk. After it’s settled for a moment pour in the blood and stir it. You don’t take sugar do you?”

You shake your head in response.

“That must be what I was doing wrong.” You muse, and he hums, encouraging you to continue as he pours the boiling water into your mugs. “I put the blood in first, then the water, then the milk.”

He nods in agreement.

“My method is half water, and then a quarter each of milk and blood. Though I believe that part will depend on personal preference.”

His fingers are elegant in their movements as they stir the milk into the boiling water, careful not to tap the metal spoon against the porcelain, as if he knows that the sharp sound will upset your contented state. He waits a moment before he uncaps the blood, and pours in a portion for each of you.

He stirs them again, before he hands you the mug with a little extra blood in.

“Careful, milaya. It’s hot.”

Boiling liquid doesn’t scald your tongue like it would to a human, and Aleksander is well aware that you delight in being warm. He doesn’t look surprised when you hum gratefully as your hands curl around the mug.

He watches you as you bring it to your lips. A pleased noise blooms in your throat as the heat hits your tongue, to be followed by the creamy taste of blood tea. Your eyes flutter closed as you allow the perfect taste to linger on your tongue. Once your eyes are open again, you find Aleksander watching you.

Warmth blooms over your cheeks, and you enjoy the flush of blood spreading down your neck. A smirk quirks at the corner of Aleksander’s mouth as he lifts his own mug to his lips, he appears to enjoy making you flush.

“It’s wonderful.” You tell him earnestly, and a thrill runs through you when you notice the very tips of his ears going red.

“Thank you.” He says softly, his eyes still on yours. You don’t look away, even when you call out quietly to the figure trudging towards the kitchen penninsula.

“Morning Lina.”

She mumbles a response back to you as she settles on one of the stools on the opposite side of the peninsula. Blinking a few times, she rubs her eyes before she adds with a small grin,

“Morning, Aleksander.”

He nods in greeting.

“Good morning, Alina. Tea?” She nods, and Aleksander reaches for the box of tea that Alina is fond of. She looks back at you with a small crease between her brows.

“Are you feeling better?” You nod, taking another sip of your tea.

“A lot better.” A small smile creeps over your lips as you think about what a perfect evening it was. “Thank you.”

You never would have had the courage to message Aleksander and ask him to come and take care of you like he had. Without Alina’s interference, you would have likely just festered on the couch for however long it took for your migraine to pass.

Aleksander hands Alina her mug of tea, and you open a cupboard to locate the sugar for her.

When the sound of movement in Alina’s room catches your attention, you tilt your head aside to listen to the fumbling of clothes being pulled on. From the look in your eyes as you glance in that direction, Alina can tell what you’re listening to.

“Be nice to this one.” She tells you as she stirs in her sugar, and you lift your brows as your lips part in exaggerated surprise.

“I’m always nice.”

“What about Matthew?”

“That was well-deserved.” You shudder, gripping tighter onto your mug in some semblance of comfort. “The things I heard that night cannot be unheard.”

She rolls her eyes at you with a fond sigh. There’s a twinkle of amusement in Aleksander’s eyes when you turn back to face him as he leans his hip against the kitchen countertop.

The vampire that appears from Alina doorway regards the three of you with a smile, which widens with familiarity once she sees Alina. Messy blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, and thick fangs. From her scent you can tell that she’s a turned vampire, which explains the random smattering of hickies and bite marks along Alina’s collarbones and up her neck.

A turned vampire couldn’t turn a human, it’s only natural vampires that have the ability to turn another being. Even then, you’ve heard that they can only create the venom on a full moon, but you’re not sure how true that it. You’ll have to ask Aleksander about that at some point.

The vampire rounds the peninsula, giving you and Aleksander a wide berth as she stands beside Alina. You aren’t sure whether she’s intimidated by being in your living space, or simply Aleksander’s presence.

“Would you like to stay for breakfast?” You offer amicably, though a lot of vampires don’t bother to keep up with human mealtimes. She shakes her head.

“Thanks. But I should be going.” Alina turns to her with a grin, and their lips meet in a rather open mouthed kiss.

Glancing down, you decide to count how many kitchen tiles make up the floor. They’re a smooth grey, with an even darker grey grouting. Something clean and modern. The landlord wouldn’t allow you to change it when you moved in. Alina would probably prefer something with more character, but you liked the simplicity of it.

When the sounds of their kissing have left your ears you glance up again, nose wrinkling slightly. Alina was like your sister, and with your heightened senses you often smelt or heard too much. Her smile is bright as she walks the girl to the door.

When Alina returns to her seat you toss her a package of supplements. She narrows her eyes at you.

“You don’t need to worry so much.”

“I’ll always worry about you, Lina.”

You don’t hate your immortal existence, and you certainly don’t view yourself as a monster, or some damned creature cursed with eternity. Drinking blood doesn’t make you a bad person, you know who you are, and that’s enough for you. But it has been lonely. Your turning had been the lowest point in your life, and you would hate for Alina to go through something like that.

A lot of young humans these days have rather romanticised your existence. You know that Alina sees the reality of your life, she’s isn’t ignorant of it. But, she’s always longed to be more than just another human, which sometimes worries you.

“Is this chocolate cake?” Alina asks, fiddling with the handles of a white plastic bag as she tries to peer inside. Aleksander nods.

“I brought it yesterday. It’s one of my friend Nina’s specialities - chocolate blood orange cake.” Alina raises a brow at his explanation.

“By blood orange, do you mean the actual fruit blood orange, or..” In that moment she managed to open the bag, and the sweet scent of blood and chocolate swirl together as they meet your nose, followed by the sharp tang of orange.

“Or should it be named blood and orange chocolate cake?” You ask with a knowing smile. Alina’s head perks up.

“You mean I can’t eat this?” A pout puckers at her lips as she eyes the rich, gooey chocolate cake. You laugh softly at the disappointment on her face. Aleksander smiles as he remarks,

“You could, though I’m not certain you would enjoy it.”

There’s a soft buzzing over the other side of the apartment, and your head perks up at the sound, as does Aleksander’s. Turning to him, there’s recognition in his eyes, and you realise it’s his phone, tucked away in his coat pocket, draped over your couch.

He moves over to the couch, scooping up his coat and rummaging around the pockets as he searches for his phone. His eyes narrow at the brightness of the screen, then he reads the name of whoever’s calling him.

Aleksander glances over at you.

“Do you mind if I take this?” You shake your head.

“Not at all.”

“I won’t be long.”

He disappears into your bedroom, and you hear him address whoever’s on the other line. Alina turns to you with an ecstatic grin on her face.

“You like him. Like really like him.” You nod, looking down at your mug with a shy smile.

“I do.”

“He seems nice.”

You look up at her with wide eyes, setting your empty mug down as you face her.

“He is. He’s so nice, Lina.”

You say the words as if you can hardly believe it. She smiles knowingly before she gives you a satisfied nod.

“Good. You deserve it.”

Aleksander reappears with a crease between his brows, though his expression softens once he meets your eyes.

“I’m afraid I have to go, milaya.”

“That’s okay.” You assure him. He steps close, his hands settling on each of your knees as you press your cheek against his chest. His lips brush against the top of your head as he speaks,

“Send me a message later today, so that I know you’re alright.”

“I will.” Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and your fingertips skim nervously over the woven threads as you find the courage to add, “We should do this again sometime. Not the ‘me having a migraine’ thing of course. I meant the seeing you.”

He chuckles at your rambling.

“I’d like to see you again too, milaya.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Preferably without the migraine as well.”

A smile spreads over your lips quickly as warmth blooms in your chest.

“Think about my offer as well.” He murmurs lowly against your hairline, and you nod. The offer for him to claim you, and teach you everything your sire should have. You go rather still under his hold as you admit in a small voice,

“I think I want that.”

He hums softly in acknowledgement, not dismissing you, but not agreeing either.

“Think it over a little more. I want you to be certain.”

He steps away and you nearly whine at the loss. Aleksander must see it in your eyes, because he cups your cheek softly, and brushes over the skin there delicately with his thumb as he presses a parting kiss to your forehead.

He must have put his shoes on whilst he was in your bedroom, because all too quickly he’s tugging his coat on, and you’re opening the front door for him.

Alina trails behind you, dropping down onto the couch as Aleksander nods assuringly at you.

“I’ll see you soon.” You mimic his nod.

“See you soon.”

Once the door is shut you allow the giddiness to fill you and you beam brightly at the closed door. When you turn Alina is there, sweeping you into a hug as you bounce and laugh in pure delight.

You’re so swept up in your happiness that you forget that from the hallway Aleksander can still hear inside your apartment. You don’t realise that he hovers by your door for a moment, listening to your laughter with a smile on his face.

-

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity

BB Character Tag List: @rachlovesactors

[novankenn]

Rage of a Child (II)

(Previous)

Headmistress Goodwitch, sat behind her desk kneeding her temples. She had a migraine and it was only getting worse as Ruby Rose and Qrow Branwen gave a report on their findings. It had been close to seven years since a lucky accident gave one Jaune Arc the insight to end an eons old shadow war. How he had ever managed to find the Relic of Choice was still a mystery.

But that was neither here nor there. What was important was the fact that the small Hamlet that Jaune and Pyrrha Arc had retired to had been utterly annihilated... to the soul.

"So you saw them? You saw their bodies?" Glynda asked, her voice weary, and strained.

"Yes." Qrow replied as it was obvious Ruby was still having a hard time coming to terms with the fact two of her friends were now gone, because huntsmen and huntress teams were too late to arrive.

"And there were no survivors?"

"None that we found, though there were some... fresher bodies."

"What do you mean? Fresher?"

"Still in rigor, and the wounds... the wounds where not Grimm."

"Slavers?"

"That or scavengers, but it makes no difference, someone killed them." Qrow replied as he leaned against the wall near the window overlooking the Emerald Forest. "And it happened after the Grimm had rolled through."

"That makes it sound like there was a survivor." Glynda commented.

"Can I be excused?" Ruby asked, her voice wavering. "Someone should let Ren and Nora know... know about... them."

"Of course. Please pass on Beacon and my condolences."

"Okay." Ruby stopped, "Should I inform Jaune and Pyrrha's families as well?"

"No, I will take care of letting the Arc and Nikos families about the loss of their son, daughter and granddaughter..."

"Annabelle..." Ruby's face looked almost terrified at a thought that jumped into her head.

"Rubes?" Qrow asked, as he pushed off the wall.

"Annabelle... she wasn't there." Ruby stammered out. "Annabelle wasn't there!"

"Ruby? What are..." Headmistress Good witch started to ask, only to get caught off.

"Annabelle! Jaune and Pyrrha's daughter! She wasn't there. Her body wasn't there! She must still be alive!" Ruby's face grew red and her hands clenched into tight fists. "AND WE LEFT HER OUT THERE!"

"Qrow?" Glynda looked to the aged huntsman. "Is what she's saying true? Could..."

"It could... but... I... I... don't know."

"We have to get back there and start looking for her!" Ruby screamed at the top of her lungs.

/==/

Annabelle whistled a light tune as she skipped through the forest. Floating in the air propped up on what could be only be described as fluctuating strings of green energy... the Seamstress and the Barber scanned the surrounding forest with dull unblinking button eyes. A crimson stained steel knitting needle and pair of heavy fabric shears at the ready.

Annabelle paid none of that any attention, as she continued to skip through the forest. Her once strawberry-blond hair faded to nearly pure white with a blue tint. Her once slightly fair completion having also faded becoming deathly pale. All she cared about was that Mommy and Daddy where with her. That was all that mattered... well that and hurting those that let her get hurt.

The crack of a branch caused Annabelle to stop and just turn her head towards the sound. Leading the way through the underbrush the slavering maw of a lone beowulf. Annabelle giggled sweetly as she turned her palms skyward and then flicked her wrist forward.

The Barber struck from the right while the Seamstress hit from the left. Razor edged shears severed inky flesh as a steel needle buried itself in the beasts red eye. The animated dolls, now puppets returned to their perches, as Annabelle tilted her head to the side and watched the fell creature's corpse dissolve.

"Bye, bye beastie."

[hanibalistic]

#FFDA78 | MARK LEE.

genre | romance, fluff, angst

word count | 1604

warning | themes of domestic abuse (parental)​

note | i was thinking about what my neighbors were thinking when they could hear me next door

mark thought he saw something on your face; a smeared eyeshadow fading in color and a straight line on your cheek drenched in scab red. he thought he saw something on your face, and his intuition was correct.

the way you knew his hands was defined by their callousness. 

mark took good care of his skin, but the care extended no further than his face. when it came to his hands, he was still trying to squeeze out the residue left in his 1-year hand cream. they were often dry and rough to the touch, but you never minded the skin contact. something about their oldness reminded you of your father’s hands, but in the way mark’s would never be injurious. 

he ran the tip of his finger across the scab on your cheek with ease. it must have been some cut; you told him your mother threw a pen at you, and the tip grazed your cheek. he didn’t laugh when you joked that she could be a sharpshooter. you closed your left eye instinctively when he smoothed his thumb over the surface of the lid. the smeared eyeshadow fading in a dark purple hue was a black eye. your father’s anger was evident in the shades of its disgusting colors.

you let mark touch your face because he wanted to and he knew how to. he was used to delicacy because he grew up collecting musical trinkets like vintage music boxes with breakable ballerinas in them, or the hackable motherboard of an electronic music player released more than ten years ago. but mostly, mark knew how not to hurt you because the thought had never crossed his mind, and humans are incapable of executing what their mind has no knowledge of. 

“come in,” he said after he let go. he turned to his apartment door with a chunky lot of keys in his hand to unlock the door. “let me put some medicinal cream on them.” 

the small apartment was all he could afford with his faraway dream of pursuing a music career, but you always thought it was homey, and it smelt of him. 

there was an unmade twin-sized bed; the only thing he paid for was the frame and everything else—the mattress and the sheets—he took from his old bedroom at his parents’ house. you slept on it alone a couple of times, each time with a different blood trail on your skin. mark slept squeezed on it with you once because you were crying nonstop that night; he never questioned how terrifying it must have been to be threatened an ultimatum with a waving kitchen knife. 

the apartment has a small closet built into the wall. the door was always opened whenever you were there, and he was always halfway through hanging his clothes up, even though he didn’t have many. mark liked to wear oversized clothes, as did you. it was the deceiving perception of your bodies that you both enjoyed so much. with mark’s clothes, you also loved that they smelt of him, and he loved that they would smell of you when you return them thoroughly washed. 

mark saved up for months to get a small, waist-sized refrigerator. his parents and in-laws offered to buy him a regular one, but he insisted on making this purchase by himself. the fridge was always full of boxes of microwavable meals, box lunches, and an unlimited supply of soda cans. sometimes you would hide outside food in his fridge, mostly desserts from bakeries, so your parents wouldn’t think you were hoarding your part-time income all to yourself.  

compared to what you had next door, with beer-bottle carpets and opened caskets of leftovers, mark’s home was everything you could ever ask for. 

the first aid kit sitting in the cabinet under his bathroom sink, claustrophobic with unopened shampoo bottles, scented lotions, toothbrush packs, and soap bars, was not here before. neither did he use to have so many medicinal items in his home before. the most he owned were bandaids and migraine pills. welcoming you into his life also welcomed a lot of expenses spent on home remedies in preparation for what he knew would always eventually happen. the first aid kit was a box he bought for you.

mark set the first aid kit down on his bedside table and opened it. you sat down on the edge of his bed like you always do when you know he has something in his kit for you. looking inside and rummaging through the box, he picked out a travel-sized vaseline tub and a bottle of ibuprofen. he researched it online before to make sure he wouldn’t accidentally make everything worse; vaseline to moisturize the scab, and ibuprofen for the inflammation and pain of your black eye. 

“have you eaten anything today?” he asked after he knelt before you. his hands were busy opening the pill bottle, and his eyes were busy observing you. 

you smiled faintly, and mark nodded in acknowledgment. he dumped the ibuprofen onto his palm and handed it to you. after screwing the lid shut, he reached for his water bottle on his bedside table and weighed it with his hand. he refilled it yesterday night before he went to sleep, and there was water left in there still. he gave you the water bottle and watched you take the pill. 

you chugged the water as if this was the first time you’d been hydrated since ages ago. mark chuckled lowly—genuinely—when you failed to heave an exaggerated sigh of contentment after drinking all his water. he took the bottle from your hand and set it aside, then reached up to wipe the corner of your mouth of water droplets. you pursed your lips at the feeling of his thumb on your lips and the backs of his fingers pressing against your chin. you stuck your tongue out to the side where he was cleaning off the water droplets and touched his finger, making him giggle. 

“hey! that’s nasty!” he accused playfully, waving his hand with his thumb sticking out as if the air would clean it. 

you shrugged with a mirroring of his childishness. the smile on your face was thoughtless and effortless; it was of splendid innocence and untraditional immaturity. an inner-child that has peace as opposed to the debilitating contrast that comes out in your own home. you wished that was not the case, and you knew mark also prayed that it wasn’t the case, but you would always be small in front of your parents. you would always be a kid before your parents, just instead of peace, you have everything but. 

your eyes focused when you felt mark’s hand on your face. he pushed at your hair, reading your face intently even though everything was undoubtedly presented to them. you never put a wall up to guard against his approach, and you suspected you would in the future. mark watched the joy on your face flattened into contemplation over his own as if you were waiting for him to break some bad news to you, but he has none to give. 

he was only watching you because he enjoyed it. 

that, and because he owned unfathomable guilt pieced together from your broken skin and unlimited endearment for the way your heart has not the callousness of his hands. 

mark knew everything important about you. he knew whenever you bled and where you bled; he recorded with his mind what medicine worked for you body and what worsened conditions; he touched your naked chest and uncovered back, and he recognized whether it was the yellow bruises or the cold touch of his fingers that gave you shivers. you two spent so much time together, and he knew everything about you to a point where he could no longer separate his existence from yours. 

you were always in the apartment with him. he was always tasting your shoulder between his teeth. you were never happy next door. he was never at ease with you in his field of vision. 

“mark…?” you grabbed his hand because you could see traces of difficulties in his eyes rolling around like gleams of water.

he pursed his lips into a frown. “i’m so sick of your parents.” 

mark rubbed your cheek with tenderness like threading a needle when you widened your eyes and squeezed his wrist at the sudden statement. your hands were soft as your heart was; he never knew how retaliation and displacement were never within your line of thoughts. he never understood that while you learned of violence and shame at your parents’ feet, you learned to be loved and cared for under his hands. 

there was a knot he swallowed down his throat to his hammering heart. his heart told him he was in love with you, but the knot asked him for how long? 

“me too,” you giggled. 

his chest quivered at the scab on your cheek that quirked with you—the vaseline on his bedside came back to mind. he remembered he was going to apply it on your face. he was going to refill his water bottle for you to get hydrated. and he was going to ask you to stay at his apartment for the night to eat microwavable bento boxes with him. and you were both sick of your parents, but under his calloused hands and between the two weights on his twin-sized bed, you still got to learn what it means to be loved.

for how long? 

his heart dissolved the knot. it replied: forever. 

[ladytitanium]

Silly Bands were hot when I was in school. I did not have any because my family was very poor, but the rich and popular kids (always seemed to be a lot of overlap, for some reason) had so many slung around their forearms that they looked like multicolored archery bracers. Inches of animal-shaped rubber bands meant you'd made it in the social hierarchy. I begged my dad for a quarter at the Walmart after he'd been fighting quietly with my mother over finances in the checkout line. There was a vending machine with plastic capsules full of Silly Bands. I could finally enter the hallowed ranks of Cool Kids, if I could just get one capsule, but he just shook his head and held my hand tighter as we headed for the parking lot.

I'd devised a scheme on my way home, tuning out the argument that had erupted into a full shouting match as soon as the trunk closed behind the paltry Walmart haul. I would find a way to get my hands on some Silly Bands-- intact ones, not the snapped single-thread corpses of neon creatures that littered the middle school hallways. I was going to perform a great heist.

It turned out to be so much easier than I expected. Stealing at home was a waiting game. Dad at work, mom sleeping off a migraine or medication side effects-- that was prime time for stealing into the grimy kitchen and shaking out precise amounts of candy from last Halloween's bucket in a precise and (I thought) untraceable pattern. The couch cushions or discarded work pants left on the floor could sometimes contain coins, which I usually saved for soft-serve cones from McDonalds when the weather was unbearable in an un-air-conditioned Midwest July. But, I figured, if I left a quarter in the place of the Silly Bands I stole, I was basically surreptitiously paying for what I'd taken, which made it morally justifiable.

The heist went off without a hitch. An unattended and unzipped pencil bag, a sweaty quarter dropped into it, a set of three Silly Bands tucked away in my bag. I waited days to display them so that the crime could be discovered and forgotten without suspicion falling on me. Finally, I displayed my new social-status-raising accessory.

A boy pinned me to the locker and snapped all three off of my wrist the next day after school. His friend would have helped, but was too disgusted by my existence to touch me even violently, he claimed. The red lines faded from my skin by the time I got home. Nothing could gain me the status I hoped for. I was simply too strange to gain entry into those coveted upper echelons.

I'm not going to say stealing is wrong categorically. I am not even claiming that it's never done me any good. It's a helpful skill sometimes, to be able to move undetected and take what you need. I am, however, certain that some lessons must be learned the hard way. No amount of lecturing can dampen the thrill of Getting Away With Something, until natural consequences do the work for you.

[12pt-times-new-roman]

c3e62

The party heads off through the wilderness toward Hevestro's place of residence. The first day's travel goes by without issue.

Ashton asks Orym to guide them through a meditation. "I've decided it's time to start thinking aobut my situation... how I got here, what it means, what happened to me. The Hishari shit, the helmet... yesterday kind of threw me, a couple of days ago kind of threw me, and I'm trying to recenter." Both of them are starting to wonder what fixing looks like, what it might mean, and both are doubting whether anything can be fixed at all.

"I think the best we can do right now is, if you see me go down, pick me back up, and I'll do the same for you."

Knowing that they deal with pain, Orym starts to slowly massage the palm of Ashton's hand, in that pressure point that relieves migraines (I think?).

Prism inscribes a couple runes onto Bordor's crossbow. Runes are just the containers and foci for magic instilled within them, so she puts a 4th level dragon's breath into it; when Denise fires it, it gives off a gout of flame, but the magic is expended. Because of the solstice, the runes can hold a spell for a short time and expend that spell when fired, but after a time the magic will dissipate.

"So you studied for years and never cast a spell, and Bordor, you only kept sheep and had never cast a spell, so really you're on the same playing field?" Orym calling out both Prism and Bordor in the same sentence in the nicest way possible is the most on-brand thing--

Prism has the sacred flame cantrip. She could only have gotten this from a magical item or from the magic initiate feat.

Bordor casts calm emotions on Ashton, and that ever-present anxiety and bubbling anger that exists in the back of their mind just fades away. They have a similar reaction as Imogen when she put the circlet on.

During the next day of travel, they come upon a lush, crater-like formation in the landscape, and in the middle they find a petrified skeleton that's embedded in the stone. By extracting the skeleton, they deduce that this was a githzerai who was placed here intentionally and then impacted by a meteorite as a form of punishment. They also find a ring made of an unfamiliar (likely meteoric) metal; identify reveals it as a ring of volcanic flesh, which gives the wearer +1 AC. It also has 3 charges; when the wearer is dealt fire damage, they can expend a charge to reduce the damage, and when the wearer is hits with an attack they can expend a charge to add both fire damage and knockback to the attack.

Prism also determines that the impact likely happened for hundreds of years -- long enough for the undergrowth to equalize.

Talisein "what the fuck is up with that?" Jaffe has gotten ahold of a pipe that re-enacts the smoker's greatest achievement in smoke clouds. Prism's is a memory of her essentially showing off to a mage and impressing them so much they offer to bring her back to the Cobalt Soul, and thereby escaping the gloom of the Shadowfell.

On the second night's watch, Orym sees dozens of little spirits floating around them that seem oddly, unnaturally comforting. He wakes up Prism, who identifies them as local spirits of the woods who are growing more comfortable with the party's presence as they spend more time in the forest. As Orym runs through the Zeph'erahtam, the spirits gather and swirl around him, almost like a cloud of fireflies.

"There is something about the nature, the energy here that is both ancient and playful." Orym thinks about how, even in the most terrible times, moments of levity and happiness still exist, and must be appreciated all the more when they are bookended by hardship and strife.

"Are your friends as powerful as you are?" (Ashton, Orym, and Laudna all:) "More."

Matt just straight-up gave Prism a 1,000gp mirror that she can use as the material component for scrying.

Prism casts it for the first time on Bordor's brother. She finds herself in an empty cabin with furniture. Dark, shaded, vacant. Nearby, there are some leatherworking tools and hand hides; she sees no signs of a "sick person" being there, and Bordor notes that this cabin is where his brother stays but the way he says it implies that this house is separate from Bordor's own.

At the end of this day of travel, Prism attempts to scry on Ludinus. As expected, her consciousness gets stuck in the grey expanse of clouds, like it hit a wall -- he's warded against divination, presumably similarly to the rest of the Assembly, their annexes, and the Volstrucker.

"You think the six of you are strong enough to stop a god-killer?" "I don't think of it that way... I would feel pleased if we slapped [Ludinus], or at least got some people who shouldn't be there out [of there]."

Laudna thinks they've become numb to killing after having killed a few dozen people. Can someone give me a count on how many sapient humanoids Vox Machina and the Mighty Nein had killed by episode 62? It's gotta be more than that.

Bordor asks the question of the night. "Are you trying to kill a god-eater, or are you trying to stop a man who people believe in? Are you trying to stop them believing in him, or are you trying to stop the god-killer?" Prism notes that oftentimes, wizards predicate beliefs on things they don't know for sure, and asks whether Ludinus is in the same boat, whether anyone knows for sure whether there's a god-eater in the moon.

Ashton thinks the teleportation was an accident.

Denise asks another excellent question. "He's been planning this for centuries, so what makes us think he's any closer now than he was before?"

"I think, as time goes on, maybe we need to except that Exandria is going to change, and maybe it's just about not making a change for the better, but not making it change for the worst." They are definitively against Ludinus being the one to fill the power vacuum killing the gods would create, but are not necessarily against the formation of the vacuum itself.

Denise is tired of fighting. Ashton is caught in the sunk cost fallacy. Orym just wants to get his friends back. Bordor doesn't want to die because of the Bells Hells. ("You have people you love, and you know where they are. That's more than most.") Prism is infected by youthful optimism and the prospect of being important. Prism doesn't want to put the knife in Ludinus' back, but Bordor volunteers, if they can get him behind his back. But regardless, though they all have different opinions of the deities, they all agree that Ludinus is a bad person, that he needs to go away -- and in the end I think that's what really matters.

I think, for multiple meta reasons, that the gods are going to change, if not outright disappear or be replaced. (The pantheon is the most difficult hurdle in the way of Critical Role as a company distancing itself from Wizards of the Coast's intellectual property.) And the issue I've been having with this narrative so far is the idea that the gods being changed has to correspond to Ludinus rising to power. So if the Bells Hells can separate the changing of the gods, Ludinus rising to power, and the dismantling of theocratic oppression, then I'm happy.

Bor'dor smokes from Ashton's pipe. Specifically, it "re-enacts your most impressive and heroic achievements." For Bordor, this is him standing in front of the Bells Hells, standing in front of the dummy they made earlier as Bordor casts firebolt for the first time. Then, they see him lifting his arms and feeling for the first time like he belongs.

Ashton smokes from it too, but it only works once a night so it doesn't display anything for them. Still, in regards to Bordor, they get the feeling that it's "all up hill from here."

In the dead of night, Orym plants Seedling in the ground and whispers a prayer. "I don't know if you can hear me. I don't know if you can hear any of us anymore. I hope you can. I've heard too many stories first-hand, too many tales to discount the good that you, many of you have done in this world. I don't know if you have anything left in you, but... I'm praying. We could really use a little help down here. I know you will too -- we'll do our best, but any miracle you can spare."

Two notes during the break: first of all, I'm starting to piece something together. Maybe the Bells Hells read as NPCs not because they are the background characters of someone else's story, but because they are the antagonists of Ludinus' story. Secondly, another layer of nuance suddenly makes sense: the Bells Hells don't care about the gods, they have no reason to. Whether the gods are killed or changed or replaced, it doesn't matter to them -- so long as Ludinus is not the one who fills that vacuum. To them, the gods dying is not the primary issue at hand, it's the power vacuum that their deaths would create; they want to prevent Ludinus from filling it at any cost, so they don't care whether they stop that by saving the gods, replacing them first, stopping Ludinus, or whatever else. That layer of characterization, I think, is what's been missing from a lot of fandom discourse surrounding this issue.

*Denise and Prism making secret slight of hand rolls complete with secret whispers* Liam: "Orym is in the back doing pushups with a 31 passive perception"

During the next day of travel, they come upon a crevasse with a river cutting through the middle. Though it's a sheer drop, the eidolon cougar who's been leading them walks down the cliff and sits at the base, looking at them expectantly.

"You could use that disc--" "It actually can't do altitudinal changes,,,," ah, the hardships of the wizard. (at least you get to choose your magic source and discipline, you entitled hubristic motherfucker /lh)

However, they identify this canyon as the one they're looking for, and note that they're on the lookout for blueish flora on the north side of it.

With double natural ones, Orym -- because he's a fucking halfling and the halfling racial trait is worded very strangely -- rolls a 30 on his check to use Mother as a hang-glider and survey the canyon. Around a mile from where they stand, there's a glimmer of blue.

(Unless I'm missing a weirdly specific rule, if a halfling has advantage or disadvantage on an attack, check, or save and manages to roll a nat1 on both dice, they can reroll both of those dice due to the lucky racial trait. This is because of the way the ability is worded in relation to the wording of rolling multiple dice at the same time.)

They come upon a stretch of land with blueish plants leading to a hill. Traveling along it, they come to a beautiful grotto with a stream and a little pond; Prism determines that there is nothing illusory about her immediate surroundings, but something about the hill itself feels off and shimmers slightly.

Pate goes to investigate and finds that, on the side of the hill, there is a carved opening to a cavern that leads into the side of the canyon. There are small grooves, like writing, intentionally written into the sides of it; Laudna recognizes it as Primordial (which, btw, she can technically read because she has eyes of the runekeeper).

As she approaches, Denise's whip is "warm on her hip," indicating potential danger as they, with pass without trace, hear a steady, rhythmic breath -- the hill itself appears to be breathing.

Beyond it, the blue flora encompasses the entirety of the rock and ground, and bits of prismatic crystal protrude from cracks in the canyon. With a nat20, Bordor pries a piece out with his dagger -- it's a beautiful, opalescent, refractory crystal. Prism immediately wonders what would happen if she were to cast a spell through it.

Ashton gets close enough to read the Primordial. "Within the verdant tomb, we keep her spirit enduring."

Prism casts ray of frost through the crystal Bordor picked up, just to see whether it's some kind of "elemental refractor." The spell gathers within the crystal and refracts out, almost like the force of it has been separated into "nine separate rays that scatter at different angles," causing everyone (within 60ft, the range of the spell) to roll against the cantrip. Everyone dodges it, but it still split it nine ways; each ray is not as strong as the individual cantrip, but the crystal did disperse the effect more widely.

The spirit enters the cavern, turns back to the party, bows its head, then -- having completed its task -- dissipates into the wind.

Orym definitely gets the sense that the "hill" is one massive illusion concealing something.

As they enter it, the cavern appears to be a structure in multiple parts designed to support a community of people. (I think Matt took inspiration from Derinkuyu for this setting! Which is awesome to see, as an archeology nerd.) (As a note, this also feels very much like the stone giants' fortress that the Mighty Nein visited in C2E5 9-61.)

With a 22 investigation, they note that the people who have traversed through this area are both barefoot, and also elven or half-elf. (Prism has a foot fetish, confirmed. /j)

In elvish, Bordor says, "hello, I'm here with my friends, we mean you no harm. Have a good day."

Bordor's brother's name is Jesper. Also, a detail that may or may not be important later: there are pine trees in the Cyrios Mountains.

There are flower boxes with fresh soil and vibrant blue plants in these tunnels, and within them, bands of vibrant metal as part of the décor.

Eventually, they find what can only be described as an interior living space, where the ceiling levels out and there is a majestic chamber where mineral and rock cascade over eons beneath a multitude of crystals. Water runs along and between them, forming a small pool in the center. In the middle is a 12-foot monolithic obelisk that gives off a dull green glow, obscured toward the center, smooth. Markings on the walls resemble recently-set ritual markings, drawings recognized as glyphs used to channel magical energies. The chamber is a shrine, as well as something prepared for a magical moment, a major event.

There's no language, only runes and magical inscription. With an arcana check, everything here gives Ashton a similar vibe to residuum -- everything here looks very much like residuum. However, this crystal looks like natural, not processed or refined, residuum.

1:40:00, the emerald tree, residuum is emerald

Orym sees the same ritual markings, the melted candles, the herbs and natural offerings -- but no people, no person, no living being. The central crystal almost looks like a space where a body would be -- among the crystals, he almost sees a smile.

"We must keep her spirit enduring..." and both Laudna and Ashton see that this shrine is a battery, a setup.

[agirlandherquill]

the calendar project - day 2

another day another part of the story, so here goes,

daily page count: 2

time spent: 35 minutes

cutting it close at 23:59, but I made it

He spoke to her of powerful words but his own were enough to rob her momentarily of speech, in the partial silence the King’s words reached her ears, she sensed his speech was due to come to an end and kept one ear out for anything important and the other close to the stranger, enraptured by his words.

“If I were to be so bold as to ask you a question - no, more than that, if I asked you for something that befit someone such as yourself, not a dance, not a meal-”

“Asked me for what?” She looked to him, a shadow passed over his eyes, he seemed to hesitate before carrying on. “Another conversation. What would you say?”

“My subjects, as a reward for listening to my words I now reward you with this - let our celebrations begin!” The King’s voice encouraged an uproar so loud it cut her short of replying.  She shot an uneasy glare at the gentleman nearest for screaming so painfully loudly, then turned back to the stranger.

“I would-” Her words faded, overcome with a pang of disappointment. He’s gone. 

With the eagerness of the crowd a song was called for, the maestro struck up his lute and she winced, searching the crowd for the man she sought to provide with an answer. Her observations failed her, he was nowhere to be seen. 

Her disappointment was swiftly replaced by irritation, his disappearance meant she no longer had a reason to stay beside the window, she was expected to converse with those around her, even if the very thought made her want to drive a fork through her eye-socket. 

She still had words left to say, questions to ask, but now it all had to wait.

She would find him again that night, she was determined to, but first she had to endure the perfumed stench of the gentle-folk swarming all around her.

With a quiet groan she abandoned her spot by the window; what was already going to be a long night had tragically grown far longer.

~ ~ ~

Never mix business with pleasure, but what else was I to do? She was the only person purposefully standing alone, and with a gaze like that - so full of intelligence, meaning, and  pure, unbridled curiosity, it would have been a shame not to talk to her. 

It was a shame however, that he had to delay further discussion for the sake of business. 

Business comes first. He reminded himself. But for once, he was glad to have it, it had given him a reason to be in that ballroom, a reason to seek out something new - and to have a conversation, one he had enjoyed significantly. 

She was painfully unfamiliar to him, and yet she had stood out in his memory for what he knew would be a lifetime, purely from a single glance. There was nothing pompous about her, not like those who tainted the air he stood in, no paint staining her skin, no rabid animals in her hair - no, not her, she was real. 

To be real was a rarity in a place like this.

Her gaze alone had fascinated him, the way her chocolate eyes had absorbed every detail they could see left him wanting to know what she thought, what opinions had formed in that head of hers - not a detail had been given away on her face, whoever she was she favoured discretion, and that drew him in more.

It had been mere moments since he had parted from her side, but with the ear-ache of court chatter threatening to give him a migraine, it felt like lifetimes.

What a pitiful life it must be to be one of them. 

Only it was one of them he sought, one of them was responsible for the summons he had found at his door, one of them he had to blame for ruining his night and making it all at the same time.

[septembriseur]

I never used to get migraines. But recently (the last few years, increasing) I get what I think MUST be migraines: terrible, excruciating, nausea-inducing headaches that fade into (1) first 24 hours: a swollen and tender trigeminal nerve on one side; (2) second 24 hours: a swollen and tender greater occipital nerve at the back of my skull plus aching jaw.

Is it worth trying to get a diagnosis, I wonder? They’re very debilitating, but I wonder what can be done.