Raven Chapter 30 Hangovers and Histories 370
Raven
The rich, plush carpet of the guest room is trying to swallow me whole. Or maybe my brain is trying to escape through my eyes. Both seem likely.
Last night exists in my mind as bright, sparkling shards. Selena’s mystery bottle, or bottles in my case, tasted like sunshine and happiness—though, based on how I’m feeling today, it might have actually contained deception and regret. All the delicious bubbles just hid it’s true nature.
I remember Kieran’s toasts. Him singing beautiful, foreign songs into my ear, just for me.
I suggested he sing for everyone, but he just laughed, smiling brighter.
If I ever truly understand what goes on inside his head, it’ll be because Em is performing an autopsy.
And since that would mean he’s dead, I don’t want to know.
For now, I’ll assume it’s ABBA and funhouse mirrors.
There was also more of that sweet, simmered papaya, laughter, and the warm, solid weight of Anik’s thigh pressed against mine on the sofa.
I vividly remember the feel of Em’s eyes on me all night from his corner with his Frankenstein laptop, his pile of books, and the ever-present scritch of his pencil.
I remember Dre forcing water on me at regular intervals—probably the only reason I’m still alive, so I’ll forgive him.
There’s a fuzzy stretch, though. A blessedly cool hand on my forehead. A soft clink nearby. A scratchy kiss to my temple. I should probably figure out what that was about.
I try to open my eyes again and quickly decide that Kieran was wrong. Anik's grandmother's tamales are probably delightful. The true war crime is sunlight. It spears through the gap in the curtains with the precision of one of Kieran's throwing knives, directly into the center of my skull.
I've watched people stumble through the morning after as a ghost with a detached sort of curiosity, never truly understanding what the big deal was.
Experiencing it firsthand is like having a gremlin inside my skull, pounding on the backs of my eyes with a tiny mallet while simultaneously shitting inside of my mouth.
I groan. The sound vibrates through my teeth, which feel fuzzy and foreign. My mouth tastes like something crawled in there to die. My stomach is a queasy, rolling ocean.
This , I realize with a slow, dawning horror, is a hangover .
I really should get off the floor, but the attempt earlier was a disaster.
I’d made it to the bathroom before all that bright white tile tried to turn my stomach inside out.
I’d retreated after peeing and, if I stretched out right now, I’d probably find my toes could touch the tile.
I should probably move, but I can’t be bothered.
I just lie here, marinating in my own misery.
I try reaching for Huginn and Muninn, but they’re still out of reach. I probably should worry they’ve been napping so long, but I have no room for worry next to all the other craptastic sensations bombarding me.
There's a soft knock at the door before it opens. Dre slips in, backlit by a mercifully dim hall light, and—
Okay. This is exactly the tall drink of water my eyeballs need right now.
Broad shoulders. Tall as hell. Built like he could snap me in half but probably won't. Dirty blond hair swept back, the top, longer half of it braided with leather cords, while the bottom half shaved close so I can see the ink crawling up his neck and over his scalp.
Dark knotwork, endless and intricate, disappears into his collar like it's trying to map his whole history on his skin. His beard is short, neat, framing a mouth that always looks like it's about to softly smile at you.
Ice-blue eyes that are somehow both calm and absolutely not calm at the same time. It’s a type of calm I've come to associate with Dre. The kind that's probably very useful in life-saving and death-giving situations. Which makes sense, given the whole viking healer vibe he's got going.
He's holding a tray and the smell hits me first—rich, savory, a little tangy—and my stomach doesn't revolt. It lets out a pathetic, hopeful gurgle.
"Kjaere,” he says, not as panicked as he probably should be that I’m actively dying on the floor. A smile touches his lips.
“Not dying. Just human-adjacent and suffering from the consequences of joy.”
He scoops me up, deposits me back on the bed, and piles pillows behind me.
“Drink the water first. All of it.”
I obey because fuck this state of being—I’d hop off a cliff if he said it would help.
“Then the broth. It’s mondongo. Tripe soup.”
I shrug, bringing the glass of water to my lips. The coolness is a lifeline, pulling me a step back into the land of the living.
When I lift the soup, he adds, unnecessarily, “It’s not normal soup. I’ve added some… magical properties for this specific malady.”
I raise an eyebrow, the warm mug just an inch from my lips. “Like venom magic because I never truly understood the term fuck doll, but if that’s your plan, then I’m totally game as long as you can make all this,” I point to my head, “go away.”
He gives me a heated look. “You don’t know what you are asking me for, lille r?dyr.”
“Then inform me so I can sign up,” I say before bringing the mug to my lips and taking a sip.
The broth is hearty, spicy with a hint of lime, full of soft potatoes, and tender gelatinous strips of what I assume is whatever tripe is. It’s the opposite of everything my body feels. It’s life, warmth, and pure goodness. I can feel it hitting my system like a match in a dry forest would.
“You’re an angel,” I slur into the mug.
“I am a creature of the night who has seen lifetimes of poor decisions,” he corrects softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How is the head?”
“Like Huginn and Muninn are using it for a boxing gym.” I take another long sip. “Why do people do this to themselves?”
“Because the joy beforehand is often worth the price after. And because we rarely believe the price will ever come for us.” He reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair from my damp forehead, his cool touch a balm.
“The first time is always the worst. Your system doesn’t have anything to compare it to.
” He holds out two little pills next. “These are called ibuprofen. It’s a more recent innovation. ”
I finish the broth, and the gremlin in my skull downgrades to a disgruntled pixie. I pop in the pills, washing them down with water, before I slump back against the pillows again.
“Were you in here earlier?” I ask.
He nods. “I wanted to make sure you were still sleeping and not suffering in silence. When I found you still asleep, I got to the remedy making. The world will feel less sharp in about half an hour.”
I eye him. "So was that a yes or no to the whole venom thing? Because I'm about to pop into the shower so I can feel human— or goddess-like, I guess—again. And I've discovered I really like an audience."
He goes perfectly still, his nostrils flaring, before he just gives me a single nod. I grin at him and slip from the bed.
“Or you can join me. I’ll leave it up to you,” I tell him as I cross the room and into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack.
I figure out the shower pretty easily and, once it’s warmed up, I make my way in to give him the show he’s waiting for.
And it is a show. I haven’t gotten myself off once in the two weeks since everything went to hell, and the orgasm Em gave me—purely from watching—was so intense it felt like an out-of-body experience.
There’s a lot of pent-up tension coiled inside me, and knowing Dre can feel every glide of my fingers, every tremor in my thighs? It’s fucking delicious.
My mind spirals into all the things we could do with his blood-control trick. Part of me desperately wants him to knock me out cold, use me like the doll I teased about, then let me watch the recording later—alone, or while riding him senseless.
That thought bleeds into similar situations, sprinkled with bondage. Dre isn't the one I picture tying up though. It's Kieran I want, helpless beneath me, wrists bound, while I ride him like one of those mechanical bulls in human cowboy bars.
And Dre claims my ass for the first time. Or warms me up, at least. No clue how my old life translates to this new body, but as far as I'm concerned, I am: a filthy-minded, inexperienced demi-god who requires warming up and will literally blow your shit up if you edge me the wrong way.
Gods, is he out there getting himself off while feeling every pulse of my pleasure through his own body? The thought of him stroking himself in time with me, helpless against what I’m making him feel—it sends my pleasure skyrocketing even higher.
The image of using Kieran like my personal toy while Dre takes care of me in a way only he can—it hits me all at once. I come hard, shuddering against the tile.
While I’m drying and futilely attempting to locate my panties to add to my pile of dirty clothes, I decide that the soup was nice, but the thing that really cured that wretched hangover was a hot shower and a mind blowing orgasm. No one will convince me otherwise.
It also means that if I can convince the guys, they'll have to give me orgasms every time I drink myself into a hangover. Is it a slippery slope to alcoholic tendencies? Sounds like it. Is it worth it? Honestly, it might be, if this feeling is what I end up with.
I'll put a pin in that for now. Maybe Anik will decide to rock my world with some mating before I have to resort to extreme alcoholism to get off with another person.
When I walk out of the bathroom, holding a pile of clothing and naked as the day I was born—presumably. Who knows what condition or state a baby comes out of a goddess? Like, did I come out of her all-powerful magical vagina? Or did she think me into existence like Zeus did Athena?
I decide not to linger on my mother's genitals.
I drop the pile and snap my head up when I hear a tortured groan.