#maybe you could try giving them nice and pleasant voices to listen to if you insist on having them in everything :-)

[eightdoctor]

honestly before they decided to put daleks in every third big finish audio they should’ve considered the fact that No One Likes To Listen To Thaem

[dirtytomatoedwrites]

Preludes and Nocturnes - Part 1

Paring: Rafe Cameron x InnocentPogue!reader

Summary: Rafe discovers your hidden talent and now he has seen it, you have his full attention.

Warnings:  18+ Smut. Dark!Rafe. Virgin!Reader, Romance, Angst, Dub-Con, Fingering, squirting.  Not Proof-Read so mistakes are my own.

Word Count: 9k words (Yo it took me months to write but I finally did it) 

Author Note: Hello lovelies! So this is an original idea I’ve had for a while now... and this is the longest fanfic I’ve ever written for a character. Who did I write this tale about Rafe motherfucking Cameron of course. HA!  I may do a part 2 but we’ll see based on the response it gets.  Love you all and thanks for reading and listening - there’s music in there too so if you can listen to the tracks as you read it’ll heighten the experience. 🫶 Enjoy!

Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Please don’t steal or copy bits of my writing or any writing from other writers cause karma will get ya.  

Rose, elegant and poised as ever, fiddled with Ward's bowtie. It was a futile attempt to straighten it, and you wondered if the Kooks knew how ridiculous they looked, their privileged lives spent fussing over trivial things.

"Do you play?" Ward's voice was casual, but his eyes betrayed a glimmer of interest. He had seen you eyeing the piano in their opulent living room before, and it was clear he suspected you had a musical inclination.

"A little," you replied, shrugging nonchalantly. You didn't want to give too much away. The Kooks had a tendency to pry, and you had learned the hard way that it was better to keep your guard up.

The Camerons were pleasant enough, but like the other Kooks on Figure Eight, they didn't really care about the Pogues. You had grown up being told that Pogues were different from Kooks, but as you got older, you realized it was more complicated than that. The Kooks were narrow-minded, lacking empathy and understanding. They saw the Pogues as nothing more than servants, there to cater to their every whim. It was a toxic dynamic and one that you had learned to navigate with caution.

The key to survival on the Outer Banks was invisibility. You had learned that early on. The less you revealed about yourself, the safer you were. So you didn't tell Ward that your father had started teaching you piano before you could even walk. You didn't tell him that music was your escape, your solace, your everything.

"Well, a bit of something is better than nothing," Ward chuckled, his eyes flickering back to you. "I bought it thinking it would be nice to have music in the house that wasn't rap or pop, but you know how kids are." He chuckled again. "No one seems interested in learning how to play it. If you want to try it out, our door is always open."

The Kooks were the quintessential chameleons, expertly donning the cloak of benevolence and charity. But behind the facade lay their self-centered motives, concealed in plain sight. In their company, you had to be just as duplicitous as them, your true self lost in a sea of artifice. So you donned your own mask of deceit, feigning a grin while burying your true feelings behind a veneer of politeness.

As the grandfather clock in the hallway struck six, Rose and Mr. Cameron stepped into the warm North Carolina evening, dressed to the nines for their elegant black-tie affair. You were left behind in the kitchen with Wheezie, chatting aimlessly about everything and nothing. A comfortable silence settled between you.

"Want to watch a movie, Wheezie?" you asked, but you already knew the answer.

"Maybe next time? I'm having a Stranger Things watch party with my friends. We're on season three, actually," she replied as she pulled out her phone and began texting.

"Oh, that's cool. Sure, let me know when you're hungry and we'll order in."

A few minutes later, you were left alone in the kitchen, grappling with the void of the next five hours stretching before you. Your gaze was inexorably drawn to the open double doors of the living room, and a force beyond your control tugged at your heartstrings.

There, in the corner of the Camerons' living room, stood a magnificent black Steinway & Sons piano. A work of art that you had only seen in fleeting glimpses on the internet, played by virtuosos with mastery beyond compare.

The Camerons' piano was an exquisite piece. Valued upwards of forty thousand dollars, it was a show-stopper that begged to be played in a prestigious concert hall. And yet there it sat in their living room, untouched and unloved.

With a fluttering heart, you approached the baby grand piano, drawn by an unconscious force beyond your control. As you lifted the fallboard, a heady scent of wax and mahogany wafted into your nostrils, creating a longing you could barely contain. Your fingertips brushed against the smooth, pristine ivory keys, unable to resist the urge to touch. As you pressed down on one, a crystalline note filled the air, flawless and true. Before you could even think, you were seated on the bench.

Back straight and feet planted firmly on the floor, you thought about all the classical pieces you had practiced over the years and loved to play. How each piece would sound hollow on your cheap, antiquated piano in your small family home. Music was your first love, and you longed for the day to play on stage accompanied by the New York Symphony Orchestra.

Closing your eyes, you allowed your mind to wander, imagining a sea of faces, a packed audience hanging on your every note. In your mind's eye, you saw your dad sitting in the front row, his gaze filled with pride and love. The thought of his reaction, a validation of all his sacrifices over the years, filled you with purpose.

Driven by your distant dream, you let your fingers glide across the keys, effortlessly weaving a tapestry of sound that flooded the Camerons' living room with music.

With meticulous attention, you listened closely to the dynamics of the piece. You noticed the way the Steinway amplified the subtlest variations in volume, imbuing the composition with a melancholic mood. Your fingers moved with practiced ease, executing intricate runs and arpeggios with fluid grace.

Enraptured by the music, you let the notes wash over you. Every facial expression was a reflection of the emotional journey unfolding before you. As the piece reached its crescendo, your fingers moved faster, striking the keys with greater force, a physical manifestation of your emotions. Your hands flowed in flawless harmony with the rhythm, pouring your soul into the music. And with the final notes, you laughed breathlessly, basking in the afterglow of your musical outpouring.

But your blissful moment was cruelly interrupted as you suddenly sensed you weren’t alone. Your eyes snapped open, and a cold wave of fear washed over you.

“Shit! I am so sorry,” you stammered, your voice trailing off in a rush of apologies as you gingerly lowered the piano fallboard.

“You know,” Rafe’s words were laced with honey, each syllable slow and sweet, yet there was no mistaking the menacing undertone to them. “We don’t take kindly to people touching our things,” he drawled, his intense gaze locked onto yours, a warning glimmer lurking within his dark eyes.

“I… I had permission from your dad,” you insisted, your words barely audible above a whisper as you tried to defend your actions.

His response was a dismissive chuckle. The atmosphere was taut with tension as he nonchalantly propped his golf bag against the wall. Leisurely slow, he sauntered over to you, his hands casually tucked away in his pockets.

“What were you playing anyway?” he inquired, his tone deceptively relaxed.

“You mean the name of the piece?” you swallowed hard, fear palpable. “It’s called Nocturne in C-sharp Minor.”

The tall blonde squinted at you, and you could not decipher his expression. Wanting to avoid further irritation, you slowly rose from the piano bench and dusted it off.

“What kinda name is that?”

“I… I…” you stammered, blood surging in your ears from fear as Rafe suddenly leaned in and lifted the fallboard. He scanned the keys, perhaps checking for any scratches. You took a deep breath. The scent of his expensive cologne and freshly mown grass overwhelmed your senses.

“I don’t know. It worked for Chopin, I guess.” You said quietly.

“Chopin…” he said with his lip jutted.

“He’s the composer. He wrote it and-”

“I know Chopin,” Rafe interrupted, his eyes suddenly locked on you. Up close, you could not deny that they were a striking shade of blue, if not for the death glare he gave you. “Chopin, Beethoven, Einaudi, Bach…” He backed away and sat in a nearby chair. “Brahms… I’ve been to enough of those long-ass concerts to at least know their names.”

You felt a confusing mix of awe and jealousy as you listened to Rafe’s words. The pit in your stomach proved this. You had never been to a proper symphony concert, and the school concerts you had attended were barely amateur. The thought of your dad’s broken promise to take you to one was a constant source of frustration. However, Rafe’s casual disdain for the very concerts he was lucky enough to attend seemed to be a new addition.

“Well… I’m not getting paid to mess around on your piano,” you said with a wry smile, as you tried to mask your emotions.

“You’re right. You’re not,” Rafe retorted while he twisted the gold signet ring around his index finger with his thumb. Head tilted to the side, his eyes raked over every inch of you, from your hair, your oversized sweatshirt and jeans to your worn knockoff Converses. You felt self-conscious under his intense scrutiny. He made you want to crawl into a hole and hide.

“I… I should check on Wheezie,” you whispered, eager to escape the tension in the room.

“Why?” Rafe asked, halting his twirling of the signet ring. His face appeared bemused until a sly grin tugged at his lips. “Weeze is a big girl, right? Might as well… play Chopin while she’s doing her own thing…”

As you babysat for the Camerons, you occasionally spotted Rafe in the vicinity. Sometimes, he was accompanied by a striking beauty, while other times he hung out with his friends. Even when he was alone, his body language was a clear warning: "Keep your distance." His piercing gaze made you feel diminutive and unimportant, as if any attempts at interaction would be met with cold indifference. In his presence, you felt like you were navigating hostile terrain, just a misstep away from a precarious situation.

"Well?" he said, leaning back in his chair and tapping his lower lip with a finger. The gesture seemed to carry a message, but what message you weren't sure. What was certain was that his expression of amusement made it evident that the outcome was secondary—he was simply enjoying watching you squirm.

Your tongue darted out to moisten your parched lips, while anxiety twisted in your gut as you stared nervously at the grand Steinway piano and Rafe. The weight of his words lingered in the air, causing you to hesitate and consider the potential consequences of your answer.

Every which way you looked at it, you were fucked.

Rafe was bound to tell his parents, and you were sure enough about to lose your job once they found out. Despite Mr. Cameron's outward kindness and willingness to accommodate, you knew very well that playing their piano without supervision was not within the bounds of your permission. And he certainly would not appreciate you lying about it either.

Still, you were determined to make the most out of a shitty situation. You weren't trying to prove anything to Rafe, but if this was going to be your last time playing a Steinway, you would go out in style.

You had chosen a haunting, evocative melody,  a tale of lost love and longing. The notes rang out, clear and true, as your fingers danced over the keys. 

Closing your eyes and shutting out the world and Rafe, you allowed the music to flow from your fingertips, guided by instinct and emotion. Your touch was delicate yet confident, breathing life into the haunting melody.

After the last notes of the piece hung in the air like a delicate mist. You held your breath, waiting for some kind of response from Rafe, but all you got was a deafening silence. The room felt like it was closing in on you, and you couldn't help but cast a quick glance in his direction.

Rafe's eyes bored into yours with an intensity that made your heart stop. You shifted uncomfortably, feeling exposed under his scrutinizing gaze. When you finally lowered the fallboard, the tension was so thick you could practically cut it with a knife.

"I should check on Wheezie," you whispered, breaking the silence.

Rafe made no reply, and you took that as permission to leave. When you returned downstairs a half hour later, Rafe was nowhere to be seen and you sighed in relief.

In the best-case scenario, Rafe would keep your little transgression to himself. In the worst-case scenario, you could explain to Mr. Cameron that curiosity got the better of you and seek his forgiveness. Either way, you vowed never to touch their piano again.

"What's on your setlist today, piano girl?" Rafe's voice caused your heart to skip a beat, and you nearly spewed out the orange juice pooling in your mouth. A mere week had passed since your previous babysitting job at the illustrious Cameron residence. Yet here you were once again, feeling a pang of anxiety at the mere sight of him. You had desperately hoped to avoid any interaction with Rafe for the remainder of your shift, but fate had other plans in store.

There he was, sauntering into the kitchen, sporting an obnoxiously bright salmon polo shirt that clashed horribly with his teal shorts, and finished with a backwards baseball cap. Despite his frat boy appearance, you couldn't help but admit that he looked undeniably handsome. The realization hit you like a brick and left you feeling inexplicably uneasy.

"Excuse me?" you sputtered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Rafe's gaze shifted towards the living room, where the Steinway was waiting behind closed doors.

"No, I don't think it's a good idea," you said, your voice trailing off as you watched Rafe roll his eyes.

"Whatever," he drawled with a dismissive flick of his wrist, exuding an air of nonchalant superiority as he strode out of the kitchen.

You parroted his words under your breath, feeling frustration boil inside you. Despite his insufferable demeanor, you chose to let it slide. After all, you needed this job, and with a week of smooth sailing under your belt, you suspected that Rafe had kept your little piano incident under wraps. You weren't about to jeopardize your livelihood over a petty disagreement with Rafe Cameron of all people.

Just as you were considering taking refuge in the kitchen to avoid Rafe, the sound of a key being struck on the Steinway echoed through the kitchen, beckoning you towards it.

You stepped into the living room, a bundle of nerves and anticipation, only to find Rafe sprawled in the same chair as before. The piano's fallboard was already raised. Its ebony and ivory keys gleamed in the warm light of the setting sun. Rafe's piercing gaze locked onto yours, then flicked towards the piano.

"Do you want me to play something?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe shrugged, looking uninterested. "Do you want to?" he asked, his voice dripping with boredom.

"I don't mind, I guess," you replied, chewing your bottom lip.

If you were to be completely honest with yourself, you were desperate for another chance to play the Steinway. There was a piece that you couldn't get out of your head, and you knew it would sound magnificent on it. You did not need to be asked twice. But at the same time, you were no fool.

You had heard whispers about the "Kook King." Infamous for settling disputes with his fists, not for acts of kindness. You had no idea what was taking place here or why Rafe was suddenly allowing you to play the Camerons' prized possession. But despite your internal warning bells that this could be a trap, you put your glass of orange juice on the floor next to the bench. Consequences be damned.

Taking a confident breath, you aimed to kill.

As you hit the final notes of the composition, the silence was shattered by Rafe's ragged breaths. Your eyes locked onto his, and you saw a flicker of something in his gaze that was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"I've been working on that one for a while," you said, trying to sound nonchalant despite his stare. "I know it's not perfect, but I-"

"No, it's good," Rafe interjected with a croak. "You're good."

His words validated your talent, and a rush of excitement surged through you, causing a grin to spread across your face as you basked in his praise. But the moment was short-lived as Rafe pulled out his phone and started scrolling, his demeanor shifting from impressed to cold indifference. Without warning, he abruptly rose from his seat, an air of superiority emanating from his towering frame.

"Tell Rose I'm having dinner at Top's," he drawled, his voice dripping with aloofness as he looked down his nose at you.

"Sure, okay," you stammered, still reeling from his sudden change in behavior.

Without another glance in your direction, he strode out of the room, leaving you to wonder what the hell just happened.

It became routine. A ritual. Embedded in your weekly visits to the Cameron residence.

Each time you babysat Wheezie, the air would fill with the soothing sound of classical music, as you took your place at the Steinway and brought the keys to life. Rafe, either in the background or seated nearby, listened intently. His brooding demeanor was a stark contrast to the beauty of the music.

As the weeks went by, playing the Steinway became a treasured routine, and it wasn't just the music that captivated you. With every note played, the invisible barrier between you and Rafe seemed to thin. Despite his reserved exterior, there was a subtle shift in the room when he was around, a magnetic pull that drew you closer to him until one evening, a simple question from him sparked a conversation that would change everything.

"Where did you even learn to play like that?" Rafe asked as the sun cast its final rays of light into the opulent living room, painting the space with a breathtaking array of orange, pink, and purple hues.

You had just finished playing a piece by Bach. The air was still thick with the lingering notes of the Prelude as you closed the Steinway lid.

"There's barely electricity on the cut. Far less for piano classes, and even if there was, you can't—you can't teach this, know what I mean? Well, not the way you play it anyway." His tone shifted, taking on a new quality of—dare you think it?—admiration. You couldn't help but wonder if the beer he was drinking had anything to do with his slip of the tongue and the emotions that seemed to seep through in his words.

You cast your eyes to find Rafe leaning forward in his chair, said beer bottle in hand, his hair falling into his face and his eyes laser-focused on you. There was an intensity in his eyes that made you feel like you were being seen, truly seen, by him. But as much as you were flattered by his attention, something lurking in the depths of his gaze made you feel uneasy, and you weren't entirely sure why. You brushed the stray thought aside.

"My dad taught me." You said with pride in your voice. "Did you know they used to have jazz nights at the Wreck?" You turned your body towards Rafe, eager to share this piece of history. "Back then, it wasn't called the Wreck. Anyway, my dad used to play there every night from seven until midnight until the Carreras took over. Now he works on the big oil rig in Burnsville."

"Does he still play?" Rafe asked.

You hesitated for a moment, realizing you were oversharing with Rafe Cameron of all people. But something about his presence made you feel comfortable enough to continue. "No, after my mom left," you trailed off, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "He just gave up on music altogether."

Rafe looked down, his expression unreadable.

"I guess I'm trying to keep the tradition alive, in my own way. It's not jazz, but he approves." You smiled softly. "Anyway, what about you?"

Arresting blue eyes flicked up at yours, and your stomach flipped.

"What about me?" he asked, his voice low and husky, dripping with curiosity and challenge. He leaned back in his chair, the rattan creaking beneath him. He lazily ran a hand through his blonde hair, revealing his chiselled features. You weren't sure why, but the gesture felt calculated. As though it was meant to entice you. And yet you couldn't help but feel a flutter in your chest as you drank in the sight of him.

"No offense, but you don't look like the type to be into..." you waved your hand towards the piano, trying to deflect his gaze and lighten the mood.

"Yeah? What do I look like I'm into?" Rafe purred seductively, his tongue swiping his top lip. His eyes fixed on you. You didn't miss his tone. The double entendre just beneath the surface, if you were bold enough to respond to it. You were sure the alcohol running through his veins had something to do with his sudden flirty behavior. Tomorrow, he'd probably forget the whole thing. But it still didn't stop the butterflies from dancing in your stomach.

"I...I..."

"Go on, don't be shy," Rafe coaxed, his eyes dark and intense, almost daring you to take the bait.

"I don't know," you breathed out a laugh, suddenly feeling flustered and self-conscious.

"Yeah, you do." Rafe said, his tone low and teasing. "Saying I don't look like the type means you have a type in your head. So, let's hear it. What kind of man do you think I am, Y/N?"

You were certain this was not about music anymore, and you felt way out of your element. What were you supposed to say about that? You decided to keep the conversation neutral and err on the side of caution.

"Okay," you nodded as you shifted on the bench. "You look like the type to be interested in other types of music, you know like rap or hip-hop, rock— even country, anything but this."

Rafe looked away with a chuckle, a deep rumble that made your skin tingle. He nodded slowly, pondering your words.

"Does that sound bad? I know it sounds awful. I'm sorry." You cringed.

"Nah, it's pretty tame actually... innocent even..." Rafe murmured more to himself than to you. You shivered as his piercing blue gaze met yours, then slowly traveled down to your lips, neck, and every inch of your oversized t-shirt and cardigan to your jeans-covered body.

He cleared his throat, his voice low as he spoke. "And you're not wrong. Classical music was my mom's thing. She loved it." He said taking a swig of his beer.

"Oh," you breathed out, taken aback by the unexpected answer. Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place. Why Rafe was always so engrossed in the music each time you played. The wistful expression that crossed his face whenever he heard familiar pieces of music. It was like a window into his soul, a glimpse into a hidden part of him that he kept from the world. And just as you pieced together your thoughts, Rafe spoke, confirming your suspicions.

"We used to go to the mainland to see 'The Four Seasons' or 'Carmen' or some other shit like that. I don't know, it reminds me of her, I guess. Takes me back to happier times." Rafe shrugged, a hint of sadness in his eyes as he sipped his beer.

"I'm sorry..." you whispered.

"Nah, don't be. She was sick for a long time, and now she's... Anyway, It's all good now." Rafe replied with a forced nonchalance, a fragile façade attempting to conceal his true emotions.

"So, you listen to classical music for nostalgia..." you whispered, your voice tinged with a touch of melancholy.

“I guess you could say that,” Rafe said thoughtfully, tilting his head from side to side as he considered your words. He scrunched up his face, eyebrows drawn together as if he had tasted something bitter. “But I'm not a classical music aficionado or anything. It’s not like I’m requesting it in the club. Can you imagine that shit? Right after 21 Savage fuckin’ Mozart on blast. I’d get jumped.”

"I don’t know, you might start a trend," you smiled.

“Sounds like you want me to get jumped”

You outright laughed at that one. “Well, it depends, do you deserve it?”

“Oof” Rafe countered, clutching his chest faux wounded. “That was good.”

You shrugged with a smile, feeling an unexpected kinship with Rafe of all people. Here was this tough, brooding guy who, beneath the surface, was incredibly sentimental and even had a sense of humor. It was a sweet and surprising discovery.

"What about you? Why do you play?" He asked, his blue eyes roaming across your facial features slowly, curiously, when your laughter had died and all that was left was contented silence.

"Good question. Why do I play? Well, I guess for me... it's about the emotion," you replied, your fingers tracing the Steinway keys without pressing them. "Each note, each chord, each composition tells a story. It's like I'm a part of that story, and I get to bring it to life. You don’t need words you just… feel it.”

Rafe nodded, understanding. "I get it. You're the storyteller. The piano is your instrument channelin’ that shit.”

"Exactly!" you said, touching your nose and pointing to him with an earnest laugh.

"Exactly," Rafe repeated with a soft chuckle, his gaze fixated on you.

“Hey, how come I never see you at bonfires?” Rafe asked, a mischievous glint in his eye one sunny afternoon when Rose and Mr. Cameron went out for drinks with friends, leaving Wheezie in your care.

“Bonfires just aren’t my thing,” you replied with a shrug.

“What, no friends to hang out with?” he teased.

“I have plenty of friends!” you retorted, a hint of a smirk playing at your lips.

“Friends that I’ve never seen you with,” he pressed.

 “What do you mean ‘friends I’ve never seen you with’ are you stalking me around town?” 

“Maybe I am...” he shrugged a small devious smile curled his lips. “Whatever. Well, my friends and I clearly hang out when you’re not around,” you shot back, a playful smile lighting up your face.

“Sure you do,” he drawled, a chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Rafe leaned forward against the piano, the sun casting a warm glow on his handsome features. You couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, and how the muscles in his arms flexed under his t-shirt while he absentmindedly tapped his index finger on the piano lid.

“You know, there’s more to life than playing music,” Rafe said, his voice low and smooth, as he turned the words over with his tongue. His finger tapping the lid, became slower, more measured.

“Oh, I know that,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “I have plenty of other things going on.”

“Yeah? Like what?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Like studying,” you said, trying to keep a straight face as Rafe scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I’m actually quite serious about my grades.”

"I wouldn't expect anything less from a good girl," Rafe chuckled. Once again, his comment caught you off guard. Although you knew he wasn't mocking you, it still felt strange that he felt the need to mention what he perceived was good girl behavior. “Seriously though, you should have some real fun too. Do some shit you probably shouldn’t do. Life’s too short to be cooped up not living it.”

You shrugged, unsure of what to say. Rafe had a point, but you weren’t sure if bonfires were the kind of fun you were looking for. Still, there was something about the way he looked at you that made your heart skip a beat, and you couldn’t help but swallow nervously. As if reading your thoughts, Rafe leaned closer.

“You know, I could show you a good time if you want.” Rafe’s voice was low and husky as he leaned in close, his minty breath fanning your cheek. While he had flirted before, this time there was a sober earnestness to his words that made your heart race. But before you could even formulate a response, the front door's slam cut through the thick tension.

Rafe straightened himself, briefly glancing towards the hallway before fixing his gaze back on you, his jaw tightly clenched in irritation. With determined strides, he purposefully walked away, the sound of his long steps resonating down the corridor, while you unintentionally caught snippets of his familiar argument with Sarah.

It seemed Sarah had developed an interest in John B, a guy you had seen around town, but Rafe vehemently disapproved due to his “pogue” status. You couldn’t fathom why he held such strong opposition, especially considering that you, too, were a Pogue. Had he conveniently forgotten? Or did he consider you an exception?

As you closed the lid of the Steinway, an inescapable curiosity filled your mind about what set your relationship with Rafe apart. Maybe he only saw you as a friend rather than a romantic interest the way Sarah felt about John B.

Reluctant to admit it to yourself, the thought pierced through, leaving you with a confusing mixture of disappointment, anger, and self-annoyance for even entertaining the idea that Rafe could ever feel that way about you.

As Rafe persisted in berating his sister, you dismissed any contemplation of what might have happened between the two of you if she had arrived just a few minutes later.

“Hello?”

“I'm in here.” Rose’s voice, sharp as a razor’s edge, resonated through the foyer of the Camerons’ residence. As you entered the kitchen, you discovered her gingerly picking up the remnants of a shattered vase from the tiled floor. You offered to help her, but she brushed you off with a dismissive gesture.

“No need, honey. I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.” She said, smiling unconvincingly.

Mr. Cameron burst into the room a few seconds later. His dominating presence charged the atmosphere, his eyes glinting like ice. It was only when his eyes landed on you that his demeanour changed.

“Oh, Y/N. Thanks for coming on such short notice. We’ll only need you for two hours. Sarah should be back by then.” He smiled, though it did not reach his eyes.

“Uh, sure. Of course.” You replied. You scurried out of his path as he snatched a file and car keys from the kitchen table.

“I’ll be in the car.” He informed Rose tersely, eliciting a stiff nod from her.

Feeling Rose’s disquiet, you intervened to clear the shattered vase. “I can pick these up for you, Rose.” You said warmly.

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” You assured her with a nod.

“Thank you.” She murmured, her smile returning. “Wheeze is upstairs doing her homework. I’m sorry about all of this. Things are a bit crazy today.” She said, her grip on her bag and sunglasses tightening as if she were holding onto her sanity by a thread. And with that, she vanished, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the shattered pieces of the vase.

Having cleared the wreckage, you climbed the stairs to find Wheezie immersed in her studies in her room, her headphones firmly in place. You inquired if she needed anything or was okay, but she appeared blissfully unaware of the chaos that had unfolded. You marvelled at her ability to concentrate amidst the turmoil, yet you couldn’t dispel the nagging suspicion that the Camerons hid a dark secret beneath their façade of rich superiority. With a sigh, you left Wheezie to her schoolwork and descended the stairs as the sound of the living room door being opened roused your suspicions.

As you passed the living room, your heart sank at the sight of Rafe. He was sitting on his usual chair, swaying back and forth, lost in a jumble of incoherent words. His eyes were bloodshot and streaked with tears. You hurried towards him, your mind racing with worry and fear. You sat down on the floor in front of him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

He responded with a roar that shook you to your core. The words that spilled out of Rafe’s mouth were like knives, cutting deep into your soul. He berated himself with a ferocity that was frightening, how he was a failure in his father’s eyes, how he was nothing but a disappointment. You placed a comforting hand on his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze, trying to offer some solace amidst his torment.

His eyes flicked to your hand, then to your face, as if seeing you for the first time. Rafe’s jaw tightened, his eyes raw with emotions you couldn’t decipher. There was anger there, yes, but there was something else too – something deeper, more primal.

“Play something.” He suddenly demanded.

“I can- I can get someone for you. Do you want me to call your-”

“No. I don’t want that. I want you to play.” He almost sneered at you.

“Okay.” You whispered tentatively.

You made your way to the piano, your fingers trembling with anticipation. As you began to play, the haunting melody flowed from your fingertips.

As the tender notes from the piano enveloped you, the outside world ceased to exist. Within the protective cocoon of the Cameron's living room, you hoped your music might be a balm for Rafe’s pain. But this sanctuary of sound was violently shattered when an aggressive tug at your hair ripped you from your reverie.

Suddenly, Rafe was there, his fingers cruelly ensnared in your hair, exerting a force so savage it wrenched your head backward, choking off your breath and stilling the music in one brutal tug. The once harmonious room was now charged with an electrifying tension, your eyes captured and held hostage by the ferocity in his.

This was not the Rafe you knew.

The Rafe towering above you appeared utterly transformed. Unrecognizable in every way. Gone was the Rafe who had shared countless evenings filled with laughter and sharing stories. Gone was the anchor that made you feel connected and safe.

Instead, frustration etched itself onto his face like a battle scar, while his dilated pupils revealed an intensity you had never witnessed before, oscillating between your fear-stricken eyes.

His gaze dipped to your parted lips as you let out the breath you were holding, and before you could react, before you could appease him, Rafe captured your lips with his.

You froze. Paralyzed against Rafe's lips. Shock stole your breath away.

Time stopped in an instant as you grappled with the thought that this was a dream, a surreal nightmare. But that fragile notion shattered like glass as Rafe's movements became evident. His lips melded against yours like clay taking form. Hard and desperate, his kiss abruptly catapulted you back into the chilling reality that this was, without a doubt, happening.

Your instinct for survival surged as your fight-or-flight response kicked in. You attempted to push him away, but Rafe tightened his grip on your hair and yanked harder, forcing your submission, his tongue plunging into your mouth when you whined in protest.

The taste of alcohol on Rafe’s tongue was bitter and overwhelming. You tried to convince yourself that this was the reason behind Rafe's behaviour. Any moment now, he would realize his mistake, any moment he would let you go. But instead, Rafe's fingers sank into the hollow of your jaw, holding it open while his tongue explored the warm interior of your mouth.

You whimpered softly as his tongue twirled against yours with ferocity. Rafe adjusted his hand in your hair and gripped tighter, making you cry out as pain surged through your scalp and neck. The sound didn't deter him, as he forced your head back drinking from your mouth greedily.

Discordant notes rang out as you lashed out wildly, reaching for anything you could hold onto for balance. Your hands found Rafe's bicep and you dug your nails into his skin, trying to pull his hand away as he kissed you like a man possessed.

Your entire body was inflamed with sensations you had never experienced before as pleasure and pain bled into one. Your scalp ached yet your body felt hot. Your nipples were suddenly sensitive to your sweater's scraggly wool while you ached between your legs for something you had not experienced before. The whirlwind of sensations new and overwhelming within you made your eyes flutter shut on their own, your hands sliding up Rafe's wrist as you held on for balance.

Rafe's mouth worked over yours with an intensity so raw that your protests turned into breathless moans and frantic gasps as you succumbed to his kiss.  Your tongue tentatively meets his stroke for stroke.  Rafe growled in approval and you could feel him smile into the kiss, his tongue stoking the fire deep within you and just as quickly as it started, Rafe abruptly pulled away leaving you shaking and struggling for air.

Your heart raced within your chest as you abruptly pushed yourself off the piano bench, nearly causing it to tip over in your haste. Hand clutching your chest, you struggled to catch your breath, hastily wiping away tears that had unknowingly streamed down your cheeks. 

A fleeting glance at Rafe revealed his heavy breathing, his mouth agape in quick, shallow pants, and his pupils dilated, tinged with a faint hint of blue. Yet, it was the expression etched upon his face that sent a wave of terror crashing over you. 

Rafe's eyes showed no remorse.

Instead, you saw an overwhelming hunger within them that made your blood run cold. Rafe’s gaze moved down from your stunned face over your trembling body.  The danger that emanated from him made your knees buckle.

You took a step back, your mind whirling with fear and apprehension. But Rafe stepped forward, his eyes locked onto yours with determination.

"I-- I need to check on Wheezie. See what she'd like for dinner," you whispered, your voice shaking as you inched backwards toward the door. You turned to run but it was too late.

Rafe reached out and snatched the hem of your sweater, yanking you towards him. You struggled to break free, twisting and thrashing like a scared kitten in his grip but Rafe was relentless. His other hand reached for your waist as he pulled you close.  His nose and lips trailed the back of your neck and into your hairline and he groaned as he breathed you in. With a jab of your elbow into his rib you wriggled free.  It wasn't enough to wound him but it gave you the head start needed to run.

You dashed from the room, Rafe's pursuit relentless. His outstretched fingers grazed your sweater, narrowly missing its mark. It wasn't until you sprinted up the stairs that he abandoned the chase. You didn't need to glance back to feel his gaze on you.  The tendrils of his breathless laugh reverberated down the corridor.

You burst into Wheezie's room, a hot mess of tears and fear. You made up some excuse about feeling unwell and had to go home immediately. After calling Rose and arranging for a replacement babysitter for Wheezie, you sat in her room and waited for the sitter to arrive.

You didn't see Rafe when you left, and you thanked God for that. You knew that if you saw him, you would break down crying, and you couldn't bear to show him any more weakness. But the tears came anyways, hot and heavy, as soon as you got home. How could you have been so stupid? You knew all the rumors about him, knew that he wasn't a good guy, and yet somehow, you thought in your warped mind that he was different. A decent human being who was simply misunderstood.

It wasn't like you didn't see the signs. They were always there, staring you right in the face. The blatant flirting, the staring, the way he undressed you with his gaze. You dismissed every red flag, thinking he couldn't like you in that kind of way because you were not the type of girl Rafe Cameron would go for and you certainly weren't the type of girl Rafe Cameron would kiss.

And it wasn't just the kiss that scared you. It was the fact that Rafe had no intention of stopping. It was the way he held onto you, the way he made you feel like you were drowning in a sea of desire. He was a predator, relentless in his pursuit of you, and as you thought about how he grabbed onto your clothes his lips tracing your neck even as you protested you couldn't help but cry even harder.

No. There was no way you were setting foot in that house again. Not after the way Rafe kissed you, not after what he was determined to get out of you.

Over the next few weeks, Rose's texts kept coming, each one more insistent than the last. But you knew better than to give in to her demands. You couldn't go back to that house, not after what had happened with Rafe. It was too dangerous, too risky, and you couldn't afford to let your guard down again.

You thought about telling her what had happened with Rafe, but the thought of it made your stomach turn. How could you explain what had happened without sounding like a fool? That you had been hanging out with her stepson for months, that you had let things get out of hand?

You had every intention of never setting foot in that house again. But then Rose sent you a text, asking if you were available on Saturday. They were desperate, she said, and willing to offer triple what they usually paid. Rafe and Sarah were going to a game and the lady who was supposed to look after Wheezie had a family emergency.

You were going to turn them down, again, but the truth was that since you had dropped them as a client, it had been difficult to find other work. So, against your better judgement, you agreed, but only after Rose confirmed that she and Mr Cameron would be home long before Sarah and Rafe returned.

As the day of the babysitting gig approached, a sense of foreboding settled in the pit of your stomach. You knew that you shouldn't go, that it was too risky, too dangerous. But the promise of easy money was too tempting to ignore. And so, against your better judgement, you found yourself standing in front of the Cameron's house once again, your heart racing with a mix of fear and anticipation.

As you approached the front door, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. Rose had texted you on your way over, telling you that she would be getting ready and to let yourself in. But when you rang the doorbell and received no answer, you began to worry. Still, you didn't think anything of it when you turned the door handle and found that it was unlocked. You stepped inside and called out for Wheezie and Rose, but the house was silent.

Making your way to the kitchen, you put down your bag and pulled out your phone. You texted Rose and Wheezie to let them know that you had arrived and were in the kitchen, just in case Wheezie was plugged in. But as you waited for a response, your heart sank.

Something wasn't right. You could feel it.

You had been to the Camerons' house many times and had let yourself in on a few occasions when they were too busy to answer the door. None of this was new but it felt different. An ominous feeling washed over you. But just as you began to worry, the sound of footsteps in the hallway interrupted your thoughts, and you sighed in relief.

As you called out for Rose, a sudden hush fell over the room, broken only by the sound of footsteps approaching. You looked up, hoping to see Rose's familiar figure, but instead, your eyes met the last person you expected to see: Rafe.

His presence was jarring, like a thunderclap on a clear day. Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to make sense of his unexpected appearance. But before you could utter a word, Rafe's murmur cut through the silence like a knife.

"Nah, not Rose," he said with a smile.

Fear took hold of you as you realized that he must have had something to do with Rose's texts in the first place. You stepped back, fear making your knees buckle.

"Where's Rose?" you whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively, as if shielding yourself from him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he drawled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Don’t come near me,” you said firmly as Rafe rounded the kitchen island towards you. Immediately, you moved in the opposite direction away from him.

“I… I just… I needed to talk to you, like, a little bit. Is that okay?” he said, opening his hands to placate you.

“Did Rose actually text me?”

“She did,” Rafe soothed. “But then I, uh… I heard you’d be here tonight instead of Pat, and well… seeing you was more important to me than some game.” His eyes trailed over your face, studying your every reaction.

“Where’s Wheezie?”

“With Sarah.”

You shook your head, your mind reeling with disbelief. How could Rafe have orchestrated this situation for you to be alone with him without any of the Camerons noticing? But as if he heard your thoughts, a sly smile curled his lips and he chuckled softly.

“I told Rose I’d watch over Wheeze so she could catch an early ferry,” Rafe explained, his hands moving in slow, deliberate gestures, connecting invisible dots as he spoke. “After Rose left I gave my ticket to Wheeze.”

You felt like you were going to be sick.

“Look, I know the last time I was a little… a little intense…”

“Intense!” You choked. You would have laughed if the whole thing wasn’t so heartbreaking.

“Yes, and I’m -- I'm really sorry about that, okay? I really am.”

"You tried to ra-”

"No! No, no, I would never..." Rafe rushed towards you and you immediately backed away. He froze mid-step as you cowered, his hands still raised in surrender.  "I’m sorry things were confusing and it looked that way but I wasn't trying to hurt you. God, I- l’m-" Rafe sighed, deflated his hands landed on his hips, he looked away as he pressed his tongue on the inside of his cheek.

"You're sorry it looked that way?" you whispered your voice trembling. Rafe's words echoed in your mind while memories of that day in all its menacing glory flooded back. You looked at him flabbergasted.

"Rafe...you... you were kissing me-”

“I know but I-”

“And touching me--"

He breathed out a laugh "Come on, you know I was only-,"

“Without my consent, Rafe.”

He was silent with that and you hoped your words had finally sunk in, had finally made him understand how terrifying he was in that moment.

“Then you chased me.  You chased me like some...” you couldn’t even finish the sentence.  You didn’t know how to finish the sentence.  You were so hurt and confused.  That your friend could do something like that to you. “I don’t even know who you are. I- I don’t think I ever did,” you whispered.

Rafe's eyes landed on yours with that. His gaze was dark and intense, and for a moment, you thought you had gotten through to him because he nodded slowly. But then he let out a humourless chuckle, reminding you of the one he gave post-chase, and any hope of reaching him dissipated.

"You know, it’s funny ‘cause you say that...” Rafe said coldly, a hand gesturing to you as if trying to grasp his own thoughts “But you’re not entirely innocent in all of this, are you?” 

“I don't-- I don't understand."

“Do you have any idea what you're doing to me, huh, Y/N?

"Raf—"

"What kind of mental shit you put me through? Nah, you don't. You don't think about that, do you?" he asked, his hands gesturing toward you as his eyes narrowed and he stared you down. You felt a shiver run down your spine as you realized the gravity of Rafe's words. It was as if he was confessing to a darker truth, a mental anguish that he had been helplessly consumed by, something unintentionally sparked within him by your actions.

"I have my dad on my back talking about legacies, our family business and preparing me for that shit meanwhile Sarah’s running around town doing god knows what with some loser fucking up our family name. I have real shit to deal with...” he gave out a bitter laugh his hand clutched to his chest as he confessed.

“But even with all of that all I can think about every minute of every fucking day, is you.” Rafe's voice was raw and anguished. His hand moved up to his ear as he slowly walked towards you.

"It's like you've crawled into my brain, you know? Like I’m under some fucking spell with your music and your voice and your-" His eyes trailed down your body just as his hand followed the motion, and you shuddered. He was consuming you with his gaze every sinful thought etched across his features.

"Nah, you made me do this…” he said bitterly, his jaw clenched tight.

“Rafe--”

“You did and now I'm the bad guy because I had a moment of weakness. But you know what? Fuck, it.” he shrugged nonchalantly. “Fuck it, i’ll take responsibility for my part in this--”

“Rafe--”

“That’s what real men do, right? Take responsibility for their shit and I’m all about being accountable, so yeah, I kissed you.” He said nodding slowly. “But I’m not sorry.”

His words made you recoil, disbelief etched across your face as you stared at him.

“Yeah, you want me to pretend like I am. Act apologetic but I won’t. I'm not sorry and you should quit actin’ like you didn't enjoy it."

His words were like a punch to the gut, and you could feel the weight of his accusation settling in your stomach. Stunned, you opened your mouth to protest, but no words came out. A dry, humorless laugh left you instead. Rafe simply nodded slyly as he resumed his steps towards you, and as you stepped backwards, your back collided with the kitchen counter.

“That’s- that’s not true.”

“No?” he asked faux confused.

“It’s not- that’s not fair”

“Isn’t it?” he tutted.

"Rafe, listen to me," you whispered shakily, but he was already leaning in, his eyes dark and clouded.

"No. No, no, you listen.”  he rasped, circling in and looking down on you, his lips pouted as he leaned into the shell of your ear, “You were moaning Y/N- No, don’t do that.  Don’t shake your head, and act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Don't stand there and pretend this whole fucking thing is one-sided. You were moaning into my mouth… and you...you held on to me, yeah? I didn’t force you to do those things."

"Rafe--”

“That was all you princess. So you gotta ask yourself. What kinda girl are you to be into that, hm?” Rafe whispered as he leaned into you.  “What kinda girl would moan like a whore when a guy manhandles her…”

“I didn’t- I wasn’t. I wanted you to stop Rafe and you-”

Rafe chuckled before you could even finish your sentence.

“Is that what was happening while you were kissing me back? Nah, see I know what your problem is. I know, I know, I know…” he repeated softly, as he gently rested his hands on your hips. “I know why you ran when deep down you wanted it.”

You opened your mouth to protest only for Rafe to push his body up against yours.  The hard wall of his body renders you speechless. “We eye fucked each other for months,”  he whispered, as he looked down at you.  His eyes darted to your lips as he licked his own.  “You wanted it.” He said coldly.

"But I get it. It was overwhelming... too much... too soon... hm?" he murmured as his nose grazed yours. "I should have approached you more patiently. I realize that now," he acknowledged with a slow nod. "I should have been gentle with you, and I had every intention to. But I -- I wanted you so bad that day that I couldn't think straight. I'm thinking straight now, though."

“Rafe...” you breathed out, your hands on his chest to push him away but not quite having the strength to do so.  Rafe must have picked up on this because he leaned in, his lips close to yours.

“You keep saying my name but you’re not telling me to stop...” Rafe whispered as his fingers caressed your cheek.  With a gentle touch, he lifted your chin, and you willingly yielded. His caress made you sway, your mind growing hazy and confused. To regain your balance, you closed your eyes.

“Why aren’t you telling me to stop, hm?” he whispered.

You could feel the electricity between you as Rafe leaned in, lips hovering over yours and you tilted your head up slightly, closing the distance, only to be met with nothing. When you opened your eyes, you were met with Rafe’s hooded ones a victorious smile creeping across his lips.  

“Come on” Rafe whispered, and before you could protest Rafe laced his fingers in yours and gently tugged you towards the living room.

Seated at the piano, Rafe smoothly lifted the fallboard with ease.

"Play something for me," he husked, gesturing for you to take a seat beside him on the bench. You felt a flutter of nervousness as you perched yourself next to him, unsure of where to start. You couldn't comprehend how you had gone from rejecting his advances to this moment of willing compliance and acceptance.

Rafe watched you intently. You had been up-close to Rafe before, but never this close. Not this intimately. Your mind became blank, overwhelmed with the prospect of playing for him.

"I...I don't know what to..." you stuttered.

"Anything, anything at all," Rafe whispered, his eyes studying your every move.

Taking a deep breath, you steadied your trembling fingers on the keys and began to release the notes,  slowly at first, but gaining confidence with every passing moment.

“I noticed you, you know,” Rafe rasped. His knuckles suddenly grazed your cheek, and you flinched. “The first time you came to babysit Wheeze, I noticed you.” Rafe followed his knuckles as he moved them across your jaw.

“I remember thinking you were beautiful… shy… innocent…” Opening his hand, his fingers trailed down your neck, and your breath hitched.

“You were wearing this exact sweater…” His fingers splayed over your collarbone as they moved slowly down to your chest.

“What are you hiding under here, hm?” he asked softly. “What are you hiding under these baggy clothes?”

You shied away from his touch, your hands withdrawing from the keys of the piano.

"No. None of that. I’ll tell you when to stop,” he said his voice stern yet soft.  Your eyes glanced at his as Rafe inched closer.  “I’ll tell you when to stop.” he iterated slowly. “Start again.”

Swallowing you placed your hands on the keys while the music resumed from your fingertips.

Rafe shifted closer his leg flushed against your own.  He wrapped his arm over the back of you and hooked it to the other side of the bench. Leaning in, his nose ghosted your neck.

“Raf-”

“Shhhh…”His nose nudged into your hairline.  His other hand on your chest continued its exploration.  It moved lower cupping your tit over your sweater.  The gasp you make made Rafe breathe even heavier, a deep pur coming from the back of his throat.

“Please-” you whispered shakily.

“I’ve always wanted to touch you, you know that?  Every time you played I’d think about what you’d feel like... what you’d look like, moaning for me.  I wanna hear you moan for me.”  

Determined Rafe’s hand moved lower until it dipped under your sweater and you gasped when his warm fingers brushed the skin of your stomach. His other hand let go of the piano stool and was now under your sweater squeezing your tit through your bra.

“Rafe--”

“Keep playing” he whispered against your neck and you did. His hand at your stomach moved lower, finding the button on your jeans he unbutton it with one deft move and your hands falter.

“Keep playing” he murmured, face nudging into your neck, his lips pressing soft kisses to your throat.  “I wanna hear you play while I touch you”  

The sensation of Rafe's hands on your body was almost lost in the overwhelming numbness that had taken over you. His strong hand leisurely tugged at the waistband of your panties seeking to touch what lay beneath, while his other hand snaked under your bra. He caressed and teased your nipple until a soft sob erupted from you.

Rafe moved his hand lower, slipping it between your wet folds and pushing his middle finger inside of you. You cried out, the intensity of sensation causing you to clutch onto Rafe's arm for support, music abandoned.

“It’s okay “ Rafe breathed deeply into your neck, as he roughly peppered your neck with kisses.  “You're okay. Just breathe...” and as he said those comforting words he gently wormed another slender finger passed your slippery folds and into you.

You hissed, trying to move away from the burning stretch of his long fingers. Your nails dug into the flesh of his wrist with enough force to draw blood but Rafe determined as ever slowly moved his fingers in and out of you, each time inserting them a little deeper until it reached his signet ring.  

"You've had more than one finger before?" he asked hotly against your neck. You shook your head no, gritting your teeth in an effort to endure him stretching you further still. Rafe groaned and nipped softly at your jawline, "Fuck, I can tell. I can barely move them. But you're a good girl, aren't you? You're taking them well and afterwards, I'm gonna train you to take all of me."

Rafe's lips trailed tender kisses down the length of your neck, then his mouth closed hungrily around the sensitive skin. His two fingers moved inside you and each slow thrust drew a soft moan from your lips.

With surety, he curled his fingers in a come-hither motion, barely grazing your clit with his thumb. The sensation was overwhelming and foreign, causing you to gasp and cum embarrassingly fast. Your pussy contracting around his fingers, milking them for all they were worth.

“Oh Fuuckk…” Rafe hissed. “You liked that, I can feel it.“ He sighed utterly mesmerised. “Well, if you like that...” Rafe groaned resting his forehead against the side of your face and planting soft kisses on your cheek. “You’re gonna love this.”

With his bottom lip caught between his teeth, Rafe's probing fingers started their relentless hunt for something deep within you. Suddenly, those searching digits found what they were looking for - a spot that caused you to arch over and clutch his hand as you cried out despite your best efforts.

“Oh- there it is” he chuckled softly, shunting his hand and hitting that spot over and over again with a speed and force that knocked the breath out of you, while his thumb expertly rubbed your clit and the fingers of his other hand mercilessly pulled and twisted your nipple.

“OhmyGOD!” you cried.

“That’s it, baby. Fuck my hand. Just like that.”

Rafe kept at it, even as your nails scraped along his wrist and arm for purchase.  Even as you screamed and tried to scissor your legs closed to shut him out. None of it mattered as your eyes crossed and you felt your orgasm raw and violent crash over you. 

Bucking violently into Rafe’s hand, you could feel your release seep through your jeans and onto the piano bench. Pooling and overflowing you could hear it trickle onto the hardwood floor and still, Rafe kept going, kept finger fucking you.

Lost in a sea of agonising pleasure you could do nothing but slump against him and take it, your hips stuttering, your mouth sagging as you whimpered and gasped.

Rafe moaned against you, planting soft kisses on the column of your throat. He stilled his hand, his fingers buried deep inside while you desperately tried to catch your breath.

"Seems my fingers are just as talented as yours, hm?" he said with a breathless chuckle. His nose trailed along your neck, while his tongue darted out to capture the perspiration nestled there. 

Gently, Rafe removed his digits while you gazed in shock, unable to voice a single word as he brought the wet fingers to his lips and ravenously lapped up your fluids with a contented hum.

“This is too much.” you said hoarsely  “I can’t-- I can't do this. No more, Rafe. No more,” you said weakly, trying to remove his hand from your breast and move away from his hold only for Rafe to seize your wrist painfully in his grasp.

"No more?" Rafe chuckled darkly, his gaze fixed on you with dilated pupils. "No more?" he repeated, inching closer as he shook his head. "Nah, baby. No. We're just getting started..."

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Thank you for reading.  Thanks for liking and reblogging. PART 2 / MASTERLIST

[natsuphoria]

hello my little friend :) i'll start nice. can i request some fluff with alkaloid? platonic or romantic, up to you <3

hello gayass :) i hope you read these and explode (affectionate) :3 i would say these lean towards romantic but aira’s and mayoi’s could be seen as platonic <3

alkaloid + fluff

reader : gender neutral, no pronouns used, reader bakes in tatsumi's scenario type : scenarios warnings : none word count : 1024... yeah i kinda got carried away

a pleasant shiver runs from the back of your head to the base of your spine as you rouse from your slumber. you yawn softly, nuzzling into the warmth pressed against your cheek, and stilling in surprise when the warmth hugs you back. 

“you’re awake?” you feel the rumble of hiiro’s voice in his chest before you hear it. you make a noncommittal sound – not really saying something or the other, just letting him know you’re awake – and readjust your head, your ear pressed to his chest. hiiro hums and moves a hand to your shoulder, squeezing softly. the two of you fall into a comfortable silence. 

the strong, steady thump of his heart makes you smile, and you close your eyes in an attempt to hear it better. “are you trying to fall asleep again?” hiiro asks, an audible smile in the lilt of his voice. your answering silence has him chuckling, and strong arms pull you to a sitting position beside him. “it’s a new day! you can’t go back to sleep now – we’ve got so much to do!” the sweet smile hiiro gives you makes something burst in your chest, filling it with warmth. maybe waking up isn’t so bad if you get to see that smile. 

maybe waking up isn’t so bad if he’ll be here with you again as you drift off tonight. aira, mayoi and tatsumi below the cut!

“waa~ that was so cool!” you can practically see the sparkles around aira as he wears a content, closed-eye smile. 

he’d been looking forward to this live for weeks, and gushing about it for even longer. it was held by a fairly new unit – he had rambled to you about it once over lunch – but it had become somewhat of an overnight sensation. the day he had gotten the tickets, aira had come running to you, holding out a ticket and asking with wide eyes if you’d like to go with him. you had accepted, so now here you are, linking arms with the boy as you amble along the pavement.

“did you enjoy it?” 

you don’t think it’s possible for him to look any happier, but your assurance that yes, you did enjoy it very much has him clapping his hands and bouncing in glee. the scene makes something soft blossom in your chest, expanding to fill your ribs and escaping you as an amused laugh. 

“you know, i’m glad you don’t comment much on how much i like idols,” he starts, fiddling with the keychains on his bag. “most people are surprised that an idol likes idols so much, and say some weird things about it. but you just accept it as a part of me, a-and let me talk about them… uh, did i say something wrong?” he blinks at your wide-eyed expression as you try not to burst into tears at his admission. or grab him and shake him like a maraca.

the best you can do is aggressively reassure him that you’ll always listen to him talk about his interests. his resulting laugh has your face lighting up as well. “does that mean you’ll come with me to more lives?”

“wh-what are you doing!?” 

mayoi, after much coaxing, has finally agreed to put his head in your lap. even so, he refuses to put his full weight on you – my sins may be too much for you to bear! – choosing instead to hold himself above you, muscles tensed. you had just ghosted your fingers over his hair when he had gasped, pulling his shoulders up to his ears as if trying to hide in his shell. 

i’m playing with your hair, you say matter-of-factly, and he whimpers at the thought of your hand on his scalp. “you can’t!” he protests weakly. “i – you’ll be tainted!” 

by what, mayoi, you ask, before switching tactics. you assure him that it’s alright, that you want to do this. nothing’s gonna happen to you. nothing’s gonna happen to anyone. your determination is rewarded when he eventually relents, his face hidden in his hands as you undo the ribbon holding his braid. 

the first contact of your fingertips against his scalp sends a shudder down his spine, a soft sob escaping him. you smile softly as you continue your ministrations, carding your fingers through his long strands. you admire how well-maintained his hair is… the colour, the texture... and before you know it, he’s completely relaxed, fully resting his head in your lap.

he sighs contentedly, almost nuzzling his head into your hand like a cat. soon enough, his breathing evens out and you know he’s fallen asleep. be sure to savour every moment now – you’d want to be able to assure him that this was nice when he wakes up apologetic, right? 

you feel a warm pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind. the sudden contact makes you stiffen a little, but the gentle press of tatsumi’s lips against your cheek has you almost melting in his arms. 

“they look delicious," he says, referring to the sheet of cookies you're about to put in the oven. you laugh – that's uncooked dough, tatsumi, you'll get sick – and he chuckles in response. "my point still stands," he remarks. "i can hardly wait until they're ready to eat."

you feel tatsumi's soft gaze on you as you place the tray in the oven. growing flustered, you buy time by fussing over the temperature, hoping that he'll look away...

...which does not work. when you stand up and turn to face him, tatsumi's right in front of you, his smile so filled with adoration that it makes something twist in your chest. he takes your hands in his, and you slowly begin to dance to a silent song – a song composed just for the two of you, heard only by the two of you.

the aroma of your baked goods wafts through the air. you let out a flustered laugh and for a second he feels as if he’s reverted to a grinning, blushing, lovestruck boy. the lights in the kitchen are far from flattering, but to tatsumi? he swears you have never looked more beautiful than in this moment, right between his arms.

tags : @tokusaatsus @avigenshin @sleepypengwin @cxffeelings

wanna be added to my taglist?

[1moreoffkeyanthem]

Alright my dudes, it’s time for another episode of Bedtime Stories With PCE,

•Comeback Of The Year•

For those unfamiliar, the Bedtime Stories series has been continuations of fics I published on ao3, within the OrangeJuiceVerse, that I don’t feel necessary have a place within the official lineup. This one is a little different.

This story isn’t a continuation or something that happened when we were in another character’s perspective; rather it’s a what we didn’t see. Chronologically, this takes place after the main 5’s first year of college, during the time Cartman’s leaving Colorado and Kenjorine and Style are moving into their campus apartments, set between Extremely Stupid And Incredibly Avoidable and It’s Not The Frat Flu. (As usual you don’t need to be familiar with those or the OJV in general to read this lmao)

ALSO!!! This idea is inspired by a suggestion from my dearest sickfic queen Ana @alwaysinstyle and I’ll explain under the cut before we get into the story!

(Tw for Kyle’s eating disorder thoughts, mention of behavior and mentality surrounding)

So I’ve talked before about OrangeJuiceVerse Kyle being a recovered anorexic, and said I probably wouldn’t write something with him actively struggling with his ed, BUT, my fine friends, last week in the R.A.N.T. Park chat the girlies and I were discussing my impending move and the factors surrounding it (including your local Whumpshot Wizard trying to kick her own relapse’s ass before my husband and I move rip lol), and Ana slid into my messages like “I have an idea that could work for OJV Kyle” and I RAN WITH IT!!!

Thus, this was born. A tale of everyone’s favorite ginger coming face to face with an eating disorder relapse in the middle of moving apartments in the summer heat. There is a fair amount of angst, but a lot of wholesome moments too, a lot of hope and healthy communication in typical PastorCraigEnjoyer fashion! And plenty of Stan being the sweetest boy on planet Earth lmfao I’m obsessed with OJV Stan it’s fine

If y’all read this, PLEASE let me know what you thought, and I hope it pleases and sparkles!!!

Without further ado, here y’all go:

——————————————————————————

Mid July was excruciating, to put it mildly, even in Colorado. Kyle couldn’t imagine how rough summers must be for someone in, like, Texas or something.

Maybe the weather would be tolerable if he was lying in the shade somewhere with an ice cold drink in his hand, listening to Stan play the guitar, maybe watching lazy clouds float through the endless blue. That idyllic mental picture was a lot more pleasant than his current reality.

“Ay! Get your lazy ass over here and help Kinny with this chair!”

Moving.

The weird little house they’d spent the last year living in no longer suited the group’s needs, with Cartman declaring his gap year done and announcing that the online matchmaking and wedding planning service he’d been building up had taken off, that he’d be moving to Nevada. It was a fitting career for him, Kyle thought, but even if he and a certain abrasive fuckwad butted heads from time to time, that big of a change to the group dynamic made him anxious. They’d collectively decided to disband the SP Survivors Safehouse, all knowing that it wouldn’t be the same from here on out, but none of them giving voice to that.

It wasn’t that he was completely sad about leaving that place behind; it was kind of a shitbox, and these campus apartments were nice and well maintained. He and Stan would only be a few doors down from Kenny and Marj, and the units were decently spacious for what the rent was. Just… the adjustment of it all. The change in routine and life in general. That’s what had him stressed.

With a groan, Kyle pushed himself off the wall where he’d been taking a breather. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

Out of the minute shade the shadow of the building had cast, his vision went spotty with the shift in temperature. Seriously, it was too goddamn hot for this shit.

Kenny unclipped the ratchet strap holding his favorite recliner (a well loved sidewalk find) to the bed of the truck, turning to look at him with a quizzical expression.

“You good, firefox?”

“I’ll be better when we’re done getting everything inside,” Kyle complained, and immediately regretted his tone. All of them were out in the sun, not just him. “It’s just hot,” he amended.

Hopping out of Resurrection, Kenny gestured for him to climb into the bed. “I hear that, brother. Even Fatboy’s helpin’ speed shit up.”

From the staircase, arms laden with boxes, Cartman called down a “I heard that, broke ass bitch!”

“I’m commending your work ethic!” Kenny argued back, wide grin on his face. He braced himself to catch one side of the chair. “Gonna miss that fucker.”

Kyle shook his head and slowly walked the furniture to the edge of the tailgate. “He’ll be blowing up our phones with stupid shit even more than he already does.” Though, it’d take more getting used to than he wanted to think about. He didn’t have the energy to stress over it more than he already had been. He sighed. “We’ll get used to it. Ready?”

“When you are.”

“Yep, careful, Ken.”

“When am I ever not careful?” The blond replied with a smirk.

“I’m not answering that.”

Kenny chuckled, enviously buoyant and upbeat in a way Kyle couldn’t seem to match. The guy had always been a little more go with the flow, cryptic and weird sometimes, yeah, but overall good for a smile when you needed one, and Kyle very much did right now. He’d been driving everyone up the wall the past few weeks with his neuroticism; maybe he should take a page out of Kenny’s book.

“Alright, dude,” he said, “it’s coming down.”

Step one and done, chair on the grass, Kyle hopped out of the bed to begin the arduous task of helping his friend haul the damn thing up the stairs. Not particularly heavy, but awkward, and Kyle wasn’t feeling very strong today. Past month or so, come to think of it.

He knew why, of course, and it was his own damn fault.

Stress had always effected his appetite, and with everything going on, he’d fallen into some… old habits. And the worst part was, he was good at hiding it, even from his boyfriend. For nearly five years, Stan had been diligent (on his ass) about his eating habits, his health in general. Stan didn’t find Cartman’s ed jokes funny even when Kyle himself did. None of it was funny now.

He didn’t realize what was happening until he was already in it, an involuntary deficit awakening long dormant thoughts and behaviors, secrecy and avoidance. The lying came naturally, and that made him feel worse.

But it wasn’t a problem, Kyle told himself. He’d get back on track and no one would have to know, once they got this new chapter of their lives up and running. Just a momentary slip up, nothing to start an upset over. He was fine.

To prove it, Kyle let Kenny lead in front, taking most of the weight as they climbed the stairs. His friend whistled something he couldn’t quite place while he walked backwards, like he didn’t have a care in the world. A sickening trickle of sweat ran down Kyle’s back, an annoying ringing in his ears.

His arms were shaking when they at long last made it to the open door of number 207, and he spared a glance across the hall and down a ways to unit 210, his new home with Stan, who was currently inside with Marj getting the couch set up.

“Kyle? Hey, man, you hear me?”

Snapping back to attention, Kyle pulled his focus back to Kenny. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

Kenny raised his eyebrows and started backing up into the apartment again. “Dude, I was saying we could put the chair in the corner for now. You alright?”

“Like I said, just the heat,” Kyle assured him. Though now that he was inside, out of the open concrete hallway with its hot wind, he was suddenly freezing. Freezing, but still dripping sweat from what felt like every pore. Maybe coffee wasn’t enough to get him through the morning after all, but he hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of anything else.

Cartman rounded the corner, wiping his hands on his jeans and scowling on his way to the front door to grab some more stuff from the truck.

“This is why I told you guys to hire movers like I did,” he started condescendingly. “By the time I get to my sweet new house tomorrow, all I’ll have to bring in is my backpack.”

“And yet you’re still helping us out of the goodness of your big fat heart,” Kenny pointed out. “You do love us.”

“Nah, fuck you guys.” Cartman flipped them a middle finger on his way out.

Kenny laughed as he set his side of the chair down, Kyle following suit on that, but not the laughter.

His head felt like it was being squeezed on all sides, blood fervently racing through his veins, clouds at the edges of his sight. He hadn’t even straightened yet, but the room was spinning. Kyle slowly pulled himself up, undeniable dread flooding his gut when the vertigo worsened.

“I’m-“ he started thickly, swallowing hard with a throat that felt like a stale desert. His own voice sounded like he was hearing it underwater. “Ken, I don’t feel so good-“

Kenny’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit, you look like a ghost! Okay, get down, get down, you’re good, dude, sit down…”

Even with Kenny’s secure grip on his arms, Kyle felt his legs turn to jelly right as his vision turned white.

He couldn’t decipher what his friend was saying, only that his tone was calm, reassuring and steady. How was Kenny so calm? Kyle was abruptly made aware of his own panicked breathing, eyes burning with tears while they struggled to focus again. He was on the floor, and didn’t remember getting there. Why was it so cold?

“-re you are.” Kenny’s voice still sounded distant, but a little clearer now. “Just keep your eyes open, dude, we know how to handle this, you’re fine.” The blond turned his head to the open door. “STAN!”

Kyle felt wrong. He hadn’t gotten snappy and irritable like he usually did when his blood sugar dropped, so even if he was low (definitely on the table here), it wasn’t just that. There was something else up too, and he was scared, and embarrassed, and whyisitsohardtohearanything-

“Ky?! Shit, baby, I’m here, I’ve got you.”

He could blearily make out the shape of his boyfriend kneeling beside him, feel the hand that burned like fire on his cheek. “Can you hear me, dude?”

“‘S hard to,” he managed.

“That’s okay, we’ll fix it, I’m here,” Stan repeated, and looked up at Kenny. “What happened? Did he fall? Pass out or just get really close?”

Kyle was vaguely aware of his tears being wiped away by someone who smelled like green apples. Oh, fuck, he was probably scaring Marj. He had to calm down; panicking never helped in a situation like this.

Kenny stood up, beelining to turn the ceiling fan on. “Said he wasn’t feelin’ good, and then he went all white, and then his eyes rolled back so I got ‘im on the floor. A low, right?”

His hands were tingling. Stan was shaking his head.

“He doesn’t freak out like this over it normally, you know that. Kyle, dude, what else is going on? You get too hot?”

Marjorine sounded worried. “Oh, geez, should we call 911? I’ve heard heat exhaustion can be real bad.”

Kyle’s heart felt like it was working overtime to get blood to his brain, stomach twisting with nausea and mouth drier than the wrinkled up orange peel he’d found in one of Stan’s drawers when they were packing.

Oh.

“Hypotension,” he whispered. “Gotta… legs above my head. Drink something.”

Stan nodded, already sliding a box under his sneakers. “Ken, there’s Gatorade in my bag at our place. Can you grab the full sugar one?”

“On it, bossman.”

Marj softly ran her fingers through his hair, rubbing his temples in an almost motherly gesture. “You just lie still and catch your breath,” she advised. “You’re probably just dehydrated with how hot it is and all. You’ll be feelin’ better in no time.”

Oh, no doubt, but if only it was just that. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Dude.” Stan took his hand and kissed the back of it. “Shit happens, okay? You’re just gonna need to take it easy for the rest of the day, right?”

“Right.” Kyle sighed, uneasy and hating how much his body was still shaking, but at least his senses were starting to come back after a few minutes horizontal. “‘M just not built for summer.”

His partner snorted. “I know, baby. I’ve heard you complain about how sunburned you get every summer for our whole lives. Full on lobster the second the sun comes out. I don’t think I’ve seen you faint from low blood pressure, though, not since-“ Stan’s face fell at the realization. “…oh, Ky, no…”

The mix of shock and concern and guilt and sympathy and fear on Stan’s handsome face felt like a punch in the gut. Kyle couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s not what you-“

“You were up before me,” Stan cut in. “Did you eat breakfast?”

His head hurt. “I told you I did.”

“And you were lying,” Stan inferred, his voice cracking.

His sweet, sensitive Stan. The regret of hiding his recent bullshit from the man who worried so much about him threatened to, ironically, eat Kyle alive.

Before he could think of something to say to save face, Kenny returned from his side quest, Cartman close behind and carrying a box labeled ‘Another Man’s Treasure’, also known as Kenny’s assortment of random junk to hypothetically be used in a project at some point.

Their no-longer-resident asshole set the box down on the kitchen counter. “You just had to have a dramatic little moment today, didn’t you, Jew?”

“Cartman,” Stan warned, ripping the the nutrition information off of the Gatorade bottle Kenny passed him with far more force than necessary, “I’m telling you right now to lay the fuck off him.”

Naturally, Cartman didn’t lay off. “Hell no! Using his sneaky little ways to get out of physical labor? I must say, Bone Broth, I’m impressed.”

Kyle managed something resembling a weak laugh at that; “Bone Broth” was a new one, so stupid it was almost funny. That is, until the other three shouted “JAR!”.

How were they going to keep up Fuckwad Jar records if the five of them no longer lived together? What even was the point of it anyway? It was too much, all too much. Too much change, too much going on, he felt like microwaved garbage and Stan still had an unreadable look in his eyes. Maybe that was just still Kyle’s brain catching up to full consciousness, though. He could always read Stan, eventually.

He’d have to explain himself later, because his boyfriend had shifted into full caretaking mode.

“Ignore him, dude,” Stan said, taking Marjorine’s spot at his head. “I’m gonna sit you up, really slow, okay?”

Kyle nodded, blinking away the dark spots in his eyes at the movement and letting Stan hold him against his chest, one arm around him for stability, the other guiding him to drink. The cloying taste of lemon lime flooded his tongue, but the thickness in the back of his throat from unshed tears lingered.

Kenny squatted down beside them, extending a fist. “Aight, grandma, dap me up. C’mon, I’m checkin’ your motor functions and shit.”

He obliged, slowly completing the handshake with an eyeroll. Leave it to Kenny McCormick.

Unfortunately, ignoring Cartman was easier said than done, especially when he let out an exaggerated groan.

“I’m so seriously, you guys. I could already be relaxing by the pool at my hotel instead of watching the rest of you coddle the damsel in distress, but nooooo, we have to pause the whole move just because one bird boned bitch can’t pull his weight.”

Kyle was willing to let that one slide; it was true, wasn’t it? Even if Cartman could have phrased it a little less cruelly. Marj stood up on his behalf.

“Eric!” All four boys stilled at her rarely used stern voice. “You know darn well you’re only actin’ out because you don’t do well with change either, mister! Now, apologize right now!”

“Damn, Buttercup,” Kenny whistled, audibly impressed. “Called Fatboy out.”

Cartman grumbled, rolling his eyes, but sighed with genuine defeat. “I’m sorry for being an asshole, now will you guys hop off my dick?”

“None of us want to be on your dick, fatass,” Kyle pointed out.

“Keep it that way, you anemic twink.”

“Okay, I’ve had enough of this,” Stan groaned. “Ky, the bed in our place isn’t made, but it’s put together. Let’s get you somewhere quiet to lie down, okay?”

That sounded nice, but Kyle really wasn’t looking forward to the third degree he was about to get. He didn’t want to get defensive like he knew he would, didn’t want to act like a dick. Still, he resigned himself to be swept up into a safety that didn’t feel deserved.

“Sorry I freaked you guys out,” he muttered, arms draped around Stan’s neck, Gatorade bottle dangling loosely from one hand. “I’ll help finish up in a little bit, promise.”

“No the fuck you won’t.” Stan tightened his grip, pulling Kyle closer to his chest.

As his boyfriend carried him to their apartment, he could hear Cartman taking over command of getting the rest of Kenny and Marj’s stuff in. Dread pooled in his empty stomach, dread that he wanted out. Kyle felt exposed. He’d been seen right through, and scrutinized, all over again.

———

The summer before and into his ninth grade year had been one of the lowest points of Kyle’s life.

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had all started, but by the time he started to notice the changes to his body, to his pattern of thinking especially, he was spiraling down a dangerous path.

There was comfort in controlling what he could in the here and now, Kyle had realized, especially with the future seeming so uncertain. He wasn’t fucking stupid; he had known right off the bat that obsessively counting, competing with himself to see how little he could get away with eating, even shoving his fingers down his throat on a few occasions just to prove to himself that he had control, all of that was dangerous and would only make him feel worse in the long run. And yet, he’d spent months getting extremely efficient at running on nothing but his own stubbornness.

Kyle hadn’t been the one in control, though, not after a certain point. No, his eating disorder had controlled him.

His mother had seen it, because of course she had. But Sheila Broflovski, loving and caring as she was, hadn’t a clue as to how to approach the matter. One of her “solutions” had been to organize a dinner party with all his friends and their parents, a subtle way, he’d find out years later, to try and get her eldest son to associate food with celebration and love again; good things, not something to be avoided. But the well meaning idea had only sent Kyle into an anxious frenzy.

“Ma, you have got to be fucking joking! You didn’t think, oh, I don’t know, maybe you should ASK ME?”

“Now listen here, young man-“

Oh shit. Kyle knew that tone, and had dreaded hearing it his entire life. Worried and angry at the same time was easily the most frightening version of Sheila Broflovski. He’d seen a good amount of that side of her around that time, come to think of it.

And Kyle could out-argue anyone; he could diffuse high tempers or match them, whatever the situation called for. At fourteen, he counted that as the best tool in his arsenal.

But he had been tired, for months. So fucking tired.

Plus, the only people he’d never won a screaming match against were God and his mother. His voice had, for once, faltered.

He would find a way to make a damn dinner party work.

“S-sorry, ma,” he’d managed. “That sounds like a good idea. Just, uh, just remember that Stan doesn’t eat meat, when you’re cooking. Like, leave the bacon out of the green beans.”

She had looked like there was something on the tip of her tongue that she wanted to ask. Kyle felt the weight of her stare settle on his shoulders like the shirt that had been hanging off of them; incidentally what had caught the attention of the captain of overbearing mothers in the first place.

But she’d softened, apparently having agreed to his unspoken truce and switching tactics. “Alright, sweetie. Now, you’re doing homework in your room again, I’m assuming? Oy, you’ve just been working so hard since high school started! I’m so proud! I’ll bring you some snacks later so you can keep that focus up, bubbeh.”

Kyle had fought to keep his face even. He couldn’t tell her. Not even Stan knew he couldn’t focus if he ate, which was why he… kind of hadn’t been. But he’d nodded and said,

“Okay. Thanks, Ma.”

He hated to think back to that party. The whole night had been spent dodging pointed looks, staying talking as if on autopilot to act okay, to distract the people he loved. To hide. It was his problem, not theirs.

But everything that passed his lips that day did so twice.

———

Now here he was, and it was a problem again.

Kyle’s anxiety only spiked entering the apartment that was, in theory, his home for the next few years. It didn’t feel like home yet, just an impersonal cookie cutter one bedroom, its beige walls and vertical blinds taunting him. New chapter, they seemed to say. New chapter, but there’s a misprint; we’ve read these words before.

Stan softly kissed his forehead and set him down on the bare mattress. “You’ve got some color back,” he noted. “How do you feel?”

Looking anywhere that wasn’t into worried blue eyes, Kyle shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Hands are cold.”

“Baby, look at me.” Stan took his hands in his own warm ones and drew a deep breath. “Dude, are you relapsing?”

“That’s not-“ Kyle forced himself to pause and take the hostility from his voice. He needed to communicate clearly and honestly; immediately acting like he was being attacked would help no one here, and Stan only got overreactive when he had cause to freak out.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted quietly. “It just kind of… happened, I guess. I didn’t realize, dude, I swear. Not really.”

“…okay.” Stan was chewing his bottom lip, and Kyle’s heart lurched, feeling his boyfriend’s fingers twitching but not letting go of his hands even though he obviously wanted to chew at his own like when he got nervous. “How long?”

“Past month or so?” Kyle guessed. “Seriously, I was gonna go back to normal after we got settled in; it wasn’t on purpose-“

“That’s not you talking,” Stan interrupted. “Honey, you know that’s not you. That’s the anorexia. Trying to justify it.”

Stan was never this blunt. He hated using that word, always had. He said it felt too big, too scary. Kyle didn’t want him to be scared.

“Dude, it’s under control,” he insisted. I just needed one less thing to think about for a little bit.”

“Do you even hear what you’re saying?!?” Stan asked incredulously. “Ky, you know better! You know that’s not how this works!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me!” Kyle sobbed out, overwhelmed and hating that he was crying again. He was the least prone to tears of the group; another thing that was apparently crumbling.

Stan slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, hands up in surrender and eyes like saucers.

“Baby, baby, shh, I’m not yelling, okay? I’m not mad at you. I’d never be, no matter what.”

“I… I know,” Kyle whispered. He didn’t protest Stan’s hand moving up to cup his cheek tenderly.

“Kyle, you remember what you told me your therapist said when we were in high school? That it’s a slippery slope, dude. You give it an inch, it takes a mile, right?”

She had used a metaphor that stuck with him. say you’re climbing a mountain, sticking to the path that you know you’re supposed to be on. A few feet to the side, there’s what looks like a shortcut, something easier than the path. But what you don’t see until it’s too late, and you’ve already strayed, is that the shortcut gives way to slippery gravel, and eventually you slide back down to where you started.

“Fuck, dude,” Kyle groaned. “Can we just pretend this never happened? It’s out in the fucking open now, not like you’re gonna let me get away with more bullshit.”

Stan shook his head. “I’m not gonna let it keep trying to get you, dude. It made you sick.” He looked down, shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I knew you were stressed, I just-“

“Sweetheart, c’mon.” Kyle wasn’t about to let Stan blame himself for missing the signs. “Don’t do that. I’m just really good at hiding it.”

“Making your ancestors proud with your deceptive ways,” Cartman quipped from the doorway. He turned his attention to Stan. “Hey, Big ‘n Tall. Marj needs help with a bookshelf.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “So why aren’t you helping her? I’m busy.”

“Because.” Cartman crossed his beefy arms over his chest. “I need to have a little talk with Kahl.”

Clearly suspicious, Stan stood up and squared to their friend. Kyle knew the two of them didn’t usually have real beef, but Stan was obviously on edge and feeling overprotective.

“He’s not feeling well, assclown. I don’t want you to work him up.”

Cartman raised one eyebrow, unfazed by Stan’s intimidation tactics. All five of them knew that while he could certainly look scary, he wouldn’t hurt a fly unless completely unavoidable.

“Relax, Lancelot, I can babysit your languishing fleshlight without starting a fight.”

Annoyed, Kyle raised his hand. “You two realize I can hear you.”

Stan glanced back and forth between them for a pregnant moment, then sighed. He knew Kyle could handle himself, especially when it came to Cartman being an asshole, which was much appreciated. Finally, he sighed, relenting.

“Alright. Ky, just take it easy, okay? I’ll be right back. Cartman-“

“-Don’t piss off the Jew, got it.”

Stan bent down to kiss Kyle gently while Cartman pretended to gag. “We’ll beat it together, baby.”

“Together,” Kyle agreed, feeling like there was a fist clenching his heart when his partner left the room. Cartman sat on the edge of the bed and glared at him.

“You’re a fucking dumbass.”

Classy. “Thank you, Cartman, is that all?”

“No, that’s not all, bitch. Listen up.”

And Kyle was, picking up on the seriousness in his friend’s voice. He sipped at his Gatorade and gestured for him to go on.

“I need you to be okay, you idiot.”

That made Kyle pause. Cartman anxiously ran his hands through his messy brown hair.

“Look, dickhole, it’s no secret that your body hates you. Sucks to suck, and all that. But you’re stupid for thinking you can outsmart it. That shit-“ he gestured vaguely in the direction of Kenny and Marj’s place. “-That shit can’t happen. You can’t get sick like when we were in high school.”

Kyle opened his mouth to insist that he was never planning on letting it get that far, but Cartman held up a hand.

“We all know you love to talk, but let me finish.” He shot Kyle a look that meant business until he was sure he wasn’t going to be interrupted. “Good. Okay. Fuck, this is hard to say, alright. Okay. You can’t get sick,” he repeated. “It would fucking break Stan. The stupid hippie would cease to exist if anything happened to you, and you know I’m not fucking around. He needs you. We… all need your annoying ass.”

Against his will, Kyle started to smile. “Is this you admitting you’re gonna miss me, Eric? Kenny was right, you do love us.”

“Fuck off, I hate you guys,” Cartman muttered. “And Christ, just call me “fatass”, it’s gross when you use my name. Save the faggotry for that misguided simp of yours.”

Kyle laughed. His face was tingling, but he really was feeling a little more human. “Just trying to annoy you, fatass.”

“Good. Keep doing that. Don’t make it weird. Listen…”

Cartman took a deep breath, like he was about to dive into the unexplored. Well, he kind of was, starting his career away from the safety net of the rest of them, Kyle supposed.

“This doesn’t leave this room, am I clear, Starving In Suburbia?”

“You know, it concerns me every time you reference one of those movies.”

“Damnit, Jew, am I clear?”

“Jesus, yes. What?”

“If you, uh, if you want, I can ask my therapist for some recommendations. You know, colleagues of his that do remote sessions and specialize in your bullshit.”

Kyle knew Cartman hated talking about therapy, about his fucked up brain and cocktail of medications, so the fact that he was offering was wild. Probably not necessary, but wild.

“Dude,” Kyle started, “I appreciate that, seriously. But I don’t think it’s at that point, you know?”

“I have a call with him day after tomorrow, I’ll at least get some names.” The way he said it made it clear that he needed to feel like he was helping. Not for Kyle’s sake, but for his own peace of mind.

Kyle sighed. “Thank you. Seriously, that’s really nice of you, dude.”

Cartman scoffed. “Please. I just need you to have your shit together so I can torture you without, like, karmic consequences.”

Typical. “Karmic consequences, huh?”

“Uh, duh, dumbass. You can’t rip on an anorexic if they’re actively in it. Everyone knows that.” He rolled his eyes. “For real, though. Get your shit together. I’m not having this conversation again.”

Movement caught Kyle’s eye in the doorway. Stan, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, but his face was relaxed, like he’d heard that last part.

Cartman turned. “Oh good, the guard dog’s back.” He sprang up like he hadn’t just hit Kyle with the tough love he didn’t know he needed. “Later, cocksuckers.”

“Thanks again, fatass,” Kyle repeated.

“Thank me by not being a delicate little bitch next time.”

Stan took his spot on the mattress, eyebrow raised. “Dare I ask?”

Kyle sat up against the headboard, curling his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. “Just wanted to tell me to get it together. Apparently kicking me when I’m down would cause cosmic chaos.”

“Can’t have that,” Stan chuckled. “But really, dude. What do we need to do here? I’m not letting this thing fuck with you anymore than it already has.”

Thinking back to the first time around, Kyle remembered how strict his rules had been in early recovery. Meal plan, online school, limited physical activity, outpatient therapy multiple times a week. Granted, he’d been pretty fucked physically and mentally back then. This hardly even compared, in his eyes.

“I… think I just need accountability,” he said carefully. “For a little while, it’s not like…” Kyle sighed again. “Believe me when I say it’s not like it was the first time, Stan. It’s just… call it a sophomore slump, I guess.”

Stan cracked a half smile, still visibly worried, but like he trusted him. “Little slip up? You’re feeling like you can get yourself healthy pretty quickly?”

Kyle reached a hand out to take Stan’s. “Promise. The mentality behind it isn’t the same, you know? The body dysmorphia and the compulsions aren’t there, I just fell into some of the habits. Call me on it if you see it, okay?”

“I will, dude,” Stan swore. “I’ve always got your back.

Stan used their intertwined hands to pull Kyle into his lap, softly rubbing his back. “I need something from you too though.”

“Mhm?”

“I need you to tell me when you need support, baby. With words. I don’t want to miss the signs again, dude.”

Kyle looked up into his impossibly soft gaze, both vulnerable and open. “Oh, sweetheart, hey. That’s not on you, at all.”

“It is, though.” Stan cupped around the back of Kyle’s neck, bringing his head back into his chest protectively. “We’re a team, Ky. How many times have you told me that? Whatever the game is, we’re on the same side.”

“Dude, don’t quote me at me,” Kyle laughed. It had the intended effect, though, for sure. “But I hear you.”

“Yep, and we’ll be all good in no time,” Stan promised. “We’ll get used to this new place, start our second year of school, all that shit. It always works out, right?”

“We figure it out,” Kyle confirmed.

Stan’s grin was audible, brilliant and soul stirring, even if Kyle couldn’t see it. “Turn that sophomore slump into the comeback of the year.”

Then Kyle did pull away enough to see his face, trying to feign annoyance on his part. “How’d I know you were gonna quote Fall Out Boy at me?”

“Hey, you started it, I just finished it.”

“Proud of yourself, Stanathan?”

“Very much so.” Stan lightly ran his thumb over Kyle’s bottom lip before kissing him softly.

And Kyle believed him when he said, “but more proud of you.”

[hayanwulf]

Prompt: Domestic ironstrange, maybe some soft cuddles after a stressful day?

Stephen watched, holding back a smile, as Tony tried to wrap a bandage around the wound on Stephen’s forearm.

“You’re terrible at this, Tony.”

Tony scowled at him. “You’re the one who refused to go to your doctor friend. Don’t complain if you won’t accept better help. And I’m not that bad, y’know. I stitch myself up all the time.”

Stephen hummed, giving a considering look to the stitch Tony had given him on the gash on his stomach. “You stitches are.. adequate.”

Tony muttered something unintelligible, undoing some of the bandage to wrap it better.

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“I was saying thank you, the great Doctor Strange, for bestowing me with such a high praise!”

Stephen rolled his eyes.

Tony’s second try at wrapping the bandage wasn’t all that better than his first try. Before he had finished, Stephen reached out with his free hand and placed it on top of Tony’s. Tony looked up at him with inquisitive eyes.

“Let me show you.”

Stephen took the bandage in his hand and unraveled it from his arm. His hand shook, but Tony’s hands was there, firm and strong, giving him stability. Stephen led the movement, wrapping the bandage as best as he could, and Tony helped him through it, until his wound was covered all nice and perfectly.

Tony exhaled a quiet sigh, tracing his hand down Stephen’s arm, from the bandage to the scars on his fingers. “You should let me make you a suit already,” he muttered a little discontently.

“No, Tony. I’m fine as I am.”

Tony’s expression said that he strongly disagreed with Stephen, but didn’t argue further. He huffed, picking up all the medical supplies to arrange them back inside the box. “Let’s put on a movie. Wong will be dropping us your favorite steamed buns from Kamar-Taj.”

“They’re called momos.”

Tony moved towards the bathroom with the medical box in his hand, waving a hand flippantly. “Po-tay-to, to-may-to.”

“Those aren’t even the same thing!” Stephen called out after Tony just as the latter disappeared through the bathroom door.

Later, they were stretched out together on the couch, Sherlock streaming on TV. Empty food containers were spread over the table. Stephen lay on top of Tony, his head resting on Tony’s chest, the Cloak draped over both of their bodies.

The TV was muted. Neither of them were actually watching the show anymore. Tony was talking about everything and nothing, and Stephen was content to just lay there and listen to his voice, feel the heartbeat and the pleasant rumble in his chest where Stephen was pressed against him, feel the sensation of Tony playing with his hair every now and then, or combing calloused fingers through his hair.

It was nice. It was warm, safe, and tender. The best thing he could’ve possibly received after the long day he’d had in the Draekhar Dimension.

Sleep only came naturally to him.

[delusionalwings]

― synopsis -> your boyfriend sully (satan) takes you to his house to introduce you to his family

― characters -> demon brothers. satan in lead

― gender neutral reader

― scenario

― warnings -> yandere content, using magic on you that makes you unable to move, a character tries to choke you, scaring you, mentions of satan being a toxic boyfriend

― a/n -> hi i am alive. was busy with semester end exams. after sleeping for a few days and relaxing in general, i have regained my motivation to write again :")

You truly didn’t know what to expect when your boyfriend Sully told you that he wanted you to meet his family. You would be lying if you said that you weren’t partly excited about it. Was it not a way of saying that he was serious about you and about what you two had?

When the door to the House of Lamentation creaked open, you shuddered. The place seemed so cold and ruthless, so devoid of humanity that you hesitated before taking the first step inside. It was probably just your imagination. After all, seven grown up working adults could hardly maintain such a large house without help and give it homely feel at the same time too. You reasoned that it was asking for a lot.

When Sully extended his hand with a soft smile, you relaxed and decided to cut his family some slack. You wanted these people to like you so you might as well start by liking them first. Give what you expect back, right?

You smiled and decided to be pleasant as he guided you to the living room.

“Make yourself at home there, [Name],” said Sully, pointing at a comfortable chair. “I will go and find my brothers. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in an instant.”

He kissed you and turned to leave.

You fidgeted uneasily, “Okay... Just... please be quick.”

When he was gone, you looked around nervously. Goosebumps erupted on your skin as the feeling of being watched and assessed washed over you. What was this cold fear that made you immobile?

“You smell nice. I wonder what you taste like,” a voice said from the shadows.

A scream escaped your lips and you were on your feet in an instant.

“Wh-Who? Who’s there?”

“Beel hon, shhh. You are scaring the cute little thing,” another voice chirped. It was a melodious voice but you didn’t notice that under the given circumstances.

You were looking at every direction, trying to discern the source of danger.

“Oiii would ya shuddup?! I am tryna see if the human has anything valuable and with them moving around cause of your chit chat, it’s difficult to notice.”

You realised that you were fixed to the spot. Your throat felt constricted with panic.

Another voice sighed.

“It’s just like Mammon to do what he tells others not to. Now you are the one scaring them, you idiot.”

“Levi, would ya shuddup?!”

Bickering ensued. What was taking Sully so long?

Were they perhaps playing a prank on you? Dear Sully would make an appearance at any time now and tell you that he was just pulling your leg. Right? Somehow you highly doubted that. There was something off about the guy. He was mostly distant but every time you showed signs of questioning the relationship, he would become extremely doting. The timing could not be a coincidence since it happened too frequently for that. He was a grave sort of man and usually used his wit to make you feel like an idiot. When you tried to communicate, he listened and replied as if you were a child who understood nothing. You could see him humiliating you but not in that manner – not when he could make you feel worthless rather than get a mere jumpscare out of you.

You wanted to be anywhere but there. Maybe you should have broken up with that guy long ago. Maybe this wasn’t the sign you so desperately needed to eb together with this guy who made you feel terrible about yourself. Maybe...

“Can you stop thinking so loudly? I am trying to sleep here zzzz”

If you could move, you would have fallen on your butt right then. That voice... It sounded so near you, almost within reach yet your eyes registered no human form.

“Hehe worried that you can’t see me? Lucifer said that it might be more amusing to do it this way. By hiding ourselves, you know? I didn’t do this because he suggested it though. I was always planning to toy with you to see your expression. Hehe can’t say I am not enjoying myself. Satan was right. You really are clueless.”

All at once, you found your voice again. It was like a dam had broken inside and you needed to get it all out.

“Sully? SULLY?! ARE YOU THERE? Are you...” you choked on the words, “Plea... Please SULLY! Please come back-”

On feeling cold hands wrap around your throat, you started gasping for air.

“Shut up, human. Didn’t I tell you that I was trying to sleep?”

“Belphie leave them,” an authoritative voice snarled.

“I don’t take orders from you, Lucifer,” the voice retorted but you felt the presence receding in the darkness again.

Fatigue made you stumble but warm hands caught you before an unfortunate fall on the floor.

“[Name],” a familiar voice murmured. “What happened?”

“Sully!” you felt the corners of your eyes prick. You were saved!

“I am so glad you are finally here,” you wrapped your arms around his neck and cried to your heart’s content. You were finally safe! No, there was no time to be lost. You must get away from that haunted place as soon as possible.

“Sully let us leave this place at once. It’s not... It’s possessed!”

He pulled you away from him gently to stare at you with concern, “What do you mean, [Name]? This is my house. It’s safe.”

“But there’s...” you turned around to point at the origin of the voice that had answered you with infinite hate. However, the darkness was gone and you saw a cold room in its wake. This was not the same room he had left you in.

It just didn’t make sense.

The words got caught in your throat and you scanned the room, dumbfounded.

He sighed and squeezed your arms, “I understand. You are nervous. Don’t worry. It will be fine. My brothers will love you. Okay?”

He did not understand. You needed to make him see.

“But...”

The sound of footsteps cut you short. A smile appeared on his lips as he tugged at your hand.

“Come. I will introduce you.”

Six figures appeared before you and suddenly the chilling fear from a few moments ago was back.

On hearing the brothers greet you, your heart started pounding quickly.

Those voices... There was no mistaking it. You had heard their voices in the dark.

The one who made you especially anxious was the youngest brother Belphegor who you found sleeping on the couch.

How long had he been there?

[madame-mongoose]

Hi, I'm sorry.

This is short, but I'm not sure the long version is ok for tumblr.

I regret nothing, and if you see any error, no, you don't.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don't exactly know how you got in this situation but still, here you were.

You went through many chambers in the span of a few days and ran around doing whatever they told you to, indulging in their little tests and what not, you weren't entirely sure on why you kept going in the first place; the thought of it just being entertainment for them crossed your mind more than a few times and you were tired.

You found yourself talking with the AIs in the facility quiet often, particularly enjoying a specific one with a very fast talk and some bad humor, but still, it was better than nothing.

At first you thought that he could have been dangerous, lethal, not letting you on on it's real intentions. Later, you came to the realization that maybe he was just a dork.

A dangerous, sometimes funny, dork.

But one nonetheless.

The more you spoke, or rather, he spoke... you mostly listened, his rambling could go on for hours at times; the more you grew fond of him.

It was nice having him around, even for just some snarky comments.

And now here you were, with less clothes than what you originally started with, your face completely flushed and his hands roaming freely on your back, sometimes reaching to your sides and squishing your soft flesh as he nuzzled his spherical head in the gape of your neck, mumbling sweet nothings.

This was supposed to be a chamber just like the many you just went through, a little puzzle, door, and another chamber.

But Wheatley said you deserved a prize for the good job you have done so far; he told you he had a surprise for you.

You were curious, but he didn't tell you what it was, no matter how many times you asked.

And now it was right in front of you- or rather, under you, as you sat on his new humanoid shaped body' lap.

His hands caressed and touched every inch of flesh on your torso, traveling under your shirt and undoing you more and more.

His shape was bulky, smooth, a bit rushed, but still very pleasant and warm.

He had told you you deserved to have something special, a little incentive perhaps, but by the sounds that escaped his speaker and the loud whirring of his fans, you could tell he was enjoined himself just as much.

The claws in his hands dragged on your back, your sides, your thighs, going up and down in slow motions as he pressed what could be considered his face on your chest in a desperate attempt to be as close to you as possible.

You could feel the electricity running on his wires between your fingers as you played with them, twisting and lightly pulling on them. The way the robot squirmed and whimpered, pressing himself against you, impossibly tight let you know you were doing a good job.

His hands found rest on your hips as he squeezed them between his big and strong fingers, pressing you down and pining you in place.

His voice giving you sweet praises was making your stomach twist with delight as you tried to move your hips despite his firm hold on you, looking for something more, desperate for some kind of friction.

You pulled on the wiring behind his head and got a staticly little cry of undeniable pleasure as he jerked your body towards himself.

His hands stayed on your hips, while his thumbs circled your inner thighs and his face pressed on your soft chest.

You didn't know for how much longer you could take it, but there was nothing much you could do.

He loved it.

The way your body reacted, the way you panted and squirmed, trying to get more.

Your soft flesh, your quiet moans, the way your eyes begged for more, more, more... MORE.

You will wait.

You are being so nice to him; so generous.

You deserve a prize, and you will surely have it.

But the night is young and Wheatley doesn't want it to end just yet.

He will show you what he can do with his new body, but you'll have to wait.

You don't know how much longer you can go, but something you know for sure...

You're in for a long night.

WIDUIWHDJSHSJA AAAA????? ?!!?!?!!!? I UHM.

OOOOOH MY GOD ANON. I. I NEED TO GO LIE DOWN boooohhh my go d i think i hauve covidnim running a fever oofough my god jesus christ

[blithesrps]

Act II Scene I

“God, this is miserable. Wake me up when it’s over.”

Leona slumped in his chair, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the ornately papered wall, only to jerk upright with a grunt as Ruggie shoved his elbow into his side.

“Oh, no you don’t. This is your shindig, ain’t it?” he hissed, ignoring Leona’s scowl, “Jeez, all you gotta do is smile and dance a little and you’re set for life, and you can’t even manage…”

“I don’t see you rushing onto the dance floor,” Leona snorted, grudgingly sitting upright and gazing out over the room.

To be fair, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It was kind of interesting having classmates from NRC at his home in the Sunset Savanna. It was under the guise of some sort of cultural exchange summer program, visiting the homelands of every housewarden to gain exposure or build character or some bullshit. Leona hadn’t minded showing some of his less-irritating classmates around. It was almost pleasant, when Falena wasn’t butting his nose where it didn’t belong.

He glanced at Ruggie, who hadn’t answered his last verbal barb, but the boy’s gaze had found Ara again in the crowd. Leona rolled his eyes, trying to hide a smirk. It was a bit amusing seeing Ruggie so smitten and unsure what to do about it. Leona had to admit, it had been nice having Ara around more often. Of the three of them, she was the only one who kept to the dance floor that evening, swapping partners as they requested and adapting easily to the different steps.

“What was the point of this dance anyway?” Ruggie mumbled under his breath, finally tearing his eyes away from Ara and turning them to the nearby buffet table. He’d gone through twice already but he planned on at least a third before he swapped to filling his pockets.

“Who knows. Some diplomatic bullshit, I’m sure.” Leona waved over a servant working at the edges of the crowd and stole one of the glasses from his tray, “Falena said something about visitors from across the sea.”

“Very specific.”

“What? You think I actually listen when Falena opens his big mouth?”

Ruggie snickered, before seeing an approaching figure and making his escape for the buffet table. Leona watched him shove off with mild amusement, ignorant to the danger approaching.

“There you are. Are you truly satisfied putting on this pathetic of a show this evening?”

“Hey, you,” Leona called to the retreating servant again, “Find me something sharp. Maybe if it drive it into my ears I can drown out his voice.”

“Very charming,” Vil replied dryly, hands on hips elegantly draped in an evening gown, “You have a duty you know. It wouldn’t kill you to rub elbows. Who knows, you may even find you enjoy it.”

“I’ll tell you what I’d enjoy: a lobotomy.”

Vil reached out and pinched the fat of Leona’s arm. He yelped and moved to swat him but Vil had already daintily stepped out of range.

“Very well, sit here and look miserable, see if I care,” he said loftily, “It’s just a shame when Ara is meeting so many new and interesting people…”

“The hell do I care what sort of people she meets?” Leona growled, but Vil didn’t answer, giving Ruggie a nod as the other boy returned with a full plate and a roll in his mouth and Vil floated back onto the dancefloor. Bastard.

“What was that about?” Ruggie asked, grinning at the look on Leona’s face. He laughed again, “You look like you swallowed a grub.”

Leona opened his mouth to snarl back, but stopped suddenly. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and his ears gave a flick, pressing back against his skull.

“Somethings wrong,” he hissed, eyes narrowing. Ruggie froze mid-bite, eyes shifting from face to face in the crowd as he tried to seek out what had Leona’s pelt ruffled. Something was happening at the front of the room, but they were too far away to hear. There was a sudden burst of applause that made him start, nearly jolting his plate from his lap.

Leona stood, lifting his chin to see over the shorter members of the crowd. He could just make out some sort of tall gentleman, with a trim grey beard and shaved head. At his side, a smaller figure, with long blond hair that hung straight over their shoulders.

Turning to try and skirt his way around the edges of the crowd, Leona nearly knocked into a new figure that had slipped silently to his side.

“Damn the gods, Rat!” he hissed to the younger boy, “I swear if Ara doesn’t put a bell around your neck…” He trailed off, sensing a change in the quiet boy that Ara had brought back from the Hive. Normally Rat would have shrunken under Leona’s irritation, muttering apologizes and wilting into the background as quickly as he could. Now though he was silent, amber eyes piercing as he took Leona’s scolding. He looked almost formidable, were it not for his pale pallor and the shaking of his fingers by his side.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Leona demanded, pulling the boy closer by the arm. Ruggie pressed in by his shoulder, listening even while he kept an eye out.

“Thorn,” Rat whispered.

“A thorn? What, you got pricked in the garden?” Leona said with growing frustration, giving the boy a shake. Rat didn’t react: his duty was to protect Ara’s pack and that was what he was doing.

Leona became aware that the music had started again, and for some reason that bothered him. Could no one else feeling the sense of wrongness? Did no one else sense some sort of danger in the wings? He swore again under his breath and returned to his mission of shoving his way to the front of the room.

“Go find Jack and bring him to me,” he ordered Ruggie.

“No, stay here,” Rat interjected, words firm enough to master his stutter. Leona and Ruggie stopped and stared at him. Rat’s face turned red but he did not retract his order.

“…are you drunk?” Leona asked, bewildered that the boy who had the piss scared out of him by his own shadow had dared to not only give an order, but one that directly refuted his own.

Rat opened his mouth to respond, but something distracted him and he snapped his jaw shut, eyes dilating with fear. Leona could smell it coming off him in waves, and he whipped his head around ready to face the terror.

Instead he saw only Ara. Ara and a stranger. The Queen was dancing with the diplomat, a few other somebodies following their lead. But Leona was sure that what had scared Rat was right in front of him, and somehow…

He understood.

The man looked like he wanted to eat her, with eyes that reminded Leona of a leopard who knew it had encroached on a pride’s territory. The two didn’t seem to be speaking, their dance measured and slow. Leona could see the muscles in Ara’s back flex each time the stranger drew her close. She was no longer smiling, her grey eyes locked on the stranger’s green as they slowly circled one another in accordance with the dance. It was as though neither dared look away and give the other a chance to strike.

“Who is that?” Ruggie asked, his own hackles rising, even if he didn’t understand fully why. Sure he wanted to be the one dancing with Ara (not a chance, he had no clue what these damn fancy steps were), but none of the other guys had bothered him like this.

“Thorn,” Rat murmured again. He watched as Thorn dipped Ara, the girl letting her head fall back, exposing her neck. Rat saw it was a Hivechild insult, a ‘you couldn’t slit my throat if you wanted to’, and Thorn knew it to, his grin widening even as his jaw clenched. His hands grew more demanding, moving her more quickly and squeezing her flesh meanly, pushing the edge of what was socially acceptable. He spun her, and leaned to murmur something in her ear, and this time Leona could see her face.

He did not like what he saw.

He was on the dance floor in four strides, breaking the hypnotic connection Ara and this Thorn had fallen into.

“Nice moves. It’d be a shame to keep them all to one girl, yeah?” he said, forcing a sharp grin on his face. He slid a hand down Ara’s arm, smoothly freeing it from Thorn’s grasp and pulling her from his hold. Leona got only a glimpse of a look of disgust on the man’s face, like Leona was nothing but a worm begging a hawk for the time, but it was quickly covered up by a mask of deference.

“Of course, your Highness,” he murmured, voice lower than Leona would have expected, “It is an honor to concede my dance to the prince. Or, no, forgive. A prince.” He straightened again smiling, giving Ara one last unreadable glance before turning to melt back into the crowd.

“Leona…my hand…”

Leona barely heard Ara’s whisper, immediately relaxing the crushing grip he had unknowingly inflicted on her hand. He pulled her to him, cupping her waist and glancing to find what step of the dance they were on before guiding her into movement. For a long moment neither spoke.

“Rat?” she finally asked softly.

“With Ruggie,” he responded in the same tone. He felt her relax slightly, though every muscle in her body still seemed ready to be attacked at any moment. Leona spun her, feeling a brief moment of regret that this was the circumstances under which they were dancing. It wasn’t half bad, to be honest.

“What’s his problem?” he mumbled into Ara’s ear.

“…long story,” she replied.

Somehow, Leona felt that might have been an understatement.

[baki-tiene-un-simp]

Hiii💕💕💕 I wanted to make a request for mumon with an s/o that owns a litlle shop similar to kozue's father and she works there and feeds mumon and makes sure he is allways fed

Situation: Mumon with an S/O who owns a ramen shop / Mumon con un S/O que tiene una tienda de ramen.

Mumon Katsuragi.

Mumon was magnetically attracted to the S/O's ramen stand ever since he saw it in a park. The yellow lights over the bar, the five unoccupied seats for him to choose from, the reddish flags that covered part of the S/O's face while cooking, the aroma that wafted through and made his stomach growl.

A fleeting thought made Mumon laugh nostalgically, “Are all ramen restaurants in places as desolate as this?”

His thoughts overwhelmed him for a few seconds, a strong feeling of nostalgia and sadness crawled up his throat, almost taking the wind out of him. The surroundings became fuzzy and dark, consuming him.

“Hey!”, the unknown voice disconnected him from his sadness, enveloping him in curiosity so that he would look for the origin, “This way, boy.”

Maybe they were his eyes used to wandering through the darkness of the night, but he felt blinded by the brightness of the person who was watching him with their hands on their waist. That slight calm expression and firm posture of theirs brought a different mental image to him. He took a deep breath because of that.

“You look very thin,” their observation was a confusing comment for Mumon, he even observed himself to understand the words he heard.

“What?” His confused expression produced a laugh from the other person.

“Are you hungry?” They didn't give him an answer or explanation for their previous comment, they just called him to come over, “Have a seat and I'll prepare something for you to eat.”

“I'm sorry,” Mumon shook his head, rejecting their proposal, “I don't have any money with me.”

“It's not what I asked,” Mumon's face reflected his surprise after the S/O's laughter, “I'll invite you, come on, sit down.”

He wasn't really talkative for a few minutes, staying quiet as the S/O idly talked about what ingredients they have available and which ones they can add additionally to Mumon's order. He just smiled and thanked them for the kindness.

The S/O was warm to him, speaking familiarly as they cooked for Mumon, asking about him and his interests, appearing genuinely fascinated by everything Mumon could tell.

The company was pleasant and the food was incredible, at some point during the night Mumon felt a kind of déjà vu. As if an old memory had come to life. It was nice.

It was like putting a Band-Aid on an untreated wound.

The S/O asked him to come back whenever he wanted, that they would be there and that they would be happy to receive him. And Mumon took their word very seriously.

He returned three nights later, this time with money and a calm smile on his face. Those three nights became two, those two nights became one and when he realized it, Mumon went every night to see the S/O; He would pay to eat or not.

“I'm happy to see you better,” the S/O's comment left Mumon somewhat curious in the middle of his bowl of ramen.

“Um?”, he ignored the S/O's reprimand for speaking with his mouth full, “What are you trying to say to that?”

“You look happy,” Mumon looked at the S/O strangely, as if a second head was growing from their neck, “Your eyes don't shine with sadness like the first time you saw my ramen stand.”

The boy blinked perplexed by their words, remembering the bitter feeling he had on that occasion, feeling a little distant now. Maybe less sad.

“I was very worried that time,” the S/O admitted, “You seemed to be lost in great sadness, even when you smiled the first time that time, I noticed it. There was something that made you sad."

“Aren't I good at hiding my feelings?” Mumon took that as a joke.

“Sadness is hard to hide,” he hummed at the S/O's statements, “It escapes through your eyes and through your skin, and the harder you try to hide it, the more it shows.”

Mumon listened silently after noticing that his plate was already empty, he stood there for a few seconds before looking up and meeting the S/O's calm smile. It was a good comfort, he was sure.

“I think you're right,” he admitted with a small sigh.

Then, Mumon heard the S/O continue talking, being kind and doing what they loved. An insistent thought kept rolling through his head because of that.

“Are all Ramen restaurant owners this nice?”

Versión en español

Mumon Katsuragi.

Mumon se sintió magnéticamente atraído por el puesto de ramen del S/O desde que la vio en un parque. Las luces amarillas sobre la barra, los cinco asientos desocupados para que pudiera escoger, las banderas rojizas que cubrían parte del rostro del S/O al cocinar, el aroma que flotaba y que le hacía rugir el estómago.

Un fugaz pensamiento hizo reír nostálgicamente a Mumon, “¿todos los restaurantes de ramen están en lugares tan desolados como este?”

Sus pensamientos lo abrumaron durante unos segundos, un fuerte sentimiento de nostalgia y tristeza escalo por su garganta, casi quitándole el aire. Su alrededor se volvió difuso y oscuro, consumiéndolo.

“¡Oye!”, la voz desconocida lo desconecto de su tristeza, envolviéndolo en curiosidad para que buscara el origen, “Por aquí chico”

Quizá eran sus ojos acostumbrados a vagar por la oscuridad de la noche, pero se sintió cegado por el brillo de la persona que lo observaba con las manos en la cintura. Esa ligera expresión calmada y la postura firme le trajeron una imagen mental diferente. Tomo una profunda respiración a causa de eso.

“Te ves muy delgado”, su observación fue un comentario confuso para Mumon, incluso se observó a sí mismo para comprender las palabras que escuchaba.

“¿Qué?”, su mueca confundida produjo una risa en la otra persona.

“¿Tienes hambre?”, no le dio una respuesta o explicación por su comentario anterior, solo le llamo para que se acercara, “Toma asiento y prepararé algo para que comas”

“Lo siento”, Mumon negó con la cabeza, rechazando su propuesta, “No tengo dinero conmigo”

“No es lo que pregunte”, el rostro de Mumon reflejo su sorpresa tras la risa del S/O, “Yo invito, vamos, siéntate”

Él no fue realmente hablador durante unos minutos, se quedó callado mientras el S/O hablaba distraídamente sobre los ingredientes que tiene disponibles y cuáles puede agregar adicionalmente al pedido de Mumon. Él solo sonrió y agradeció la amabilidad.

El S/O fue cálido con él, hablando con familiaridad mientras cocinaba para Mumon, preguntando por él y sus intereses, mostrándose genuinamente fascinado por cada cosa que Mumon podía contar.

La compañía fue agradable y la comida fue increíble, en algún momento de la noche Mumon sintió una especie de déjà vu. Como si un viejo recuerdo hubiera cobrado vida. Fue agradable.

Fue como poner una curita en una herida no tratada.

El S/O les pidió que volvieran cuando quisieran, que ellos estarían allí y que estarían felices de recibirlo. Y Mumon tomo sus palabras con mucha seriedad.

Regreso tres noches después, esta vez con dinero y una sonrisa tranquila en su rostro. Esas tres noches se volvieron dos, esas dos noches se volvieron una y cuando se dio cuenta, Mumon iba todos los días a ver al S/O; pagara por comer o no.

“Estoy feliz de verte mejor”, el comentario del S/O dejo a Mumon algo curioso en medio de su plato de ramen.

“Um?”, él ignoró la reprimenda del S/O por hablar con la boca llena, “¿Qué tratas de decir con eso?”

“Te ves feliz”, Mumon observo con extrañeza al S/O, como si una segunda cabeza les naciera del cuello, “Tus ojos no brillan con tristeza como la primera vez que viste mi puesto de ramen”

El muchacho parpadeo perplejo por sus palabras, recordando el amargo sentimiento que tuvo en esa ocasión, sintiéndolo un poco lejano ahora. Quizá menos triste.

“Me preocupé mucho esa vez”, el S/O admitió, “Parecías estar perdido en una gran tristeza, incluso cuando sonreíste la primera vez esa vez, lo note. Había algo que te ponía triste”

“¿Acaso no soy bueno escondiendo mis sentimientos?”, Mumon tomo eso como una broma.

“La tristeza es difícil de esconder”, él tarareó ante las afirmaciones del S/O, “Se escapa por los ojos y por la piel, y mientras más te esfuerces por esconderla, más se nota”

Mumon escucho en silencio después de notar que su plato ya estaba vacío, se quedó allí durante unos segundos antes de levantar la mirada y encontrar la sonrisa calmada del S/O. Era un buen consuelo, estaba seguro.

“Creo que tienes razón”, admitió con un pequeño suspiro.

Entonces, Mumon escucho al S/O seguir hablando, siendo amable y haciendo lo que amaba. Un insistente pensamiento seguía rodando por su cabeza debido a eso.

“¿Todos los dueños de restaurantes de Ramen son tan amables?”

[heartbeatan]

Grave - Book 2: Ribbon & Rope (Chapter 7)

Return to Chapter 6.

Return to Table of Contents.

Return to Grave Series.

Return to Yoongi Fanfictions.

Return to Masterlist.

Chapter 7

You felt spent, like you had just completed an IronMan - but it was a pleasant, near spiritual feeling. There had been a burning need that had scorched through your every fiber, and now it was gone and replaced with what felt like warm honey. You didn’t want to open your eyes yet, you just wanted to feel everything your body was going through, even the sharp, hot pulse of your skin from where the ropes had been.

You felt the bed shift beside you, and then a breath swept over your ear.

“How was that?” Yoongi whispered.

“How was what? I don’t know what the fuck just happened.”

You thought you heard him chuckle, but then you definitely felt his lips press softly over your shoulder. Fuck it was amazing how sensitive your skin was - how much the simplest of gestures made your insides squeal.

“Was that good for you too?” you breathed, although you didn’t honestly care. In ten minutes you might care, but right now all words were just formalities.

“It was fine.” His words were meant to be less than praise, but you could tell from his voice he was only trying to put you on. Regardless, you shot a hand blindly in his direction, and made contact somewhere over his ribs.

“Hey now,” he laughed, then bounced himself into a comfortable position beside you.

You rolled towards him, finding his torso in your choice blindness then draped your arm over him, resting your head over his chest.

“I hope you’re a cuddler,” you announced. “Cuz today I am.”

“Yeah,” his voice was lazy and his chest rumbled as he spoke. “It’s cool.” You felt fingers over your forehead, as he swept away some of your strands and brushed the rest over your shoulder. It was nice to be touched. Fuck, it was nice to be touched by him. You felt like you could stay like this for hours - if only the heat was forgiving enough to give you that much time.

When your post-coital haze had near subsided, you opened your eyes to find him looking down at you. He was… incredible. One arm propped his head up against the headboard while the other still danced mindlessly over where he could touch you. His hair tousled, but of course it was from sex, so it somehow only looked better. And the way he looked over you, watched you - how the edges of his usually sharp lips had relaxed, and his eyes seemed to for once find satiation. The whole image you awoke to made your heart skip a beat.

“Hi,” you smiled meekly.

“Hey.”

You felt how his chest softly pounded beneath your cheek, and listened closely to its calming thrum. It could have lulled you to sleep, but you weren’t willing to miss a single moment of this. “Your heartbeat is funny.”

He sniffed out a smile. “Your heartbeat is funny.”

“Maybe. Is it always this calm or does it race when you get excited?”

“Yeah, it does. That’s such a weird question.”

“Well, I don’t know what kinda hearts your folk have.”

“There the same as yours, just… lower BPM.”

“Cool. I’ll look up what BPM means later.”

“Ugh, Y/N,” he sighed and you grinned.

“So, what is sex with a succubus like?”

He quirked his head, a little surprised by the sudden change in subject, or that you wanted to broach the subject at all.

“You feeling insecure?”

You shrugged, “a little bit.”

“Well, don’t. I mean, yeah it’s great, but it’s different.”

You finally found the energy to move again, which was good since your arm was beginning to go numb, but you weren’t ready to abandon the feel of his skin just yet. So you shuffled awkwardly around until you could lay yourself between his thighs and over his torso. It was a rewarding move, because now he could see clearly the rounds of your breasts crushing against his body, and he made no attempt to avert his eyes when he wanted to enjoy them. It made you feel, sexy… desired.

“How is it different?”

“Well…” he paused for a thoughtful moment. “That one you saw - the one I was with - they're not allowed to fall in love. So sex is… distant I guess is the right word. They can make you feel free and uninhibited. Being with them is like… feeling empowered. But they can’t always connect with you in the ways you want.”

“You mean emotionally?”

“Yeah. That’s the best part in my opinion.”

The corner of your mouth curved upwards. “Yoongi, I think you might be a romantic just like me.”

“I know I’m a romantic,” he affirmed with not a hint of remorse.

“I had no idea,” you confessed, but by the way he held you now, touched you now, the way he spoke to you and looked at you now, it seemed so obvious. You wondered if it was a species thing… a harden exterior until you made them come and then they melted like butter. Or was he really just looking at you like that? “You Helios all have weird things when it comes to romance - what is up with that?”

He snickered. “What do you mean?”

“Well… for one, the wolves have this whole, imprinting, mating-biting thing and get super fucking horny every few months. The succubuses and incubuses… Succubi? Incubi?” You looked to him for pronunciation help but he shrugged - it was nice to know there were somethings in this world he didn’t know either. “Anyway, they are literally built for sex, but aren’t allowed to fall in love? That’s crazy. The vamps got a whole glamour thing, and then there’s the fairies… and they, what… die from broken hearts?”

“What’s so weird about that?” he shrugged as if he didn’t understand where you were coming from.

“What’s the deal with you Imps? You have any restrictions or threats?”

Yoongi’s eyes sharpened in a hard glare, then with a well-loaded loft said, “We die of a broken heart.”

“Really?” your eyebrows furrowed. “Like the fairies?”

“Imps are faes, Y/N.”

“Then why call you Imps?”

“Because we’re a subspecies of…,” he huffed. “You are actually the worst demon hunter out there. How have you made it this long?”

“Killer instincts and a good aim,” you smiled smugly.

“Ugh,” he rolled his eyes and scootched lower onto the bed, abandoning the headboard for a pillow. You shuffled with him, tangling your legs and propping yourself up on your elbow so you could look down on him and still let your fingers trace patterns over his skin. “Ignorance can be more dangerous than anything that comes from my world, you know.”

“Well, that’s why I’ve been relying on you. You keep me woke."

He laughed. You did too. His hand found yours and he began to draw soft lines up your wrist and arm, and you both fell into a contemplative silence.

“It's scary,” you said eventually. “Feeling that deeply. Knowing you can’t prevent it. Knowing it could kill you.”

“It can be,” he exhaled. “But it’s not that different from what any of us experience. Something could happen to you tomorrow that you can’t control.”

“True…” you nodded. “Maybe I should have a little more of a live-for-the-moment kinda of attitude.”

“You have that in spades, Y/N, I don’t think you of all people need a reminder to carpe diem.”

You smiled, proud of his backhanded compliment. “It must be nice, though. Loving like that. Being loved like that. I want that. You guys have it.”

“We’re not that different from humans, really. We just… govern ourselves around things like love and loss, promises, loyalty. Humans pretend they aren’t governed by those things, but they are. But you all feel just as deeply. I've seen humans die of broken hearts.. just in different ways.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “Losing a long time companion. Losing a child. It happens.”

“So when you say you can die of a broken heart, you’re not just talking about romantic love?”

He nodded. “Dying from romantic love is... rare, actually. Because the love has to be pure. Unconditional. That’s hard to find.”

“So, you can still like, sorta of fall for someone and break-up and be fine?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever been in love then?”

“No.”

“Why?”

He took a deep breath. “I'm afraid to.”

You nodded slowly in acknowledgment. “Yeah, it’s scary. Even when it won’t kill you.”

“Have you?” his eyes left the ceiling and looked up at you.

You shook your head. “No. I mean, maybe… I’ve had boyfriends and break-ups that I needed a few pints of ice cream to get through, but… I still don’t know if I’ve really been in love before.”

“If you don’t know, my guess is you haven’t.”

“You’re probably right. When you know you know."

He nodded, and you watched him fondly, wishing you could peek inside his brain. Wondering if his mind was swirling with the things yours was swirling with. Needing to know if he also had this terrifying and exciting feeling within him that felt like a heavy stone in his chest.

“Can I ask what happens?” you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Is it like… instant?”

“No. Not often. It’s more like… a virus. You get sick, and it sort of progresses. But, also, like a virus - we can actually recover.”

“Is there like medicine or something?”

He shook his head. “It’s more of a fight from within. That’s the part that kills, when one of us loses someone and then we lose the will to go on without them. We have to find the will again, before it’s too late.”

“That is one intense stage of grief.”

“Ha,” he laughed. “You could say that.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t want you to die that way.”

“You worry about me?” he snickered.

“Of course I do,” you insisted, not a hint of playfulness about your words.

Yoongi took your hand in his palm, raising it to his mouth and planting a kiss to your wrist. “Dying isn’t that scary, Y/N,” he said soothingly, “and it’s not the end. Living is more terrifying." 

“That’s deep.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“Have you seen the afterlife?”

“I've seen some of what you would call an afterlife.”

“What's it like?”

“Depends. We each move on to another plane. Each realm is different. We get to start anew there… or maybe wait for an old life to catch up… like someone you left behind.”

“Can you die in that plane?”

“Yes. Then we move onto another.”

“It’s like a multiverse,” you awed.

“I don’t know what that means, but sure.”

“Oh my God, you mean I know something you don’t know?”

“Don’t gloat.”

You smiled brightly. “Alright, well, we’ll hafta find time to watch a movie or something so you can learn cuz I sure as hell can’t explain it.”

“It's a date.”

The bed felt joyous, and light in the silence that befell it, but then you found yourself returning to the topic at hand.

“If you’re waiting for someone,” you asked, your finger now drawing the stars and the moon over his pecks, “will they show up in the same plane as you?”

“It's not guaranteed.”

“Hmm,” you sighed.

“What?”

“Well… then… it is still a kind of death. I mean… isn’t that what death is - being parted from loved ones?”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Why are you still here? If there's so many other places to go, why would you stay here for 7000 years? Aren’t you bored?”

“I haven't been here for 7000 years. I was born elsewhere.”

“Really? We remember where we've been?”

“We do. You don't. Humans don't get to cross planes either. You're reborn here."

"That seems unfair."

"Perhaps, but, you get to start fresh every time. Experience everything for the first time all over again. There’s beauty in that too. When you’ve lived as long as I have there are plenty of things you’d love to be able to forget."

"Did you leave people behind when you crossed over?”

He nodded thoughtfully “Some.”

“Is that why you’re still here? Are you waiting for them to get here?”

“No. I’m here because… I like it here,” he shrugged.

“Well if this is the best the multiverse can do, damn. The other realms must be shitholes.”

“You grow to appreciate what’s in front of you.”

“So then... what does Death do? If know one really dies?”

“Death is a human concept. To die, to not exist. To us, the concept of death is movement. Death is a ferryman. He… knows where you have to go and takes you there when it’s time.”

“So when you said one of the Deaths went AWOL, is that what you meant when you said you didn’t want to get caught up in the bureaucracy?”

“Yeah… I don’t wanna get trapped in some inbetween. The vamps get caught there each time they cross - I don’t know exactly why, just that it has something to do with their origins being human but they are no longer human. Apparently it's awful.”

“Like what kinda of awful?”

“Like… being trapped at the DMV for a year straight.”

“Ew.”

At some point during the conversation, your fingers had flattened, and now your palm was instinctively moving in wide circles over his chest, nipples, and the ridges of his ribs and abs, working away at feeling every inch of his flesh. You felt the heat begin to rise and creep its way through your veins. You were a little annoyed this time - this time of stillness and intimacy between you had been so nice, and now it was going to be corrupted.

“Is it coming again?” Yoongi asked, noticing how you were caressing more of him and how your eyes began to haze.

“I’m fine,” you choked back.

His mouth curled up in a crooked grin.

“How do you want it this time, Y/N?”

“Fuck, don’t say that - I can’t even think straight now.”

He rolled over, flattening you against the mattress with his body, raising your hands above your head and pinning them gently against the pillow. He dipped his head into the crook of your neck, and that first press of his lips on your collar sent a shock through your system. There was no way you could stave off the heat for more than a minute now.

“You wanna do it over the couch since you already ruined it?” he snided. “Or maybe over a cleanable surface like the counter again?”

“The couch is your fault, remember? I was absolved of responsibility.”

“Mm-hm, that’s right,” he rumbled into your ear. “It’s my fault I made you so wet.” Your whole spine shivered. You bit your lip to prevent an embarrassing moan. You hated how much control this curse stole from you, but at the same time, it was thrilling to surrender yourself to him.

“I wanna do it right here,” you said, trying hard to keep your voice level. “Is that okay?”

“Of course, baby,” he whispered against the skin below your jaw, and him calling you “baby” was enough of a spark that your back arched from the mattress and into him. Your hips pressed into his, and you felt his cock thickening against your pussy, forcing a small noise to escape you. “I gotta say it again, it is so hot to see you like this. So fucking needy.”

“God, shut up and fuck me before I dry hump you.”

Go to Chapter 8.

[wafflebloggies]

8. familiar spirits

back - next Mark had managed to get a surprisingly long way, considering. Antonio tracked him down without difficulty, starting from the empty cell like the good bloodhound he was, picking up and following the staggering trail of footprints in the dust. He could have guessed that Mark wasn’t having a particularly easy time of it even if he hadn’t seen him on the screen, just going from the wonky meandering of the prints. There were places where they slipped, blurred, and turned into a dragging line, places where the floor buckled and became ripped up and impassable or fell away altogether and the trail turned, driven from the straight path down some dark hairpin corner. Antonio guessed that some of these wild changes of direction were deliberate, an attempt to throw off pursuit. If Mark had been awake enough to play dead, so to speak, he was certainly awake enough to try to hide.

Maybe, but it would be a chilly day in hell before Mark could hide from Antonio. Rounding a turn in a long twisting hallway where the grey walls were blotched with outbreaks of weird clammy verdigris, yellow and blue, Antonio spotted the slow shadow feeling its way forwards and jogged to catch up.

“Mark! Wow, you got me good back there. We should get you an Oscar, because that was quite the performance! I actually thought you’d checked out… hey, quick question, where do you think you’re going?”

He felt he’d couched the query nicely in friendly banter, but Mark didn’t seem to think so. At the sound of Antonio’s voice, he lurched so violently that he almost fell- which he looked to have done multiple times already judging from the state of his palms and his knees- but kept right on going without a sound. Pipes ran in a tangle along the wall, bursting from the splotchy plaster like roots clustering from under the surface, and Mark gripped them like a desperate koala, guiding himself hand-over-hand.

“Cool,” said Antonio, after an appropriate pause, “we’re going with the non-answer thing, awesome… You know, this isn’t the greatest place for you to be wandering around? It’s not exactly Coral Drive-”

“Fuck you,” croaked Mark. His hold slipped on the slimy pipes and he nearly fell again. He caught himself, heaved a few hectic breaths, then found the wall again with his hands and staggered another few yards.

Antonio, keeping pace at an easy amble, shoofed Mark’s backpack off his shoulder and pulled out the Tupperware. “Hey, hey, look, Mrs. Hernandez made these for us. She said- listen to this, Mark- she said that nothing makes-”

Mark slapped at the Tupperware as it got too close, knocking it out of Antonio’s hands. It rolled away into the dark, a bright cheery circle of orange bumping over the mouldy tiles.

“Hey, now-”

“What do you want? What do you want?” Mark hauled himself up, nothing but wild eyes under a curtain of dirty hair and bared teeth that clenched and chattered even as he tried to speak, shaking in every nerve. His knuckles were raw and bleeding, a tired rusty-brown color, like old brake fluid. “What else- what else- could you possibly want out of me?!”

“Really, I just want to talk-”

As Antonio reached out. Mark lurched back and slipped, hitting the wall hard with his shoulders, driving the breath out of himself in a sharp gasp and buckling at the knees. He started to cough, breathlessly, sliding down the wall.

“Oh, boy. Okay, so, I know this is kind of out of left field,” said Antonio, in his best Reasonable voice, pleasant and concerned, over the noise of Mark struggling for air. “I get that, really I do. Honestly, it’s weird for me, too, but just hear me out, okay? Hey- look, I wasn’t kidding, I brought cookies-”

“Fuck you,” Mark yelled, or tried to, hampered by the fact that he’d effectively winded himself and could only get out about half a sentence at a time. “What, are you- going to force me to eat that shit like- that fucking soup? You think-”

“Just breathe, Mark, try to hold it-”

“-you think I- give a shit any more? About anything else- you could do to me?”

Antonio rubbed his nose, knuckled his forehead for a moment, let out a patient little sigh. Turn the topic whatever way he might, there really wasn’t any nice way to say this.

“Okay, Mark? Reality check. If you stay out here too long, something’s probably going to kill you.”

“GOOD,” screamed Mark.

It was a singular scream, all of the violence and volume of it compacted and crushed down into a force that escaped him in one furious wrench, throttled and wadded up like a fist. He curled over with the effort of it, and started to cough again, this time a harsh, deep noise that had liquid in it.

Antonio stood quietly and watched him, watched him cough and hack into his hands and eventually spit a mouthful of stuff that was partly black and partly the colour of melted Tootsie rolls, watched him choke and gasp and wipe his face and slowly, finally, resume his arduous journey down the hallway.

He watched, for the most part, because he didn’t know what else to do. He felt the exact opposite of how the new Mark had looked on the camera feed; lost, waiting for nothing, without a script or a single idea what to do or what was supposed to happen next. And all the while, the familiar feeling of Mark-being-Difficult was poking him, needling him, biting pushy little holes in his self-control, telling him that it didn’t matter if Mark wanted to listen to him, that it didn’t matter what Mark wanted at all because Antonio was the one in control, bigger, quicker, stronger.

And he could control this situation. A thing made to control, meant to wrangle and herd and manage, he felt his purpose yanking him, pushing him from inside, itching, gnawing at him to act. Strange, then, that he felt this helpless, keenly aware for the first time that he had no leverage now, not where it counted. That the thing that was Mark, the frail light that lived in the sickened and compromised shell that was still working its way with mortal difficulty along the wall away from him, could refuse to listen and refuse to do what Antonio wanted, whether it was for his own good or not, right up to the point that…

Mark turned the corner, stumbled out of sight.

Antonio looked around for the Tupperware, spotted it several yards back the way he’d come, a bright little shape rolled all the way into a corner. He walked back for it, slowly, scooped it up out of the dirt. It was weirdly hard to think, to feel his way through the agitated snarl of loose ends in his head.

Everything he’d done- everything- he’d known it was right and good and okay because it was what the Muse wanted, what Mother wanted. By the rules of such a simple metric, everything was wonderfully clear, and no greater reason had ever existed in Antonio’s universe. Beyond, everything was murky and senseless, a great unknown, a place where he was blind.

He closed his human eyes, and opened his real ones just a tiny fraction of the way, let in the brilliant glow all around him, the warmth and the light. He let it in until it started to hurt and then stopped, waiting, wanting the reassurance, the end of all struggle and debate, the calm state of grace that had always been waiting whenever he’d wanted it, needed it. It wasn’t there. Like a missing note that threw out the whole orchestra, like a colour out of place or the shards of a broken china horse, something grated and jarred and left him wanting, unsatisfied, with his insides twisting in discomfort, listening to the screaming.

It was getting pretty loud.

Antonio blinked- both sets of eyes- came out of himself with a shake- and realised that the screaming was an actual, real-world noise that wasn’t going away. It was coming from down the hallway, echoey and frantic, and it sounded a lot like Mark.

–

Marble eyes glowed, white in the dark.

The dogs paced slowly down the hall. They were getting bored with this chase, this peculiar prey that couldn’t even run from them properly. Hungry drool strung and spattered on the tiles between things full of claws that were not paws, quiet rising growls and short snaps from things full of teeth that were not faces. The first of them was a thing with far too many eyes and a long clublike snout, a packed circular saw of a mouth in the wrong place and a dark dripping void yawning underneath in the fold of its long neck, packed with tight quick-twitching joints like a crab. It didn’t hurry, as the others closed in around it, following its lead. It seemed to sense it didn’t have to.

Mark fell hard, rolled, scrabbled backwards on his elbows and heels, away from the slow gritty click of advancing claws. He twisted and tried to stand, made it halfway to his feet before a thing with one identifiable eye the size of a fist and a quantity of wet oil-black fur gave a short butting leap and knocked him down, snapping at him with serrated teeth. He screamed and kicked at it, and a third pounced in and seized his leg, worried it like a rat. It seemed to enjoy his frantic efforts to shake it off, the novelty of a chew-toy that fought back.

The first dog crouched. It ground out a low, venomous snarl that rose in a gauzy film of hot stinking breath and rumbled from both mouths, with a writhing contraction of the sinew in its too-long face as ripples of wadded flesh drew back from its teeth, a nightmare of yellow and black and liverish grey. The half-a-dozen indistinct things it had instead of legs bunched, readying for a spring.

It leapt, and Mark let out a final terrified scream and shielded his face with his arms, and Antonio skidded around the corner and ploughed headlong into the pack like they were ninepins set up for a perfect strike, sending them scattering, meeting the first dog right at the top of its spring in a vicious underarm blow that cartwheeled it in the air with a single shocked yip.

“Bad doggos,” said Antonio. His voice was steel-cold and deadly as he pointed a firm finger at the startled pack. “No. Not for you.”

The dogs halted, unsure of this new development. Little white points of fire blinked in the shadows, barks and yelps and weirder, far less canine sounds of resentment and hunger ran through the pack as the first dog struggled up and growled with both of its throats and all of its teeth, fixing Antonio with several unfriendly eyes.

With one eye on the circling dogs, Antonio unzipped the backpack and ferreted inside until he found Mark’s glasses. He passed them back to Mark, who flinched from them before he realised what they were, snatched them and fumbled them onto his face. He looked past Antonio’s legs, got his first clear and properly-focused view of the dogs in all of their horrendous detail, and screamed again.

As if the noise was an invitation, the dog that had knocked Mark down made a sharp feint, skittered past Antonio as he grabbed for it, and lunged for Mark’s throat. Antonio snatched it back by the scruff of the neck and tossed it into the wall with enough force to send a rain of plaster flurrying down in a fine grey mist, and as it crumpled he caught the first dog in the act of leaping again. Balling a fist as he swung, he hit it with his entire strength, punched it dead in the middle of the thing it had instead of a snout, right in the gaping cluster of shark-teeth between the two biggest clumps of eyes.

The thing’s head exploded with a cracking squelch, popping like a rotten melon slammed in a door. An arterial gout of black goop sprayed out in a wide crime-scene splatter, a trajectory that included Antonio’s arm, his shoulder, Mark’s face, the wall behind them. As the dog’s twitching body collapsed Antonio turned on the rest of the pack and snarled with every single one of his real teeth, inky clots of the first dog’s face sliding stickily from his hand as he held it up in a clear warning.

“Hey! I said, NO.”

The rest of the dogs fell back. Robbed of their leader, and facing an unexpected obstacle with a left hook like a sledgehammer and more sharp canines than even they had possibly ever seen, the general feeling was that this game suddenly didn’t seem all that fun, or quite so much like an easy lunch. The one with a single oversized eye made a half-hearted dodge at Antonio’s feet, only to scuffle away as he started walking forwards, closing the distance rapidly with an even, unstoppable menace in every step. It was the first to break, to turn and lope off, and the others rapidly lost their nerve and scurried after it with an assortment of thwarted snaps and whines.

When he was completely sure the pack was gone, Antonio turned, letting out a deep, frazzled sigh of relief he hadn’t even been aware he was holding. Mark was sitting up, more or less, breathing like he’d just run a sixty-meter sprint, leaning against the wall for support as he spat and wiped goop from his face.

Antonio sat down next to him. After a pause, there was a rustle as he felt in Mark’s backpack, a plasticky punk and a waft of sweet cinnamon-sugary air as he popped the top of the Tupperware. He held out the container, shook it a little, invitingly.

Without looking at him- without really looking at anything- Mark took a cookie, bit into it numbly.

Antonio selected a cookie for himself, looked at it thoughtfully. There were deep grooves in his wrist and arm from the dog’s teeth, which crept together and closed slowly as he watched, the healing patches turning from glistening black to fresh new pink.

“I think this is all getting just a tiny smidgen of a bit out of hand,” he said.

Mark, who had stopped chewing, swallowed with some difficulty.

“I think I just lost a tooth,” he said, thickly.

A short silence.

“Oh, Mark,” sighed Antonio, gently. “You really are just kinda going through it, huh?”

Mark stared at him in complete astonishment, then dropped his head back against the wall with a thunk and started to laugh. It was an exhausted sound and it didn’t last very long, shifting fairly quickly into something else that definitely was not laughter.

He buried his head in his hands, and for a while the only sounds were his dry, half-hysterical weeping, and the polite scrunching noises of Antonio trying to eat a cookie as quietly as possible.

[thetaylorfiles]

Does your friend want to trade husbands? Mine is useless TS connection wise lmao You're winning the six degrees of separation game! Although you did have a friend who went on a date with Taylor years ago right? It's just a matter of time now before you run into her at a party or something. Girl, I'm here manifesting that for you!

This post is brought to you by my first dose of Concerta. I was recently-ish diagnosed (by a doctor) that I have HDHD. I tried another one that didn’t work and now I’m trying this. Today is my first day and, I must state that I had an espresso when I normally don’t, but I’m in the mood to organize, so things, and my mind feels clearer. It’s got to be placebo affect or the coffee but I’ll take it! Anyway this’ll be far too long I’m sure. (Oh hey, now you get why I’m so obsessed with t swift! Kaylor began as a special interest and thankfully, by the time I stopped believing, I was hooked on her music and personality. Oh my god what was my point? Okay, clearly adhd not cured! 😂 um it’s long? Don’t read if you don’t want?

——-

Answer:

Yes, but that doesn’t count as an actual TS encounter. And now that I’m Very Old, if I attempt to make that happen via any connections, it would be to get my daughter anything personal or signed from her or just anything as long as it focused on her.

I introduced her to Taylor slowly over the years. And now she’s obsessed. But in a 10 year old way. She doesn’t know much if folklore or evermore unless it’s exile because Mom was so fucking obsessed with it she had no choice to listen and assume I’m right that it’s best ever. She knows that hits and the deep cuts I make her listen to.

My love language is giving gifts. I hate getting them unless I’m so comfortable I’m married to you or you’re my child and you’ve written something. Ha. So I give her tons of makeup and what not. But I found my 4 lover books with the diary entries and the posters and left them out. She sheepishly inquired if she could look at them all…? I said, “they’re yours.”

There was a point. Oh, don’t forget the perimenopause. And the cannabis. That really contributes to being forgetful. Why am I writing so much?!?

Oh!!! Yeah, I was close friends with a guy that was a working actor and still is. He’s not recognizable by name unless you know actors really well. He’s a character actor that books all sorts of series and guest spots but always as a friend. He’s super hot. Well he was back in his 20s. He told us that he was daring her. We made fun of him (She wasn’t cool the ), but more just to annoy HIM. He wasn’t super super smart but he was so sweet but still had that bad boy swagger. You know? He was like a brother to me but I get whey women hit on him.

So back in early twenties he dates her for … I wanna say a few months. She didn’t live here on LA at the time as far as I knew but came out often. Maybe she had another house? Anyway, they were more friends who were attracted to one another who met up when both were in town. Only one of our group met her, his best friend. All we heard was that she was nice and far from a boring good southern girl. That she seemed like a city girl. Anyway, they hooked up off and on. They never went anywhere together as they weren’t together. They were each others last night call after date one and two failed to produce the necessary love spark. But they were both stupid hot.

That’s all I know. I never met her or saw pics. No wait. I did. I saw one of them together at her place wherever she stayed then. Why did I explain that? Please tell me you asked me to! I’m sorry. I’m so high and wanting to talk and like make and complete goals!! 🤣🤣🤣 k, night. Gotta watch some tv downstairs once kids have vanished. Shhh

I have a feeling I didn’t answer a single one of your questions, nor did I speak to whatever you wrote about. I apologize. If you were in person you’d love me. When I get high (vapes), it makes me so much damn more pleasant!

Oh my god. Go to sleep!! (Bethenny voice on Scary Island) I’m referring to myself by the way. K, night. Tv time.

[isthattyra]

A Night at Bonetown

AN: Vince Staples has always been fine, at least to me. I loved his character even though I’ve been rooting for Janine and Gregory. I wanted to write a little sumthing sumthing with the Maurice character.

“Oh y’all are sick” you overheard someone say loudly. Not there being drama on a Wednesday night. You were just trying to put a little something on your stomach after being on a plane for 5 hours.

Why did that voice sound so familiar to you. Turning around in your chair you see your old classmate Maurice seated at a booth with two other people. Maurice was one of your closest friends in high school. He was your best friend and the one that got away. You thought that by asking him to be your prom date, he would have kind of got the hint that you were feeling him. Maybe he thought you were better as friends or maybe he just didn’t get the hint.

Moving away after college had put somewhat of a strain in your friendship. Both of you would slide in each others DM’s every now and then, always to say happy birthday. You hadn’t seen Mo in at least 5 years so this was a pleasant surprise even though he didn’t look too happy. Being such the nosy person you were able to overhear the rest of the heated conversation. Once your heard Mo dismiss his dinner guest, you decided to make your presence known.

“I’ve never seen someone look so grumpy while eating ribs” you joked lightly. Mo looked up trying to figure out who had the audacity to interrupt his meal. Seeing his old friend/crush instantly made him feel a little better. “Well if you heard the childish conversation I just sat through, you wouldn’t be too happy either. And I asked for extra barbecue sauce on the side” “This just isn’t your night is it, first you get dumped in front of your homebody, then the waitress forgets your sauce” “ Your nosy ass never did miss a conversation you weren’t in” Mo said referring back to your high school days. Both of you remembering when you overheard a classmate talking about how he was dating 3 of your classmates at the same time and how you accidentally told those 3 classmates. After that everyone was extra careful talking loudly around you

“ See I try to be nice and try to cheer an old friend up and this is what I get” you said while slowly sliding out of the booth. “You know good and well you want some of my onion rings so you might as well sit back down” Mo said. “Dang when did you become so bossy, ole girl must have really hurt you” you said kinda regretfully watching Mo’s face drop a little.

You could tell Mo was about to say something snarky luckily the waitress came to interrupt before he could get it out. She came carrying two sauce dishes and an extra order of onion rings, and asked if you needed anything else. “Can I get a refill and she’ll have a strawberry milkshake with a glass of water and an order of buffalo wings with ranch and honey mustard” Mo uttered to the waitress, nodding as she looked to you for confirmation. You couldn’t believe he still knew your order.

“So why don’t you give me the back story about your dinner companions while I wait for the food you just ordered” you suggested.

You listened to Maurice talk about how he had met Janine through his homeboy Gregory at a club, how one of their first dates was at this restaurant,how he would bring her lunch for “MoDates”, and how he bought her a Telfar bag for Valentine’s Day.

“You think I should ask for the bag back” Mo asked even though he already knew what you would say. “You know good and well you’re not supposed to ask some to give you the gift you gave them back” you expressed

“Besides if you get it back what are you going to do with it”

“I’ll give it to my momma or I’ll use it” Mo said knowing he wouldn’t ask for the bag back. He knew that if he tried you would be the first one to stop him. He still had the “I love you MoMo” mug you had accidentally gave him that was meant for your grandmother. You had refused to take the gift back once you realized your mistake, no matter how many times he tried to give it back.

“Janine knew she was wrong for breaking up with you in front of your homeboy like that, and Gregory was wrong too for sitting there while she did it”

“That’s what I’m saying. Just sick” Mo exclaimed.

By this time your order had arrived, Mo couldn’t help but think of Janine with her ribs when he saw you eating your Buffalo wings. Maybe that’s what drew him to her, she reminded him of you. He thought of the dinner you two had after your prom night. Usually everyone eats before going to the dance but Mo had suggested you two go out to eat after. He thought you looked so beautiful and didn’t want you to mess up your makeup over the 2 for $20 at Red Lobster. By the time the dance was over, both of you were so worn out you just decided to get some wings and milkshakes and sit at the playground. You were a mess but Mo thought you were the prettiest sight he ever saw. You had sweated out your edges, had whipped cream on your chin and Mo thought it was the perfect time to ask you to be his girl. He would never get to cause it started pouring raining just as he opened his mouth.

Watching you talk with Buffalo sauce and ranch all over your face was the perfect pick me up for Maurice and possibly the second chance he needed to finally ask you out. What had started as a disappointing night had slowly turned into one of the best nights between two old friends. Hopefully it would be the first of many.

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Try Running (short story)

Fleetsong was nice enough. Not a saint, nor a model Clanmate. He was the first to tease others when he could, but that was mostly poor attempts to gain attention and laughter. Laughter, he did gain many times. He was always the life of the Clan, the one to bring humour into any situation, whether poorly executed or not. What would happen with him gone?

Myrtlewing was still going to kill Nightfly. However, if things went well, Nightfly wouldn’t be dead for another several moons at least, and Myrtlewing needed to sink his claws into something now. The pleasant daydreams and memories were becoming boring once again. He didn’t want to think about blood, he wanted to feel the splatter.

Myrtlewing had asked him to help him gather some herbs. It was still early dusk, long before the sun would rise. Fleetsong, on guard, had been pacing restlessly. He figured that since Myrtlewing was up, others would be up soon too, and he could stop now. And since the one on guard normally sleeps when someone else wakes up anyways, what was the harm in leaving? 

Myrtlewing pretended to listen as Fleetsong chattered away beside him, chuckling at his own jokes. His gaze lingered on the tom’s throat, feeling power surge through him like a hungry wave. The way it moved, the way it didn’t bleed just yet. The way he knew that would not last.

He wondered how he would do it. He could do it now, slit Fleetsong’s throat while he was still yammering on about whatever. Or he could hurt him, twist a leg so that he couldn’t run too fast and then give chase. Both were equally good, the build of increasing fear in plan two and the sudden, horrifying jump from blissful peace to the realization that he would bleed out in a matter of seconds in plan one.

Myrtlewing didn’t decide earlier, of course. He loved the improvised kills the best. 

….Perhaps he could do both?

Going with it, he twisted and shoved Fleetsong to the ground.

“Wha–”

He swung his claws down, not deep, but deep enough, buzzing with dizzying, yet clarifying joy at the wet, sticky feeling spraying onto his toes. Fleetsong’s eyes went wide, bits of red strings visible at their ends. In his moment of frozen shock, Myrtlewing leaned forward and pressed his ear to his chest. He wanted to hear his heartbeat quicken. Sure enough, it was thumping harder than a rabbit being torn in two, beating at Fleetsong’s ribcage and hitting Myrtlewing as if it were the only thing capable of fighting back. 

“Clearly, you can’t fight,” Myrtlewing observed, getting off him. Blood dripped down Fleetsong’s neck. “Maybe try running.”

Fleetsong shot up, scurrying into the trees. 

5….

4….

3….

2….

1….

Myrtlewing moved, throwing his claws on the bark of the nearest tree and climbing up with smooth ease. He slipped along the branches with practiced expertise, able to keep up with Fleetsong as the tom continuously looked with panic over his shoulder, unaware of the shadow following above. 

A twisted smile curled onto Myrtlewing’s lips at the sight of the red trail following the thin tom. After a long time, Fleetsong slowed. Myrtlewing wasn’t sure how tired he was from the run, rush of adrenaline, or of the blood that continued to drain from his body. Fleetsong tried pressing against it with his paws, but it only served to mark them crimson. 

“He-a-ck!” Fleetsong choked, attempting to wail. Myrtlewing guessed he was trying to call for help. His voice sounded strangled, and when he tried again, the blood gushed. Myrtlewing enjoyed the show.

Finally, he was ready to leap down and finish it, when a sharp stench swept into his nose. His attention flicked to the ferns just as they began to shake, and a large dog emerged, a collar around its neck, with a Twoleg string dangling from it. 

Oh….

Oh this was so much better.

[snarky-magpie]

(Yay, a new chapter! You can read the whole thing here.)

Once again, the server interrupts James with their drink order. Regulus downs the whiskey immediately and waves at her to keep them coming. The liquid burns down his throat, but instead of purging James’ warmth out of his system, it only intensifies it, blurring everything around him like a Photoshop filter, which leaves only James with his amber eyes in focus.

“Wow. Pace yourself, Bluebell.”

“Bluebell?” The question manifests as a challenge but not a prohibition.

“It fits you. My poisonous little flower.”

“I hate it.”

“Do you really?”

“Yes.”

No.

Regulus doesn’t hate it all, and that’s the entire clusterfuck in a nutshell. In fact, his insides give a funny little thrill when he hears the nickname in James’ pleasant tenor. His stomach swoops every time James calls him Reggie or when the stupid dimple shows up, pleased with an insult that Regulus lobbed at him because James is an idiot with a degradation kink, apparently. Regulus knows he should hate it, so the excitement mixes with guilt and grief, weaving a complicated mesh around his battered heart. To banish these thoughts, he grabs James’ shot and downs it in one swallow. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna cut you off. Not gonna haul you home on my back.”

“But you have that yoga-toned body.” Regulus giggles. The idea of James giving him a piggyback ride is funny. “Seems a shame to waste it.” Regulus’ fingers have gained a mind of their own over the last five minutes, sinking into James’ arm to squeeze the biceps under James’ shirt. He put on a nice one for the date, moss green with rolled-up sleeves that do wonders for exposing the juicy veins on James’ forearms. The open collar reveals the sharp peaks of his collarbones with a braided leather string with a green agate bead resting on top. Regulus has always been fond of green, but he doesn’t remember mentioning it to James. Maybe he asked Sirius. That notion sends a fresh dose of heat straight through his belly.

“Ease up, Bluebell.” James peels his fingers off, but the expression screwing up his face suggests he’s not happy about it, so Regulus puts them in place again, causing James to groan and tip his head back against the seat.

“I’m trying to be a good guy here, but you’re killing me.”

Regulus barely registers the words, too swept up in studying how this position makes the skin of James’ throat stretch around the jut of his Adam’s apple, but thankfully, James props his hands on his thighs and lets his eyes flutter closed, so he doesn’t notice Regulus’ stare.

“Anyway, where were we? Right. Yoga. The first lesson sucked, so I whined about it to Remus. The bastard laughed, but then he took me to his favorite studio—the one that’s mine now—and showed me the classes could be active and engaging and fun. I started coming in a lot, filled in a couple of times for the teachers when someone dropped out, and eventually got my instructor’s licence. Then, when the owner wanted to retire, I bought the place from him, and the rest is history.” 

The words wash over Regulus’ ears, but he’s more focused on the honey pitch of the voice saying them than on the content. James’ eyes snap back open and drill into Regulus.

“Are you listening to me?”

“We should date.” 

[deepforestsong]

Calm - Daily Jay. January 10 II.

I usually meditate first thing in the morning. It helps set my mindfulness for the day and adjusts my mood a bit since I usually wake up a little sore which can be depressing. The Daily Jay is one of three 'daily calm' options, each about ten minutes, but Jay likes to keep his to about 7 minutes or so. He is the latest addition to the Calm team and when he showed up I didn't know anything about him, but I liked his format right away: some deep breathing to start, followed by his topic, usually personal growth and life coach focused mostly rooted in his time as a hindu monk living in an ashram in India. Originally from the UK, his voice is pleasant and he seems like a genuinely nice person. I've listened to quite a few of his sessions in the past year but the one on tap for this morning was like listening to him describe the root of my struggles in my early and young adult life. Struggles whose ghosts still haunt me although I'm trying to rid myself of them before I die.

Jay talks about playing sports as a kid and wanting his dad to be at every event because he longed for his dad's approval. I can relate to this. Jay goes on to talk about our need for the approval of others, especially our parents, which is perfectly normal, and what happens when we don't have that and go in search of it in different place with different people. This is a dangerous and often unsatisfying way to live because then our wellbeing is dependent on other people and their emotions. Don't I know it. Of course I didn't realize what I was doing in my twenties but when I look back I was totally seeking out pseudo fathers. Fathers who would give me their time and approval. From an early age my dad would sometimes have me catch a ride to my little league games with a neighbor father and son. I think at the time I thought to myself it was because I wasn't very good at baseball. That first little league year I didn't get a single hit. I'd often just play a couple of innings and so when my dad did come he didn't exactly see me play much, so who could blame him for not wanting to see his son suck at the plate! Even at a young age I could understand or at least rationalize the absence this way. I do remember liking when he did come because I did make a few good catches in the field and thought this would make my dad proud. I could catch the ball in left field, as I did play a fair amount of catch with my dad growing up in the school yard behind our house, but I needed a lot of help at the plate. I still remember our last game that dismal season (we were 4-17) and how hard I tried to get a hit. I swung the shit out of that bat to no avail! If there were batting cages to help struggling hitters like me in 1975, I was a stranger to them and did not know of their existence. Given how shitty our team was, you'd think if there were batting cages we would have held team practices there!

The theme of absence would continue through my junior and senior high school years. When I was 12 my dad started his own business with my uncle and basically disappeared from my life for the next x number of years, as did our family vacations, dinners, etc... I don't remember caring that much at the time, however. I was self sufficient in those years. Paper route at age 13, first part time job at 15 and a busy life with my two best friends between school and work. Maybe I felt like I didn't care because I was an only child and usually had to rely on myself for amusement anyway? Not sure. I played three and half years of tennis in high school and it was the only sport I lettered in. I won a silver medal for second place at JV finals the year I was sixteen. My parents absence continued however, as neither watched me play a single match in those years. I didn't blame my mom much at the time because she had been through some serious health issues and I rationalized my dad being away in that he was working all the time and this was for the good for our family. If you had asked my late teen self if I needed my dad, I would have answered nope, all was well as is.

And yet, an objective outsider would probably call bullshit since I had developed a father to son type of relationship with my good friend's Jon's dad, and would continue to do so throughout my twenties. The need for acceptance and validation only grew more intense in my twenties given I married young and pretty badly failed at being married, which brought out a lot of criticism from my dad. Criticism in many respects is the opposite of approval. Some of it is valid, but when you don't have some form of approval to balance out the criticism, regardless of how valid it might be, then you are set up for a pretty painful collision with unhealthy neediness co-dependence. We all need love, and we all go in search for it when it doesn't begin at home when we are young. Approval is a part of the love and self esteem package. It's essential and it wasn't until some of these pseudo father relationship began failing that I started to realize that I was in search of something as an adult that I needed to find in myself first given my childhood was now in the past. As an adult, approval has to start with ourselves. I think it's easier if you have it growing up from the people that matter most to a young developing mind, parents, grandparents, but at some point you have to realize it begins with you in adulthood. This was the central point of the Daily Jay today and it really resonated with me. I'm a middle aged man with terrible self-esteem and I carry around way more self hatred than I would like. Meditations like the one today remind me where I need to start to begin to change all of that hate into self love. I can't change my childhood, or my parents, or my own mistakes as a younger person, but I can change how I think of myself as I do my best to move forward.