Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1062724.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Other, Multi
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Sollux_Captor/Dirk_Strider, Sollux_Captor/Dave_Strider, Gamzee_Makara/
      Dave_Strider, Dave_Strider/Sollux_Captor/Dirk_Strider, Jake_English/
      Gamzee_Makara, Jake_English/Dirk_Strider, Dave_Strider/Karkat_Vantas,
      Sollux_Captor/John_Egbert, Gamzee_Makara/Tavros_Nitram
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Gamzee_Makara, Dirk_Strider, Sollux_Captor, Jake_English,
      Tavros_Nitram, John_Egbert, Karkat_Vantas, Damara_Megido
  Additional Tags:
      Sex, Xeno, Smut, Dubious_Consent, Flushed_Romance_|_Matesprits, Pale
      Romance_|_Moirallegiance, Threesome_-_M/M/M, theres_gonna_be_sex, so_much
      sex, Fluff_and_Smut, Fluff, Post-Sburb, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Alternate
      Universe_-_Fusion, Voyeurism, Daddy_Kink, holy_shit_so_many_tags, Other
      Additional_Tags_to_Be_Added, possible_brief_moments_of_angst, Damara
      Megido|_the_Handmaid
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-29 Updated: 2015-07-24 Chapters: 8/? Words: 30389
****** LoveShack ******
by Red_and_R3d
Summary
     Sburb has ended with victory assured. A new Earth was created, having
     trolls and humans reside together since the planet’s existence came
     to be. There is no more discrimination from the hemospectrum, no more
     horror terrors, and no more terror from villains past. However, the
     new Earth has taken on a new hierarchy; wealth. Those who have it
     revel in it, and those who don’t are desperate to attain. Corruption
     seethes through every corner of the new world, and sin is all around.
     With everyone starting new, and no memories of what was or each
     other, everyone is striving to survive in this wretched new world.
     Yet in order to survive, you have to pay a price, selling something
     in return; and some are forced to pay more than they desire to give.
     Though, after all, it’s just like the old saying goes…
     "Sex Sells"
Notes
     I decided to post this at the beginning of Black Friday. Just thought
     I'd share that...
      
     PS: I recommend listening to this song while you read it, if you are
     looking for music; link
***** prologue *****
 
 
  The sun fades slowly behind the horizon, its’ shining warmth, replaced by the
solemn assortment of the neon lights of bright reds, purples, pinks, and
greens.  Their vivid contortions draw attention to the scattered casinos, strip
joints, and lounges that plague the crowded streets, tracing the edges of the
city. However, the vibrancy of the neon is diluted by the soft yellow light of
paper lanterns seeping out from the wide-gated entrance of one of the many
bordellos that stake claim on this land. The light shines softly, almost
delicately, as the open red gates make the building greet those who enter with
an open arm embrace. It is a grand looking place, reflecting the historic
finesse of a time long ago, nestled in the cultures of the Far East. Multiple
black pagoda roofs layered on three stories of strong white walls make it stand
powerful like an old fortress; while a tall stone fence hides its sides and
back courtyard from the rest of the world. Yet the warm light of the entrance
still beckons.
Walk through the red gate, the ground that was once the sidewalk alongside the
road turns into a trail of gravel, beckoning you farther as bonsai and lotuses
line its sides, surrounding large red columns that line the way to the light of
the entrance. These grand red columns graced sparing with a few smaller red
horizontal bars display the valued goods behind them. These are the prized gems
of the keeper, the master, the lord of this house. They are his most treasured
processions. Two on each side kept safe, separated from the world behind the
red bars, yet exposed enough for all to revel in their temptation as they pass
by.
There are four total, each pair surrounded graciously by numerous pillows and
blankets made of the finest and luxurious materials. They rest on exquisite
hand-crafted rugs shipped from the Fertile Crescent, and tatami mats where
silver platters lay—providing the most exuberant and delicious delicacies from
around the globe—while paper lanterns swing softly above them. They are dressed
in theme with their surroundings. Their desired flesh is clothed in intricately
embroidered silk kimonos and sashes, and draped in accessories of pure gold. 
They lounge silently amongst their caged surroundings.
On the right sits a young man with bright blonde hair, shining like the gold he
wears beneath the hue of the lanterns. His skin is blessed with soft kisses
from the sun; though once tanned lightly by its embrace, now likened to
porcelain from the elongated time spent behind the red bars. He is adorned in
passionate and bright red robes, matching the blindfold shielding his eyes from
the world. He sits against the bars listlessly amongst the abundance of pillows
and cloth. His right hand combs softly through the wild mane of the troll he
shares his lap with, leaving his left arm to rest, perched on his bent knee.
He is a somewhat tall troll, but his youth is evident on his unmasked face.
Despite the length of his long, curving horns, he refuses to move his head from
the red silken lap and the palm caressing his locks. He instead moves his arm
slowly, repeatedly stretching toward the silver platter before them, capturing
a few green grapes in his clawed fingers, then shifting his arm to feed some to
the blindfolded young man, and lastly pulling his arm back down to eat the last
few. His deep purple kimono slips down along with his gold bracelets, exposing
his soft yet toned grey shoulder and arm with each flowing motion.
On the left sits a young man; his features resembling those of the young man
adorned in red on the right. However, unlike the mop-top hairstyle of the red,
his bright blonde hair is spiked, jagged and edged like unmined crystals. His
sharp pointed eyewear further his serrated appearance, keeping his eyes hidden
like dark onyx. He is graced in fiery orange robes with a gold collar around
his neck, decorated lovingly with topaz, trailing to a small gold loop at the
center. He sits unmoving, meditating, his posture almost perfect; yet leaning
ever so slightly from the foot pushing gently against his exposed and muscled
back as a clawed toe softly traces a variety of incomprehensible patterns. The
foot jingles with gold ankle bracelets as it shifts, motioning to the body it’s
connected to. The last gem lies languidly on his stomach. His saffron kimono
has slipped all the way down—revealing the curve of his lush grey spine—as he
props his head upward on his left elbow, his clawed hand carefully caressing
his soft grey cheek as the other flips casually through the pages of a
magazine. 
He is a troll, like the one donned in purple; however he bears little, if no,
resemblance to the dark amethyst clothed troll. His hair is much shorter,
stylishly spiked upward on the edges of the back and sides. He is smaller than
the other troll, at least by a head, even if accounting for their horns. He has
two horns near each temple and curved ever so slightly. His front pair looks to
be the size of a hand from wrist to tip, while the back pair is overshadowed by
them, gracing his head at a bit more than half that size. His hand rises from
the magazine occasionally, gold clinging on his wrist as he brushes his bangs
out of his face, revealing his very unique eyes. One shines ruby, the other
like sapphire. He is also adorned with a collar, however somewhat different
from the one bestowed on the young man in orange. His collar is made gold
metal, lined with a cloth or leather of some sort. It appears to have some sort
of thin electronic device attached to it, yet its purpose is unknown.
The sound of a pleased hum travels from the entrance, returning all attention
back to it, once again beckoning. Beneath the soft lights a man sits, his palms
clasped on a luxurious counter, hiding a growing smirk. His eyes are narrowed
slightly, yet that does not halt the fierce green that illuminates them,
diluted only slightly by rectangular framed glasses. He straightens himself,
hands opening as to reflect the embrace of the building as he looks down the
entrance.  He tilts his head, dark brown hair shifts with the movement as his
smirk becomes a grin. His voice falls heavily from his mouth, words enveloped
in untrusted camaraderie as he greets,
 
 
 
“Welcome to the LoveShack ol chap….”
***** 3 Days, 20 Hours, 4 Minutes, and 41, 42, 43… *****
Chapter Notes
     It should be about 11:45 pm Texas Time...
     Happy Birthday Dave
     PS: Here's some music to enjoy while you read: Link
Three Days, 20 Hours, four Minutes, and 41, 42, 43…
 
 
 
Your mind wanders, subconsciously counting away at the passing seconds while
you weave your fingers through the strands, combing gently at Gamzee’s lush
mane. Your hand is slothful, moving in tempo with the ever-slowing time, like a
pendulum swinging listlessly from an old antique clock. It has been three days,
20 hours, and almost five minutes since the lens popped out of your only and
favorite pair of aviators and broke. It has been two days, 20 hours, and almost
5 minutes since you had your ruined shades shipped out to the eyeglass shop for
repairs. Yet, it will probably be another three days, three hours, and 55
minutes until they are returned to you safe and sound. In the meantime however,
you are forced to conceal your eyes behind a red satin blindfold, leaving your
mind to entertain itself by counting the fleeting seconds of the fading day.
You would laugh at the irony of the situation, if it were not so damn
depressing. You sit here blinded. Just as you were to the corruption you were
seeping into. Just as you were to the severity of the crimes you committed.
Just as you were to the actual purpose you were hired for, believing your
employer would never throw you and your brother under the bus; and just as you
were to the deeper meaning behind Jake’s “generous” offer when your lives were
just about to reach a literal dead end.
However, instead of a blindfold, ignorance and naivety clouded your view. Even
though your brother was the one who accepted and made all the final decisions,
while you just followed along, you do not blame him. You really could not blame
him even if you wanted to. He may be your older brother, but the fact that you
two are so close in age, you really have no excuses for being so blind.
Besides, you know he was just looking out for you, doing the best he could to
keep you both from ending up dead on the streets; which—after mom’s death and
being kicked out of foster care—is a miracle that it did not happen in the
first place. Thankfully, you were both able to survive by working for some
street gangs, taking the dirty jobs that would be too risky for them, being
already  caught with blood on their hands a few times too many. You were
callous though. A job was a job, and if it meant taking out one guy just so you
and your brother could have a good meal and a place to sleep, then you could
care less about how many times you had to do it.
 
That is until the gang could not bribe the cops anymore after the massacre,
leaving you and your brother to be caught frozen at the scene like deer in the
headlights as the cops raided the place in the midst of the slaughter. The boss
paid big money for shifty lawyers to protect their skins and even bigger money
to make sure the judge would give you two the harshest sentence he could think
of, making sure we would never get a chance to pay them back. However, Jake had
connections. The connections we needed.  You never really knew much about Jake,
but your brother did. He knew Jake on some sort of level, but what it was you
are not really sure.  All you know is your brother went to Jake and he gave you
guys a way out. He even got the judge to flip the script. Though your old boss
had a heart attack and passed before any final sentence was given. 
To your misfortune however, gifts like that are not given freely. Before you
knew it, Jake had both of you wrapped around his fingers, nooses around your
necks and chained to a big debt for all the “court costs”. You tried to get out
of it. Neither one of you had the money to pay him.  Yet, when you’re dealing
with someone who has more power over the courts than a crime boss, your chances
of winning any battles like that are next to nothing. Since the autopsy results
for  your old boss came back, you both were put at risk again for getting
locked up for good. Maybe even worse. The only thing keeping that from
happening was Jake and his hush money, keeping the case from being reopened and
leaving you two no choice but to work off the debt, on his terms.
So here you are, working for the keeper of your debt, as Gamzee occasionally
plops a grape into your mouth while you wait for your next client. You’ve given
up hope on ever paying it back. You have a knack for keeping track of time,
your subconscious counting it continuously in the back of your head, day and
night, never being wrong once. It is an old habit that is hard to break.
However, your mind has trouble accounting for how long you have actually been
behind these red bars. Days have blurred into months. Months have blurred into
years; and with each passing night of various clients to please, time starts to
blur too. So you sit here, blinded, combing through Gamzee’s hair calmly, and
counting the seconds as they slowly rot away.
A bell chimes, and a muffled greeting is heard. You can feel someone staring
coldly at you. You feel it, eyeing you down like prey, sending  a small shiver
down your spine. You can only bet it is his cursed green eyes.  You hear
footsteps and the jingling of keys.  A door creaks open to the right wall of
red bars, near the counter that you’ve become so accustomed to seeing every
night. You can feel Gamzee’s head rise up drearly from your lap, horns knocking
slightly on your elbow. You tilt your head in the direction of a voice, as you
attempt to recall your surroundings from memory. A familiar tone calls to you.
 
“Well Dave, looks like you have another one tonight.”
 
Gamzee feeds you one last grape as you start to make your way over to the cage
opening. He makes a clicking noise as you comb his mane one last time in
return.
 
“What room?” you ask as you slide out the cage entrance, feeling something
latch onto your wrist with a click.
 
“Room 34, a high pillow lady, asked for the bronze package. Give it to her good
ol’ chap. Tally ho!” He says brashly, as he gives you a light pat on the back
while one of the servants escorts you obligingly by your latched wrist to the
awaiting client.
 
 
***** "Sollux" *****
Chapter Notes
     Tonight I willl feast and celebrate Shab-e Yalda.
     Tomorrow I will wonder why a day of hope coincides with a day of
     doom.
     music; Link
“Sollux”
 
“Yeth?”
 
“Stop”
 
“No”
 
“I’m serious”
 
“I know”
 
“Then stop”
 
“Hmm…no”
     
 You continue to press your foot against his back; clawed toes stretching as if
trying to message the tension in the muscles of his neck and shoulders. He has
been sitting like this for at least half of the duration you have been in the
cage, perfectly still, unmoving. Though you give him credit for that kind of
mental strength, you are pretty sure he is also scaring off potential clients
and it is starting to piss you off. You have a quota to fill this week and will
be damned if you let Dirk get in the way of Jake buying you that new laptop
with the newest Solid State Drive you keep reading about in your magazine.
 
“Sollux.”
 
“Yeth?”
 
“You know you’re going to regret this.”
 
“Don’t give a fuck.”
 
“No you give a lot of fucks.”
 
“Oh wow, you really detherve a Pulitzer Prize for that one. Great comeback
fuckathth.”
 
“Yes, I am fucking your ass, along with everyone else in this city, if not the
region.”
 
You try to kick him a little with your heel, however he tilts himself forward a
bit, causing your foot to miss. You know he is doing all he can to keep from
smirking as he speaks;
 
“I’m pretty sure if you didn’t spend so much time staring at a computer screen
or flashing your man cooch to everyone that walks by in the hopes of getting
your daily ass pounding, you could’ve mastered your mega mood swings by now.”
 
As much as it pisses you off, you know he is right. You have a pretty good
grasp on your mood disorder now, but you know it could be better. Yet even
though you still spend a lot of your free time isolated with as many electronic
devices as possible, your behavior could also be much worse. Ever since Dirk
and Dave came along your moods have improved rapidly, and for the better. You
have grown close to them over the years and in a way they have given you the
emotional support you have been severely lacking for most of your life. However
it still does not give Dirk the leverage to call you out on it. You attempt to
flick him with your psionics with a flick of the wrist, only to recall that you
sacrificed your freedom to use it long ago.  You move your hand up to your
neck, tracing the edge of your collar softly. Your eyes narrow as nostalgia
reminisces through the dark times of your past.
 
 
You were doomed to die. You always believed you had no fate and death would be
your only salvation. Being a troll means nothing, but being a psionic does.
Those burdened with such powers are despised by many. Though most are able to
hide their abilities and lead peaceful lives with their secrets unnoticed by
society, your telekinetic like psionics and bipolarity made that option
impossible. You are nothing but scum of this world, impulsively taking a chance
to escape when it came. You fled your own country in the face of persecution
and death, demanded by the voices of your fellow countrymen, and winding up in
a country you knew nothing about. However Jake gave you a chance. He gave you a
sliver of hope that maybe; just maybe, your life was not destined to end before
it even began.
You had a psionic outburst in the alleyways near the Loveshack when you got
jumped one night. The cops in the area saw the flares you produced and caught
you at the scene. When they discovered you had no formal immigration papers, ID
or citizenship, you knew this was not going to end well. Fellow officers began
to call in on their radios, waiting for a report. They informed their
correspondents that the muggers were the victims instead, stating you were
responsible for various damages that were too far outside the range of your
blast to be caused by it. They continued to radio in ridiculous allegations of
vandalisms and crimes, using you and your psionics as a scapegoat for an easy
night on the job. However, just because they were cops does not mean you were
going to go down without a fight. Just before you could blast them away though,
they caught on to your attempt. One of the officers swiftly shot a few rounds
out of a strange radar-based looking firearm. With each shot it immediately
emitted frequencies that counteracted your psionics and granted you with a
piercing headache, eventually causing you to black out.
 
When you finally awoke you were surprised to find yourself not on a metal cot
with a wall of steel bars, nor on the floor of some vessel shipping back to
your impending demise in your forsaken homeland. Instead, you awoke to find
yourself on a luxuriously soft couch in a very expensive looking room.
Beautifully crafted furniture and artifacts from around the globe displayed
artfully and prestigiously around you. Exotic carpets lined the room when you
glanced down with hazy eyes, tracing their path towards the couch you rested on
and finding the edges of the silk sheet you were wrapped in brushing gently
across the floor. You look around with eyes half lidded and dazed as you
continued to rest your head on the couch. You would have believed death had
finally taken you if it was not for the evening light shining softly through
the gaps in the drapes, reviving you from your slumber.  As your mind regained
its clarity, you began to notice the sharp trimmings on glass tables as they
stood before a very angular shaped fireplace, shining like black marble and
 framed by antique dark-wood walls with built-in bookshelves. Modern looking
tables stood firm alongside beautiful vintage sofas, contrasting their elegance
while extravagant embellishments of antiques and gold artifacts were placed
precariously in what space is left available for them to reside. You shifted
your head and saw velvet drapes resting over two arched windows on the wall to
the right, with a vintage looking globe presented like a trophy in between.
Beautiful paintings hung in elegant frames while expensive souvenirs were
arranged on the various shelves and tables with pride.  You recall slowly
arising from the couch when the scent of exotic teas and honey filled your
senses, reminding you of the home you left so long ago, and what little food
you have been able to find since you left.
You pushed one hand slowly against the seat of the sofa to better your balance
while the other hand palmed your still dizzy head. You became startled and
immediately shifted your attention over the head of the sofa to find the source
of the calm words being spoke;
 
“Ah so you’re finally up.”
 
You remember him sitting by a small round dark-wood table, drinking tea as he
relaxed in an antique sage chair. He peered sharply over the cup he sipped
from; green eyes pierced your being and made your heart skip a beat. He then
placed his tea on the table and continued speaking. He spoke of how he saw
everything, how the muggers tried to attack you, how you were only defending
yourself, how the cops unjustifiably sedated you. He saw every motion, heard
every word. He would tell you that he bailed you out, forging visa papers and
claiming you worked for him. He then told you how he brought you to his home,
and laid your body to rest in the plush foyer you awoke in.
You were speechless. For anyone to help someone like you—a psionic, a lowlife
whose powers make him the dirt of society—was an experience you never thought
would ever happen to you, much less thought about in general. You tried to
thank him, stuttering with your lisp, stunned by his grand and kind gesture.
You told him you would find a way to repay him, even though you had no money,
while he laughed off your fluster. He told you no such payment was needed and
to think of it as a gift. You remember him pausing for a moment to sip his tea
again, letting his green irises peer up and down you analytically, as if slowly
soaking every detail about you. Once he set his tea back down, he then
furthered his gift by offering you an opportunity, a chance to work for him. A
job that would give you room and board and protection so you would never have
to worry about persecution or deportation again.
You accepted without a seconds thought, unaware of the finer details of the
gift you just accepted. Little did you know then that you would be selling your
body to strangers practically every night and be forced to wear a collar that
you would permanently remain on your neck to nullify your psionic powers. With
no means of visa and documentation, or being disabled from using your psionics,
you are left powerless to the outside world, and trapped to his will forever.
However, even if you had known what the job truly entailed before the deal was
made you still would have accepted his gift.
Regardless of how much he keeps you locked up in the Loveshack, what he gives
in return is truly invaluable. He kept true to his word in the promise that you
would no longer be plagued with the fears of a fugitive. His favor even goes
beyond that. Every want and desire of yours is met with little or no
questioning. He provides you with rich foods and shelter of a luxurious
quality, along with anything else your heart desires. You have progressed from
using a stolen broken-down laptop to having an electronic collection in your
quarters worthy of the rich and famous, and from eating old sandwiches in the
trash to dining on delicious high quality meals prepared for you. As for the
collar on your neck, you barely notice it, only recalling its presence when
your fingers glide passed your neck or when you unintentionally attempt to use
your powers. Personally, you actually like the collar. With it keeping your
psionics subdued, you have zero chance of destroying anything when you get too
wired, leaving you the freedom to cope and better handle your bipolarity. Also
you feel a lot calmer with it on. In a way, it makes you feel normal. Sure your
strange eyes allude to your true nature as a psionic, however because you
cannot use them, you feel as though you can finally be a part of the society
you were once shunned by. So in regards to the overall outlook on your “job”,
you can definitely say the pros outweigh the cons.
 
Besides, you love the sex. Of course you would never admit to it, but you
definitely enjoy it. The moaning, the panting, the heat, the heart racing,
reaching that ecstasy as you are being filled to the brim, you love it. You
revel in it. It gives you the best feeling each time and it never gets old. It
always feels good. You never have to think when you have sex, letting your body
relax as it reacts on its own in the most pleasurable ways possible. You would
say you could do this all day, when in fact you pretty much do. Endless nights
of kisses and touches, bite marks and moans, and to wake up and do it all over
again; compared to what you had going for you a few years back, this is the
life.
 
Your mind is distracted from its thoughts when you notice Dirk shift, just the
slightest bit, almost unnoticeable. Most people would not think anything of it.
However, you have known dirk long enough to be able to have some read on him
through his typical stoic façade. He tilts his neck ever so slightly, just
enough to side-eye the other cage, moving your attention along with it. You see
Dave return from the suites and being guided back towards the entrance of the
cage. You can almost feel the breath that Dirk is holding as Dave enters,
trying to maintain as much dignity and balance as possible. It is only until
Gamzee reaches out to him and helps him back—situating Dave comfortably in his
former spot and returning his head onto Dave’s lap—does Dirk finally breathe.
You can tell Dave is drained. Out of the four of you, he has gotten a vast
majority of the clients this week and you can tell it is taking its toll.
However, it is not so much Dave that worries you, but rather Dirk. You know how
he feels about the whole situation, and how much pain it puts on him when he
sees his brother like this. He will never express it, much less admit
it. Yet you can tell how much he cares for him. You attempt to return to your
magazine when a familiar voice and the sound of jiggling keys once again grabs
your attention;
 
“Sollux listen to Dirk and quit flashing those gams of yours, you got a new
client.”
 
"Finally!" is all you can think of as you make your way a bit too eagerly to
the cage opening.
 
“Pleathe tell me they athked at leatht for the gold package,” you lisp
exasperatedly as you hold out your wrist and await the sound of the click.
 
“Sorry ol’ chap, hate to make you grummy but it’s just the old time show for
this one. He looks pretty keen though, quite a sheik looking fella so I’m sure
you’re bound to get a wiggle on this one.”
 
He glances at you with those sharp green eyes, still making your heart stop
and run chills down your spine.
 
“Well now, off you go.”
 
He signs off in a professional tone, giving you a small pat on the back, and
returns to writing on his clipboard while one of the servants guides you to
your awaiting client.
 
 
***** So What Do You Want? *****
Chapter Notes
     The Quadrantid meteor shower should be commencing around now. It
     should radiate from the Bootes constellation...
     Apparently also known as "the Herdsman".
      
     music; Link
“So what do you want?”
“Uh…”
 
Your attention is directed upwards, tilting your head towards the blinded face
speaking above you. He lets out a small chuckle at your lapse of focus, pulling
his hand back a bit from where he was massaging your scalp.
 
 
 “Come on man,” he speaks calmly as a small smirk appears on his face, “I’m
asking what you would rather have, you know, for your birthday?”
 
“Oh…” you trail the word as you think to yourself, returning your head to its
former resting position. Suddenly inspiration sparks you and you snap your
fingers in response to your thought.
 
“How about you get me some motherfu-“
 
“And no weird clown shit.”
 
“Aw man…”
 
“You want that kind of stuff, ask Dirk. Let him buy that shit while he goes on
one of his puppet fetish online shopping sprees.”
 
“Well now I’ve got to motherfucking think this shit out all over again.”
 
He lets out a small snicker as he returns his hand to your head, fingers
threading through the strands while they rub circles into your scalp. You purr
subconsciously in response to the relaxing sensation. You always feel at ease
when he does this, comforting your tense nerves as you still adjust to being
behind the red bars. Though you have lived at the Loveshack the longest, you
only began not long ago displaying yourself behind these red bars, attracting
those who seek lust in the night. However, in relation to this Jake has been
kind to you—only having you perform certain “acts” instead of selling out your
whole being—due to your youth and inexperience. Then again, Jake has always
been good to you. He has saved you from the rage of the world. When your world
seemed lost, having no one there, he was. You were homeless when he found you.
Yet instead of turning the other cheek like so many others, he embraced you,
gifting you with a compassion you had never experienced before. He blessed you
with food and a roof over your head, a place to call home from the filthy
streets you used to survive on. He even goes beyond that, letting you buy
frivolous items and pursue hobbies, enabling you to live a life that you can
enjoy. He has given you so much and you only wish to repay him in whatever way
you can.  You would do anything for him.  You could give him your life and
still you would feel it is not enough to express the gratitude you have towards
him.  Suddenly, you hear a door shut and footsteps in time with the jingling of
a wrist chain.
 
 
“Hey Gamz,” Dave mutters, suppressing laughter beneath his collected words.
 
 “What up?”
 
“Did Sollux just finish with that one customer again tonight?”
 
“You mean the one that always tries to motherfucking hit on everyone with those
lame motherfucking pick-up lines?”
 
“Ya that one.”
 
“Hehe yeah.”
 
Once the chain jingling becomes louder, you turn and see Sollux being guided by
one of the servants around the corner.
 
“Yo Sollux!” Dave calls out, just loud enough to get his attention, “How’s your
boyfriend tonight? Get to enjoy the ‘party in his pants’, or did he just call
you a hurricane cause you were ‘blowing him away’?”
 
 
You find it impossible to keep yourself from snickering, letting out a snort
when you try to cover your mouth with your hand. Meanwhile when you look up,
Sollux is flipping Dave the bird, and you are pretty sure you saw Dirk’s
straight-lined mouth falter at the corner just ever so slightly.
 
 
“I bet you’re flipping me off right now aren’t you.” 
 
“Eat dick Dave,” Sollux snarks back before entering the red cage on the other
side.
 
“How can I when you've been swallowing them down all night?"
 
If you were not sure Dirk was smiling before, you can sure tell he is now. You
give Dave a fist bump against his free hand while Sollux shakes his head in
annoyance before resituating himself with his magazine. It takes a few moments
for you and Dave to completely suppress your chronic urges to laugh. Once you
do though, you both return to relaxing in the growing quiet of the night. He
continues to comb through your hair just as he routinely does, while you smile
to yourself, closing your eyes while resting in his lap.
You have had very few problems living at the Loveshack. However, having Sollux,
Dirk, and especially Dave with you has helped you adjust greatly. They
understand how it feels to be in this position, still getting used to life
behind these red bars. Sure you may raze each other, dishing out a few good
burns now and then, but deep down you know that everyone has each other’s back.
You have grown close over the years, and some days, you are not sure how you
would be able to cope with your emotions and situation without their support.
You open your eyes and take a moment to remember where you are, while you eye
down the platter of delicacies.
Just as a desire for sugar strikes, making you to reach out your arm and snag a
few Turkish delights from the platter for you and Dave, you are distracted by
the familiar sound of a drawer closing and a key turning to activate the lock.
A familiar voice catches in your head, diverting your attention completely on
it.
 
“Well tonight has been a bit of a flat tire. Seems like a swell time to close
up shop though. Come on ol’ chaps, time to hit the hay; but first things
first…”
 
He walks out from around the counter, keys jingling with each slow step he
takes. Suddenly, everything just feels too quiet. His words are echoing in your
head, “first things first”, and you know where that leads. However, you do not
feel concerned by it. You know he is probably going to go over to Sollux and
Dirk’s cage like he usually does. It only when he stops in the center and
starts walking towards your cage do you being to realize that tonight is not
going to be like most nights. As he gets closer, Dave’s hand goes stiff, more
focus on hearing the approaching steps. You see Dirk and Sollux staring from
the other cage. Sollux has his eyebrow raised and an expression that is giving
you a very unsettling feeling. Meanwhile, even Dirk’s stone face has faltered,
his lips slightly pursed, showing that he is just as stunned as Sollux is. His
footsteps cease, yet the jingling continue as he unlocks the opening to your
cage.  Sharp green eyes shift from Dave to you, smiling while he speaks.
 
“Alright Gam-Gam, let’s get a move on.”
 
 
He waves you over. You are not really sure what he wants or why, but you would
never question him so you start to sit up. You can tell Dave is still tense,
very tense. You are not sure as to the reason causing it, however you pet the
side of his face before making your way towards the entrance in the hopes of
calming him down. As you crouch under the opening to make way for your horns,
you hold your wrist out and let Jake fascine the cuff and guide you himself in
the direction of the west wing, while the rest are beginning to be taken by the
servants to the east.
 
 
***** Regret *****
Chapter Summary
     Isn't it ironic that the day we are closest to the sun,
     only makes the world feel colder?
     music; Link
 
Regret…
 
It is something that fills your heart and never leaves. It is the tightness
that you feel in your chest when you are alone and your mind has nothing better
to do than hash out the promises of the past that life has broken for you one
by one.
You press your palm to the shower wall as the hot water beats down on your
back. You close your eyes as you let it run all over you, flowing into your
hair and drizzling down to your shoulders. You feel the droplets trickle down
your chest and arms, while you take a deep breath, inhaling the steam as your
mind routinely retraces your regrets.  If you could just go back—back to the
days before you became prisoner of the LoveShack, before you worked for the
gangs, before you got kicked out on the streets like worthless trash, before
you met Jake—you would do so in a heartbeat. Yet life does not work like that.
This world does not give out redoes. There is no “erase button” here. Whatever
mistakes you make in this world, you will have to live with for the rest of
your life, and let regret fill your soul for the rest of your days.
 
You remember how mom used to tell you how strong you were. A fighter that could
fight his way through anything, resilient and strong; even during her last days
she would still tell you that. You remember her laying there, clasping your
warm hand with her cold ones as tears streamed down her face, yet still
smiling. She begged you to watch over your brother, that she was so sorry. She
regretted not being able to give you boys a better life; sorry that there was
never enough food on the table or clean clothes to wear. She would apologize
over and over, telling you how you boys deserved so much more, while all you
could do was hold her hands in yours and stroke her hair, telling her it was
alright. You would tell her how much you loved her, how those things did not
matter, how she was a great mom no matter what. And as she smiled at you for
the last time, you regretted not telling her that more often.
You remember the pain, refusing to let the nameless faces replace your mother
so soon after her death. It was hard enough as it is. You just wanted to only
be with your brother. They would try to tell you that they understood the pain,
sympathized with your sorrow. Yet their words felt empty and cold. Hollow
condolences in the peak of your despair, spending nights alongside your brother
when it became too much and destruction was the only cure. It did not take long
for the system to finally abandon you, leaving you on the vulgar streets of the
city with nowhere to go. It was during those nights you spent with your brother
fighting fellow crooks and thieves while threatening innocent men, did you
regret forbidding your heart to trust the families who tried to help you.
 
You hand tightens into a fist against the wall from your thoughts before
turning off the shower. You step out and grab the lush towel hanging on the
wall, rubbing it on your head and down the rest of your drenched body before
bringing it back to your face. You look up and catch your reflection in the
mirror, looking deep into your own bright amber eyes. You remember how those
eyes would stare into the faces of men, taking in their fear of death as you
brought down your sword. During those years you worked for the gangs, mercy was
not an option. The world gave you none, and you felt no remorse for refusing
others the same. For a while, they were good to you. They gave you a chance to
make a living with your brother, to give you both some means of a life.
However, you knew it could never last. You trusted them as much as you trusted
the foster families, if not less. However, they gave you food and money while
saying nothing but praise for your fighting skills, therefore you had no reason
to complain. It was only a matter of time though before you and your brother
would be sacrificed like pawns in a chess game; you just never expected how
deep that sacrifice would be. You were not even at legal adult age, yet you and
your brother were looking at spending the rest of your time behind bars, or
even worse.
 
You toss the towel on the floor as you make your way out of the bathroom and
onto your bed. You stare listlessly at the ceiling in the darkness of the room.
You remember the nights you used to spend with Jake after a long day on the
job. How you felt so connected to him. How you thought he could be the one. You
remember those nights when you would just sit together outside under the stars
on a bus-stop bench, kissing him passionately as he stroked your hair and
whispered beautiful empty promises into your ears. He would always tell you
that you deserved more, that you should not have to work for the gangs, that to
consider maybe working for him. You would allow yourself a smirk at what you
thought was a joke, replying in delightful sarcasm that would always make him
smile. He was older than you, much, at least by ten years, but it did not
matter to you. You knew he was special the first time he sent you a drink from
the back of that lounge while you sat at the bar. You could feel a connection
when you spent hours flirting with him in that back booth, sipping scotch and
whiskey; and you knew you were infatuated with him, as you rode him long and
hard up against the wall in the bathroom stall. You loved him and you thought
he felt the same. However it was a young love, covered in lust that burned away
quickly after the initial attraction wore off and you realized you barely knew
anything about him. You regret not cutting it off sooner and always losing the
will to when you looked deep into those vibrant—almost sinful—green eyes.
 
Yet everything changed once you found yourself in the biggest fight of your
life; the type of fight where the only useful weapon was a mallet and a pen. In
the end you had no choice but to go back to him. You knew that the gang would
cheat and bribe and scheme as much as they could to make sure you and Dave
would be locked away for good. However you refused to let them win. You knew
Jake had money. There was no way someone could buy clothes that nice and scotch
that fine if they did not. However, where that money came from, you had no
clue. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures, and though you are
ashamed to say it, you weredesperate. He was there for you though, gave you
more than a chance at winning your freedom. He called it a gift, telling you he
could never bear to see your amber eyes be locked away. However when the money
he invested in your case assured him full control over the court, you found
that his gift came with conditions, forcing you to work in the LoveShack for
the rest of your days.  You and Dave can never leave. It would never matter if
you managed to run away or take a sword to his throat. The case was never
officially closed—plus both you and Dave are still on file as prime suspects in
the death of your former boss—meaning that even if you did leave, the police
would be on your tail faster than grease lightning, and your chances of
surviving corporal punishment would be next to nothing. If it was only you
though, facing the mistakes of the past, that would be one thing. You would not
give a damn if they locked you away. Hell, they could put you on death row and
no fucks would still be given. However, you are not the only one stuck in this.
Dave has been with you every step of the way, through every obstacle you face,
and through every consequence your actions receive. That is what you regret
most of all.
 
You hate how your brother has to suffer alongside you. You wish it was only you
that had to put up with it—the failure of the foster system, the cruelty of the
streets, the merciless killings of the gangs, the endless nights of seducing
strangers—but you are not. Dave has stood his ground through everything, always
by your side. He always goes along with your decisions, no matter what the
consequences might be. It hurts you how much he trusts you, even after leading
him astray each and every time. You wish he did not have to suffer like you.
Your left hand grasps at the sheets while you raise your right arm to hide your
eyes from the empty room, letting a shaky breath leave your chest. You take a
moment to focus on your breathing, letting it calm you down. Yet it does not
heal your pain. Nothing will. Regret is a burden you will be weighted with all
your life; you just hope you do not have to pile anymore on top of the
collection you have already acquired.
 
Your focus is detoured from the knocking on your door. At first you try to
ignore it, uninterested as to who lies behind. However the knock soon becomes a
rhythmic beat, trailing into faint murmurs behind the door, and then into very
rough knocking which could only be produced by attempting to kick your door
down. It persuades you to resentfully leave your bed and slip on the pair of
boxers that hang from the edge of your night stand. You grab your bathrobe
while you walk through the wide archway separating your bedroom area and veer
left, passing your small couch before you open the door. You are neither
surprised nor amused at who you find awaiting you.
 
“Sup bro” is the greeting you receive from your brother, clad in a wife-beater
and red plaid pajamas bottoms; he is holding a ridiculously large bowl of
popcorn encircled by his left arm while we waves a DVD in the air with his
right.
 
“Geeth, took you long enough, did you pathth out again in the thhower or
thomething?” is the second greeting you immediately receive from Sollux while
he clings to a giant fluffy pillow. He is dressed in a light-yellow worn out
shirt that barely fits him, evident by the how it has fallen down his entire
left shoulder—exposing it—yet not long enough to hide his black boxers with
patterns of Nirvana smiley faces all over. You can also see he is carrying a
bunch of individually wrapped foreign candies between the pillow and his chest.
 
“What?” You say sternly. Though you are lacking your shades, your expression
remains stoic.
 
“Movie time bro,” your brother responds casually, his red eyes unfazed by the
disinterest in your amber ones.
 
“No.”
 
“Come on man, you have the TV.”
 
“Sollux has a bunch of TVs, go to his room.”
 
“You know that’s impossible. Oh yeah, let’s go to Sollux’s place and get our
movie on. Oh wait we can’t, cause he has to own like a billion screens and have
wires and cables and hard drives whirling 24-7. I’m pretty sure the only place
he has to sit in there now is his shitty desk chair.”
 
“I have a couchtoo dipthhit,” Sollux chimes in agitatedly, his growing
irritation displayed on his face as he narrows his eyes at Dave. You find it
humorous how little Dave is affected by Sollux’s attitude now that they are
both about the same height.
 
“Don’t care. Besides, you spend too much time in there anyways and it’s
starting to smell weird,” Dave says with a smirk, still looking at you while
Sollux grunts in response, a hint of saffron dusting his cheeks in
embarrassment.
 
“Still…”you begin, interrupting their banter, “I don’t see what I have to gain
from letting you guys in and trashing my pad with your buttered fingers and
candy wrappers.”
 
“We brought Anchorman.”
 
You pause for a moment, staring him down while he wiggles his eyebrows at you
in some ironic attempt to persuade you. Meanwhile, Sollux attempts to busy
himself by opening one of his candies with his teeth.
 
“…Fine.”
 
You move out of the way and let them pass, watching them as they walk over to
your couch. Dave shoves a few of your smuppets out of the way with his feet,
plopping himself on the shag rug. Sollux follows his lead, tossing his pillow
against the front of the couch and letting his candies drop to the ground. You
sigh and shake your head, bringing yourself to walk over and grab some of the
pillows and blankets on your couch to make yourself more comfortable on the
floor, situating yourself next to Dave as Sollux crawls across the shag rug to
put the DVD in the player.
The truth is you are actually glad they came to your room. You needed something
to take your mind off of your thoughts, and Dave does too. You can tell he is
still tense, by the way he sitting and practically hugging the popcorn bowl.
You know he is nervous about Gamzee, you all are. Gamzee may have lived at the
Loveshack the longest, but he is still the youngest out of all of you. Usually
on nights like this, Jake would be taking either you or Sollux to his quarters,
and occasionally Dave along with you. This is the first time his ever taken
Gamzee to his quarters. You can only imagine what the reason would be, and you
are positive that Dave has thought of a few ideas himself. You know it bothers
him. Being the youngest two out of the group, with only a year separating them,
it is easy to see why they have grown especially close. You give your brother a
side glance, seeing how hard he is trying to focus on the movie and less on his
thoughts. You say nothing. Instead you rest your left hand on his shoulder and
rub it a bit, in the hopes of showing him that it will be okay.
 
 
You regret not being able to make that a promise.
***** You Let Him *****
Chapter Notes
     Since I started this chapter I have witnessed Jupiter, Venus, and a
     full moon in Capricorn light up my night sky...
     Either it is a sign from the heavens of what is to come, or a sign
     that I need to learn to write quicker.
     Enjoy...
     (PS: I dedicate this chapter to all my friends, especially my
     precious ashen and the best palebro in the universe.)
     music; Link / Link
You let him guide you through the night. Through the darkened hallways of the
lower west wing until you reach the staircase in the middle of the hall, its
silhouette illuminated by dim wall scones and the soft moonlight. He leads you
up the stairs; chained cuff jingling like old coins with each step. You turn
left in the small hallway on the second floor, stopping in front the door to
his quarters.  He takes a moment to fiddle with his keys.
 
“I have to say Gam-gam…” he begins, his tone calm and almost intimidatingly
friendly towards you. Though he can sound a bit suspicious at times, you still
find Jake’s voice quite soothing.
 
“It’s been quite a while since you’ve been up here, hasn’t it.”
 
He takes hold of a key, raising his hand up a bit to inspect it in the dim
light as he continues to speak.
 
“You’ll have to forgive me if the place is a bit dusty Gam. Trying to manage
after a few of our pro skirts have flown the coop leaves me little opportunity
to have it cleaned properly. However, I’m sure you’ll still find this old place
quite…swell.”
 
He looks over his shoulder as he unlocks the door. His sharp green eyes meet
yours as he gives you a soft smile. They pierce you, eerie and bright like a
predator stalking its prey in the night, making your breath hitch. In turn, you
close your eyes a bit as you give him a very big happy grin, avoiding his stare
in an attempt to help ease your nerves.
 
“I’m sure it still be looking like it’s all up and covered in motherfucking
miracles in there,” you say in response. This earns you a small chuckle from
Jake as he looks away, opening the door and leading you into what he calls the
“parlor”.
 
You used to visit his quarters quite often. However, since you have gotten
older and grew closer to your fellow peers working in the LoveShack, your
visits to his quarters have been rare. Still, you remember this place fondly.
You think of all the times you fell asleep in front of his black fireplace
while reading through some of those old books that line Jake’s antique shelves.
All the questions you would ask about the numerous artifacts and how Jake came
to own them.  All the times your horns would get stuck on things as you grew
taller. You can see the clear tape you used in a clumsy attempt to patch up the
painting in the corner, after accidentally tripping and having your right horn
rip straight through it. You have made sure to always file down the points to
avoid any possible disaster like that from happening ever since.  
As you continue to glance around you feel a hand gently grasp your chained
wrist and raise it. You turn to see Jake unlocking the cuff and letting it drop
down onto the floor with a soft thud, cushioned by the antique carpet.  You
continue to gaze on your wrist while his hand still lingers. His hand is warm
and firm. His touch causes your skin to tingle as he slowly brings his hand up
to the tips of your clawed fingers, clasping them in his, and moves his palm
over them until he is able to grasp your hand comfortably and hold it. You
think of the times when they used to seem so much bigger than yours, claws
barely reaching the edges of his fingertips. Now your hand is almost his equal.
You continue to examine your joined hands until his voice pulls your focus to
his body, now leading you towards the second door on the wall to your right.
 
“Come this way Gam-gam. I need to have a little discussion with you. Nothing to
get all balled up about, just need to beat one’s gums is all.”
 
He smiles over his shoulder again as he enters the room, green irises dead set
on you, evoking you to respond with your go-to smile.
 
“Whatever you say Jake,” you mutter as you pass through the doorway.
 
“First things first though,” he continues, letting go of your hand once you are
in the center of the room.
 
“Let’s get comfy shall we?” He walks over to the left and makes his way onto
his bed, scooting himself to the center of it. He uses his left hand to help
him crisscross his legs while he pats the space in front of him with the other,
“Come on Gam, you wouldn’t high-hat me now would you?”
 
You shake your head at him slowly in response, giving yourself a moment to take
in your environment. It has been quite some time since you were last in Jakes
room. Jake seems to recognize this as he relaxes on the bed, allows you some
time to get reacquainted with your surroundings. 
 
The room is built with dark-wood walls, similar to those of the antique
bookshelves in the parlor. Much like the parlor, the room is decorated with a
variety of various ancient artifacts; a majority of them being weapons. However
they pose no threat, bronzed to become part of Jakes antique décor. Gold framed
antique maps and paintings fight for dominance against the various weapons
mounted on the walls.  Situated in front of the wall ahead is a sage fainting
couch, garnished with a few gold-embodied pillows with a velvet blue blanket
tossed frivolously over the edge. A few more matching pillows rest on two
armchairs set  in the left corner , separated  by a glass round end table
displaying a few small artifacts under an antique lamp. On the other side of
the wall resides a sharp glass desk cluttered with a laptop, a few books and a
sufficient supply of scattered papers.  Situated in between the desk and couch
is a slightly opened door, which you recall leads to the bath.  You look over
to the right and see four tall arched windows, decorated with plush green
velvet curtains pulled open with gold ropes, revealing a lighter second curtain
to shield the room from any curious eyes in the courtyard. A very expensive
looking antique dresser stands proudly in the middle of them, with an even more
expensive TV placed on top. Above the TV are two bronzed swords and a shield
mounted like a royal crest on the wall. Antique rugs from the near and far east
cover almost every inch of the floor, overlapping carelessly on top of one
another.  Dark oak bookshelves stand tall in whatever space is left on the
bedroom walls—filled to the brim with a number of novelties, artifacts, and
books—while a small wet bar sits near the room’s entrance.
You tilt your head, gaze following the dark-wooden beams upwards on the high-
vaulted wood ceiling that unite at the center. A brass lantern imported from
the foreign lands hangs from where the beams meet, secured gingerly to a thick
chain. Intricate carvings allow for soft yellow light to illuminate from it as
your eyes follow the unique shape and form of the lantern, curving like a wide
vase and down to a point where a decorative green tassel swings just barely.
Six clear tear drop crystals swing softly along with it, dangling from the
edges of the widest curve on the lantern.  It gives a certain ambiance to the
place. A sliver of light, in an otherwise dark room.
 
“Come sit down with me Gam,” Jake’s voice gathers your attention, reminding you
how he has been patiently waiting.  
 
He sits relaxed on his big circular bed, cloaked in beautiful green silk and
white satin sheets with countless plush pillows piled around the shell-like
headboard. He leans back, resting his weight on his now bare arms; clad in only
his dress pants while the rest of his clothes lead a trail off the edge of the
bed and onto the floor. You know he is not really fond of his work
attire—preferring his flannel shirts and cargo shorts over it any day—so it
does not faze you to see that he has scrambled out of them so quickly.
You make your way over to the bed, maneuvering under the netted canopy that
encircles it and situate yourself on the spot he had patted in front of him a
moment ago. The sheer canopy gives you a very secluded feeling; almost isolated
from the outside world, from everything and anything, except Jake.  Neon lights
from the city streets below seep through tall arched windows next to the bed,
slowly washing the room in a deep fuchsia—almost tyrian—hue through the soft
curtains. Jake’s eyes practically illuminate in contrast as he watches you. He
gives you a gentle, almost comforting smile as he raises one of his eyebrows.
 
“Oh come on now Gam. It’s just me,” he laughs a little and you cannot help but
laugh too as you feel the mood begin to lighten.
 
“Now now…” he begins as he uncrosses his legs, “why don’t you scoot your
tootsie over here.”               
 
He pats his legs and opens his arms out wide, awaiting something to embrace.
You move slowly and instinctively towards him without question, situating
yourself comfortably on his lap, facing him. His arms calmly wrap around you
and you relax into the sensation, letting your arms loosely fold around his
shoulders. You give Jake a lazy smile when he releases a heavy, relaxing sigh.
He looks at you, head tilting a bit upwards as he begins to speak again, his
voice sounding more cheery and tranquil, rather than suspicious.
 
“Golly, I must say Gam, it seems like I rarely get to see you anymore. You
don’t pop in as much as you used to.  With all the time you spend getting
chummy with the others, it almost feels like your abandoning me.”
 
“Nah…I would never motherfuckin’ leave you.”
 
In all reality, you really would not. You would never leave him. You could
never leave him. Not even if you wanted to.  You owe everything to Jake. Not
only that but, you care for him. Jake has been there for you in ways no one
else has ever been. You trust him. The others may criticize him from time to
time for the games he has played; however you know he would never lead you
astray. He has not done so before, and you doubt he would do so now. He laughs
a little as a gentle smile pulls on his face.
 
“Oh Gam-gam, I’m only joshing you. I think it’s the bee’s knees that you get to
be with a few owls around your age; Though it does feel good to know that you
haven’t stuck me on the back burner just yet.”
 
He moves his hands and begins stroking your sides, making your body tingle
beneath his touch as he continues to speak in a softer tone.
 
“And I hope you know I feel the same way Gam. You do know that, right?”
 
You try to answer, yet his hands on your sides keep distracting you, so you
choose to nod yes instead.
 
“Good,” he responds softly, looking down at where his hands are placed, gently
massaging your skin, “I do worry about you Gam-gam…Whether you’re eating right
and staying in tip-top shape…It’s hard to say everything’s chipper when I don’t
get to see my little bird as often as I’d like…”
 
It warms your heart when Jake calls you that. It reminds you of how much he has
cared for you over the years, and how he still does. You treasure that
compassion. It was something you were never given the opportunity to have when
you were younger.  It was so long ago, you do not even remember what your
guardian looked like. All you remember now is how they left you on the curb
without a second thought, not even giving you a second glance. You remember how
you stayed there for a long time, sitting on that curb. You used to think of
how they would come back for you, hoping that they had made a mistake. You used
to pretend that they had lost their train of thought like you do every so often
and had a memory lapse, forgetting where they had placed you last. However, you
knew not even your absent-mindedness could last that long, much less theirs.
Still, you did not want to believe they had abandoned you.
Yet there you were, stranded on the dirty streets of the city’s edges, forced
to fend for yourself. You began taking shelter in dumpsters and boxes, eating
on whatever scraps you could find in the trash. You were constantly hiding,
maneuvering through the shadows and fire escapes to avoid coming into contact
with the wicked crooks and people who stalked the night. Eventually you became
used to the lifestyle and adapted to it, learning ways to steal food and
necessities here and there. However all of that changed when you met Jake. Your
breath hitches unintentionally as you feel his nails trace around one of your
grub scars, bringing your focus back to his voice.
 
“…On top of that, I’m afraid we might have to start rationing a bit, conserving
our electricity and spending, and such.”
 
His brow furrows as he looks down. You are unable to see much of his
expression, yet you can sense his sorrow and that concerns you. You try to say
something in the hopes of consoling him. However your attempts continue to be
futile. Your mind is too preoccupied fighting to control the back small hitches
and gasps of air as Jake subconsciously traces circles over your grub scars.
 
“Oh bugger, I hate to be the bearer of bad news; however with the retirement of
some of our pro skirts … It no doubtably  has caused quite a burden. The
business relies on them just as much as it relies on the four of you. Even
though you and the boys produce a very hefty sum of lettuce, you can only
collect so much, especially considering the limitations with what can be
requested,” He pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath, releasing it in a
heavy sigh as he moves his hands up and down your sides, massaging your hips
and back with the movements, “…If this keeps up, I fear we may get the bum’s
rush out of our own home. Oh but I don’t want to worry you Gam. I just needed
to level with someone. You are the only person I feel I can ever shoot the
breeze with.”
 
 
You move closer, draping yourself over him as you let your fingers fiddle with
the back of Jakes hair. Seeing him like this leaves a sour taste in your mouth.
His eyes are darkened and heavy, attention focused on massaging your sides as
he pushes you closer to him. You do not wish to lose the LoveShack. It is your
home. Not only that, but it is Jake’s home too, the man who has been there for
you all these years. You would do anything to help him. You regain enough of
your control to speak up in a breathy tone.
 
“C’mon Jake, there’s…gotta be some way I can ah-…motherfuckin’ help out.”
 
“Oh Gam…” he begins, voice trailing for a moment as he rubs his hands all the
way up and down your sides as he weaves his hands through the layers of your
kimono, until reaching the last layer. The layer is so sheer, so thin. It makes
his contact feel so close yet still so far.
 
 “It would be too much to ask of you. You shouldn’t burden yourself with my
troubles…”
 
“Well ah-…I could…ya know take ah-some more…motherfuckin’ clients-“
 
 “Gam-gam, as sweet as you are, it’s not about the quantity of the clients, but
rather the desires of the clients that pays the bills. Though…”
 
He lets his words linger, pausing his thoughts for a moment. He stills his
hands and it makes you shiver in response. You are not sure why but you do not
want it to stop. The cold begins to hit you where his warm hands once were.
Your arms tighten a bit, muscles contacting in response to the cold as he
continues his train of thought.
 
“If you were really willing…and I do mean willing…you could start accepting
gold packages… It would cover all the dough lost from those pro skirts blowing
us off. Our financial pickle would be diced no doubt…”
 
You look at him a little confused, and a little startled. You are not sure if
you heard that correctly. You just got the hang of the bronze package, much
less the silver. You are not sure if you can actually do what the gold
requires. On top of that, it feels like too much. The others might be more
comfortable with feats like that, having probably experienced it long before
even entering the LoveShack, yet you are still new to this. Your train of
thought falters as Jake slips his right hand out of your kimono, letting the
cold emptiness take your focus.
 
“And no need to be scared Gam, I would be sure to teach you…properly.”
 
He pulls off his glasses with his free hand, tossing them onto the clothing
pile in the floor.  He then unloops your right arm from over his shoulder,
holding your hand in his.
 
“Just as I taught you how to use your beautiful hands…”
 
He speaks slowly and softly, somehow bringing more weight to his words, just
before he gently kisses the top of your hand. He then returns your arm back to
his shoulder.
 
“And those perfect lips of yours…”
 
He brings his right hand slowly up to your face, brushing his thumb across your
lips and moves to caress your cheek.
 
“It would be just you and me Gam. No one else…”
 
He starts rubbing your side again with his left hand, using his right to bring
your body closer to him.
 
 “If you did this you could save our home.”
 
He switches hands, leaving his right to massage your side while his left cups
your head. He kisses you down your neck and across your chest at a torturously
slow pace, leaving each spot exposed to the icy air in the room from the warmth
of his lips. He moves his hand lower, massaging down the curve your back until
he reaches your ass, giving it a tight squeeze. You feel your legs spread a
little wider in response, almost losing your balance from being half perch on
his lap and half on your knees. The both of you are almost completely flushed
together, yet almost is the key word. So close, yet still so far. You can
practically feel the heat radiating off of him. It feels so good, yet not good
enough. Still it is a wonderful sensation. It reminds you of how much warmth he
has given to you throughout the years.
 
You remember it was during the cold season when Jake found you.  You had gone
without food for at least three days. By then your clothes were ragged and
torn, giving you no sense of warmth. Drips of purple trickled down your face
from a skirmish with a crook that cornered you. Though he had made the first
strike, bashing your head into the brick wall of the alley, you were able to
turn the tables and took your chance, leaving him on the cold hard ground.
Unknown to whether he was only unconscious, or dead.  However, your energy did
not last for long and before you knew it you found yourself falling to your
knees from exhaustion, hands wrapped around your grumbling stomach in a feeble
attempt to stay warm. A cold rain began to pour down on to you and as your
vision began to blur, you started to believe this was the end. However, you
were ok with that. If that is what the world intended for you, then you would
accept it. Even back then, you were never one two dell on the bad. You did not
want to dwell on the bad, no matter what. Realizing it would only make you feel
worse. You let your body slowly lie on the concrete as you become more drenched
in the icy rain, shivering. As you looked hazily between the strands of your
soaked hair, you noticed two vibrant green dots before being consumed by the
dark.
 
You awoke to find yourself in his same round bed and in a new change of
clothes. You turned to your left and there he was on the fainting couch, passed
out with a book in his lap. You would later come to find that he had taken you
home and ordered of the servants help clean you up and put you to bed.  When he
woke up, instead of kicking you to the curb, he simply smiled at you and asked
if you liked pancakes. Since then he has blessed you with a warm bed and food
of the highest quality. He has given you a room to call your own, and has
bought you all kinds of objects and décor to make it feel as such. He has even
given you an education. When he found you, your education level was next to
nothing, having achieved only the most basic abilities in math on your own,
while your reading and writing skills remained almost non-existent. However
Jake fixed that. He gave you his time, helping you learn to read and write.
Before you knew it, you had read every book on his shelves twice, and could
write just as fluently.  He has gifted you with so much more than you could
have ever thought possible. He removes his lips from your body, bringing your
mind back from drifting in your thoughts. He then pulls his face back a bit,
bringing his left hand to cup your chin and tilt your face downwards. His voice
is deep and heavy.
 
“What do you say?”
 
He looks deep into your eyes. With his glasses gone, you can take in the true
beauty of his eyes, shining green like priceless emeralds, and the look he
gives you practically steals your breath away. You cannot stop looking at his
eyes, even as he brings his left hand down so both his hand encompass your ass.
The way he massages it feels so good, very good. You want more of it. He shifts
his eyes, looking up and down your body, drinking it in as he licks his lips in
such a sultry way, you do not even realize the brush of heated violet on your
cheeks. He lets out a small hum, giving your ass a particularly tight squeeze
with almost enough pressure to bring you to together, before bringing his hands
from your ass to grasp your hip bone firmly, keeping that sliver of distance as
he massages the joints your hips with his thumbs. So close yet so far. It is
starting to get to you. So much that you do not even realize how wet you have
become, until you feel it start to trickle down your thigh. You try to regain
your attention back to his question. You are not sure this is right. However
you know it will help Jake. You would do anything for him. You owe him so much.
Yet, is this really the right way to repay him? Your thought process is
immediately halted when he looks at you again, emerald into amethyst, and gives
you a smile that sends shivers down your spine. Your heart practically stops
when he speaks, tone deep and sensual, leaving every word ringing in your ears
and vibrating through your being.
 
“Do you trust me, Gamzee?”
 
The way he says your name, so sensual, you completely forget everything. Every
thought, every concern, replaced with him and his gorgeous eyes. Your voice is
quiet and breathy, barely there as you stare half lidded, placed in a trance by
his beautiful irises.
 
“Yes…”
 
Just like that his eyes turn sharp as he meshes you both together, making you
melt into him quicker than butter on a hot skillet. He kisses you ferociously
in the most amazing way possible. You gasp for breath and he dominates, hunting
down your mouth with his tongue, roaming through it like a lion in the safari.
He pulls his body back a bit and you whine into his mouth as the loss of
warmth. He then works to loosen your kimono until it becomes completely untied
and falls down your shoulders, leaving your body opened and exposed to the cold
air.  Before you can even react his hands are all over you, ghosting every inch
of your body as his mouth begins to attack your neck. You grip his shoulders as
he goes to work, biting and sucking, making you tingle and moan. His hands
graze everywhere; up and down your spine, around your hips and under your
shoulders, fingers clawing across your grub scars, lighting your body on fire
with each and every touch. He moves his hands down lower and lower, over your
chest and down your stomach, kissing you softly down along your right shoulder,
while his hands caress down your hip and over your thighs. You let out a sudden
gasp, feeling his right hand move up your back, while he his left hand lingers,
palming your bone bugle. You huff and moan with each way he massages and rubs
it, only growing louder when he maneuvers his hand underneath and begins
rubbing circles into the base of your unsheathing bulge. It uncoils into his
hand and he continues stroking the underside to lure it completely out. You can
feel it immediately slide along the edges of his palm, weaving in between
Jake’s knuckles, slickening up his fingers. It makes you shake all over,
breathing heavy as you grip tighter onto his shoulders. He he pulls you closer
with his right arm, bringing your chests together and you can feel him smile
against your skin before licking up the curve of your neck.
He carefully maneuvers his fingers away from your bulge, and you a whine falls
from your mouth at the loss of his touch. However your whine morphs into a moan
when your bulge suddenly wraps around his wrist. You moan and sigh as you bring
your head to rest on his left shoulder, feeling your bulge pulsing and
contracting, attempting to climb further up his forearm. Jake slides his
fingers slowly, down past the base of your bulge and you stiffen, practically
snapping yourself up straight. You are not sure what to do. You can barely even
comprehend that this is actually happening. You start to second guess your
decision. Yet you start to consider Jake. The last thing you want to do is
disappoint him. Yet you do not feel ready for this. However, before your
anxiety can take hold, your thoughts become a hazy blur, forgetting what you
were thinking about, letting it fade away as you feel Jakes breath hot against
your ear.
 
“Don’t think Gamzee…Just trust me.”
 
His voice is heated and heavy. You try your best to relax, yet when you feel
him ghosting his fingers around your nook your body goes rigid.
 
“It’s just me Gamzee…close your eyes…there’s nothing to fear.”
 
You comply, closing your eyes while you feel his fingers move around the folds,
tracing the edges. You can feel yourself getting wetter, material trickling
down your thighs. He uses your right hand to aid you in relaxing, rubbing
circles into the curve of your spine.
 
“Daddy’s here for you Gamzee.”
 
Something about his words sends a blazing sensation through your body and you
moan softly, feeling your legs spread a little wider. You wince a bit as he
pushes a finger inside of you, all the way to the knuckle, pressing and rubbing
along the walls of your nook. He pulls his finger out a little, just enough so
he can add another, pushing them both in entirely. You pant and moan as he
massages your inner walls, trying to relax and adjust to the sensitivity. Just
when you become more comfortable with it, he pulls his fingers out again,
pushing back in roughly with a third, making you almost cry out from the
sensation.
 
“Good boy Gamzee…”
 
You keel over, nearly clinging to him, resting your head on top of his and
hugging him tightly. He begins to push in and out, in and out, sending surges
through you and lighting you on fire. Your breath is dry and ragged, feeling
every venture inside of you. You do not know how to explain it. It is weird,
new, and strange. Yet you want more. It is too much and at the same time not
enough. Your hips begin to follow with his motions, grinding down on his
fingers as he pushes up into you.
 
“That’s the ticket little bird…”
 
You cannot take it. You are not sure if you want it to stop or keep going; your
brain is too foggy to decide. Just then Jake He twists and turns his fingers,
stretching you even more, leaving your mind blank and your mouth panting words
you are too delirious to pay attention to. His motions become faster and
rugged, and you feel yourself dripping onto the mattress as you struggle to
match the pace, riding down on his fingers best you can. You would probably be
flushing in embarrassment—worried about ruining his luxurious sheets—if your
face was not already heated in a deep purple and your mind fixated on the
scorching sensations electrifying you. He then begins to slow down, bringing
his heated motions to an agonizingly painful halt, pulling his fingers out
entirely and loosening his hand away from your bulge. You lean back a little, a
whine escaping your throat. You can feel your nook start to ache and the
pulsing of your swollen bulge, both desperate and in need of contact. You open
your eyes half way and look at him, pleadingly, yet what you see you do not
expect. His eyes have turned a lush dark green, like the rarest of emeralds. He
smiles at you in a way that is all too knowing, almost devious, and he brings
his hand up to his face. It is covered in a translucent lavender substance, and
it takes you a moment to realize that it is your genetic material, taking
another moment to register that he just licked his hand, covered in your
genetic material and you never thought your nook could ache with so much need
until now.
 
“Taste just as good as you look.”
 
You shake with each syllable, every word sending jolts straight to your groin
as he looks deep into your half lidded eyes, overpowering you. His name quietly
leaves your mouth in response, and he goes in for the kill. Quickly he wipes
his hand on the bed and pulls you close. In seconds your world flips around and
turns upside-down placing him on top, hovering over you and eyeing you down
hungrily like a beast reveling in the capture of its most desired prey. It both
mesmerizes and intimidates you, reminding you of the harrowing aches and
throbbing below. In one fell swoop he grinds down on you hard, slithering up
your body with the momentum as you almost cry out from the sensation,
subconsciously locking your legs around him. He licks a strip up your neck and
jaw until he reaches your earlobe, sucking on it briefly before licking around
the shell of your left ear, stopping to whisper in a husky tone.
 
“Daddy is so proud of you, Gamzee…”
 
He grinds down again, catching your moan with his lips as you grab at the edges
of the sheets near your head. He kisses you deeply and you follow his lead as
it turns fast and dirty, trying your focus somewhat away from the dripping,
aching, pulsating mess that makes up your private anatomy. He grinds down
fiercely and you realize he is hard, very hard, behind the constricted cloth.
He slides down your body slowly, giving you a chance to breathe and rest your
hands by your head, while being smothered in the smoldering body heat between
you two. You feel him pepper kisses down and around your chest, and your legs
loosen their grip on him, taking advantage of the lull in the pace. Though you
still ache, you are able to regain some control over your breathing. That is
until you notice how his trail of kisses starts to lead across your upper
abdomen, confusing when the kisses stop on the left side of your torso. You
feel him smile again against your skin, taking that as a sign to brace yourself
for whatever he has planned. Unfortunately your mind does not apparently
register this fast enough because before you can prep yourself he starts going
to town on your grub scars, using his weight to keep your hips from jutting up
as you wail out a very loud and long moan, turning it into breathy chants of
Jake’s name and pleases. You are not exactly sure what you are pleading for,
but as you grip his hair while he licks and sucks on your scars, it only makes
it that much more evident of how much you are in needright now. It is so
viciously painful down there—having being touched everywhere but your bulge and
nook—you are practically begging for something, anything at this point. You are
so desperate and overwhelmed at this point you can feel your eyes becoming
moist. You blink and see glimpses of watery lilac before blinking again to let
them trickle down your flushed face. You think you must have said something,
since Jake stops almost immediately and lifts himself up onto his knees. He
looks down at you carnivorously with his half-lidded darkened eyes and you hear
a snap. You glance down and seem him unbuttoning his pants lazily, pulling them
down and off of him.
 
“Don’t worry Gamzee…”
 
He lets his pants drop to the floor.
 
“Daddy is here for you…”
 
He shimmies out of his green plaid boxers with casual ease.
 
 “Daddy loves his little bird…”
 
He kicks them off the bed, and looks down at you, smiling so sincerely its
almost distrusting.
 
“I will never abandon you…”
 
He bends down to kiss you, putting his hands at each side of your head, and
then it hits you.
 
“MOTHERFUCK-”
 
You cry out vehemently growling it as he pushes into you swiftly. He pulls out
and your legs snap onto him, locking on their own. You hear a small snicker
before he pushes back into you, stretching you out so fast you are pretty sure
something is going to bruise. He continues the pattern, pulling out almost
completely, pushing himself back in farther and farther. You cry out with each
thrust, arching your back and grasping on to whatever sheets and cloth you can
get a hold on, moaning and groaning with each moment, struggling to adjust.
Finally, your hips are flushed together and he pauses for a moment. You take
advantage and gather your breathing while he mumbles something that sounds like
‘so gosh darn tight’. You release a heavy sigh once you adjust to him inside
you and boy does it steal your breath away. Every single inch of your nook is
being pushed and spread by his cock, subsiding the painful aching and granting
your wish. What once felt painful and strange starts to feel wonderful, and you
never even thought your nook being so full could feel this sensuous.  However,
with no movement the ache starts to make a comeback and you attempt to wiggle
your hips to motivate him as a breathy plea leaves your lips. He looks at you
and flashes that smile again, turning your thoughts into putty.
With a grunt he plunges into you, rough and intense, making your nerves go
berserk. You grasp helplessly onto his arms and shoulders, holding on for dear
life as you chant out streams of “yes”s and “motherfuck”s from you, persuading
him to move faster, setting up a rapid and furious pace. It is so much, too
much. Each time he impales you, you feel sparks charge through your whole body
and back down to your nook, in a rhythm that is easily beating the both of you
into a hot and sweaty mess. You cannot get enough and yet you can feel yourself
getting closer and closer to the edge, clinging tighter and tighter to him
until the sparks become too much—lighting fuses in you like dynamite marked by
the sound of skin smacking together with each violent thrust—and you growl and
cry out as loud as you can, holding nothing back.  Eyes shut tight and you
still see white, borderline clawing Jake shoulders, gripping him so rigidly it
is as if your hold on him is your only way to keep yourself from crashing down
into reality.
You feel each pulse of your high as he keeps going, feeling your genetic mater
spread around your thighs and all over the bed. You feel so limp even as you
finish, you can barely keep your hands on Jake. However Jake keeps going for a
while, pounder even harder and faster into you, until he goes solid above you,
and you groan as you feel his release spread into the farthest crevices of your
nook. Everything is still for a moment as you both try to tame your heavy
breathing. You feel so limp and so exhausted; you do not even think you have
the ability to even move. However, unlike you Jake seems to have maintained
some energy. He backs up onto his knees—pulling himself out of you with a
pop—and your legs immediately unravel from Jake’s hips, snapping together
instinctively to aid your nook recover from this new uncomfortable feeling of
emptiness.  He wipes up some of the mess on you with the now ruined sheet as he
works his way down off of the foot of the bed. Once standing, he suddenly takes
hold of the sheet and yanks it off with such speed it slides right out from
under you, coaxing a startled noise out of you quickly in response.  You watch
him clean the rest of his lower body with the sheet before dropping it to the
floor. Your tired eyes follow him as he walks over to the fainting couch and
grabs the blue blanket, letting the pillows fall to the floor as well. You feel
the mattress sink slightly as he climbs back on, situating himself on the
pillows just above you. He stretches his arm down, grabs your hand and drags
you up closer to him before he tosses the blanket over the bed, pulling the
covers over the both of you. Yet it becomes evident that he too has run out of
stamina. He shifts drowsily onto his stomach and presses his face into the lush
pillows with a sigh of content, just before stretching out his left arm and
enclosing it around your chest and arms. You also breath out a sigh, feeling
you heart rate stabilize as the high begins to wear off.
You lay there for a moment, heavy-lidded eyes staring hazily at the lantern in
the center of the room. You feel your entire body slowly becoming heavier and
sore, however your head is too weary to  even pay heed to it. As you close your
eyes, a thought drifts into your mind, echoing in the back of your head before
following Jake’s lead again, traversing into a very deep slumber.
 
 
‘What did I just motherfuckin’ do…’
 
 
***** It Hurts *****
Chapter Notes
     I wrote a poem a while ago in honor of the New Moon.
     My ashen thought it would be fitting to post it along with the
     chapter;
      
     I once believed the moon was my friend,
     Shining down on me now and then,
     Giving me light in the dark again and again,
     I really believed the moon was my friend.
      
     But then the shadows came and he hid from me,
     Refusing to recognize what he could not see,
     Letting me fall into the dark cold sea,
     I miss when the moon was my friend.
      
      
     music; Link
It Hurts.
 
 
                Something does, yet you are not quite sure what. Still you keep
your eyes closed, allowing the remnants of sleep to evolve into a light and
peaceful doze. You breathe calmly, relaxing into the soft sheets, and inhale
the fresh scent of clean linens as you bathe in their comforting warmth.
Occasionally you hear the sounds of clicks and clanks in the distance, muffled
by the room’s thick walls. Aside from the faded noise, you are left in a
tranquil silence; the peaceful quiet of the morning soothing you, aiding you in
drifting slowly back to sleep. However something begins to draw your attention,
keeping you from the sweet promise of slumber. It is dull at first,
unnoticeable. Yet the more time passes the more it flows, spreading throughout
the room and diverting your focus. It is faint, delicate; the scent of
something sweet, something familiar. It begins to envelop your senses, further
consuming your thoughts. The aroma perplexes you. You have smelled it before,
yet you cannot quite decipher its identity. You ponder whether the scent is
food-related; the smell of waffles in particular. As the aroma becomes
stronger, you question it further. It could be muffins, or crêpes. Or it could
something even better, pancakes. You hope it is pancakes. Fresh made pancakes
that contain blueberries and chocolate chips, drenched a gracious supply of
syrup and butter. Now those would be delicious.
Unless of course, they are made with that weird whole wheat flour Dirk likes.
It would be such a wasted opportunity for potentially fantastic pancakes. You
would still eat them though. You feel your stomach begin to growl in
anticipation.
 
Wearily you try to open your eyes, struggling with the lingering heaviness of
sleep; they stay half-lidded as you await the clouded vision of drowsiness to
lift from your sight. You close your eyes and breathe in, rotating your neck
and shoulders as you stretch out your back. Exhaling, you reopen your eyes
halfway to gaze over the edge of the bed as you continue lying on your right
side. You stare lazily at the floor through the parted netting, observing the
patterns of the soft morning light as it shines through the tall window,
highlighting one of the intricately hand-woven rugs overlapping a few others on
the floor. Your eyes follow the trim of the sheer curtains, barely flowing,
ghosting over the edges of the rug. After a moment you blink again, slowly
bringing your left hand to rub over your still tired eyes in an attempt to rid
the ashes of sleep. Your vision becomes clearer, and as you return your stare
to the floor below, you begin to realize something. You do not recall ever
having such an expensive rug in your room before, nor any sheer curtains and
netting near your bed.
You groan a bit from the stiffness of your body as you prop yourself up with
your right arm, returning your left hand to your face, rubbing the bridge of
your nose between your fingers. You scrunch your eyes tight before fluttering
them, attempting to increase your focus. You look around, shifting your head a
bit as you reacquaint yourself with the surroundings. You forgot. You are in
Jake's room.
 
Your bracelets jingle as you raise yourself up higher until you are able to sit
upright, shifting your legs in the process and oh; you think you figured out
what might be hurting. You instantly cringe and hiss from the stinging pain
between your thighs, not paying mind to where your left arm is rashly flailing.
Though just as you realize Jake is in your line of fire and about to get
smacked, your realization comes too late to stop the motion. Yet, as your mind
reverts to preparing for awkward apologies, your palm lands on the mattress,
hitting nothing but the sheets. You turn, peeking over your shoulder. It is
empty. Where a body once slept now remains tousled sheets and disorganized
pillows. You feel the area a bit with your hand, sensing the coldness along
your fingertips. You listen and hear no shower running. You glimpse upward and
you see no one lying on the fainting couch, nor a note claiming his absence on
the nightstand by his bedside. Further examining the room you realize the
clothes once strewn on the floor have disappeared as well, glasses included.
You wonder how long he has been gone. With two knocks the bedroom door flies
open and your attention immediately snaps to the door, meeting the eyes of one
of the servants as she maintains a calm yet surprised look on her face,
stopping halfway through the entrance.
 
"Oh my, I am terribly sorry. I did not know you were awake. Pardon my intrusion
on your privacy."
 
It takes you a minute to let her words sink in, reminding you that you are in
fact, still naked. You slowly pull the sheets up to your chest instinctively,
wishing the netting was still encircled around the bed.
 
"Nah it's all chill. You ain't bothering me..."
 
You rake your left hand through your hair, feeling how it is much more wild and
frizzy than usual. Your mind replays blurry visions of the night before when
you question how it got so messy. You feel your cheeks flush a bit as your
brain starts to comprehend the entire scenario you are currently in the midst
of, making it more complicated to phrase your thoughts than it should be as you
continue.
 
"It's just uh..."
 
Your words trail as you glance back at the empty spot beside you. You shake and
scratch your head slightly with your right hand as you speak, creating a
muddled jingle with your bracelets as you work to return your focus onto the
servant.
 
"Do you know where Jake all up and...Motherfuckin' went?"
 
"Oh yes," she responds politely, "the worker on the first period informed me
that he had to attend a meeting in the financial district and left not long
after his shift began."
 
"So...He ain't been around for a while, huh."
 
"Indeed," she responds factually before adjusting her glasses, "However he has
given us direct orders that when you wake to inquire about your hunger. Would
you care for some brunch? Some cinnamon rolls have been freshly prepared. Or
perhaps you would prefer something to drink first?"
 
"Nah I-" you cringe again as you shift a little, feeling the soreness run down
your legs. Yet as you comb through your hair again, you put on a relaxed smile,
speaking to her in the calmest and gentlest voice you can muster.
 
"I am oustandin' my friend...Not even hungry...Not one motherfuckin' bit. Just
gettin' my wicked relax on right now is all..."
 
A brief moment passes with your relaxed gaze trapped in her suspicious one. You
give her your go-to smile, resisting the urge to make a run for anywhere but
here in order to escape her leer, her, this room, this entire situation.
 
"And no need at gettin' caught up in vexation my friend..." You add, knowing
what she is waiting to hear, "I'll be givin' him a big thanks for having you
come and check up on me when he gets back..."
 
With a disapproving "humph" and a "very well then," she straightens herself up
and back-tracks her steps, pulling the door along with her.
 
"If you are in need of anything, please do not hesitate to inquire. Until then
I shall leave and check up on you later...And again," she adds apathetically
through the narrowing crack of the doorway.
 
"Please pardon my intrusion."
 
The wood door shuts tight with a clack of the door handle.
 
You wait for the foot-steps to grow distant, listening carefully as the tapping
of her low heels meld back into the silence of the room, queuing you to
scramble out of the bed. However, smooth getaways were never your forte,
resulting in your legs tangling amidst the messy sheets in your haste. You
swiftly kick your left leg free as you make your way across Jake's side. Just
as you are about to hop off of Jake's bed—yanking your left leg over the
edge—your right leg becomes completely trapped in the vice grips of the covers,
throwing you off-balance. In a last-minute attempt to regain it, your left hand
grips the corner of the nightstand for leverage, winding up with half your body
over the edge of the bed and doing the splits across it and oh man, that is not
what you needed right now. Instant pain shoots straight down to your thighs and
groin, snapping your legs together while your hands instinctively go to cup
your bone bulge as you shift and cringe.
 
"motherfu-aw SHIT!!"
 
You yelp as you fall off the bed backwards, flailing uselessly before hitting
the ground with an "oomph" accompanied with the sharp sound of your bracelets
clanging, all while dragging half the covers down along with you. You groan in
displeasure as a small, round pillow from the bed rolls off and flops on your
face.
 
You lay there on the ground—half tangled in the sheets—naked and sprawled out
on one of the many rugs. You fist your hands in an attempt to distract from the
screeching pain that has seemed to ignite every other ache and sting inside
your body. You do not even know how you could have gotten this sore. Flashbacks
of last night remind you that you actually do. Your brain also reminds you that
you yelped pretty loudly a few seconds ago, and now you are hoping that no one
heard you. You lay as stiff as you can, hushed as you listen for any sounds
outside the bedroom door. You hear faint footsteps, calm and sluggish, stopping
every so often. You start to think that the servant might still be preoccupied
tending to other things and by some miracle did not hear you. With a grunt, you
roll over onto your stomach, pushing yourself up with your hands. You position
your legs to sit mermaid-style; right leg on top so you can work to free it
from the masses of expensive cloth.
As you liberate yourself from the majority of the sheets, you view around the
room in search of your robes from last night. Unfortunately, you find no sight
of them. You presume they must have been taken along with Jake's clothes to be
washed and put away. You hear the sound of footsteps—though still scarce—are
becoming more boisterous now, risking the chance of her return. While you scan
the room for some sort of temporary clothing, your eye catches something. You
turn towards the armchairs adjacent to the fainting couch, where it lays draped
over the arm of the chair nearest you, slightly disheveled from being casted so
nonchalantly.
Lime-green silk shines in the dimmed morning light, displaying sage-colored
embroidery of detailed flowers entwined with vines and other patterns you
cannot quite identify. The cuffs are rolled up, revealing plush silk in an
array of colors that seem to almost alternate shades in different degrees of
light. The lapels match the cuffs, trailing colorfully along the length of the
green silk. Gold piping graces the edges of the cuffs and lapels, trimming the
tops of two silk pockets as well, partially hidden under a thin dark-sage tie.
After being distracted for a moment by the alluring shimmer, you recognize that
this is Jake's smoking jacket. You are hesitant to reach for it. However as you
hear the tapping of heels start to close in, you immediately grab it, wrenching
yourself up with the momentum and doing your best to ignore the pain as you
slip it on. Though you may be around the same height as Jake now—possibly even
taller—the coat still trails heavily onto the floor. You clutch the fabric in
front of your chest, covering your torso while your right hand bunches up as
much as it can of the bottom-half, enabling you to better move without
tripping. Silent and swift, you make your way over to the right arched window
by the TV, passing the small wet bar. You unhook the latch with a gentle flick
of your claw and step out onto the balcony, closing it behind you as mutely as
possible.
 
The morning light is bright outside of Jake's room, forcing you to create a
visor with your left hand as you look across the courtyard and over to the
other side of the building. Thankfully the sun rises on West wing, casting a
shadow big enough for you to be travel without having the sun inhibiting your
sight. The back courtyard is fairly grand, surrounded by the Loveshack on three
parts. It is protected by a massive stone wall, reaching the same height of the
Loveshack itself. The wall is pristine and kept well maintained just like the
rest of the building. There are no cracks or seams, looking as smooth and solid
as the rest of the Loveshack, aside from a few vines creeping upward near the
top. It encases the courtyard, giving it a very symmetrical and square shape.
You remember trying to climb the wall once out of curiosity. However the stone
was so smooth there was nothing to grasp except for the vines, which
unfortunately could not withstand your weight for even a mere three seconds.
You recall later asking Jake why it was so tall and smooth.
 
"It's simple really," he would inform you as he assisted in untangling some
vines from your horns, "It keeps all the unwanted bushwa and hooligans out, and
keeping us safe inside."
 
You have wondered at times if the other side of the wall is just as polished-
looking. Regardless, your fondness for it has always been minute. However, the
court yard itself is something that you have always enjoyed. With your current
view you can enjoy its beauty on an amazing scale.
 
In the center of the courtyard rests a beautiful rectangular pool, slightly
raised and tiled with turquoise. Four small fountains are spread evenly across
it, water flowing gently from them like waterfalls in a stream. The water
continues to flow from the rectangular pool through four symmetrical openings
centered on each side. It flows down into a canal that frames the pool, then
outward in four different directions to a larger rectangle canal, irrigating
the exotic flowers and foliage in-between. There are polished stone pathways,
reflecting the pattern of the water and framing the size of the courtyard along
the trails of flowers and plants that line themselves against the walls. A
slightly- raised stone porch stretches the entire length of the building, each
wing having a small stone stairwell that meets one of three paths. Meanwhile
the last path leads to a shaded patio area near the stone wall, fenced by
shrubs. Exotic foliage and abundant fruit-bearing trees are skillfully
landscaped to keep in balance with the smaller, more delicate flowers and
grass. You smile softly, regarding your fondness for the garden. You think of
all the days you have spent walking around and gazing into the water; how you
would become so transfixed, you would occasionally fall in, looking up through
your wet hair to see Jake glowering down at you, unamused with arms crossed,
while you would smile at him in return. All the times you would take a book to
practice reading in the patio while Jake sipped his tea, correcting your
mistakes every so often as you read aloud. All the moments spent under the
trees, munching on plums and pomegranates while listening to music and playing
videogames on your laptop, until Jake would catch you, saying if you did not
hurry then plums and pomegranates would be your only dinner. Your smile
falters.
You return your thoughts to your current objective as you make your way down
the spiral staircase on the right of the balcony. You focus on controlling your
noise level as you step down onto the porch and continue the journey to the
other wing, hoping to remain undetected. As you trudge to your
destination—studying the various doors and windows you pass along the main
branch for signs of activity—your mind cannot help but slip small clips of
nostalgia into your head. You clench tighter onto the fabric of Jake’s smoking
jacket as your mind forces you to reminisce about him, only breaking its trail
of memories to sharply alert you about the ever-growing pain between your legs,
stinging with each quick step. You long to just be in your room, alone. You
wish you would stop thinking of the Loveshack, or the events of last night. You
especially wish you would stop thinking of Jake.
You finally make your way to the other end of the porch, opening the entrance
prudently, allotting yourself just enough space to slip through and close it
swiftly behind you. You creep down the hall southward, skulking through the
heavy shadows casted by the dark walls until you reach the door on the left.
Keeping a close eye out for anyone, you open the door at such a delicate pace,
treating it as if it were made of glass. Once it is opened just enough you
repeat your pattern, sliding in and shutting it cautiously behind. You make
sure the door is securely closed before sneaking your way up the staircase to
your right. Unlike before, you take your time, with movements more calculated
and wary. You pace yourself as you walk up the dark-wood stairs, trying to
remember which steps creak the loudest. As you reach about halfway up, you peak
under the banister railing at the top, spying to see whether the coast is
clear. Seeing no clear signs of movement, you risk a few more steps until you
are near the top so you can achieve a better view. You see no one. In fact, you
can barely see anything. Noticing that the drapes are still closed, you find it
unlikely anyone has even ventured out of their rooms yet either. You cannot
help but breathe a small sigh of relief. Still you take caution as you begin to
make your way across the darkened room, continuously reevaluating your
surroundings with touches from your left hand to avoid your absent-mindedness
and the darkness getting the best of you.
 
As you begin to trek pass the dining table, you suddenly hear the muffled sound
of heavy-bass music on the way to your room, diverting your attention
immediately to the wall across from you. Four doors line the wall, each one
leading to a separate sleeping quarters. You notice the music is coming from
the second room on the left, which means Dave must have forgotten to turn off
the volume on his alarm, again. You then hear a loud banging against a wall
from the room to the right of his, accompanied by some muffled yelling. If
Sollux was not awake before, you are more than positive he is now. However,
being aware of Sollux’s morning routine, him being awake does not faze you in
the slightest. As you continue your journey, weaving your way through the
sitting area, you notice that Dirk's door is open and you freeze. Once Dave’s
alarm is shut off and the bickering ceases, you hear a faint rumbling coming
from Dirk’s room. He is snoring. Knowing that, you are sure he will not wake up
for at least another hour or so. You take a few steps until you reach the far
left of the wall and you quietly enter your room.
You turn around to face the door and use both your hands to close it gently,
letting go of the handle once you hear the final click. With a heavy sigh you
press your head against the door. You begin to revel in the silence that
accompanies your achievement. Finally, you are in your room. Finally, you are
alone. After a moment you sluggishly shift your body and lumber over to your
bed, situated lengthwise against the right wall. You flop onto it face-first,
sinking a little into the mattress as the heaviness of fatigue spreads
throughout your body. You stay still and silent, too tired to even pull the
covers over you. As you lay there, cloaked only in Jake’s smoking jacket, you
hear the soft ticking of a small clock that rests on the low-bookshelf
positioned at the foot of your bed, slowly keeping tempo of the ever growing
quiet. With your face half-pressed into your pillows you gaze lazily around
your room.
 
Just like in the main quarters and the other rooms, yours is built with the
same plain white walls and plain wood floors. Despite that however, your room
remains zestful, laced with a number of furnishings and items that reflect your
interests. On the wall across from you stands your wooden desk, the same dark
espresso color like the rest of the main furnishings in your room. Its design
is simple, built with three small drawers on each side and one long drawer just
above the leg space, where your desk chair is currently presiding. Though it is
practical, it is not organized by a long shot. The top of your desk is
cluttered with your laptop, some sheet music, and various pieces from your
embroidery kit. It was originally given to you by Dirk as a gag-gift in part of
some inside joke you made about smuppets a few years back. Incidentally
however, it soon became one of your most favored hobbies. The evidence can be
seen by how half of your desk drawers are jammed-packed with an assortment of
fabrics, threads, and overflowing with other supplies you have continuously
acquired while improving on your craft. Your desk is wedged in between two very
large, very thick bookshelves, which house the majority of your chaotic book
collection. They are displayed with no real organization, yet they bring some
much needed color to your room.
You can see the soft pastel yellows, greens and violets of your gardening on
the right bookshelf; mixed in with the deep sage, orange-red, and navy blue
books containing a number of famous fictional classics in their pages.
Mismatched throughout are the white, grey, and black spines of poetry
books—both classic and modern—crammed with various pieces of paper that peak
out over their covers and bindings. Some papers contain notes you have made
while studying them, trying to understand how they work, while others have your
written attempts from being inspired to create your own. In the left bookshelf,
you observe the vibrant orange, red, and green of your music books. They are
interwoven with multi-colored, abstract edges of your comic books along towards
the bottom of the shelf. The middle is laced with mostly the deep purple and
teal blue of books containing knowledge about palmistry and astrology, along
with some black-binded books containing depictions of street art and facts
about voodoo that you sometimes like to skim through just for kicks. Looking
towards the top you recognize the cheery pinks and lavenders of your sewing and
embroidery books, decorated with colorful sticky notes to help you remember
certain techniques. They typically stand alongside the much more vibrant
fuchsia, seafoam, citron, and cream colors of your baking and cooking books.
However, it feels as though a few of them are missing. It strikes you as a bit
odd, considering you do not recall using them recently. However, you assume
they have just been misplaced them in the piles of other books you have,
awaiting to be shelved in the back room of your sleeping quarters.
 
Aside from that, the main section of your bedroom does not have much else to
offer in your line of sight. Tilting your head a bit, you catch a glimpse of
the right wall adjacent to your desk. It displays your artistic masterpiece of
misaligned posters; tapped and overlaid to create a collage of your favorite
rap-artists, indie bands, movies and TV-shows. Against the wall is a small
dresser that you store your notebooks, embroidery pieces, knickknacks and some
burned CDs. On top of it rest some videogames and something else you cannot
seem to make out. Tilting your head a bit higher you are able to see part of
the other section through the wide open entrance on the wall beside you.
You notice your dark amaranth curtains—patterned with polka dots in shades of
mint, blood red, and matte gold—which match the design of your bedspread. They
are pulled back just enough to let in some sunlight without lightening up your
entire quarters. The light glows softly down onto what you like to call your
“makeshift indoor garden”. In reality it is not much of a garden. Regardless,
you still adore it. Large pots of various flowers and tomatoes near the front
of the window; while terrariums of thyme, rosemary, and mint hang from the
ceiling. In the corner of the back room, where most of the light shines, you
can see a few of the branches peeking out from behind the wall blocking the
rest of your view. The branches are part of your kumquat plant, which has
become your newest gardening project. You have never really grown a tree
before. However, you have heard you can make marmalade out of its fruit—and
with wanting to attempt growing tree for some time—you figured a kumquat plant
was a good start. Though it is far from bearing any actual fruit yet, you can
tell it is still growing at a steady pace.
Since you made the main room of your quarters your sleeping area, there is not
much else in the back room, except for some books and your closet. Turning your
head, you are finally recognize the item on your dresser; your ukulele. You
immediately bring your head down to the pillows with a groan as memories flood
your mind yet again.
Pressing your left arm against your head, you recall how Jake had brought that
for you from a business trip so many years ago. You used to practice it every
day, learning every note and tune, until you knew that ukulele like the back of
your hand. How you would work so hard, figuring out how to play different
melodies and reading sheet music, until flawless sound of stings filled your
room. How you would search for new songs and covers of some of Jake’s favorites
in the hopes of impressing him. How you would take advantage of those rare
occasions when he would ask you to play for him, which afterwards he would
always applaud and give you a smile.
 
“My little bird always chirps the prettiest tunes,”he would tell you, patting
your head in a job well done; leaving you feeling as though you were skipping
across cloud nine.
 
You bring your hands to your eyes, covering them from the light. However this
does nothing to divert your mind. Now all you can see is him. Jake. You see his
auburn brown hair and vibrant emerald-green eyes. His light-caramel colored
skin and toned muscles. The slight scruff around his jaw that is barely visible
in the daylight when he looks down on you in the garden, yet defines his face
in the dim light of the night as he hovered over you, kissing and touching you
all over. You grunt out of frustration before peeking through your fingers,
hoping to find something that would take your mind off him.
However it just makes the thoughts worse. He is everywhere you look. There are
the gold trinkets and souvenirs he has brought you from faraway lands, strewn
across your low bookshelf and desk. There are the small harlequin dolls he has
given you which sit precariously along your bookshelves and dresser. Even the
mattress you lay on reminds you of him. He had it custom made for you so it
would accommodate not only your height, but your horns comfortably as well.
With a bounce and a growl you swiftly shift over onto your left side. Your
bracelets jingle in discord as you feel every stiff muscle ache with the move;
meanwhile your legs rub together and flare up the chronic burning and stinging
sensations that repeatedly plague you. You keep your hands clasped together and
stick them in-between your thighs to keep them from touching while you adjust
yourself until you are facing the plain white wall against your bed. Using your
right foot, you scoot one of the pillows near your feet until it is in between
your legs, replacing the job of your hands. You then take a moment to pull off
your bracelets, laying them gently by the clock on the low-bookshelf, before
bringing your hands by your head.
You close your eyes again, trying to focus on only the sound of the ticking,
letting your breath follow its slow pace as you do your best to ignore the pain
and the soreness coursing through your body. You continue to focus on the
ticking, and only the ticking, counting the seconds in your head like Dave
does. As you start to relax—feeling your fatigue take hold—you subconsciously
pull up the robe closer to your face like a blanket, forgetting that it is
Jake’s smoking jacket. You inhale deeply, breathing in the scent. It smells
strongly of cigar smoke, black tea, and scotch; while beneath it lies the faint
aroma of sandalwood and something entirely Jake. You try not to think about
what the scents mean to you. Instead, you simply continue to breathe in and
out. Soon you begin to find the aromas soothing, helping you further relax and
ignore all of your aches and pains, until your mind finally goes dark.
 
 
A sudden knock on your door takes your attention. As you open your eyes you
find yourself huddled up, practically in a ball. You must have fallen asleep.
You hear the door open, and close casually. Bare footsteps calmly make their
way over to your bed and you feel someone sit down on the edge near your feet.
Although you now feel more rested, you still feel the soreness and tension
strongly throughout your body, and thus make no efforts to move. However, while
peeking through the strands of your mussy hair, you can make out who it is.
You notice a head of light blonde hair, on a body that is hunched over, with
elbows resting on their knees. They are wearing red plaid pajama pants and a
white wife-beater. Their hair still shows signs of some bed head, yet for the
most part has seemed to be combed down and styled. The faint glow of some
handheld device reflects onto red eyes briefly, before being placed on the bed.
 
“Hey...” He says nonchalantly, slightly shoving you on the shoulder.
 
“You awake?”
 
You give a groan in response, not feeling up to saying any actual words yet.
The room stays quiet for a moment as each of you says nothing. You can see the
slight shifts of his arms and hands in the corner of your eye, as he looks down
at his feet.
 
“So he did it, didn’t he,” Dave concludes, solemn hidden in the casual tone of
his voice.
 
You say nothing, keeping your eyes on the white wall, as you hear him continue.
 
“Congrats on finally getting your grape cherry popped.”
 
Using only your right arm, you take the pillow from under your head and throw
it at Dave’s face. You witness from the corner of your eye that it makes a
direct hit. Dave tries to hold in a laugh, letting out a snort in the process,
and before you know it you are both snickering. However, your snickers turn
into a hiss when you subconsciously shift your legs again and cringe from the
pain.
 
“Looks like you were doin’ it rough last night,” he comments as you hear him
pick up his device and scroll through, “rougher than some mammals on the
Discovery Channel.”
 
You cannot help but smile as he continues to hum bits of the chorus line from
“The Bad Touch” while he scrolls through his device.
 
“Ok…” Dave says softly to himself. He then tosses the phone back on the bed
with a “got it” as he stands up. You look up at him with an eyebrow quirked as
he walks passed your bed and through the opening to the other room, before
walking through the bathroom door. Soon after, you hear the sound of the
bathtub filling up and various items being moved around the bathroom. Dave
calls out, voice slightly echoing off the tile in the bathroom.
 
“Yo Gam, c’mere for a sec!”
 
You stay where you are, only letting out a groan in response.
 
“Gam-Zee …”
 
Still, you refuse to budge. A good amount of time passes before he speaks
again.
 
“Actually it’s cool. Don’t come. I’ll just start belting out some Freddie
Mercury up in here instead so it’s all good an-“
 
“Mothafucka, calm down! I’m comin’!” You call back as you push yourself up from
the bed.
 
Although Dave is a friend with many talents, when it comes to singing he will
purposely do so in the most over-the-top and tone-deaf way possible; which
means the sheer concept of him yelling the lyrics to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ in
your echoic bathroom is enough to persuade you get out of bed and to
agonizingly drag yourself over there.
 
“You mean you came…Last night!”
 
You catch him in the midst of an “aww yeah” as you lean against the bathroom
door frame. You see him bent down near the faucet, testing the water of the
tub, which is now about over half-way full. You look at him quizzically while
he turns off the faucets.
 
“Mind tellin’ a bro why y’all up in his bathroom?” you inquire. You have to
admit you are kind of confused.
 
“To save a bro’s bang-hole from getting any more chaffed than it already is,”
he states factually as he stands up, dusting off his hands. He then turns to
look over at you as he points down.
 
“Ok dude, strip down and get in the tub,” he instructs.
 
However before you can protest he casually adds, “And don’t try to give me that
‘Omg I can’t undress in front of you’ crap like some cheesy teenage ‘girl-next-
door’ talking to her virgin neighbor-boy. You know I’ve seen plenty of privates
before and I can guarantee yours ain’t going to be the last…Besides, you’re
already flashing me your ken-doll crotch.”
 
Without breaking eye-contact he points his finger down. You follow his aim and
discover that you have left the robe completely open, leaving none of your
anatomy to the imagination. You sigh in surrender.
 
“Alright man, you win.”
 
You give him a slight smile, and he smirks in return as he moves over to set a
fresh towel on your towel rack. Meanwhile you walk over to your sink and grab
your hair brush, giving your hair a quick comb before pulling it back with a
hair tie and heading over to the tub, letting Jake’s robe fall to the floor in
the process. You hear Dave mutter what sounds like about time when he takes
your back brush from the shower rack, and uses it to pick up the smoking jacket
and swiftly carry it out of the room.
Once you slide into the tub you instantly feel a cooling sense of relief. The
water is not freezing but it’s just cold enough to help with the incessant
burning you have been dealing with all morning. You open your legs back a bit
in the tub, humming in appreciation as you let the water repose and heal you.
You forget how good baths can actually be. You really should take them more
often. In a few moments your mind begins to drift, and you think about your
plants. You need to check and see which ones need to be watered today. You also
have to prune the tree a bit. You hope it starts growing fruit soon. It would
be nice to try out some new recipes, maybe even create your own.
You are knocked out of your train of thought when you hear a door open and
shut. You here foot-steps coming closer and in the door-frame Dave reappears.
You did not even realize he left the room. He has a few items in tow that you
do not pay attention to, along with his handheld device. You return to basking
in the therapeutic water as he takes a seat on the toilet behind you. You smile
as you start to speak.
 
“Man…I hope you ain’t thinkin’ of taken a motherfuckin dump in here while I’m
all at getttin’ my wicked relax on. Cause if you are that’s some pretty fucked
up shi-”
 
Dave starts chuckling before you even finish your sentence, “C’mon man, you
know I at least has some class. Besides, your can isn’t up to par with my
porcelain throne. I’m not interested in using a bathroom guarded by weird ass
clowns dolls and has no good reading material.”
 
You let out a snort. You can never keep yourself from smiling or laughing
around Dave. The guy can be ridiculous, over-the-top, and a little cocky at
times, but in the end he is still your friend and one of the few people out
there that really gets you. You wish Jake was more like that. Not that you do
not hold any affection towards Jake.
Truth is you care about him a lot. He pretty much raised you after all. Went
out of his way to give you a home from the cold rain and never once thought
about kicking you to the curb. He has spent so much time being there for you,
teaching you things you thought you would never accomplish, making sure you are
well fed and dressed. However, as much as you care for him, looking back it
always felt like there was just something missing. The way he looks at you, the
fondness in his eyes. The way he smiles at you, holds you, laughs with you. The
way he talks with you, showing hints of his vulnerability only to you. These
are all things you cherish about Jake, and yet there is always something off
about them. As if there is something you are not getting. Maybe you are over-
thinking it. Maybe it is just your mind playing tricks on you. It is Jake after
all. This is the man who surprises you with gifts from far-off lands. Who sips
his tea in the garden, hiding his enjoyment when reading comic section of the
newspaper. You always enjoyed talking to Jake, listening about all his
adventures and stories; yet whenever you would talk to him, or share things
with him, or just try to connect about the things you like, he always felt
so…distant. As if his mind is elsewhere. You have always just assumed it was
because of business. Jake has habitually been a very busy man after all, with
his constant trips and business meetings. It would not be right to consider
that he has a lot on his plate, especially with the new financial problems the
Loveshack has been recently facing.
You feel the atmosphere become heavy in the growing quiet while your mind
continues to analyze Jake. Wondering about him, what he is thinking, why he did
not leave a note for you this morning, or just tell you for that matter. You
wish he would tell you things more often. However the older you have gotten,
the less he seems interested in informing you about his agenda. Does he even
want you to know? Does he even care? That is ridiculous. Of course he cares.
Why else would he open up to you like he did last night? Why else would he
praise you and treat you so kindly? Jake does cares for you. You knowthat. He
even said it right to your face. Though, if that is the case, then why is it
when he was with you he appeared so…detached. You relive glimpses of last night
in your head. The way he looked at you, his words, his promises. For some
reason, it all just seems so...hollow. Still, you made that choice; it had
nothing to do with Jake. You did it because you knew it was going to help him.
He told you it would save you both. You believe him. This is Jake. You trust
him. He has no reason to lie or to trick you. He cares for you. He would never
abandon you…and yet, why does everything just…hurt?
 
“Here.”
 
Dave’s voice breaks the everlasting silence and you look up to see he is
holding something in front of your face.
 
“Sorry they aren’t wrapped. I was going to give them to you later with the rest
of the guys, but I think it would be cooler to give them to you now.”
 
You take hold of the items he has given you, allowing him to return to sitting
on the toilet. You take a moment to observe the items. One item is a really
cool-looking book on slam poetry, while the other is a CD to one of your
favorite artists that you did not even know was out yet. You stare at the items
with both confusion and wonderment for more than what could be counted as a
moment.
 
“Seriously dude,” Dave chuckles softly behind you, “don’t tell me you forgot?
Why else do you think I was asking you about presents last night?”
 
Oh right. You forgot. It was last night. Your hands tighten their hold on your
gifts as you replay yesterday’s events in your head again. You lean against the
wall of the tub.
 
“Thanks bro…” you say quietly in an attempt to keep your voice from shaking.
 
“No problem…” he responds softly.
 
“….Happy 16th Birthday Gamzee.”
 
 
 
 
You watch as lilac droplets fall into the clear water below.
 
 
 
 
 
 
***** The Soft Light *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter has literally been over a year in the making, and I am
     regretful for the delay. This past year has had some heavy ups and
     heavy downs. However it feels so rewarding to finally be able to post
     this chapter. Thank you to all who have stayed dedicated to my story;
     it has really helped motivate and inspire me to keep going.
     I was originally going to wait to post this and possibly make cuts to
     certain sections and edits. However I don't really wish to postpone
     this any longer, so I apologize if the chapter seems to stretch out
     for too long, or if there are overlooked mistakes. Its mostly a
     transition chapter, since things are going to start picking up quite
     soon.
     Regardless I do hope you can still enjoy~
     music: link / link
 
 
 
      The soft light of the mid-morning sun glimmers through the windows and
against the obscure towers of lackluster metal. Yet not even their dull shine
can distract you from the atrocity you have currently set your sights upon;
feeling your chest grow weary as you observe it in dissatisfaction and shame.
Two Teflon pans sit across from each other, placed upon two of the four
electric burners constructed into a simple white stove. The stove-light above
you shines down upon them, bestowing the perfect spotlight for your disaster.
Though they may be equal in their placement, the contents of the pans are a
complete uneven failure. Chunks of unbroken flour lay prisoner to a thick
liquidy substance that has not blended consistently with the ingredients it
initially required to create it. The heavy scent of vanilla arises from the
pans, nauseating you just from its sheer strength alone. Your capacity for
regret has reached its peak and it is still not enough to amend for this
horrible situation.
 
You lift your flour coated arms to rub your tired eyes with the inner palms of
your hands. You contemplate what made you think you could even attempt to do
this in the first place. All you ever really do is have sex and write codes,
not bake cakes. It is a well-known fact in this house that you cannot bake much
of anything, or cook, or perform even the simplest of culinary tasks. You are
so inept when it comes to the confines of a kitchen that you actually have
difficulty operating the most elementary of kitchen appliances. Children are
able to operate such objects like a microwave with ease on a daily basis, and
yet you have managed to unintentionally destroy three of them; two due to pure
ignorance and carelessness, and one that surprised even you. Not only that but
when it comes to such a basic survival skill as cooking in general, you are the
most incapable out of everyone you live with. You manage to ruin just about any
meal you attempt to create; from adding too much water to rice, to catching
waffles on fire, to even burning soup. Soup of all things! A mixture of
veggies, broth, and water, and yet you somehow manage to turn it into a bowl of
blackened vegetables in a base of tasteless liquid. You breathe out a slow and
heavy sigh before lowering your palms away from your face. You shift your body
in order to achieve a better view of your surroundings, deciding to suppress
your growing despair in order to evaluate your homemade disaster-zone
logistically.
 
Though the main quarters has a spacious open floor plan, the kitchen portion is
fairly modest; yet still decent considering the room's stout "H"-shape design.
The main part of the kitchen consists of the inner northern wall with an island
and bar stools across from it, sectioning the kitchen from the rest of the
room. You veer your head to the right, tracing haphazard trails with your eyes
along the barely visible quartz countertop, buried under indeterminable
patterns of flour plastered against unneeded cookware, which you have
positioned in unbalanced stacks during your numerous moments of anger and
haste. You follow the trail approximately the width of two full counterspaces
until it halts abruptly. Beyond it resides a bulky white fridge, humming
quietly amidst the silent chaos that besieges it. Its doors have been slightly
decorated with various grocery lists and some of Dave's "ironic" comics.
Hesitantly you slowly look down the counters, feeling your nausea thickens,
bearing witness to their drawers and doors forcibly sprawled open. Stampedes of
numerous dishware and cookware hang from them like a frozen metal river,
pouring endlessly onto the beige kitchen rug. The rug valiantly protects the
pine wood floor from the scratches that your army of cookery has surprisingly
yet to cause. Yet its sturdiness is not immune to the scattered stains of
vanilla extract, leading a dotted path towards the island. Your body is tense
with abashment as your eyes continue to follow the path of vanilla drops, soon
disappearing into a path of scattered paper towels, drenched by the puddles of
water they feebly tried to absorb. They grovel beneath the kitchen sink that is
built into the left-half of the island, directly in line with the counterspace
beside the fridge, overflowing with murky water, utensils, and layers of foamy
bubbles. As you turn your gaze to the right-half of the island, you note that
it seems to have been somehow spared from the wreckage you have caused. However
despite it's sparing, it does not make you feel any better.
With a groan you reluctantly return your sight to your worthless confectionary
creation. You slouch as you begin to massage your lean right bicep with your
left hand, wrinkling the sleeve with each tight grip over your pale-yellow T-
shirt. You further critic your cake goop while you mentally reevaluate all the
baking procedures listed in the cookbooks fanned out all over the small
counterspace to your left. You are really starting to question how Gamzee finds
this even the least bit enjoyable; as well as why he has so many cookbooks
covering the same types of food with different methods to make them. What is
even the purpose of that? On another note, how isanyone supposed to even figure
out the exact measurements for all these ingredients? Yes you are able to
decipher a decent amount of encodings, scripts, and equations.  However with
units like "cup" and "tsp", it seems like nothing more than plain gibberish to
you. Besides, your goop resembles absolutely nothing like those in the cookbook
photos. Everything in these pictures appears so clean and perfect. The "batter"
is even, no clumps or chunks. No milk or egg yolks separated, floating around
because they apparently were unable to merge into the mixture with the power of
the wooden utensil you found; which you can only hope counts as a "mixing"
spoon. The comparison makes you cringe at your inadequacy. The goop has not
even been placed in the oven and yet you have already managed to fuck this up,
just as you do with every-single-thing. You are such a screw up. Why do you
even try? You already knew you were going to fail anyways. You should quit now.
Throw it into the trash while you still have a thread of dignity left. At least
then you can try to clean up this mess before anyone witnesses any evidence of
your horrible and embarrassing failure.
 
Without warning a stern voice infers, sharpened with a hint of sarcasm that
cuts your last thread of dignity, while interrupting the start of your mental
self-loathing soliloquy.
 
"What? No burned soup today Sol?"
 
You crane your neck farther to the left, viewing the source of the voice with
an expression of both irritation and revulsion. He leans his back against the
pantry casually, arms crossed loosely over the orange tanktop that clings
firmly to his torso. Dark-grey sweatpants overlap as he shifts his legs to both
aid in his balance and induce his nonchalant appearance. He angles his head,
languidly aligning his composed amber eyes with your disgruntled red and blue.
 
"No," you snide in response, "I felt like a change, tho I decided to thet
thomething elthe on fire inthtead."
 
You leer at him. You are not the least bit surprise that Dirk would be theone
person to appear out of nowhere, catching a front row view to your another one
of your most embarrassing and humiliating moments. A quick glance over his
shoulder reveals the entrance to his bedroom from across the open hallway. You
recall Dave and yourself returning to your own rooms after Dirk passed out on
his couch, forgetting to close his door along the way. You can only assume
that—because of another one of your idiotic and careless discrepancies—he was
awakened by all the commotion you were causing, becoming the cherry on top of
your endless problem sundae.
 
"So..." he continues, his tone imperative and calculating, "You decided on a
cake. What for?"
 
"Oh it'th for 'none of your fucking buthinethth'," you remark agitatedly as you
grab a pair of red oven-mitts off the counter. You quickly put them on, opening
the oven as you tensely place the pans onto the top rack. You make sure the
pans are positioned properly before tossing the oven-mitts heedlessly back onto
the counter and closing the oven door. There is probably no point in saving it
now, since you are positive you have already ruined the cake goop beyond
repair. However you refuse to give Dirk the gratification of behaving as such.
You can feel his eyes on you, watching carefully as you snatch a metal bowl off
of the counter to make the final piece to your disastrous cake: the icing. You
hastily drop a stick of butter into the bowl, shaking it off of your fingers a
bit too aggressively after it unfortunately impales itself on your claws. Next
you busily rummage through the light red-oak cabinets above you; grabbing the
jar labeled "powdered sugar" once you find it. Recalling that the recipe
requires "four cups", you grab the plastic drinking glass you used to measure
the flour with and begin to scoop it out of the jar. The air becomes weighted
as Dirk studies you intensely. You notice his shoulders stiffen a bit in the
corner of your eye as he clenches his arms tighter; yet still saying nothing.
It would be a lie if you said it was not starting to get to you. Nevertheless
you carry on, adding the last scoop of sugar before putting it back and moving
on to the final ingredient, a few drops of vanilla extract.
You squeeze the tiny bottle, watching cautiously as the liquid takes a
painfully extensive amount of time to accumulate. It probably would not be such
an intense moment, if it was not for Dirk staring you down as if you were on a
bomb squad and had forgotten which wire to cut. You hold your breath as the
first drop falls onto the powdery ingredients below, releasing a small sigh
once it melds in with the dry ingredients. Carefully you repeat the process,
feverishly waiting for the second drop to accumulate while the atmosphere
continues to grow more stagnant, making you hyperaware.
 
"Sollux."
 
The strict voice bolsters furiously through the silence, throwing you
immediately off guard. You flail briefly as the extract bottle slips out of
your tightened grasp and plunges straight into the mixing bowl, spilling a more
than a few too many drops into the mix. You brace yourself against the stove as
you regain your composure, craning your neck once again in order to stare Dirk
down.
 
"What?" You say through clenched teeth, trying to fight down the growl in your
throat.
 
"You forgot to set the oven timer." He says casually, almost monotone, as if
completely oblivious to the growing agitation he continues to cause.
 
Disgruntled, you scoot the bowl forward as you lean over the oven to reach the
clock, fiddling with the buttons in order to set on the timer mode. Just as the
time feature appears though, you freeze. You try to remember when exactly you
put the cakes in and how much time has passed. The nausea returns as your mind
continues to draw a blank, cursing the fact that it was Dirk who came to harass
you today and not Dave. As much as you could care less for his little
"stopwatch" habit, you have to admit it would have been pretty useful right
about now. Your train of thought is interrupted when you hear a strange sound,
similar to someone trying to control a cough. You sneak a glance over your
shoulder at Dirk, who is now casually scanning his eyes around the kitchen,
taking in the full view before returning his eyes on you. You quickly look back
onto the timer, deciding to set it for twenty minutes before swiftly moving off
the oven and returning your attention to the icing. You begin to search for a
new mixing spoon, restlessly scouring through the cupboards and matching
counter drawers, letting the utensils clank and scatter about nosily and you
dig through them.  
 
"Sollux."
 
You bring your motions to a screeching halt, turning your head sharply to face
Dirk; your jaw aching as you keep it clenched shut to decline any hisses or
growls from slipping passed your lips.
 
"We have a mixer." Dirk continues dryly, unaffiliated by the frustrated
expression forming on your face.
 
"Oh thank you captain obviouth,"you hiss sarcastically, touching two of your
left fingers to your forehead before swaying your hand openly towards Dirk, an
gesture likened to signify your sarcastic epiphany, "Becauthe apparentlyI
didn't already know that!"
 
You actually did not know that. Quickly you think of an excuse.
 
"I couldn't find the mixer, tho I dethided to uthe a mixing thpoon inthtead."
 
There is a pause as you and Dirk glare at each other. However he suddenly
breaks eye-contact, shifting his eyes to the left.
 
"...It's right next to you."
 
You follow his line of sight, tilting your view towards the countertop where a
strange, upside-down "L"-shaped device stands beside one of the may piles of
overused ingredients and unused utensils. On the end of its crane-like figure
hangs what looks to you like two very sturdy whisks, while on the side it seems
to have a lever that stretches across an etched bar of varying speeds. Looking
near the rounded front, you notice the brand of the manufacturer engraved in
bold letters along with something in a smaller, more elegant font. You decipher
the over-calligraphic font, mentally spelling out the letters "C-L-A-S-S-I-C-P-
L-U-S-M-I-X-E-R" as you mutter the words under your breath.
 
 When the realization hits, you can literally feel your back muscles tensing as
pressure begins to build up in your chest. You bite your lip, wishing
desperately you still had the use of your psiionics so you could blast that
senselessly moronic mechanism into ashes. You close your eyes and breathe deep,
trying to calm your inner distress. You are not going to let your rampant
emotions get the best of you on this. It is just icing afterall. Icing for a
cake that is probably and completely destined for the garbage once it is baked.
Yet, still icing nonetheless. You refuse to embarrass yourself even further by
having a mood swing over something as trivial as a common sugary confection;
which you ruined from the start because you are a failure and therefore should
not have even tried to bake in the first place. You halt yourself from that
train of thought. You cannot let yourself think like that. Better yet, you
should just not let yourself 'think' in general. You let out an exasperated
sigh and refocus, channeling your stress and attention onto making the icing.
 
"Sollux."
 
Dirk's voice cuts in yet again, though this time with a slight strain hidden
behind his usual steely tone. However it is not strong enough in your opinion
to be concerned about. What bothers you more is how claustrophobic this kitchen
is starting to feel, the nauseous feeling that cannot seem to dilute itself,
and the fact that Dirk is still-right-there.
 
"Well ithn't thomebody talkative today," you chide before noticing the extract
bottle in the bowl, still leaking. You rush to pluck it out of the bowl and set
it on the counter as you continue to sneer at Dirk.
 
"What, did you get bored of theeping the day away? Or did you run out of
thewing thuff for those dumb thex puppets-"
 
"smuppets."
 
"Oh joy," you comment, busying yourself with prepping the mixer while you
glance distinctly at his unsurprisingly stoic face, masking your own with
imperturbable unamusement, "you fucking named them. You mutht feel real proud
of that accomplithhment."
 
"Yes, it's one of my proudest achievements. It is an accomplishment so worthy
of praise that it deserves only the mightiest of overly-bronzed plaques
engraved with the time and date of this momentous occasion, along with a photo
commemorating the ceremony that was held specifically in its honor." Dirk
states apathetically, overlooking your snides entirely as you aggressively move
and shift objects around in order to have a better handling on the mixer.
 
"Sollux."
 
You slam the counter drawers to your right, rolling your eyes as you scoff. You
ignore him as you yank the mixing bowel off the stove to secure it under the
mixer.
 
"Sollux."
 
He calls your name again. You can hear his tone grow just ever so slightly in
order to catch your attention. However you refuse to listen and impatiently
position the mixing whisks into the bowl, hearing a click that you think
signifies it has locked in place. You are not really sure what all the notches
on the lever signify, however Dirk's voice continues to assault your focus.
Thus you feverently set it to the farthest notch and go to plug it in. However,
just before you do, Dirk interjects once more, though this time with a more
commanding tone.
 
"Sol-"
 
"Deiderik Zachariah Thtrider!" You snap, no longer able to control your ever-
flourishing frustration and distress. You practically hiss at him as you
continue.
 
"Tho help me, if youdare thay my name one more time, I will perthonally take
thith piethe of thit mixer and thove it right up your athth, along with the
thtick you have currentlythuck up in there!!"
 
There is a pause as he looks at you for a moment. Anyone else looking at him
would probably describe his face as the most unapologetic, apathetic expression
they had ever witness. However you know better. His jaw is clenched, evident by
how tightly his lips are pressed together. His amber eyes are half-lidded while
his eyebrow gives a small twitch downward now and then. All of this and yet he
surrenders, motioning with his right hand as if he is zipping his lip. You take
a deep breath, exhaling in victory as you go to plug in the mixer. You then
flick the switch at the top, confidently turning on the machine, and instantly
receiving a blast of powdered sugar to your face. The whisks spin furiously,
rattling the machine with its speed and sending powdered sugar flying
everywhere while you struggle to find the off-switch. You surrender your
efforts and jerk the plug out of the outlet in the midst of the frenzy,
inducing the room into a painful and agonizing silence.
 
You pant heavily in the immense quiet as you brace yourself against the counter
with your left hand, still gripping the plug with your right. With what little
composure you have left, you gradually release the cord and unlock the mixer.
Steadily, you drag the bowl out from under it and carefully move the bowl onto
the stove. You close your eyes and take in one last deep. Slowly, you tilt your
head downward and open your eyes. The minute you see the bowl you freeze,
feeling the air still caught in your lungs. There is practically nothing left.
All that remains in the bowl are weighted chunks of powdered-coated butter and
wild trails of sugar dust from where it spewed out. A wave of trepidation hits
you as you become overwhelmed by your surroundings, feeling trapped, almost
unable to move. The tightness in your chest is now constricting your heart like
a python killing its prey, making it almost too hard to breathe. Steadily you
bring your left hand to your neck while wrapping your right arm around your
torso. You attempt to massage your neck in a desperate attempt to calm down as
you unintentionally fist the side of your shirt. However your attempts are
failing miserably. You are almost crushed by the room, feeling as though you
are caged in an hourglass while sand continues to pour down from above,
smothering you against its unbreakable prison. Your body is restless, seeking
some form of comfort and yet not wanting to be touched at all. With the feeling
of nowhere to go and your body unwilling to move, all it can do is shake and
cause your chest to compress even further. The nausea is ever present as you
try to swallow, even though your mouth is now parched. You do not know what to
do—whether to cry, scream, or destroy something—and yet your body refuses to
move, letting your mind continue to linger on how this is all your fault; how
you are such a failure in life and are doomed to forever be. You are the worst,
scum, useless trash that has no business being given second chances in this
unforgiving world. Why you? Why are you given opportunities when there are so
many people more deserving than you? Why do you try? What good are you
anyways? 
 
"Sollux."
 
Before you can continue your thoughts are faltered by a voice, firm yet soft,
floating to your ear.
 
"Shut up."
 
You feel something strong and warm push up against your back, while you watch
toned biceps loop under your arms and around your torso, grabbing the metal
bowl in front of you. You focus on his hands, how you feel his body shift and
twist behind you, reaching for things, shoulders rubbing against you as his
hands place items into the bowel. It takes you a moment to snap out of your
thoughts completely before you finally process what is going on.
 
"Hey!" you rebuke. You try to maneuver your way around in order to face him.
Unsuccessful in your endeavors, you then attempt to navigate out of his
indirect embrace. Despite your best efforts though, he has you pinned. You
growl at him bitterly,
 
"Holy thhit thtop, I don’t need your help!"
 
"I'm not helping you," he retorts.
 
Suddenly your back becomes overwhelmed by a cold emptiness as Dirk pulls his
chest away to better prepare the ingredients. He slips his right arm out from
under your side to grab the powdered sugar from where you placed it in the
cupboards. Although you find Dirk's meddling tedious, you cannot help but
internally about how exposed and vulnerable you feel from the loss of warmth
against your body. You soon realize that the contact is not entirely lost when
you feel his left forearm bush against your waist, reminding you he is still
there. Listening to the sounds of metal clinking and wooden cabinets creaking,
you try to figure out what exactly Dirk's motive could be. Yet you continue to
stare down at the bowl, noticing that he has placed some more butter and a bit
of milk in it. You feel his chest press against your back once again, embracing
you in his warmth as he reloops his right arm around you. You blink and find
yourself staring at something dangling in front of your face, catching you off
guard.
 
"What the actual fu-"
 
"Measuring spoons," Dirk affirms, his tone stern yet softer than the norm. He
is about an inch or so shorter than you, yet somehow he manages to find himself
a comfortable view of the stove by bringing his chin to rest on your left
shoulder. He grabs the vanilla extract with his right and sifts through the
keychain of 'measuring spoons' as he continues dangling them in front of your
face with his left, until he finds one he is satisfied with. He then fills the
spoon, emptying it into the bowl, and repeating the process except only filling
the spoon halfway. Keeping your focus on the bowl, he shoves another utensil in
your face.
 
"Whisk this," he directs, leaving you quite unsure what to do for a moment.
 
"I'll do it if you don't know h-"
 
"I know what whithkik...wikththin...whitk-jutht gimme the thtupid thing." you
assert. You slip the whisk from his hand before he ends his indirect embrace to
busy himself with some other task in the kitchen, leaving you to work
independently. It takes you a minute to contemplate the proper use of the
utensil; however you quickly recall how the whisks on the mixer functioned and
start to apply the same methods by hand. It is difficult at first, yet you push
on, channeling the remnants of your stress and frustration into whisking those
ingredients like there is no tomorrow. You become so invested into mixing the
ingredients that you actually become immune to the sounds of the kitchen,
forcing Dirk to actually shove you with his shoulder, moving you to the right
and out of the way of the stove.
Though time passes, you do not feel it the slightest bit as you continue to
absorb yourself in your current task. You cannot help yourself from this small
feeling of excitement as you witness the ingredients merge and take on a
texture similar to those displayed in the cookbooks.  For once something you
are making is starting to take on a recognizable—and a possibly edible—form.
Plus, being able to beat the butter to death with a whisk is something you are
starting to find highly meditative, therapeutic even. You make a mental note to
remember this when you start feeling bouts of stress.
Your focus is abruptly deterred when Dirk slams something onto the counterspace
in front of you. You recognize the object as the powdered sugar container. He
leans toward it a bit and begins to scoop the sugar into some strange
transparent bowl-cup hybrid, decorated with various linear red markings. After
he fills it to a certain point he straightens himself and turns towards you.
 
"Here," Dirk instructs, "Let me see the bowl."
 
At first you are reluctant, however you concede, rotating your torso left in
order to better his convenience. As you hold out the bowl with your arms he
reaches out, gripping the edge with his right hand, tugging both you and the
bowl closer. He looms the strange cup over the mixing bowl with his left hand
and tilts it just slightly. He shakes it gently with his wrist, sprinkling the
powdered sugar around the bowl. A soft quiet returns to the kitchen as you
watch the sugar fall gracefully, coating the mixture like the first fresh snow
of a budding winter. You glance up and immediately realize how close Dirk is to
you right now, barely inches apart, standing face to face. However, as his eyes
remain focused on coating the mixture, yours unintentionally start to roam.
You observe quietly the details of his dirty blonde hair, naturally spiked from
his haircut yet not completely styled this morning, giving it a much softer and
less jagged appearance. Your eyes lower their gaze, watching the tips of his
bangs sway softly, brushing lightly against his forehead. His bangs point down
to his slightly darker blonde eyebrows, relaxed and unfurrowed, reflecting the
calmness in his vicious amber eyes. They are shielded by his surprisingly long
blonde eyelashes that compliment and contrast beautifully against his sun-
kissed skin; hiding his fiery irises when he blinks like white-lace veils. His
head shifts now and then, baiting your eyes to stroll down his neck and view
the defined muscles in his chest and left shoulder, routinely adjusting along
with the motions of his tactfully sculpted arm.
 
"There," he says, snapping your concentration back to his eyes as he continues,
"Now finish blending it."
 
You wordlessly continue your task, whisking the ingredients at rapid speed
while Dirk departs your side to fetch some things in the cabinets. You push the
lingering thoughts of Dirk’s body into the back of your head as you reclaim
your focus on the icing.
After some time, Dirk calls for you from behind and requests you bring him the
icing when it is completed. Once you review the cookbooks for visual comparison
you then turn around and strut over to Dirk while he tends to something on the
cleaner half of the island, and confidently present him the icing. As he
accepts you catch the words "Oh hey, looks good"beneath his breath. You are
unsure as to whether he means this as a compliment or whether his expectations
were just so low that he is genuinely impressed; which provides you with an odd
sensation of both flattery and annoyance. You decide to ignore the latter
scenario, letting your aggravation subside as you position yourself on his
left, propping your elbows on the countertop as you lean over to observe Dirk's
next line of action.
 
On the countertop in front of Dirk you regard some object akin to that of a
miniature pedestal. It's eggshell-white coating glistens delicately like fine
porcelain against the soft sunlight illuminating from the windows; outlining
the shape of its beveled-edged base as it stretches upward into a sinuous stem
before becoming stout, extending outward into the form of a circular platform
and molded carefully to give it the design of an intricately crocheted
tablecloth draping over the edges. Upon the platform rests what you suppose is
one of the round cakes you were baking, while the other one hides behind it on
a raised metal grid. You presume Dirk must have retrieved them while you were
distracted by the icing. As you continue to examine the cakes from afar, you
are struck with subtle disbelief. The cakes look like nothing you neither
expected nor imagined. They are perfectly leveled and baked evenly, fully
cooked to a tanned—and very delicious looking—golden brown similar to that of
the images in the cookbooks. Whether the cakes are actually edible is still
something you are greatly unsure of, though despite your uncertainty they still
appear very appetizing.
 
Once Dirk removes the whisk from the bowl and exchanges it with something the
cookbooks refer to as a "spatula", he immediately goes to work. You watch in
awe of Dirk's skill as he icings the cake. His hands move with unfathomable
precision and speed, rotating the delicate pedestal swiftly with his right hand
as he flawlessly covers the top of the cake with a smooth and even layer of
icing. You make the poor decision to blink, only to reopen your eyes and find
that Dirk has already placed the second cake on top and is now covering the top
and sides beautifully with the icing. After the cake has been given a smooth
and even coat, you witness Dirk once again switch utensils. However you quirk
an eyebrow, recognizing the new utensil he grabs this time is in fact, a dinner
spoon. You watch questionably as he swirls the spoon around the cake, moving
just as fast as he did before. As the design starts to become more evident, you
pay closer attention to his motions; watching how the spoon practically glides
across the cake, how his wrist moves so precisely as if artistically painting
strokes of an oil painting on a stretched canvas. You find it almost relaxing
how the grooves of the design swirl like the waves of the ocean.
 
When the cake is complete, he lifts the stand and displays it on the bar part
of the island, raising the cake high enough to grab anyone's attention in the
room. Suddenly, you snap to attention, alerted by the sudden voice hollering
from the other side of the room. You tilt your neck and catch yourself in
Dirk's glance, his eyes lidded and uninterested as he simultaneously places the
spoon down and positions the pedestal on the bar edge of the island. 
 
"Hold up. Bro you didn't tell me we were having cake for breakfast..."
 
Looking beyond the counter, you witness the source of the voice, and slump your
shoulders a bit as you exhale deeply.
 
 "So did you finally grow a sweet-tooth bro?" Dave calls with a smirk as he
strolls toward the kitchen, still clad in his pajamas. Gamzee follows closely
behind, hair loosely tied back and dressed in dark grey polka-dot pajamas pants
with lime-green fuzzy socks. He hides his hands in the pouch of his favorite
violet and black-stripped hoodie, which always appears two-sizes too big on him
regardless of his height.
 
"Never thought I'd see the day you'd become a sugar fiend," Dave chimes as he
hops on the one of the barstools, while Gamzee regards the seat next to him
with concern, "Baking cute little cakes and all that shit-what's that phrase
they're always using in those anime forums you secretly go on? Oh yeah 'you're
so kawai-' "
 
"I didn't bake the cake Dave," Dirk interrupts, unmoved by his brother's
teasing. Dave leans against the counter, arching an eyebrow while his red eyes
liddle with distain from being cut off.
 
 "Sollux did."
 
Gamzee and Dave look up at each other and almost immediately their faces begin
to contort. You cross your arms, leering at them from across the island while
snickers are heard from their tightened lips.
 
"I'm serious."
 
"Uh-huh. Then why isn't the kitchen on fire?"
 
You roll your eyes as your lips purse in despondence to the stupidity of Dave's
question. However before you can defend yourself, Dirk rebuttals on your
behalf.
 
"As much as it would make the scenario more believable if the house was filled
with smoke and staff members shrieking in the distance, the fact that this
kitchen looks like a city dump should be evidence enough.
 
Dave hunches over as he points his finger at Dirk. His expression regains what
you would like to define as his 'signature smart-allec smirk' once he begins to
combat Dirk's expectedly crude and offensive attempt at defending the truth.
 
"Okay, since you really seem to want us to believe that Sollux baked the cake,
then tell me why he'd want to go through all that trouble in the first place,
instead of getting someone else to make it?"
 
"Because," Dirk begins all too quickly and almost too casually, immediately
shifting your attention away from your thoughts. You feel your heart clench and
your chest tighten. There is absolutely no way he could know the answer, right?
Dirk is very perceptive, yet could he really know the true reason? The last
thing you want is for anyone to know, especially after all that happened to
Gamzee last night. No doubt he or Dave would ever want to talk to you again.
You really wish you could tell Dirk to shut up right now, however your body has
become too rigid to do anything but listen.
 
"He baked the cake to give as a birthday present to Gamzee."
 
"So…” Dave shrugs as his eyebrows furrow at his brother's response, "why not
just buy him a present?" After a pause his expression becomes lax as he raises
his brows.
 
"Unless, he forgo-"
 
“Even though Sollux trying to bake is pretty much the same as a kid playing
with gasoline," Dirk intercepts before Dave can complete his deduction, " he
still thought that a homemade gift would beat out some shitastic merch from an
online store," Dirk cocks an eyebrow at his younger brother as his tone starts
to become more assertive.
 
"And considering that Gamzee is usually the one baking all the cakes for our
birthdays, wouldn't it be a nice change of pace for someone else to return the
favor?"
Arms crossed, Dirk twists his torso and aims his face at you.
 
“As I remember it, that’s you were complaining to me about this morning. Ain’t
that right Sol?"
 
You switch your glance quickly between Dave and Gamzee to Dirk's bright amber
eyes. He rolls his eyes in the other boys' direction and gives his head just a
quick slight nod. Suddenly it clicks and you instantly loosen up enough to
respond.
 
"Fuck yeth it wath." You answer adamantly, relaxing your shoulders as you start
to place some dirty utensils in the sink, "Rather do thomething worthwhile for
thith kid'th thweet thixteen than jutht by him a CD."
 
You aim your eyes at Dave, who slinks down a bit in his seat. Gamzee then
places his hand on Dave's right shoulder as he smiles warmly, leaning somewhat
against him as he speaks in a calm yet quiet tone.
 
"Man, y'all are just wicked deep in mothafuckin' niceness...It doesn't matter
what you guys get though...I'm just all up in about the mothafuckin' thought ya
know?"
 
You catch Gamzee's hand tightening on Dave's shoulder and Dave responding by
bringing his own hand to rub at Gamzee's back. You are not entirely sure why,
but since Gamzee and Dave have entered the kitchen area, something has felt
off. Gamzee has never been the biggest talker—much less the most eloquent—but
he has never been this withdrawn before. Normally he would be leaning over the
counter with that doofy smile on his face, slouched and relaxed, telling
everyone about the weird dream he had or one of his favorite shows. Today
however, he just seems so quiet, too quiet. You study him for a moment; how he
continues to stare down at the ground, hunched over a bit while staying as
close to Dave as possible. He appears as if he is closing in on himself, like a
moonflower furling from the touch of morning sunlight.
 
Your stomach sinks once your mind pieces together the reasoning behind his
actions. You immediately brainstorm ways to cut through the weightiness of the
growing atmosphere. As your mind searches for methods, a glimmer on the counter
attracts your sight, revealing a large pie-slice shaped knife and sparking an
idea.
 
"Alright you lotherth," you begin as you shove Dirk out of your way with your
right shoulder, seizing the knife in your left hand while moving over towards 
the cake.
 
 "Time to thit your aththeth down and get your plateth ready."
 
As you begin to carve the cake you notice Gamzee remains standing until Dave
motions to the seat next to him. You observe as he Gamzee hesitantly sits down
in the corner of your eye; his frame seemingly shaking until Dave scoots his
seat closer. You honestly do not know how much of this behavior you can handle.
The amount of withdrawal Gamzee has towards the world is so unlike him; it is
too strange, too ominous, too.... nostalgic in a disturbing sense. However,
though you had no one but yourself to guide you through your more painful
trials, Gamzee does not, and just like Dirk and Dave you intend to do whatever
you can in order to remind him of that fact. You look over your right shoulder
so you can command Dirk to pass you some plates, however he already seems to
have you covered, setting them on the counter beside the cake stand. Quickly
you return your attention to the cake, balancing a big fresh-cut slice with the
knife in one hand while raising a plate closer with the other, before flopping
the slice onto the place and sliding it across the island bar, stopping
directly in front of Gamzee's place-setting.
 
"Birthday kidth alwayth get firtht dibth," you say as Dirk divides two sets of
silverware on the bar in front of Gamzee and Dave.
 
Gamzee moves his gaze from Dirk to you, violet irises veering their focus in
elliptical patterns as if still deciding whether or not to make contact with
your own. His reluctance to act is evident in the long pause he requires before
slowly picking up the fork. He shifts his glance towards Dave, eyes wide as if
looking for some sort of careful detail in Dave's expression that would signal
disapproval in his actions. However, Dave simply smiles, motioning for Gamzee
to continue.  Gamzee then turns his attention to the cake slice, tentatively
cutting a bite with the fork and bringing it to his mouth. You proceed to watch
nervously as Gazmee tastes your imposter of a cake.
 
"Its...."Gamzee mutters as his expression widens with shock. You notice the
Striders' lean in a bit, awaiting Gamzee's judgement. Meanwhile, you feel as
though your lungs have refused to work and are forcing you to die of
suffocation before having to hear the humiliating verdict. However death does
not come before Gamzee speaks again.
 
"Good?"
 
Gamzee looks as though he's solved some master riddle by accident while Dave
stares at the cake, appalled by Gamzee’s call. You peak at Dirk who, though
does not share in his brothers expression of disbelief, cannot seem to keep
himself from staring down the cake as well.
 
--
"No way man," Dave declares cynically as he leans back and crossing his arms,
"Sollux actually making something edible goes against the laws of nature. It
would be like having a 'Real Housewives' show where they aren't throwing shit
at each other, or having a ham sandwich with mayonnaise on it-or something else
out there that just ain't natural."
 
"Oh wow!" You sneer, feigning surprise on your face, "Thankth for the pep talk
there Gordon Ramthey! Good to know that my cooking ith tho unnatural it could
cauthe a rift in the fucking thpace time continuum," you give him a shrug as
you continue, "But hey guethth what? You don't ever have to worry what it
tathte like, cauthe you're now not evengetting a fucking crumb of this cake."
 
As if alerted to this decision, Dave straightens himself in his chair. He cocks
an eyebrow and stares you straight in the eye.
 
"Oh I am so trying that cake."
 
Dave then stands in his chair using his left arm as leverage while he lunges
over the island bar, swiftly reaching for the pie-shaped knife. On reflex you
switch the pie-knife to your right as you use your left hand to smack his out
of the way. However he grabs your left wrist in response.
 
"Give me the cake cutter Sol," Dave demands intensely, red eyes narrowing.
 
"I'll thhit on this cake before I give you a thlice."
 
 Before you know it you are in a showdown of tug-of war, with you flailing your
arm in the hopes of shaking Dave off while he continues to yank you closer in
order to better reach the knife. Suddenly, you feel the pie-shaped knife being
snatched out of your hand. However the minute you look back at it you hear a
muffled cuss as you feel your wrist being released. You are then immediately
shoved to the left, before witnessing Dirk cutting a slice of cake and placing
it in front of his brother.
 
You groan in irritation as Dave gives you a cocky smirk before devouring a
chunk of cake.  Yet his confident expression is short-lived as he almost
instantly coughs and gags, cringing to the point where he falls to the floor.
 
"Sollux," Dirk questions as he examines over Dave's cake, arms crossed sternly,
"How many eggs did you originally put in there?"
 
"Why?"
 
Gamzee leans over to get a better glimpse of Dave's cake, before he starts
trying to hide snickers beneath his concern as he speaks.
 
"Pfft-mothafucker all up and ate a whole egg yolk."
 
Baffled, you lean over to view the slice yourself, ignoring Dave's dramatic
complaining and pleads for water. Lo and behold, you witness a portion of a
cooked egg yolk inside the slice. You feel your face stretch into a wide grin
as you begin to laugh. You cannot seem to help it. The fact that Dave gave you
all that crap about your cake and to wind up eating an egg yolk—which you all
know Dave absolutely hates—is just downright hilarious. Your chest now hurts in
a good way as you try to get your breath between your frenzy of laughter, while
you rest your torso over the island for leverage.
Out of the blue you hear shouts in a language unkown to you, followed by a loud
smacking sound. Yet before you can determine the source you feel something like
old magazine harshly whack with the side of your head.
 
 
"What the fu-"
 
 
You turn abruptly and find yourself face-to-face with a very angry, very
dangerous looking troll. She looks down at you with eyes that are a furiously
deep shade of burgundy, matching the lipstick she wears. They are encompassed
in black eyeliner reminding you of the shape of a lion's eye. Her defined
eyebrows are furrowed and her nose is cringed. Her long black hair is wrapped
in a tight bun on her head while two strands lay loosely on the sides of her
face. Just above those strands however are two thick horns—curved like the
horns of a ram—with points as sharp as the two jade hair sticks stuck in her
bun. She is adorned in a lime green oriental-styled silk shirt that stretches
over the band of her pleated age skirt. You hear the shifting of her lime green
knee-highs on the floor as she taps her left foot impatiently.
 
"Looks like the Handmaid's awake," Dave points out mockingly from behind. You
doubt she heard the nickname since she seems too preoccupied with
simultaneously glaring between you and Dirk, as well as further constricting
the rolled up fashion magazine between her freshly manicured fingers. You
clench your jaw tight as she bears her teeth, before scolding you...again.
 
 
"FIVE TIME I TELL YOU STAY OUT OF KITCHEN, FIVE TIME YOU NO LISTEN. YOU MAKE
SHIT MESS YOU CLEAN, NOT ME!!"
 
Dirk snorts. She points her magazine directly at Dirks face, yet his stoic
expression remains strong, denying her the gratification of a flinch.
 
"It go for you too 'Kamina'-wannabe," she growls, "You no fool me, I know you
help."
 
Dirk leans back against the island, crossing his arms. His face is stone as he
stares back at her with the casual sharpness of his amber eyes.
 
 "You know for a fact I don't give out charity Damara. What makes you think I'm
part of this mess?"
 
Unamused, she aims her magazine lower, towards his lower abdomen. You and Dirk
look down, noticing that his tanktop and sweats are covered in flour.
 
"Damn..." Dirk mumbles. You can hear Dave and Gamzee muffling their chuckles
behind you.
 
Damara then places her hands on her hips as she straightens herself before
continuing.
 
"No more discussion. Decision is final.Now clean!!-oh ya and I take cake."
 
 
Immediately she swoops in between you two and picks up the cakestand, carrying
it to the dining table along with a fork and plate. Meanwhile it appears Dave
and Gamzee have once again absorbed themselves in their own little world,
leaving the bar to go play MarioKart on the living room TV. You tilt your head
at Dirk after releasing an exasperated sigh. Despite the stone nature of his
face you can tell he feels the same as he raises his left hand out of his
formerly crossed arms to rub at his temple. Taking a deep breath he then looks
at you and smirks. Your eyes widen a bit as you realize it is not like his
regular smirks. It’s a smile, small but genuine; tired but sincere. You are not
sure why but the sight makes your cheeks feel hot. However, you are soon
distracted from the warmth of your face as Dirk smile starts to take motion.
 
 
"C’mon," Dirk directs as he taps you on the shoulder, "we've got work to do."
 
 
You join alongside him as you both work tirelessly to clean the wreckage you
caused in the kitchen. However having two pairs of hands is better than one and
Dirk moves as if he has seven, so thankfully cleaning does not take the endless
hours you thought it would. Once you finish, you both reunite with the other
three and engage in a Gamzee-based day of videogames, movies, presents, and his
favorite dinner prepared by Damara. The rest of the day flies by in a whirlwind
of laughs and jokes, ridiculous stories and more of your cake; which did turn
out to be pretty tasty aside from the occasional egg yolk.
 
Now as the night sky darkens and the streets go quiet, you catch yourself
slowly drifting off on the center couch, beside an already passed out Dirk. You
gaze down onto the floor to see Dave and Gamzee attempting to mimic the "magma"
faces, as they continue to watch Zoolander. Peaking over the couch, you catch a
glimpse into Dave's room and a portion of his balcony, where the soft light of
an ember glows brighter on the edge of Damara's cigarette.
You can feel the faintness of the warm breeze traveling from the room, bringing
an effortless tranquility to the night. You shift your view next to you, where
Dirk has quietly fallen asleep. He looks as peaceful as the night, breathing
softly through pursed lips. You inhale slowly as you close your eyes,
revisiting the events of the day in your head. You enjoy your nights with
strangers, that is something you do not deny. However, you cherish these quiet
nights more.  How you all are casually able to enjoy each other’s company like
in those family sitcoms on TV. Or how all your worries seem few and far between
like those of the pedestrians on the street.  How you all seem more relaxed and
at ease, acting as if the quality of your lives are not restricted by these
walls.
 
Yet like all good things, these days do come to their ends. Tomorrow you will
wake up and this moment will be over. Everything will go back to normal and the
routine cycles once again. Like with every day before, tomorrow you go back to
being just another gem in the Loveshack, waiting for your next client as you
sit behind the red bared walls.
 
 
 
 
Without realizing it, you drowsily lean against Dirk. You find comfort in the
warmth of his body as it reminds you of a soft warm light before you finally
fall asleep.
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