The Safeword is 'Papa' (ch.1)
#1 of The Safeword is 'Papa'
Am I weird?
No, really - am I?
Even as I write this, I can't tell. I'm almost 30 years old, two-foot-nothing minus ears, and I weigh about as much as a pillow. I wear Hawaiian shirts in the winter and I'm currently in between housing and job opportunities. I think I have a boyfriend, but I'm not sure.
I'm typing this part on my phone. We stayed up all night watching a monster movie marathon. I'm on his chest, in my jammies. He's dead asleep with his arm around me, cradling me. The bastard. It was my beddie-bye time over two hours ago. If he thinks he's getting paid for tonight, he can go fornicate himself with a bag of rusty nails.
This is a terrible, terrible opening for a romance story.
Let me try again.
* * * * *
I hesitated before knocking on the RV door, steeling my resolve for the third time since all this started. Before my little fist even reached the rusted surface, the hatch opened with a metallic creak.
"Hey Champ," said Shitface McGrinstoomuch, squatting down over his knees to send a smirk my way. "Ready for our little sleepover?"
I flicked him on the nose a bit harder than I meant to. "We ain't started yet. Get the fuck out my face with that shit."
Rubbing his snout, Lord Dickbag ushered me inside, almost shutting the door on my tail. I dropped my goody bag in the little kitchenette area, wasting no time in opening the clasps and rooting around for my change of clothes and various other accoutrements.
"Hungry?"
"Nah," I said, patiently avoiding his gaze. "Ate before heading over."
"Thirsty?"
"I'll grab a beer from the fridge later."
"Ohh, I'm afraid that won't be possible once we start!"
I sighed. This motherfucker. "Alright then. Crack me one. I'm gonna need something to get through this."
Obediently, the walking cold sore produced a filigreed can of mid-shelf beer out of the leaky old fridge, popping the tab and leaning it down to me. I snatched it, chugged it, crushed the can on my forehead and flung it vaguely in the direction of the trash.
"What do you want the word to be?"
"I don't care," I said, teetering, silently lamenting the head rush that was soon to follow.
"Oh c'maan. It's something you gotta remember. Make it cute this time."
Cute. Just hearing the word sent a shiver up my spine. "I literally don't care. You pick. I'm gonna go destroy your shower. Do NOT knock."
I pivoted around the door leading into Lord Cockbreath's broom closet of a bathroom, dodging the Cheshire grin he was casting my way as I locked myself in.
* * * * *
One luxurious, hot water tank-depleting shower later, I made a mess of his towel drying off, leaving it wet and wadded on the back of the toilet as I slipped into my uniform for the evening. Doing a sick parkour jump from the toilet to the sink, I studied myself in the toothpaste-flecked mirror, turning this way and that beneath the one working incandescent bulb.
Okay. Ready.
Slowly, carefully, quietly... I began to open the door, taking a deep breath as I readied to cross the threshold into another life, another me.
Just do it pussy, I mentally scolded myself. An interesting choice of words, in hindsight.
* * * * *
"Daddy?"
He was sprawled across the bottom bunk in the back of the RV, an eerie light playing across his pointed face as he studied the boxy TV set up on the nightstand. When he heard me come in, he sat up, palming sleep from his eye. "Hey Champ. All done?"
I nodded.
"Did you wash your paws?"
I nodded.
"Can I see?"
I held my paws out to him, pads up. He stooped down to examine them, then smiled and tousled my headfur. "Good boy. You ready for movie night?"
I gasped as he picked me up, resisting the fading urge to bite his face off. "Y-yeah!"
My ears fanned down as he kissed between them. Electricity shot up my spine, making me black out for a second. When I came to, my arms were around his neck. Not choking the life out of him for once, but rather in a loose, affectionate hug.
"Whaddya wanna watch, kiddo?"
He held me aloft so that I could study his meager VHS collection, most of which I'd brought over myself for just such an occasion. "B-Beauty and the Beast!"
Nick sighed. "C'mon buddy... we've seen that movie five times already!"
Twisting around to face him, I gave Nick my best puppy dog eyes, ears drooping down to my shoulders. "Pwease?"
At this Nick rolled his eyes. Not his usual eye roll, mind you. More 'indulgent father' than 'snarky asshat'.
"You're killin' me, kiddo. Okaaayy. Tell ya what... we'll watch Beauty and the Beast, and then we'll catch what's left of the monster movie marathon. Deal?"
I grinned cheekily. "Deal!"
He smiled, holding me in his arms. "There's my little guy." Then he kissed me.
It wasn't supposed to be weird. Dads kiss their sons all the time when they're this age. But this was all still so new to me. Lightning shot through me again, and again I must have blacked out, because when I came to we were just ending a kiss that felt like it had been going on a wee bit too long, and just a wee bit on the wrong side of platonic.
My vision came back into focus. He was smiling down at me.
"Good boy."
Cuddling me to his chest, Nick turned to head us back into the sleeping quarters. As he did, I caught sight of the chalk board on the fridge.
At its inception, I guess the board was intended for grocery reminders, or Honey Do lists. Instead, scrawled across its surface in an airy cursive, someone had painstakingly lettered the words...
THE SAFEWORD IS 'PAPA'
...in flamboyant pink chalk.