#parachel

[rachelberrydk]

☆ - Our muses go stargazing together

When he suggests it, Rachel naturally assumes stargazing is a euphemism, because of course it is, right? She can’t imagine that Mr. Hayes, or any other man, is going to lead her on a small hike to a remote piece of earth, only to spend his time watching the sky – except that’s precisely what he does, because of course it is, right? They’re on the same blanket he’d spread out for her at the beach, drinking from the same bottle of whiskey; it’s too dark to determine if the contents has depleted since the last time they indulged, but she suspects not. It’s hers. No one else touches it. The sensual burn spreads through her body as she takes even, appreciative sips, the way he prefers her to, rather than shooting it back. She’s not the kind of girl who regularly drinks whiskey, though she has a suspicions that’s exactly what he enjoys about sharing it with her; he gets a rare side of her this way. It’s his. No one else touches it. Laying back against his chest seems to be her go-to position with him, probably because of how good he looks reclined on one hand, opposite knee bent with his other wrist draped over it, still holding his glass. She can just slide right up against him, let him mutter boring, magical, fascinating, academic things into her curls, and that’s how they stay. The most adventurous he gets is when his fingertips play at the exposed stripe of stomach between her shirt and shorts. The contact makes her shiver, and keeps her on the edge of hope that his palm will sneak up or down, plunging beneath fabric, a hand coming to wrap around her neck as he makes stars appear behind her fluttering eyelids, but he doesn’t. When he says stargazing, he means stargazing. He’s always been authentic with her. She’ll learn that, eventually, the same way she learned not to shoot her whiskey.

[rachelberrydk]

ʌ: comfort after a nightmare

When she wakes up from a nightmare, she panics. Yes, the imagery was horrifying and the peril felt too real, but now the residual terror comes from how overwhelmed she is. The fragmented details are whipping through her mind too quickly for her to explain to the man beside her why she’s frightened. By the time she finds the words to describe one imagined threat, it dissipates and is replaced by another, over and over, as she hiccups and stutters and whines his name. Parker. He brings her into his lap, leaning her back against him, placing his hand on her heart and telling her to breathe with him. She gets there, eventually, finds him in the rhythm of his inhalations and exhalations. There are comforting words murmured into her ear while she stares off into the darkness of his bedroom, and he nudges them onto their sides, curling his bare figure around hers and locking her against him with fiercely protective arms. She falls asleep before him, she knows, because she can still hear the low tones of his voice as she drifts away.

When he wakes up from a nightmare, she panics. The man is so rooted, so grounded in reality that it takes her too many unnerved seconds to realize his starts and grunts are happening in his sleep. She bolts upright beside him, mind scared to make physical contact but fingers insisting on running through his sleep-mussed hair as she murmurs his name as loudly as she dares. Parker. It takes a few tries, a louder voice and a firmer touch, but his eyes are eventually looking into hers. He’s petrified – which means she can’t be. Her trembling hand reaches for his, bringing it to her chest and telling him to breathe with her. He gets there, eventually, finds her in the rhythm of her inhalations and exhalations. The hand in his hair never stops offering comfort as he calms enough to assure her that he’s fine. It frustrates her. He, of all people, could find the words to articulate what is happening in his mind, but he keeps it from her – hiding, protecting, shielding. He nudges them onto their sides, curling his bare figure around hers and locking her against him with fiercely protective arms. She stays awake until morning.

[rachelberrydk]

🍎

Answering for both Dani Harper & Parker Hayes: What’s the best way to tease your muse?Rachel is a planner; she loves lists, agendas, schedules. Give her one. Text it to her without prompting, or come up behind her and whisper it in her ear. Tell her exactly what’s going to happen to her (tied spread-eagle across your bed, spread open and completely exposed; bent over the back of your couch, straining to stay up on her tip-toes with her ass in the air; whirled into your embrace and slammed up against the nearest wall), where and how you’re going to touch her (tits, roughly; holes, deeply; clit, mercilessly) - and then tell her … and here’s the heartbreaker … when. When you come home from this meeting, the one that always has such an unpredictable endtime? The next time she wears that dress you like (and, no, you won’t tell her which one)? When you decide she’s been a good enough girl? Give her too many details but also not enough, and don’t answer the myriad of questions she’ll undoubtedly volley back to you. Don’t give into the pout. Don’t let her touch.The best way to tease Rachel Berry is to let her know that you have a plan, and that it will be executed when you’re good and ready.