(Rarity) Solace


                                            >You sluggishly swing your fist down on the snooze button of your alarm clock, silencing its electronic screaming with a sharp crack.

                                            >With an arid groan escaping your throat as you sit up and throw the covers off, you’re barely able to read the wall clock past the crust in the corners of your eyes.

                                            >Half past 9.

                                            “Fuck it, might as well stay up,” you mutter under your breath.

                                            >You slip out of bed with a pop of your back and snatch up the bundle of clothing at the foot of your nightstand.

                                            >The faded nighttime vista of February peeks at you through the window as you haul your nude form to the shower.

                                            >At least you got the evening shift off for Valentine’s.

                                            “Not that there’s anyone really around to share it with,” you grumble as an afterthought.

                                            >A turn of the faucet and pull of the curtain later, and you hiss as the icy sting of water hits your chest, almost instantly taking the drive out of your morning wood.

                                            >Ahh, cold showers.

                                            >Beats the fuck out of coffee any day.

                                            “What’s on the roster for today,” you say as you seamlessly slip into your habit of talking to yourself when alone.

                                            >You always had a tendency to remember things more clearly if thought aloud.

                                            “Let’s see, need to run to town hall in the morning and update my permit, grab some new wiper blades...”

                                            >You briefly run your hand through the short, scraggly mess on your head.

                                            “Probably go ahead and get myself shaved, too.”

                                            >Buzzcut going on 7 years, and damn proud of it.

                                            Besides, you and Mother didn’t have the money for it after her own hair expenses.

                                            >You look out the corner of your eye towards the shower caddy, a hand rummaging through the baker’s dozen of various pastel-colored bottles to reach your own shampoo at the back.

                                            >”Guess Mother already left for her date,” you continue as you work up a lather across your scalp.

                                            >You feel the scowl on your face as your mind turns to your mother’s recent string of attempts to rekindle her romantic life.

                                            >It’s one of the few times you don’t have to hide it from anyone.

                                            >The moment you turned 18, you became the support pillar for her broken heart in the wake of blown-off dinners, walks in the park with lushes and perverts, and invites to the house that ended with you running her latest muse out the front door.

                                            >You sigh and rinse yourself off.

                                            “Better get ready for her.”

                                            >You shut off the water and step out onto the mat before the vanity, letting yourself slowly air-dry as you brush your teeth and quickly dispose of your two-day stubble with a handful of deft straight-razor strokes.

                                            >You turn the leather razor strap in your hands as you take it down from the hook on the bathroom door and quietly run the shaving blade over it.

                                            >You chuckle to yourself as you recall your father’s insistence that some maintenance was well worth not giving “those rose-cheeked conmen” even a single dime for razor heads.

                                            >It feels like it was yesterday that you were small enough for him to carry.

                                            >It feels like yesterday that he was still around to carry you.

                                            >You shake yourself out of your train of thought and expedite your drying with a cloth through your hair.

                                            “Won’t do anyone any good feeling sad for myself.”

                                            >Wrapping a towel round your waist, you exit the bathroom and quickly stroll through the house as your go over your list.

                                            “Wine in the fridge, check. Couch cleaned up, check. Comforter under the coffee table, check. Full tub of Rocky Road, check...”

                                            >You’ve learned at this point to get everything in order lest you upset her further by offering to help and bruising her pride.

                                            >And hey, if it does go well for once, you can chat about it over ice cream.

                                            >That’s what you tell yourself, at least.

                                            “Have no bloody idea how a woman like her’s been single for 10 years,” you ponder as you look over the accolades on the living room wall.

                                            >Photos of extravagant garments accompanied by everything from cheap State Fair blue ribbons to trophies as tall as your leg, your mother beaming like a lighthouse in each one.

                                            >Your eyes scroll over to the left of the arrangement to a particular photograph of her in a sleek black number that stopped a few inches above the knee.

                                            >It was supposedly a design contest for a masquerade ballgown, but you’re unable to call forth the proper memory as your morning wood returns at the sight of your mother’s alabaster calves.

                                            “Might as well get it out of the way,” you concede to yourself as you drop your towel in the bathroom hamper on the way back to your bedroom.

                                            >Flopping yourself back against the mattress, you begrudgingly slip one hand behind your pillow and tug.

                                            >Your shame quickly recedes in the wake of your hardening self as you let the white lace of your mother’s underwear slip between your fingers.

                                            >The faint scent of perfume still clings to the fabric, filling your head with a haze as you speed up.

                                            >You felt ashamed of yourself the first time, but after having the best fap session of your life, you were hooked.

                                            >It’s not your fault that your mother takes good care of herself, or that her legs go on for days, or that the pale, smooth skin of her back and shoulders feels like lightning against your fingers when you hug her-

                                            >You suck air through clenched teeth as you begin to approach already, mind filled with lurid fantasies of pale skin and deep violet locks of hair.

                                            >Almost there...

                                            >A loud bang echoes from the living room, followed by the clacking of heels.

                                            >Fuck!

                                            >FUCK!

                                            “It’s not even midnight and she’s back?” you mutter as you get up from your bed, hastily throwing on some jeans and a plain tee.

                                            >You quickly head towards the living room to find her setting down her purse and a red box on the coffee table, bent over as she moves the coasters to make room.

                                            >The sight of her smooth, flawless back against her form-hugging dress stops you dead in your tracks.

                                            >Your eyes trail past the floss-thin straps crisscrossing at her shoulder blades down to the curved bottom edge of the hem, the raiment stopping centimeters short of exposing her rear.

                                            >”Anon?”

                                            >Your manage to break your stupor and pin your erection by your waistband just before your mother turns around to see you and promptly pulls you into a tight embrace.

                                            >”My darling boy, don’t sneak up on me like that!” she coos.

                                            >Despite the heady aroma of the perfume on her neck, your nose picks up the bitter tinge on her breath.

                                            >Seems she’s already had wine this evening.

                                            “I just heard the door bang open and thought something might be wrong, Mother,” you reply as you separate herself from you.

                                            >”I told you to call me by my name! How embarrassing would it be if you made yourself look childish in public like that?” she scolds you with a harmless slap against your chest.

                                            “Yes, Rarity, I remember,” you groan.

                                            >Not the first time that her seeming obsession with public appearances had annoyed you, but some habits are just hard to shake.

                                            >You do your best to ignore your throbbing lower half as she kicks off her heels and heads towards her bedroom.

                                            >Your eyes scan the table, quickly locking onto a receipt sticking out of the side pocket of her purse.

                                            >As you unfold the paper in your hands, you feel something inside of you dampen in dread.

                                            >One box of Amoureux du Paradis Confections, discounted.

                                            >One bottle of Ripiano Superiore red wine, 20 ounces.

                                            >And a timestamp dating half an hour ago.

                                            >Your shaking fist closes around the parchment as you grind your teeth in frustration.

                                            >The sound of pattering footsteps echoes from the hallway, and you ram the paper between the couch cushions in a flash.

                                            >"Ah, much better!" Rarity proclaims as she sits next to you, still in her date outfit sans makeup.

                                            >It's not often you get to see her without any kind of facial cosmetics.

                                            >The faint outline of crow's feet near the corners of her eyes is almost refreshing.

                                            >"Anon, darling, do we still have the new season of Forensic Minds recorded?

                                            "I believe so," you reply as you turn on the television, navigating to the DVR section as the satellite box whirs to life from its slumber.

                                            >You both harbored a crippling weakness for psychological drama of any stripe, even that as simple as crime dramas.

                                            >Pulling up the recording list, you see 10 full episodes ready for binging.

                                            >Before you can hand the remote to your mother, she's off the couch again in a flash, scurrying into the kitchen.

                                            >Your cock throbs again as your eyes lock onto the supple flesh of her thighs as her dress rides up ever so slightly further.

                                            >Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and run a hand through your hair.

                                            "Get ahold of yourself," you mutter.

                                            >"Ahold of what?"

                                            >You look back up to see your mother holding a pair of wine glasses and an open, yet corked bottle of wine.

                                            "N-Nothing."

                                            >A delayed click rings through your head as she retakes her seat.

                                            "Why did you get two glasses?"

                                            >"Well, Anon, you're 18 now," Rarity begins as she uncorks the bottle, "And I think it's my responsibility to make sure you're comfortable with certain situations you might run into in the near future."

                                            >You cock one brow as she fills each glass near to the rim and sets the bottle down, handing one to you as she reclines with the other.

                                            >"And one of those situations is being offered alcohol," she continues. "I don't want you to feel pressured or tempted because you're unfamiliar with the substance, so I'd like for you to get acquainted with it in a safe environment."

                                            >You're not sure what's more awkward, your mother trying to teach life lessons in an outfit more appropriate for clubbing than parenting, or your inability to keep your gaze off her slender collarbone and exposed cleavage as she talks, but you keep your mouth shut.

                                            >"So, won't you join me in a little late-night couch binging?" she finishes with a slight pout.

                                            >Her doe eyes wrench your attention back, and you nod.

                                            >You hit play on the remote as she giggles and pulls the couch throw blanket off the back and over the two of you, snuggling in against your side and throwing one of your arms over her midsection.

                                            >You desperately want to pry about her date, especially with how blatantly she's asking for solace in a roundabout manner, but the scent of her perfume and the relaxed smile on her face give you pause.

                                            >When was the last time you saw her genuinely unwind?

                                            >Post-holiday dieting had her working overtime as bombardments of orders for basic hemmings and adjustments flooded in from upper-crust clients across the state.

                                            >A far cry from the design commissions she lived for, but the opportunity to secure so much work was too good to pass.

                                            >You tentatively sip the wine, your mood souring as the tepid, faintly bitter liquid passes over your tongue.

                                            >You know for damn sure that the bottle you put in the fridge is still there.

                                            >Tipping the glass upwards, you wash down the bile in your throat and turn back to the television, reaching for the bottle and refilling.

                                            >"Darling, I know I told you to get familiar, but slow down. You'll make yourself sick," Rarity chides.

                                            >A part of you wants to smack the booze off her breath for her hypocrisy.

                                            >The other part of you simply gives her a slight squeeze in response.

                                            >As the opening credits of the first episode end, Rarity extends one slender hand over to the box on the table and gingerly lifts the lid off.

                                            >"Chocolate for your thoughts?" she quips as she lifts one sugar-drizzled delight out of the tray and holds it up in front of your face.

                                            "Sure," you grunt after a moment, taking the morsel from her fingers and popping it in your mouth.

                                            >Your eyes light up as you bite into the chocolate and a rich, warm bitterness spreads across your tongue, not unlike the wine.

                                            >You glance over at the side writing of the box lid.

                                            >'Twenty-two decadent helpings of our finest-quality bourbon crème chocolates, topped with coconut drizzle.'

                                            >As you swallow, the bloom of warmth the hard liquor makes upon hitting your stomach manages to relax you just a bit.

                                            >Your questions can wait, you suppose.

                                            >Right now, you can just appreciate the time you have with your mother.

                                            ---

                                            >Three episodes of pseudo-science and questionable acting from supermodel actors pass, and both the box and the bottle are almost empty.

                                            >You can feel your red cheeks steam as your mother spirals off into a tizzy of laughter at some corny joke by this episode's celebrity guest, shimmying against your body.

                                            >Despite her warning earlier, she's been hitting the bottle far harder than you, having filled her fourth glass a few minutes beforehand.

                                            >You look over to the confections you'd had only four of, seeing a pair of the delights resting in one corner of the otherwise barren tray.

                                            >As Rarity squirms, you tighten your arm around her abdomen, trying to keep her from sliding square into your lap and onto your bound erection.

                                            >You'd hoped it would recede, but the combination of your mother's closeness and being blueballed an hour earlier refuses to let it relent.

                                            >"Oh dear," Rarity mutters as she finally calms down. "Oh, this was such a good idea after tonight."

                                            >You shake the fuzz from your mind long enough to properly process her words, and catch your tongue before it slips.

                                            >If you're going to get any answers from your mother, now is the time.

                                            "What do you mean, after tonight?"

                                            >She swivels her head from the television screen to look at you, eyes downcast towards the blanket.

                                            >"Oh, nothing. Just things turning out... unexpectedly," she mutters.

                                            "How so?" you prod, your voice hardening into a subtle edge.

                                            >"Well, I, I don't really think you'd be interested in my outings," she stammers.

                                            >Your mouth tightens as you watch her eyes turn misty, her fingers wringing the throw in anxiety.

                                            >She's doing this again.

                                            >Recollections flash through your mind in a rapid succession as she slowly turns back to the show.

                                            >Blowing your questions off.

                                            >Drowning herself in junk food and alcohol.

                                            >Listening to her cry herself to sleep on the nights you have work off.

                                            "You're wrong."

                                            >Not again.

                                            >NEVER again.

                                            >You surprise the both of you as you sit up, pulling your mother alongside you till she's leaning towards you, her own legs tucked behind her on the empty cushion.

                                            >The small section of your brain not addled by drink is screaming at you to stop talking, but you can't as emotion fills your head.

                                            "Rarity, I know you've got your pride, but please stop keeping this from me," you plead. "I know what you do after you come home from these dates. I know how you plunge yourself into comfort food and hide your feelings because you're afraid of burdening others, of burdening me."

                                            >"I-I-I don't know what y-you're talking about-"

                                            "Stop it!" you cut her off, taking one hand in both of yours. "I'm sick of seeing you cry, sick of seeing you suffer because you don't think anyone will listen, when that couldn't be any further from the truth!"

                                            >You feel liquid sting your cheeks as you shudder, and let thoughts long silent spill forth from your tongue.

                                            "You're so much more than just a single woman - you're my mother, the strongest and most beautiful woman I know, and I can't stand seeing you try to bottle yourself up for my sake. Why can't you let me help you?" Why?"

                                            "Please... please stop hiding from me," you finish, tears streaming down your face.

                                            >It takes a few seconds to open your eyes, terrified of her response.

                                            >"I'm so sorry, darling..." she manages to choke out before collapsing into you, a low, muffled groan growing to a full wail as she buries her head in your chest, arms tightly wrapping around your back.

                                            >I never meant to hurt you! Never, never!" she screams against you, her voice derailing into broken sobs.

                                            >It's all you can do to hold her, her limp frame shaking as though ready to fall apart at any moment.

                                            >You sit with her for lord knows how long, until the quivering against you body ebbs and slowly dies.

                                            "You're not alone, Mom. Not now, not ever," you whisper softly as you stroke her hair.

                                            >She pulls her head away from you at last, regarding you with puffy, bloodshot eyes.

                                            >"You really mean all that?" she asks in a hushed tone, hands softly pressing into your shoulders.

                                            >You nod and bring her closer, your noses almost touching as she straddles you, your back propped against the armrest.

                                            >Maybe it's the liquor.

                                            >Maybe it's the loneliness.

                                            >Maybe it's your lower half being needy.

                                            >But as she tenderly leans forward and touches her lips to yours, you don't pull away.

                                            >Two slender arms encircle you and meet at the back of your neck as she softly whimpers, poking your lower lip with her tongue.

                                            >You acquiesce, letting her shyly trace your teeth as your fingers cascade across her back, the svelte feeling stirring your bits back to full mast.

                                            >You part for air, Rarity leaning back with a flushed face.

                                            "I'll always mean it, Rarity. I love you," you murmur.

                                            >You slide with her until you both lay stretched out on the sofa.

                                            >She sighs and looks up to you with half-lidded eyes.

                                            >"I don't deserve a man like you," she says.

                                            "No, you don't. You deserve someone much better than me," you reply with a peck on her forehead.

                                            >With a shimmy upwards, her lips find yours again, this time pressing with a more fervent need.

                                            >Your wandering hands slide down to her rear and squeeze, your half-lidded eyes snapping open at your own boldness.

                                            >Rarity moans at your touch as you separate, the gears in your head sharply spinning to life.

                                            "I'm so sorry, Rarity, I got-"

                                            >Your voice trails into a moan as she delicately presses her palm into your crotch, digits plucking at the elastic of your waistband.

                                            >"Please... it's been so, so long," she croons.

                                            >Despite your knowledge that it's the liquor talking through her, your curiosity overtakes you.

                                            "How long?"

                                            >"Since... your father passed."

                                            >Your opportunity to respond is shattered as she reaches inside of your trousers, undoing your fly and fondling the mast underneath.

                                            >You suck air through your teeth at her touch, and throw your head back as she lets you spring forth from the cloth prison.

                                            "F-Fuck..."

                                            >"You were so cute trying to hide it," she giggles as she flicks her nails against your slick head.

                                            >Your hands betray you once again as you reach out and run your hands down the sides of her dress, fumbling for a zipper of any kind.

                                            >"T-There," she breathes, sighing as you pull down, sliding the piece off one side of her.

                                            >She eagerly shrugs off the garment, and you go stock stiff at her nude form, dark pink lace covering her slit.

                                            >"I know I'm older than you'd like," she says with a hint of doubt.

                                            >A soft moan escapes her as you run your hand over one breast, the wonderfully soft flesh molding to your digits as you sink your digits in.

                                            >You should be freaking out right about now about taboos, about how this is a violation of the trust between parent and child on every level.

                                            >But you can't seem to care.

                                            >Your only concern at the moment is the enchanting woman on top of you, and ridding her of her gloom.

                                            >You lean forward and capture one pert nipple between your lips, tugging as she cries out quietly.

                                            >Almost unconsciously, you both grind your lower halves against each other, the only sounds in the room being the ragged rhythms of your panting as you grab at each other.

                                            >Your other hand occupies itself with her free nipple, pinching and kneading playfully as her hands grip you by the wrists.

                                            >The arousal is almost too much to bear for you, as you aggressive thrust upwards against her, rewarded with a impassionate gasp.

                                            >"Do it," she commands between moans, rising up off of you for a moment to yank her soaked undergarments down, the silk hanging off one ankle.

                                            >You don't need to be told twice.

                                            >Grabbing a handful of thigh on either side, you slowly let her slide onto your cock, grunting at the heat enveloping you.

                                            >You curse and hold still as she abruptly slams the rest of you into her greedily, panting in your ear.

                                            "G-Give me a warning next time, Rarity," you sputter.

                                            >Your protests go ignored as she raises her hips off of you and lets gravity do the work, yelping as your hips meet again.

                                            >It's taking all of your concentration not to blow your load immediately as she repeats her motion, tenuously bouncing against you.

                                            >Her fingernails dig into your shoulders, using you to push herself higher.

                                            >Something primal inside you finally stirs as your hands sink back into her hips and you bring her down by force, hilting in her.

                                            >You stop her grunts short with a searing kiss as you thrust back against her, working yourself into a slow, rough pace as your orgasm dances on a knife's edge.

                                            >"When did you get so strong?" she coos, her insides clenching as your hips slap together.

                                            >"Faster," she mumbles into your mouth even as your tongues meet.

                                            >She wasn't asking, as her movements pick up and force you to keep pace, lest you slip out.

                                            >You groan as the long-denied release finally builds up in you.

                                            "M-Mother, stop-"

                                            >You rise up and try to lift her off of yourself, only for her to let her upper body crash against yours, arms locked around your torso as she frantically pistons herself above you.

                                            "I'm close," you grunt out as you cross the point of no return.

                                            >"Me too, darling," she hums in your ear. "Let it out!"

                                            >Black spots scatter themselves across your vision as you violently slam yourself into her one last time, howling as your orgasm shatters any expectations you could've had.

                                            >Her teeth embed themselves in your neck as she screams, and tips over the edge alongside you, her walls constricting you with every bit of energy they can muster.

                                            >The two of you slump onto the sofa, a mess of tangled limbs and sweat.

                                            >After your breathing calms, you gently poke you mother's side.

                                            "Mother?"

                                            >The only response you receive is a snore.

                                            >Stifling a laugh, you gently tilt her off of you and slide off the couch, tossing the crumpled throw blanket over her shoulders.

                                            >Tussled hair, no makeup, red in the face and reeking of sex...

                                            >She's still beautiful.

                                            "Love you, Mom," you whisper with a gentle kiss on her temple.

                                            >She merely shifts in her sleep and smiles.

                                            ---

                                            >"Mmmeh, my head..."

                                            >You look behind you to see your mother walk into the kitchen, the first streaking rays of sunlight breaking over the horizon through the window.

                                            >You flick the stove burner off as she fumbles through the cabinets for a cup, turning around to meet your gaze as you scoop freshly fried eggs out of the skillet and onto a pair of plates.

                                            >The clattering of the plastic cup hitting the floor silences any other noise in the room as you stare at each other.

                                            >After a single, seemingly eternal second, you gather what will you can and set the skillet on the stove.

                                            "Good morning, Rarity," you softly speak.

                                            >"You...WE..." she stammers.

                                            "What?"

                                            >"It wasn't just a dream, was it?" she groans, slumping down in a chair at the table, head firmly buried in her hands.

                                            >"I can't believe what I've done to my own son."

                                            >You sigh as the reality of the aftermath sinks into your brain, and you pull a chair out beside her.

                                            "Mo- Rarity, it's okay," you murmur. "I'm not upset or anything. I had a wonderful time last night with you."

                                            >"That doesn't change anything!" she wails, pulling her hands away to glare at you with puffy eyes. "I forced myself on you last night! I let the liquor and my own personal issues get the better of me! Even if you're okay, it doesn't make any of less shameful!"

                                            >She's doing it again.

                                            >Shielding you.

                                            >Blaming it all on herself.

                                            "Rarity," you say, "if you want to just forget what happened last night, go ahead. I won't bring it up, and we can just pretend it never occurred."

                                            >She looks at you in mild confusion as you steel yourself.

                                            "But do you really want to? Do you want to go back to this cycle of strange men, strange places and heartbreak?"

                                            >"What are you implying-"

                                            "I'm not implying anything!"

                                            >You take a brief second to collect yourself.

                                            "I haven't seen you as carefree as you were last night since Dad died. I know people would judge us, but I can't help but think that maybe... maybe..."

                                            >Rarity's gaze turns down towards the table.

                                            "All I want is for you to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted," you finish.

                                            >Your heart is hammering against your sternum as if trying to crack it in two as she slowly gets up from her seat.

                                            >"Do you really know what you're asking?" she shakily replies.

                                            >You stand and face her fully this time.

                                            "I'm asking for a chance to give my mother the partner she deserves."

                                            >You tuck one finger under her shin and turn her head up to look you in the eye.

                                            >...I can't believe you sometimes," she breathes as she finally lets herself lean against you, her head snugly tucked under your chin.

                                            "Why?"

                                            >"I never thought you'd want to make me happy this way," she mutters.

                                            "Of course I would," you reply as you kiss her on the forehead.

                                            >You know there'll be hard questions.

                                            >You know there'll be hard decisions.

                                            >But you don't care, as long as she's happy.