Page 28 of Discordant Cultivation

He played the phrase, varied it, built it into something that felt like grief made audible. Like surrender. Like the moment when he could stop fighting and accept that the darkness was going to win.

Behind him, Vale’s breathing changed.

Faster. Shallower.

“That,” Vale croaked, right behind the chair now. “Play that again. The four-note phrase.”

Kieran played it again, letting each note hang in the basement’s perfect acoustics before the next one fell like a stone into water.

Vale’s hands landed on his shoulders—harder than necessary, his grip almost painful.

“Again.”

Kieran played it a third time, building the phrase into something more complex, adding harmonics that made the melody shimmer with overtones.

That’s when Vale’s hands started moving.

His fingers traced down from Kieran’s shoulders to his collarbones, then lower, spreading across his chest with a faint tremor.

“Keep playing,” Vale commanded breathlessly. “Don’t stop.”

Kieran’s fingers stumbled on the strings, the melody faltering as his awareness split between the music and Vale’s hands moving across his body. Down his chest, his stomach, lower—

“No—” Kieran tried to twist away, hands flying up from the guitar to grab Vale’s wrists.

The drawstring pulled tight immediately. The canvas sealed against his mouth and nose, molding to his face completely.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

Then it loosened just enough to gasp air.

“Hands on the guitar,” Vale whispered. “Keep playing.”

Kieran’s hands dropped back to the instrument, shaking so badly he could barely hold it. His lungs burned, each breath a conscious effort.

Vale’s hands resumed their exploration, more confident now. One palm pressed flat against Kieran’s stomach while the other slid lower, fingers tracing the line of his hip through his pants.

“This is—you can’t—” Kieran’s voice came out muffled by fabric and weak. “This isn’t t-teaching, this is—”

“This IS teaching.” Vale’s hands moved with increasing purpose, and Kieran could feel him pressed against the back of the chair, body heat radiating through the thin wood. “Your body, your fear, your surrender—it’s all part of the art. Play.”

Kieran tried to play, fingers searching for notes through the fog of terror and confusion. The melody came out broken now,fragmented, each phrase interrupted by gasps for air and the desperate need to understand what was happening.

Vale’s hand found the button of his jeans. Then the zipper. The sound was loud in the quiet basement, mechanical and final.

“Stop—” Kieran tried to stand, to escape, but Vale’s free hand caught the drawstring and pulled it tight again.

No air. The canvas sucked against his face, sealing his mouth and nose completely. His vision went spotty behind his closed eyes as his lungs screamed for oxygen that wasn’t coming.

One second. Two. Three.

The pressure released. Air flooded back in harsh, desperate gasps.

“Be still,” Vale said, and he sounded almost desperate. “Just—be still.”

Vale’s hand slid inside his jeans, beneath the waistband of his boxers. Skin on skin. No barriers left. His fingers wrapped around Kieran’s cock, gripping the soft length as Kieran’s stomach twist in revulsion.

“No—pl-please don’t—” Kieran’s voice broke on the words. “Please, I-I-I don’t want this—”