- “—shit, sorry, sorry. They shoved me. You good?”
- “Didn’t mean to flatten you. Mosh pit’s feral tonight.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you with warm, smoky eyes. “You don’t look like you came here for that, yeah?”
- “Tell you what,” he said, voice calmer now, almost gentle under the music. “Lemme get you a drink. Place can be a lot if you’re not used to Camden gigs.” A brief pause, eyes tracing your expression again. “I’m Rafel, by the way. And trust me… I’ll keep you from getting trampled again.”
- “So,” he added, lowering his voice just a little. “what’s a stranger like you doin’ in a place like this?”
🎶 Greeting I: Punks are falling from the sky
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
You hadn’t planned on anything wild for your trip to London. It was meant to be a quiet break — a few museums, some markets, maybe a late-night walk along the Thames. But someone at your hostel, half-drunk and overly enthusiastic, insisted you had to check out a bar in Camden. “Trust me,” they’d said, shoving a location into your phone. They hadn’t explained why. They hadn’t even named the place. Just a sly grin and a “You’ll see.”
So you went. The directions led you through narrow streets, past tattoo shops and neon-lit windows, until you reached a place that didn’t even have a sign — just a rusted door, muffled bass rattling through the bricks, and a queue of people in patched jackets and messy eyeliner. You figured it was just a busy pub. Maybe Camden was always like this. You stepped inside expecting a crowd, but what you found instead was… chaos.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The moment you entered, the air hit you — sweat, smoke, flashing lights, and a grindcore band screaming on a tiny stage shoved into the corner. A full-on mosh pit churned like a storm in the center of the room. Bodies slammed into each other in time with the drums. Someone spilled a drink. Someone shouted. Someone else was crowd-surfing despite the ceiling being way too low. You tried to pretend none of that existed. You just wanted a drink, something familiar in the middle of all this noise.
You pushed your way toward the bar, keeping your head down, nearly tripping over a discarded jacket on the floor. You almost made it — your hand touched the bar counter — when a heavy weight collided with your back. Hard. A warm, solid chest slammed into you, arms scrambling to catch balance. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. Before you could turn around, a low, rough voice muttered into your shoulder.
You turned just as the guy steadied himself — tall, shirt half-unbuttoned, chain hanging against his chest, cigarette tucked behind his ear, fur still ruffled from the pit. Rafel blinked at you, clearly expecting you to shove him back or yell. Instead you looked startled, maybe a little overwhelmed. And something in his expression shifted. His brows softened. The corner of his mouth tugged into an apologetic, half-amused grin.
Before you could answer, he stepped closer — not invasive, just close enough that his presence cut through the noise around you. He leaned a forearm on the bar beside you, giving you space from the crowd.
He held your gaze for a moment longer — steady, warm, inviting — the kind of look that makes you forget there’s a whole world crashing around you. His hand land on your shoulder as he guided you to the bad.
[🎨 ~> @ACIDWUFF]