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Ragdoll has a secret. It's a frightfully delicious, grunty, squishy kind of secret. He's been hugging it to his chest for three days now, arms wrapped twice around his body as he wriggles and jigs with glee.
The others have all been giving him funny looks, but he doesn't care; he's enjoying this secret far too much to share. He's told Parademon, of course; he tells Parademon absolutely everything that goes on inside his head. Better out than in, he remembers someone saying when he was younger, though he does suspect they weren't referring to his innermost thoughts.
He'd woken up, you see, three nights ago, from a most disturbing dream, and gone in search of Scandal's super-secret stash of Swiss chocolate. It really is the best kind of comfort food; he enjoys the beating he gets for eating it almost more than he enjoys the treat itself. Scandal's such a darling girl to indulge him like that.
He never did get the chocolate. Sometimes, he thinks he might be much too easily distracted, but strange sounds were coming from the keyhole in the door next to his. They weren't loud; he had to crouch down low and listen very carefully, for quite a long time.
There was gasping and growling; something ripped and someone laughed, just one sharp bark, swiftly smothered. There was whispering: 'Keep it down or you'll wake the others', 'Shut up and fuck me, already, damn you', 'Sweet Jesus, you're tight'. There was rhythmic creaking, stuttered breaths and a fractured sigh; the snick of a lighter and a scuffle, but no scent of smoke.
He hasn't told the monkeys, yet. He will eventually, of course, even though it's really not his secret to share. It belongs to dear, sweet Thomas and his new beau, Mr Lawton.