#and bumper cars seem like something that would absolutely stress me out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

egoludes · 4 years

Text

heat wave.

summary: as brooklyn’s temperatures rise, so does one woman’s interest in her local mechanic.

note: honestly, this is nothing but gratuitous 1950s!bucky smut inspired by @siennarossi blessing me with picnic content and the image of that seb under a car that’s plagued me ever since. the summer theme came out of nowhere, but i’m sick of snow so it felt right. hope you all enjoy!

wc: 8.8k

warnings: nsfw (18+), oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, cheating, introspection about unhappy relationships / societal expectations for relationships, a bit of angst

july twenty-first — ninety-one degrees.

There's something about summertime in Brooklyn. Days of eighty-eight degrees with humidity to boot, it’s a menace, an absolute force. But for all its faults, nothing can compare to the sunny shores of Coney Island; to the chorus of children’s laughter, untouched by schoolwork; or to late nights in Prospect Park with cicadas overhead. They make the heat tolerable most days, even pleasant others ---- until the twenty-first of July.

It starts at dawn, sun barely risen when the air starts to thicken. And by the time the city comes to, it’s to air too dense to breathe and heat so heavy it’s disarming. Even you, pretty girl from down south, can’t remember a time that you’d experienced ninety-one degrees; but it only takes a brief taste of it (the walk to your mailbox and back) to want to hide away for the rest of the day.

But, that’s just wishful thinking. Even when it’s so muggy, routine is what you have. You’re newly married, after all --- a late June wedding on the back of a six-month workplace courtship — and you want to make the honeymoon last. You want to prove that you’re as suited for this, for him as you’d thought you were when you said ‘yes’ to his proposal. So, there are things to do, errands to run, and there’s no avoiding the outside to get it all done.

That doesn’t mean you won’t do your damndest to delay it, though. Your husband already gone for the day, you start your chores to light jazz, trumpet notes grainy on your centerpiece record player. An air conditioner — the first on the block — sits inviting, but unused on the far windowsill; you don’t want to risk the electricity in heat like this. Instead, you’ve settled for an old fan that drones beneath the music you’re swaying your hips to. In due time, you’ve found a steady rhythm: laundry, cleaning, a dusting here and there — you pause a few times for something cool, but you find it isn’t as unbearable as you’d feared.

Then, comes groceries — the one task that requires you to leave your refuge. Shopping list in one hand and car keys in the other, you eye the front door warily because you know what’s on the other side. At least here, the heat is just that; sticky weight as the temperature rises faster than a fan can handle. Out there, you have heat and sunlight, working together to make ninety-something degrees feel a lot more like a hundred. But, the sad state of your fridge leaves you little choice, and with one big steeling breath, you step out into the summer.

Your car is the only one in the drive - a cream 1950 Buick that your husband had gotten you a month into your relationship. For a long time, seeing it made you uncomfortable - the gift was too grand too soon, stoking a sense of debt that felt odd for a lover. But now, it is just another part of your lavish life with him; a part you appreciate as you think about the cooling unit waiting inside. Waving to your neighbors, you hop in in a hurry, purse finding a haphazard spot on the passenger seat. Eagerly, you brace for a rush of that cold air as you turn your key —- only for that hope to wither when you get a pathetic sputter from the engine instead. You try it once, twice, three more times before you let out a groan and slap your hand to the steering wheel.

Of course this would happen today.

Deflated, you sit back against your seat (ignoring all the places it sticks to you) to weigh your options. At this point, there’s no way to get anything started for dinner before your husband is home — you only have two cars and he’s taken one with him. He’ll need to grab you something on the way back. But the bigger issue is not having a car for the days to come. You don’t work anymore, but groceries are impossible to get without a vehicle, especially when it’s so hot.

You need repairs, and fast.

First, you consider your husband. He’s no genius when it comes to cars, but you wonder if the time he spends poring over catalogues and talking makes with the neighbors have taught him anything useful. Just as soon as the thought comes, though, you recall how stressed he’s been, how the pressure at his firm has had him wound up lately. The thought of his disdain at your request — or worse, rejection — is enough for you to resolve to plan b: brave the few blocks to a garage you’ve seen on the way home.

Altogether, you spend maybe ten minutes weaving between cars and open hydrants to make it to the shop. But the weather makes it feel like hours, sweat beading at your hairline from the first few steps. When you get there, you’re fully winded, fanning at your cheeks, and there’s nothing in sight but a few cars and scattered parts. You’re reassured, though, by the clang of metal tools that lets you know there’s someone that can help.

“Hello?” Your voice feels tiny between the sounds of work and radio. You’re not even sure that whoever’s around heard you until you catch movement behind a truck nearby. Slowly, a man rises into your eye line and your breath thins at the sight of him: six feet something of muscle and sinew, covered in oil from his work and sweat from the heat. Your mind wanders without your permission —- guesses at what he might feel like, taste like if you had the chance. But, as quickly as the thoughts arise, you’re turning your eyes away in shame.

What the hell are you doing, married and thinking like that?

“What can I do for you, miss?”

The question forces a glance at him and you feel energy run through you at the way he watches you back. A few strands of dark hair fall into his eyes, but it doesn’t stop him from drinking you in. Slow, deliberate, his gaze picks you apart as if he can see right through the careful style in your hair; the stain on your lips; the light cotton of your dress. You feel laid bare just standing there, and somehow, it feels good. You shift nervously on your kitten heels.“My, uh, car – it… well, it doesn’t seem to be working. Won’t start, really, so I was hoping someone could take a look?"

He nods in quiet understanding, hands wiping grime on the top of his jeans. “You walked here?” He pauses long enough for you to answer. “Where’s your car? I can give you a tow.”

“Just a few blocks out, I live over on seventh.”

Another nod, this time pensive as his eyes search the shop until they land on a set of keys. He crosses the room for them, giving you a sinful view of his back along the way, before gesturing towards a red truck with the words Barnes and Son printed on either side. You gather he‘s likely the ‘son’ in this equation. “You can go on and wait by the truck then – I’ll just need to grab a few things from the back.“

When he returns, you’ve found a spot beside his truck that’s shielded from the sun and he’s changed into a shirt with a name stitched into the pocket. He gets close enough to help you in, one hand in yours and the other at your hip, which gets you close enough to read it. “Thank you, James.” His name leaves you with a careful lilt, like a delicate lace you’ve slipped on just for size, and he gulps at how good it sounds. Lips curl back in a grin, and he takes a moment to watch you settle before responding —

“Bucky.”

You blink. “Bucky?”

He hums in confirmation, moving to the back of the truck to ready a hook for your bumper. Even then, his voice is clear - steady as he calls back up to you. “Only my ma calls me James these days. Everyone else calls me Bucky.”

“Ah,” a knowing nod, “then, thank you Bucky.”

You catch his gaze in the side mirror and he watches you through his lashes, a look that makes your thighs press together. “You’re very welcome, miss.”

july twenty third, ninety four degrees.

Three days pass at a snail’s pace; seventy-two long hours of grueling heat, sputtering electricity, and rising restlessness. On the twenty-third, the weatherman on morning radio is the first to call it by its name and after that, it’s all you hear: heat wave, heat wave, heat wave.

In that time, you haven’t heard much from one Mr. Barnes. That doesn’t keep him from hijacking your thoughts, though —- edging into your head when you least expect it. The ride to your home had been short, the time to hook your car to his even shorter; but he’d snared you easy with that rumbling voice and careful, but natural humor. He’s unlike most men you’ve met during your time in Brooklyn; the trim, proper types at school and their older counterparts in the office. Pretty boy looks with an air of danger, he’s at the crossroads of rugged and polite. Man raised right with the eyes of a wolf. You want to know more about him, but don’t dare linger more than you need to. A man like him will only bring rumors, and it’s the last thing you need in your fledgling marriage. So, you do your best to forget about him — out of sight, out of mind.

Today, the house is too stuffy to be a haven from the sun and you’ve found yourself a spot on the porch, nursing the tallest glass of water you could find. In front of you, children play beneath their mothers’ watchful eye, as bare as they can be without being indecent. The sight makes you think about your future here — the newest, and youngest, couple on the block, you’re an outlier compared to the rest. Nothing to fill your days but a few chores and idle conversations. And though you’ve only been here a month, you imagine it won’t be many more before children are a consideration, and then, an expectation.

The thought guides hand to tummy and you imagine it all swelled up - full. You’ve always wanted that at some point, yes, but here? With him? You ask yourself the question often and always, the answer is unclear. Never no, but certainly not yes. And when you close your eyes to consider it further, the details are out of reach — more fuzzy than it should be when you’ve promised him forever.

That you hesitate makes you dizzy with guilt; bile in your throat whenever you just consider it. And this time, the heat compounds it, shame rolling off you like the beads of water dripping from your glass. You take a swig to wash it down, but the cool only brings clarity — sharpens your uncertainty into doubt. Suddenly, the trill of children’s laughter becomes more accusation than background noise, and you swear the other wives are watching across their lawns. Knowing, judging eyes that straighten your spine.

It makes the porch chair feel too hot to stay in -- its surface seeming to singe anywhere you aren’t covered -- and you bolt so fast your dress shifts around you. Fingers smooth out the wrinkles as steadily as they can before scooping up everything you’ve brought to carry back inside.

Perhaps a nap might be a better escape.

////

You wake up a few hours later to a setting sun and a much quieter street. A glance at the bedside clock lets you know it’s just past five and your mind turns instinctively to dinnertime. On most days, you’d balk at having only a couple hours to cook, tidy, and shower before your husband got home. But, with your car still in the shop and him back too late for grocery shopping, you know you’ll be working with leftovers. Two hours is all you need.

There’s still sleep in your eyes when you pad to the kitchen; but with time, the room starts to smell rich, the aroma of herbs rising steady, and your tired falters, then retreats altogether. It’s so good, you forget you’re working with an old meal and you almost don’t mind how hot you’re getting so close to the oven. As expected, the food — a simple casserole — doesn’t take long and by the time it’s left to warm, the dining table set, you have the perfect window for a cold rinse in the shower.

Your husband arrives as you step into a fresh house dress, and you know something’s wrong the moment he pulls in. Rubber squeals angrily against the pavement outside and the steps on the porch that follow are heavy, disgruntled. When he opens the front door, it’s with force that makes the frame groan and the sound rises a second time when he slams it closed. It’s been a pattern as of late, the way he moves through your home like a tempest; but you still aren’t quite used to it. How can you be, with your union so new as it is? But even as a different man stands before you, watching you emerge from your bedroom, than the man who’d courted you, you try to give him the benefit of the doubt. Work has been hard for him, and you know it. And it’s all to help you live the life you do — you know that too. So, that ever-present urge to please, to be the good wife stays steady. Even now, it compels you to help him out of his shoes as he tosses aside a blazer that ought to be illegal in this sort of weather. “Is dinner ready?” He grunts without any other greeting, and you nod, taking it in stride. He’s just stressed, you remind yourself, it’s not personal.

“Yes, dear, go and get settled — I’ll get you a beer, hm?” Your mouth meets his cheek in a chaste kiss before you lead him to the dining room by the hand. The table in it is set for two, unassuming but homey, and you maneuver around it with learned ease. Beer to the right of his plate, food dished out neatly, you hum to yourself as you go, hoping the domesticity will be a salve to his long day.

It turns out to be anything but. When you turn back to the table, you can see the displeasure radiating off him, his features turning into a sneer as his eyes assess the meal in front of him. “What is this,” he grunts. “Leftovers?"

You balk immediately, twisting hands in front of your apron until your knuckles feel like they’ll pop. “Well, it’s still all we have — as long as I don’t have the car, I won’t be able to make much...”

He concedes in a huff, the itch to start an row calmed by your sound, albeit nervous, logic. But it doesn’t make him any less prickly, any less distant. He eats dinner like he’s wounded by it, a grimace on every bite. Eventually, it’s unbearable to watch, and you sigh with a pensive glance at the fridge. You have no idea what else you can whip together at this point, but anything would be better than this. “if you want, I can try to make something else—”

“it’s fine,” he sneers, "don’t bother.”

The rest of dinner is choked and tense, the only sounds between you forks against your plates. He finishes first, lingering only long enough to drop his plate into the sink. Then he’s off; more weighted footsteps that you listen to until they disappear behind the door of his study. You are free to take your time then, savoring the rest of the meal as best you can. But, all his harsh judgment makes the casserole taste like mush and tears burn at the back of your eyes, so you give up not long after he’s gone.

You aren’t all that hungry anyway.

A new still settles over the room as you pack the rest of dinner away. You’d hoped this silence would be relief compared to the previous, but somehow it’s worse. Without someone else there to distract you, you spiral — hyperfixate. Before long, the walls seem to bow in, your home buckling with the weight of this disconnect. And soon, nothing can buoy you — your eyes swim, head pounds, and it takes only another minute of it to decide: you can’t stay in this house.

When the front door shuts behind you without a sound, you draw in a deep breath — the first in what feels like years. Out here, the air is syrupy, like you’re sucking it down through a straw; but it’s ten times better than the staleness you’re leaving. It makes your throat dry out just thinking about it, and you push off the porch with a click of your heels.

Head ducked and shoulders bowed, you walk with no real destination, mind wandering as much as you are. It isn’t until you hear the increasingly familiar sound of metal gears whirring that you realize you‘ve walked towards Bucky’s garage. Filmy light spills out of the cracked garage door, leaving shapes on the otherwise dark sidewalk. It beckons you, a different sort of warm, and you duck inside with arms around your middle.

“Excuse me? Bucky?"

The sound of company — a tentative call of his name --- makes Bucky jolt, and he narrowly misses hitting his head as he straightens beneath the hood of a car. The garage isn’t well lit at this time of night, but it isn’t hard to work you out in the doorway: head tipped, arms pressed tight to you. To say he’s confused would be an understatement but, he certainly doesn’t plan to send you away. There’s something rolling off you that he can’t place — exhaustion, maybe? Perhaps even dejection. Whatever it is, it implores him to indulge you. Begs, even. “Miss? You here to check in on the car—“

“Why do you keep callin’ me that,” you spit, anger dissolving timidness into something rough and raw. Bucky quirks an eyebrow in question and you barrel forward to explain. “Miss — there’s no way you haven’t noticed my ring by now, you ought to be calling me Ma’am.” The outburst is misdirected and you know that — but this is a sore spot right now. Feeling so inadequate as a wife, unhappy in your marriage — this man you know you shouldn’t want and his refusal to acknowledge your status only makes it worse.

“I don’t mean any harm by it,” he shrugs, hands raising slightly in surrender, “‘s just odd calling you ma’am, young as you are. You don’t even have one wrinkle.” His tone turns playful there and you feel your whole body warm. There’s no way he can know what’s bothering you, or that’s something bothering you at all. But if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s trying to comfort you, even as your rage targets him. He drives it home with all his focus on you, a concern in those blue eyes that makes you want to weep.“You prefer I call you ma’am? I can, if you do.”

His earnest gives you pause; tempers your upset into a thrumming discomfort. Do you want him to call you ma’am? As visceral as your reaction had been, there’s a part of you that’s aware enough to know that you only care because you’re supposed to. It’s the right thing to call a married woman and you want to be like the best of them. At least, normally — right now, in front of Bucky and his lack of pretense, you find you care a lot less. His offer makes you realize how much of this is reflexive and you shake your head after another beat of silence. “No, I...suppose it’s fine if that’s why.” You still, feeling your face grow hot with shame. ”I’m sorry.”

His shoulders lift in a shrug and just like that, the moment’s forgotten, its tension gone. He turns the conversation elsewhere as graciously as he can. “So, what is it you’re doing here? I usually don’t do calls this late.”

“I just…wandered here to be honest. It’s awful in my house, heat and all. Needed air.”

He watches you the way he had that first day in the shop; unflinchingly. Fear curls up your spine at the thought that he might push you for more. Instead, Bucky nods, accepting the answer with a click of his tongue, and you press out a shaky breath. “Well, it won’t be much better here, but we got a fan you’re welcome to sit by ‘till you cool off.” He nudges a hand in the direction of the fan, but you hardly need it — you’ve eyed it now five times in as many minutes and could feel yourself swooning at the sight. It’s an industrial model, just shy of your height with blades twice as strong as your model at home. A stool sits next to it and you choose to settle there.

Bucky keeps watching until he knows you’re comfortable before returning to his work. On the radio, a singer you’ve never heard before croons about love, slow and sweet. It’s not what you’d expect for a mechanic's working music, but the way Bucky hums along makes it a perfect fit. He sways as he tends to the engine, as if the car dances with him, and you watch him with a smile — small enough that he misses it when he peeks up to check on you.

An hour passes just like that; a comfortable, easy quiet that’s only fractured when one of you hums louder than the fan next to you or laughs at something on the radio. Bucky works steadily, but makes a point of turning your way every so often to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re still there. You manage to catch his eye every time, which leads to a smile, a tip of the head, a sharp, careful breath.

You feel right in in that room of sparks and oil, and it overwhelms you.

“I think,” you start, standing to smooth your dress. The night deepens, and you imagine your husband’s noticed your absence by now. “I'll get going now, Bucky. Leave you to your work.” You offer him a smile that he returns easily, watching you as you take steps towards the door. “Have a good night, hm? Don’t work yourself too hard."

A chuckle rises from him in a rumble and you can feel your tummy turn. “Same to you. Sweet dreams, miss.”

The walk home is much lighter than the walk there had been. There’s contentment settling in, even through the heat, and it doesn’t break, not even when you get home to find your husband waiting for you. The door clicking shut behind you is the only greeting you get out before he’s standing, eyes narrowed. “Where did you go?”

You slip out of your heels carefully, as if sudden movement might shake hints of the garage out of your dress. “Just for a walk. I needed some air after I finished cleaning up, I wasn’t feeling very well.”

The answer seems to satisfy him; releases the tension in his back and shoulders until he's unwound enough to move. “Alright, well…are you any feeling better?” You give one quick nod in response, to which he hums, drinks you in for a moment, then offers a hand. You inch closer, each step more careful than the last, until he can press palms over your hips. Once he has you, your husband bares down to find your mouth; one soft kiss in apology. Eventually, though, those kisses deepen —- press you into bed with your clothing stripped in favor of sweat-streaked skin, and he murmurs more sorries into your throat, your thighs, and the sweet heat of your mound until you’re crying out forgiveness.

All the while, you see blue eyes in the ceiling; think of hands calloused from engines and gears; and swallow down guilt as you take your husband into your mouth.

There’s no room for Bucky Barnes when you do that.

july twenty fourth, ninety six degrees.

It’s half noon when the sound of heels echo in Bucky’s garage. They cut through his music well enough that he’s immediately searching out the sound from his spot beneath a cream 1950 Buick. A pair of baby doll pumps appear in his peripheral to answer his curiosity. “Just a minute,” he offers before his guest can speak, smiling so big already his jaw smarts. One last turn of his wrench brings him at a natural stopping point and then, he's rolling out to see you, as he suspected, beaming down at him.

There’s a tumbler of lemonade in your right hand — fresh, by the looks of it — and tupperware in your left. His heart stutters at the sight of it; you, all dolled up, bringing him lunch. He wonders if this is what your husband gets every day — a precursor to what he imagines are just as pretty nights — and can’t help but envy the fucking bastard.

What he’d give to see this every lunchtime till the end of his days.

“Ma’am,” he greets with a smirk, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands.

You huff loudly, lips turning sideways in a grin of your own. “You are never going to let me live that down, huh?”

Laughter shakes his shoulders. “Not any time soon, if you smile like that when I say it.” Your body heats immediately, eyes darting down in a show of shyness, and he almost coos at how easy it is to make you so bashful. “Brought that for me?”

You welcome the distraction, nodding as you hold out both offerings. “They said today’s the worst day yet for the heat and I know you’re here working in it, so…just wanted to make sure you had somethin’ to enjoy during your breaks.”

“Why, thank you,” Bucky pauses then, thoughtfully at first before his features go boyish, playful. “And you’re not just tryin’ to get out of paying me later, right?”

You laugh this time, a hearty sound he hadn’t heard before the previous night, but can’t seem to get enough of now. “Nope — scout’s honor. This is all on the house.”

You’re unlike any client he’s ever known; few wives make it as far as his door, their husbands preferring to come in for them, and the others that have certainly don’t make him feel like this. It would worry him if he dwelled on it, so he makes a point not to. Presses the oddness you cause in him to the back of his thoughts — out of sight, out of mind.

You set both the pitcher and plasticware down on the table closest to you, and quickly, Bucky is upon them. Scooping a clean cup from one of his nooks, he reaches for the lemonade and takes a hearty pour, humming at the sound of ice against glass. “This looks real good — you really didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” you wave him off, “it’s the least I could do."

“Well — cheers.” With eyes trained on you, Bucky brings cup to mouth, drinks in long, tapered swallows that work his whole throat. It’s mundane enough in theory; but there’s something in the way he does it. Something that unravels you, keeps you from turning away though you know you should. When he’s done, his mouth is fuller than ever and wet, wet, wet with drops of lemonade at the corners. He reaches a thumb up to wipe them off and in one fluid motion, brings them to his tongue.

Your eyes are pinned to it, darting after the curl of his tongue; and, by the time he finishes, blown wide open. You’re lightheaded, desire and guilt sending your senses into a tailspin, and you have to clear your throat to get words out. “I, uh, — I should be heading home. Couple other errands to do before the day is out — enjoy those, Bucky!"

Before he can get respond, you rush through the garage door, jasmine perfume in your wake, and Bucky stays put until the smell of you wanes.

Maybe you’re not all that out of mind after all.

july twenty sixth.

“ —— the massive heat wave hitting New York City continues today as temperatures reach a record one hundred and five degrees.”

The first thing you feel when you wake up is wet. Seeping into your sheets, your pillow case, your chemise nightgown, it's an uncomfortable feeling, being so sweaty. Feels gummy and unnatural — you make a note to be in the shower as soon as you can manage.

The second is pain, palpable as the fight you’d had with your husband the night before returns to the forefront of your mind. The cause had been insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but heat has a way of undoing sensibilities. You’ve never seen yourself like that, so belligerent, so vicious, and wonder how much of this summer is changing you the way it’s changing him. It feels like coming out of a hangover, and you lift yourself from your bed with a ragged sigh. The house seems still, and after a moment’s listen, it’s clear your husband's already left for the day —— without breakfast and, notably, without goodbye.

As much as it stings, there’s relief knowing you won’t have to face him yet, nerves dulled now that you can move through your routine at your leisure. You’re fresh out the shower, drying with the softest towel you could find, when the shrill ring of the telephone cuts in. In no mood to be personable, you have half a mind to ignore it, but decide against it — you wouldn’t want to miss anything important.

“Hello?"

“Hello — I’m lookin’ to speak to Mrs. Miller?” The voice on the other end is like honey; sweet and sharp as he asks for you. You know it’s Bucky almost immediately and straighten up as though he can see you, a finger tracing over the lapel of your robe.

“This is she…”

“Mornin’, miss,” he offers, voice dropping an octave or two — it’s subtle enough to seem innocent, but suggestive enough, at least to you, to make you gulp. “I’m just phonin’ to let you know that your car is all ready.”

Your heart stutters at the promise of seeing him, your earlier grogginess all gone, and you find yourself biting back a smile as though he might catch it. “Thank you, Bucky — I can be right there.”

////

The walk to Barnes and Son is muggy, even worse than it’d been the day your car shut down. And when you arrive, there’s sweat lining your forehead and under your arms. You take a moment to dab at it before ducking inside, where Bucky is waiting by his work table. Today, there is no radio — the only sound between you is the traffic outside and a buzzing that you only notice when it’s too hot to think.

“Mornin’ again,” he offers as he stands straight, beckoning you to your car with a hand. When you’re close enough, he starts to walk you through his fixes, gesturing here and pointing there to guide your attention. But, despite his best intentions, your head stays fuzzy - you can’t tell how much of it is the heat and how much is the distracting cut of muscles in Bucky’s bare arms. He’s worn that white tank top a few times now, but it’s more soaked than it has been and the sight of it makes you feel rabid.

He notices when you go long without even a word. “You payin’ attention to me?”

Too much, you think to yourself, mustering a sheepish nod and a cough to clear your throat. “So, how much do I owe you?”

He rattles off the price and you try not to grimace — a habit from before you had the means -- as you rifle through your purse to count out the bills. When you hand them over, Bucky’s fingers brush your own in a touch too light to be intentional. But that doesn’t stop it from knocking the wind out of you. You must just be sensitive, you reason, after the fight and, now, this oppressive heat putting your body on edge. But, deep down, you know it’s more than that and Bucky seems to know it too — his fingers linger, keep yours there, before curling around them altogether.

“I ought to go.” The words hang between you, but you make no actual move to step away. Bucky’s touch, as mundane as it is, has you completely rooted.

“I could tell, you know,” he’s speaking soft, one hand scooping the money out of your hand while the other runs a pointer finger along the lines of your palm. He stirs sparks in every spot he touches, electricity that spreads and spreads and spreads until it’s all you can see. He’s all you can see. "— that night you came to the garage. It wasn’t the heat that ran you out, it was your man. It was that godforsaken house that looks like every other one on the street — you hate it there, don’t you?”

For the first time in days, you feel chill sweep over you; shock at being unmasked so bluntly. And it’s enough to wake you up to snatch your hand out of his grasp. “Stop,” you hiss, “you don’t know anything about this, about me.”

If he’s wounded by your retreat, it doesn’t show. All you read in Bucky’s expression is understanding, sympathy, concern. There’s tenderness on every inch of him and it makes your body shake to see it so plainly. “Nah, I don’t think that’s true. Think you know it too.” He steps closer, and closer still, until you can feel the grooves of his workstation against your spine. Large hands come down against the wood on either sides of your hips and you can smell him, musky and sweet, as he leans over you. “Think I know more about you from this week than any of ‘em have cared to learn in months. Even him. Am I wrong?"

“B-Bucky—“ you shake your head as if it’ll stop the inevitable; this breach of your defenses that’s laid your worst bare. Of course he isn’t wrong — your unhappiness swells faster than you can control it, and he’s been the first to notice. You imagine it won’t be long before your husband, your family, your friends are onto you too. Right now, though, your attention stays on the man before you; the way your hands have found his chest without you meaning them to, and the way the muscle flexes to the touch.

His mouth is close, trembling with anticipation. But, you can see where he’s holding back — the tension in his jaw, flexed fingers at your hip. No amount of desperation will make him move before you say. “Tell me if I’m wrong.” Hooded eyes bore down into yours as Bucky waits for an answer — you give it to him in a searing kiss, reservations undone in the face of pure need. He returns it just as desperately, slipping fingers over your throat and shoulders before resettling at your waist.

He uses the grip to hoist you up onto the table behind you, giving you the leverage to pull him in by the legs. He’s already half-hard, cock against your tummy, and the feel of him is enough to make you moan into his mouth. This is wrong — this is so goddamn wrong, but you’re dizzy with how badly you want him, this man who’s seen you, and you dismiss your guilt for a later time. “Off,” you pant, fingers already working at the buttons on your blouse.

To your surprise, Bucky’s hand cages wrists to keep you still. “Not here,” he grunts into the side of your mouth, pulling your arms to wrap around his shoulders instead. You’re about to question it when he lifts you once more, this time into him, and braces your weight with hands under your rear. The shift makes you squeak and his laugh as he carries you shakes your body. In a few short strides, he takes you through the door he’d come into on the day you came to him, and you realize quickly it’s an office - surprisingly tidy for a place so busy. On the far side of the room, a couch waits, a pillow and blanket folded on the arm rest. He must notice the way your eyes linger on them because he squeezes your hips as he purrs: “‘S cooler here now than my house — makes working easy too.” He slots you onto the cushions, and you note how easily they mold to you — how lived in they seem. From where you lay, you glean pictures on the walls and table, Bucky in some of them, smiling faces in most. It’s a window into his life you hadn’t expected at all, much less in the middle of something like this —and it terrifies you how much more you want to know.

How much more you want of him.

As if reading your mind, Bucky climbs in over you and reels your attention in with his mouth back over yours. He kisses you deep, slow, fingers replacing yours on your blouse as he picks the buttons open one by one until you’re left in a plain pointed bra. You shrink a bit, knowing how simple it must look — but the hunger in his eyes seems to ease that concern. He’s had dreams about this, about you, in the damp of this very room, and had just managed to convince himself that that was where you’d stay. At arm’s length, in his fantasies. But now, here you are, propriety set aside as you seek out your gain. Something he fully intends to give to you as he slips you out of your skirt as well.

Your legs slip shut instinctively when the material falls away but Bucky’s hands settle on either thigh to still you. “No, no — let me in, sweetheart." the plea carries like a song, melody and harmony that soaks into your panties as you part your legs at his behest. The sight of you, so open, so soft, makes him dizzy and he steadies himself with nose to your inner thigh, breathing you in slow and deep. “God, you smell good — bet you taste good too, huh?” His thumb comes down over you as if the touch might answer his question. You tremble at it, let out a sound into the room that’s choked and desperate. “Could eat you right up.”

And god, does he. Panties pressed unceremoniously to the side and his tongue to your wet, Bucky Barnes eats you alive in that New York City heat. Somewhere in the madness, his nose finds your clit, nudges it each time he laps, and you arch off the couch keening, hands framing his head. Tugging, pulling, you’re done apart by his touch, jerking hips up needily to find his mouth. “Fuck,” he grunts against you, “keep goin’—”

You don’t need him to spur you on, but it does wonders nonetheless. You can’t remember the last time you’d felt so good. Even your husband the nights before, in all his earnest, hadn’t done you in like this. But, Bucky, with all that hunger and ache, has your body coiled up, eyes squeezed shut as you chase your pleasure. And as if he can sense the way you teeter on the edge, he presses a finger into you, the pad of it searching for the spot that’ll bowl you over.

“B-Bucky—“ you gasp, hips twisting because it’s so much, too much, and instinct makes you want to run. He shakes his head with a hand keeping you still, and a second finger joining the first inside you.

“Make a mess for me, sugar,” he commands in a purr, full lips brushing your clit, “don’t be shy now.” With that, his intent is crystal clear and he can focus on the task at hand; no more sweet nothings or encouragement — just his mouth back over your mound, flicking, sucking, in time with his fingers until you arch up off the couch with a cry of his name.

Your climax is hot-white; tears at the corners of your eyes as they dart, unseeing, to the ceiling. Bucky coos into your cunt in a tone akin to praise, and you shiver at how good it feels. He guides your hips for a moment or two more, just to help you ride it out, before rising from between your legs with a sheen of sweat, satisfaction, and you. His mouth curls up in a wolfish grin, canines sharp against his bottom lip, and you feel your tummy clench at the sight. This man will be the death of me.

The room is boiling, lust and tension at critical mass now that Bucky’s coaxed one mind-blowing orgasm out of you. And as uncomfortable as the sweat pooling in your corners is, you want more; need it, even. Your fingers find purchase at the base of his neck, forcing him up and over you until you can meet his mouth. Your body thrums at the taste of him — you, all over his tongue — and he kisses you deep when he realizes how much you like it too. In your earnest, you reach down to palm him through the jeans hanging low on his waist. You don’t know when his shirt had come off, but you’re appreciative of it. Eyes dancing over the expanse of bare skin, scarred in some places, but no less beautiful. You want to see the rest of him and you tug at his bottoms until he gets the message. While he works on that, you shed your underwear and bra and once you’re both naked, he settles back against you, sighing at the press of your skin. The contact is delicious, and it has you seeking out mouths for a kiss that’s as hungry as it is fond.

“Ready,” he murmurs against your lips, the head of his cock nudging at you as he draws closer. You nod, and he reaches down to guide himself, cock probing a bit until it slips past and slowly finds him settled. The way he sits inside you, stretching you to your limit, makes you gasp. Like you’re breaking water for the first time in a long time to the bite of fresh air. You crane up to kiss him with that newfound clarity, moaning when he twitches inside you.

“You alright?” The question comes out in a pant, Bucky’s mouth starting to trail over your jaw as he flexes to hover over you.

“Yes, Bucky, god yes, please move—“

Your plea’s barely out before he delivers, a slow drag of his hips that finds him out to the tip, then back to the hilt. The way he moves is like poison, like fire, and you wrap all your limbs around him to keep him close. The first thrusts keep you tangled like that, his head against your throat while he moves inside you. But, then you pull fingers through his hair, nail over scalp, and it’s like a switch flips inside him. In a flourish, Bucky sits up, shifting you until your knees nearly meet your chest and his hands hold you open by the underside of your thighs. The new angle guides him deep and makes you cry out, loud and with abandon.

The sound of it eggs him on; draws sharper, deeper thrusts from him as he watches you come apart from what he’s doing to you. “Doesn’t fuck you like this, does he? The way you deserve.” The accusation leaves him in a growl as his teeth close over your collarbone. Your throat is dry, and head too jumbled for you to do anything but shake your head — as if Bucky even needed an answer. “‘Course not — bastard.”

Thinking about your husband while you’re beneath another man shouldn’t feel good — but the possessiveness, the raw claim Bucky lays to you is addicting. It makes you want to be his beyond this, and you grip him close, nails leaving marks in his arms and shoulders, as if to keep him there. His thrusts quicken in response, hips finding yours in a delectably rapid rhythm, and you can feel your climax build for a second time already.

Bucky feels the way you pulse around him, grunting at the heat, and brings a finger down to your clit to keep you rising. The stimulation makes you arch, eyes squeezing shut as your legs tighten at his hip, and he uses his other hand to guide you down to meet him still. “Shit, look at you — gonna cum for me again, huh? Want it — god, I want it.” His body falls forward, keeping you chest to chest while he grinds down into you. “Come on, sweetheart, give it to me.”He reaches between you to bring his thumb down on your clit; flicks it once or twice before your peak barrels over you. It draws a cry that goes hoarse at the end and you fumble to pull him down and silence it in a kiss. He keeps his mouth on yours as his thrusts grow more erratic, his own climax not far off, and when he finally finishes it’s with a low groan of your name — eyes wrenched shut as he melts into you.

It takes a few moments for things to settle; Bucky stays over you, inside and pressed near as you both catch your breath. When he does slip out of you, it’s with a shudder and open-mouthed kisses to your wet skin. The loss of fullness makes you want to whine, but it isn’t until you start to feel his cum drip out of you that the sound actually makes it out. There’s something filthy about it — freeing too. And Bucky shares the sentiment as he presses your thighs up once more to look between your legs. “Push, pretty girl,” he murmurs, entranced by the sight of you. If it were anyone else you’d be embarrassed from the exposure; but his gaze just makes you preen. You do as he asks -- deep breath in, deeper one out — and you both moan at what follows.

Bucky’s eyes go darker somehow and you feel your body tighten as his fingers ghost between your folds. “Think I can get one more out of you?"

////

You end up spending hours lost in that room. Kissing, fucking, laughing — you’re only apart when Bucky rises to check in on the shop or answer the telephone. Then he fits right back between your thighs like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be. And sometimes, with the way he looks at you, you could believe it might be. You tell yourself you’re dreaming, though — finding emotion where it isn’t to make sense of this whirlwind of a week with him.

By the time four rolls around, there’s still no explanation for it, but there is an end— your car is working now, which means it’s back to routine. Groceries, cooking, bed with your husband. You dread it already, fingers trembling as you fix your mussed clothes; but seeing Bucky, and the recognition on his face when he comes back to see you dressing, only makes it worse. A silence settles between you while you dress and he watches from the doorway, arms over his chest. It’s not as bad as the silences have been with your husband, but it’s just as potent. Heavy and suffocating. He breaks it first, and you almost wish he hadn’t.

“I know it ain’t this simple,” he starts, quiet as though nervous about disrupting this still, "but I could be good to you.” Your shoulders stiffen with shock and when you look up at him, Bucky’s turned away, watching the cars he has left to fix. “Be better to you.”

You shake your head, swallowing the ache that rises with a sardonic smile. “How can you be,” you sigh, "you hardly know me from a hole in a wall, Bucky, this - this was just…” sex? You want to say so, but the sentence sounds all wrong, even to you.

Bucky, meanwhile, takes no offense to the rebuttal. If anything, it works him up more, a determination setting in that he hadn’t had just moments prior. “Maybe. But that don’t mean I’m wrong. Don’t mean I don’t know what I need to.”

The confession hangs between you for a moment, suspended by his conviction and your brain imagining life as his wife instead without your permission. It’s a split second of it, no more than a flash or two of imagination, but it’s enough to leave you queasy.

Because the fantasy is crystal clear, every scene in high definition. Bucky, his sky blue eyes creased at the corners by a smile; and a babbling baby with ones just like his, reaching for you from his arms. You see yourself in the photos in his office, beaming like the others. The thought is bad enough, but the need you feel just thinking about it makes you step back, hand to your chest as you suck in a breath. “If only it were so easy,” you breathe, dejected as you thumb the keys in your hand. You’re frozen there for another moment before you step forward, slowly, to move around him. When your shoulder touch as you pass, you can feel Bucky stiffen, shift as if he’s about to stop or hold you.

But the moment passes without him doing either, and you dip your head as you walk the rest of the way to your car. One last glance over your shoulder finds him watching you, longing coming off him in waves and you respond in turn, a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Goodbye, Bucky."

july twenty-seventh, eighty-five degrees.

Your drive to the grocery store won’t take long. But, you’ve opted to roll down your windows for it, basking in the breeze over your face. As suddenly as it began, the heat has finally broken, the city’s fever lifted, and for the first time in nearly a week, things feel normal.

On the radio, a woman sings a song about love lost, gained, and everything in between. You’ve only heard it a few times before, so you sing along in spurts. Lyrics here, hums there. It’s a welcome distraction from the emptiness that’s been sitting in your gut since the night before. You can almost ignore how sick you feel when you tap along to the music — almost.

When you turn down the next street, you recognize it quickly as the one of Bucky’s garage and that despair gets a new hold on you. There’s an immediate burn behind your eyes - reminiscent of what you felt, crying the night before — but this time there’s no tears. Just resolve as you force yourself to face front, attention steady, lest you get a glimpse of him.

Through your open windows, you catch the sound of tools from his shop. Just a few nights before, that had been solace; but now, it unsettles you. Sows discomfort so cleanly your entire body goes rigid. You fumble to get the windows back up, cutting off fresh air in favor of the ac you flick on with a finger. It takes a moment to kick in; but when it does, you breath a sigh of relief. Hold a hand over the grate to ground yourself with the cool.

It’s not as refreshing as that summer breeze, but you know it’ll have to do.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes

749 notes · View notes

a-lil-bi-furious · 3 years

Note

I’m gonna ask for two characters, is that okay?? 🥺 Kira Yukimura and Scott McCall, but if you inly want to do one of them that’s okay!! 🧡

Of course you can!! Thank you! 💕 And you even sent in my wonderful children!🥺🥰 Scott McCall:

Headcanon for their sexuality/romantic orientation/gender identity (I’m adding on because I want to)?

Listen, this boy is so pan. In my mind, Scott is just so filled with love for people, and I don’t think someone’s gender or sex would matter to him for feelings or sexual attraction. Is it pretty unexpected when he's attracted to people of many different genders? Sure. But mostly that’s because he hasn’t given his sexuality or romantic orientation much thought. They've just always existed and he’s run with it. He’s pretty comfortable in his gender identity as a boy, but not closed off to questioning it.

I can’t remember who I first saw this headcanon from, but I also really like the idea of quoiromantic Scott who can’t tell the difference between platonic and romantic love, he just loves. Why does he have to do it differently, y’know? Who says he can’t kiss his friends and hold their hands and express his love for them in those ways?? How is he meant to feel different between how he loves who he’s dating (if he's dating) and how he loves his friends? He doesn’t, so ??? (Also, as a side note, I am also a big believer in polyamorous Scott because he has chemistry and good shipping foundation with pretty much everyone, definitely seems open to loving more than one person, and he, Allison, and Isaac were clearly all dating each other no I am not taking notes at this time)

Have they come out? If so, how? How did their friends/family take their coming out?

Eventually he does. Scott thought it was going to be a big deal and was so nervous about it he kind of just....tucked it away deep inside where he hides all of his trauma and feelings from people. He doesn’t do anything flashy, but when he sits Melissa down he’s so serious and stressed about it she’s convinced he’s about to tell her he hit someone with the car and has a body in the trunk. She’s relieved to find out that is not the case, and reacts with a good natured “Honey, this isn’t a surprise. It’s a big deal because it’s a big part of you, and I’m happy you trust me enough to share this. But it isn’t surprising.”

The pack reacts exactly the same way his mother did, which really makes Scott wonder if he was the only one oblivious to it for so long. (He was.) They’re all very supportive, and he seems so much happier once it’s officially out in the open.

Sheriff Stilinski is a bit confused, but Stiles writes all the different labels on sticky notes, sticks them onto chess pieces, and sits Noah down in front of the chess board, just like he did with supernatural creatures (I think that’s what he does? Doesn’t he do that??) After, Scott kind of wishes he hadn’t--mostly because listening to Stiles’ convoluted explanation and bickering with his confused father made for one of the most frustrating two hours of Scott’s life.

Do they go to Pride/With whom?

Absolutely! Especially given I consider most of them as part of the lgbtqia+ community (and regardless they’re all allies), they make a pack event of it. The younger pack members don’t always join because they kind of have their own thing going, but the older/core group--Scott, Lydia, Stiles, Kira, Malia, Danny, Isaac, maybe Theo if they're on good terms--all meet up, rotating through which state/city parade they go to each year (because they’ve all scattered for college and jobs and such). They’ve convinced Derek and Braeden to come a few times, but Derek hates the big crowds and Braeden gets way too much joy out of making him get his face painted. After the parade, they do a different activity all together each year--ranging from game/movie nights to club nights to way too competitive paintballing in the woods--just, generally, something a little more personal than all the big parties around.

(If Allison, Erica, and Boyd were alive, they’d be there with them too 💜)

Do they show their colors? (Flag-wise)

For Pride, Scott paints the Pansexual flag in cuffs around his right bicep, directly mirroring his tattoo on the left.

Kira Yukimura:

Headcanon for their sexuality/romantic orientation/gender identity (I'm adding on because I want to)?

I feel like Kira sits comfortably beneath the bisexual umbrella, but has a hard time figuring out whether or not she has any kind of gender preference sexually. Gender doesn't really factor into her romantic attraction, so panromantic seems to fit. I also feel like Kira is nonbinary, uses She/They pronouns, and eventually settles on genderfluid as a good way to describe how she feels. She’s usually not uncomfortable with people referring to her as a girl and doesn’t mind being perceived as one a lot of the time, but doesn’t totally feel like a girl and isn’t sure what gender fits y’know? What she identifies with shifts around.

Have they come out? If so, how? How did their friends/family take their coming out?

After a long and confusing identity crisis, yes. There’s a lot of nervous babbling involved. She talks way too quickly and keep interrupting herself because she isn’t sure she’s explaining it right, but Ken gently interrupts and calms her down with a “Kira, your mother and I love and support you however you are, no matter how much or how little that changes. We want to hear all about it. That doesn’t mean we want you to run out of air.” She breathes and collects herself, then dives back in, explaining a bit slower this time, but no less rambly. Noshiko’s never really seen the point in rigid definitions anyhow after living so many different lifetimes and experiencing so much fluidity in many aspects of her own life. Ken is just happy his daughter is happy, good-naturedly pokes fun at her like he always does, and later that night has a bit of a research-prompted gender crisis of his own.

Do they go to Pride/With whom?

Yes! The rambling above with Scott also applies here. The first year Kira goes, she goes separately with her parents and meets up with the pack later. Ken is really enthusiastic about it and provides lots of historical facts about the pride festival’s origins and evolution throughout the day. He makes T-shirts for everyone in the pack and buys a few too many bumper stickers. Noshiko is much more low-key about it, but is happy to be there to support Kira and enamored with how overboard Ken goes.

Do they show their colors? (Flag-wise)

Yes!! Kira has a lot of fun putting together colorful outfits to reflect her identity with multi-colored fishnets and color coded skirts and jackets with patches and of course her kickass sword-belt to tie it all together. She really enjoys the freedom of switching up those colorful outfits any time her labels shift, too.

(Send me a character/ship and I’ll answer these questions!)

#Ask games #Pride asks #Scott McCall #Kira Yukimura #jamesqueerpotter #thanks for asking friend!! <33 #will I ever learn to not answer with essays?#probably not but we can dream I guess

6 notes · View notes

infinite-rabbits · 4 years

Text

Emergency: Please help

So this happened yesterday. I made a few posts of it here and was messing around on tumblr to distract myself from all of the stress, but now the seriousness of the situation is really hitting us.

My roommate and I are both out of work due to Corvid-19. We’re not sure if we’re getting paid for our time away and there isn’t much communication from our jobs. Yesterday we got hit hard enough from someone who was gunning it out of a parking lot that they totaled the car. I know this doesn’t look like a lot of damage, but apparently the frame is completely messed up and the insurance company is going to take the car and possibly give us enough to replace it??

The worst part about this is that we had barely enough money to last over the next two months being out of work. We had rent covered, food, and bills once we pooled our money together.

But now we have to loose a huge chunk of that money because he has to pay the deductible on the insurance.

So I’m going to do what I really wished I would never have to do. I have to ask for your help. Please, if you can donate anything at all, doesn’t matter how big or little it is, you can send it to me through my Ko-Fi: HERE Or you can IM me and I can give you the address my paypal is linked to. If you can’t donate, please please please just reblog this. The more people see it, the better.

Thank you for any help you can give, little or small, it means the world to us.

Full Story of what happened under the cut:

So uh... we ran out of bread last night and we're close to being out of PB&J. This morning we decided to go out and get some more because, well, it's hard to get ahold of because everyone's panicking and it's one of the main things in our diet right now. The roomie and I headed for Walmart, and while we were on a 2-lane road in the left lane, some douchenozzle shoves his way through the heavy traffic out of a parking-lot and rams us on my side. We weren't even going that fast. We were actually coming up to a stop-light, so my roomie was slowing down. He hit us hard enough to make us spin-out and do a full 180degree turn. The back passenger door was absolutely wrecked and I was lucky he didn't hit MY door, but because he hit my side, I'm really starting to hurt now. The back driver wheel hit the median while we spun and it actually hit so hard that it knocked the wheel itself off of the rim and scraped the metal. Somehow we didn't hit another car and we wound up in the right-hand lane completely turned around and facing the wrong direction. I was SO pissed that I got out of the car and screamed at the guy. Both of us were shaking and I was choking because when he hit us, some white stuff flew into the car and I breathed it in. Still kinda choking on it. (Found out later it was probably the stirofoam that was under his bumper.) I manage to kinda stop traffic enough for us to get the car out of the lane and into the parking lot beside us, after which we realized that we couldn't drive any further because of the wheel being messed up. He stayed in the median and called for someone while we called the cops and the insurance company. Then I noticed there was a damn kid in his car. She was like, 2-3 years old and didn't look like she'd been strapped in because she was just climbing from the back to the front seat to see what was going on. He sped through fucking traffic and t-boned us with a kid in the back seat. This whole time, he's over there refusing to come and talk to us until someone else shows up. Turns out, he needs a translator. That's fine. In our area we get a lot of tourists so I just assumed he wasn't from around here. I would have assumed his car was a rental if it hadn't been for the brand new paper license plate. They get their car into the parking lot too and his bumper is all but falling off. A lady shows up to take care of the kid, which seems fine. But then another guy shows up. Then another guy. And Grandma shows up too. For some reason the whole family shows up and are hanging around while we wait for the cop. Normally I wouldn't care, but being surrounded by this many people while I'm already anxious was a bit much for me and made me uncomfortable. I'd already called a friend and cried over the phone with her and being surrounded made me feel stressed. Finally the cop shows up, gets our stories and our information, then goes into his car for basically an hour to have to fill everything out and get it all in order. Luckily we just get given a sheet of paper with all of the information we need on it. Then he glances at them and says to us, "They're gonna be pissed." He wound up getting a ticket among who knows what else because of his reckless driving. The cop leaves and they're visibly angry. Then one of the guys who showed up approaches us. Something about him immediately rubbed me the wrong way, like I got a bad vibe from him. He asks us if we're alright, and I tell him no because our car's wrecked and I'm starting to hurt. Then he tries to get us to lie. Like the dude straight up look sat my roommate and says, "If they ask what happened, tell them--" I have NEVER cut someone off so fast before. I told him: " NO. If they ask, we are going to tell them EXACTLY what happened." And this douche has the NERVE to say: "Well next time you really shouldn't be going so fast. Then you can stop when something like this happens." Like, he's legit trying to turn this around to be my roomie's fault. Keep in mind: we were coming up to a stop light. We were actively slowing down. The speed limit in there is 45. My roomie couldn't have possibly been going more than 35 at the absolute most, and even that's pushing it. I just GLARE at this guy and say: "NO. Even the COP said WE HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY. HE hit US. You need to walk away." I'm... I'm tiny. I'm not even fully 5'6" and I'm sitting here in my stupid Jurassic Park tank top and hole-filled shorts just glaring daggers at this guy. Don't you dare come at me with your stupid scorpion gold chain necklace thinking you're all big and bad and thinking you're going to intimidate me when you're outright coming after my roommate. I'm a wuss when someone comes after ME and I'm by myself, but you put me in a room with people I care about and have someone go after them? All bets are off. Thankfully he just got pissed off and turned away. The whole family climbed into the back of their other van except for like two who went into the translator's car, and they all drove off. For like an hour. We were left sitting there trying to contact the insurance company again, making sure they got all of the files they needed, making sure they got their statements, and figuring out if it was getting towed tonight or not. Then the translator and one of the other guys show up and start messing with their van. First they back it up...and the bumper nearly completely falls off. Then they sit there for a few minutes and try to get it on. The guy driving it goes very slowly out of the parking lot, leaving his entire front in the right-hand lane for some reason while he's waiting to go and then finally does. The other guy on the other hand almost causes another accident. So he's behind a truck that's also waiting to turn out. When the truck goes to pull out, this dumbass SLAMS down on his gas, nearly rear-ends the truck, slams on his breaks, and then once the truck is out of the way, he zooms out of the parking lot without properly looking to make sure no one else is coming. I really don't understand it. But from the looks of things, they probably aren't going to be calling their own insurance company. The car wasn't even registered under the guy that rammed us. It was someone else's name of the same address. So he just wrecked someone else's newly bought car. All of it sucks, my roommate's car is totaled and we are gonna see if we're getting any money for it tomorrow, and I'm in pain so the insurance company is gonna have to send me a doctor over all of this. We're out $500 for the deductible and I'm.... honestly really frustrated. All of this because of Bread, Peanutbutter, and Jelly. Thankfully a friend of ours came to pick us up and also brought us those three things, but now the adrenaline is starting to wear off and I'm getting *really* tired. I'm going to get myself some coffee and try my best to focus on the one-shot I started before the crash just to keep myself awake for now. For the most part I was typing all of this here because it's a safe place to store the information in case I forget anything. But also I kinda wanted to let you guys know why I hadn't posted anything yet. I was saying I wanted to do one short-story a day and I fell behind yesterday because I was doing character-designs for one of the other stories. So I feel guilty falling behind today too. Even if I do have a good reason for it. Stay safe out there, everyone. It's getting really crazy.

#psa #emergency #money emergency #car accident #please help

104 notes · View notes

thegeminisage · 4 years

Text

the south is like another country

i have an entire essay on how the current radicalism and steep political divide in this country can be traced directly back to the civil war - rural white southerners here playing the part pre-ww2 germany, the part of a resentful, conquered nation assimilated into the nation that conquered them, because if you think about it the south/the confederacy WAS its own nation for a time, that lost a very bloody war, and paid very steeply for it (not that slavers didn’t deserve every bit of misery the “carpetbaggers” threw at them), and the bitterness from that loss/the lost capital from having their slaves freed has been handed down through the generations, to people who now live in abject poverty while their livelihoods are destroyed by late stage capitalism, and their schools are so broke a lot of people here don’t even know how to read, and their towns are eaten alive with meth, and they’re still looked down upon by most of the country for being racist uneducated backwater hicks (to be clear, we should always look down on racism and racists, but it’s not making them any less bitter/ripe for being drawn into the cult of tr*mp’s america and f*cism).

but anyway this post isn’t about that! this post is about how when i go up north and i say “y’all it really is like i’m living in a different country” NOBODY BELIEVES ME. we speak the same language, we’re all americans, right? PFFFFFT. this amazon van thing just drives it home (pun intended). here’s a list of differences from the deep south* to the rest of the country*:

*the deep south here meaning the RURAL deep south. sorry to everyone who lives in cities/the suburbs and/or in border states like maryland and virginia. i’ve been to maryland and virginia and they are technically southern and some of this applies to them but it is not quite as extreme as it is here. the rest of the country includes the other states i’ve been to (california, washington state, new york, etc), which are in mostly every area except the midwest. i cannot personally vouch for the midwest. sorry, midwesterners! rural midwest probably has a lot of things in common with the deep south because rural life is different and also how easily people move around this country, but whatever

this is a long-ass post get ready

difference #1: DRIVING. driving & pedestrians are entirely different un rural areas vs urban areas. for starters, southern towns often do not even have sidewalks. this is because of 1. budget and 2. racism.

budget: rural towns are very spread out, and it costs major $$$ to put sidewalks in. it’s just not worth the trouble, financially, to put a sidewalk where only 12 people are ever going to use it, AND spend the money to maintain it. never gonna happen. racism: initially, suburbs especially in the south were seen as safe havens where people could get away from the stress of living in “urban” (re: integrated) areas. that the neighborhoods were only accessible by car and NOT by people who were too poor (black) to afford automobiles were just an added bonus.

as such, the first time i left the southeast, i was SHOCKED to see people walking and biking WITH (or indifferent to) the flow of traffic. down here we are taught that if you are walking along the road (or biking, because bikers get lumped in with pedestrians down here), it is very very very crucial that you walk against the flow of traffic, because you cannot expect drivers to see you and not mow you down. the onus is on YOU to get out of THEIR way. additionally, walking in knee-high grass along the side of the road sucks, and because there aren’t many people here, the roads are usually totally empty. so oftentimes pedestrians just straight up walk ON the road. and if you do that you absolutely have to be able to see a car coming from a long way away, because rural drivers on completely empty roads tend to take them at extremely high speeds just for fun. the people who live diagonally across from me have had to replace their mailbox four times because folks take that blind curve at 90mph. i had a cat get hit by a car on that road. (they all live indoors now.) i even witnessed a car accident happen there when i was just outside minding my own business. ever see a tire fly 12 feet into the air and come down into someone’s windshield? that’s what happens when you hit power line pole driving like that.

the first time i ever encountered one of those pedestrian crossing buttons was in california in the early 2010s. i had literally never seen one before because we simply don’t have them here. they’re not very self-explanatory if you have been jaywalking your whole entire life because all you’re taught to do is look both ways and make sure the street is empty before you cross. northern/urban roadways are made so that pedestrians and drivers can both get to where they’re going. in rural/southern areas pedestrians might as well not bother.

interestingly, while not an entirely southern problem, there’s a loose correlation between rural areas and more problems with drunk drivers.

on the driving side, driving in a city is batshit insane. it’s both faster and slower. there is NO space and you’re expected to go whenever you have so much as an inch to worm your way in. there’s more traffic, and the traffic totally dictates your speed. in the south you can change lanes if you want to drive faster or slower and weave around traffic or let it weave around you, but in a city there’s no other lane to change to and if you don’t drive at the speed of the people ahead of and behind you you will die. you turn fast, you brake fast, etc. whenever i come back from driving in a city the people who ride with me think i’m insane. you don’t PULL ONTO A ROAD if you can SEE ANOTHER CAR THERE, what the fuck? meanwhile i’m like “lol that is six miles of space i have plenty of time” and give everyone in my vicinity heart palpitations until i readjust.

tailgating in a rural area is something only assholes do (done by people on a two-lane road to encourage the person in front of them to go faster because the only other lane is for oncoming traffic), and if someone gets within one car length of me on a two-lane road i can very passively aggressively slow my vehicle to a crawl until they back the fuck off. in a city you’re lucky if you have a twelve inches between your bumper and the next car’s hood ornament.

difference #2: LANGUAGE. this is a small one, but the southern dialect combined with the lack of literacy means i am learning certain things late in life. phrases i have heard verbally with my ears but had never seen written out include: “chest of drawers” which i thought was “chester drawers” - “seven year itch” which i thought was “seven year each” - “albeit” which i thought was “i’ll be it.” i’ve made a deliberate effort to unlearn mine own accent/dialect but i run into weird shit all the time. remotes are mashers, shopping carts are buggies, you put stuff up instead of putting it away, i fix you a drink instead of pouring you one, we shoot the game instead of play it. my mom LITERALLY can’t understand me if i speak too quickly - she has to remind me all the time to slow down and put on my southern.

difference #3: TECHNOLOGY. issue of whether or not you personally have the creepy amazon vans aside, the rural south is behind the rest of the country on technology. things in cities are AUTOMATED. things like the little button you press to cross the street, tickets you take at parking garages, even the parking meters you find in cities, that’s just the beginning of it. one time i came across a little computer touch screen in a MCDONALDS where you put your order in. you didn’t even go up to the counter. you just put your order on the screen and swiped your card and then they got it ready for you and you never had to speak to a human person. self-checkouts, gas pumps where you can swipe your card and not go in and pay at first...the south got those YEARS behind everybody else. in the mid-2010s i went to DC and visited a target for maybe the 5th time ever and i was BAFFLED by the self-checkout. i had no idea how to use it! it was like less than ten years ago and i was IN MY TWENTIES and i had never seen one before! when we send a package we have to talk to a human person. when we order food we usually have to talk to a human person. apps for places like dominos and subway have not been in use here for very long. my county just got doordash LAST YEAR.

because i am 31, and because the south is so technologically behind, i am actually old enough to remember how when you used to go to a gas station an attendant would not only pump your gas but wash your windshield for you while you just SAT IN THE CAR. that seems like something from the 50s but it actually was a thing here in my childhood IN the 90s. i wish i was making this up.

difference #4: INFRASTRUCTURE. this sort of goes hand-in-hand w/ the last point because so much of our infrastructure is made of technology, and it’s also more of a rural/urban thing than a south/north thing. but just for fun here’s a non-exhaustive list of things i don’t have in my town:

starbucks* - the first time i went to a starbucks i was in my 20s

a public pool - we used to, but now the only pool here requires a YMCA membership. the only baseball diamond in this county is also at the Y.

walmart

in fact, ANYWHERE to buy clothes that is not a goodwill or other secondhand store. i cannot buy clothing unless i order it online or LEAVE MY TOWN. almost all of the clothing i own is from walmart because it’s one of the only places in my entire county where you can actually PURCHASE clothing.

grocery store chains? pffft. my town has two entire stores and both are small southern chains. i didn’t go into a publix for the first time until two years ago when i went to florida. i’ve NEVER entered a whole foods.

food delivery? yeah, no. like i said, we got doordash last year, but before that the only place you could get delivery from was a pizza chain. we only have two pizza places in my town that deliver, and one is a local place, not attached to any chain, so i can’t spend my loyalty points there. (it’s very expensive there too.) last year it was CLOSED for six months because the manager got caught dealing meth. every last one of the delivery drivers was trafficking it for him. they all got fired and had to restart from the ground up. for that short time, it was not possible to get any food delivered to your house whatsoever.

a hospital/ambulance services - if someone is sick, we have to take them to the hospital in laurens, the town next door (about 15-20 minutes by car). the town i live in lucky - we have our own police and fire departments. (acab but you know what i mean.) joanna is a smaller town next to mine that isn’t a real town - it’s been demoted to a census designated area because only 2000 people live there. if they have an emergency, they have to use OUR fire and police departments, and LAURENS’s ambulance/hospital system

after-school places kids can go to keep from getting into trouble. we have the Y, if you have money (no one here has money), and we have churches, but mostly schools can’t afford to run too many extracurriculars. there’s nothing to do here but church and meth.

food banks: zero. we have food DRIVES sometimes where people will come from further away and bring free food, but if you’re hungry, there’s nowhere you can go for help - you have to wait for help to come to you.

libraries: we don’t have our own library. we have a branch of the county library that’s physically located in our town. but we share books with the rest of the entire county, so everything is always checked out or at the other branch.

*we technically have a starbucks that’s in the local college campus, but only college students are allowed to be there. they’ll still serve people without a college ID because no one gives a fuck, but you can’t linger and loiter and hang out like you do in a normal starbucks. we also have one in the barnes and noble in greenville, which is about an hour away by car, but again, it’s a mini starbucks that serves a limited menu and none of that weird Starbucks Culture™

here’s a few things i don’t have in my ENTIRE COUNTY:

movie theaters - technically. we have a Historial™ one-screen theater in laurens that shows one movie for two weeks a month after it hits regular theaters and then switches to another, and if you miss it, too bad. this is a VERY recent addition - it wasn’t restores until i was in my 20s as a kid and a teenager i had to ride in a car an hour or more to go to the movies.

target. only commies and yankees have target. down here we do walmart.

malls

arcades

skate parks/skating rinks

bowling

museums

zoos/aquariums

campgrounds

fairs. our county fairground got razed a decade ago because there just werent enough people showing up to justify the expense. so no more fairs. you have to have people to fund things and down here there just aren’t enough people anywhere.

you get the idea. we don’t have entertainment. like i said, nothing to do but church and meth.

CLASSES FOR STUFF: knitting classes, dancing classes, driving classes? nope. gymnastics, karate dojos, golf, knitting groups, books clubs, cooking classes? [GAMESHOW BUZZER]. you can’t even hire a clown for a birthday party out here. we do have a shooting range. ONE. in the entire county. and a race track. and a rather infamous former kkk memorabilia store. they made a movie about that (serious tw for this trailer - they’ve got white hoods, burning crosses, pepper spray, the whole nine), which, yes, takes place in laurens, aka right next door to me. i used to walk by that place all the time when i was playing pokemon go. haven’t seen the movie but the shooting locations in the trailer make laurens look a lot bigger and prettier than it really is in real life - especially the racetrack, which, in the trailer, is actually PAVED. (this is inaccurate to real life.)

EDUCATION: lots of people can’t read. we have two schools for illiterate adults, one religious college, and one branch of one of the state colleges that has a skeleton staff and a fuck ton of computers (you basically just go there to distance learn/e-learn - if you want to take real classes from this college, you have to drive at least an hour.)

support groups/group therapy: almost none. we have al-anon and weight watchers, but that’s about it. there’s only half a dozen therapists in my entire county, and none that operate from my town. mental healthcare down here is bullshit.

on food: we don’t have many sit-down restaurants, where servers bring you your menu and your food. if you don’t count waffle houses, my town has 4. my county has 9. in and out, 5 guys, applebees, ruby tuesday, red lobster, olive garden, panda epxress? forget it. those places were and still are rare treats. i’ve only been to an olive garden twice. red lobster once. whenever i leave my county i BEG for chinese because there’s only two chinese restaurants in our entire county and one of them is crazy expensive and the other one sucks.

we also don’t have the more important stores you need to like, live. if we need to exchange our router at a charter store? yeah, we don’t have one. need to visit the sprint store to get your phone repaired? nuh-uh, we don’t have any phone stores either. my family recently switched to at&t because it was the only company that had a physical location in our county. before that, we had to drive an hour for even the smallest repair.

on a grimer note: we don’t have homeless shelters! homeless in laurens county? too bad for you. we do have homeless PEOPLE. they just have nowhere to go except the churches

hospitals? only kind of. like i said, our county has one, but it’s not equipped to take seriously sick people. when my mom had a heart attack she had to be driven straight to greenwood, which is 45 minutes away if you’re not in an ambulance. they obviously made it faster than that, but still. that was scary. it took them a long time to get here. i had a distant relative of mine die before the ambulance made it because they were SO far out in the sticks, even further than me.

we also don’t have any specialty stores. sporting goods, gamestops, shoe stores, florists, craft stores, bookstores, best buys...forget it. if you can’t buy it at walmart, you just can’t buy it. the exceptions: my TOWN has one jewelry store, two hardware stores, and two auto repair stores. my COUNTY has three clothing stores, none of which are in my town, one place that sells used TVs, and one movie rental place. thrilling, right? i can rent a movie if i drive out of town. (i know streaming killed the rental business, but we also only had two places when i was a kid, if you counted the rental section in the grocery store.)

so, yeah. i know the term “shithole” is really loaded these days, but rural areas are just plain less developed, and often in seriously poor repair because nobody fucking uses them. there USED to be more stuff here - my mom was on a bowling league, and as a kid i had a birthday party at a skating rink - but late stage capitalism and drugs destroyed it all. people ran out of money to do things like skate and bowl and so those places closed. the south is full of empty store fronts and deserted strip malls slowly being eaten by kudzu. my brother got out of this town and whenever he winds up back here (not often) he remarks on how completely and utterly dead everything feels. “my friends who live in greenwood now think they’re all rural,” he said once. “they complain constantly about how remote it is. but they have no idea. they wouldn’t make it five minutes out here.” greenwood has its own movie theater, mall, starbucks, homeless shelter, food bank, and hospital.

so, yeah! if you were wondering what rural white southerners are so fucking mad about, that’s part of it. propaganda and xenophobia and racism has their anger directed ENTIRELY at the wrong people, but it’s hard to argue that the anger itself isn’t just a little bit justified.

difference #5: CULTURE. specifically culture around food, and the culture around the civil war. i could write an entire other essay about the culture of the church being everything because the church IS the only semblance of infrastructure we have and this is why the south is so homophobic, but we’ll skip that for now.

food: this is a quickie, because i sort of touched on it already, but there are like, almost NO vegetarian options here. there’s very limited choices of cuisine. it’s ALL waffle house and soul food. we have a lot of mexican places because we’re physically close to the mexican border, but aside from that, forget finding like indian or thai or japanese or anything like that. no sushi. forget finding a menu that has meals that are halal or kosher. there’s just. no culture here. no variety. you know? like i said, our entire county doesn’t even hit double-digits for proper sit-down restaurants.

civil war: i’m not going to go into the big stuff since i sort of covered it at the top and also this post is getting way too long, but to other white rural southerners there is legitimate baggage around the fact that my mom married a yankee and that i am half-yankee. and he’s not even a real yankee! he was born up north but raised in southern florida. (florida is weird. the further south you go geographically, the less southern you are culturally.) yet: my family makes jokes that are sometimes not jokes about this. when i drop this information in casual conversation people get that look on their faces like: ah, that explains it. it being that i am not religious and don’t laugh at racist jokes and maybe i am queer?? (strangers tend to be unsure about this last part, even when i’m wearing rainbows.) it’s because i’m half-yank! that explains everything! the xenophobia is SO strong here that white people are even xenophobic at OTHER WHITE PEOPLE.

so in conclusion when i say the north is like another country, it’s because the people who raised me think of it like another country. and culturally! it is buck wild! the differences that there are! when i leave this town i feel like i step into fucking star trek! if you are not from the rural south, and you have never been to the rural south, please do not come here! i’ve been to a few different places now and this is definitely my least favorite one.

#personal #i guess #it's ok to rb if you want to though??? tbh i don't think most people will even get to the end lol #anyway here's my college lecture about the south it's not very good or college level actually lmao #this is AIRQUOTE FIELD STUDY AIRQUOTE #the experiences u have as a half-yank white person in the rural south are crazy #bc other white people think you're okay to listen to them say what they REALLY think #and then backtrack rapidly when they realize you aren't #now that i'm grown and woke i can't believe half-yankee is even a thing.#anyway this post brought to you by the maddening realization of how technologically far behind we are #WE DON'T EVEN HAVE THE CREEPY AMAZON VANS #the automated package sending...what i wouldn't give not to have to talk to people to mail stuff #rip. :/

8 notes · View notes

thesoftsoobin · 4 years

Text

➳ pairing: soobin x reader

➳ genre: proposal au, tooth-rotting fluff, angst if you squint

➳ warnings: soobin is so cute you might cry, also this is my first time writing a member x reader fic

➳ word count: 3.4k

➳ author’s notes: soobin is aged up in this and is in grad school, so about 24. also yes the title is the same as that satiric piece about eating babies, it was fitting for the story but also I thought it was funny hehe. happy valentines day!

Soobin has been distant lately, and you’re almost sure he’s getting ready to breakup with you. But little do you know, he has something much, much better planned.

An all too familiar electric blue Volkswagen Beetle sits outside the doors of your office building, engine still running. It’s parked in the spot where your boyfriend Soobin’s red SUV should be, and his best friend Yeonjun, hair the same color blue as his car, pokes his head out of the driver’s side window.

“Hey!” he waves to you with a wide grin as your eyebrows knit together. Slowly, you near his car and the band and skate shop stickers on his bumper come into focus. “What took you so long? I thought you were done at 5.”

“Sorry, I was…finishing something up…” you say, and you take a few more steps to the passenger’s side and open the door to slide in. “Is Soobin okay?”

It’s his turn to be confused now as he shifts the car into drive. “Yeah, he’s fine. Didn’t he text you? He asked me to come get you.”

While he waits at the light to pull out of the parking lot, you scramble for your bag and take out your phone. Surely enough, you have two missed texts from your boyfriend.

You frown at the words, a frustration you’re not proud of building up inside your chest. Your car broke down yesterday and is in the shop, and Soobin had promised to drive you to and from work. He’d dropped you off this morning and you texted him on your lunch, just to remind him he had to pick you up too. But apparently something much more pressing came up only 15 minutes before he was set to be there.

To be fair, this wasn’t such a big deal. You could have even walked home if you needed to. The apartment you share with Soobin and Yeonjun isn’t far from your work at all.

But it’s still winter. The sidewalks are slicked with ice, the wind chill is below freezing, and today is one of many days you’d forgotten your gloves when rushing out the door in the morning. So it was nice of him, at least, to ask Yeonjun to come.

Normally, you wouldn't be upset with him at all, for that very reason. But for the past few weeks, Soobin has been acting weird, on edge and distracted. He's been half-heartedly listening to you, always seemingly somewhere else when you'd talk, and he’s started stress-filled arguments whenever you'd ask him a simple question like what he wanted from the store.

Just this morning, you’d asked what his plans for the day were. When he simply shrugged, you pressed a bit more, sure he had something planned for his first day off in a while.

“Nothing?” You’d asked teasingly, leaning against the counter as you chewed your granola bar. “Isn’t Jun off too? You guys normally have entire, intricate plans when you get to hang out by yourselves.”

“I don’t know, babe,” he’d tensed up in response. He’d squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just...leave it, okay?”

With all of that adding up, of course you were frustrated. It felt like he was pulling away, and any time you brought it up, he would just laugh and brush it off with a simple "I'm fine."

"What's wrong?" Yeonjun asks. You hadn’t noticed your eyes were still on your phone, mouth still set in a frown.

"Be honest," you turn to him suddenly, "is Soobin going to break up with me?"

He glances from the road to you and then back to the road again, barely meeting your eye before bursting out in laughter.

"What?" you whine. "He's been acting so weird. And what's so important that he couldn't wait five minutes to pick me up first? On his day off?"

He's still stifling a laugh. "You're hilarious, Y/N. You know that?"

"I'm serious! He would've told you, right? If he was going to break up with me? Just be honest so I can prepare for it."

"He's not breaking up with you," he says, letting out another giggle, and that stills your nerves. Your shoulders fall and you sit back against the seat. "He loves you. Like, too much. It's disgusting."

You try not to smile to yourself, already feeling ridiculous for thinking he would be ending things. Choi Soobin, the man who still wakes you up with coffee and a kiss every morning and who, just yesterday, brought flowers home from the store. He saw them, yellow and pink, your two favorite colors, and thought of you.

But that brings you back to everything else about him lately. Distracted, irritable, and closed off. Of course, you had every reason to be confused. You still do.

"So why is he acting so weird then?" You ask Yeonjun as he pulls into the apartment complex. He sits up to look for a parking spot, still not meeting your eye.

"You'll just have to—" he stops himself and clears his throat. As he rounds a corner, he starts again, voice easy. "It's just his thesis. He's all stressed and everything."

"Right," you say, nodding.

That still doesn't explain why he refuses to tell you about it. He's complained to you throughout this entire process since he started the gigantic paper last year. But…you guess it makes sense. He's nearing the end of it, probably too focused on polishing it to complain.

"Right," you repeat, trying to reassure yourself as Yeonjun pulls into a free space. Trying not to entertain the thoughts that maybe he just hasn't told his best friend, and he really is planning on breaking up with you. "What were you going to say? I'll just have to what?"

"Oh, uh," he turns the key and the ignition sputters to a stop, "I was just going to say you'll have to be patient with him. Really, everything's fine. Seriously."

"Okay…"

With that, Yeonjun gives a curt nod and opens his door. He fumbles with his keys in the apartment entryway, which is a regular occurrence for him, and he lets you both in. You make your way up the carpeted stairs to the second floor and pull out your own keys to get into the apartment, worry still clawing at your heart.

The absolute disaster in the kitchen when you walk in does nothing to quell your fears. Bowls, pots, and pans are scattered around the countertops. There's splotches of flour all over the table cloth, and a pot of water is bubbling over on the stove. The stove hisses every time another drop of water splatters onto the burner.

"Shit," Yeonjun takes two steps at a time into the kitchen and turns the dial to shut it off. "I was supposed to — I think he told me to turn it off."

"Jun, what—" you take another glance around, back over the flour and the stove, and notice the lump of dough sitting in a bread pan beside the pot of water. "Was he stress baking again or something?"

But what would Soobin need to boil water for? Gnocchi?

"Ah, well, he—" Yeonjun scratches the back of his neck, pulling on a tuft of his hair. "You know, I'm not very good at— He shouldn't have—"

Another jingle of keys outside the door interrupts Yeonjun, and before he can make anything of his stammering, Soobin walks in. He looks completely normal, if not a bit disheveled, in his earmuffs and brown suede jacket.

But Yeonjun breathes out an, "Oh, thank god," and you see Soobin's eyes widen just slightly as he shuts the door behind him. He doesn't even take his boots off before stepping over to you, which you know for a fact he's made a habit of doing every winter since he could walk.

"Hi baby," he says just before giving you a small, quick kiss. Normal, fine. But you still look between him and Yeonjun with narrowed eyes. Yeonjun's staring down at his feet now, and Soobin gives a tight smile that turns into the cutest pout he can muster. "I'm sorry I broke my promise about picking you up."

"It's fine, but what exactly came up?" You ask before jutting your thumb toward Yeonjun. "And why's he acting just as weird as you now, too? A-and," you gesture around you at the mess. "And what's with all of this?"

Soobin pulls his earmuffs down and hooks them around his neck. He bites his bottom lip, and you know that his next few words are going to be a lie. You've been together long enough to know that that's his tell.

"It completely slipped my mind that I had a meeting with my advisor scheduled," he says. "He read over my most recent draft of my thesis."

"It took you only a half hour to drive to campus, have the meeting, and drive back?" you ask, and he opens his mouth to respond, but he can't seem to come up with anything to say. "Soob, why are you lying to me?"

"Babe—" he slips his hands into his pockets, taking in a breath.

"Ah, I'm gonna…go play Crazy Taxi," you hear Yeonjun say behind you.

You look back, watching Yeonjun scurry to his room and shut the door behind him. He's clearly aware of what's about to happen and must have lied to you before. Soobin is humming under his breath when you return your gaze to him, trying to come up with something to say.

"Soob, you're my best friend," you say. "If you're not—If this isn't working for you anymore, you can tell me. I'm—"

"What?" His eyebrows shoot up and he takes a step forward, cupping your face in his hands and shaking his head. "No. No, no no. That's not it! Why would you think that?"

"You've been acting so strange, and-and," you gesture back to Yeonjun's door. "And he's acting weird now too, like he knows why you're acting weird and can't say. And if it were good, he'd—"

"Y/N, no," Soobin says, leaning down to kiss you again. This time he lingers, his way of reassuring you and quelling your fears for good. "I'm not breaking up with you," he says, and then he laughs just like Yeonjun had. He’s smiling so wide his dimples show.

You smack his arm playfully, but it only makes him laugh harder. "So why is everything so different, then? And why did you lie about picking me up?"

He holds up his hands, giving up. "I know I've been off lately and starting dumb fights because...I’ve been so caught up with my paper," he says.

"Yeah," you say, urging him to continue.

"So I wanted to make it up to you by making a nice dinner," he stammers out, the apparent stress of this evening filling his voice as he goes on. "I wanted to get it done before I picked you up, but you and I both know I'm only good at baking. And I couldn't find the right pot for the rice and then I thought we were out of kochujang, so I went to the store, but then I remembered it was in the one cabinet I didn't look in."

"Soobin," you frown. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

Now — Now you can wonder how you ever thought this man was going to break up with you. You look up at him, smiling at him and to yourself.

"Well, I can help you now," you say, and you pivot and start toward the kitchen. He grabs you by the waist before you can make it very far, though, spinning you back around.

"No, no, no," he says urgently again. He's still acting kind of weird, but now you chalk it up to his surprise being ruined. "I still want to do it myself."

"Babe, no offense, but it'll take all night if you try to do it yourself," you say, turning around again. He keeps his arms around your waist, following you closely and nearly tripping on your heel as you step onto the kitchen tile.

"Y/N," he whines, wrapping his arms tighter. He rests his chin on top of your head. "Let me do this for you."

You turn around in his arms and stare up at him, and he gives you a peck on the cheek. "Can I at least help do the dishes or something?" you ask.

"No," he says. "You had a long day at work, so go relax and play Crazy Taxi with Jun."

"No," you repeat back to him, and he recoils a bit, his eyebrows coming together. "This is stressing you out more, isn't it?"

"Not at all," he insists unconvincingly, shaking his head again so his bangs swish over his forehead. As you cross your arms over your chest, he keeps trying. "Just call me Chef Choi. I'm gonna make you the best kimchi jjigae and rice and bread you've ever had in your life."

This time you stand up on your tip toes and cup his face in your hands. "Whatever you say," you tell him, and he smiles, tilting his head in your hand. "Now where's the onion and mushroom? I'll cut it up for you."

"Babbbbyyyyy," he draws the word out, but you don't stop yourself from getting the cutting board from the cabinet.

"Come on," you say and you set the board down on the countertop. "This will be more fun, anyway. I'm not letting you stress yourself out on my account."

You expect him to keep pouting, the stubborn boy that he is, but instead his face begins to soften. He stares at you with these puppy dog eyes, so wide and affectionate that you have to do a double take. You haven't seen him look at you like this since the first time he told you he loved you.

“What?” you ask, when instead of saying anything, he takes your hands in his.

“I love you so much,” he says.

“And I love…” you start to say, but he’s sinking down. Down to one knee. “...you. Soobin.”

“I think I’ve always--Do you--” he sighs, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “I had this whole speech planned in my head, but I’m looking at you now and I can’t remember the order of it or even a single word. But this isn’t exactly going as planned anyway.”

“Soob, are you--” you take one hand from his to cover your face, which is quickly heating up. Your cheeks hurt from smiling and blushing and his loving gaze is so intoxicating that you can’t help but try and hide.

“Y/N, will you marry me?” he asks, and there he goes, pulling a ring box from the pocket of the suede jacket he’s still wearing, with his winter boots still on and his earmuffs still around his neck. He’s blushing wildly too, and you notice his hands shaking as he opens the box to reveal the sapphire ring you’d mentioned wanting many times to your best friend.

You take in the entire sight, mouth agape, until you realize you haven’t responded yet and Soobin’s still looking up at you nervously.

“Yes!” you say, and it comes out a lot louder than you meant it to. “Yes, obviously.”

"Wait, really?" Soobin asks, his features still soft. He loses his balance and nearly falls to his side, catching himself with his free hand. You nod, and you hold your hand out for him to put the glimmering ring on.

He almost drops it in the process, looking up at you with eyes filled with tears instead of at what he's doing. But then he springs up, somehow not falling over again, and smiles beneath your lips as he kisses you.

"Did you really think I'd say no?" you ask when the two of you pull away, your noses still only centimeters apart.

"Well," he tilts his head to the side and sinks into himself. "I planned all of this and then started to wonder if you even still liked me."

"Soob!" you smack his arm again — with your left hand, which now has the ring you still think you may be imagining. "That's why you've been acting so weird?"

"Yeah, and I wanted it to be perfect. But now I've just ruined all of it, which is also why I'm surprised you said yes," he chuckles. "I was going to make this whole meal and bake the bread and then put the ring in the bread, but then I was so stressed about the meal that I forgot to pick up the ring from the jewelers. So I had to make Jun get you from work so that I could pick up the ring, but then you guys were here when I got back and I couldn't do what I planned since you're such a wonderful girlfriend who wanted to help me because you thought I was stressed over my thesis, which I haven't thought about for the past month because I've been planning this."

You stare at him for a moment, at the way he sighs and his shoulders sag, and you take his face in your hands again.

"That is so you that this couldn't be any more perfect," you say, and one of the tears that had been building behind his eyes slips down his cheek. "Also this way, neither of us accidentally ate the ring."

He lets out a distressed laugh and falls into you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. "That's true. It was really expensive."

"You better not have spent your savings on it," you say, voice muffled with your face in his chest.

"Actually, your dad paid for half of it."

You pull back and look at him with furrowed brows. "My dad?"

"Yeah, I talked to him about all of this. And your mom. Your brother gave me a hard time but I like to believe he was joking," he says. "And Kai, who you probably guessed helped me with the ring. Yeonjun was the first person I told, of course, and he did a good job at distracting you while I did all of that."

"Oh," you say, and you try to think back to the past month and all of the times Yeonjun had invited you to hang out with him. You had thought it was just his way of keeping you company while Soobin allegedly stressed about school. "Yeonjun is still a terrible liar, though."

"Yeah," Sooblin laughs. "He is."

Just then, Yeonjun's door squeaks open and he comes out. He's changed into his pajamas and is in the middle of tossing a handful of chips into his mouth. As he's chewing, he says, "I heard my name. Is the food done?"

But as he swallows, his gaze locks in on the two of you, still tangled in each other. You watch as his eyes search between your flushed face and Soobin's tear-stained cheeks.

"Wait," he says. "Did I miss it?"

Soobin gives him a shy smile.

"I missed it!" he pouts. "Soobin, I was supposed to film it. And, you know, see it."

"You can film the wedding," you say, just as Soobin says to Yeonjun, "Do you want me to do it over? 'Cuz it was kind of sloppy and I forgot my whole speech."

"Ah, I missed that? And the look on her face?" Yeonjun just keeps pouting, padding closer to you two. "Bin, she really thought you were going to break up with her. I was seconds away from giving up your secret." As he steps into the kitchen, he peers over the two of you to get a look at the stove. "You didn't even start the jjigae? Wow, man, you really did drop the ball."

Soobin grins down at his feet, shaking his head. When he looks back up at you, you mouth, "I love you."

"I love you," he mouths back, his smile spreading to show his dimples again, and that's really all you needed.

The night may not have gone according to Soobin's plans, but it was perfect. So utterly perfect.

#soobin x reader #soobin x reader au #proposal au #choi soobin #txt soobin #soobin txt #choi yeonjun #yeonjun #txt au #tomorrow x together #soobin fluff #soobin fanfic

81 notes · View notes

darth-vaders-bitch · 4 years

Text

Star Wars characters who would absolutely love bumper cars

Wrecker: you can bet your ass this boy would love the chaos that is bumper cars it matches his energy

Fives: truly a child at heart, anything that lets him go a little wild is definitely his thing

Hardcase: his chaotic energy matches Fives’ chaotic energy

Jesse: where theres Hardcase and Fives you’ll find Jesse not far behind to pull some shenanigans. Those three would team up against everyone else and actually break some of the cars

Echo: we’ve all seen how Echo is a low key wild child. Dude will crack jokes, hit you just to hit you in the car, and definitely go after his brothers.

Gregor: we don’t get to see much of him in TCW but he was a clone commando so like he’d enjoy being able to slam into the others full speed

Rex: my man seems serious on the outside but like have you met his Jedi? Rex would absolutely love bumper cars. Also the chance to absolutely wreck Anakin? There’s no way he’s passing that up.

Anakin: the fearless Jedi, any chance he gets to have fun or make something fun he does it

Cody: on the outside he hates it. On the inside he’s thriving. This is his chance to knock some sense into his brothers and he’s gonna take it.

Ahsoka: she’s still a kid, she’s gonna love the shit out of watching the boys all try and see who can get the most hits in. (She wins)

Kit Fisto: dudes hella chill, of course he’s not gonna pass up on some fun. Did you see his chaotic ass smiling all through the Mon Cala arc?

Waxer and Boil: those two are a dynamic duo and you already know they’re gonna jump at the chance to ram some cars into the 501st

The 104th: those boys are hard working and need a break. This is their chance to take out the stress of the war and the never ending relief missions while Dad Plo Koon watches amused from the sidelines and eventually joins in on the fun with his kids

Anyways this idea popped into my head after seeing an old picture of me on bumper cars with my friends.

24 notes · View notes

stark-tony · 4 years

Note

If you’re doing fic rec requests, I’d love to see one with future peter! College, adulthood, future relationships, avengers leader, anything!

here you go!

* = incomplete

Sweet Stories and Gentle Goodnights series* by frostysunflowers

summary:

pairings: michelle/peter

tags: fluff, humor, angst

warnings: character death

I Never Lived ‘Til I Lived In Your Light series* by losingmymindtonight

summary:

pairings: none

tags: fluff, angst

warnings: character death

Easy Come, Easy Go by losingmymindtonight

summary: Tony Stark spends a lifetime waiting for Peter Parker to leave.But the kid stays. He always stays.

pairings: none

tags: angst

warnings: character death

built from scraps by peterstank

summary: “Everybody needs someone. That’s what you said, right?” Pepper meets his eyes and he’s struck by the way she’s almost pleading. “We both lost. We can help each other.”

Her hand, palm up and open, stretches into the space between them.

Peter hesitates.

Then he takes it.

or: the one where tony was dusted instead of peter, so he and pepper try to figure out the whole ‘family’ thing together.

(oh, and it turns out that the man who died in peter’s arms on an alien planet is his biological father. who knew, right?)

pairings: pepperony, michelle/peter

tags: angst, fluff

warnings: abuse

Allston Christmas by Gruoch

summary: “You guys didn’t have to do this,” Peter says from where he sits squeezed into the middle seat of the U-Haul, sweat running down his back. The air-conditioning in the truck they’ve rented is broken, and even with the windows rolled down it’s hellishly hot inside. “Really. I could have handled it myself.”

“We wanted to,” Tony replies as he blasts the horn at a minivan with a “Harvard Mom” bumper sticker that is attempting to cut into his lane. “It’s like a little trip down memory lane. It’s nostalgic—it’s gonna be fun. Right, Rhodey?”

“Absolutely,” Rhodey agrees, with all the enthusiasm of a man being lead to the gallows.

pairings: none

tags: fluff, humor

warnings: none

failure’s a stranger we all dream about by searchingforstars

summary: Peter’s professors all seem to know Tony. Instead of calling Peter out for turning in the odd piece of homework late or getting distracted in class like they might do for anyone else, they give him pats on the back in hallways and tell him fondly that, “Tony must be so proud of you, following in his footsteps.”

Tony wouldn’t be, though. Not if he knew how much effort Peter was having to put in to keep his head above the water.

He just wants Tony to be proud of him.

He has to work harder - that’s the only way.

–

or, Peter’s college workload and anxiety makes him worry that maybe he’s not good enough for Tony.

pairings: none

tags: hurt/comfort

warnings: none

Only Time* by losingmymindtonight

summary: On Titan, Peter Parker survives the Stone’s twisted lottery. Back on Earth, Pepper Potts and May Parker do not.Tony is still left with a shattered world, trying desperately to build something in the wreckage.And the universe is still mourning. It is still seeking revenge.In the end, we will always end up here.

pairings: pepperony

tags: hurt/comfort

warnings: none

Irreconcilable by sahiya

summary: “We’ll still be friends, right?” she said, frowning at him over slightly grainy video on his phone. “We said we’d always be friends.”

It sounded unexpectedly plaintive, coming from her. Peter swallowed. We’ll always be friends had seemed easy to promise back in August. It was harder now, with the sting of rejection so fresh. She’d tried to tell him that it was about her, about how she had changed, but he knew it was about him, too. He wasn’t what she wanted.

“Yeah,” he said dully. “Yeah, of course.”

pairings: michelle/peter

tags: hurt/comfort

warnings: none

The Hoodie™ by coconutknightshade

summary: The one in which Tony overhears Peter telling his roommate that the MIT hoodie he’s wearing is his dads.The one in which Peter never plans to call Tony ‘dad’ to his face but the universe has other plans.

pairings: pepperony, happy/may

tags: fluff

warnings: none

You’ll Be Here (in My Heart) by seekrest

summary: The morning that Tony’s life changed forever began as his days usually began now — shuffling into the kitchen half asleep, going through the motions as he searched for Pepper’s favorite coffee mug.

Tony stifled a yawn, grabbing the Black Panther novelty mug she adored while he grabbed one that Morgan had made them years ago - one that made her now cringe with embarrassment anytime she saw him use it, the childish scribbles that made him laugh.

He sets Morgan’s creation down on the countertop as he reaches for the Black Panther mug, it being just barely out of reach for when Pepper has put it last.

“Damn thing.” Tony mutters to himself, fingers barely brushing against it before he grabs it - going to set it down on the counter only to be surprised when Pepper walks in from the bedroom, an unreadable expression on her face.

“Morning. You know, you and I need to have a talk about about your choice of mugs. I know T’Challa somehow perfected the cup warmer thing here but you could at least show a little—“

“Michelle’s in labor.”

pairings: none

tags: angst

warnings: none

An MIT Halloween by bethy_277

summary: Coming to MIT had been difficult, having almost lost his mentor when he had snapped to save the entire universe, and Peter had really struggled. If it hadn’t been for Ned and Harley- who he had met shortly after he came back and become good friends with- he didn’t think he would have made it past the first few weeks at school. He had called both May and Tony that first week, hysterical and begging to come back to New York. May had been patient, Tony had been ready to get in his car to drive to him to help him through it, and Harley and Ned had been there and talked him down both times.

**Peter is a college student at MIT and Tony brings Morgan up for some trick-or-treating.

pairings: none

tags: fluff

warnings: none

287 Miles by imgoingtocrash

summary: There’s a long list of things that Tony would rather be doing at six in the morning that don’t involve carrying his seven year old daughter across MIT’s campus in his pajamas and a hoodie from the university that’s older than the student he’s visiting.

However, when Peter calls in the middle of a Wednesday night, Tony answers. That’s the gig, the only one left that matters now that he’s out of the superhero game.

The Great Tony Stark: father/father-figure of two, cares about working for SI when the mood strikes or his wife asks, savior of the universe, otherwise retired at the ripe old age of fifty-four.

Peter calls from MIT in a state of panic. Tony shows up with Morgan in tow, and only kind of makes a big deal out of the whole situation.

pairings: none

tags: fluff

warnings: none

The beauty that she brings by Gruoch

summary: Peter puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder and leans in close, his expression wide-eyed and solemn. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Honestly?” Tony makes a face. “No, I can’t. I really struggle with impulse control and running my mouth when I shouldn’t.”

***

or, old man builds family, lives happily ever after

pairings: michelle/peter, pepperony

tags: fluff, humor

warnings: non-consensual drug use

The Gift by Gruoch

summary: “Dad!” Morgan says, bursting into the room. “Dad—the baby’s on the ceiling.”

“The baby’s on the what now?” Tony asks, getting up to follow her into the living room.

Morgan points up at the ceiling, where baby June is happily crouched upside-down above their heads, offering them a gummy grin.

Tony looks up at her, hands on his hips. June looks back down at him and babbles nonsensically, clearly delighted with her fresh perspective on the world.

“Hm,” Tony says, rubbing a finger over his mustache as he assesses the situation. “Alright, no problem. I’ll get her down—go grab me a broom.”

“Dad!” Morgan says, scandalized. “You can’t just whack the baby off the ceiling with a broom.”

Or, Peter stresses, Tony schemes, and baby Jones-Parker keeps everyone on their toes.

pairings: none

tags: fluff, humor

warnings: none

And You’re Miles Away by losingmymindtonight

summary: College is scary, even for teenage superheros.

pairings: none

tags: hurt/comfort

warnings: none

This B.S. Better Be Worth It* by losingmymindtonight

summary: Originally, Tony’s plan had been to just surprise Peter with the fact that he would be on campus for a semester.He’d never actually expected Peter to sign up for his class.

pairings: none

tags: fluff, humor

warnings: none

Magic Tree House: Spiders at Sunrise by ciaconnaa

summary: "Trust me, you’ll have so much more fun here,“ Peter tells his daughter. “You get to play with Gerald, swim with Morgan, garden with Pepper -”

“- build a toy airplane with me,” Tony adds.

Peter’s eyes grow comically wide. He lets out a loud, dramatic, shout of anguish before he takes a few steps over and collapses onto the rug, AJ still pressed close to his chest. She starts shrieking with laughter at his theatrics. “No way! A toy airplane?! Tony builds the best stuff! I’m so jealous.”

or;

When MJ needs to study for school and Peter needs to do Official Spidery Things, their daughter gets to stay at Tony’s for a week, much to his delight. They do fun things like eating ice cream and watching movies. They also fall out of a tree house, but that part isn’t so fun.

pairings: none

tags: fluff

warnings: none

Candle in the Window by madasthesea

summary: Finals are over and Peter just wants to go home. The weather has other ideas.

pairings: none

tags: hurt/comfort

warnings: none

snapshot by ciaconnaa

summary: When Tony gets a call at 4am from Peter, he assumes it’s an emergency.

This thought is reinforced when, upon picking up the call, Peter announces, “Hi, I have an emergency.”

or;

Tony suffers a major blood pressure drop, Peter bakes a birthday cake that looked like it was bitten by a radioactive spider, and the two of them look at photos from a time capsule.

pairings: michelle/peter

tags: fluff

warnings: none

a sticky situation by ciaconnaa

summary: “Hey, Tony, look what I can do!”

Of all the things he expected in the grand adventure that is babysitting Peter’s daughter, Tony did not expect to turn his head to find the kid stuck to the ceiling.

Like father, like daughter, it would seem.

pairings: none

tags: fluff, humor

warnings: none

christmas eve car-rides by transpeterp

summary: tony picks peter up from college to get him home in time for christmas;fluff ensues

pairings: none

tags: fluff

warnings: none

#irondad #irondad and spiderson #tony stark #peter parker #my fic recs #yeah i know built from scraps is part of a series but I've only read the first two stories so i didn't want to rec the entire series #tw abuse

34 notes · View notes

iwoulddieforkeanureeves · 5 years

Text

Ride (Keanu Reeves x Reader)

This one shot gets a bit NSFW towards the end!

Today had been a rough day, a rough day after a series of rough days. You had been overworked, stressed, and wanted nothing more than to get home and go to sleep. You hoped into your little rundown car after work, the sun was just starting to set, as you had to stay late at work to finish something up, because of course your coworkers wouldn't stay to help you. You rolled your eyes just thinking about it. You started your car and took a deep breath, trying to enjoy the pretty sunset as you set off. The long country road you were on was relatively empty. You smiled as the music wafted through the air and the wind ruffled your hair, you had always loved drives like these. The sunset above you, no other cars riding your bumper, just you, the radio, and the road.

Everything was going smoothly until your felt your pedal go limp under your foot as your engine sputtered. You cursed loudly, pulling over on the shoulder with your leftover momentum as your engine died. You let out a small scream, why? Why couldn't you have one nice thing? Just one nice drive, ruined by your stupid car, and your stupid coworkers who couldn't pull their own weight. You threw your hazards on and tried to start your car, to no avail. You got out and slumped your body against the car and began to silently cry, the pressure of life weighing down on you like a brick. You sat there, your body wracked with sobs as you curled up. You tried calling someone to come help you, and realized your phone was dead. You threw it into the car and ran your hand through your hair. What were you supposed to do now? You clutched the fabric of your pants as you felt your sobs get more intense. It felt like some cosmic force was out to get you. Like everything you did, no matter how hard you tried, how much you cared, just blew up in your face.

You were interrupted by the sound of a motorcyclist rolling up behind you, the soft purr of the engine breaking you out of your stupor for a moment. You wiped your eyes and looked up, seeing a tall man with a gorgeous Harley Davidson motorcycle. He was wearing a soft brown leather jacket and dark wash jeans, you could tell he was toned by the way the leather and denim gripped his form. He kicked up his stand and dismounted. Taking off his helmet and shaking out his long dark hair. You knew he looked familiar, but you couldn't place his face. He was incredibly handsome, with dark almond shaped eyes and a salt and peppery beard.

He approached you, you still wiping the tears off of your face and trying to pull yourself together. He slowly bent down, his knees in the dirt as he placed a warm hand on your knee. "Are you okay?" He inquired, his voice was deep and gentle. You looked up, and your eyes went wide as you recognized him. It was Keanu Reeves, you had seen him onscreen, heard about his kind acts, and that he lived in the area, but you had never expected this.

Maybe your luck was changing for the better, you thought as you nodded softly. "Yeah, my car broke down and my phone is dead so I can't call anyone and I don't know what's wrong with it." You explained, he stood up and held his hand out to you. You gratefully took it, as he effortlessly pulled your smaller body up on its feet.

He looked behind you, "That's awful, how about your pop your hood for me and I'll see if I can see what's wrong." He offered as he began to walk to the front of the car.

You hopped back in the car and popped the hood as he asked, you were floored by Keanu. He just helped you, on the side of the road, for no reason. He probably has a thousand other things to do, but he's here. You watched him take off his leather jacket, revealing a simple white v-neck shirt. He handed the jacket to you, and began to rummage around the engine, checking for any obvious problems. You ran your fingers down the soft leather as you watched him, his eyes laser focused as he assessed your car.

He pulled away, sighing, and running his hand through his long hair. "I think it's something electrical, you'd probably have to get it to a shop." He surmised, looking out on the empty road. You realized his hands were dirty, so you found some baby wipes in your car and handed them to Keanu.

You still clutched his leather jacket as he cleaned up, "Thank you so much for doing that, you didn't have to." You blurted out, a bit flustered still by the whole situation.

He gave you a smile, "Oh don't worry about it. What's your name?" He asked as he walked closer to you, taking his jacket back into his arm as he leaned on your vehicle.

You straightened up, "(Y/N)." You said, as you put your hands in your pockets.

He began to put his jacket on, "Well, (Y/N), I don't have my phone on me, so we'll probably have to either ride up to the shop or ride to my place so you can use my phone." He stated, talking with his hands as he presented the options to you.

You smiled, he was a bit of a goof. "Whatever is easier for you, I don't want to inconvenience you." You replied, to which he waved you off.

"You're not an inconvenience, have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?" He asked as he went over to his bike, you followed closely behind and shook your head. He got on, "Its really fun, just get on behind me and hold on tight, and you'll be alright." He said, smiling, his passion for it clearly showing through as you got on behind him. A blush spread across your cheeks as you wrapped your arms around his waist, his warmth seeping into you. You never thought you'd be this close to him.

Keanu started up his Harley, and started back down the long and winding road. The sun had set now, and the air had began to cool. He looked out on the road, feeling the cool air on his exposed skin and your arms wrapped around his waist. When he first saw you sitting there crying, he remembered how it felt when he had lost everything, and he knew he had to help you. You being absolutely stunning was just a bonus, of course. For the first time in a while, Keanu felt a little less lonely, feeling your body pressed against his own as he drove off into the night.

You practically snuggled into his back, the night air whipping your hair around behind you. Keanu was just so warm and comforting. The smell of leather filled your nose as you had your head laying on his strong shoulders. You honestly didn't know what you would've done if he didn't come along, the nearest anything was more than 5 miles away, and you really didn't want to walk for two hours in the dark. He was a hero on and offscreen, apparently.

After about twenty minutes of riding with Keanu, he pulled into his garage, parking his bike. You looked around in wonder at the gorgeous collection of rare and interesting cars and motorcycles. But you couldn't stare for long as Keanu quickly led you inside, which was equally as impressive, but he seemed rather bashful about it. You were surprised he was so humble about everything, living in LA it seems like everyone was stuck up, vapid, and selfish, especially every C-list 'influencer' that came into your work. But Keanu was completely different, he was a gentleman, he was humble, and he was selfless.

You settled into his couch as he went off to find his phone for you to use after telling you to make yourself comfortable. You did so, kicking off your shoes and curling up onto the couch. Without his presence the tiredness and aches from your long shift set into your body.

Keanu came back downstairs, cell phone in hand, he saw you curled up on the couch as your eyelids began to droop. He couldn't help but smile at how cute you looked, he sat down beside you and handed you his phone. "Here." He said, his deep voice resonating in his chest.

You gratefully took it, your hand lingering on his for just a moment. He was so warm, and so soft. You looked up at him, "Thank you, Keanu. For everything." You said softly before going in the other room to make a few calls.

Keanu taped his foot, for some reason he was feeling a bit nervous. He had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with you, the way your skin felt against his, the feelings of your arms around his waist, the way your hair looked when it was flowing out behind you in the wind. He brushed his hand through his own hair, smoothing it out. He smiled at you when you came back into the room. You returned his smile, and held his phone out to him. He savored the lingering of your hand on his. He stood up, "Are you hungry?" He inquired, making his way to the kitchen.

You were quick on the taller man's heels, "A little, but, I've already overstayed my welcome!" You insisted.

Keanu chuckled, "Would it make you feel better if you helped me cook?" He asked playfully, turning around to face you.

You blushed, coming face to face, or rather, face to chest, with him. You nodded, "It would." You answered, "What's on the menu?" You asked as you leaned on the counter.

Keanu opened the fridge, stroking his beard idly as he mulled over the contents. "How about pasta?" He asked, pulling out a few ingredients and tossing them in his hands.

You giggled at him, "That sounds divine." You responded, taking some of the items out of his hands and laying them out on the counter.

He laid his hand on your shoulder, "I'm gonna go put a record on, would you boil some water?" He asked softly. You smiled at the contact and nodded as he went off. You began looking around the kitchen to find a pot, before seeing them hung up above the counter. You didn't realized how you missed them. You huffed, as they were just out of your reach, even on your tippy toes. You heard the sound of soft jazz begin to flow through the house as you began to prop yourself up on various handles to try to reach the large pot above you.

You had almost grasped the handle when you felt your toes give way as you slipped and began to fall towards the ground. But before you could do too much damage strong arms enveloped you, he helped you back to your feet, leaving his arms wrapped around your body. "I forgot those were so high up there." He said, his voice barely above a whisper. Your face flushed as your hands rested against his chest. You could barely breathe with him so close to you, the smell of clean linen and leather, the warmth of his skin. Keanu's eyes darted between your bright eyes and plump lips. He moved one of his hands to brush the hair out of your face. "Wouldn't want you to harm that gorgeous face of yours." He said, even softer than before.

You went cherry red, this had to be a dream. But the feeling of his body right next to yours was as tangible as ever. You perked yourself up on your tippy toes, your eyes fluttering shut as Keanu cupped your face and softly kissed you. His beard tickled your face as you smiled into the kiss. Your hands began to roam his toned body as he held your hips and deepened the kiss.

Keanu pulled away for a moment, staring down at you with something you couldn't quite place. His dark eyes seemed to glimmer as he grabbed you around the waist and effortlessly sat you on top of the counter and finding his place nested between your legs before beginning to trail kisses down your face and neck.

You couldn't help but let out a small whine as he kissed your neck, and laced your fingers in his long dark hair. God, it was so soft and thick, and his warm lips felt like heaven assaulting your sensitive skin. At your whine, Keanu let out a small laugh, his deep voice radiating in your chest. His thumbs rubbed small circles into your hips as he continued to suck on your neck and collarbone.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer as you began to return the favor and pepper Keanu in kisses, grinding your body into him as you felt yourself getting hotter and hotter. It must've tickled, he laughed. His laugh sent shivers down your spine. "How about I repay you for all your kindness, Mr. Reeves?" You purred, drawing your hands down his chest and resting on his hips.

Breathless, Keanu simply nodded as you hopped off the counter, rubbing his thighs and playing with his waistband. He whined, wishing for nothing more than to free himself of his ever tightening pants and feel you wrapped around him.

You giggled, watching his face as you teased him and slowly undid his belt buckle. Palming him through his pants, another moan escaped his lips. After freeing him of the confines of his pants, you went to work, wanting to show your gratitude. John had his fingers laced in your hair as you bobbed up and down on him, occasionally whispering your name as he stroked your face and hair.

Before he finished, he pulled you off of him and to your feet, he kissed your neck and whispered in your ear, "God, (Y/N), I need you so bad. Dinner can wait." Before whisking you into his arms and staring down at you with those beautiful brown eyes.

#keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu #john wick #john wick x reader #fluff #smut #fanfiction

119 notes · View notes

ambitionsource · 5 years

Photo

AMBITION Season 2 ♫ “Trapped” [ 2.06 ]

CREATED BY Esther (rapunzles) & Maggie (quincywillows) || S2 Tag || Official Page

NOWHERE TO HIDE – Forced together for a group assignment, a surprising collection of students find themselves locked in the school as a snowstorm hits Manhattan. Emotions bubble to the surface when there’s nowhere to run. Farkle makes an overdue apology. Lucas finally lets go.

55 Minutes (12.5K words) || CONTENT WARNING: discussions of death, mild suicidal ideation. Take care of yourselves and read with discretion.

[ ← How the Twinks Saved Christmas ] [ S2 Synopsis ] [ Contingency Plan → ]

( Follow along with the music on Spotify here! )

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Revolting Children” as performed by Matilda Original Broadway Cast || Performed by Maya Hart, Riley Matthews, Zay Babineaux, Farkle Minkus, Isadora De La Cruz, and Lucas James Friar

A spotlight beams into the camera, obscuring our vision until a shadowed, angled shot of MAYA HART belting out the opening note of this Broadway tune fills the screen. She carries us through until the rest of the ensemble joins in, each of the other performers spinning to face the front of the stage as the camera pans past them.

ZAY BABINEAUX, in a crop top and rehearsal sweats and looking somewhere between determined and irritated. RILEY MATTHEWS, sporting a new look with her hair cut just above her shoulders and doing her best to keep up with the divas -- mostly just not to add anymore hiccups to an already stressful performance.

FARKLE MINKUS, wearing the world’s frumpiest cardigan and looking worse for wear. His hair is an absolute flyaway mess, his clothes are wrinkled. He does the steps listlessly, going through the motions rather than putting any energy into it. ISADORA DE LA CRUZ, finally keeping up with her performing peers but aggravated from the general bad mojo of the group and hair pulled back out of her face with a dark scrunchie.

Then, yes, LUCAS FRIAR. Snapback on, brow furrowed, looking overwhelmed and confused as he attempts to sing and dance along with his classmates. Sticking out like a sore thumb, but in attendance and participating even though it goes against every fiber of his being.

It’s a wild sight to behold. The six of them don’t give a horrible rendition of the number, but it’s rough and unrehearsed. Everyone aside from Maya and Zay fumbles with the choreography -- or in the case of Lucas, drops the ball entirely. This lack of precision is what prompts the “Come on!” from Zay about 2 minutes in, an outburst of exasperation rather than a rallying cry.

When Isadora “takes out her hockey stick and uses it as a sword,” she grabs a prop and literally takes a swing at Lucas. He ducks just in time, giving her an incredulous scowl and holding out his arms in indignation as the song continues. Maya almost trips over Farkle when he takes too long to get to his next mark, glaring at him and performing more aggressively in compensation.

They’re not the only ones playing bumper cars. Riley and Lucas ram into one another, the latter stabilizing the former before immediately brushing past her and getting as far away as the choreography will allow. Riley is stunned frozen for a few moments, literally having to shake off the daze and frustration.

The whole thing comes to spectacularly disastrous finish, Lucas tripping over his own feet and ramming into Riley. He manages to catch her as they both go sprawling to the ground, causing Isadora to trip as well and accidentally push Farkle. Maya just barely manages to avoid the destruction, scrambling out of reach as Farkle face plants into the stage.

Close on Zay’s frustrated expression, at his wits end.

Zay: You’ve got to be fu -- !

Cue title sequence.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

We come back on a bloody tissue, pulling back to reveal Farkle dabbing at his lip. He doesn’t seem all that perturbed by the injury. Isadora is in the process of helping patch up Riley from their tumble, Lucas pacing a few steps away and not even bothering to fix his own scrapes.

Zay and Maya are doing most of the talking, arguing about the choreography and whether or not they’ll be able to pull it off. Zay claims that these are incredibly simple steps that any mediocre performer with a shred of coordination could pull off, but as Maya points to the rest of them recovering from their inability to do just that, clearly they need something different.

Maya: Sorry, but I’m not going to fail this assignment just because y’all over there can’t get your shit together.

Lucas: Bold of you to assume we’ll ever get anything right considering this is the absolute worst possible combination of people to be in a group together.

Farkle and Isadora both make faces at that -- he might have a point. Zay tells Lucas to speak for himself, before stating that they’ll obviously just have to stay after school and rehearse more. No one seems thrilled about this, not to mention there might be logistical issues.

Riley: Is the school even going to be open? It’s supposed to start snowing after lunch.

Farkle: And? It’s New York. What’s your point?

Hard to argue with that. The matter is settled, and they’ll be regrouping after school to give it another go. As the group of them begrudgingly head out, Riley tries to catch Lucas and offer some help since he’s definitely the weak link in this chain.

Riley: I can try and help you with the --

Lucas: [ without looking at her ] No.

He brushes past her, Riley taking a deep breath. Keeping her cool, not letting it get to her. It’s a stressful situation, one that none of them want to be in at that moment.

Still, the show must go on…

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - DAY

The bell rings, signaling freedom for the end of the school day. Farkle is alone at his locker, Isadora hanging down the hallway a few feet and observing. She finally works up the nerve to approach, tentatively kicking up a conversation with him. Bonkers, how this project is going, huh? Been a while since they worked together. How was Hannukah?

Farkle stares at her, blinking as she continues to throw polite questions at him. He doesn’t seem interested in having a conversation.

Farkle: [ interrupting her ] Smackle. Isadora.

Isadora: Yeah, yes. Yeah?

Farkle: What are you doing?

Isadora: … just… striking up conversation. Project partner to project partner. It’s a shame you weren’t at Riley’s holiday party there was… lots to discuss. We missed you there.

A lie, and Farkle knows it. He points out that he wasn’t invited, which seems odd to Isadora. But he questions her presence there before she can question his absence, following up with a query of his own.

Farkle: What about that little illegal techie party that happens every year that you think is a big secret but everyone knows about?

Isadora: [ ignoring his sarcasm ] Oh, yeah. Well… didn’t end up panning out this year. Scheduling conflicts, you know?

Farkle, flatly: Tragic.

He closes his locker, curtly thanking her for the pity friendship. She tries to refute this take but Farkle is already walking away, snapping at her not to be late to rehearsal because he just wants to go home and go back to bed.

Farkle: Maybe then I’ll wake up from this nightmare.

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - DAY

Riley is with Maya, the latter opening her locker and glancing at her reflection in the mirror. She’s obsessively touching herself up, fixating on her appearance given that it’s one of the few things she can control.

Maya: This is a living nightmare.

Riley is distracted, finishing typing a text on her phone. She cheerfully confirms that she let her father know they would be late at school for rehearsal.

Maya: I didn’t realize we needed to give him a play-by-play? Does he want to know what I ate for lunch, too?

Riley: … it’s just common courtesy?

Maya rolls her eyes, obviously not in the mood for courtesy. The exchange makes one thing very clear, however, which is that Riley and Maya had very different upbringings. Whether this will make for them being good roommates, well, only time will tell…

As they begin walking to the auditorium, Riley gently suggests that Maya take it easy on Lucas. Like yeah, he’s not good, but he’s also not a performer. She could afford to cool it on how critical she’s being, and then maybe he’d be able to come around.

Maya: I don’t see him ever coming around. You need talent to do that.

Riley: Okay, but I’m just saying --

Maya: I’m not going easy on anyone, least of all Jackass Friar. And you know, Riley, I hate to say it, but it’s a little pathetic that you’re still out here defending him when he’s made it quite clear that he doesn’t care about anybody but himself.

Ouchie, Miss Maya. Riley absorbs the blow, letting Maya walk ahead of her and blinking off the daze of the hit. It’s obvious that Riley doesn’t believe that, but the more people continue to say it to her like she’s being an idiot…

She lets out a huff, jogging to catch up to Maya.

Asher, pre-lapping: So how goes rehearsal?

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - DAY

Lucas is at his locker, stuffing his bag into it unceremoniously. ASHER GARCIA watches with pity for the poor backpack receiving all his aggression, DYLAN ORLANDO standing behind him and leaning over his shoulder.

Lucas: God awful. You’re more than welcome to shoot me on sight, I would consider it a mercy kill.

Dylan claims that he’s totally jealous, because he wants to see Lucas pull off some sick moves. He shoots him a glare, obviously not in the mood to be complimented. Asher encourages him to keep his chin up, reminding him that it’s just another week and by the time they hit Friday it’ll be onto the next thing.

Lucas: And the next week, and the week after that… thanks Asher. That’s exactly what I needed, to remember that my torture in this circle of hell is continuous and cyclical.

Asher: [ rolling his eyes ] You know that’s not what I meant. Look, you’re doing exactly what Burgess told you to do, keeping your head low and falling into line --

Dylan, forlornly: God, this must be killing you.

[ Lucas makes a face at Dylan, accenting the point. Asher plows onward regardless, upholding his optimistic outlook. ]

Asher: And right now, that’s all you can do. But this too shall pass. You know, one day, we’re going to look back on how stressed we were about all of this stuff, and it’s gonna be hilarious because we’ll realize that none of it really mattered. What mattered was that we got through it, and we got through it together.

Even if Lucas isn’t convinced, Dylan is charmed by his boyfriend’s positive outlook. He smiles as he talks, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek when he finishes his thought. Then he follows up on the idea, pointing out that they thought the techie party was dead too and they managed to get through that. And it ended up being great in spite of the darker moments. So Asher is right.

A nice sentiment, but a confusing tidbit for Farkle to overhear as he passes through the hall. It seems like news to him considering what Isadora literally just said about the party being cancelled, but not like it’s any of his business. He keeps walking without comment.

Lucas is placated enough for now, nodding in acquiescence. He closes his locker, turning his focus to them and questioning how their rehearsal group is going.

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - DAY

CHARLIE GARDNER responds to the same question in lieu of Dylan and Asher. They’re by his locker, Zay leaning against the rows and listening attentively as Charlie laments his own group.

Charlie: Exhausting. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Nigel and Yindra are mega talented. And Yogi is… well, he brings a certain special something to the table.

Zay: Sure.

Charlie: But it’s just a lot, working in such a big group and trying to cooperate when there’s no clear leader. Not to mention how weird it is that they mixed up the performers and techies like this -- not that I’m like, a separatist or anything [ Zay snorts ] but it just seems like a complicated aspect to the assignment. And Asher and Dylan keep looking at me, like they’re expecting something out of me, and then when I catch them looking they immediately look in the complete opposite direction which is not subtle and just makes me way more freaked out.

Zay gives him a sympathetic smile, Charlie closing his locker pointedly.

Charlie: Suffice to say, I am grateful that we’re not bothering to rehearse any more today. I would rather do anything else.

Zay: Wish that were me. I’m gonna be stuck here for hours teaching Friar how to dance with two left boots.

Charlie: Yeah, good luck with that. You’re good, but you’re no miracle worker.

Zay scoffs in faux offense, causing Charlie to laugh. This earns an immediate smile from Zay, who then questions what his evening plans are. Charlie shrugs, admitting that he doesn’t have many before clearing his throat and growing a little more bashful.

Charlie: Although… some all-you-can-eat fries at my favorite diner might be a good way to destress…

Zay: [ raising his eyebrows playfully ] Yeah?

Charlie: Well, this guy I know gave me a coupon, so…

It’s a lowkey flirtatious conversation to be having in the middle of the hallway, and the way they’re looking at one another is not subtle. Nice growth, boys. Proud of you.

Zay states that he could probably make that work, given that they can’t possibly hang around and rehearse their pointless number forever. He’ll be sure to text him and let him know when he’s heading out, and he’ll come pick him up.

It’s a date, then. In theory. As the conversation wraps up and they promise to see each other later, Zay leans forward and almost gives Charlie a kiss on the cheek on instinct. It’s so natural between them that he almost doesn’t pull back… until he remembers they’re in public and he suddenly flinches away.

An awkward moment passes between them as they lock eyes, the realization sinking in again that this is what their relationship is. Wonderful in so many important ways, and then… that. Charlie recovers first, managing a smile and patting his shoulder. He reiterates that he’ll see him tonight, accenting the point with a nod.

The message is clear. It’s okay, we’re in love, just… not here. Zay struggles to return the smile, obviously stung by that unexpected reminder.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Maya and Riley arrive back in the auditorium first, not talking much given that the former is in queen bitch mode and Riley is still sort of stinging from her earlier commentary. Zay enters next, glued to his phone and not bothering to look up as he drifts over to join them by the portable speaker.

Farkle saunters his way in, glancing in their direction and making fleeting eye contact with Riley. He opts to sit alone, plopping down on one of the acting blocks. Lucas follows soon after, eyeing all of them without comment before heading to the opposite end of the stage and settling on the lip of the stage.

Isadora is the last to straggle through the wings, surveying the scene and contemplating where to go. Maya waves her over before getting lost in the sound system again, but Isadora can’t stop looking at Lucas sitting on his own and isolating himself from the rest of them. So she opts to head in his direction, sitting down next to him instead.

She makes a playful comment about how she’s impressed he actually showed up, and while it was innocent Lucas sort of takes it personally given how off their communication has been as of late and how he’s still bruised from Harper’s takedown of him earlier in the year. So he bites back, defending himself and commenting on the stupid assignment and how he’s just trying not to derail all of them although there’s no place he’d rather be less.

Isadora nods along, but she’s clearly not in the mood for his negativity. She apologizes, stating she should’ve just not said anything. Lucas recognizes she didn’t mean it, starting to say something to try and salvage the exchange when Zay claps his hands loudly.

Up and at em, then. Time to get this trainwreck back on the tracks. Five, six, seven, eight --

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Revolting Children” as performed by Matilda Original Broadway Cast || Instrumental

If it’s possible, things are even worse than before as the hours pass and they run the routine over and over again. It all starts to run together, the motion blurring and overlapping. The soundtrack almost sounds like it’s skipping, repeating itself as they hypnotically repeat and screw up the choreography again and again.

Zay is clapping along aggressively with the track, counting out the beats and drenched in sweat by the time they’re on their dozenth or so run through. He’s less forgiving than usual after the weird moment with Charlie. But the fact of the matter is, Lucas isn’t going to get this choreography. It’s just not happening.

The point is made as much when he stumbles into Zay during another run, the latter growing aggravated and lightly pushing him away. This develops into a half-serious shoving match between the two of them, Isadora having to jump in between them.

Isadora: HONESTLY. COULD WE NOT?

Riley jogs to pause the music, the group of them instantly erupting into arguments. After a few opening shots are fired Farkle grows fed up, making his complaints for the first time all rehearsal. And boy, does he have a lot to say.

Farkle, bluntly: Here’s the read. [ to Maya ] You’re hogging the spotlight. [ to Lucas ] You’re in the way. [ to Zay ] You're so focused on the dancing, you’re off key. [ to Riley ] You're a pushover, now quite literally. [ to Isa ] And you picked this song, which I’m surmising has something to do with whatever internal baggage you’ve got going on right now, but it’s whiny and abrasive and yet still too difficult for Lucas. [ clapping his hands together ] So we're gonna fail! Buh-bye.

Farkle starts to walk away, but Maya grabs his attention again. Riley reaches out and takes his arm, tugging him back into the circle as he rolls his eyes.

Maya: If the song is too hard for you, we can pick another one that you might be able to manage. Maybe… the alphabet song? Twinkle, twinkle, little star?

Lucas, weary: Can we do a song where we just… stand still?

Farkle: Are you sure that’s what you want, Lucas James Friar? Are you sure you want your voice on display like that with nothing to distract the audience from the inhumane growling coming from your end of the stage?

Isadora: We’re doing “Revolting Children” and that’s the end of that. Last thing we need is to change our entire routine now.

Maya: That’s right. And you wanna know why she picked it, Farkle?

Farkle: Why’s that?

Maya: It reminds us of you.

Isadora: Don’t drag me into this shit, I just want us to work this out so we can get it over with.

As the group of them are bickering, Zay marches back to his duffle and begins packing up his things. Riley notices he’s parted from the group first, calling out for him and causing the rest of them to turn on him as he slings his back over his shoulder.

Maya: And where do you think you’re going?

Zay: Oh, me? I’m getting out of here. This is useless, I hate this... [ gesturing amongst them ] energy, and I have places and people I would much rather be with right now. So peace out, drop outs. I’m gone.

He starts his march out the doors through the house. Lucas gets in on the uptake, eagerly pointing to him and claiming that if he’s leaving, he’s so out too. The girls exchange looks before basically chasing the two of them out of the auditorium, shouting all the reasons why they can’t leave yet. Not when everything is such a mess!

INT. AAA - ATRIUM - NIGHT

Lucas has caught up to Zay, the two of them marching right for the doors while the girls jog after them and tell them to stop. The atrium is dimly lit, none of the natural light filtering in due to how it’s darkened to night outside.

Riley finally gets them to halt when they’re steps from the doors, pleading with them to just give it one more chance. It’s quite a comedically dramatic little scene. She says to think of their performance; Isadora begs them to think of their grades. Maya goes for the most blunt approach.

Maya: Think about not being a pain in the ass to the rest of us!

But Zay has had enough, and Lucas is more than ready to follow his exit. Zay gives them one last salute, backing into the doors and expecting to be able to push out into the night… only the door doesn’t budge. He hesitates, turning and trying again. Nothing. He pushes with all his might, but still it won’t open.

Lucas approaches and asks what he’s waiting for, and Zay defensively claims he’s doing everything he can. As they attempt to figure out what’s wrong with it, Riley saunters her way up to another door and looks through the glass windows to the scenery beyond them.

EXT. AAA - NIGHT

Easing out from Riley’s face in the window, we’re looking out towards New York in a winter wonderland. Snow is still falling, having coated the steps and iced around the doors. It’s sealed them in tight.

For all intents and purposes, the six of them are snowed in.

INT. AAA - ATRIUM - NIGHT

Isadora blankly states the realization just as it seems to hit Riley, the two of them locking eyes. As this bleak reality settles in, some are less receptive to the possibility than others.

Lucas: Oh, hell no. I’m not going to be stuck in here with you all.

A little ironic, given how much time Lucas voluntarily spends in the school overnight -- but understandable given the circumstances. He claims he’s going to push his way out anyway, gearing up to ram at the door with a lot more raw force than Zay…

Farkle: It’ll be your death by frostbite.

The rest of them turn as Farkle finally catches up, slinking casually into the space. He claims Lucas can try all he wants, but even if he manages to get the door open he’ll die of hypothermia walking home alone with nothing but his denim jacket for coverage. Especially in the dead of night. He goes on to plaintively list all the ways this terrain is guaranteed to kill him, the others listening and watching the two of them like a tennis match.

Farkle: But by all means, go ahead and try it. I certainly won’t stop you.

Lucas grits his teeth, glaring at Farkle. He glances back through the windows at escape so close but so out of reach… then definitively steps away from the doors.

Officially stuck. Trapped, if you will. A-wink.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

The six of them are sprawled across the stage, laying on the ground and accepting their fates. It’s quite a fun cinematic shot. Farkle stares up at the lights and the catwalk above them -- they seem to stare back, unmoved. The whole auditorium is strange with a stillness we’ve never experienced before, usually so alive and bustling in the day time.

They’re very much moping, and there doesn’t seem to be anything to be done about it. Their conversation confirms that service is too spotty due to the notoriously bad reception in the auditorium combined with the storm. They can’t exactly call anyone to come help.

Zay: Well. We’re gonna die in here.

Isadora: Can’t think of another place I’d like to die least.

Maya: At least we’ll be missed.

Lucas: Maybe some of you.

Riley frowns, not a fan of the doom and gloom. Getting stuck on being stuck isn’t going to solve anything, and she’s always been a gal of action. She pushes herself to her feet, declaring that they’re going to be fine. They just have to think creatively.

This prompts the rest of them to slowly sit up, Riley leading the charge in brainstorming. First things first, the things they might need most immediately. Food. Hydration. Sustenance.

Farkle tilts his head back and forth, thinking. He half-heartedly suggests the teacher’s lounge, claiming they might be able find some salvageable food in there. Isadora seconds the idea, stating that they definitely have a microwave and refrigerator. There has to be stuff in there to work with -- not stuff that belongs to them, but better than nothing.

Zay: Sure, genius move. Only the teacher’s lounge is 100% locked. How the hell do you suggest we get inside?

A fair point… but perhaps not insurmountable. The group of them think on it… and slowly, all eyes turn to Lucas.

He lifts his head to see them all staring at him. After a moment, he rolls his eyes.

Lucas: Whatever.

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - DAY

Clunk! A canned beverage falls into the output port of a humming vending machine. Farkle reaches down and picks it up, tucking it under his arm.

He and Maya are on drink duty, painstakingly depositing spare change into the machine to procure beverages for their sad dinner party. It’s a… slow business, feeling even slower considering neither of them know what to say to one another. They haven’t spoken since Maya declared their chapter closed over a month ago, although both of them have evidently thought about it.

Maya is handling the money, at least giving her something to do. But Farkle is being unwittingly distracting, tapping his feet and exhaling through his lips. It clearly irritates the already moody Maya, causing her to snap.

Maya: Stop.

[ Farkle pauses. Silence prevails save for the clinking of coins and the operations of the machine… until he inevitably starts fidgeting again. ]

Maya: Could you stop?

[ He raises a hand in surrender, leaning down to pick up the next drink. More silence… but then once again… ]

Maya: How are you so annoying? Jesus…

Farkle doesn’t hold the same level of irritation towards her as she seems to him, and after another long moment of silence and another drink collected, he decides to try and explore the problem. He questions why she still seems so mad at him, given that most people have simmered down to general distaste or indifference at this point. Even more than that, she herself said she was done with him, so why is she still so upset?

Maya: … don’t flatter yourself.

Farkle: I’m just saying, you’re the only one still actively firing shots at me all the time. In spite of your own declaration that the chapter was closed.

Maya: Yeah, and?

Farkle shifts to leaning against the side of the machine, cradling his growing collection of drinks in his arms. He examines Maya as she continues to ignore him. Then, an attempt at vulnerability:

Farkle: I guess I understand it, actually. With everyone else, you know, it was… everyone else. What I did to you… revealing things that you trusted me with…

[ Maya closes her eyes, trying to keep her emotions in check. ]

Farkle, softly: That’s different. We were different --

Maya: God, Farkle, just stop!

Maya snaps, whipping to face him. She’s clearly operating on emotion when she lashes out again, stating that he can’t just do this. He can’t go all pathetic and vulnerable and expect her to feel bad and like him again. It’s not fair for him to play with her feelings like this. It’s not fair for him to have this kind of effect.

Farkle obviously doesn’t know what she’s talking about, operating with no ill intent. And for what it’s worth, it seems as though Maya is far more torn about what she should be feeling towards him than he is. She’s angry, sure, and she’s hurt, but there’s something else there that keeps the chapter from being closed… something that doesn’t want to let go…

Maya: You can’t keep doing this to me. I can’t keep doing this. Because it’s clear you only care about people when they’re operating in your favor --

Farkle: Maya --

Maya: And you know what, Farkle? You’re not God. You don’t control people, and you sure as hell can’t control me.

Maya drops the rest of the change onto the floor, scrambling to get away from him. She can’t be near him right now, when her emotions are so high and threatening to spill over.

Farkle watches her march off, before crouching down and robotically staring to pick up the change. As the angry guitar licks lead us in…

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Playing God” as performed by Paramore || Performed by Maya Hart

Maya launches into this pop rock vent as she marches through the halls, running her hands through her hair and obviously struggling to deal with her emotions. The number progresses in a very Troy-Bolton-Scream capacity, Maya falling back against lockers and the room feeling as though it’s tilting as she fights to stay on her own two feet.

It’s a change of pace for the usually Broadway / pop classic diva, but in some ways it almost feels more authentic than anything we’ve heard from her yet. It’s raw and erratic, and the shift in genre reflects how conflicted she truly is over whatever her dynamic with Farkle is supposed to be. She keeps saying it’s closed, that she doesn’t want anything to do with him… and yet…

She stomps all through the familiar halls of AAA, until she drifts back towards home base…

INT. AAA - DRESSING ROOM HALL - NIGHT

Maya thrashes her way through the dressing room hall, blasting into the dressing room.

INT. AAA - GIRLS DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT

This is where Maya rounds out the emotional performance, chewing up the scenery of her safe space at AAA as she rails through the last chorus. When she hits the last notes and “points you to the mirror,” she looks at her own reflection. Overcome with emotion, flushed, but maybe not completely absent of blame in how this relationship has fallen apart.

Difficult to stomach, as the look on her face clearly indicates.

INT. AAA - CATWALK - NIGHT

Unprecedented ground for a performer to be trekking, Zay is climbing around in the rafters up on the catwalk as he desperately searches for service. His messages are open with Charlie, where we can see he has tried to send a couple of texts with no luck. He’s attempting to give him a heads up of what’s going on, rather than just standing him up.

His endeavor isn’t going well, despite how he stretches as far as he can and practically begs the universe to have mercy on him. For a moment, it seems as though he might get a bar… maybe just enough time to send this quick text --

Isadora: What are you doing?

Zay jumps, surprised at being addressed. He nearly drops his phone, scrambling back and cradling it against his chest. He glances down over the rail of the catwalk, Isadora peering up at him with a critical eyebrow quirked in his direction.

He manages to cover smoothly, stating that he’s merely attempting to find cell service so he can get them some help. Someone has to try and get them the hell out of here. Isadora points out that even if he could reach someone, no one is going to come to their rescue in this weather.

Zay: You’re just a cock-eyed optimist, aren’t you, Izzy?

Isadora shrugs. He’s welcome to waste his time if he wants to, she doesn’t care enough to argue the point. Once she’s left him alone and drifted off elsewhere, Zay leans against the railing and checks his phone.

Still no dice. He sighs, cursing to himself and heading back to the other end of the catwalk.

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - NIGHT

A quick series of shots show the process of breaking into the lounge -- practiced moves with a paperclip, jimmying the door handle, and a swift ID card through the crack in the door.

INT. AAA - TEACHER’S LOUNGE - NIGHT

The door slowly creaks open, Riley and Lucas poking their heads into the darkened teacher’s lounge. They exchange a brief look, Lucas pushing the door open more and leading the charge inside while Riley flicks on the lights.

The act of scavenging begins, Riley wisely starting with the cabinets and fridge while Lucas takes his time sorting through the rest of the faculty belongings. He digs through the drawers on the cabinets, finding a lighter, an assortment of utensils, and a lot of spare change. He pockets all of it casually, basically a certified kleptomaniac at this point.

Riley opens the fridge and begins sorting through unclaimed items, gathering them onto the counter or into her arms. Lucas approaches to take a look, Riley explaining her thought process about which ones they can swipe as he leans over her shoulder to observe.

It’s the closest they’ve been in months, that fact seeming to strike both of them in the midst of Riley’s reasoning. They glance at one another when the other isn’t looking, each subtle shift in their expressions worth a thousand words.

As Riley trails off and silence settles over them, Lucas hangs in the close proximity for a second longer before swallowing and nodding. He takes some of the frozen food from the counter and focuses on heating it up, crossing the room to the microwave and putting more distance between them again.

Riley takes a deep breath, collecting herself from the tension of the moment. Although it would be easy to go through the motions and continue on as they have been, when she glances over her shoulder to look at him she can’t keep quiet. She can’t pass up the opportunity to speak to him when she has no idea when she might get one again.

Riley: I’m just going to talk for a second, okay?

Lucas doesn’t respond, keeping his back to her. But he doesn’t tell her off either, which is better than an outright rejection. She can’t see his reactions as she speaks, but she works up the courage to say what she needs to say anyway.

Riley: You don’t have to listen, and I know you won’t believe me. But I never… I never meant to hurt you. [ a beat ] It wasn’t about pity for me.

Although she can’t see it, Lucas is in fact listening. He’s listening, and her words do hit him in a way he wasn’t expecting. Whether or not he believes it, just hearing her say it sands down some of his defensive sharp edges.

Riley starts to ramble, explaining that the whole video was projecting from Farkle’s perspective. She definitely didn’t sign off on anything he said, but that’s not what she cares about really anyway. She just really wanted him to know that when she chose to hang out with him, it was her choice. Just as she’s stammering over why she chose to do just that, Lucas interrupts her.

Lucas, timidly: We weren’t bad, were we?

Riley stops cold, honestly not even sure he actually spoke. He’s still not looking at her, so it’s a bit difficult to tell for certain. He clears his throat, searching for the words. His hands are shaking on the countertop, his voice delicate with uncertainty.

Lucas: I know we weren’t… [ shaking his head ] it wasn’t perfect, but…

She knows what he means. Riley can’t help but smile, but there’s an ache to it, too. Everything about it aches.

Riley, softly: We were good.

The sentiment hangs in the air between them. Comforting, even if everything else remains uncertain. Lucas lets it sink in, nodding and swallowing hard. Clearly grappling with a lot of emotion, even if Riley can’t see it.

Then he clears his throat again, grabbing the finished food and giving Riley rushed instructions on how they should handle the rest. He makes his escape, brushing past her and disappearing out into the hallway without another word.

Riley watches him go, inhaling another shaky breath. She makes her way over to the microwave, trying to follow through on his directions and shake off the tension that consumed the room.

But she can’t escape it. She drops the food container back on the counter, closing her eyes and composing herself again. When she looks over her shoulder at where he left, her eyes are shining with unspoken emotion.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Close To You” as performed by Rihanna || Performed by Riley Matthews

Riley’s rendition of this soft, gentle song is hauntingly beautiful, and the lyrics truly do say it all. It’s obviously growing increasingly more difficult to straddle this line that’s been drawn between them, even though she knows he’s more than capable of being fine without her.

She wanders over to the door to the teacher’s lounge, almost leaving but then leaning back against it instead. Panning just a little bit through the wall, we see that Lucas hasn’t gone all that far -- he’s just outside the doors, trying to catch his breath and mirroring her emotion. Just a wall separating them, as there seems to be emotionally as well.

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - NIGHT

As the song progresses, Riley meanders her way through the halls with all the space and freedom to take her time given that there’s no one else around. As we make our way back to the auditorium…

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Similar visuals of Riley and Lucas pepper the remainder of the sequence, instances where they’re just out of reach of one another -- separated by curtains, on opposite sides of a set piece, etc.

As the piano carries through to the end, Riley mindlessly wanders her way through the house seats… until she finds herself standing outside the technician’s booth door. Because of course that’s where she’d end up.

Riley slides down in front of it, sitting outside the door and tilting her head back against the wood. Locked out, in more ways than one.

She closes her eyes as the gentle notes on the piano take us home…

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Supper time! The six are assembled on the floor behind the center section, cramped there with the back section to the booth looming behind them. It’s not the most comfortable set-up, Farkle opting to slouch in one of the auditorium seats in the back center section instead of the ground.

Isadora looks at her microwave meal with distaste, but opts to complain about something else. Namely, the fact that they’re cramped there to eat when they could easily eat on the stage and spread out a little bit. Riley coughs at Zay and Maya, but the latter defends their stance.

Maya: Sorry, but the stage is not meant to be eaten on like a common kitchen table.

Lucas, deadpan: Not meant to be defiled either, but y’all do that every week when you basically pee on it to claim your territory.

This earns a reaction or two, Riley choking on her food and covering her mouth -- and potentially a giggle. Isadora chuckles, chewing her food with a smirk. Zay rolls his eyes, Maya even more disgusted.

Maya: Oh, please.

Lucas: No, really. Now that Farkle has stopped giving a shit for attention, you’re the new one stomping all over people in your psychopathic climb to the top.

Maya, sarcastically: Whew, ouchie! That really hurt! I’ll remember that twenty years from now when I’m touring Madison Square Garden and you’re in prison.

This devolves into another argument, this time zeroing in on everyone’s attitudes. There’s a jab from Zay about Farkle’s pathetic woe-is-me routine, and Lucas ends up slighting Isadora when he responds to another criticism by highlighting her near split personality at this point considering she’s torn between two different realities.

Riley steps in to try and defend Isadora, and even give Lucas back some credit, but that only sets her up to be the next target. Maya hits her with “and there she goes again,” and even Zay incidentally jumps on the bandwagon when he agrees it’s pretty stupid to try and defend Lucas…

In front of Lucas. He glances at Riley, who looks like she wants to die of embarrassment.

All of this leads up to Maya finally taking a direct shot at Lucas, saying what apparently everyone has been thinking -- that he very clearly doesn’t care about anything or anyone but himself. This seems to light a fuse, and suddenly Lucas unexpectedly snaps.

Lucas: I don’t care? [ viciously ] I wish I didn’t care!

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Untitled Free Verse” || Performed by Lucas James Friar

Less of a song and more of an experience, all of the oxygen seems to get sucked out of the room as Lucas finally, finally cracks. The rest of them freeze as focus directs solely to Lucas, who launches into a frenzied, unfiltered rant. It’s reminiscent of Alexander Hamilton’s free verse in “The World Was Wide Enough,” moments before the bullet hits him that ends his life.

For Lucas, it’s not going to be a bullet wound that takes him out but the sheer weight of everything he’s feeling. It’s practically slam poetry as he attempts to sort through all these emotions that he can’t grapple with, coming out as a blistering display of blunt vulnerability.

Because it’s not just Farkle’s stupid rant video, it’s not the senseless drama of AAA. It’s everything. It’s the booth being taken from him, it’s the fact that he has to rely on the booth in the first place. It’s his parents being shit parents, it’s him being a shit son. It’s Dylan and Asher and how they love him, even though he kind of wishes they would hate him instead so he could leave them alone. It’s being an inevitable disappointment to Jack, it’s the detestable desire for Riley. It’s Isadora and her talent taking her over; it’s having no fucking talent at all.

It’s all of that that is spilling out of him like an open wound, stammered and out of breath and glossy-eyed. All these things he wishes he didn’t, tries desperately not to care about, but yet still does. He cares, he cares too much, and it’s gonna suffocate him. It’s all he can do not to burn everything down with him, so it’s easier to pretend none of it matters. Because he doesn’t matter -- God knows he doesn’t matter -- so why should anything else? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter --

Just as the scene becomes so claustrophobic and feels like it’s going to implode -- there’s a click and suddenly it flattens out again. Lucas isn’t standing in the center of the circle but is back where he was sitting earlier, having not made any moves at all. His expression is blank, Maya snapping him out of it when she grabs his attention.

Maya: Well? Aren’t you going to say anything, Jackass?

Whatever we all just heard, they certainly didn’t. It was all in his imagination, still threatening to suffocate him. But despite everything he obviously needs to say, Lucas merely grits his teeth and forces a sardonic smile.

Lucas: Nothing that matters.

Despite what remains unsaid, that pressure is leaking off of him like lighter fluid. Riley can’t take the tension, searching for a change of subject and perhaps a way to get away from them for a bit considering how Zay and Maya effectively embarrassed her. She declares that they need to shift gears and focus on something else. Something fun to lighten the mood.

Isadora, flatly: Oh, this isn’t fun for you? I’m having the time of my life.

Sarcasm aside, Zay agrees with an encouraging nod. Doing something a little less stressful might keep them all from killing each other before morning.

Farkle: We were just eating…

Riley gets to her feet and paces, lighting up with an idea. Considering her uncle is basically the ambassador of non-stressful activities at this school, perhaps he’ll have something in his office that will offer a little reprieve. She jogs to her backpack, unzipping the front pocket and retrieving a spare key to his office.

Isadora: You’ve had that the entire time?

Riley tilts her head, handing the key to Isadora and placing it definitively in her palm. She assigns the task to her and Farkle, sending them on their way to go searching while they all scour in here.

They disband, off on another mission. At least it’s something to do. Farkle and Isadora exchange a look, wearing somewhat matching expressions of resignation.

INT. AAA - COSTUME LOFT - NIGHT

Zay is back to searching for a signal, up in the costume loft for some height as he wanders the space. He carefully climbs onto one of the costume racks, actually managing to get a couple of bars. He reacts in excitement, going to Charlie’s contact and hitting call.

INT. GARDNER HOME - CHARLIE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Charlie is doing homework on his bed, seemingly not in that great of a mood. Considering he thinks he just got stood up by his boyfriend, the gloom makes sense.

He jumps when his phone rings, crawling forward to grab it from the end of the bed. He obviously seems relieved to see it’s Zay, but he pulls back on the emotion and tries to exude something more aloof as he answers the call.

Charlie: You know, being late isn’t a heavenly sin, but not showing up at all…

INT. AAA - COSTUME LOFT - NIGHT

The ensuing conversation is split between the two locations, Zay exhaling in relief and attempting to maintain his balance and keep the signal. He starts to explain what happened and assuage Charlie’s concerns and indignation, but the connection isn’t great and he keeps breaking up. Charlie tries to tell him as much, growing more confused than frustrated, but Zay isn’t even really getting his replies.

Then, the real kicker -- Zay’s phone dies midcall. When he checks to confirm this grim reality, he loses his balance and falls off the rack, collapsing into a pile of costumes. Charlie says his name a couple of times in concern, pulling back from his phone to confirm that he did actually hang up out of nowhere. What the hell?

So close, only to be thwarted. Zay growls in frustration and then grabs a costume piece, using it to stifle his scream of frustration. Then he sits up, taking a deep breath and pulling himself back together as he heads back down the step ladder.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Maya is glued to her own phone, mindlessly flipping back and forth on the home screens since there’s nothing else to do. Riley marches over to where she’s seated in the back section and demands her attention. She musters up her nerve before stating that she doesn’t care for the way Maya has been constantly dismissing her. Regardless of her intentions by doing it, Riley is more than capable of making her own choices and doesn’t need her approval.

Maya claims she’s just looking out for her. She simply isn’t impressed by her decision to stand by Lucas for any reason -- the man himself currently in the background, climbing around on the leftover set pieces from Into the Woods and looking for a place to perch and be left alone. But as Riley points out, that’s none of Maya’s business. Whether or not it’s stupid, the choice belongs to Riley and all Maya needs to do is respect it.

Riley: If you and I are going to share a living space, we are going to have to start respecting one another as more than just performers.

Definite food for thought. Maya absorbs this, the challenge lingering between them when Zay approaches to disrupt the confrontation. He asks if either of them has a charger he can borrow.

Riley nods and digs through her bag to grab hers. Maya questions why Zay has been so desperate to find a signal all evening, seeing as the rest of them have given up. Who could he possibly be trying to reach so badly? He once again claims he’s just trying to get help, but she retorts that it’s far too late for that and they’re stuck until morning at this point no matter what.

Maya then starts brainstorming out loud, puzzling over who else Zayby could possibly be trying to contact. Someone… special, perhaps? This excites Riley as she returns with the charger, immediately jumping on the notion with delight. Romance, now there’s something to lighten the mood!

Riley: I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you could have a significant other and not tell me about them.

Zay: [ with an incredulous scoff ] Who said I did?

Despite his lack of confirmation, Riley and Maya latch onto this theory and start eagerly trying to guess who it could possibly be. Not Yindra, Maya would have definitely heard about that. Nigel? No, he’s too deep in his serious artiste phase right now… Zay keeps shooting them down but they’re practically giddy with interest. Come on, Zay, tell us! Tell!

Obviously, Zay isn’t going to say a word about Charlie. But he can tell they aren’t letting up any time soon, so he’s got to give them something. Defending his boyfriend’s privacy and non-present honor, he decides to give them something to tide them over -- which is to say, absolutely nothing real at all.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Particular Taste” as performed by Shawn Mendes || Performed by Zay Babineaux

Zay launches into this boppy pop tune, basically building a fake significant other for Maya and Riley to daydream about as a distraction. The three of them get into the groove of it, dancing around the auditorium while Zay sings about the eccentricities of his mystery lover.

When they make their way onto the stage around the second verse, he makes a point of poking at Lucas sitting up in one of the leftover trees a la Troy Bolton in High School Musical. He swats irritably at him, Zay grinning and ducking around to the other side of the set.

Although most of the details in the lyrics are made up, not all of it is entirely fictional. Zay’s expression is what acts as a giveaway, becoming more thoughtful or smitten on phrases that could most certainly apply to Charlie. It’s glimmers of truth hidden within the facade, ones that Maya and Riley don’t notice as they jam on the stage with him.

The best example of a lapse in the charade comes at the bridge. Zay seems more than a little lost in a memory as he soulfully sings about fingers in hair and knowing exactly what you want, before snapping himself out of it and launching into the last verse.

It’s the most energized fun they’ll have while trapped against their will, so might as well enjoy it. Riley, Zay, and Maya descend into laughter as they wrap the number, Zay taking a bow and waving them off with a “thank you, thank you.”

INT. AAA - ERIC’S OFFICE - NIGHT

The door creaks open, Isadora stepping inside before opening it wider for Farkle to enter. She turns on the lights and gets to searching, but Farkle hangs back in the doorway. He seems tentative to enter, reluctant to cross the threshold.

Isadora starts digging through shelves, looking for where Eric might hide fun activities.

Isadora: Feels weird, being in here without him.

Farkle: Feels weird being in here regardless.

Isadora tosses him a look, message clear from her expression. Okay, edgelord.

Isadora: Are you gonna help, or are you just going to stand there?

That seems to startle him out of his fugue. He steps inside, cracking the door closed behind him and settling into searching as well.

As they start gathering things to take -- not many offerings, unfortunately -- Isadora contemplates another topic of conversation. It doesn’t have the smoothest of starts, considering both of them are terrible at communication.

Isadora: I’m not trying to pity converse with you --

Farkle: Oh, sure. Totally. The queen of the techies wants to befriend the freefalling Icarus of the performers, someone she so strongly dislikes she once referred to him as “the spoiled produce of people.” Or, alternatively, described interacting with him like “stepping on a LEGO brick without shoes.”

Isadora: … well, you deserved those things. At the time. [ off his eye roll ] But, well, things change.

Farkle, blankly: Sure do.

Isadora eyes him curiously. Something about his plain response is so… off. So unlike Farkle X. Minkus, the Icarus of the performers. She settles on the floor across from him, slouching back against the desk.

Isadora: Honestly, I’m not even sure “queen of the techies” is an applicable title for me anymore. So I guess we’ve both fallen from grace.

Somehow, in spite of the conversation being painfully awkward, it hits on everything that is up in the air in their lives. Isadora’s struggle to join a new side of the school, Farkle’s increasing isolation, his odd behavior as of late…

He asks why she even bothered to try and make the change, wondering what she could possibly gain from joining the performer side of things. Isadora wonders why he would even ask considering performing is like his whole world -- something he’s seemed to have forgotten.

Farkle: I don’t know why you would even bother. Being a performer is hell.

Isadora: Isn’t that like… your entire reason for existing?

Farkle: [ a beat, blankly ] Well, yeah. Sure. But seems like you’d be having a lot more fun sticking with the techies.

When she gets him to elaborate, Farkle reluctantly admits -- without the exact words, of course -- that he’s always been jealous of the techie crew. Sure, they’re annoying and rude and constantly make their lives more difficult (Isadora: The feeling is mutual.), but they’re such a united front. They’re a team, and they tackle things collaboratively rather than having to knock one another down to succeed.

Not only that, they’re friends, which may as well be a miracle at this school. They support one another, they actually know one another, they have parties for God’s sake --

Isadora: Well, like I said, sometimes those things don’t last. We’re not nearly as perfect as we seem.

Farkle: … really? Are you sure?

Isadora asks him what he means, and Farkle innocently explains what he overheard between Lucas, Asher, and Dylan. He doesn’t mean to stir up trouble -- really, this time -- but as far as he could tell, there was definitely a celebration of some kind.

Isadora is obviously shocked to learn this. She curses under her breath, hitting her head back against the desk in lieu of actually dealing with her emotions in front of Farkle. Still, this is a big whammy to absorb, and she doesn’t do a great job of keeping it all sealed away.

Isadora: This fucking sucks! [ with a huff ] It’s like I’m back in freshman year, stuck in this mass of people who don’t know who I am. And I don’t have Lucas there to clear the way for me, because he doesn’t know who I am either. I’m on the outside looking in all over again. Like… fucking isolated.

Farkle: Tell me about it.

Oh. Huh. The two of them exchange a strange look, having a moment they didn’t expect to have. Farkle and Isadora have always considered themselves opposite ends of a spectrum, only suddenly they’re experiencing the same things. Perhaps, potentially, there is more in common between the two of them than they realized. And perhaps, there is a whole other side of their adversary to explore and understand that they have never even contemplated before.

There’s a weird heaviness to the realization, both of them looking away from one another and clearing their throats. Both suddenly very aware that there’s depth to the other person, and maybe they don’t really… hate one another. Not the actual person underneath the facade.

Isadora escapes by shifting her focus, climbing to her feet. She claims she has to go deal with this betrayal, grabbing the cushion off the chair across from Eric’s desk and pummeling it in her hands. She tucks the one from the other chair under her arm, marching towards the door.

Before she exits she pauses, doubling back and locking eyes with Farkle.

Isadora: Maybe Icarus and the Dethroned Queen could afford to hang out sometime. Just. Not when they’re locked in a pressure cooker doing the worst assignment on Earth.

Farkle: … yeah. Maybe.

Isadora: Now if you’ll excuse me. [ lifting the pillow ] I have to go kill my best friend.

Isadora storms out, leaving Farkle alone.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Maya and Zay are back on the stage again, arguing in low voices about the assignment and whether or not they’ll have to change everything. Lucas saunters past them, hovering uncertainly near the wings and trying to work up the courage to approach Riley.

Finally he does, subconsciously wringing his hands as he does so. She’s standing at the stage manager’s podium, idly flipping through a discarded copy of the Into the Woods libretto.

Lucas: … hey.

Riley lifts her head, staring at him. Not sure why he’s deemed to talk to her, maybe hoping it’s for a good reason, dreading it’s for worse. Mostly, she’s waiting for him to say something, which it seems as though he’s lost the ability to do.

He finds it again eventually. He clears his throat, torn between forcing himself to look at her and averting his eyes to the floor.

Lucas: I just wanted to, um -- what they were saying during dinner. About… [ quickly ] you know you don’t have to do that. You don’t have to keep defending me.

Riley: [ not moved ] I know I don’t have to. I don’t have to do anything.

Riley goes back to looking at the script. Lucas blinks, even more confused than before. He crosses his arms, considering just walking away but not able to let it go.

Lucas: I don’t get it. I don’t get why… why would you waste the effort? Especially when everyone is telling you not to.

Riley: Because I don’t let other people’s opinions form my own? [ a beat ] And because friends don’t need a reason. And just because… just because you decided we weren’t friends anymore because of something someone else said doesn’t mean I did. So.

The sentiment seems mindblowing to Lucas. He can’t wrap his head around it, having only ever understood the relationships in his life to be conditional. While he’s struggling to grasp it, Riley is clearly having an internal debate of her own. She looks up at the wall before turning to him, deciding to say her final piece.

Riley: I feel like I know who you are. I know who I wanted to be my friend and… [ changing direction ] I feel pretty confident that I know who he is. And if that person is who you really are, then it’s not effort to defend you. I will always believe in you.

[ Lucas is speechless. Riley powers through, sincerity shining through her gaze. ]

Riley: That’s not something I have to do, but… I don’t think I could do any differently.

They can’t look away from one another. It’s as if the whole world has frozen around them, and whether or not it’ll keep spinning depends on what Lucas says next. He’s clearly searching for what to say… if there’s anything to say at all…

But, of course, the world is not only the two of them.

Isadora: LUCAS JAMES FRIAR!

Lucas whips around just in time to see the cushion flying at him. He pushes Riley protectively behind him on instinct, covering his face as the pillow hits him in the torso. Isadora is marching across the stage, another cushion ready to fire.

Lucas: What the hell, Dora?

Maya and Zay jog over to Riley, pulling her away from the fray.

Riley: What’s happening?

Maya: Don’t know, but I’m not surprised.

Riley: Should we do something?

Zay: [ already pulling her away ] Go, run, go --

The three of them bolt, leaving Lucas and Isadora to have their great showdown. Lucas provokes her to tell him what the hell she’s going off about, to which she throws the revelation of the techie party.

Lucas, incredulous: That’s what you’re pissed about? Don’t throw shit at me, then, go after Asher and Dylan. You know I don’t do things for myself.

Isadora: And yet, nobody told me! So I guess you all just had a super great time without me, like you always do.

Lucas: Don’t turn this on us. Like you even fucking care, you’ve got a whole new crew to hang out with. That’s what you did, isn’t it?

Isadora: … don’t make this about what it isn’t --

Lucas: You were the one who brought it up. You don’t want to get real?

Isadora: Oh. Oh? You want to get real? Fine. You wanna tell me when you got the money to get those new boots? [ off his guilty expression ] No, seriously, I’d love to know. I know Grace and Kenneth didn’t get them for you --

Lucas, fiercely: Hey, shut up.

Their argument quickly escalates, but the fact of the matter is, they don’t get real. They keep jabbing at one another for the petty, annoying things they’ve done to each other in the last couple of months, rather than actually addressing the tension and distance forming in their relationship. Lucas takes a pointed dig and claims she’s becoming just like Valerie, and this offends Isadora. She fires back that she doesn’t want to abandon anyone, he’s the one who hasn’t been there for her at all this year. Friendship is a two-way street!

It’s more than clear -- something in their dynamic is in serious disrepair. Neither of them can articulate it, but boy, are the emotions from it loud and clear.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Defying Gravity” as performed by Wicked Original Broadway Cast || Performed by Isadora De La Cruz (feat. Lucas James Friar)

This argument segues perfectly into the opening fight of the Broadway showstopper, Isadora claiming that she hopes Lucas is happy that he’s ruined his life forever with his behavior. He fires back that he hopes she’s happy too, now that she’s submissive and a suck up and just like the rest of the performers “to feed her own ambition.”

Once the song settles into quiet before the actual number, Lucas tries to appeal to her one last time. He points out that she could still come back to the techies, and things could go back to normal. Things don’t have to change.

Isadora: I know… but I don’t want it. I can’t want it anymore.

This is what truly kicks off the number, Isadora taking the Elphaba role while Lucas jumps in on the Galinda beats -- trying to convince her she’s being delusional, to make her realize what she’s giving up, whereas Isadora instead feels like he wants an unfair compromise from her. She’s spreading her wings and trying to be something that feels closer to who she actually is -- can’t that be a good thing? Can’t he be happy for her?

As the number unfolds, Isadora drifts closer and closer to the lights on center stage, whereas Lucas symbolically stays tied to the shadows of the wings. Even as she gets close to moments of pulling him into the light, he shies away or turns the tables.

At the bridge, as they’re exchanging genuine “I hope you’re happy” sentiments, it’s clear that the two of them are not going to be able to bridge this divide they see built between them. As they sing the last harmony in the performance, they clasp hands, and it’s the most emotive the two of them have ever intentionally been with one another. When they wish each other happiness “in the end,” it’s clear that they really mean it.

Then, as the music swells, Isadora backs towards the lights again… and Lucas lets her go. Their hands slip apart, and Isadora stumbles right into the stage lights to deliver a commanding rendition of the remainder of the song.

The other four take the chorus parts, scattered within the house of the auditorium. In the last escalating chorus, Lucas watches from the shadows of the wings before turning away and disappearing into the shadows. Isadora belts out the final note with gusto, proving exactly why she needs to see this performing thing through to the end.

One just has to wonder, as Lucas walks away, if everything will be worth it in the end.

INT. AAA - PROP LOFT - NIGHT

Quiet has settled over the space as the group attempts to get some sleep. As we pan across the auditorium, we get glimpses of Maya, Zay, Isadora, and Lucas all trying to get as comfortable as possible in their chosen nooks so they can rest. Notably, they’re all a good distance away from one another.

Riley isn’t giving it much effort, knowing she’s not going to get restful sleep. She’s wandering around instead, just climbing her way up into the prop loft.

She doesn’t spend much time up there, but now she’s wondering if maybe she should. It’s neat, cozy, and has a calm air for being somewhat “above it all.” She gently handles props as she passes along the shelves, smiling at the peach-colored paper slips taped all over the place that detail Asher’s intensive procedure for keeping the place organized.

Riley stops at the back wall, sliding down into a seat against it amidst the shelves and tables of props. She tilts her head back, looking at the shelves to her left until her brow crinkles. She leans forward and pulls another piece of paper from the shelf, tucked inside one of the cubbies and only visible from where she’s sitting.

It’s plain white notebook paper, different than all of Asher’s reminders and notes. She unfolds it, finding Dylan’s big, messy scrawl instead.

Hi, Ash!

Remember to unclench your jaw, relax your shoulders, and breeeeathe. Also, you’re the best and I love you!

Love, Dyl

Although the message was not intended for her, Riley finds herself following the directives anyway. She can’t help but smile, relaxing her muscles before folding the note back up neatly and putting it back right where she found it. She isn’t sure whether it’s new, or if it’s been there for ages and Asher keeps it there simply to revisit it when he’s feeling exactly how she’s feeling right now. She could honestly believe either possibility.

It’s a nice reminder, that people can treat one another with warmth and kindness even in the face of so much uncertainty.

Farkle emerges from the step ladder, hesitating at the top. He looks to Riley and waits for permission of some kind to enter.

Farkle: Sorry we couldn’t find anything to do.

Riley: [ with a shrug ] We’re all gonna die in here anyway, so. I can’t pretend a board game would’ve fixed everything.

The actual conversation is as good an invitation as any. Farkle treads cautiously and joins her in the space, settling down into a seat against the shelves and propping his elbows on his knees.

Riley awkwardly fills the silence, lamenting the fact that students could even get stuck in the school. What procedures failed that led to them getting stuck in here anyway? And if they decide to close schools tomorrow, what then? She knows it’s unlikely given that New York hardly closes unless Hell is freezing over, but --

Farkle: I’m sorry you had to pay for it.

Farkle’s statement is abrupt, like it’s spilling out of him. Riley stops talking and looks at him, waiting to see if he’s going to clarify his outburst. He digs his nails into his knees, frowning at the ground as he tries to articulate it.

Farkle, shakily: For the video. The things I said. [ a beat ] I know what I did was stupid. Pure idiocy. And I don’t have an excuse. Even if I did, I hardly think it would matter. But I never meant for it get so out of control. I didn’t think everything would get so… I never thought everyone else would --

He swallows, clearing his throat. Riley waits patiently. Finally, he lifts his gaze to meet hers.

Farkle, timid: I didn’t mean to mess everything up for you. [ voice cracking ] I’m really sorry.

Riley can tell he’s being genuine. His nervous demeanor and glassy eyes make it hard to believe he could be flubbing his way through the apology. After a moment, she extends the only reassurance she thinks she has the power to give.

Riley: I forgive you.

It’s barely a dent in everything that’s gone wrong. It’s far from fixed. But it’s something, and that’s better than nothing. Farkle gives her a weak smile, dipping his head down again.

The two of them settle into the quiet.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Much like when they first learned they were trapped, the six are sprawled across the stage again. Backpacks are being used as pillows -- aside from Riley, who has her head on Zay’s torso. Lucas and Isadora are on opposite ends of the space. Their eyes are closed, but it’s evident none of them have gotten any actual rest.

Although there’s still plenty of tension, sleep deprivation and loss of fucks to give leads to Isadora asking some silly sleepover-esque question that causes everyone to shush her or groan. But they get into the discussion anyway, the conversation veering in a couple of comedic random directions before petering out again.

In the silence, Zay grows solemn. He pats Riley’s head affectionately, releasing a sigh.

Zay: Does any of this matter?

Maya: What do you mean?

Zay: Like… everything we’re doing. The things we’re stressing about right now. Assignments, rivalries --

Isadora: Party lines --

Farkle: Big mistakes --

Zay: The secrets… is any of it going to be worth it? In ten years, is any of this going to mean anything?

Riley: Are we even going to remember it?

Zay: Does it even matter?

The group ruminates on the big question, hanging over them like the winter storm. Lucas chimes in first, although he stays turned on his side away from the rest of them. His expression is melancholic, starting to crack his aloof facade due to lack of sleep and time alone.

Lucas: No. It doesn’t matter.

Zay: Big surprise from Mister Truancy.

Lucas: You asked. I’m telling you. We’re going to graduate -- or not -- and go our separate ways. Get jobs we don’t care about, lose touch with people we swore we never would, start relationships and get married because we’re supposed to. Then we’ll die, like everybody else.

Maya: You’re so fucking charming, you know that?

Riley jumps in, aiming to divert the discussion from becoming a scrap between Maya and Lucas. She asks what all of them think about that -- what happens after they die?

Riley: I mean, my parents always said… we were never really religious. But there has to be some sort of purpose to it all, right? If all of that is what we’re destined to do, then there has to be something later. It has to be leading to something.

Isadora: Heaven, you think. But that presumes there’s a God up there to impress.

Maya: [ with a snort ] Okay. Thanks, Charlie Gardner.

Zay: Hey, come on.

Lucas: There is no God.

Maya: Oh, wah, wah, wah --

Lucas: There isn’t. If there was, would he seriously let all this just happen? All this shitty stuff in the world, and he just lets it happen? [ a beat ] Some higher power.

Riley: I guess that depends on whether or not we deserve it.

Isadora: God has nothing to do with what happens. Humans have free will. We make those choices. Whatever happens, that’s on us.

For being surprisingly quiet through a majority of the conversation, Farkle wraps it up. His statement is genuine, catching all of them off-guard.

Farkle: Well, I hope you all would. Get into heaven.

This sinks in slowly, obviously impacting each of them differently. Lucas looks unconvinced. Riley and Zay are thoughtful. Isadora seems to be contemplating Farkle’s odd change of heart.

Maya is the most affected, obviously torn on how to take the sentiment -- wanting to believe it’s sincere, clearly wanting to absorb it, but also wanting to stick to her guns of being done with Farkle Minkus.

Zay breaks the meditative silence, letting out another declarative sigh and stating the obvious.

Zay: Afterlife aside, we can all agree this assignment is fucked, yeah?

Riley laughs, launching into uncontrollable, sleep-deprived giggles. The kind that are contagious, so then Isadora is breaking into chuckles. Hearing them laugh makes Lucas smile in spite of himself -- Zay starts laughing too. Then Maya, even Farkle. All of them are in delirious fits of laughter, but it’s the most any of them have laughed in ages. Least of all together.

For a moment, things feel better.

The prison sentence is interrupted when HARLEY KEINER enters with JACK HUNTER, the two of them coming in to check out how the auditorium is holding up before school officially opens for the morning. Jack is tired and holding his morning coffee, stunned when they walk out of the wings to find the six of them lazing around.

Jack: What on Earth are you all doing in here?

Sunlight! A savior from the outside! Maya is the first to jump to her feet, the rest of them getting up and scrambling up to escape. Jack tries to get them to explain what’s going on, and why it seems as though they’ve been here overnight. But they’re making bee lines for the exit, happy to get the hell away from one another. They breeze past him, Maya even yoinking his coffee with a quick thanks and flip of her hair.

Farkle is the last to leave, just sitting up at center stage while Jack tries to get his bearings on the situation. He blinks, spinning around.

Jack: What the hell happened in here?

Farkle: Don’t worry about it, Principal Hunter.

Farkle slowly gets to his feet, sauntering over to Jack. He gives him an exhausted smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Farkle, matter-of-factly: Everything is the same as it always is. Nothing is ever going to change.

Farkle heads out the dressing room hall, leaving Jack to ponder what terrible things must have unfolded in that auditorium overnight. He places his hands on his hips, looking around at the vast space. As the robotic, spacey tones of “Agnes” float in…

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Agnes” as performed by Glass Animals || Performed by Farkle Minkus

Farkle meanders into the detached and dreamy conclusion to the episode, floating through the empty halls and singing at a rather monotone pitch. It’s a groovy track with some subtly dark undertones, the echoing refrain of “You’re gone but you’re on my mind / I’m lost but I don’t know why” feeling particularly heavy. On the lines “this time you overdid the liquor, this time you pulled the fucking trigger,” Farkle glances at his reflection in one of the classroom windows before pithily pretending to shoot himself with a finger gun.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Intercut with the performance, Farkle dances loosely at center stage in the dark, nothing but the ghost light illuminating a small circle of the stage. It’s the most free-wheeling Farkle has ever seemed dance wise, but there’s an uneasy quality to it too.

As the number comes to an end, Farkle ceases his dancing. He almost seems like a completely different person -- frumpy cardigan, hair a tangled mess, expression blank and devoid of any of his usual eccentricities as he stares out at the empty auditorium.

Then he walks off stage, only the ghost light breaking the swath of darkness until it flicks out.

END OF EPISODE.

#S2 #episodes #206 #this one... now this one y'all.....

14 notes · View notes

skywailer · 6 years

Note

PINK + Dramione (for the Colour Prompts) 💝

The sky is blue, carnivals are lame, and he bumps into her three times.

“The pole up your ass could use some tweaking,” his friends tease him as they tug him past the daunting starting line- under the garishly pink, screaming CARNIVAL sign and lagging behind running, racing, equally screaming children. He feels like they’re the only teens stupid enough to appear at such a ridiculous event- but his friends are just one of a few older, taller clusters sprinkled atop the shorter, more naive crowd of families. Everyone, adolescently “old” or young, seems to have never had a pole even touch the entrance to their asses.

Except one.

When he bumps into her for the first time, it’s with guns in their hands and a pink cat on the line.

He thinks his friends are idiots for playing a game where the objective is to shoot water at a tiny red dot until their fingers go numb on the trigger, while a cardboard horse gallops an endless race, all in the name of getting a fifty cent toy that no one actually ever gets. He also thinks his friends are morons for assuming this of all things will get the pole out his ass. When the girl next to him, all tight-wire curls and lazer focus, has a pole a mile long sticking out hers.

“Stupid piece of junk,” she mutters, almost saying a less pg-friendly version before remembering the kid playing next to her. She’s glaring at her water gun and shaking it, apparently incapable of making it work. Hastily, she whips it back up and aims it at the target, yanking the trigger back. The water comes out, but it’s obviously having some… Issues performing.

He grins, aims his gun, and shoots it at her target.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Comes the run-of-the-mill protest. Yet, the girl doesn’t stop shooting her own gun at the target. Her horse is getting very close to the finishing line.

A buzzer goes off, the horses do a horrible slide right back to the start, and the girl looks at him. Her eyes express as much conflict as color- brown irises reflecting shimmers of gold and yellow and even some of the harsh fluorescent lighting. They’re bold, beautiful, befitting.

“What the hell?” She asks, as an intrusive arm jerks out between them, holding a hot pink, sneering cat.

“I think you mean to say: thank you,” he corrects, trying not to smile; the cat has him a bit self-conscious about what his smile actually looks like. He hopes he never, ever looks like that freaking cat.

When the girl continues to look at him, dumbfounded, and the cat keeps grinning at him, he blabs on: “I helped you win.”

“You helped me cheat. That was cheating.”

“Can someone please take the cat,” the intrusive arm speaks. It belongs to the exasperated worker who obviously doesn’t care how the cat was won. Just that it disappears from sight. He can understand the desire.

He grins, and points the gun he still has in hand towards the cat. “Hey, game is rigged. So you rig the rigged game.”

The girl’s hair is apparently stress-triggered. It grows three finger-widths higher, frizzier. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Take the cat.”

“No. I didn’t win it.”

He fights the urge to call his friends over, to measure and compare the pain of her ass to his. Instead, he balls up that energy and makes it into a fist around the cat’s creepy head.

“Fine. I’ll take it. I won it.”

“What? No! Give it to the kid.”

“He was shooting the horse! I should give him over to the police. He’s a serial killer in the making.”

The serial killer’s mom glares at him before ushering her son away. Meanwhile, the girl’s head is practically exploding, a burst of red and pink in the cheeks. He’s enjoying the display. It gets cut off by the laughter of familiar voices- her friends.

She turns to find them, and her smile- He can’t figure out whether he’s envious of it, the cause of it, or just desperate for it to be aimed at him.

It’s gone, she’s gone, before he can figure any of it out.

He still hasn’t figured it out when he bumps into her the second time. This time, it’s on a battlefield of bumper cars- his green and hers red- and he’s grinning like an absolute idiot. That lame cat, a trophy of something he has yet to win, is placed proudly between his legs- taunting her when she finally turns around and spots him. She gapes at him, eyebrows quirked in curiosity, cheeks still bright- but soft in the changing light. Her eyes drift down to the little pink toy, and her lips twitch upwards, promising a smile just for him. It’s ridiculous, but he doesn’t hear the buzzer go off.

The goal was to bump into her, to chase her and coax a curse from those smiling lips, but somehow the whole plan goes topside. Surely she never intended it, but she’s a distraction- and he ends up looking in all the wrong places: at the ends of her curls where the LED lighting drops color and dances off the waves, to the crinkle in her nose as someone - sometimes him, sometimes not - crashes into her and makes her move. His end comes at the tip of her laugh. He crashes into the barrier, his body jolting forward against the seatbelt, his lungs and ribs crushed as he slacks back with a dizzying sigh. There’s a throbbing in his chest, and it worsens when the buzzer goes off and she’s standing over him. Grinning like a criminal.

“Are you following me?” She asks. His head lulls over to the side and glances back at the familiar, red bumper car plastered to the back of his ride.

“I should be asking that question.”

She laughs again, and this time it’s up close and personal, and the throbbing in his chest is incredibly annoying.

“I’ll take that cat now. I think I won it.”

“No,” he has the audacity to say and shakes his head. Her eyebrows shoot up, disbelieving. She hasn’t heard nothing yet. He grins. “You’ll have to trade for something.”

She rolls her eyes. The throbbing is persistent, and insistent. “What?” she plays along.

“A kiss.”

She’s walking away.

“Hey!” He calls, scrambling up from the wreckage of his bumper car. “It’s a fair trade!” The cat flails in his hand, fails at being the right trading card.

“You don’t even know my name,” she shoots back, but it doesn’t sound as offended as she means it to.

“Then tell me!”

But she’s gone.

The last time he bumps into her, it’s under the stars and an obnoxious overhang that yells COTTON CANDY at anyone foolish enough to listen. He’s foolish, but this time he’s rewarded handsomely for being a cotton candy-toting dumb-ass.

“Hey,” he says, eagerly and stupidly, every clever greeting he’d thought of in the interval between their meetings shot clear over the Ferris wheel behind them. It seems she can see them all waving as they fly off into space. She laughs.

“Hey.”

They walk together, having lost their friends to fun houses and roller-coasters, and talk about having seen each other somewhere before. School, probably, but he can tell her friends and his are from completely different circles. If they met at school, it would be fleeting and fateless. He thinks meeting here, surrounded by air-head balloons, crying kids and trashed junk food is just as crappy, but at the same time… The cotton candy smells sweet, and the night shadows play nicely with the buzzing bulbs to make a soft, dreamlike portrait of her. The girl he doesn’t know, but wants to.

“What’s your name?” He asks abruptly, and she freezes around a piece of pink cotton candy. She smiles, and it melts between her lips.

“Hermione.”

“Draco,” he replies without needing the question. He’d like to pretend she wants to know just as badly as he does. The look in her eyes, light and jumping from all the colors and promises around them… Say she might just want to know more.

He swallows. “So, Hermione,” just the sound of it has him grinning, “does your cotton candy have a flavor to it or?”

“Or is it just pink sugar?”

“Yeah.”

She presses her lips together for a moment, thinking, but there’s a curve to her lips that betrays where her thoughts might be going. “I think it’s supposed to be cherry. Yours?”

His is blue, and stuck to his tongue just like his words. He swallows again, but it’s useless. He takes a piece of cotton candy and sticks it in his mouth to buy him time to think of something witty.

“Tastes blue.”

It’s pathetic, but she laughs and he melts at the sound. The cotton candy on the other hand…

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. Tastes blue.”

“Can I try?”

She’s still mid-laugh and he nods, leans the bag of sugary air to her. But then that curve in her lips is not only visible but touchable, a full-on attack on his senses. She’s kissing him.

And she was the one who lied, because there’s no cherry on her lips, nor on the tongue that drags slow and savoring across his. It’s all just air and sugar and pink, dissolving inside him and dripping into his lungs and stomach. Making him crave more, and more, and more still.

But then she’s gone, up and walking away, and the cat he’d had on his lap is in her sneaky hands.

“Hey!” He calls out, breathless and weak. He can’t even stand up to chase after her.

“What?” She challenges, walking away even with her back to the fair and her eyes locked on his, eyebrow cocked. He wants to kiss her again, on his terms. “Fair trade.”

If that’s what it takes for another kiss, “I’ll go get another prize and we can trade again.”

She laughs, again and again, and he happily eats it up. But she’s still walking away.

“It’s blueberry, by the way.”

And with that, she’s gone, and his friends find him, tease him about the girl who “stole your pole!” Among other things.

#dramione #dhr #dhr fanfiction #dramione fanfiction #Mail

70 notes · View notes

sending-the-message · 6 years

Text

Sometimes Dreamcatchers Can Pick Up Nightmares Too. by thegeneralg

With summer winding to a close, that means exactly one thing; it's county fair season. There is nothing else quite like it. Where else can you get deep fried anything, buy a "The Savage Life Chose Me" T shirt, and be treated to the finest people watching possible?

Which was what I was doing three days ago as I found myself strolling around the paths at my local county fair. While I tend to eat healthier most of the time, this was my opportunity to splurge. I had selected the deep fried Oreos covered with powdered sugar to cheat on my diet. It was so worth it.

While strolling around in the humid weather, I amused myself by watching my fellow fair goers. All around me were vendors, tents, and food trucks with people browsing and buying at every one of them. You could browse animals and other exhibits, but as always, the best form of entertainment in any sort of public event was the other people.

There are several categories of people watching one will inevitably find at any public event, especially where alcohol is available. Allow me to give you the highlights.

You will always have plenty of the massively overweight people wearing tank tops, short shorts, and clothes designed for someone far skinnier. Bonus points if they are eating something impressively unhealthy like deep fried butter, but even more if they are wearing an ironic t shirt (Dude with the apple fritter who was rocking the No Fat Chicks shirt, I'm talking to you).

Then, you will usually have a fair number of people with bad tattoos. I don't mean the odd name in cursive on someone's wrist or something. No, think massive neck tattoo that says something charming like "Go fuck yourself."

But of course my personal favorites are those inappropriately dressed middle aged people who try to pretend they can party like they did 25 years ago. We've all seen that guy who's skin looks just like the old leather jacket he's wearing, and sadly the jacket looks like its gotten less mileage.

But he has stiff competition from the soccer mom who's wearing something far too revealing for someone her age. Which makes things incredibly awkward when she gets hammered off her Sangria and her subsequent behavior makes half the people around her wish they could be flashed by the Memory modifier thing from the Men in Black movies. Particularly her husband, who has to drive her home in the minivan with the "Proud Parent Of An Honor Student" bumper sticker. Good times, especially once they all start getting hammered and start dancing, fighting, singing, or all of the above.

As I was amusing myself by seeing who was the best fairgoer of them all, I was also looking at exhibits. One booth was selling delightfully inappropriate bumper stickers. I was sorely tempted by the "Horn Broken, Watch For Finger" one, but I decided against it.

As I was admiring the refreshing breeze that had suddenly descended upon the fair, I noticed another tent standing amidst the others. It was filled with shelves holding dreamcatchers, elaborately carved knives, and turquoise jewelry. The breeze caught some of the dreamcatchers and made them sway in the wind, like some sort of wind chime. The brightly colored feathers seemed to glide through the air. I have always found something captivating about Dreamcatchers and Native American lore.

There is something both familiar and foreign about it. Like something you are aware of, but at the same time you don't really understand the reason behind it. But you are fascinated by it all the same.

Since I had just moved to the area about two months ago, I was still getting settled. My duplex was in that sort of post moving flux where it didn't quite have the whole lived in feel yet. Something from this booth would definitely help that. I took my time browsing, looking for just the right Dreamcatcher. It was a hard choice, because they were all beautiful looking. Definitely not the cheap, touristy, flea market kind you got for someone in a gift shop. No, these all looked like they belonged in a museum.

My eyes suddenly caught the red one and I knew I just had to have it. It looked more like an ornament because as opposed to having just one circle with the web inside it, it had one large one and several lower ones dangling beneath it. It was decorated with large red feathers with peacock feathers added in between the red ones. The effect was stunning when it caught the light. Immediately snatching it up, I made my way to the cashier. A slightly overweight guy was manning it. He must have been in his early 60s and was dressed in a blue denim shirt and slacks.

"14.95," he said in a deep voice as he took my Dreamcatcher and punched in the numbers on the register. Handing him the money, he put my Dreamcatcher in a plastic bag and handed it back to me. "Good choice my boy. This one is gorgeous. I hope it serves you well," he added with a smile.

"Thanks. I know just where I am going to put it,." I replied as I was about to leave.

"That's the spirit. Have a good night, and since you bought one of those, sleep well. They always do the job well." Apparently he was one of those guys who got really into whatever he was selling. Whatever, it was definitely an improvement over those broody assholes who could barely be bothered to look up from their phone to assist you when you wanted to buy something.

"Good to hear. Thanks again." I said over my shoulder as I was walking out. When I got home, I took it out of the bag and hung the Dreamcatcher on the wall like I planned. As expected, it looked perfect there. Whenever I passed it, I couldn't help but notice how well it tied the space together. Like any new piece of furniture or decoration, you constantly notice it until it blends into the space.

Crawling into bed that night, I fell asleep immediately. But it was not exactly restful because I must have had a nightmare or something. I don't know exactly what happened. But my adrenaline was going insane and when I woke up. I was in a cold sweat and I immediately bolted up as soon as I opened my eyes.

Looking around the bedroom, I realized what happened and took a deep breath. Just a bad dream. No doubt because of the incredibly healthy food I had eaten at the fair. No wonder I was in a cold swear, my body was processing all that deep fried grease. As a kid, I struggled with night terrors and I had been going through a lot of post moving stress. Living in a new place and whatnot is always hard, so I shrugged it off and went on as normal.

The rest of my day passed by uneventfully and I forgot about what happened the night before. In fact, I was actually looking forward to a good nights sleep. When it was time for bed, I turned out the light, rolled over on my left side, and went to sleep.

While I didn't have the exact same experience I had the night before, I certainly didn't have a pleasant night's rest either. I dreamt there was an unexpected knock at my door.

"Excuse me, my car broke down can you help me?" The voice on the other side of the door said. It was a woman speaking. I went to the door and looked through the peephole. When I did, I almost shouted in shock. It was no woman on the other side of the door. Not even close.

Standing on just the other side of the door was some guy. A massive guy, well over 6 feet. But taking another look, I saw he was pretty thin. It was a weird look, the giant head with long, unkept hair on the scrawny, famished frame. And those bulbous, yellow eyes that didn't look human. The eyes were the worst. They didn't match a human face at all. Standing there, I didn't dare say a word. All I could do was stare out the peephole, silently watching and hoping he would go away. After what seemed like an eternity, he backed up and walked away.

Perhaps walking isn't quite then best word to describe it. He seemed to slouch down and stalk away, lumbering creepily down the steps. As it was leaving I noticed one last thing. His hands hand long nails. They looked almost like claws, and they were absolutely filthy looking. Like whoever was at my door had been digging in the ground or something. As he turned his back to my door and walked away, I couldn't believe what happened next.

In the blink of an eye, the stranger was gone. I don't mean the stranger started running away or something like that. I mean he just vanished into thin air. The panic that had seized ahold of me and refused to let go lessened slightly at this.

The next thing I knew, my face was pressed down into my pillow and I was panting slightly. Warily raising my head up, I wasn't sure what happened. The dream began slowly to fade the instant I woke up, becoming more like a distant memory. That was a hell of a bad dream. I hadn't had one like that in a while. Amazing what your mind will come up with isn't it? After taking a moment, I rolled out of bed.

Since this was Monday, that meant it was time for work. The routine of showering, getting dressed, and eating my usual breakfast of scrambled eggs helped push the dream out of my head. At least it did until I stepped outside my front door.

The front door to my duplex is a heavy wooden door with a deadbolt with a white screen door in front of it. Usually I pay no attention to my screen door, but today was different. During the night, some animal must have been outside because the door's screen had been torn and ripped. I could see the long, thin marks that looked like claws. Based on the scratches, something had really wanted to get inside.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

3 notes · View notes

akastarlords · 7 years

Text

home sweet home

5/?

what is UP, y’all. i had the worst bout of writer’s block because i had a pretty hard and stressful job that just absolutely drained me. this chapter has been in my wips for ages and today i finally, i finished and cleaned it up to the best of my liking. hope you enjoy!

The fair’s packed and in full swing by the time Owen arrives. Gray had sent a flood of texts earlier to him about where to meet up. Right by the carousel and across from (one of the many) deep fried food stand. Checking his phone, Owen sees no other new messages from Gray, and sighs.

That weird feeling in the pit of his stomach began to rise again. The same one he got the morning Claire returned…

“Uncle Owen!” Gray calls out. There’s a few quick tugs on the back of Owen’s shirt, before Gray darts around to stand in front of him. “You made it!”

“What? Like you didn’t expect me to show up?” Owen asks, ruffling Gray’s hair. The pit feeling seems to take a backseat much to his relief. Gray ducks away, grinning widely. He doesn’t answer right away, and instead looks around, as if looking for something, or someone. Owen follows his gaze, before giving him a questioning look.

Gray finally shakes his head. “No, I knew ya would, but uuh, I think I see a friend from school. I’m gonna say hi to them.” He says in a rush of words, and takes off off like a shot before Owen could protest.

“Gray, wait, you…” Owen trails off with a sigh. The last thing he needed was to lose Gray.

“Gray, hon?” A voice calls out. “Where…oh.”

Okay, strike that. Gray being lost was the second to last thing Owen needed. Turning, he catches a glimpse of Claire standing there. Two giant turkey legs in her hands and her eyes wide. Gone is her formal business attire, replaced by faded jeans and a loose Crimson Tide shirt. Owen felt like he was back all those years, when Claire didn’t totally hate his guts and he knew they’d be going home together that night.

“What…” Claire began, as if trying to find the right words. “What are you doing here?”

Owen was sucker punched back to here and now. With a snort, he answers “Sorry, I forgot I ain’t allowed to show my face in public while you’re around.”

Claire lifts her eyes heavenward, and she seems just about ready to start swinging at him with the turkey legs. No doubt she would have, until Gray pops back up between them, almost too conveniently.

“Aunt Claire, Uncle Owen.” He looks at them, giving them an easy smile. “What ride should we go on first?”

“We?” Both Claire and Owen echo together. Gray presses his lips together in a lousy attempt to hold in a laugh, and nods.

Owen shoves his hands into his jean’s pockets and gives Gray a look. “I was under the impression that no one else could come at the fair with you.” He says, lifting a brow. Gray doesn’t answer right away and instead makes a vague gesture.

“That’s funny. I was under the impression that Gray wanted to spend time together with me.” Claire adds, waving a turkey leg in Gray’s direction. Again, his vague gesture is his only reply, this time with an unsure ‘uuuum’

“You know what, I’ll just go.” Owen says after a moment. “You two haven’t seen each other in a while.”

He doesn’t wait for either of them to speak before he’s turning to walk away.

“Owen.” Claire calls. Against her better judgement, she follows him. “You don’t have to go. I mean…it’s obvious Gray wanted to spend time with us both.” She looks to him, and sees the slight surprise in his eyes. “Besides, I…well, he just wants to spend time with us both.” She repeats.

Against his better judgement, Owen nods. “Alright.” He agrees in a quiet mumble. “Alright, yeah.”

Gray stands not too far from his aunt and uncle and breathes a quiet sigh of relief. So far, so good. He had to make sure this night went on just right.

“Owen!” Claire growls, her eyes narrowing. “You son of a…you!” She swears. That was it. He finally broke the last straw with her, and now he’d pay.

With a jerk of her hands, she rams her bumper car into the side of Owen’s, enjoying the way he jerked from side to side.

She backs up, then rams into him one more time. “How does it feel, cheater?”

“How the hell do ya cheat at bumper cars?!” Owen demands, driving away from her. Claire follows right on his tail. She slams into the back of the bumper and Owen spins out, swearing. Claire smiles smugly, sending a look to Gray in his car.

“You’re next.” She promises, before going after Owen once more.

Gray breathes a breath of thanks when the bumper cars all slow to a stop once their time is up. Claire only mere inches away from giving Owen another impact. “You’re damn insane, you know that?” Owen says stumbling out from the bumper car. As rough as his words were, there was a grin on his face.

Claire lifts her chin. “You’re only saying that ‘cause you lost. C’mon, Gray.” She waves him over, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. Owen rolls his eyes.

“You can’t lose at bumper cars, Claire. Claire! Did ya hear me? Ya can’t lose…or cheat!” He yells after them, running to catch up.

It was somewhere between the skydiver and roller coaster that the three of them began to walk more dizzily. Claire blinks back the spots from her eyes as she keeps herself balanced on the picnic bench. It’s been years since she went on so many rides, let alone just one.

Not even when she and Daniel had a date to Coney Island.

She closes her eyes and takes a breath. Daniel’s mother still had the ‘bright’ idea of moving Claire’s own wedding down here, and for once in her life, Claire refused to even glance at her cellphone.

“Here. Freshly squeezed lemonade.”

Claire opens her eyes to see Owen holding a large plastic cup filled with ice cold lemonade. She could feel her mouth watering as she took the drink with a soft ‘thank you’ and took a long sip. This was another thing she hadn’t had in a while, freshly made…well, any beverage besides coffee and tea. She didn’t realize how much she even missed lemonade till she saw it there.

Gray sits down with his tray of deep fried Oreos. Claire wrinkles her nose. “You actually eat those?”

“They’re good.” Gray argues with a huff. Owen reaches over, stealing one and pops it into his mouth with a nod.

“Damn good.” He agrees. Claire sticks out her tongue.

“Your mom is gonna kill me for letting you have all that sugar.” Claire mutters. Gray kneels up, and holds up an Oreo bit to Claire. “What are you doing?” She asks, leaning back as he pressed it closer to her face.

“Try it!” Gray says, pushing it against her cheek, leaving a stain of powdered sugar on her. Claire laughs, pushing his arm away.

“No! Owen, get your nephew.” Claire leans back further as Gray reaches for her again. Owen shakes his head, chuckling.

“Nah, this is pretty amusin’. Also, they really are good. Try it.”

Claire stands, wiping her cheek with a soft snort. “No way.”

Before Gray could attempt another try, the familiar riff of a guitar played over the speakers. Around them, the crowd cheered as the classic ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ played. Practically everyone and their great grandma made their way out to the clearing to dance and move along to the song.

Dropping the Oreo, Gray turns to his aunt and uncle. Both were quiet, their eyes watching each other before Owen turned to look at the dancing.

Of course, he had to do everything himself.

“Why don’t you two dance together?” He asks loudly. Claire jumps a bit at his sudden statement and Owen is at a lost of words for once. “Well?”

“Aw, honey. I don’t think either of us is up for dancing much…” Claire replies. Owen stays quiet, even as he glances back to her. It wasn’t an acceptable answer, not for Gray. Standing, he pulls on Claire’s hand.

“Dance with me then, Aunt Claire?” He pleads, sending her his best puppy eyes. Claire likes to think she tough, as she holds on for ten seconds before caving and letting Gray pull her out to the clearing.

Owen remains at the table, watching as they begin to dance. The bright smile that comes to Claire’s lips, the one that reaches her eyes and makes it look like she’s glowing. He remembers that same look on her the first night they said ‘I love you’, and he especially remembers that stormy evening when they both shared their first kiss.

He rubs his arm where a complicated design of faded scars where etched into his skin.

A damn fool, stupid idiot. That was the best thing he could think of calling himself. Why didn’t he fight harder for her? Instead of just ducking his head in defeat when he found her in New York. Why didn’t he shape up his act, instead of just letting things get too comfortable? Like she would always be there…

Now, here. This could be his last and final chance, but instead, he knew he would just sign those forsaken divorce papers and let her go. Once and good.

Damn fool, stupid idiot.

“Uncle Owen!” Gray yells. Owen lifts his head, to see Claire with her hands on her hips, and Gray waves him over. Owen makes his way over to them with a questioning look.

“Aunt Claire keeps steppin’ on my toes.” Gray complains with a huff.

Claire rolls her eyes. “Not that much.”

“Yeah, she wasn’t much for dancin’” Owen agrees, shrugging, though he flashes Claire a teasing grin.

“Oh haha, Mr. Big Two Left Feet.” Claire retorts. Her heart leaps when Owen catches her around the waist and spins her into a dance with him.

Her hands find their way to his shoulders, and she holds onto him. They begin to move in that familiar sway they used to melt into whenever their songs would come playing on the radio. Claire slowly relaxes against him, her head resting lightly against the crook of his neck. It almost feels like home.

But she knew she couldn’t stay home forever, and he’d be damned if he didn’t get one last dance before that.

Gray is gone to the world as Claire carries him up the path to Karen’s house. Owen by her side as they share quiet laughter. “I think that fifth corndog is what did him in.”

Claire brushes hair from Gray’s head, nodding. “Absolutely.” She nods. “Karen did say he has a taste for fair food, but this was ridiculous.”

They come to a stop by the door, the dim yellow hue of the porch light flickered slightly. “Um, thank you.” Claire says. “For spending time with Gray. With us.”

Owen shrugs a shoulder. “How could I say no? I haven’t spent too much time with him, or you. I wanted to before…”

Claire looks to Owen as he trails off. They didn’t realize that they moved closer together. Not till it happens.

It’s quick. Too quick for either of them to catch it, but they know. They know the feel of each other’s lips, the taste, the way Claire often sighs against his lips and how Owen always lingers a moment longer.

It’s quick, but they know.

Claire pulls back, her eyes wide before they look anywhere but on him. Her hand fumbles as she pushes the door open.

“Claire.” Owen whispers, but Claire shakes her head.

“I-I have to get Gray to bed.” She says softly. “Goodnight, Owen.” She holds Gray closer and slips into the house, shutting the door. Owen stands there, and presses his head to the door.

“Shit.” He sighs.

When he turns and leaves, the porch light goes off.

#clawen #otp: for survival #claire x owen #its ya girl ericka and im bad at drama and angst

17 notes · View notes

crucialandinert · 7 years

Text

Intruder

happy birthday, @joycecarolnotes -- and thank you so much for the prompt. Please forgive my terrible Richard, I have no idea what makes dude tick and, i’ve never written him before, but, i tried.

He could have turned it to the wall, he supposed. But that would have been the easy way out, and Jared was not one to pamper his weaknesses. He didn’t spend hours staring at it or anything, although maybe he should have to toughen himself, but when its gaze burned through him as he entered the server room, or caught his eye while he was getting dressed – the instant pressure on his chest, how he could suddenly hear his heartbeat in his ears – these were things quietly to be borne.

After all, the incident with the intruder had really been a blessing in disguise, hadn’t it? When you know, truly know, that your life can end at any moment, and you close your eyes, dissolve to nothing but the hush of your breath, truly surrender your soul to fate – why, in that moment you become free. You can be startled, you can be anxious, you can be filled with longing, wishfulness, at times discontent (that will be sternly and swiftly dealt with) but you can never really be afraid, deeply afraid, again. All that you had to lose, you’ve already lost. You walk among the others like a ghost; they have more colors, are brighter, warmer, grasp and cling and tear at life, while you look on and hold lightly to the earth, the sole inhabitant of a world they cannot see.

Richard was worried, and there was no one he could tell. Piperchatting with his mom was out of the question, because he could never tell her the whole story. Everyone else in the house, while not exactly more incapable of coping with human emotions than him – he was the undisputed champ there – definitely didn’t even approach the threshold of “any use at all.” Except, of course for Jared, and he was the one Richard was worried about.

Jared said things Richard didn’t know what to make of all the time. The most he ever found himself saying in reply was “What?” – and then desperately hoping there wouldn’t be an answer and he could forget about it again. He wasn’t sure exactly why Jared said these things. It didn’t seem like he wanted anything in particular from the group. He would just kind of drop something incomprehensibly awful into the room and smile, and go about his business. Great, you had to pretend a plastic bag with a drawn-on face was a teddy bear when you were a kid. What am I supposed to do with that? Don’t you realize how weird you’re making everybody feel? The best thing, the only thing, to be done was to ignore it.

But Richard had finally run headfirst into something he couldn’t ignore: Ed Chambers. Sure, Jared had referred to him as his “fictional” supervisor, but absolutely nothing else about what he’d said or how he’d acted seemed to indicate the guy knew Ed wasn’t real. That couldn’t be a good sign. Maybe Richard should have paid more attention when Jared had his outburst at Gavin’s house. That had been far out of character for someone so mild, so harmless – someone who could be charitable even to the rats they still hadn’t quite gotten around to exterminating from where he slept. And now this. Richard tried for a moment to convince himself that Jared was just kidding. That would be a good way to get himself to stop worrying about it, but he knew it was a lie. There was a blankness behind Jared’s eyes when he talked about Ed that frightened Richard. Maybe they were pushing him too far, too much stress? Did Jared have a breaking point – he’d never thought so. Or maybe this was it. Or maybe there was something worse coming, something it was up to Richard to prevent.

Richard padded down the hall and knocked a tiny, one-knuckle knock on Dinesh’s bedroom door. Thumping sounds and scrambling ensued for an awkwardly attenuated moment, then Dinesh opened the door a crack. “What do you want, Richard?”

“I – I was wanting to talk to you for a couple minutes? About this Ed Chambers thing, with Jared, you saw that, right?”

Dinesh swallowed imperceptibly. Had they been even vaguely directed toward him, he would not have been able to meet Richard’s eyes.

“Yeah, I did. What about it? He’s a weird dude, we all know that.”

“Do you – did you happen to see how it got started? You were with him in the kitchen that time.”

“No, I don’t know how it got started. Maybe that’s how he gets all those girls. Who understands why Jared does anything. Now if you'll excuse me, I’m trying to get to sleep.” Dinesh yanked the door shut with a peevish thunk.

Richard headed back to his room and scaled his loft bed, fretfully. That was dumb, to have expected Dinesh to be any help. Or to give a shit. Richard contemplated asking Erlich for a moment, but didn’t think he could stomach the pompous lecture about Jared’s true two-faced corporate nature finally coming to the fore or something. Gilfoyle was completely out of the question. No, he was truly alone. Without Jared, to ask for help dealing with Jared, so he could ask for help to deal with Jared… he would be stuck in an infinite recursive loop.

Richard stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was something simple. Maybe Jared just wasn’t sleeping again. He didn't have those awful dark circles, the ones that made his eyes seem so blue they glowed, that he'd displayed during the “let’s pivot” incident; but there were probably several stages of sleep deprivation along the road to that and maybe one of them was sometimes believing you’re a guy who could “do it” to Sonia Sotomayor.

Ed knew he shouldn't have let that pussy Jared handle the broadband bill situation. He'd meekly tried to bring it to Richard's attention in that gay ballerina way of his, but one "Fuck off, Mom," and Jared just let it go! What a faggot. Someone that helpless, someone who let others treat him that way, shouldn't be trusted with anything; God only knew what Richard saw in the dude. Fucking useless. So, that morning, Ed had had to be the one to go down to the Xfinity storefront and get it taken care of. Got them a sweet discount while he was there, too -- Jared was the kind of loser who always paid full price. Or even more, probably. They could smell him coming. Someone who it was irresistible -- hell, it was fun -- to take advantage of.

He shook his head, and gunned the engine of the Chevy Volt. Ed was hungry -- cleaning up Jared's bullshit had made him late for lunch. He wondered what Jared was having -- with one hand on the wheel, he shot him a quick text. But who the fuck was this lady in front of him in the 10-year-old Camry? Was she fucking blind? This was the third light in a row she'd been dozing on green, he'd been trying to pass her for blocks -- she was one of those drivers who go so fucking slow you can't even get around them, and he was stuck.

Ed felt his blood pressure rise. He mashed the horn, stopped just short of yelling, "Come the fuck on, lady!" But she still didn't move. Was she deaf too?The light was green! Ed was sick of this bitch in his fucking way. He punched the horn again -- vaguely he noticed room had opened up on the left to drive around her, but now this was personal. He had to get this bitch to move. I know, Ed thought, I'll wake her up, and he gave the gas a little tap, making the motor roar. He'd intended to stop just short of her bumper, give her a scare, more the noise than anything else -- but slamming on the brake with a heavy lurch, he made contact by mistake, just barely.

Jared's head jerked forward, shocking him back to himself, as he felt his bumper make contact with the car ahead. His eyes widened. He hadn't even noticed the white Camry in front of him -- must have zoned out again while he was driving, it'd been happening to him a lot lately. He should have done something -- what, he wasn't sure -- about it long before now, it was putting others in danger! Why, he was no better than someone who would text and drive, and Jared would never think of doing that. But there would be time later to excoriate himself. Jared fumbled at the door handle and launched out of the car toward the other driver, already digging for his wallet and insurance card.

A motherly Asian woman emerged from the midsize sedan, took one look at Jared, and immediately started to try and calm him down. "I'm sorry -- I'm so, so sorry! I don't know what came over me, I'm never this careless, this inattentive-" His hands fluttered around him, a storm of gawky dismay that took legions of "honey, I'm fines," "it was nothings," a somewhat stern, "no, I don't think we should tell our insurance companies, I'm sorry but I insist -- you don't want to raise our rates, do you? Ok then, you don't want to raise MY rates," and one, "Just sit for a moment -- here, why don't you take one of my son's waters -- no, really, I have a whole six-pack -- look, I'm starting to get kind of frustrated here," to finally bring them to rest.

It was a good twenty minutes spent alternating sips from a tiny plastic bottle, some light sniffles, and a face hidden in bewildered hands, before Jared felt composed enough to try and drive home.

Now it was Richard who hadn't gotten enough sleep. That was nothing odd; he'd tried to take his usual approach, flog himself awake with caffeine, get some work done and forget about it. But as the day wore on, his overclocked brain couldn't be corralled from wandering to thoughts of his head of business development's earnest blue eyes, as he told Richard that he'd fired someone who didn't exist. It was just -- crazy. Number one, if Ed was Jared's supervisor, how was that even supposed to work?

Richard shook his can of Redbull, found it empty, yanked his headphones off, and stamped out into the kitchen. It occurred to him -- he should look around the server room to see if he could find something that might be messing up Jared's sleep. There could be noises, leaks, something could have infiltrated the ecosystem as an apex predator to the rats -- who knows, because Jared would never have complained.

It was staring him in the face the moment he walked in.

Shit! Shit, shit – oh shit. The Gavin picture. Duh. Jared had balked at having it in there, but then said something about an intruder being good for him? Richard had checked out, mentally. Maybe Jared hadn’t actually been as sunnily fine as he seemed this time, and having the picture in his room was keeping him awake. And of course... the weird anger outburst had been about Gavin. Richard felt like he was suddenly seeing in the third dimension. Jared wasn’t just an eternally buoyant, strangely maternal accessory for Richard to lean on without much thought. He was… vulnerable. He needed protection. From Richard. Richard had to do protection. Protection, a thing which would have to be done by Richard. A familiar quaver arose in his innards. Either there had been cilantro in that microwave burrito or -- Richard was scared.

By the time he got back to the hostel, a slight tiredness behind the eyes was all that remained of the afternoon's unpleasantness. The only content of Jared's mind was an eagerness to get back to work; he was behind on what he'd hoped to get accomplished over the weekend. A quick peep at his watch revealed that he no longer had time for lunch -- and, that his heart rate had returned to normal, so that was good. Now to grab his laptop from the server room and get down to it.

But -- Jared found himself stopping short moments away from reaching for the doorknob. Right before opening a door is the most important time to be alert and use “the gift of fear,” as described in a self-help book about tuning into your survival signals that Jared hadn’t actually needed to read, as it turned out. And it seemed to be time to unwrap that gift. Jared had heard something. He had definitely heard something. Something larger than even the largest of the rats. Something... human. Perhaps an intruder had finally gotten in through the garage door – the possibility of which, along with the complete and utter lack of insulation, was among the slight drawbacks of living in the server room.

What to do, what to do. If there were an intruder, he certainly wouldn’t keep to the server room once he discovered there was nothing of value among Jared’s possessions. No, he would be coming through that door to menace the rest of the house, possibly armed. Erlich, Dinesh and Gilfoyle were all out having lunch with Jian-Yang’s visiting parents -- or, more saliently, at Jian-Yang’s parents’ expense. Jian-Yang himself had requested that Jared not partake in the invitation, as ghosts are taken much more seriously in his family’s region of mainland China then they are in the U.S.. A perfectly reasonable request.

Jared didn’t know if Richard had ended up going with them, or was in his room with his headphones on, deep in concentration, but he certainly wasn’t about to take chances. The only thing to do would be to come in strong and startle the intruder. Even if he did discharge his firearm in fright, he would certainly take to his heels and flee back the way he had come. Intruders were nothing if not cowards. Sure, there was a slim possibility of the intruder being a decent shot, but, one must take calculated risks in life. Avanti.

Jared took one last deep breath, grabbed the doorknob, and launched himself through the doorway with a full-throated Apache yawp – directly into chaos. Out of a squeal, a crash, the tinkling of what – thank gosh in heaven! – turned out to have been safety glass, he was horrified to see tumble – Richard, clutching a large, torn piece of Gavin's image in his hand! Overcome, Jared flew to his side, patting hands trying to reassure themselves that Richard was still in one piece, tangling with flapping wings of high-quality giclee art-photo paper, until at length, Jared was successfully fended off. He sank down on his cot, one splayed hand trying to push back a heart which seemed to be struggling to fly out of his chest back to the other man.

“Richard! What were you doing? You frightened me to death – I thought you were an intruder! I'm so sorry, I can't apologize enough -- What a repulsive show of aggression-– ”

“No – no, Jared, it’s OK. I was just… Well I thought, what are we really keeping this thing for anyway? I have a picture of the formula on my phone. It was just a fuck-you gift from that jerk… and I thought, given the way – you know, how you didn’t like Gavin very much – maybe it was making you uncomfortable?”

What it’s like, is it’s like this: There is a knife in your guts. You were stabbed a long time ago, and, to prevent more damage, you mustn’t remove the knife without the aid of a doctor, but -- you can’t get to one, none even exist. So, to survive, you must move just so, carefully, you must become adroit at flowing through things at just the right distance so as never allow the handle to knock or tap anything around you. At night, you will never really quite sleep, even if you are unconscious, as you must continue to hold the knife in and never relax your vigilance, or everything else will spill out.

It’s all right. You’re so used to it, it hardly even registers. But oh – then oh, someone does a kindness, and they don’t mean to, they’re not twisting the knife, oh far from that – but they’re tapping it. They don’t know, but they’re tapping it, shifting it ever so slightly, sending a pang through you, destabilizing things, just a little. The threshold is low: They invite you somewhere. Tap -- you’re swept with anguish; someone wants you around, not to do anything for them, but truly wants you there. They compliment you on something you wore. Tap -- your eyes will never leave the floor again; somehow they looked at you and could stand it; somehow, they didn’t find you hideous.

Or, the hardest one -- they notice that you are in pain.

Hope and despair aren’t opposites; they are one and the same. Both grab your head and twist it around to look at what you lack, what you’ve always lacked. One says, you’ll never get it, and one says, maybe one day you will, but both are portals to the same essential void, and both can crack you, shatter you like glass. And those moments, when you are given a tiny bit of it, when the knife is grasped however gently, are like that too. They are every moment when you needed, needed so desperately, and were alone; all played at once like an avant-garde symphony for infinite radios.

“Jared. Jared, hey. You look like you’re a million miles away, uh... buddy.”

Jared’s gaze returns, and focuses on the childlike figure before him. The sweet face, soft coppery hair in curls and waves, diffident shoulders. The blue eyes looking uncertainly up at him, that always make Jared want to draw Richard close, shelter him in his arms from the slings and arrows of his audaciously-sought fortune – but selfishly, had also made him want just to be close to a soul so vulnerable, yet so incongruously brave. He shifted his eyes downward. Soon, they would be drowning in tears, to be sent on their way silently down his cheeks, and he mustn’t let Richard see.

“Oh Richard, I’m just so touched – that you would give any consideration at all to my silly preferences. You have so much on your mind, so many stressors these days, I hope you won’t waste another moment –”

There's a tug-of-war in Richard’s heart. Part of him is dying to flee, counting down the nanoseconds like an atomic clock until all this weirdness can just be over, be over. But another, smaller, part is lifting his eyes to look at Jared – Jared who’s crying – Jared who’s breaking, and Richard doesn’t want him to break.

Something that’s never happened in their relationship to date then happens – Richard moves a step closer.

“No way man. You’re a – we’re a team, you know, and we’re all stressed out, this shit is insane, and, and me – me I’m supposed to be the leader, right – I should – I should be looking out for you. And the rest of the guys.”

A small pat is launched, makes it halfway through the intervening air, but is thought better of and recalled. Secretly, Jared is grateful.

“OK so uh – we should clean that up, but, later maybe? I think – maybe you could take a nap or something, you can always use more sleep, can’t you Jared, ha ha.” Jared nods numbly as Richard makes his exit.

Slowly, he folds himself small on his cot, facing into the hanging clothes. Moments in closets, hiding to varying degrees of success, come and go through his mind, as Jared’s tears proceed at a slow, but stalwart pace. It’s as if he holds his own heart in his cupped hands, as he would an injured bird, and turns it, observing its wounds. There is a feeling of opening outward, unfurling a night sky silvered with tiny stars, that spreads out where a void ought to be. It hurts, but he can feel something growing; as he continues to breathe, he discovers he can hold the pain safely. There’s a word in his head, he notices, whispering itself ever so softly. The word is... “maybe.”

#jcn #birthday prompt #good god that's long #NWAAMT #my fic

13 notes · View notes