#also there's an actual el ray theater in I think california which is what I'm imagining in terms of imagry

[fbfh]

rocks at your window pt. 7 - ricky bowen x reader

disclaimer: this series contains smut and chapter by chapter warnings, so as with all nsfw works, ricky is aged up to 18+!! ricky and reader are 18 and in their senior year

additionally, we're working towards a ricky x therapy plot so he's going to start expressing some symptoms of mental illness and bpd but he does get therapy eventually and has a good support system but he gets worse before he gets better yk. Obviously I'm not a professional and this is for entertainment so while I have done my research pls take this with a grain of salt!! or several!! /lh

!! contains some spoilers for season 1 of hsmtmts, and previous chapters of this fic !!

wc: 4.5k

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, smut

pairing: ricky bowen x (afab she/her) reader

warnings: post school theater burning down, ricky is spiraling, one "look at me" but it's necessary and works, more of reader comforting ricky, ricky has a lil dissociation moment, op being gratuitously horny for the inherant beauty of theaters and rehearsal spaces, descriptions of a panic attack/some ptsd/mild trauma, square breathing to come down from said panic attack, brief trauma sharing, reader's dad was abiguosuly "scary when mad, reader's dad didn't show up to important events, ricky comforts reader, disgusting cursed backstage couches, fingering, protected vaginal sex, yet another mid fuck near love confession bc duh it's ricky, almost getting caught, I think that's it

summary: After a tragic incident renders the school theater unusable, you find a beautiful theater to perform the show. You're getting really excited about it, and Ricky is too. When tech rehearsals begin with a more than rough start, Ricky gets the opportunity to comfort you, to be there for you like you've been there for him.

song recs: 27 - fall out boy, I can't handle change - roar, at the ballet - a chorus line, bop to the top (kourtney's version) - dara renee

a/n: been reading my immortal again and in chapter 34 there's a line where Enoby tries to describe a dress that professor sinister was wearing as "kinda lik da one Amy Lee wears in this pic" followed by the http/ of a link and nothing else then she just continues on and I almost wept about that in public and I love it so dearly so fangz 2 Cici for proof reading, u rok, mcr rox. fuk off prepz.

tags @afidiofobia @aliyahsutherland @hopefullhearts @pikzel @demirunner @brinaslittlefreak @girlfriendwhoseawitch @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @matiere-detoiles @ifilwtmfc @uselesssapphickitten @nxstalgicnxbxdy @ggclarissa @n-slayaaaaa @stormi-ames @rainforest-daisies @sunshineangel-reads

It’s a bad dream. It’s another bad dream that Ricky can’t wake up from. Soggy ash carpets the formerly scuffed floors, as serious looking adults clad in reflective yellow and khaki drag hoses around and talk to Miss Jenn. Everything is ruined. It’s all destroyed. This is worse than anything, any flooded basement or mildewy props, this is the worst thing that could happen. There’s not one thing in this goddamn theater that hasn’t been tainted by destruction, there’s nothing left to salvage. He feels sick. He pulls out of this horrible spiral of thoughts when he feels your hand tug his arm gently, guiding him into the hall. You can tell by the look on his face how bad this is before he even starts.

“We’re gonna figure it out.” you start. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes still stuck on the ruins just through the doorway. 

“H-how can-” 

“Ricky, look at me.” you place your hand on his jaw, getting his attention back on you. His teary brown eyes are locked on yours, desperate for something to grab onto. You take a steadying breath, and he follows with a shaky one. “We are going to figure this out.” 

Your touch, your gaze, the unwavering confidence in your voice grounds him. He takes another breath, this one slightly deeper. 

“If a flooded basement didn’t stop Matilda, some scorch marks sure as hell can’t stop the Wildcats.” 

He nods absentmindedly at your words.

“Okay?” You ask. He nods again. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. He grabs tight onto your hand and you both head back into the smoky theater with everyone else, where Miss Jenn quickly gets everyone’s attention. 

“Hug your neighbor, take a moment,” she directs, still holding the deflated, scorched basketball in her hands, “let’s reconvene in the cafeteria after school to talk about options.” She addresses Nini and Ricky, then, when her eyes linger on the way Ricky is holding onto your hand with both of his, you as well. 

“Spread the word.” 

“Got it.” Nina says quietly.

“Of course,” you acknowledge with a small nod. 

He’s trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to do something, but he can’t. He’s trying to listen to Miss Jenn, but he can feel himself spacing out. His eyes are fixated on a soggy, burnt piece of neon tape that had peeled off of the floor, and his chest rises and falls automatically in shallow breaths. It’s not supposed to be there. It’s supposed to be downstage left, it’s supposed to be where he stands for Get’cha Head in the Game. That’s why it’s orange, because that’s where Miss Jenn said he’ll fly up in a harness and dunk a basketball in slow motion. She made it sound so easy, but they haven’t even done the choreography for that number yet. How the hell is he supposed to know where to stand if his strike tape isn’t in the right place. Strike tape? Or is it spike tape. Maybe-

“Ricky?” Miss Jenn calls, and he snaps out of it. 

“Uh,” he sputters, “yeah.” He hopes he didn’t miss too much in the few seconds he had totally spaced out. You don’t let go of his hand until you get to your next class. 

“We just have to get through today, okay?” He nods, agreeing carefully. You just have to get through today. Then everyone will be together in the cafeteria and Miss Jenn will know what to do. That will fix everything, and it will all be okay again. 

As soon as Miss Jenn proposes looking at other venues to host the show, you’re already pulling out your phone. You’d been thinking the same thing, and spent every free moment between classes not texting your castmates or helping console them googling neary (or nearby-ish) theaters and potential venues. You’re no stranger to this; when you were in Fun Home, the whole production had to change theaters twice. You were a kid and it was years ago, so you don’t remember what the reasons were exactly, but you all adapted and the run got extended by two months, so it all worked out. 

You skip past the ones you ruled out earlier, the first option on your list is the El Rey. It’s pretty close, and business has been slow, so it shouldn’t be too expensive to rent. 

“What about the El Rey?” Seb asks.

“I think that could work,” you say, “it’s not too far from here, and it doesn’t look like they have any shows or events going on right now.” You tilt your phone so Ricky and your other friends sitting nearby can look at pictures while Seb does the same. “It shouldn’t be too hard to rent out.” 

“Well-” Miss Jenn starts, seeming a little hesitant.

“My uncle Reuben’s the listing agent,” Carlos says, pulling out his phone to call him. One short excited conversation in Spanish later, you get the green light for the El Rey. 

Once Ricky’s beetle is stuffed as full as you can get it with salvaged costumes, props, and anything else you could fit, you start the drive over to your new theater. You have their website pulled up on your phone, and you start reading him some of the past events, shows, and concerts they’ve hosted. He’s not sure why he’s so excited if he hasn’t even been there yet, but you’re making it sound… magical. 

“Oh my god,” you turn to him, shocked. “This is the same theater where the touring cast of Into the Woods performed in 1989.” 

“Really?” he smiles at how excited you are. 

“Yeah! Oh my god…” you chuckle in disbelief, then look at him again. “This is going to be really, really great.” 

He smiles. He thinks you’re right. If anyone would know what makes a great theater, it would be you. A few minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot, recognizing the other few cars there, and seeing Nini and Kourtney help Miss Jenn unload the props and costumes from her car. You get out of the car, and Ricky watches you jog over to Miss Jenn, asking where she wants you to put stuff, while Carlos talks to his uncle, who’s unlocking the door. You head back over, grabbing a few boxes and walking toward the door. 

“She said to put them backstage and we’ll organize it all once we know what we’re working with.”

A few of your friends are right behind you, arms filled with boxes. Carlos opens the back door, and Miss Jenn passes around some flashlights before guiding you all into the building. You pass through the backstage area, past the dressing rooms, and into the wings, finally stepping onto the stage. Even in the dark, with miscellaneous old props and storage boxes, it’s breathtaking. The dust floats down gently in your flashlight beams, reminding you of the first snow of the season. 

Next to you, his flashlight beam sweeping over the dusty couches and empty chairs sitting on the tables, Ricky’s breath is gone from his lungs. A huge wave of emotion overcomes him, and he sees it. The inherent beauty in all theaters you had been telling him about. Next to him, Miss Jenn rests her hand on his shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. 

“Welcome home.” 

He feels it, he feels that he’s finally home. A little while later, everything has been brought in and stacked somewhat neatly. As they’ve been bringing in boxes, moving props, and sweeping up, there’s a tangible sense of togetherness growing between the cast and crew, one Ricky notices.  Miss Jenn now has her cast on stage while her crew tries to make sense of the lights, soundboards, and other backstage areas. 

The lights are finally up, you’ve cleared off the stage for the most part, and Miss Jenn gets ready for her welcome to tech rehearsal speech. No one has been able to get a hold of Gina, and Natalie is still recovering from getting her wisdom teeth out. She’d sent a selfie of her with her cheeks all swollen, accompanied by the caption, I lived bitches. Her sister texted on her phone a few minutes later letting the cast group chat know she’s totally knocked out, and will be asleep for a while, so you all sent her nice messages for when she wakes up. 

Miss Jenn gets everyone’s attention to introduce tech rehearsals, expectations for the cast and crew, and some words of inspiration, and the excitement is palpable. Before she can, a large sandbag falls suddenly, crashing less than a foot away from you. You scream, hands flying to your ears as you jump back, and Ricky pulls you close to him reflexively, one arm over your head, the other around your waist. 

Every muscle in your body is tense, and he can feel you shaking in his grasp while the shocked frightened noises from your castmates die down. He suddenly hates this theater. He looks up at the catwalk with a venomous glare, a warning not to scare you like that again. 

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. You don’t answer. You’re staring into space, hand clutched over your mouth and shaking like a leaf, breaths fast and shallow. Miss Jenn takes one look at you, eyes widening in realization.

“Okay, Ricky, why don’t you two go backstage and run some lines while we… sort this out.” she gestures vaguely above you. He agrees, guiding you into the wings, while Miss Jenn gets everyone’s attention back on her. 

Ricky ushers you through the wings, past the dressing room, and into a secluded storage room. In the back behind the piano and table stacked with boxes, sits a couch, that like everything else in the building, is covered in a thin layer of dust. You sit down next to him, shaking and trying not to cry. A binder slips out of one of the boxes and falls to the ground, loose paper fluttering down, and you jump like a terrified alley cat. You cling onto him, and he rubs your back, hoping that will help. You haven’t said a word yet, and he’s starting to get worried. 

“Are you okay?” he asks again. You’re clearly not, and he’s struggling for words, for something that will help you feel better. He doesn’t notice you pulling out your phone and typing until his dings with a text from you, the familiar text tone he set just for you resonating in the quiet room. He checks the text you sent him. It’s a diagram for breathing exercises for panic attacks. That’s what’s going on, he realizes, you’re having a panic attack. He freezes for a second, mind racing. He realizes after a moment that freaking out isn’t going to help you at all. He takes a shaky breath, then looks at the diagram. 

“Okay,” he says, “you ready?” You nod.

He inhales, holds his breath, lets it out, and holds it again in four second intervals, counting you through it as you breathe together. He repeats the steps again and again, feeling your grip on his arm gradually loosen. He notices the changes, slow and gradual, as the breathing exercises start to work. The relief you both feel as he witnesses you progressively come down from this is unlike anything else he’s ever felt. A little while later, you think you’ve calmed down enough to talk about it.  

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice soft and tender. 

“Yeah.” you say. He’s never been more relieved to hear your voice. You take in a shaky breath, fumbling for the words you’re looking for. 

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, dude.” he says, nudging you gently. You pause, then let out a breathy, weepy laugh, remembering the first time you said that to him. It gets quiet again. You can tell him, you think. You’ve mentioned that your dad was an asshole in the past, so you’re sure it won’t be too much of a shock. Your therapist has said it’s good to talk about this stuff in places where you feel safe enough to. You don’t think you’ve ever felt safer than in a theater, than with Ricky right next to you. You take in a steadying breath.

“My dad, before he left,” you start. Your voice is so small, he’s never heard you speak so quietly, “he got… scary… when he was mad sometimes. Loud noises still make me kind of jumpy, you know?” 

He understands what you’re saying. More than he hates this theater for putting you in danger, he hates that someone ever made you afraid like that - especially someone who was supposed to take care of you. He’s never met him, and he’s sure you wouldn’t want him to, but Ricky really hates your dad now. 

“Yeah,” he says softly, still rubbing your back. You fidget with your fingers. It’s quiet again. 

“He never came to any of my shows.” 

There’s a retroactive, humorless laugh towards the end.

“I started giving my comp tickets to friends cause I knew he wouldn’t come.” 

Ricky somehow hates this guy even more. You look up, eyes moving around, taking in the details of the room.

“I guess that’s why theaters have always felt like more of a home, you know?” you chuckle, remembering how much normal stuff you missed out on to be at rehearsals so much. “Even when things were bad, they were still good. Plus, it was the one place he was guaranteed not to be, so…” 

At some point, you curled up against him, and your head now rests on his warm chest. His hoodie is soft under your cheek, and you feel close to him. It’s a nice feeling. 

“So, why did you stop?”

“Stop what?” you ask, snapping out of your train of thought circling around how nice he feels against you. 

“If theatre’s your home, why did you stop?” Maybe he shouldn’t ask, but you’ve told him so many times how glad you were to start acting again when you started at East High. You let out a dry laugh, a cynical tinge of hindsight present in your reply. 

“I thought it would be easier.” you state. It sounds so stupid to say out loud now, but it did make sense at the time. “Going from such a face paced, high pressure environment to normal life in a suburban town… I thought I could be normal. I thought I would feel more fulfilled if I really committed to letting myself be a normal teenager for a while, but…” You laugh again, this one warmer.

“I couldn’t stop.” you confess. “I did one summer completely free of any and all performing arts - I even quit dance - and I practically lost my mind. It was terrible. In a profession like this, it either drives you totally crazy or keeps you sane. I guess I need theatre to keep me sane.” You laugh again. “God, listen to me. I sound like such an actor…” you chuckle, hoping he doesn’t think you sound too pretentious. 

He understands. There’s a certain peace he’s noticed he only finds in rehearsal spaces. He wonders if that makes him an actor too. He hopes it does. He can sense how comfortable around him you are, and it makes his heart feel full, that you trust him when you’re so vulnerable. You trace your hand across his chest, then idly through his hair, and he feels like his heart is going to burst. It gets quiet again, the only noises are your soft breaths mixing together and his pulse racing under your fingertips. 

“Thanks for this…” you begin, but the words dry up in your throat as you look over at him, realizing how close you are, how alone the two of you are. It hits you how close you’re pressed against each other, how badly you want to touch him. Based on the way he’s looking at you, he’s thinking the same thing.

You can’t hold back from kissing him any longer. Besides, why should you? Life is short, who are you to deprive yourselves of the pleasure of kissing someone you’re really into? Especially in such an intimate moment like this, all cozy and tucked away together. You start to lay back, letting him pin you against the cushions of the couch, but a cloud of dust rises up on impact, followed by the noise of something that you swear was a rat scrabbling away. You clap your hand over your mouth, you and Ricky staring at each other in shock. 

“Nope.” you say.

“Nope.” he agrees, standing up. 

“Nope.” you echo, both moving quickly away from the couch. Before you can take a look around for another convenient place to make out for a little while, Ricky picks you up in one swift motion, setting you on the table full of boxes stacked nearly as high as your head that he can just see over. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you back in for another kiss. 

“Ricky…” you giggle when he bites your neck, moving his hand into your pants. 

He’s never felt closer to you than he does now, holding you tight in his arms while his fingers plunge in and out of your dripping heat as you sigh against his skin. No matter how many times you feel them stretching your tight walls and rubbing that spot that makes your eyes roll back, it never fails to amaze you how good his fingers feel inside you like this. They reach places yours could never, and maybe it’s the years of playing guitar, but they always seem to know just what to do to make you throb and squeeze around them. 

Soon you’re ready for more, you need more, and he can feel that. You watch in anticipation, breath bated, as he undoes his jeans enough to pull out his cock, hard and leaking for you, pulsing in his hand. He quickly rolls a condom up his shaft, just as needy to be inside you as you are for him, and lines himself up with your entrance. He works his way in, gently, slowly burying his cock inside you. He peppers your face with kisses until he’s all the way in, his pelvis nudging against your twitching clit. 

He starts to thrust slowly, settling into a rhythm and squeezing your hips in his hands. You wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him closer to push your tongue into his mouth. He makes you feel good, so good, and he’s barely gotten started. He ruts his hips into yours, giving you everything you need, fucking all the residual stress and sadness out of your sweet, pretty head. He’s careful not to go too crazy, toeing the line between comforting pleasure and overstimulation. 

You cling onto him so tightly, so vulnerable in his arms, batting your pretty eyes up at him and god, it makes his stomach twist. Your breath fans warm across his face with every little pant, every moan he draws out of you, and it feels better than the warmest shower on the coldest day. He’s dizzy with pleasure, burying his face into your neck to get high off the sweet scent of the perfume you’re wearing today - this one smelling like book pages and fruit. 

In spite of the way you cling to him and clench around him and moan his name, he doesn’t know how you feel, what you are. He wishes he had an answer, because he can feel it building up. You’re so tight and wet, squeezing him so pretty than any strength he would have had not to say it so soon is gone.

“I-”

“Ricky?”

You both freeze at the sound of Nina’s voice making her way through the crowded room. Ricky sees the instant your eyes get wide and you bite your lip, eyes locked with yours, and he has to try not to cum on the spot from how goddamn cute you look and how quick you clench and squeeze around him. He doesn’t hesitate, pulling your head down to his chest, below the line of the boxes as Nini finally walks past the piano and sees him obscured by boxes. Tucked into his chest, you’re out of her line of sight. You can feel yourself squeeze around him, pulsing, a breath away from cumming. You’re surprised at how turned on the protective gesture makes you, the feeling of his hand on the back of your head keeping you tucked away. He lets out a low hiss of air only you hear.  

“Um, Miss Jenn wants to know where you guys went.” she says. If Ricky hadn’t been so focused on looking relaxed and casual instead of like he wasn’t balls deep in the tightest wettest warmest cunt he could ever dream of, he would have noticed the shape her mouth made. He would have recognized it as the same tell she’s had since they were little and asked why she was lying, what she really wanted. Nini tries to look around the room for you, but Ricky jumps in before she can. 

“I think she went to the bathroom,” he gestures toward the doorway, “I’ll go find her and we’ll be there in a couple minutes. You can head back, and tell Miss Jenn.” He takes slow, shallow breaths, trying to keep a poker face, trying not to let her realize anything is going on. She looks around the room a little more. 

“...Okay.” she sighs. “Hurry up.” She looks back at him once before leaving. You both wait with bated breath until you’re sure she’s gone. 

“That was such a close call,” you breath, ethereal and glowing lighting his skin on fire wherever you touch and he feels it build up in a rush again. 

“Yeah,” he chokes out, hoping the wrong words don’t slip out instead, “It was.” He’s teetering on the precipice, the words about to spill out, practically edging himself by staying still when you throb and squeeze and pulse around him like that, so he does what anyone would do - he presses hot, wet, open mouthed kisses against your soft pretty lips, and bends over to fuck you within an inch of your life. He moves down your neck as his hips piston into yours, knocking all the air from your lungs. 

“Ricky!” You giggle, overwhelmed with the pace he’s set and the playful kisses he’s smothering you with. 

“Shh, peach, we don’t want someone to find us in here again, right?” he mutters into your skin, that sensitive spot below your ear, and you let out a shuddering sigh. You’re trying so hard to stifle your noises but the best you can do is dampen them. Everything he does feels so good, and he’s so… excited to touch you like this, to make you giggle, that it makes you light headed from all the attention. He pants, resting his head on your shoulder and nuzzled into your neck, overwhelmed by you. He squeezes his eyes closed and scrunches his nose when he smiles in disbelief that someone can make him feel so good, that he love someone this much, and god, he loves you so much. 

The nerve builds again, and he can feel himself getting dangerously close. It’s not the first time by any means, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. So fuck it, he thinks, throwing caution to the wind. What’s the worst that could happen? You don’t do stuff like this in a dusty storage room full of cobwebs and props unless you really like someone, right? And really liking someone is close to loving them. Maybe he should take a leap of faith. He takes in a breath.

“I love-” 

The words and air alike are knocked out of his lungs as you clench hard around him, cumming hard. You hide your face in his shoulder in an adorable attempt to muffle the sounds you're making, nails lightly scratching his back as you hold onto him for dear life. The breath he was going to use to tell you that leaves his mouth as a moan instead. You catch your soft, pretty lips with his, and shove your tongue down his throat to quiet both of you, and it’s enough to send him over the edge. He cums hard, drowning in that pleasure that only you can give him. 

“Fuck,” he moans into your mouth, panting against your skin as his hips rut and spasm against your sensitive walls, your throbbing clit. You gradually come down from your high, and manage to run into the bathroom to get cleaned up before walking back together, trying to be inconspicuous. Miss Jenn gestures for Ricky to come over to her so she can ask if you’re okay. During his brief absence, Nina shows up next to you. 

“You were gone for a while,” she starts quietly, trying to see if your story lines up with Ricky’s. You look over at her smiling, mouth agape, and point to Kourtney, who’s belting her heart on stage. 

“Oh my god!” you breathe, excited and trying not to interrupt, “Did you know she could sing like that?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Nina starts. She’s Kourtney’s best friend, of course she knows she can sing. 

“She’s amazing…” you smile, wondering why she didn’t audition initially. You hope she will in the future, you’re sure Miss Jenn could use someone like her in the cast as well as the crew. Before Nina can wrap back around to her initial question, you’re slipping away to get your water bottle from your bag. Miss Jenn catches your eye, silently and sincerely asking if you’re okay. You flash her a smile and thumbs up. You are now. She nods, then continues typing something on her laptop. 

On your way back, you catch a glimpse of her screen. It’s a total accident, but you don’t like what you see. She’s emailing Principal Gutierrez about using the school gym for the show instead of the El Rey. Your brow furrows. Why wouldn’t she want to use the El Rey? It’s beautiful, affordable, and available, it’s the perfect fit. The school gym? How would that even work? You pull out your phone to text your mom, determined not to let Ricky perform his first show in a gym when a beautiful theater is ready and waiting for you. 

One quick text to your mom  - who’s just as confused about that as you are - and she tells you she’s on top of it. You thank her, glad to have someone that great in your corner. You look over at Ricky, who’s currently sword fighting EJ with a wrapping paper tube. You smile. He’s so sweet, and he’s been through so much, the least you can do is make sure he has the best experience with theatre you possibly can - and that means performing right here on opening night.