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skinks · 5 years ago

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mr wentworth yes i help my son with his goofy voices yes i am a dilf tozier has the salt n pepper hair of god (oscar isaac) and the sexy librarian glasses to match

god I had never even considered that... the range of this...

Went starts going gray at 32 when Richie is 5 and it’s all the church women’s group can talk about... indirectly, of course. Oh, but he’s so young. Oh, he’ll be balding next. Oh I don’t know, doesn’t he look... distinguished? Mrs Nash from just down their street sees him doing rock-paper-scissors with his son Richard in the grocery store to determine whether or not Richard is allowed ice cream, and Dr Tozier is laughing because he’s winning, and he’s winning because Richard doesn’t know his father can see his little hidden hand reflected in the freezer cabinet, tucked behind his back. Richard’s laughing too, even though he’s losing, and bleats, “Again! Dad again,” eyes shining big as planets with coke-bottle rings.

“Don’t you know what best two out of three means? That was four draws ago.”

“No! No, I’ll win!” The boy shakes his head so hard his whole body rocks from side to side, then clings up at Dr Tozier’s middle with sticky hands. His very... trim middle. Helen’s own Rory, God love him, he enjoys a sudsy six-pack too much these days to keep a middle like that. “Two outta three! Three ice creams please Dad please please Dad please watch I can count to a hundred—”

“Well, we’re not playing hide-and-go-seek right now, Rich. And I beat you, didnt I?”

“Yeah!”

“Right. So why don’t you go get Dad six apples instead, alright? If you can do a hundred, six’ll be pie.” Dr Tozier claps his big hands gentle to the boy’s round cheeks, until they goldfish.

“Easy as,” they chant together. Helen props herself up with the handles of her own cart, the can of little hotdogs going slack in her hand.

“Six apples, then come right back. You got that, doc? You pick the color.”

Richard nods like he’s trying to detach his own head. Dr Tozier puts one hand just briefly on Richard’s dark mophead hair, like he’s giving the boy a blessing for his apple adventure. His hand is really quite broad, thinks Helen, popped out square at the thumb-joint. Matches that jawline of his, something whispers darkly in her stomach. Then the boy’s off, tearing down the aisle on a squeaking chariot of scuffed-gray sneakers and babbling what sounds like a Bugs Bunny impression, repeated on a loop. What’s up doc what’s up doc what’s up doc, fading around the corner to the fruit. Peculiar. Helen once saw the Tozier boy eat a worm at the park while pushing her youngest on the swings, after another solemn-eyed little boy with a faceful of freckles had carefully presented it to him in the sand box. Most peculiar.

Dr Tozier watches him go, then turns back to the freezer cabinet, and sticks two cartons of ice cream into his shopping cart—the very sugary kind. And the man is a dentist!

Helen puts her hand on her chest to calm the trilling schoolgirl rush of her heart, and then stops herself at the sight of her own wedding ring. Get a hold of yourself, Mrs Nash! For Pete’s sake! She trundles her cart over for some chit-chat. Afternoon, Doctor, she says, lovely weather. A perfect neighbourly opener. It is lovely; bright and warm and clear and golden, like honey outside. She’s quietly smug about her new blowout. Dr Tozier is wearing a crisp shirt with buttons like neat soldiers and short sleeves, exposing lean forearms. Yes, a lovely day. Helen swallows.

“Yes, good for the lawn,” replies Dr Tozier.

“We missed Margaret at book club this week,” Helen hedges.

“Oh, that’s right,” says Dr Tozier, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he grins are even more distracting without the facemask he’s usually wearing, when Helen drops in for her check-ups. He pushes his spectacles up the strong slope of his nose. They’re wiry like him, steely gray to match his eyes. “She meant for me to tell you, or Diana. Maggie’s been in Skowhegan for the week at her mother’s. My mother-in-law is a woman of... nervous disposition, shall we say. Maggie didn’t think she’d cope with two Tozier men at once, now that Richie’s started losing his teeth.”

“Ohhh,” Helen coos. That must explain the ice cream. She puts her hand near to Dr Tozier’s arm, then away, then near, then away again for good. A neighbourly distance. Margaret is a lovely, lucky woman, even if she does wear flared pants. Hippie to yuppie pipeline’s alive ‘n’ flowin’, Rory always grunts whenever the Toziers come up in conversation. Helen imagines a picket fence between their bodies, and calms. “My Wendy was the same, I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes,” says Dr Tozier mildly. “You brought her in six times as I recall it, Mrs Nash.”

Mrs Nash. Honestly, like she’s his schoolteacher. It’s a little rude. Admittedly he does look quite, quite young with his faintly curling weekend-hair, if not for the new gray blazing a trail back from his temples like virgin snow. Helen is undeterred, even if something quivers inside at the thought of the word virgin in conversation with Dr Tozier. Music tinkles tinny through the ceiling speakers, and it puts Helen in mind of potted plants, or elevators. This is a lovely chat. “Well, you hate to see them suffer, don’t you? I’m sure Richard’s the same, lots of tears—”

“No, actually, Richie keeps on finding things to hit himself in the face with and knock out more teeth,” Dr Tozier interjects. He raises his eyebrows and speaks hushed, as if this is a secret for Helen’s ears alone. The thought makes her dizzy. “It’s my fault, I made the mistake of giving him a quarter for the first one. That’s why he’s not invited to Grandma’s. Lot of antiques.”

“Oh,” says Helen, taken aback. She has three girls; little boy behavior is as yet mystifying. “Well.”

“I’m joking, Helen,” Dr Tozier says cheerfully.

“Oh. I—I see. What a relief.”

He opens a freezer chest to examine a bag of frozen peas. “Maggie’s mom is deaf as white cat, she’d never notice.”

Helen tries to wipe her clammy hands on her dress without being obvious. Her face is hot, but she hopes her cardigan conceals the effect that the chill of the freezer aisle is having under her bra. She also hopes that it doesn’t.

He really does have such a slender, pleasant face, always with an air of casual, amused expectancy hanging around him. Haloing him, like that bright yellow light above the chair in his practice, blocked out when he leans over and slips his fingers inside. Helen supposes that’s what graduating medical school must do to a man, what marrying and fathering young and having one’s own practice by the end of such a turbulent decade as the nineteen-seventies must elicit. The ability to put people at ease, to—to say open wide and know the people of Derry trust him enough to comply. To open themselves. Helen’s breathing catches. Dr Tozier idly checks his sensible watch, still smiling the unhurried smile of a man who very rarely does his own grocery shopping anymore. Everyone knows you pick up the ice-cream last.

Helen gathers herself. This is the longest conversation she has entertained with Dr Tozier without children or the squeaking of latex gloves between them, and she’s gripped by the terribly silly need to be interesting. “Speaking of white cats, I couldn’t help noticing your hair, Wentworth—”

“DADDY!”

Dr Tozier blanches, whipping around to scan the end of the aisle. He is a long line of tense instinct tuned to thrum into action at one specific frequency, knuckles white on the cart handle. His cart bumps into Helen’s. It is thrilling.

“Fuck,” Dr Tozier mutters, and that’s thrilling too, he swore, oh, the boy’s probably fine Wentworth, don’t go, why don’t we just stay right here with the frozen goods and—

Then Richard comes barrelling back down the aisle like a colt on new legs covered in old Band-aids, with his arms full. The fluorescent strip-lights gleam white on Dr Tozier’s broad shoulders and he sags, like snow dropping from a branch, with relief.

“Hey, lunkhead,” he says, sounding shaky, but Richard is only five and would never know it. He’s babbling again. Seems to Helen like the boy’s as a hydrant overflowing on a hot day; entertaining and welcomed at first, until it becomes a nuisance when you begin to understand it won’t shut off, and have to call the firemen.

“Nyyeeeeeah,” Richard greets his father, tousled and bug-eyed with clear adoration, breathing hard from his Supermarket Sweep. Then he makes the carrot-noise. Looks like Bugs, Helen thinks of the boy’s new adult front teeth, the beaverish jut of them exacerbated by his missing canines on either side. Then she feels abruptly un-neighbourlike for being jealous of a child for his father’s attention, good grief.

Dr Tozier regards his son for a long moment. Then says, “What’s up, doc?” in a spot-on Mel Blanc whine. Richard giggles so hard his too-big glasses start slipping. “How many apples is that?”

“Gotta apples and I was gonna put ‘em in a bag but I forgot and Dad, Daddy look, s’a dinosaur on the box for my dinner when Mommy’s at Grandma’s—”

Dr Tozier sighs, putting one hand on his hip and dragging the other over his clean-shaven mouth, watching Richard drop his armfuls everywhere, scattering the linoleum. He has two apples, four boxes of brightly colored cereal, a handful of pencils topped with cartoon-character erasers, and a kiwi fruit. For a moment, Helen sees the shining enamel of Dr Tozier’s everything-will-work-out-with-another-cup-of-coffee amusement slip, wear away to worry underneath.

“Rich,” he says, interrupting Richard’s blabbermouth, firm and patient. Helen’s thighs burn suddenly under her skirts at the tone of his voice, and she looks down, rearranging her own groceries. She should leave them to get on. She could offer to help. Margaret’s out of town, poor things, they probably haven’t eaten a cooked meal all week!

“Richie,” Dr Tozier says again. “Listen and pay attention when Mom or me ask you to do something, remember? How many apples did I ask you to get?”

Richard has to crane his neck to meet his father’s eyes. Dr Tozier is one of the tallest fathers in the Derry Elementary catchment zone, Helen has checked. “Six!”

“And how many’ve you got, Elmer Fudd?”

“Um.” Richard’s pale little face creases in thought, then brightens. When he speaks again his voice is strange, accented. “Twooo.”

“Some apple hunter you are, huh.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“That’s fine.” Dr Tozier stoops to gather Richard’s detritus, and Helen knows she has something to contribute, watching the boy stick one of the pencils up his nose.

“You know, apples are very good for you,” she says. Richard turns to her, slack-jawed, as if seeing her for the first time. “You should listen to your Daddy, Richard, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Richard stares for another few seconds. Then he bites down on his boogery pencil so that it threads through the gaps in his teeth, and hollers, “MY FRIEND BILL SAID THAT’S A PILE OF BULLSHIT.”

“No shouting indoors, Rich,” says Dr Tozier, still gathering. Helen rocks a step backwards, clinging to her cart like a life-preserver.

“Bill and my’s friend Eddie eats a thousand apples and sees the doctor all the time though Dad, and Miss Spiegel said if we eat apples we don’t have to see the doctors but Eddie eats them and—Bill said—”

“Pile of bullshit, yeah, I liked it. Bill’s an eloquent guy,” says Dr Tozier. This is the second time Helen has ever heard him curse in as many minutes. It comes out easy and amused as everything else does in his pleasant tenor. His legs and his jaw are so lean and angular that Helen can see the suggestion, the shadow of the shape of his perfect, swearing teeth through his cheek as he grins helplessly at his son, the fruit of his loins and someone else’s loins who isn’t Helen, and all of a sudden she feels a slick pulse of wet heat, up between her thighs.

She squeaks. Flutters her hand to her face without knowing why, perhaps to catch the noise before Dr Tozier notices, just another quivering Derry leaf tossed along by his breezy manner. He looks up anyway, with a frown.

“Everything alright, Helen?”

“Just—fine, yes,” she manages. Dr Tozier is still down on one knee, kindly face level with her skirts. She can see right down under his starched collar from this angle, a slivering glimpse of smooth, dark hair. No undershirt. Helen has lain naked against Rory’s nakedness before without feeling this alive, in every part of her body. She feels like a heart, beating.

“Oh, hang on.” Dr Tozier says, eyes widening, and turns Richard by the shoulders to face her. One pencil for each nostril, now. “Apologize to Mrs Nash for cussing, Richie.”

“Sorry!” Richard shouts, sounding less like he’s apologizing and more like he’s just deemed Helen it during a game of tag.

Helen is still floating in a dazed state of mild panic. Like a prey-mouse, bewitched into slack compliance by her own body’s snaking desires. “That’s alright, dear.”

F-word, Dr Tozier had said. Maybe cussing could be quite neighbourly when applied in the right context, thinks Helen.

“You mentioned my hair, earlier,” says Dr Tozier, straightening back up with a knowing sort of arch to his eyebrow as he smiles genially at Helen. He tilts his head down at Richard. “There’s the reason. Every last one, sprinkled onto my head at the tender age of thirty-two by the great salt-and-pepper shaker of fatherhood. Especially this week, with Maggie on sabbatical. Had to bring you to work with me, didn’t I, buckaroo?”

Richard bites and swings and tugs on his father’s long arm, a tearaway kitten with a much obliging scratching post. Dr Tozier hardly seems to notice. “Yeah! Daddy’s got fishes at work!”

Dr Tozier grimaces slightly at Helen, but also as if he’s seeing right through her to some past unnamable horror. “I liked those fish. Calmed down the nervy patients.” He sighs again.

Helen wonders briefly whether or not the residents of Dr Tozier’s waiting-room fish tank suffered the same fate as that worm in the park, and decides she’d rather not know.

“Well, you needn’t worry about it,” she says, gamely. She watches her hand reach towards Dr Tozier’s silver-black brindle, then snatches it back from his bland expression to brush the tips of her own feathered-out hair. “The gray, I mean.”

Dr Tozier blinks.

“It’s very—that is to say, you look, it makes you look, I mean, I think it’s—”

Dr Tozier’s left eyebrow joins his right, raised up high.

A tidy little jet of hysteria shoots up from Helen’s knotting stomach to spin like a top in her chest. She hears herself stutter out the word, “Dashing,” and immediately wishes to flee the store, leaving her cart abandoned like so much collateral damage.

But Dr Tozier only barks a laugh, a short, smooth hah like everything else he says. Entirely unperturbed. “Well, thank you.”

Too unperturbed. Helen is struck by a sudden bolt of terror, at the thought of the things Dr Tozier must surely hear every day, when people are lulled by the hypnotically intimate environment of a dentist’s chair and a touch of the laughing gas. Oh, this is terrible. Her face is on fire.

“But they—they make products for men now,” she says, and why, oh why can’t she stop talking? “Hair dyes, I mean, if it really does bother you? I’ve seen them in Keene’s.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” says Dr Tozier, looking down at Richard then with a soft edge, at his bouncing noise and scabbed knees and gently curling hair like a black spaniel’s. Like his father’s. “I find I’m rather grateful for it, truth be told.”

“Plus,” he continues, as if Helen wasn’t already melting harder than the Tozier’s ice-cream, as if Johnny Kitchener the shop-boy isn’t going to have to come along with a mop and bucket to clean up on aisle seven, “Maggie’d kill me if I got rid of it.”

Then Dr Tozier winks.

Oh Lord, oh Lord, Helen’s whole ribcage is so tight she can’t squeeze out a reply, because who could blame dear, pretty, annoyingly friendly, lucky, lucky, lucky Margaret for that when Dr Wentworth Tozier DMD is so—

So f—

So fffffff—

So fiddlesticksing handsome!

“Well, we’d best not keep you, Helen. This one is in dire need of a bath before his mother sees him, and hands me a divorce on the spot,” Dr Tozier says, when another few moments have passed and all Helen can do is try to desperately smooth the creases from her breathing. He’s humming mild interest at something Richard is saying, knelt back down to the linoleum to tie the boy’s loose-worm laces presumably before he gives himself any more skinned knees, and they’re leaving. Dr Tozier is leaving, and Helen hasn’t done anything but act like a ninny this entire time. She doesn’t want him to think her a ninny, a simpleton. She wants him to leave this bright, liminal church of bold colors and jazzy waiting-room music and return to his lemon-yellow two-storey house thinking my, what a lovely chat I had with Helen Nash.

She wants to linger, as he lingers. Like an amiable spirit hanging over the women’s group at church, waiting to be summoned at a moment’s eager notice. I bumped into Dr Tozier at Palmer’s on Saturday, she’ll say to the other jealous ladies, with triumph, and we had such a nice talk. He called me Helen.

“And when—when does Margaret get home?” she blurts. A very secret part of Helen wants Dr Tozier to leave this conversation with Helen and his wife both, entwined by association in his mind. She tries very hard not to think about the Toziers divorcing, because that is un-neighbourly, and feels least neighbourly of all when a dopey, dreamy look crosses Dr Tozier’s face like a brief sunbeam at her question.

“Ah. Tonight. Not too late, hopefully.” He jerks one of his knuckley thumbs at his shopping cart, licking the other to wipe something unidentifiable from Richard’s grubby face. “That’s why we’re here, stocking up for her miraculous return. Like a couple of noble emperor penguins in Antarctica, eh Rich?”

“Penguins like from Batman! Ka-pow.”

Helen takes a peek into their cart, curiosity getting the better of her now that permission is granted. Dr Tozier might not know it, but looking into another person’s cart is bad grocery etiquette, especially in a town like Derry, where gossip grows like a fungus in every sweaty and close little huddle of people. Not that Helen would know about that. Anyway, there isn’t much to gossip about besides the unfortunately liquefied ice-cream, the severe lack of crunchy vegetables characteristic of a young man in 1981 trying to provide for a tooth-shedding son, and—

A little cardboard box. Tossed unashamedly between the Wonderbread and a magazine about sports. Prophylactics. Rubbers.

36-pack. XL

Helen knows her jaw is hanging open and strains to close it, the back of her neck and her shoulders feeling hot and tight and shuddery. She kneads a fist into her skirts. Crosses her legs at the ankles as demurely as she knows how, because the very last thing she needs is for frank, sensible Dr Tozier to see right through her with that easy doctor-patient-confidentiality smile, and know she’s soaking through her underwear at the sight of his Saturday grocery run, and all it implies.

Dr Tozier is laughing, nudging Richard in the direction of the register, or perhaps the apples. “Ka-pow is right. I’ll make sure to use that on Mom, thanks. Say hello to Rory for us, Helen. Have a nice day,” he says from over his shoulder, startling her. Holds up one long hand in a wave with a grin, and is gone, shadowing the boy’s haphazard attempts to push the cart despite not being able to see where he’s going.

Helen stands amongst the humming freezers, trembling. “You too,” she rasps, but Dr Tozier has rounded the corner, and is evidently going to have a nice day and a much nicer night, regardless of whether Helen wishes it for him or not.

All the bright little branded characters are watching her from their shelves, a silent jury. Helen Nash opens a freezer cabinet with a weak arm, and stands there for a while, staring at a leg of ham and thinking cooling, neighbourly thoughts.

#long post #idk how to do readmores on mobile soz not soz #wentworth tozier #richie tozier #poor sexually unsatisfied helen nash #sometimes you just have to write the DILF went tozier fic you want to see in the world #stephen king: he was a pleasant looking man with a rather thin face #me cracking my knuckles: a l r i g h t #but what if... big dick richie was hereditary... what then 😳🤔👀🤔👀😳😳👀#ficlet

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eerythingisshaka · 6 years ago

Text

Moronic Jealousy

(M’Baku x Reader)

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: Fluff and Smut,

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY ATHENA!!! 🎉🎉🎂🎂🎁🎈💕💋

I fully intended on posting this on the actual day, had the plot and everything but this week was, whew chile! So after some selfcare, I finally got a story for you @muse-of-mbaku! Happy Birthday and I hope New Orleans treats you well. Continue to be great, break necks, and make moves! This is inspired by a part of A Different World episode between Jaleesa and Walter. Soon as I saw it on Prime Video, I been wanting to use it as fanfic fodder. It’s silly, so I hope you like it!

“So then I was like ‘Put the pussy on the chainwax!’” Michelle cackles out loud as you and Adriene look at each other, telepathically wondering if your friend has gone insane.

“Honey, why would you say that in traffic court? I enjoy the enthusiasm, but it’s misguided.” Adriene states, leaning into her glass of moscato.

“You just don’t get it. (Y/N), you get what I was trying to say, right?” Michelle looks to you.

After several seconds of gulping air to find the words you respond. “To me you just added a charge of animal cruelty on top of not having a working headlight, so I’d put you up for 3 years if it was my word, but Adriene is the jury here.”

Girls night is your favorite night of the week. It’s a tradition that has been hard to keep up with given the busy weekdays you all shared, but in a way that made the final connect all the more sweeter. And what comes with that is your favorite pastime: Drunk Courtroom.

“Man, you ALWAYS take Adri’s side in this.” Michelle pouts, blowing a 3B curl out of her face.

“That’s what the judge does! My jury tells me what to do- I think I need to cut you off of the Barefoot, cuz…” You slide the bottle closer to you on the coffee table.

“No, that ain’t my problem! You really bossy since your engagement to Timbuktu.” Michelle cheeses into her glass.

Your jaw drops, scoffing. “Oh my God, how many times I gotta tell you to stop calling him that! Especially now that he is my future husband, chill with alldat.”

Michelle giggles, pushing you a little. “Can I play a little?? You landed a gold mine, or should I say vibranium mine with him as your catch. See what happens when you put the pussy on the chainwax?”

“Once again. I. Don’t. Understand. That. Phrase.” You clap between each word in frustration. “Besides. He doesn’t work with the vibranium, he handles Jabari wood, which is just as sacred and important.”

“It sure the hell is.” Adriene says out the side of her mouth. “I bet his wood is handled very properly, hence the ring….”

“Stop.”

Michelle chimes in with a seductive tone. “Does he wax his own wood, or do you do it for him?”

“Guys.”

“Is that what he names it? Jabari? ‘Jabari needs some attention…’ or whatever?” Adriene inquires with an M’Baku impression that sounded more like Vincent Price.

“Fuck off y’all, damn!” You get up in embarrassment to get some ice cream from the fridge as Adriene and Michelle balk in laughter. Don’t nobody know how to cut you down from your high horse like your friends.

“Ok, ok. My bad, we just playing with you!” Michelle calls out.

Adriene cosigns. “Can you blame us? Mr. Perfect out here wining and dining you, leading a whole damn tribe and slaps a rock like that on your finger? Don’t pay attention to us.”

Sitting back on the couch you lick your spoon instead of your wounds; the vanilla, brownie, caramel combo soothing you as you hold out your left hand.

Two weeks ago, M’Baku took you on a gondola ride that set the mood for romance just right. You weren’t expecting anything to come from it but some snuggles with your love but when the boat looped back to dock, rose petals covered the path a nearby fountain, fanciful luminarias shaped in a heart on the ground marked the spot where he led you. One of his cousins was there to shoot the moment as M’Baku got down on one knee and spoke his sweet words to you. You couldn’t pay attention to their context because you were sobbing so much but knowing him they were profound and loving. When you said yes he couldn’t stop hooting in the dead of night, hugging you tightly, kisses unabating. He hasn’t stopped holding your hand since because ‘the ring is so heavy.’

“Yeah, well I still can’t stand y’all heffas.” You grumble, rocking into them side to side.

“I wanna play a new game. Adri, pick something, child.” Michelle directs, pouring her glass to the brim again.

“I’m three years older than you, but go off I guess.” Adriene mutters under her breath, pulling her braids back in thought. “How about...Telephone!”

You scoff at her suggestion. “You need at least 10 people for that game to be effective. Pick something else.”

“What’re you talking about? All you need is some phone numbers and gumption to cold call people.” Adriene says with lip smack, pulling out her phone.

Michelle groans. “Girl, you talkin bout crank calling people, not telephone. Telephone is the whisper challenge for people with a lot of friends basically.”

“Ohhh, you right! Ok, so crank calls. Let’s make em!” Adriene picks up a handful of hot cheetos, munching excitedly. “And Michelle should go first since she so smart or whatever!”

Michelle screws her face up. “No! If I apparently lost Courtroom, I’m sitting out first round. (Y/N), start things off.”

“I don’t feel like it.” You whine, not entirely joking. The moscato and late hour of the night made for a deadly combo.

“Pleeeease. One round! Ooh, to make it interesting, how about calling Tim?” Michelle asks sneakily.

“His name is M’Baku!” You exclaim.

“That’s neither here nor there. I wanna see this! Wake his ass up!” Adriene says, bouncing in her seat.

You lay the ice cream down, picking up your phone regretfully. “What do I even say?”

That’s all Michelle had to here. “Ok, so check it. You call him and change your voice a little to make it seem like you’re someone else and just catch his reaction.”

“Pretend he got child support payments due!” Adriene offers.

“You always gotta be extra, Adriene! But he’ll know it’s me. This ain’t the 90s no more and he has my number after all.”

Michelle brushes your doubt away. “Just *67 him! It still works today, trust me…” her voice trails off as she sips from her glass shaking her head in an apparent flashback.

“O....k. I’ll try it, but soon as he knows its me, I’m cutting it. I don’t wanna stress my baby.” You say, lowkey getting excited by the approaching tease. Adriene cuts the music they were playing as you dial in silence.

The phone rings on speaker phones ominously as you wait for M’Baku to pick up, fully expecting him to say your name and catching you instantly.

“Hello?” He says sleepily.

You pause, words leaving your brain as Adriene and Michelle mime things to say.

“Uh, bueno, I’m so sorry for the late call.” You say, lowkey butchering a Spanish accent as you hang your head in shame, certain you are caught already.

You hear rustling on M’Baku’s end as he moves. “Well, may I ask who is this?”

You hated this already but push your way through the conversation. “This is...Daniella? Um, lo siento. Pero, a friend of mine gave me your number to call so I could introduce myself.”

“What friend?” He asks curtly.

You look to your girls for help on this one as they mouth names.

“Uhhh, Terrance? Michelle’s brother.” You say hesitantly. They had only met a couple times at group events, so they were hardly friends but it is the best you have to make a connection.

“Ohhh, Terrance, yes, we are wonderful friends. Known him for years.” M’Baku says perking up. You make a face at the phone as he lies so effortlessly. “So can I help you with something, Ms. Daniella?”

“Well, you may not know me but I have seen you at the gym a few times, y I was muy impressed by su cuerpo y musculos….sorry! I meant your body and muscles, I’m always slipping that way.” You say playfully to keep up your Spanish identity.

“No, it is alright. I speak Spanish fluently so si quieres, podemos hacerlo-”

“No! No, but thank you!” You clutch your chest as your heart pounds nervously. No way in hell your high school Spanish could keep up with his. “But, maybe we could meet in person and study our native tongues together.” You throw that in for good measure. Michelle almost howls out at your brazenness.

M’Baku chortles out loud, and you know you are caught. Shaking your head as he laughs at you, you almost start to reveal the prank and ask him to knock it off.

“I have never been so enchanted by a woman I have yet to meet. You have piqued my interest, Daniella, I cannot lie.”

“Really? Oh, you are making me nervous now. I thought for sure you would have someone already keeping your attention. You are just so handsome.” You waited on edge for his response. This is when you will surprise him that the woman he is about to talk about in his life is the one pranking him.

“Nooo, I try to keep my personal life as stress free as possible. And I am very relaxed right now, so I would love to meet you sometime.”

You can hear the smile in his voice as his baritone shines through, and you are disgusted. That voice that made you quiver is intentionally being used for another woman, imaginary or not. You couldn’t look at your friends for fear of breaking down.

“Wonderful! How about tomorrow night, 8pm? Since you are free…” You try your best to keep up the art of seduction but it is waning fast.

“Perfect. We can meet at this nice restaurant by the Lake Kenoba. It’s beautiful at that time of evening.”

“Perfect! See you then.”

Hanging up the phone, you look to Michelle and Adriene who are staring back at you, mouths agape.

“That didn’t go as planned.” You say, tossing your phone aside on the couch cushions.

“Why the hell did you pretend to be a date for him? I can’t believe he’s playing us...I mean you!!” Adriene exclaims.

Michelle pats your back. “Now now, don’t get so up in arms. I bet you five he is pranking you back. No way in hell he actually fell for that. Your Russian accent was so far left field, I couldn’t-”

“It was Spanish!” You say defensively. Michelle just makes a face, looking to Adriene for help.

“Ok, well, honestly I agree with Michelle on this. He is a smart man, and loves you to death up until now. No way this is a sign of anything else. Right?”

You sit back on the couch looking to the ceiling to search your thoughts for anything that may have lead to a sign of this coming. “Guys, I don’t meant to kick y’all out but I need to be alone.”

They both try to convince you to not think too much into the whole conversation, but that was impossible. Soon as they left, you were pacing the floor, channeling Angela Bassett circa Waiting to Exhale. If the band on your ring wasn’t vibranium, you would burn it with his clothes. Instead, you come to a moment of clarity. Maybe they are right and he isn’t a low down, dirty dick ass cheater. Maybe.

You pick your phone up and text him a ‘Hey babe!’ with a kissy face. His response is quick, giving you an equally affectionate hello text.

You text him asking for some time to see him tomorrow night at 8pm. Same time as Maria, or Lisbeth, or whatever name you gave yourself. You see the bubbles pop up and disappear several times on screen, driving you insane. Now he takes his time to reply?!

He says he cannot make it, meeting with family that day. You offer to come with, but he says it is private. Too private for your future WIFE to be apart of??

You end the conversation, not bothering to respond. Your phone dings again but you don’t bother checking it out. As you make your way to bed, you look up on Amazon for gasoline cans and bleach with one day shipping guarantees.

The next day, you are in a hazy cloud of dread. Your concentration at work is gone, you barely could eat lunch, and Michelle and Adriene keep blowing up your phone asking for updates, which there were none. Your fears had already been confirmed so what more was there to talk about?

That’s when your brain hatches up a plan. You were gonna catch him in the act, no doubt about it. When you got off work, you went to your place to gather an overnight bag and head over to his. He won’t even feel like going out when you were through ‘being his peace’.

Pulling up, you knock on his door at 6:30pm. M’Baku opens the door, shirtless in his joggers.

“(Y/N), what are you-”

“I figured after you are through with your family, we could hang out!” You say hurriedly, walking briskly past him as he stares at you in confusion while you toss your bag aside.

M’Baku walks over to you, arms crossed. His pics substantiated by his stance and bold tattoos across them. “Did you text me before getting here?”

You swiftly turn to him, taking off your jacket and shoes. “No, not at all. Should I have? Am I interrupting something?”

M’Baku furrows his brow looking from your bag to you. “Like I said, I made plans with family at 8, so I am in the process of getting ready.”

You blink a couple times, holding your chest. “Oh, oh! Don’t let me stop you, Timbuktu! You do all you need and keep it moving, I’ll be upstairs chilling.” You pick up your bag and head up.

“Tim- Have you seen Michelle today? Why are you calling me that? And what is in the bag love?” M’Baku calls after you.

You don’t answer as you head to his bedroom and get undressed, grabbing a shirt of his out of the dresser to put on as a night gown.

“You got a lotta questions for me, but I ain’t asked you a damn thing. SO don’t worry about me, just go on your little date...with your family. I’ll do your laundry while you’re gone, how’s that?” You give him a tight smile as you crawl up in bed, turning on the TV on almost full blast.

M’Baku’s belly jiggles as he chuckles to himself with his hands on his hips before going to check your bag.

“Get outta my stuff!” You exclaim, getting up to pull his hand away from inside.

This is an obvious trap as M’Baku swiftly wraps you up in his arms, staring you down with a cold, calculative expression. “Where’s the gas can you ordered? Bleach?”

You shrank in his grasp as you wiggled to make him put you down. Damn that shared Amazon account.

You stand up to him defiantly. “Where’s Daniella, hm? She meeting you at that restaurant, right?”

M’Baku’s expressions cracked into a smirk. You wanted to rip those full lips off of his face. “It’s about time you brought it up.”

You exhale sharply. “Why? Because I should’ve always known? I should’ve suspected it a long time ago that you been two timing me?” You are shrill as you crawl into his bed in the fetal position.

M’Baku groans as he sit on the edge of the bed in front of you. “Come on, my adored one. Is that what you think of me?”

You shake your head, long faced. “Of course not, until she called you.”

“But it was you! You called me!”

“You didn’t know that!”

M’Baku laughs out loud, slapping his knee. You push on his broad back with your feet to try and get him off the bed to no avail. “Aye, you think I believed that wasn’t you but a random woman who attends my gym, that I haven’t even noticed has any female participants at the early hour I go. And is also friends with a sibling of your friend who I have only seen less than a handful of times?”

“Then why did you lie and say you knew him for years?”

“I was trying to break you out of character! But you fell into it, so I kept going along to pull the wool over your eyes instead. Plus, your Japanese accent was borderline offensive.” M’Baku says softly, bringing his hand to your cheek, brushing it with his thumb.

“IT WAS SPANISH! Why would I SPEAK Spanish while sounding Japanese.”

M’Baku’s body shakes a little as his face strains to hold back his childish laughter.

“You are diabolical.” You mutter, attempting to nip at his fingertips.

M’Baku gave you a gap toothed smile big enough to make the earth quake. “Don’t blame me, your friends have gotten you into trouble with me plenty of times before but we make up, always.”

You huff as you turn to the TV to remain bothered. “I’m not ready to make up.”

M’Baku lays his head back on your belly, talking to the ceiling. “What if I told you I made reservations at the aforementioned restaurant and I had planned to come by and pick you up to expose your plan. Hm?”

Your heart falls at this revelation. You would’ve loved to have seen that happen, and that restaurant had bread and butter you would kill to consume right now, and pack extras in your purse. But jumping to conclusions ruined that as it is your Olympic sport, gold medal winner.

“M’Baku, I’ll give it to you that I shouldn’t have thought that you would two time me, especially without talking to you first. But I still don’t like that you tricked me. You drug it out on me too long.”

M’Baku rolls over, his head traveling up your arm to your neck, kissing behind your ear and humming. The vibrations of his voice tickled you along with his breath but you ignore the dopamine flowing through you, lying perfectly still and unphased.

M’Baku picks his head up, tutting at you as he gets off the bed to head for the restroom. Next sound you hear is the shower coming on. You hope he doesn’t think you’re joking about not wanting to go out now because you were firmly in that frame of mind.

His 1000 count sheets caressed your skin nicely as you snuggled under his down comforter. That coupled with the pitter patter of the shower left you fighting your eyelids to watch the TV screen and losing.

You were awakened by the shift of weight on the bed, M’Baku wrapping his arm around your midsection to pull up behind you, breathing in the coconut and shea scent of your hair before resting his hand fully encompassing one of your breasts.

Instinctively, you hold his arm tightly. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Eh, I know.” His lips graze your ear lobe, making you flinch.

“And I don’t wanna go to dinner with you.”

“The reservation time passed. You slept through it.”

“Did you go eat without me?” You ask.

M’Baku’s hand moves to travel up your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere when you’re laying in my bed.”

You start to feel warm all over, a familiar sensation begs you to give in. “Whatever man.”

M’Baku’s groan rumbles through his body as he reaches under your nightgown/his shirt, grazing your fupa, playing in your tuft of hair between your legs. “I don’t want to bed you while you’re angry…”

Your hand clutches his forearm desperately as your legs part slightly involuntarily. “You think I’m that easy?”

M’Baku’s plush lips falls on your neck softly. “No. That’s why you are perfect for me. I never worked so hard in my life to get what I want.”

His wide hand pushes your legs apart farther as they plunge between your thighs, palming your pussy. His fingers finding your wetness with ease.

You gasp, hips bucking for friction against his hand. “I think I need a little more convincing…”

“At your service.” M’Baku crawls under the covers. You giggle as you lie on your back watching his frame under the blanket make mountains to get to your lower portion. Feeling yourself spread underneath the covers without him in sight is exhilarating for you. You feel his breath on you as he exhales with built up lust. When his tongue spreads across your lips your back concaves in aching relief. M’Baku’s tongue goes into a rhythm between your inner labia, flicking your clit every so often. The pulsations of his pace threaten your sanity as you try to sit up, crawling backwards slightly, but M’Baku’s arms wrap around your hips to keep you in place.

He seems to punish you for you resistance, focusing now solely on your clit, sending you into a tizzy. Sounds like a Campbell’s chicken noodle soup commercial under the covers with all the slurping and lip smacking he shamelessly devotes to taste every drop of you. You’re blubbering his name, peppering encouragements with begs for mercy as you feel your orgasm wash over your body. All of the stimulation happening underneath the blanket elevated your pleasure sensors as you couldn’t see the source. You had to see him or you would for sure lose your mind. Pulling the blanket back, you see his cheeks hollowing out, maintaining pressure on your clit, eyes deviously trained on yours as he penetrated you with a couple of his fingers.

This is much worse for you now, but at least you can take it out on him instead of the blanket.

“God, I’m cumming on your face right fucking now, Baku.” You squeal, fingers gripping his hair as your hip flexors strain to hold back from crushing his skull .

He turns you lose of his mouth finally, crawling up to you to tongue your down, tasting yourself along with him.

“It seems our native tongues were pretty well together.” M’Baku growls, pulling you down by your legs and he pulls his joggers off, dick unfurling full and ready. “Have I convinced you yet?”

You claw above your head for something, anything to hold onto. “You’re getting there. It’s just, my gut is telling me something else.”

“I can fix that…” M’Baku licks his lips, reaching to take your shirt off over your head, squeezing you titties like fresh picked fruit. You both groan from the touch, his eyes entranced by your nipples as they draw him in, working his neck to lap his tongue around your areola until its peak is reached.

You lick your lips, biting them as reach down between the two of you for his dick, stroking it slowly. You feel him expand in your hand as his moans concentrate on your nipple as he continues to suck, vibrating against your sensitivity.

He comes off of your breast with a pop, smiling devilishly. “What are you doing? I’m supposed to be pleasing you tonight, my love.”

“This pleases me, Baku. This does.” You whisper as you continue to ready him.

M’Baku smiles into your mouth, kissing you as you wrap your arms around his neck, laying back as you wrap your legs around him, walls contracting excitedly awaiting his entry.

M’Baku maintains eye contact as you feel his tip pressing into you before the sensation of stretching you makes you break; closing your eyes and mouth falling wide as his girth slowly navigates your canal.

M’Baku mirrors you as your tightness affects him as well, wrapping his hand around your neck lightly before tonguing your tonsils out hungrily. His hips activate against yours moving in shallow motions to prepare you before taking his strokes longer and longer until his entire length massages your insides beautifully.

“Fuck, you feel good.” M’Baku groans as he punches the headboard once for good measure, laying his body flush with your, kissing your neck and clavicle as his strokes picked up pace.

You gasp as if you’re drowning, clutching onto his arm, kissing his tattoo band gratefully. “Ohh, my gut is telling me something much different now.”

“What’s it telling you?” M’Baku grunts in your ear.

“It’s telling me to marry the man attached to this dick.” You say before your voice hitches from the wave of pleasure flooding over you, seizing your body up. The sweet cacophony of his skin slapping against yours signals M’Baku’s enjoyment of you in this moment, trapped between your legs as stare into each other’s eyes threateningly. He pulls out of you, rolling you over to give your ass a slap.

“You need to be on your knees then.” M’Baku commands.

You try your best to do as you are told, aftershocks between your legs threaten their stability as you get into position, rubbing yourself lightly as you lie in wait. Your head is against the mattress as you watch him stroke himself as he plants his hand on your lower back, kissing your cheeks audibly, smacking them both after.

“I don’t think I have convinced you properly of my devotion, love.” M’Baku says, rubbing the tip of his dick between your swollen labia.

You inhale sharply. “I’m past that, don’t worry about that baby. Just please-”

“Don’t interrupt me. You talk a lot but not when it counts. I want to hear you when I am inside you.”

You push yourself towards him, trying to geolocate the dick. “Ok, I will, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” M’Baku says, spreading your knees father apart before sliding back into you, causing you to illicit a guttural moan.

“You fill me up so good, Baku.” You inhale sharply as he works himself inside you roughly. He bounces his hips against your cheeks with slow deliberate strokes. Bam, bam, bam! The force pulls you back on his dick with each thrust, eventually leading you to bounce against him on your own.

“Ah, that’s better. Come to me like you came over here to tell me off.” M’Baku says, rubbing your ass.

Biting your lip, you pick up your bounce, arching. “I don’t play when it comes to this dick, Baku. Don’t make me wreck you.”

M’Baku smacks one cheek enthusiastically, the sting somehow sweetens your pleasure. “Show me.”

You give it your all, smacking your ass against his hips, tightening around him as you wind around his length expertly. Although you had him right where you wanted him, moaning and cursing you, you get high off of your own supply. The pressure building within you begins to release and you lose your form, holding your breath as you came.

M’Baku would not have that. He leans over you, holding your head up by your hair. “I want to hear you…”

He takes over, pounding into you while reaches between you to stimulate your bud. You squeak, gripping the sheets as he commands you to breathe. You swear this is impossible as he won’t stop digging you out and stressing your scalp with his grasp. Then you aren’t sure if this orgasm was really long or another one came quickly but as you opened your throat, you let out an animalistic screech that scared the shit outta you but rocked M’Baku’s world. He practically pounds you through the mattress to the floor as you both collapse, humping you into submission as he gets his last few strokes in you. He warms your belly from inside with his release.

M’Baku gets off of you so you can breathe, kissing down your back and examining the mess you all made inside of you. You jerk feeling him touch you, wiping the remnants down before slowly rolling off to the side of you. He takes your hand kissing your ring again before looking at you lovingly.

You lay there, twitching every few seconds as you come down.

“Are you cold?” M’Baku asks, getting up slowly to grab the previously discard blanket.

“No, of course not. I’m just recuperating.” You say between the natural jerks of your muscles, your heart still pounding between your legs.

“Any chance of Daniella coming back? Her accent wasn’t so bad now that I think about it.” He says, kissing your hand again.

You pick it up, laying it across his face for what was supposed to be a slap. “Shut up, I’m still frickin embarrassed by that. You owe me dinner though.”

M’Baku smiles, rolling on his side towards you. “I do. I shouldn’t be the only one eating tonight. Plus, I can’t risk you incinerating my things.”

You lay there in silence, closing your eyes.

“Were you...really going to do that?”

You start to snore.

“(Y/N), honestly.”

#m'baku x reader #shakafic #fanfic #muse bday #m'baku fanfic

273 notes · View notes

gosecretscribbles · 6 years ago

Text

Forduary 2019 Week 4 - Family

Summary:

Filbrick is suffering from jerk-itis. Ford is just plain suffering. SO MA SWOOPS IN TO SAVE THE DAY!!

Final Forduary fic!! LET'S DO THIS PEOPLE!!!!

First fic AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957654

Second fic AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000998

Third AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001061

This fic AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001190

There was a knock at the door. Ford stayed at his desk. That's where he'd been all morning after they came home. Stan had left the room and Ford had locked it behind him, along with a little extra reinforcement. He didn't want to see or talk to anyone. Not Ma, not even Stan, and especially not his father.

The knock came again.

“Ford, sweetie.”

“I'm not hungry, Ma.”

“Good, 'cuz I didn't make anything anyway. Open the door.”

“I'm busy.”

“What a coincidence! I'm pretty busy, myself. In fact, I'm just taking a break from painting the Stan O' War's name in cherry-red nail polish. Thought that hunk of driftwood needed a spot of color!”

“Ma, that would be a lot more convincing if you hadn't said the same thing last week. And Stan hadn't buried your whole supply of nail polish just in case.”

“Honey...”

“Forget it, I'm not coming out.”

“Fine.”

A pause.

“Could you at least tell me where he buried –”

“No!”

Stan was next. He banged on the door.

“Open up or I'll pick the lock!”

“Feel free. I'm using magnets to hold the door shut.”

“Psh. I'll just spray water at 'em.”

“Water doesn't deactivate magnets, Stan.”

“Sure it does!”

“No, that would take – ohhh, no you don't.”

“C'mooon, I left my deodorant in there! Do you know how smelly I'm gonna get?”

“As smelly as usual, since you never wear it.”

“I do too wear it!”

“Stanley, please, go away.”

Ford had been sitting at his desk for a few hours now, writing an article on how he had solved Fermat's Last Theorem. He already had a few scholastic journals in mind where he could submit it for publication. Scientific Minds was the most likely to publish it. IQ Icons and Great Minds would be the next ones on his list. There were even a couple if articles from Great Minds he was directly referencing in the article he was writing. His near-perfect memory allowed him to quote and cite the article without needing to reference it. Which was certainly of benefit, especially now that he no longer had –

His hand shook so badly the pencil slipped out of his fingers and hit the ground.

He took several deep breaths, eyes closed. He could practically hear Crampelter's jabs about his twelve butterfingers, his father barking at him to get his head out of his books and man up.

It didn't matter. It didn't matter. It didn't matter.

He picked up his pencil, slowly, and kept writing. It was hard to ignore the stinging in his eyes, the way it was suddenly hard to swallow.

Something screeched outside Ford's door. He glanced up to make sure they hadn't looped wire around the hinges of the bedroom door to saw it off. Not that he thought Ma would vandalize her own house, but Stan definitely would.

The door was fine. He returned to his work.

The screeching came again. And he heard the unmistakable sound of...giggles?

Ford looked up again, frowning. It sounded like Ma and Stan. What were they doing out there, setting up a booby trap? No, that would ensure stayed in his room, not leave it.

He could hear Stan guffawing and his mother shushing him. More dragging, then the sounds moved down the hall. They hadn't so much as knocked on his door.

Well, good. He was nearly finished with his article anyway and didn't want any distractions. If they'd found something else to focus on, so much the better for him.

More thumping. Then an actual peal of laughter.

What on earth were they doing?

Ford went to the door and listened, but it was just as muffled as it had been from his desk. He paused, debating. Then he pressed a button on the side of the magnets and opened the door.

“Hello?”

There was no answer.

He moved cautiously, checking the other bedroom and the upstairs bathroom and even the closet. But of course they weren't there. Everything looked pretty normal, although the beams they'd been using to prop up the closet ceiling were gone. It was already starting to sag; they hadn't had the money to fix the water damage last year.

He went downstairs.

“Ma? Stanley?”

He checked the kitchen and the living room, but both were empty. Then he realized the sounds were coming from the Pawn Shop.

He stopped outside the connecting door. He could hear their muffled voices. Stan sounded the way he did when he was about to pull off a seriously good prank, and Ma was about to rake in the cash from a gullible client. He couldn't hear his father's voice, but then again, his father was less than talkative. Maybe Filbrick wasn't in there. Maybe he was.

Ford's stomach was starting to bother him. He turned to go back upstairs.

CRASH!

“OW!”

Ford rushed through the door. “Ma! Stan! Are you – are...what are you doing?”

They'd dragged Ma's Crystal Ball booth into the Pawn Shop, along with beams from the upstairs closet. The long wood planks were now leaned against the top of the booth and covered in pink- and purple-spotted cloth, creating the effect of a very large, very garish tent. The whole thing scraped the ceiling and almost completely filled the shop floor. The tent's entrance was even pushed right up against the shop door, so anyone stepping into the shop would walk immediately into the booth.

Ma was sitting on the floor, a purple shawl draped over her shoulders, a spare beam on the ground next to her.

Stan poked his head out from under the tent and grinned. “Like it? I stole the curtains outta Ms. Wright's house down the block! A few splotches of paint and they look all weird and mysterious and completely unrecognizable to a prior owner!”

Ma rose elegantly to her feet and sashayed over to Ford, spreading her arms. The shawl made her look almost regal.

“Like it, sweetheart? Gotta look the part! Today we're puttin' on a Psychic Special!”

“What, here?” He stared at them, then at the tent. “But – what about Pop?”

Ma snorted. “Out running a few errands for me.”

“During shop hours?”

“A woman can be very persuasive.”

“Yeah!” Stan grinned and started wiggling out from under the tent. “You shoulda seen 'er, Sixer, it was hilarious! She scared him so bad Pops looked like he'd –”

“Watch it!”

Ford leaped forward and shoved at the side of the booth before it could topple over. Stan shouted and scrambled back into the tent. Ma rushed to help and the two of them managed to stabilize it just as Stan squeezed between the front of the tent and the Pawn Shop windows.

“I thought we finally got it to hold still,” Ma grumbled.

Ford lifted the cloth around the booth and checked underneath. “Ma, you know the wheels of this booth are uneven, right? On a boardwalk we can usually find boards that provide sufficient lift to the back right one so it's stable, but here you'll need to put something underneath the wheel if you want it stable. And wedge-shaped stoppers won't work very well on wheels that swivel; you'll need something like cement blocks to immobilize them completely.”

“I can grab some offa Smither's back wall,” Stan offered.

“Fine.” Ford stood up.

“Wait!” Ma grabbed him as he started to move.

“Ma, you've already got Stanley to help. I really don't want to be here when Pop –”

“No, no, watch your footing! You almost stepped on those and I barely got 'em rigged the way I wanted.” She pointed to a series of wires taped to the floor. They led straight up the top of the tent and inside. Three of the wires had no rubber seal and were throwing sparks.

“Ma! You can't use wires like that, you're gonna burn the house down!”

“A little extra fireworks will just add to the spooky effects!”

“Not like that! Here –”

He squatted down, unplugged the wires from the wall and began untangling them. Ma handed him a few extra wires from one of the Pawn Shop's shelves and he quickly replaced them, tossing the old wires and then taping down the new ones so no one would trip over them. By the time he was done, Stanley had left and come back with four cinderblocks, a few small white pipes, and a disco ball.

“For ambiance!” he said, holding up the ball.

Ford eyed him. “Do I even want to know where you got –”

“Nope!”

Obviously the disco ball would have the most effect inside the booth, so Stan drilled a hole in a bottom corner of the booth and Ford threaded the wires through. Then he took a few of the plastic pipes Stan had brought, drizzled them in white-dry superglue, and rigged them with the wires and a few lightbulbs so they looked like flickering candles. They placed them around the tiny table and chairs inside, and Stan hooked up the disco ball directly above the table. Ma covered it with a sheer pink veil and set her Crystal Ball on the table as the centerpiece. When Ford turned on the candles, it created a mysterious, yet oddly soothing dappled effect, which set off the crystal ball so perfectly it almost looked like it was glowing.

Ma stepped over and polished it with the end of her shawl. “Hey, you think we could get this baby to float? That would really freak out my customers! I'd have them paying through the nose just to keep me from cursing them!”

Stan laughed.

“Sure, Ma, I...” His voice trailed off. It had just occurred to him what he was doing. Wasn't this exactly what had gotten him in trouble in the first place? Did he want to find out what else would be taken away?

“I should go.” He stood up. His chest felt unbearably heavy.

Ma squinted at him. “I know that look, Stanford Pines, don't you start thinking what I think you're thinking. You just said you could make me float and I expect to float.”

Stan snorted. “Just do it, Sixer, you know she'll wear you down sooner or later.”

“No, I can't, I have homework.”

“Thought you finished it all.”

Ma suddenly reached out and rapped Ford hard on the head.

“Ow!”

“Didn't think it was hollow,” she said with satisfaction. “StanfordFilbrick lives in this house, Stanford, but he certainly doesn't live in your head, so don't give him the space. Now you have a brain and I am expecting brain things to happen so that I can float and rake in enough money to buy my own beauty salon, capiche?”

"I..."

Stan caught his eye and gave him a Look, which very clearly said: We like you just the way you are.

“...could use the magnets I have upstairs," Ford said slowly, rubbing his head. "Actually, Ma, if you want I could get you to float.”

“Oooh, yes! Can we rig a fan for extra-spooky effects? And lights!”

“Sure! Stan, help me with the chair.” They moved around her to the opposite side of the table and Ford crouched, checking the floor. “Yep, here's the loose board. And the chair's bottom looks wide enough. Let me run upstairs and grab a couple –”

“What are you doing?!”

Ford's head snapped up.

Filbrick filled the doorway. He had bags under each arm. After being in the tent for so long, the sunlight behind him scorched Ford's retinas, turning his father into a hulking shadow. Ford's heart pounded. Blood roared in his ears. His hands shook. Stan was holding perfectly still next to him. He was glaring bloody murder at their father, but neither brother said a word.

Ma just leaned against the table with one arm and grinned. “Perfect timing! How do you like it?”

“What did those boys –”

“Filbrick, dear.” Ma's tone was sweet as iced poison. She stepped towards him. “I thought we'd do a little Psychic Special in the Pawn Shop today. Complete with the tent and a few extra-special effects. And if you have any objection to that, Fil, you know exactly where you'll be sleeping for the next three months. I'm almost hoping you forgot to fix the faucet in the bathtub.”

For a second nobody moved. The pressure in the air was like a coiled spring. Ma and Pop stared each other down, trading fire.

Then Pop dropped the bags and they hit the floor so suddenly that Ford jumped and nearly fell over. Stan grabbed him. Their father turned and stalked out of the shop, muttering furiously about having to use the employee's entrance to get into his own business.

Ma shook her head at the bags. “Men and their little victories,” she sniffed, then glanced back at Ford. “Well? The magnets?”

He looked at her blankly. “Magnets?”

“Yes, Stanford, magnets! So that I can charge customers for checking above my head for strings and then scare them with my spooky witch powers!”

Stan burst out laughing. All the tension drained out of Ford and he laughed, too, much harder than the joke warranted.

“Don't laugh yet, you two.” Ma grinned, reached into one of the bags and held up a slippery-looking purple cloth. “Every witch needs a few good servants!”

Stan groaned. “Oh, Ma!”

“Don't you 'Oh, Ma' me! Busted ribs don't prevent you from getting dressed! Now throw this on and Ford I'd better see some magnets under my butt pronto! Move it, people, we got clients to fleece!”

They moved. Ford didn't even have time to think about their father, scowling behind his counter at the back of the tent. Ma had him running up and down the stairs getting everything he needed to make the table, chair, and ball float with the merest push of a button. Stan changed into a costume very similar to Ma's, except that while it made her look like a vision of shimmering lavender that floated in her wake, it turned him into a very soggy bird.

“Don't you even,” Stan threatened, when Ford saw it. He had to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing.

Ma sewed an extra and almost-invisible flap of cloth at the back of the tent, so Ford could scrunch up and hide while he operated the magnets. When the shop opened at 9, Stan stood on the sidewalk, shouting compliments and insults at people until they entered the shop-slash-tent. At that point Ford lit the electric candles, so realistic they actually flickered, and Ma gave the best performance Ford had ever seen, telling the most outrageous prophecies in a spooky voice that actually gave him goosebumps. When she gave the cue for him to activate the magnets, every single customer was just about ready to wet their pants. Or at the very least empty them of all the cash they had in their pockets.

Filbrick, for his part, didn't say a word, reduced to fuming silently at the back of the tent. For once, Ford didn't even give him a passing thought.

Especially after Ma and Stan stuffed fifty dollars into Ford's hands at the end of the day. For books.

A/N: Stan, of course, immediately demanded 60 dollars - the extra ten being emotional compensation for wearing the soggy bird costume.

Honestly the best part of this fic was imagining the tent RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PAWN SHOP SO IT'S IN FILBRICK’S FACE ALL DAY. (“Teach HIM to take my baby's books!” - Ma)

#forduary 2019 #forduary 2019 week 4 #week 4 #family #week 4 family #stanford pines #ford pines #sixer #stan pines #stanley pines #filbrick pines #ma pines #crystal ball #tent #pawn shop

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forduary · 6 years ago

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Forduary 2019 Week 4 - Family

Summary:

Filbrick is suffering from jerk-itis. Ford is just plain suffering. SO MA SWOOPS IN TO SAVE THE DAY!!

Final Forduary fic!! LET’S DO THIS PEOPLE!!!!

First fic AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957654

Second fic AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000998

Third AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001061

This fic AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001190

There was a knock at the door. Ford stayed at his desk. That’s where he’d been all morning after they came home. Stan had left the room and Ford had locked it behind him, along with a little extra reinforcement. He didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. Not Ma, not even Stan, and especially not his father.

The knock came again.

“Ford, sweetie.”

“I’m not hungry, Ma.”

“Good, ‘cuz I didn’t make anything anyway. Open the door.”

“I’m busy.”

“What a coincidence! I’m pretty busy, myself. In fact, I’m just taking a break from painting the Stan O’ War’s name in cherry-red nail polish. Thought that hunk of driftwood needed a spot of color!”

“Ma, that would be a lot more convincing if you hadn’t said the same thing last week. And Stan hadn’t buried your whole supply of nail polish just in case.”

“Honey…”

“Forget it, I’m not coming out.”

“Fine.”

A pause.

“Could you at least tell me where he buried –”

“No!”

Stan was next. He banged on the door.

“Open up or I’ll pick the lock!”

“Feel free. I’m using magnets to hold the door shut.”

“Psh. I’ll just spray water at ‘em.”

“Water doesn’t deactivate magnets, Stan.”

“Sure it does!”

“No, that would take – ohhh, no you don’t.”

“C'mooon, I left my deodorant in there! Do you know how smelly I’m gonna get?”

“As smelly as usual, since you never wear it.”

“I do too wear it!”

“Stanley, please, go away.”

Ford had been sitting at his desk for a few hours now, writing an article on how he had solved Fermat’s Last Theorem. He already had a few scholastic journals in mind where he could submit it for publication. Scientific Minds was the most likely to publish it. IQ Icons and Great Minds would be the next ones on his list. There were even a couple if articles from Great Minds he was directly referencing in the article he was writing. His near-perfect memory allowed him to quote and cite the article without needing to reference it. Which was certainly of benefit, especially now that he no longer had –

His hand shook so badly the pencil slipped out of his fingers and hit the ground.

He took several deep breaths, eyes closed. He could practically hear Crampelter’s jabs about his twelve butterfingers, his father barking at him to get his head out of his books and man up.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

He picked up his pencil, slowly, and kept writing. It was hard to ignore the stinging in his eyes, the way it was suddenly hard to swallow.

Something screeched outside Ford’s door. He glanced up to make sure they hadn’t looped wire around the hinges of the bedroom door to saw it off. Not that he thought Ma would vandalize her own house, but Stan definitely would.

The door was fine. He returned to his work.

The screeching came again. And he heard the unmistakable sound of…giggles?

Ford looked up again, frowning. It sounded like Ma and Stan. What were they doing out there, setting up a booby trap? No, that would ensure stayed in his room, not leave it.

He could hear Stan guffawing and his mother shushing him. More dragging, then the sounds moved down the hall. They hadn’t so much as knocked on his door.

Well, good. He was nearly finished with his article anyway and didn’t want any distractions. If they’d found something else to focus on, so much the better for him.

More thumping. Then an actual peal of laughter.

What on earth were they doing?

Ford went to the door and listened, but it was just as muffled as it had been from his desk. He paused, debating. Then he pressed a button on the side of the magnets and opened the door.

“Hello?”

There was no answer.

He moved cautiously, checking the other bedroom and the upstairs bathroom and even the closet. But of course they weren’t there. Everything looked pretty normal, although the beams they’d been using to prop up the closet ceiling were gone. It was already starting to sag; they hadn’t had the money to fix the water damage last year.

He went downstairs.

“Ma? Stanley?”

He checked the kitchen and the living room, but both were empty. Then he realized the sounds were coming from the Pawn Shop.

He stopped outside the connecting door. He could hear their muffled voices. Stan sounded the way he did when he was about to pull off a seriously good prank, and Ma was about to rake in the cash from a gullible client. He couldn’t hear his father’s voice, but then again, his father was less than talkative. Maybe Filbrick wasn’t in there. Maybe he was.

Ford’s stomach was starting to bother him. He turned to go back upstairs.

CRASH!

“OW!”

Ford rushed through the door. “Ma! Stan! Are you – are…what are you doing?”

They’d dragged Ma’s Crystal Ball booth into the Pawn Shop, along with beams from the upstairs closet. The long wood planks were now leaned against the top of the booth and covered in pink- and purple-spotted cloth, creating the effect of a very large, very garish tent. The whole thing scraped the ceiling and almost completely filled the shop floor. The tent’s entrance was even pushed right up against the shop door, so anyone stepping into the shop would walk immediately into the booth.

Ma was sitting on the floor, a purple shawl draped over her shoulders, a spare beam on the ground next to her.

Stan poked his head out from under the tent and grinned. “Like it? I stole the curtains outta Ms. Wright’s house down the block! A few splotches of paint and they look all weird and mysterious and completely unrecognizable to a prior owner!”

Ma rose elegantly to her feet and sashayed over to Ford, spreading her arms. The shawl made her look almost regal.

“Like it, sweetheart? Gotta look the part! Today we’re puttin’ on a Psychic Special!”

“What, here?” He stared at them, then at the tent. “But – what about Pop?”

Ma snorted. “Out running a few errands for me.”

“During shop hours?”

“A woman can be very persuasive.”

“Yeah!” Stan grinned and started wiggling out from under the tent. “You shoulda seen 'er, Sixer, it was hilarious! She scared him so bad Pops looked like he’d –”

“Watch it!”

“I thought we finally got it to hold still,” Ma grumbled.

Ford lifted the cloth around the booth and checked underneath. “Ma, you know the wheels of this booth are uneven, right? On a boardwalk we can usually find boards that provide sufficient lift to the back right one so it’s stable, but here you’ll need to put something underneath the wheel if you want it stable. And wedge-shaped stoppers won’t work very well on wheels that swivel; you’ll need something like cement blocks to immobilize them completely.”

“I can grab some offa Smither’s back wall,” Stan offered.

“Fine.” Ford stood up.

“Wait!” Ma grabbed him as he started to move.

“Ma, you’ve already got Stanley to help. I really don’t want to be here when Pop –”

“Ma! You can’t use wires like that, you’re gonna burn the house down!”

“A little extra fireworks will just add to the spooky effects!”

“Not like that! Here –”

He squatted down, unplugged the wires from the wall and began untangling them. Ma handed him a few extra wires from one of the Pawn Shop’s shelves and he quickly replaced them, tossing the old wires and then taping down the new ones so no one would trip over them. By the time he was done, Stanley had left and come back with four cinderblocks, a few small white pipes, and a disco ball.

“For ambiance!” he said, holding up the ball.

Ford eyed him. “Do I even want to know where you got –”

“Nope!”

Ma stepped over and polished it with the end of her shawl. “Hey, you think we could get this baby to float? That would really freak out my customers! I’d have them paying through the nose just to keep me from cursing them!”

Stan laughed.

“Sure, Ma, I…” His voice trailed off. It had just occurred to him what he was doing. Wasn’t this exactly what had gotten him in trouble in the first place? Did he want to find out what else would be taken away?

“I should go.” He stood up. His chest felt unbearably heavy.

Ma squinted at him. “I know that look, Stanford Pines, don’t you start thinking what I think you’re thinking. You just said you could make me float and I expect to float.”

Stan snorted. “Just do it, Sixer, you know she’ll wear you down sooner or later.”

“No, I can’t, I have homework.”

“Thought you finished it all.”

Ma suddenly reached out and rapped Ford hard on the head.

“Ow!”

“Didn’t think it was hollow,” she said with satisfaction. “StanfordFilbrick lives in this house, Stanford, but he certainly doesn’t live in your head, so don’t give him the space. Now you have a brain and I am expecting brain things to happen so that I can float and rake in enough money to buy my own beauty salon, capiche?”

“I…”

Stan caught his eye and gave him a Look, which very clearly said: We like you just the way you are.

“…could use the magnets I have upstairs,“ Ford said slowly, rubbing his head. “Actually, Ma, if you want I could get you to float.”

“Oooh, yes! Can we rig a fan for extra-spooky effects? And lights!”

“Sure! Stan, help me with the chair.” They moved around her to the opposite side of the table and Ford crouched, checking the floor. “Yep, here’s the loose board. And the chair’s bottom looks wide enough. Let me run upstairs and grab a couple –”

“What are you doing?!”

Ford’s head snapped up.

Filbrick filled the doorway. He had bags under each arm. After being in the tent for so long, the sunlight behind him scorched Ford’s retinas, turning his father into a hulking shadow. Ford’s heart pounded. Blood roared in his ears. His hands shook. Stan was holding perfectly still next to him. He was glaring bloody murder at their father, but neither brother said a word.

Ma just leaned against the table with one arm and grinned. “Perfect timing! How do you like it?”

“What did those boys –”

“Filbrick, dear.” Ma’s tone was sweet as iced poison. She stepped towards him. “I thought we’d do a little Psychic Special in the Pawn Shop today. Complete with the tent and a few extra-special effects. And if you have any objection to that, Fil, you know exactly where you’ll be sleeping for the next three months. I’m almost hoping you forgot to fix the faucet in the bathtub.”

For a second nobody moved. The pressure in the air was like a coiled spring. Ma and Pop stared each other down, trading fire.

Ma shook her head at the bags. “Men and their little victories,” she sniffed, then glanced back at Ford. “Well? The magnets?”

He looked at her blankly. “Magnets?”

“Yes, Stanford, magnets! So that I can charge customers for checking above my head for strings and then scare them with my spooky witch powers!”

Stan burst out laughing. All the tension drained out of Ford and he laughed, too, much harder than the joke warranted.

“Don’t laugh yet, you two.” Ma grinned, reached into one of the bags and held up a slippery-looking purple cloth. “Every witch needs a few good servants!”

Stan groaned. “Oh, Ma!”

“Don’t you 'Oh, Ma’ me! Busted ribs don’t prevent you from getting dressed! Now throw this on and Ford I’d better see some magnets under my butt pronto! Move it, people, we got clients to fleece!”

They moved. Ford didn’t even have time to think about their father, scowling behind his counter at the back of the tent. Ma had him running up and down the stairs getting everything he needed to make the table, chair, and ball float with the merest push of a button. Stan changed into a costume very similar to Ma’s, except that while it made her look like a vision of shimmering lavender that floated in her wake, it turned him into a very soggy bird.

“Don’t you even,” Stan threatened, when Ford saw it. He had to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing.

Filbrick, for his part, didn’t say a word, reduced to fuming silently at the back of the tent. For once, Ford didn’t even give him a passing thought.

Especially after Ma and Stan stuffed fifty dollars into Ford’s hands at the end of the day. For books.

A/N: Stan, of course, immediately demanded 60 dollars - the extra ten being emotional compensation for wearing the soggy bird costume.

Honestly the best part of this fic was imagining the tent RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PAWN SHOP SO IT’S IN FILBRICK’S FACE ALL DAY. (“Teach HIM to take my baby’s books!” - Ma)

#submission #week 4 #week four: family #long post

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mentalcurls · 6 years ago

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8. Lo sanno tutti a scuola

Episode 8! Thing are not great for Eva right now. It’s fun that I always start the episodes and think I don’t have that much to say about them, then I always end up writing at least 3 pages of ramblings. This time the topics that came up were Giovanni’s maturity, my headcanons about Edoardo and romance novels. And of course at the end of the post there are the results ot the Bechdel test!

that shot with the sky, Eva and the house with the gradient geometric shapes behind her is gorgeous, jeez

also, the song that mimics Eva’s heartbeat skipping while she looks for Gio

ok, so, did Gio send Marti out or was he leaving on his own?

Marti sure loves his dramatic pauses

and like, Gio was dealing with this in a pretty mature way? Not talking to Eva but not asking anyone else (Marti) to ostracize her, asking her for space and telling her he’ll contact her; except then there’s the “you made everything go to shit”

MARTI FEELS SO FUCKING GUILTY! Look at him, he avoids looking at Eva for too long, his eyes are basically soulless, he’s staring into nothing and hating himself

“Stai tranquilla” says Marti and then again Eleonora, a few minutes later: guys, I get you don’t really know what to say to make Eva feel better, to tell her you’re there for her but “Stai tranquilla” doesn’t help! She feels guilty and ashamed and isolated, she need reassurance she’ll get through this with you!

that scene with “Million reasons” playing 💔 Gio glancing at the back of Eva’s head then turning away 💔 the fact that I can’t see Gio’s eyes properly to gauge how shitty Gio feels, how much he cried, how little he slept 💔

the boys all turning back to look at Eva 💔 Marti lingering 💔 Elia turning Gio’s head 💔 (but also threading his fingers through Gio’s hair 💖)

and it’s so significant that Ele and Silvia get to Eva’s class walking upstream, against the current of people going outside (who are represnt the sheep mentality of high schoolers blaming Eva for Fede cheating because they listen to gossip)

and Eva takes a breath when she sees the girls and she must be so relieved, it must feel like it’s the first time she’s able to breathe properly since Alice slapped her

Silvia keeps looking at Eleonora while she talks, as if looking for reassurance, and I’m so curious! I wanna know if Ele’s looking back, if they’re pulling a full on Elia-and-Giovanni-parenting-Martino!

ohhh, the showdown between Ele and Silvia and Laura and Sara (also, notice how both couples of girls are blonde+brunette?)

that last look between Ele and Silvia before the second group hug! They’re totally concerned moms parenting Eva

that second hug is so soft I’m 💖

oh, poor Eva! As if her week wasn’t bad enough she has to get her period, poor babe

not to mention the misogynistic insults written in the bathroom stall about her

oh God, I know what Eva’s feeling when her mom confronts her: I bet she genuinely hasn’t thought of the fight in a while, more concerned with Gio and the looks and insults and general hostility (on top of school of course) so she’s honestly caught off guard (it happened to me with a professor who took me aside cause he found out I’d let a classmate copy a translation during a test, and I’d completely forgotten about it, I had no idea what the hell he was talking about when he asked me if there was something I wanted to tell him… it was horrible)

Paola is obviously concerned already but I don’t think she’s let herself fully appreciate the kind of situation Eva is in and she only gets a glimpse when she sits her daughter down and listens to her rant, but her expression changes immediately

except them she brings up Giovanni! As if that is the most important thing! Her daughter told her she’s stressed, she doesn’t sleep at night and she latches onto Gio?? WTF

and that sigh at the end, that’s Paola realizing just how much she is in fact out of the loop of Eva’s life, just like Eva told her a minute earlier, cause probably they haven’t talked about Eva’s boyfriend since the failed dinner! She let weeks pass without asking who he is again? Cause Eva would’ve told her if she’d asked around ep. 6, let’s say right after the park scene with Gio

ok, but Eva is slightly stalking Giovanni: they’re in the same class, fine; she went to look for him at his house immediately after the fight, understandable; but when she’s on the steps with Ele?? Girl, he asked you for some space!

Silvia is making good choices as far as fashion consultant go in this season (in S2 however she asks Marti to go shopping with her,so…….)

“You don’t have to wait for his permission, just go there and talk to him” and Eleonora Sava lets me down here. If someone asks you for space, you give ‘em space, love

Eleonora is kind of OOC here: since when is she so concerned with what other people think that she polices what kind of music she listens to and feels like she has to justify herself because of it’s a silly, catchy, pop song?

anyways, this whole scene screams Evanora to me, with pining!Ele trying to distract Eva from Gio and at the same time show her that she’s there, available, look at me Eva, I make you smile!! Men are trash, but there’s *drumroll* girls! Like me! I’m a girl!

and then Edoardo gets there, interrupts their moment and proves men are trash: he creeps up on them from behind, insinuates himself in a conversation he has no business being involved in and mocks Ele both for her singing, her musical choices and her justifying herself. Primary school level pigtail pulling.

and then he just stares at her! Like a dumbass! Like he hopes she’ll get lost in the bottomless pits of his eyes or something! Like he’s out of a clichè romance novel or a bodice ripper!

new headcanon: Edoardo secretly reads tons of Harmony paperbacks (similar to Harlequin novels, for those of you who aren’t Italian) and all of his ideas and opinions on love and romance come from the books. So far, he’s been the typical rich, popular, brooding hero who loves and leaves with Silvia and now he’s the man who pursues the woman who tells him no with Eleonora so the shoe fits perfectly. Let’s see how it evolves

he offers her a ride home! The only thing missing is a white horse and the slain of some attacker who wanted to hurt Ele

the “Eduardo” thing is so stupid! They could have gone the Eberardo/Everardo route much easily and it would have been much funnier cause it’s an uncommon, pretentious name! Or they could have gone for something completely different like that still started with E, there’s a lot of pretty weird-sounding names like Evaristo, Eusebio, Ermenegildo that start with E (in the og Noora calls William Wilhelm which is pretty different, so I think they would have worked well)

Edo is smart here: Ele tries to shove back in his face the not-knowing-your-name thing he did to Silvia, but he neatly sidesteps her and the only comeback she has is insulting him directly: Edoardo 1 - Eleonora 0 tbh, this is a struggle of wit and she went vulgar

Eleonora is badass, but I can’t help but feel she’s very 16 years old

ok, the following conversation is a bit weird: Eva’s question is pretty clear, yet Ele asks for clarification, then when Eva says she did it on purpose Ele denies, then say the thing about manipulation

the real thing that should worry Eva is that Eleonora has mind categories for the people she knows such as “adversaries” tbh

Eva shaming Ele for listening to Baby K (along with Ele asking for a vow of secrecy and justifying himself for the song she sung) throws me back to ep. 3 when Eva talks to Gio about her classmates enjoying k-pop and manga: girls, who on earth made you believe that liking silly, catchy, fun, pop stuff that is marketed specifically for you, that tries to cater to your interests, that exists and is successful thanks to you, is wrong and something to be ashamed of? Why being passionate about something feminine or light, that doesn’t require a huge effort to understand it, or again frivolous is such a bad thing? You’re allowed to like whatever you want, you’re allowed to spend hours and hours on it and you’re allowed to share your interest with other people like you who enjoy those things! Let the others say it’s trashy or stupid stuff, they don’t know shit about what it means to you!

aaaand we’re back to Eva not giving Gio space, going to his place again then having Marti tell him where he is

and she’s even wearing an oversized denim jacket that’s quite reminiscent of Gio’s!

blue Eva, blue train, blue pool

red Gio! I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gio not wear blue or grey, even in this season?!

this angry Gio is not exactly the same hurt, disappointed boy from 5.6 Quante cazzate in S2, because with Marti it’s been a slow boil, things bubbling up a little bit at a time plus there’s the extenuating circumstance of his home situation; with Eva, there some foreshadowing, something wrong, but it was a sudden stab, a fundamentally unexpected betrayal; so where in S2 there’s a lot of sadness too, in this situation it’s pure anger

and Eva does the right thing, she tells the truth… except she doesn’t, the very first thing she says is a lie she tells both Gio and herself, because it’s not true she isn’t attracted to Federico

AND AGAIN WITH THE SEXIST LANGUAGE GIOVANNI, you asshole, did you really have to go for “hysterical”?? A very gendered term?

and thank God Eva is given a chance to throw it back to his face, all the gaslighting and manipulation he put her through; except then she goes for “victim” blaming

aaaand Giovanni confirms the rumor Eleonora heard, the thing Silvia confronted Edoardo about, is true! In case anyone had any doubts after Edo’s convincing performance of pretending it isn’t a thing

Gio sees right through the lie, he knows Eva likes Federico, if not for the person he is then for the things he represents: Eva is in full on Silvia mindset

I think this is the episode where we meet S2 Gio: except for a few moments, caused by hurt and anger, he handles this whole mess in a mature, contained way that we see again and again in S2, like when he takes Marti aside to tell him off for using him as a cover with his mom without telling him, like when Marti comes back to school after the “hiatus” week or when he comes out; whereas up until now, I’ve seen a younger, dumber Gio, who lied and didn’t give much thought to people’s feeling (like when he teases Federica with Marti in ep.3) and who manipulated people to get his way (the gaslighting, the fight at the park with Eva in ep.6)

the bus being cancelled without warning or being so late it’s as if it’s canceled is such Italian culture

Edo is smart: he doesn’t even know Eleonora’s name, but he kept Eva’s face in mind and he’s found the perfect opportunity to exploit his, albeit limited, knowledge and to appear kinder with at least one of Ele’s friends, since he botched things with Silvia

on the other hand, hello again saviour complex straight out of a bodice ripper

this scene is so Twilight: the expensive, fast car, actually going to school by car at all, Eva being late and in “trouble”, Edo acting like a gentleman and stopping the car for her

Eva is a great friend! She hesitates! Despite having a super important test that could determine if she passes or fails a class! And then she pretends she doesn’t know he’s talking about Ele ad she refuses to give Edo her number!

“Then I save your life for real this morning” what did I say about a saviour complex? Also, way to fish for gratitude and compliments, asshole, let her study!

“I’ll find her on Instagram anyways” arrogance is not the same thing as confidence, Edoardo, and you’re an exemplary display of the first here

Bechdel test: this episode passes the Bechdel test, thanks to Eva’s conversation with her mom Paola and to Eva and Eleonora talking on the steps (except for a very brief mention of Edoardo that I decided to overlook).

This post is part of my complete series of meta about Skam Italia season 1. If you’d like to read more of my thoughts about the other episodes, you can find the mastepost linked in the top bar on my blog under SKAMIT: EVA. Cheers!

#skam italia #eva brighi #giovanni garau #edoardo incanti #skamit s1 #skamit meta #skamit #martino rametta #silvia mirabella #eleonora sava #paola brighi #a. writes #i missed sana and federica in this episode can't wait to see them again!#1x08 lo sanno tutti a scuola

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rensfic · 7 years ago

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Coming to Save You, Part IV

Everything seemed greyer and yet maybe a little greener than the last time he saw it, and there was a sickly color to the sky, an unholy greenish yellow tinge. Buildings had collapsed, and so had many of the overhead freeways. Wrecked cars jammed the streets and entire families of skeletons sat inside their cars.

Peter wondered if they knew they were going to die in their cars, and if the parents had to watch their children die or the other way around. There were newer, fresher bodies too, and a thick layer of grime on every surface he could see. Some of the bodies looked wrinkled and pocked, and for a moment he thought of Wade Wilson, the man who lived forever His heart skipped Maybe Wade was alive somewhere. If anyone could survive the apocalypse, it would be him, but in a city this big and with no working cars it would be difficult and dangerous to do that.

Suddenly, one of the wrinkled bodies growled and started moving. Peter let out a little shout and jumped, attacking immediately without even thinking about it. Another started to get up. Zombies. He was in a literal, actual zombie apocalypse. He couldn’t believe he was already the side character in The Walking Dead who gets killed the first episode to demonstrate how deadly and horrible the world had become. No, he absolutely could believe it; he was, after all, Peter Parker.

Well, fine. He could do this. First thing would probably need to be shelter. It suddenly dawned on him that that was why those men had been in the vault in the first place-- they must have killed some unlucky vault dweller and gotten into the vault for shelter and food. For a few moments he wished fervently that he could crawl back down into the vault too and just live there until he died. And then he heard gunshots and a woman screaming. Going back to the vault was not an option.

Running immediately, he skidded to a stop in time to witness a pair of women menacing another woman and her child. He swung out at one of the women, placing himself physically between the attackers and their targets.

“Playin’ hero, huh?” One of the women sneered at him, laughing and raising some kind of small pistol. “I’ve fought ones like you before.”

“Not likely,” he said through gritted teeth, moving with lightning fast speed to her left to throw her aim off. She started, then turned to try to track him, as the other woman brought her knife up. It wasn’t hard to disarm them. War hadn’t changed, not even in the years he’d apparently been asleep. With a few more blows he sent them to the ground, unconscious. The world might be full of the dead, but Peter wasn’t going to make any more. There was hope for them yet. There was still hope, as long as he was alive.

But now he had to take care of the woman and her child, both of whom were weeping when he turned to them.

“Thank you,” she whispered, holding her son. “People like you don’t last long out here, though. Be careful. There’s a settlement a little ways north we’re trying to go to. You should join us.”

“I-- can’t. But… I will later. I have others who will need a settlement eventually. And if what I’m seeing is right, you’re going to need more protection. How many of these guys are there out here, anyway?”

“Raiders, you mean?”

“Is that what they’re called?”

“Yeah. Anyone who bullies people instead of working for their food is a raider. Then you’ve got mercenaries, there are a few gangs of those around. Lots of raider gangs. Sometimes smaller and don’t got gang names, maybe four or five in a group. Then there’re the bigger ones. The Mad Dogs are the big ones around here, started up in upper side and then spread. Their headquarters are in one of the old places in Venger, I think they used’ta call ‘em museums? In one of the museums. Met Museum. That one. With all the statues.”

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art?”

“Sure. I dunno.”

“And what’s Venger?”

“This island is.” She pointed up at Avengers tower, which was now missing a few letters. Now it just read VENGER. “People call it that ‘cause that’s the tallest place on it.”

“...Right. Uh, what year is it, by the way?”

“Year?”

“You know… loops of winter.”

“Ohhh. Twenty three since I was born, and I was born the year that the Gunners from Boston started a chapter out here.”

“But how many since, since the bombs fell?”

“Since the Great War? I dunno. Lots. Nobody I know remembers it, nobody living was there for it.”

Peter swallowed. “Someone must know.”

“Sometimes on the computers they say it’s the year 2283. The ones that’re still working, anyway.”

“Ohhhh.” Two hundred years. His knees felt weak. “Thanks. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Peachie. And this is Sam.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I gotta go find my people now. Thanks for the info.”

“Sure. Thanks for saving our lives.”

With a little worry, Peter parted from the woman, and decided to head into the tower itself. If he was going to become Spider-Man again, and it sounded like the city really needed it, he would need at least one of his costumes, and the last time he had known where they were, they had been up in the tower. But if some of the computers and old power systems were still up, it was a good bet that the security in the tower was still running, so there was a chance that everything was still where he had left it.

Stepping up to the front doors, Peter found the eye and thumb scanners, and adjusted to them, stopping his blinking and putting his hand down on the gel pad. “Peter Parker,” he said, loudly and clearly, and after a few moments of whirring, he heard the lock thud heavily and the hinges on the doors creak as they opened in front of him.

“Welcome, Peter Parker,” the cool female voice said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The place was still running. He could smell dust and mold inside, but that was fine. He could clean the place up once he got his things and did a once-over on the security. He could see turrets on the ceilings, and they seemed to still be running, which was a relief.

It was like a place that would be haunted. Crumbling walls, dirt and decay, and only a few remnants that he could recognize as the former glory of the tower. The front desk, with-- oh, God, that was the skeleton of Mrs. Chambers, their old receptionist-- a few chairs, couches, computers… coffee mugs… he walked toward the elevators. Even the elevators blinked, apparently running after all these years. He didn’t trust two hundred year old elevators that hadn’t been serviced this entire time, so he walked behind them to the stairs.

His room was almost exactly the same as when he left it. A few holes in the walls and floor, sure, but his web-spinners were still there, and so were all of his costumes. He had four now, so he could change between washes, and they were all nice and high-tech. He grabbed them. Should he stay here from here on? Here in the tower, it might make a good base. It would depend on how well the cells had survived. If he couldn’t use them, he would move to the Tombs and check on the cells there. He needed someplace to keep the raiders he captured. He wouldn’t kill anyone, but he couldn’t allow them to run around hurting people anymore.

The tower cells were dirty, but otherwise in good shape. He’d need to cover over a few of the holes with concrete, do some fixing of the plumbing, things like that, but they would suffice. He’d start with these and then move to the Tombs for extra room if he needed it. He flipped the switches at the end of the hall a few times, making sure they worked, and he watched the doors coming up and down at his touch. This would be perfect. He turned and left, and embarked on his second coming of Spider-Man.

#ctsy

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brettimaeus-writes · 7 years ago

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King of the Jungle

Week #3

Already missed the Sunday night deadline because am dumb.

Anyway this was inspired by a writing prompt, but I used it more as a jumping off point for a weird idea. Turned into a hearty short story with some sort-of character arcs and a twist ending? It’s not very good!

I was in a killer mood. Freelance work was a rough enough business, but today had been a real bitch, since I'd been cut outta another deal by the same anonymous shithead as usual. Shit like that was bog standard in this industry, but after awhile you started to get extra sick of it. The world really is against you, kids, and it's on you to work against it. The only people you can count on are the ones right next to you, your pack. Friends who'll show up at a funeral they got nothing to do with just to comfort you when you need 'em. For me, that was Leo, and today, he needed me. Whether I was in the mood for it or not didn't matter, I could bite a bullet for a friend. I walked down the city blocks to his apartment, and there he was waiting outside.

“What up you motherfucker!” I shouted.

“Lionell! Hey, watch your language, people are just getting to bed.” He embraced me in a big muscly hug.

“Yeah, and the fuckin' crimelords are just getting up. Why the hell'd you want to talk to me so late?”

He frowned, “Just had to talk, I really appreciate it.” Then he set off walking down the sidewalk. “But if there is a crime, I might have to ditch you.” He added. I followed.

“Naaahhh,” I said, trying to preemptively lighten the mood, “If anyone pulls a gun, they're gonna have to go through the Kings of the Jungle. We've made it five years here together, and whatever you're going through is somethin' temporary.”

“Actually, it kinda is the fact that we've been here for five years. Five whole years, and I've been doing the same darn thing the whole time.”

“Mhm, poor guy got a steady job.” I rolled my eyes.

“Well, you make it sound silly, but yeah, it's kinda too steady. I feel like I haven't changed at all in the past 5 years. And y'know, when nothing changes, you feel staleness hanging in the air. Everywhere. It sucks. But- it's just a feeling right? You shouldn't give feelings like that any credit. Because, you're still technically doing the right thing, right? So what if you plateaued, as long as you plateaued somewhere good...” Leo paused for me.

“Uhhh...” I muttered.

“I guess, it's just like, when you get this far along from the original reason you started, it's impossible not to doubt it? It's just natural that you phase in and out of passion for what you're doing. But you gotta try not to think about it, because if you think too hard you'll let the self-doubt in. You have to just, take it on good faith that your original reason for starting out was good, and is still good.”

“Holy shit. You're an athlete not a fucking starving artist.”

He said apologetically, “I know! I'm well off, this is a stupid problem! Like I said, I'm trying not to give these ideas any credit. But the truth is, I've had this on my mind for years.”

“Really? Managed to keep it a secret from me. How many?”

“Maybe two. Not one of those things you can pin down. But, I've been telling myself it's not a problem for a long time. I'm telling you about it now 'cause I think that was unhealthy.

“No, I'm glad you told me. But I'm not sure what you want now...” I questioned.

“Me neither.”

I looked him over. Weakness was unlike Leo. I'd never seen myself in him like this. Ever since we moved to the city together, he'd been successful, confident. He'd handled things so much better. I'd learned that the world was an impenetrable current of misfortune, so when I saw weakness, I saw an opportunity to take advantage of it. But this was my friend, my pack, and when I saw weakness in him, I knew I had to protect him like he'd protected me.

“Plateaued, huh?” I asked, straightening my speech a little, “I- I see what you mean, but I think you've got the wrong perspective. You still gotta strive for self-improvement, even if you don't achieve it. Because otherwise you're not actually plateauing, you're just slowly losing altitude. Uh... It's like sharpening an axe every time you use it. You don't just do it so you can have the sharpest axe in the world, you do it so your axe, at least, doesn't get duller.”

Leo smiled coolly. “That's... a good point. But, I still feel like, uh... I think my physical axe is plenty sharp, I think I've kept it in good condition. Like, my skills, I mean. They're top notch, I make sure of it. But again, it's a mental thing... I think my mental axe is dull... And I have no clue how to sharpen it.”

That really threw me for a loop. “I- I see what you mean... Wow man, when you put it like that I really feel you. I don't think I was giving you enough credit. I figured you were blowing this whole 'mid-life crisis' thing outta proportion, 'cause I've always figured you for kind of a meathead. Bein' an athlete seems as simple as you can get to me, but what you're describing is a lot like what I been feeling. I guess... Well, you're not alone.”

He smiled again. “Yeah, that's a comfort. Bettin' a lot of people go through this... But I'm still not sure how to get through it. I really have to shake this, for other people's sake, not just mine.”

“Okay, we gotta find you your grinding stone! Backin' up here, time for a little armchair psychiatry... Uh, you mentioned your 'original reason' a couple times earlier. What's up with that, seems pretty important here?”

“Well, I can't really talk about it...”

“Okay, I know you can't talk about behind-the-scenes business-y shit. ...But how did that make you feel?” I said, holding out a pen like a microphone. “The 'origin' thing, not the stupid secrecy thing.”

He stopped walking. We'd made it seven blocks. It was properly dark now, the lamp-posts were coming on. There were no cars on the street and no other people on the sidewalk. The only thing nearby was a shitty old phone booth that hadn't worked for a decade. Leo stared at it.

“Well, it was... like, a big... inspiration. I was all kinds of inspired.” He paused, then sighed. “I disappointed someone. Like eh i- it was a nightmare-level thing. I messed up and I was feeling like shit,” His cursing caught me off guard, but he continued, “A lot like right now, but way worse. The difference was, at the time, I was able to... convert it all into this crazy intense determination. That person was a perfect storm of inspiration, and I just acted on it... Everything was crystal clear and, and, and perfect. It was really like I just got handed the sharpest axe, d- mental axe I mean. It- it didn't seem like I'd ever have to sharpen it!”

“W- Wow! Bro have you been, like, riding a high for 5 years?”

Leo sighed again. “This is really hard to explain without actually explaining what happened.”

“Well I think I'm getting it. It sounds like you need another hit.”

“Okay, I don't like the drug analogy. It's a littl-”

“Course ya don't ya boy scout. You get what I'm saying though. You just need to sniff out a new source of inspiration.”

“It is not that simple!”

“Why not!?”

Leo stammered. “Because we're- talking about... some complex shit here! This isn't the kind of inspiration you can just sniff out.”

“How is one type of inspiration that different from the next?”

His mouth tightened like a tight-rope as his teeth clenched in frustration. “D- g- This is impossible to talk about! GAH.” He swung at a lamp-post like he was going to hit it, then slowed down and hunched his head against it.

“I don't think so. Inspiration is probably everywhere. It's one of those ephemeral kinda things. It's also, as you have demonstrated, disposable. I wish I could look for you buddy, but unless you let on a little more here, this is the best I can do.”

Leo lifted his head. He had a confused look, like two halves of his brain were butting heads in an attempt to fuse. “Maybe they're the same thing.”

“...hhhhwhaat?”

“...You. …Telling you everything... And fresh inspiration... They might be the same thing!”

I was the confused one now. Leo had this crazed look.

“Yeah! Forget it. This might be perfect actually.”

“Uhhhh...”

“Shhhh... Okay, no more confusion. Everything's gonna make perfect sense. Gimme a second.” He dashed into the phone booth, hastily taking off his coat.

“Wh-” I watched the phone booth rock and shake, and after a minute, Leo emerged in-costume. “WHAT THE FUCK,” I screamed, “You're Leonidas?!?!”

Grinning from ear to ear, Leo stepped forward proudly, “Yeah,” He held his hands up in a gesture of confirmation. “Everything makes sense now right?

I was silent, but my look confusion was verging on disgust. I grimaced and spat, “Did you let someone die!? Is that what you meant by disappointed? That you killed them?”

Leo recoiled, not expecting such a fatal shot, “Okay, d- yeah.” The leap of logic had put him off his desperate action, and in the delay he rationalized, “That just makes sense I guess.”

“Was it a good friend?”

“Yes! And the important part is obviously that I took that to heart. It inspired me to save others!”

With mouth still arched in revulsion, I repeated, “...Myeah. What the fuck.”

“I don't know, what? This is not how I expected you to react!”

“Sorry, this is just, a particularly big pill for me to swallow.”

“W- Should I not have told you??? I was just trying to do what you told me. You said inspiration was probably right in front of me, and I realized you were right. I've been trying to live with this as a secret for years, worrying that it might be unhealthy, but the solution was right there! I don't know, I was so desperate, I might have just done something really selfish... 'Another hit' might have been the right phrasing after all, ah Jesus.”

“No.” I looked at him with determination. He looked up at me. “I'm glad you told me this...”

He heaved a massive sigh. “Ohhh, god, thank you.” He exhaled in satisfaction.

I shot him in the heart with a gun. “...You motherfucker.” He fell over dead.

“Glad you got your inspiration.” I smiled in disgust, standing over the lifeless body. “Y- you thought you could just skip over the fact that the 'good friend' you killed was my SISTER? Like what, I wouldn't get it? Guess what. That fucking funeral was my inspiration too. I'M THE FUCKING FANG!! I've been seeing your vigilante ass once a week for years, right up to this morning, you piece of shit; been trying to kill you just as long.” I thought of my sister, saw red, and spat on his corpse.

“Thanks for the pep talk though. It was just the inspiration I needed to get back on the horse. Good reminder that the world is fucked, I can't trust anyone, and I should be taking advantage of everyone!” I smiled cruelly. “Fuck, if even the 'hero' gets his inspiration from the 'friends' he's killed, I oughta be set for life.”

Can I critique my own work? This would work better as a comic for sure. And even then it’d need serious reworking because the superhero thing comes way outta left field unless you’re paying attention to the wording of some of the dialogue, and the friend being a supervillain is almost nonsense even though that was the original crux of the idea. I’m sure a reread would improve one’s enjoyment, because there’s semi-clever foreshadowing, but as it stands it’s compelling enough to warrant one. Good practice navigating weird character arcs and dialogue, but I’m chucking this and moving on.

#brettimaeus #writing #short story #prompt #acceptable #superhero #supervillain

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