#i'm so attracted to characters who've had some kind of fall from grace it's unreal

[i-eat-deodorant]

Ooo please tell me about Pumping Ass part 2.

I'm invested.

[WIP ASKS]

The stars aligned when he received an email at noon a couple days later, telling him not to come to shift today, that someone had backed their truck directly into the front entrance (gods, what he would pay to have been there to see that clusterfuck) and they were replacing the sliding doors that should’ve been replaced years ago. Normally he’d spend his break arguing online over stock prices with people whose opinions don’t matter, but the moderators of his latest circle had banned him (over threats of violence—what was he about to do, strangle someone over the screen?) and he was still fuming too hard to find a new one. 

So when he slipped out of his pants and saw a white card fluttering onto the ground, he picked it up. The cardstock was wrinkled and soft from how he’d shoved it in his pocket, but Lambert’s name and address were still visible. Driving distance. Walking distance, if he was willing to suffer an hour in public in exchange for saving gas. 

Which is how Narinder found himself slouched in front of a tacky McMansion in broad daylight, judging the topiary. 

Seriously, how were they not embarrassed to put these things in public? He could flash himself and retain more modesty than what these trimmed bushes were doing to their property. And then there was that eyesore set of marble columns, scrunched halfway into the wall next to windows that looked to be drawn on blindfolded. Then there were the four garage doors on the side; if Lambert admitted to him that they were housing a small army for war in their garage, he’d believe it over the cars. 

A towering black bull in a suit answered the door when he rang. He took one look at Narinder, then began to close the door.

“Wait!” Narinder shoved his foot inside. “I have an appointment with Lambert.” 

“We do not accept solicitors nor beggars.” Already he could hear a tinge of irritation in the bull’s voice. 

Rude. He’d actually dressed nice for this: black pants and a blazer that had been in the laundromat instead of on the floor, and an undershirt that wasn’t stained with anything.  “I’m not, Lambert said I was welcome. Here, I have their…” He reached for the card, but realized that handing someone a crumpled piece of paper wasn’t exactly solid evidence. “Just. Just let them know I’m here, they know who I am.” 

“You can contact them through the proper channels then.” 

It was getting difficult to keep the door open with how hard the bull was pushing it closed. Narinder was about to step back before his foot got smashed before another voice joined in from the back. 

“Thoryn! Let him in pal, I told him he could come here whenever he likes.” 

Narinder stumbled a bit as the bull, Thoryn, swung the door inwards. Standing at the foot of a grand staircase was Lambert, clad in fuzzy white pajamas and slippers. They smiled upon seeing him. “Great timing, you caught me on one of my days off. I don’t have anything planned until evening.” 

“Sir—he—” Thoryn looked between them, before understanding quickly dawned on his expression. “Understood. I’ll leave you to it, sir.” With that, the bull walked away with far more speed than necessary, hooves clicking against the tiled floor. 

Narinder watched him disappear off into a corner. “He doesn’t think I’m a hooker, does he.” 

“Hopefully not, but the circumstances fit—” 

“I’m not a hooker.” Narinder spat, hands shoved tight into his pockets.

-

"Bastard broke all of his bones falling. You know what they say about the impact on the water, from high up. Nobody can bounce back from that."

"But you're still here," Lambert said. A hand gripped Narinder's wrist, solid and real. "Maybe the myth was wrong. Maybe Icarus drowned, but in the middle of the pain all his ribs fracturing he realized that one of his arms wasn't broken, and he dragged himself to shore."

Narinder sat up, blankets falling off his figure. It was too dark to make out more than shadows, but he traced silhouette of Lambert in greyscale, the rise and fall of their chest. It all felt like a surreal dream, a hell he'd wake up from and be back in his mansion with his wife and kids. "Life should've pummeled that kind of blind optimism out of you decades ago."

"It's helped, though." Lambert was looking at him as well. His eyes adjusted to the darkness just enough to catch their smile. "Wouldn't be where I am without it."

Maybe he didn't want this dream to end.

yeah it's just a potential continuation of Tropical Sunset (aka gas station au). can you tell i browsed McMansion Hell posts before i wrote this haha. need to absorb angry architect power.

i'm actually kind of excited to write it because there's a scene i have planned that just. gets really dark and serious all of a sudden that i have planned and i wanna tackle something that i don't particularly see people portraying. gas station au is my silly little test au and i'm taking it for a roller coaster ride.

#cw suggestive #failed elon musk narinder has a special place in my heart ok #it's so DUMB but that's why it's so fun #insane about icarus metaphors #i'm so attracted to characters who've had some kind of fall from grace it's unreal #couldn't find a good place to end the snippet so you're getting a full ass worddump #my asks