Ho Ho Ho! Santa is here for @owlish-peacock36! Sorry it took so long to finally get something written, but I hope you like what I’ve whipped up for you! since you gave me no restrictions, I thought I’d run with an idea i’ve had in my head for quite some time now! if you remember the clues I sent way back in what felt like the beginning time, you’ll remember that my present for you is inspired by a classic 80′s movie starring a late, great heartthrob! Well, that mystery movie is DIRTY DANCING, one of my favorite movies of all time! Even if you haven’t seen the movie (which you definitely should because it rocks), I hope you still like your fic! I’m having a great time writing it! So for all you readers, and @owlish-peacock36 in particular- Enjoy!
xoxo- Marlo (the not so secret anymore santa)
The Catskills, Summer, 1963
The beat up station wagon bumped along the narrow, winding roadway, laden with with the weight of its three passengers as well as an exorbitant amount of luggage. Commanding the vehicle was Henry Beauchamp, eyes intent on the road, with the lowered window blowing back his salt-and pepper hair. Seated next to him, delicately poised on the edge of her seat, sat his wife, Julia. Het cat-eyed sunglasses sat perched on the bridge of her nose as she flipped through the pages of a mystery novel. And crammed between the luggage in the back of the car, a misshapen shape of knees and elbows, sat Claire Beauchamp. She ran a hand though her mop of unruly brown curls, pushing back the strands that were slick to her forehead in sweat. She was deeply engrossed in her own reading; a medical journal she had stolen from the Oxford University library, the school she would be attending in the fall.
Her parents, called this trip a last hurrah, a final voyage as a family to visit her Uncle Lamb at his resort in Pennsylvania. They flew across the Atlantic, bags in hand, and immediately began the next part of their journey, in a shoddy rental car Claire was appalled to learn did not have air conditioning. If she were being honest, this was the last place she would like to be. She would be far more content in her cozy home in Oxfordshire, peeling through books of medical research in an attempt to prepare herself for the year to come.
“Claire, did you hear that?” Julia questioned.
“Mhm? Oh, no. Sorry. I was reading.”
“Your father said we were only a few minutes away now!” The excitement in Julia’s voice was palpable, but Claire could do little to share in the enthusiasm.
Joy, bloody joy! She thought to herself, snickering.
city that never sleeps: suit and tie. the smell of sex and alchohol. 1 am city. skyscrapers. hotel suite balcony. cigarette smoke. black tattoos. red lipstick note. raindrops on the bus stop glass. car lights in the dark. nightclubs. song; liar - pygmalion
seaside sanctuary: the smell of salt and sun. white sand. shaded cove. the sound of waves. mermaid tails. seashell necklaces. tiki bars. tanned wet skin. bandaids. standing surfboards. seabreeze. basking iguanas. palm tree hammock. martinis.
autumnal equinox: turtleneck sweater. fireplace kisses. owls on branches. log cabins. dead leaves. juvenile deer. bruised knuckles. seeing your breath when it’s cold. dog eared book pages. old castles. mountainside. carving pumpkins. creaky floorboards.
forest fairytale: worn overalls. dirty knees. flower crowns. elf ears. great trees. newborn fawns. dew drop mornings. fairy wings. mushroom patches. small flowers. pebbles in streams. overgrown statues. tree filtered sunlight.
aspiring artist: cafe in paris. messy paperwork. doodles on napkins. modern apartment loft. white shirt. morning bedsheets. open window. cold wood floor. half finished moving boxes. leather bound portfolio. unwritten notebooks. polaroid pinned corkboard.
pastel street fashion: bows on shoes. pink sweater. crop tops. high waisted shorts. dyed hair tips. pouty lips. no makeup. pointed nails. floral print. mint green phone case. japanese mascots. pale filters. androgyny. cat eyed sunglasses. light pink. starbucks cup.
warning: profanity and christmas and LUCAYAAAA, so if you are offended by one of the three of them, please do not read. also: this was literally written in a day and unedited and this is really really not good, it’s basically Lucaya neighbor AU If they lived in the suburbs, so I hope you guys like this, because there are basically no lucaya christmas fics at. all.
Lucas Friar/Maya Hart.
A boy moves into the house next to hers on a Saturday.
The house has been empty for ages, all sticky spider webs and dust that gathers in the vintage bookshelf upstairs—a symbol of the past, of an age long since past.
She doesn’t expect it to be bought, she lives in Emerald Heights for fuck’s sake, a sign that you pass by in highways and forget the moment your car rushes forward, Emerald Heights, population:7,000.
Because no one would want to live in the Californian suburbs, in Emerald Heights, where the grass is dry and yellow and brown as it whips in the wind, where coyotes howl and the houses are fading somehow, they are old and lost and forgotten, in the background of the lights of Los Angeles, only a few miles above them.
Because no one would want to live here, and she stands on the sidewalk with a caramel frappuccino, contemplating his choices.
She knows his name because of the other neighbors, who crowd at his door and ring his doorbell and leave casseroles for dear, dear Lucas Friar, who is apparently the epitome of a politeness and what a gentleman should be, all charming smiles and bright eyes and conversations on insurance with Mrs. Wang across the street and earl grey tea with Mrs. Davidson at four o’clock.
Because he wears plaid shirts and cowboy hats and looks like the male lead from Disney Channel tv show, all grins and green eyes and boyish charm.
And she hates that.
Because he fits right in, because he’s not an outsider like she is, even after months of trying, his house doesn’t stand out in a straight line of white picket fences and blue painted walls like hers does, with glass windows and a chandelier and black and white decor that’s modern and hipster and urban, it doesn’t fit in the suburbs of California, in Emerald Heights.
She hates people like him, who are charming and blonde and moderately good looking, she’s hated people like that ever since she was six years old, when her father, who was also bonde and charming and fit in with the neighbors, who gave ten dollar tips to waitresses just left one day without a fucking trace.