Sitting on the bed, him with Annie, she gets a smile on her face and says, "Good." She clears her throat, takes a breath. In then out. Smoothes her face. Getting into that serious actress mode. Squeezing then patting his arm she says, "Alright, we can get back on track here. Maybe we'll try something else."

She thinks for a minute and says, "Okay, you could be Robert Redford, lovingly wash my hair while quoting poetry to me in the wilds of Africa?"

He just kinda looks at her. "No."

She has a lot of ideas. Oddly detailed ideas from oddly similar movies.

After she finds her inner strength and self, traveling through India and Italy, they meet each other in Bali and find passion and true love. Or he could be a mysterious luminous vampire who is drawn to her and they end up in a whirlwind of passion and danger. Or he could be a Zach Efron Marine who was convinced a picture of her saved his life, so he tracks her down and love and passion ensues.

Unfortunately, all her ideas are terrible.

No. No. And no.

They have a system worked out. Twice a week, Annie gets to pick the movie. Whatever she wants. He gets no input or say in it. She doesn't watch as much as he does, so it's more than fair. You might even say it to be grossly in his favor. But then, you don't realize what she puts in the Netflix queue. What he's forced to endure in silence.

She made him watch Eat Pray Love. The extended cut. With special features.

It had. Special. Features. Eat Pray Love did.

Because it wasn't long and special enough.

Now if that isn't Everything I Do, I Do it For You ― other than taking an arrow for her ― what else could there possibly be.

But if you think that's bad, when Troy lived there he had to not only watch these things, but listen to both of them sniffling and emotionally emoting. Troy will never admit he cried like a toddler with a skinned knee over Sex in the City 2. And Never Say Never. And a trailer to something with Mandy Moore in it. But he did. A lot.

And on that same note, just how much chick flick is Zach Efron in? At least watch good chick flick. Dirty Dancing. Ghost. The classics. Don't see Mr. Efron effortlessly mastering the craft of snazzily dancing, making Demi Moore famous, then stomp kicking ass in a bar now, do you.

"Okay, okay, I know. How about this," she says. "I know you've seen this." Still right next to him, she bounces up on her knees. She keeps the white sheet pressed to her chest, cocks her head loosely to the side, and starts talking like the all too common slutty frat girl character that always gets killed in horror movies. You know how they are, in a way that makes you not really feel bad they're getting chainsawed, but you do appreciate the gratuitous boob shots. "Hey, we could have premarital sex? I loooove premarital sex."

And even though this is from a satire movie, and she's being utterly ridiculous, and he might be feeling some embarrassment by proxy, it comes off more arousing than you'd think.

But that's Annie for you.

So before she goes any further he cuts her off and points out, "The scene that comes afterwards kind of kills the mood. Actually, that entire movie kills a lot of moods."

"Oh." She sinks back down with the realization of how terrible that movie actually was. "Yeah, I didn't exactly think that one through too well. Sorry."

"That's ok," he says. "You tried. I think sticking to our pre-failing attempts might be more what works here. Unless you want me to beat you to death with a co-ed in a sleeping bag. Which I don't think I would have the physical strength to do. I also don't have a silver hockey mask from the future. Not here anyway."

She sighs, "Abed, just ― before I pass out."

She leans forward to look at him and sees his lipstick smeared face and laughs as she tries to rub it off with her thumb. He gently takes her hand in his and he kisses the soft pads of her fingers. "I think I know," he says. Rising to his feet, he tells her to get back up onto the bed. His posture is relaxed and fluid, his voice low and inflected. Entire demeanor changed and transformed in a second. He stands over her and looks down, she's still the blushing school girl she tries so hard to be and not be at the same time. Pulling at the knot in his tie, he says, "Turn the lights off."

Staring back at him she scooches back, pulling the sheet up to her chin. She looks away trying to hide her face with the sheet balled up around her small hands. "Okay," she says wrapping it around herself like a toga, holding it up carefully as she stumbles a bit to the light switch.

He walks over to the window and pulls the big pink drapes open, flooding the room with the blue and grey light of the moon and street lamps below.

"That's letting a lot of light in still," she says.

So he pulls them in some.

She says, "No, more."

So he pulls them in a bit more until there's just a razor thin beam stretched out wide over the floor and foot of the bed, against the door on the opposite side of the room. Everything goes black for a moment as his eyes adjust to the dungeon lighting conditions she wants.

Little more, she says.

"I need to see what I'm doing at least a little okay." He pulls off his tie walking back to the bed and waggling his eyebrows, he deeply says, "It'll be worth it."

It's really more like not wanting to slam your shin or toe into a side table or chair and subsequently crying like a bitch, or having her knee him in the face or groin, or having her break his nose with her pelvis, or him splitting her lip with his elbow. Safety first.

He rises up on each leg and lowers down as he pushes his shoes off. He raises each of his wrists up and undoes the cuff links and lays them on the side table next to the alarm clock. It's digital, which is an anachronistic travesty and will have to be cut out. On the other hand, it's one in his favor.

While loosening his collar he kneels forward onto the bed, the mattress barely sinking under his boney knees. He walks forward on his knees until he's kneeling right in front of her. He places an arm right alongside her, leaning close, pushing her body down under his. She's still got the sheet tied up in her hands in a death grip, his knees on either side of her pulling it taught and dragging it down with him, inch by inch, with each move forward.

Leaning down, his wiry body hovering over her, he brushes the back of his hand against her cheek. He almost kisses her but his lips just brush against hers in a close up shot and he says, "Close your eyes."

It's alright, he tells her. You can do it.

"Annie," he says. He hooks a finger around the top of the sheet and starts tugging it down, out of her little fist. "This is a give and take type thing."

It's not really for him. Okay, maybe it is. A bit. But continuing to work on this control freak issue, Annie needs to see it's not so bad to let herself be vulnerable more often. And sometimes she's going to need a little help to just let go. To enjoy herself being enjoyed. To try to remove that fear of failure.

He tells her she doesn't have to do anything. Don't worry. I'll take care of you. Because he can. Because he wants to. Even if he were just lie right here with her, he could prove and know he can give happiness and love to someone else.

Annie's whole life people have been telling her she isn't good enough, that she needs to be better, faster, smarter. To be little Ms. Perfect, to never fail. Never act childish and always follow the rules. Never do anything on the fly because that means you're unprepared and that means you might do something wrong. And considering her one and only sexual experience was a complete failure by her own words, that mantra probably tattooed her brain for good.

But slowly, he wants to see her get to the life philosophy of, yeah, I might not know what the hell I'm doing, I might not win every time, and I might do something that you find no value in ― but I'm going to do it anyway. Because I want to. My whole life is not an idealistic expectation of constant perfection and one-upmanship. And that's okay.

And I don't care what anyone thinks.

Deal with it.

But in baby steps.

In the bed, her body goes a little stiff underneath him and her breath is shallow, and even in the dim light he can see her eyes are scrunched shut making her face look like she's preparing for a root canal rather than about to be worn as a hat. There's one idea, it was on standby as backup ammo in case Don's particular alpha male aggression didn't work out in certain instances. It's always important to have a fall back persona. Even if it's from something you hate. Leaning on his elbow, his face close to hers, he says, "You know," slowly combing her hair away from her face through his fingers he says, "I wrote you 365 letters. I wrote you every day for a year."

And then, like she had just been told there was a box of puppies and kittens and baby rabbits nearby, her scrunched up face goes smooth and mouth adoring, sweet Disney princess eyes open, she says, "Oh, Abed." Placing her one hand that isn't in a losing battle with her shield de sheet gently to his face, she runs her fingers up through his hair tracing around his ear. "You really watched it?"

"Yes," he says, bringing his lips to her ear he whispers, "You left it in the DVD player and the cable was out. But it actually wasn't out, just a cord got loose. It's still not out."

He slides his mouth over hers and he's not sure whether he's himself, Don or Ryan Gosling or some unholy sexual powerhouse mixture of the three, but whatever it is, it's working. Watching a terrible chick flick was apparently the best form of seduction he could've done.

Cool.

Her hands are over his back and through his hair and his knee is pressing between her legs and things are quickly getting awesome. This is where it would generally fade to black for Mad Men, it's only on basic cable. Unlike HBO or Cinemax that can show pretty much the full to do, AMC can't get away with that. This isn't Omega House or Little Finger's joint.

But this is his episode after all, and BluRay releases almost always have unrated content that had to be cut out in editing. Director's cut. The commentary will be epic.

She wraps her arms behind his neck and they roll onto their sides as both sets of hands attack his shirt, he unbuttoning while she pulls it up out of his pants. Her hand slips down in little awkward touch-and-feels, groping around the front of his waistband and she misses his shirt and blissfully grabs a little lower. He takes a sharp breath through his teeth and ― for reasons unknown ― she instantly lets go and says, "Was that alright?"

Why would she even do such a thing.

"Yes, yeah ― yes," he says, grabbing her hand and placing it back, "and for future reference, that's not something you ever need to ask." Popping the last button of his shirt he says, "The answer will always be yes."

"Okay, sorry, sorry."

He hears her take a breath make a little nervous laugh and suddenly feels her hand slide right back down and over and up. And back down. Her fingers glide around a bit, taking their time. For Annie, this just wasn't foreplay, but a field trip to the male Exploratorium. Interactive introductive techniques. Tactile learning.

And if Annie loves anything, it's learning.

And winning.

They both look down nearly bumping foreheads when faced with the obstacle of a waistband. Each one pulls a belt loop down and he kicks and wiggles his slacks down his legs with his feet. And with one of his pant legs still dangling off his feet, suddenly he feels her cool hand encircle him. Her face opens up when she looks at him, watching his reaction to her every tentative motion.

Working his hands behind her back he clumsily manages to undo the what must be twenty hooks of her bra corset thing. He doesn't remove it just yet, instead he tells her to hang on and sitting up he strips out of the rest of his clothes, sans socks, and pulls the sheet out.

"This way," he says. Shaking it out with both hands like you do when you're making the bed, he lets it float down, slinking under it next to her. "you feel less nervous and I don't have to see you and you don't have to see me."

"Well, it sounds horrible when you put it that way―"

"Not horrible. Just how you're comfortable. It's kind of pointless to do if you're not."

"Okay," she says. "Thank you, Abed."

He kisses her lightly and pulls her to him. Her bare breasts soft and warm wedged between them, he kisses her décolleté, down the pale flat of her sternum, her belly and between those pretty pale thighs.

And while he's no pro, that older woman, the one at the falafel shop when he was a virginal, even more awkward yet very eager teenager ― taught him more than he'd ever care to admit. A form of skill training, you could say. What they would call action learning. Tacit knowledge. Only unlike skills you learn in school or for work, like management techniques or how to solder a circuit board, these were the most important skills a man could learn and always get a positive return on investment.

Pleasuring a woman never suffers layoffs. The demand never falters when the economy takes a dive. It can't be outsourced or become obsolete. They have yet to develop a machine or device that replaces that anatomical aspect of a man. Although surely the Japanese are working on it.

And so as these things go, everything happens so quickly. His efforts to make her comfortable pay off in ways he didn't realize as he had never heard Annie make such sounds before, and he only wants to keep hearing it again and again. He moves up over her and her legs instantly lock behind him and there's nothing stopping him or her now, this is it, the big to do and much like in real life, as these things go, it happens incredibly way too quickly.

And because it's Annie and because this means something he needs to think of something and quick. The repetitive mantra of, "don't come, don't come, don't come, do NOT come," racing through his mind isn't exactly having the effect he was going for. Turns out thinking about not coming makes you have to think of coming in order not to do it, which through all that complicated mind over body stuff, all your dick seems to hear in that is the magic word and then you're in trouble.

They always say baseball, but he knows nothing about baseball. League of Their Own was baseball. But then, Geena Davis, and he needs something else even quicker now. There's always Rosie O'Donnell, which helps a little, but then again, Geena Davis. Oh and Madonna. Jesus, what a bad movie to think of.

But then, because he's just that good in all aspects of life and beyond, Charlie Sheen comes to the rescue with Major League. Total sausage fest. Starring Tom Derenger. Which they were both in Platoon too, but that is nearly too depressing to have in your mind and keep an erection. Although Charlie Sheen was in Two and a Half Men which was pretty much all guys sans the sexually unappealing mother and Berta. But then suddenly the holy crap so hot sexually appealing Kandi. So hitting rewind until he sees Corbin Bernson, The Cleveland Indians come in for the save.

Interrupting his baseball control method, Annie asks him if he's ok. "You look like you're in pain."

Funny how pain and pleasure look nearly identical.

And no, baseball isn't as helpful as he hoped it would be.

OOOOOO

Surely Annie has by now come to the realization on this whole lie of romantic love making stuff. After the fiasco in the closet, no doubt she thought, "Finally, it will be perfect!" All of the Cosmo articles and chick flick romanticized cinematography, soft box lighting and beautifully scored love scenes and all those stupid things that give girls these crazy expectations are making it quite difficult to be a man. Not only are men expected to know every spot, zone, correct ignition timing and pressure (which once you find what works on one, another can be totally different), but now it's got to be choreographed to Take my Breath Away. Everything has to be perfect, but it never is. How can it be? Sex can't be perfect, because much like hooking up a VCR or driving a car or putting IKEA furniture together, human error is always there in high ratios. Also, men are involved. It's typically anything but fluid flawlessness. So she knocks him across the cheek with her knee, he jabs her thigh with his thumb and he nearly gets his nose broken a second time until he lays his forearm firm across the front of her pelvis trying to keep her somewhat still under his mouth.

It never goes as perfect and as serious as it does in the movies. It's actually, much more fun. It's a strange mix of laughing, intensity, violence and tenderness all into one. It's connecting and engaging at a level you can't have anywhere else in life. He doesn't need to try or be expected to read her face to know what she feels, he doesn't need this supposed deep eye contact that lets you know how your partner feels (thanks for nothing Maxim Magazine). She doesn't have to say anything. Every sound, every response of her body says more than any glance ever could. And that alone is a deeper connection he has with her that is beyond any movie ever can.

There is no TV, no movies, no racing thoughts, no detachment, no jumping hoops. Nothing. Just the connected singular feeling of her skin to his. The unspoken understanding and communication that exists only here.

OOOOOO

It's a bit of contradiction of when you feel like you've changed your life, that your entire life is now flung into the darkness of the unknown―but everything is exactly the same.

Everything has changed yet nothing has. The characters have won the battle. Saved the princess, destroyed the public domain artifact of evil but there's still laundry waiting in the hamper and a research paper lying on the table. You still have to go to work on Monday. You need to renew your Costco card. The car needs a wash and you should really get around to that eye exam.

Only now he's a bonafide boyfriend, not just some weird guy she lets fondle her a little.

This means a new level of manly responsibilities.

It means growing up.

It means new dates you have to remember and buy corresponding gifts to the degree of their importance.

Thinking about it, they never really had a date before this sex business. And to start with he asked her to live there in a totally platonic way because he didn't like her being in the ghetto.

They did this all incredibly out of order.

But it's alright, because it's their story. And if he's learned anything in his classes and observations over the years, is that while no story is original, the execution is. And that's what makes us go back to the same kinds of stories time and time again.

But this plot twist wasn't anything like he worried it would be. All this time, confined by fear of failure, of hurting others, of rejection. Acceptance to being left behind. The unconscious trapping that if you believe something holds you, it is a prison. If you do not wish to leave, it becomes a fortress.

In Screeenplay in Television: It's Even Easier Than You Thought, there's a section on structuring all the elements of a story. Any story. This applies to every story you've ever heard of ever. Even the Bible. Seriously. Look it up.

There are eight specific points laid out in a circle that must go in sequential stages in order to make an effective and satisfying story. And here, right now, he finds himself taking a step forward towards the end of the circle. But then what. Does the story simply end? The pathway is coming full circle and there's nothing you can do but start again at a new beginning. Only on the path you have already laid for yourself. Into a new chapter.

Once you've passed the barriers you've set for yourself, when you let go, you're free. Free to follow the story you want towards a new beginning, to open a new chapter. It is your story. There is nothing for you to ever fear. When you revel in the random meaningless of this life, when you embrace your own amor fati, there is nothing that you can despair over anymore.

The only one who keeps you from completing full circle is yourself. You're the only one that can make the decision to move forward through to the climax or to remain stationary in fear and decay. And it really is that simple.

You only get one chance to write this story. One chance to get it right. And then it's too late before you realize. Never question why, never try to find a good reason, because when you think about it, why do anything at all?

Because in real life there are no big damn heroes, no solitary warriors, no outsiders. In this life, there is no reason to stay isolated in our own disconnect, our own racing thoughts, our own manic prisons. We are all interdependent on each other and it's the characters in our lives that make our stories dynamic and meaningful. That create conflict and resolve and growth. The people who try to edit and rewrite our stories, blind us from our path. And the people who hold and keep us up when we lose sight and trip.

We embark on this life and fight through all its horrors and mysteries and beauties together to the end. Never fear it. For you'll never be alone.

OOOOOO

A/N: Well, that's it kiddos. Finally finished. There were HUGE pieces I really liked and spent so much time on that I had to edit out. Which I wish I didn't have to, but they just wouldn't work overall. I have mixed feelings about this fic in general, but ah well, we all hate our own work.

References: Some were obvious, others maybe not so much. I was sneaky in some places and a few are obscure that I put in there for my own narcissistic enjoyment. Including play on dialogue and allusions, in no particular order they were:

Mad Men, Casino, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Drive (2011), Breaking Bad, Family Guy, Some Like it Hot, Game of Thrones, Friday the 13th Jason X, Die Hard, Birdy, Leaving Las Vegas, Irreversible, Crank, Batman, Roadhouse, Co-ed Confidential, The Big Bang Theory, -man, The Notebook, Ocean's Eleven, House, Dr. Phil, The Hunt for Red October, American Pie, A League of Their Own, Major League, Two and a Half Men, Platoon, The Graduate, Mononoke, Top Gun, Robin Hood, Out of Africa

So anyway, lates, bbs. Thanks for reading, reviewing, faving.