#at one point one of my sims was just standing next to the dorm chef chucking everything he’d made straight in the fridge | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thosedamnsmoshkids · 5 years

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HI YALL

so i have a few unfinished works that probably won’t get finished, and i wanted to clean out my drafts and have one less thing to worry about, so imma post em here.

and hey! if you want to do a ‘finish the fic’ on any of them, do it and just tag me!

honey whiskey - shayne topp/josh scherer

“So it’s a party?” Shayne taps his fingers against the table absentmindedly.

“Kinda?” Ian sits across from him, completely melted into the olive-colored sofa that lines the far wall. He scrunches up his nose. “You’d have to ask Matt Raub, he knows better than I do.”

Shayne rolls his eyes, sitting back and letting his head fall back. “A party but it’s also a networking event, which normally just means it’ll be a bunch of people talking about work and eating bad food.”

“Mythical’s got good caterers,” Ian stops him short. “They’ve got a chef on site too, he’s usually the one that makes the monstrosities though, so…”

“So we’ll be fending for ourselves with a bunch of Mythical execs?”

“No,” Ian tips his head. “It’ll be talent too, Rhett and Link, you, Courtney and me, I think Monica and the editors are sticking around too.”

“And Damien just had to get sick right when I need to latch onto him during a party.”

“I thought it was Damien that was bad with parties?”

Shayne almost laughs. “We’re both bad at parties, it’s just, normally we stick together, and then it’s better.”

Ian shrugs, “you can stick with Court and me.”

Shayne really does laugh this time, full bellied to the point that it almost makes him double over. “You two are going to get distracted, independently, run off, and then meet me when the party’s over, that’s what you always do.”

Ian’s head jerks back, shaking slightly. “We don’t do that-”

“Noah’s birthday, the Dark premiere, Monica’s party,” he lifts his eyebrows as Ian sinks further into the sofa. “You want me to go on?”

“It’s one evening, you’ll be fine.” Ian straightens a little. “Besides, they’ve got some cool weird foods apparently, and it’d give you the chance to annoy Monica for a few hours.”

Shayne narrows his eyes, nodding slowly. “I would like that.”

Courtney pops her head in a few minutes later, back from her Sims shoot, and distracts him for a while with another video. He’s just moving through the motions for most of it, it’s something about dating, ‘their show’, they called it, when in reality, it was really Courtney’s baby. But something she says sticks with him.

“Life’s too short to stay at home and pretend the world’s on fire!” She throws her hands up a little, giggling in her seat as she throws a stray piece of hair over her shoulder. “Go out with that person, do that thing, and the world might still be on fire, but if you die in the flames, at least you died doing something.”

Shayne makes some sort of jest at her jokingly, and she laughs back at him.

The party starts promptly at five, and Shayne is rapid fire texting Damien as he clings to Courtney, until she inevitably disappears, and then to Ian, before he too, finds himself distracted, and leaves behind a nerve-wrecked Shayne. At some point, he finds Monica, talking to a tall woman with pretty red-blonde hair and a fresh-faced expression.

She introduces herself as Stevie, and Shayne returns a handshake and his name.

“Parties not really your thing?” She leans in, the smell of something sweet on her breath.

“Not always,” he shakes his head. Shayne lets himself relax a little as she grins.

“And I was told that you’re supposed to be the loud boisterous one.”

Monica elbows him in the side, grinning up at Stevie. “He’s normally a fucking annoyance, but his friends left him, so he’s latched on to me.”

This makes the woman laugh, and she steps back, raising an eyebrow. “We’re serving drinks over at the kitchen if you want something to take the edge off.” Stevie gestures to her cup. “Josh makes a mean Devil’s Piss.”

“A what.”

She shakes her head, eyes fixed on the cup before flicking back to him. “Honestly it’s something you can’t really explain.”

“But it’s good?”

“It’s something.”

Shayne nods, taking Stevie and Monica talking about their girlfriend and wife respectively, as a cue to leave. He heads towards the kitchen, not quite sure what he’s expecting to find, and more or less bracing himself for the awkward conversations to come.

There’s a cheering coming from the kitchen, and as he turns the corner, for once in his life, Shayne is left breathless.

A man stands over the countertop, surrounded by people, but he might as well have been standing on a stage, the lights all cued and prepped to shine on him until he glowed. His arm is arced over, whipping something up in a bowl as the others around him cheer him on.

The guy is tall, something Shayne likes, but not something he’d admit to anyone other than Courtney, or maybe Damien if he was drunk enough.

Hell, he hasn’t even been able to admit to himself that he likes guys in the first place.

And damn. He’s got a plain face at first glance, simple. But the sharp, clean movement of a jaw that leads to a pair of soft eyes, leaves Shayne speechless.

He moves to grab something, his arm looks like it could’ve been sculpted from clay, and then smoothed over again and again, until the muscles and sinew were perfectly folded beneath his skin.

The man lights something on fire before handing the glass of liquid to someone crowded around him. Everyone watches as they take a sip, their eyes squeezing together as their lips pucker.

Another bought of cheering erupts around him, and he watches with a slight smile as the people disperse, leaving him with his ingredients, and a formerly flaming pan.

He starts preparing another drink, and from the way his hands move, this time with less flourish than before, it’s clear that he’s finally taking the time to make something for himself. It’s still mesmerizing to watch him work, hands chopping and moving all in one motion.

At some point, he notices Shayne, standing off to the side, and he’s not sure if the man is infatuated with his cooking, or if it’s something more. He’s used to people watching him, but not like this.

He finds that there’s such a strange curiosity in the eyes of this odd man, and it keeps him from opening his mouth, and breaking the spell that he’s seemingly captured him in. The chef finishes the drink, not sure if he should turn away or finally speak.

He instead slides the drink across the table.

The man blinks, his eyes moving from the drink to the curve of a chest, and then up to finally make eye contact. The man opens his mouth, blinking dumbfoundedly before closing it and opening it again. “Shayne,” he holds out a hand.

“I’m not sure you want to shake my hand,” the man almost smiles. He holds up two hands covered in various liquids and powders. “But I’m Josh.”

“The chef yeah, Stevie talked about you.”

--- < / > ---

unnamed weshire - wes johnson/joshua ovenshire

---

When he shows up at Joven’s door, it’s clear it’s not the first time this has happened, and it’s also clear that Joven is not the first person Wes would’ve gone to. He tries not to take it as an insult, guiding a red-faced, tear-stained Wes into the cool darkness of his dorm.

He makes tea with his roommate’s tiny water heater, adding enough sugar to kill a small animal, grabbing the first-aid kit from the cupboard. Joven pushes the mug into Wes’s shaking fingers, trying to ignore the feeling that he gets when he folds Wes’s hands around the cup with his fingertips.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he’s said since he arrived, repeating it over and over again with intermittent uses of Joven’s name. He hushes Wes each time, trying to hammer it into his head that this isn’t his fucking fault. Kind to a fault.

He’s positioned himself in between Wes’s legs, something that would seem compromising from an outside perspective, but he feels Wes ease, and in response Joven doesn’t move an inch from where he’s kneeling. More afraid of how his heart will race coming in contact with the skin of Wes’s thigh than frightening the man with his movements.

Joven dabs at the cuts on his face and arms with a warm cloth, trying not to catch Wes’s eyes. Everytime he does, he hates himself just a little more. And it kills him that he doesn’t know why he does.

“I should’ve gone to Mari, or Sohinki or-” It’s the first words he’s said that’s not the droning apologies. “You shouldn’t have to clean me up after this.”

“Shut up,” Joven whispers. “You’re here, I don’t sleep. It’s fine.”

“And I’m sorry, your roommate”

“Out of town,” he interrupts quickly. “It’s why I was able to open the door at 2am anyway.”

“Sorry,” Wes murmurs.

“Don’t apologize.” His next words are barely audible. “Fucking asshole. It’s his fault that you-”

Wes catches Joven’s arm, his grip is like steel around Joven’s forearm. “He’s not,” his eyes are like fire, “you don’t understand.”

“You let him hurt you.”

“I didn’t let him-” Joven can feel Wes shaking, and it breaks something in him.

He guides his free hand along Wes’s shoulder, the way he remembered an old friend did when it got dark for him. “Hey, hey, let’s-” he moves head with the boy’s across from him to make sure his eyes can’t disappear again. “Let’s talk about something else. Did you watch that movie I gave you yet?”

Wes’s eyes grow soft as he swallows slowly. “Yeah, it was, funny.”

“Yeah?” Joven feels Wes release his arm, and he moves it along slowly, grabbing for bandaids. “Tell me what you liked best about it.”

“I liked a lot,” he whispers. “I liked-” His voice falters, and Joven can feel him shaking again. “Why did I even try-?”

“Wes if it hurts,” he holds the tips of Wes’s fingers, “you don’t have to tell me.”

“No, no,” his fingers twist around Joven’s. Somehow without knowing, Joven knows he won’t let go this time. “Please, it’s better if I just get it out and then forget.”

“Okay,” Joven nods as he opens a bandaid. “Then tell me.”

“I just need you to promise you’ll just listen, okay?”

Joven barely nods before softly pressing a bandage on Wes’s cheek. “I’ll try my best.” He finds his fingertips brushing Wes’s collar as he searches for more cuts, and instead, finds aging hickeys pressed deep into his Wes’s neck.

“It was a normal night, I thought it was, and then, he came back to our apartment, and he was just, so mad.” Wes shakes his head. “I must’ve set him off, I don’t know, and we just, fought and fought, worse than we ever have before, and then he started…”

“And then you came here.” Joven finishes the sentence for Wes as his eyes grow misty.

“No,” he shakes his head again. “No. I told him it was over, that I wanted to end us, and then…” Wes’s chest is heaving. He looks up at Joven with eyes heavy with the threat of tears. “Do you have anything stronger than this?” Wes holds up the untouched tea in his hands.

“You want more sugar?” Joven raises an eyebrow.

“I know you have liquor hidden here somewhere.” Wes searches Joven’s eyes. “As much as Mari tells you to stop drinking.”

“We’ve all got our addictions, don’t we?” Joven pulls away, standing up to grab a mug out of the cabinet. He pulls the top off of the cookie jar, removing a small bottle of vodka from inside. Joven pours himself a glass before topping off Wes’s.

He sits on his bed next to Wes, hunched over his mug. The two of them drink in silence, the unbroken tension between them buzzing in the air.

“Why did you come to me?”

Wes doesn’t answer at first, and in the moment, Joven attributes his silence to Wes’s lightweight nature.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “Warm, nice, kind, despite how you might appear.”

Joven lets the words he’s been itching to say fall. “I’m the last person you think he’d go to try and find you, right?”

His lips are as soft as Joven expected them to be, puckered slightly so that he can feel the warmth beneath them. He tips his head down, finding his hands buried deep in Wes’s hair, thick and silver between his fingertips.

It feels wrong, but he’s too tired and too tipsy to care. Wes holds him like he might break, and if Joven were honest with himself, (a rare occurrence), he would feel the same way. His hands grow rough around Joven’s face, moving his lips down a trail from the corner of his mouth, to his cheek, and finally to the curve of his neck.

--- < / > ---

unfinished greek myth au! from the smosh writing week 2019

They say the gods are dead.

The old gods, the ones from the many, many, many stories told again and again, wrapped, packaged, and tightened up tight with new paper and pretty bows, but the same bare essentials. The old gods with powers that cracks the earth open to swallow sinners whole, the hands that lifted from the sea to snap ships in two, and the voices that spoke with such majesty that they burned the brain from the inside out. The old gods that were sung of in poetry and prose, and drawn and sculpted and painted until skin ran raw, and voices slowly dwindled into the crackle of distant thunder.

These gods are not dead. In fact, they meet for coffee every other Saturday at a tiny coffee bar on some small street of a somewhat large city. Hermes always chooses, and Apollo has stopped complaining, and all is right in the world.

Hermes has decided that this week their meeting will take place in a coffeeshop in downtown Madison. (Madison, Wisconsin to be precise, not to be confused with Madison, New Jersey, or even Madisön, Germany. There’s a very good reason Chicago, Nevada no longer exists.)

He arrives first, his feet carrying him nimbly, carried by a pair of black sneakers trim with small golden wing decals on either side. His lips run motor-mouthed to the barista as he lists off several extravagant coffee, tea, juice, and pastry orders for each of his friends to come.

“Name for the order?” The barista tips his head to the side just a little, and the god smiles.

“Noah,” his grin stretches warmly.

The god has chosen the body of a dirt-poor, dog-tired millennial to show as his face for the new era. It seems to make perfect sense, a god of messengers and travellers, and those left behind. His hair is sometimes colored, and for some reason his body clad in strange patterns and colors that even he, one who has seen much in his lifetime, still can’t quite understand.

He goes by Noah in his everyday. Noah the Uber driver, Noah the Postmates deliver, Noah, that kid from down the street. His face is accessible, approachable, friendly even. He’s always been the most agreeable out of all of his family, and even still, found himself appearing that way.

The barista scratches it down before handing it off to another employee. He leans a bit closer as he turns the monitor towards the god to sign. “Intern coffee run?” His face is sympathetic, and the god of travellers and mischief feels himself will good fortune towards the man.

“Something like that,” is his soft reply.

Noah sits along the windows in the front, watching traffic as it passes. Cars move cleanly, bikes in perfect tandem with pedestrians, who flit in perfect motions like spiraling schools of fish, always coming close to collision, by stepping away at just the right second.

Then there is a hush over the coffee shop, the soft, rustling of words being passed through lips, and spread through the room like wildfire. Noah is used to these silences, and without even so much as turning around, he could tell exactly which of his family had stepped into the room.

The words were light, and a rush of warmth flooded through the room, accompanied by the smell of rose and a hint of something sweeter.

Aphrodite, in all of her loveliness, had entered the building. Perfect skin, dark hair that fluttered and flowed across her body like raindrops trailing a window, and eyes that twinkled like starlight. Her lips twisted up as she searched the room, her eyebrows knitting slowly as she surveyed the eyes and the expressions that watched her, until she fell to the only one that managed to return her gaze with no lust in their eyes.

Her heels clicked the floor into submission, the bottom of her dress, white with small polka-dots arranged neatly in lines, fluttered about in an invisible wind. A bubblegum pink purse cinched over her shoulder, hanging down at a black belt that wrapped around her waist.

“Am I the first one here for once?” Her words are honey-sweet, layered with a warmth best described by the feeling of curling under a heavy blanket on a night where ice bit at the windows.

“Apparently,” he nods in return.

She sets her things down with a thump, moving with intentional grace into the seat. The goddess takes her phone from the purse, opening some colorful app that Noah never found the time to download. He watches as she snaps a few photos of herself, of the coffeeshop, of her shoes, and even one or two of him.

Her choice to live as an internet darling was something he found made his skin crawl. The thought of all of those eyes on him at once, the fact that he could never slip between the cracks and disappear, that his life would be documented like that forever and ever in such a horrible, vain way, he was not the sort of god who liked the attention like his siblings.

The goddess of love had chosen the face of a pretty young woman who shared nothing in common with him besides their age. Her name is Olivia Sui now, an emphasis on Sui. The times she’s tried to describe the importance of her last name to him had gone through one ear and out the other. It was something about ‘branding’, something he still didn’t quite entirely get the swing of.

“Please tell me you got my order right this time,” she flips through her phone. He peers over her screen, noting the several dating apps blowing up with notifications, and the folders upon folders of photo editing and video recording software.

“Vanilla frappuccino with one pump of rose sweetener and almond milk.”

“Good,” she nods.

Her phone disappears into her pocket as soon as the two both notice another hush that moves over the coffeeshop. Hermes feels not one, but two waves move across, both inherently similar to one another, and yet, as different as if they were standing at the edge of where the shadows meet light.

Artemis steps forward first, lean and lithe, but muscles ripple under the curving nature of an olive green muscle shirt. A bomber jacket is tied around her waist, shimmering with silver against dark black jeans, and boots that glow like tarnished metal. Honey brown hair flicks around her shoulders like the ears of a wary animal. Her eyes match her shirt in color, but they match her arms in their message. Wrapped around her chest, closed off, about as guarded as a person can get.

Apollo, on the other hand, brightens up the room as if he were glowing. Deep, toned skin, and a smile that could put anyone at ease. He was wearing some sort of hat, small dreads of black hair falling from beneath it, and some sort of clothing ensemble of red, orange, gold, and black that Hermes couldn’t quite tell went together. It was something off of the runway, and something that Hermes knew he’d never truly get.

--- < / > ---

barista damien & struggling actor courtney au - damien haas/courtney miller

It was nearly nine, and Courtney was in desperate need of a smoothie.

After her last work out, she deserved it, she really did. Two full hours of cardio and running on that damn treadmill. Her body was about to collapse, her hair was a twisting mess of sweat and salt, and she felt like her feet might give out on her if she didn’t sit down soon.

With her gym bag in one hand, and her headphones twisted around the other, Courtney pushed the door open to the mostly deserted cafe. It was always quiet here, the shop closed at ten, to try to catch the last stragglers from the movie theater across the street, or the gym rats like her, who were trying to get in a workout after an audition, or a long day of work, or maybe just treating themselves for going to lift some weights after sitting on their ass all day.

The lights were dimmed after sundown, to try and save power, she guessed, or possibly to save money for their corporate overlords, whatever ideology came first. It smelled like milk and fruit, and the occasional note of coffee, with an overwhelming hue of the humming metallic machines that did most of the work the cafe boasted was ‘handmade’.

Courtney hiked up her sweatpants, rubbing her nose on the back of her hand as she rounded to the counter. Her fingers were diving into her bag for her wallet before she could even look up to address her friendly neighborhood barista. She’d gotten to know the closing shift workers well. Courtney rarely did daytime workouts anymore, but that was for...other reasons. Ex-boyfriend reasons.

Today was Tuesday, and Olivia Sui, a somewhat bored, but overall cheerful almost-actor, always took the Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday closing shifts.

“Hey, Olivia.” Courtney tossed the ten dollar bill on the table with one hand, digging in her wallet for the exact change she was sure she’d had this morning. “I’ll take the usual.”

“Olivia?” Courtney felt herself freeze. She lifted her head to see a pair of wide amber eyes blinking back at her. Her eyes focused on the face, drawing outwards from those eyes, deep and brown in the dim lights. She caught a freckle on a cheek, and a thin layer of dark facial hair that spread around face’s lips, which drew back to reveal a bright smile. “I’m not Olivia, sorry to disappoint,” the words were half laughed and half spoken.

“You’re, um, you’re...you’re-”

“Not Olivia?” He laughed, his eyes crinkling up at the edges ever so slightly. “I’m the new hire, I think Olivia moved her shifts around. She was here earlier, if you’re looking for her.”

“Uh...no, just.” Courtney finally caught herself. She felt her brain return from the sudden stupor it had found itself in. “Sorry about that,” she eased herself into a smile. Courtney tucked a stray piece of hair behind her head. “I’m just used to seeing her here after my workouts.”

“Gym girl!” He snapped his fingers. “She told me to look out for you. You like...strawberry smoothies with a pinch of…” he narrowed his eyes. “Matcha powder?”

She blinked incredulously. “That’s my order, yeah. How did you remember that?”

“I’ve got a weird memory. Horrible for anything useful, but great for random stuff.” The barista smiled again. It was easy and kind, the sort of smile that you fell into like a mound of pillows. “I’ll get you your smoothie.”

She surprised at how intently she watched him work. Courtney had never watched Olivia make it before, but there was something about his hands. They moved like a conductor’s, swift and decisive, or long and drawn, as if he were moving his hands through water. He popped the top on the smoothie, handing her a straw in paper wrapping.

“Here you are.”

“Thanks,” her eyes flick to his name tag. “Damien.”

“Of course,” he smiled, his cheeks pushing up to make his eyes crinkle together. “You’re welcome…” She returned his expression. “Courtney.”

“Courtney.” She almost couldn’t look away from him as she grabs her change. “Please, come again.”

The words sounded like the rehearsed jargon of the company, but they felt genuine. “I will,” she grinned. “Definitely.”

>---♥--->

“Ms. Courtney, you’ve made your glorious return.” Damien leaned against the edge of the counter. He had that same easy smile as always.

“Seems I have.” She dug through her pocket to pull out her wallet and change. Courtney set it down on the table as she put her things back where they belonged. “At all busy tonight?”

Damien shook his head as he started on the smoothie. “Quiet. It’s nice. I like working this shift better.”

“I never asked, why do you work the night shift?”

“I work another job during the day, and I can only fit this in at night, but I need the cash so…”

“You suffer?”

“That’s LA for you.” He nodded to her as he measured out a teaspoon of the matcha powder. “What about you? What do you do?”

“Acting, movie business, that kind of stuff.”

He tipped his head back, nodding in that ‘oh, that makes sense’, sort of way. “Lots of people out here are like that. I’m friends with a lot of actor types, and only one ever made it anywhere with it, and he still works another job besides it.”

“That’s LA for you,” she repeated his sentiment. He grinned at the words.

Damien handed her the smoothie and he change. “Have a nice evening, Ms. Courtney.”

>---♥--->

When Courtney returned the next night, Olivia was again behind the counter.

“Hey there,” she smiled. “Good to see you. Strawberry smoothie, matcha?”

“Yep,” Courtney returned her expression. She paused for a second, considering her words. “I met the new guy, Damien?”

“You did?” Olivia grinned from ear to ear. “What did you think of him?”

“He knew my smoothie order.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you talk about me a lot or something?”

“I just went over the regulars, but he’s got a crack memory, apparently. He could remember everyone’s shift details to like, the minute.”

“But yeah, he’s cool.”

>---♥--->

“Just ask him out already jeezus.”

“It’s not that easy!”

“Of course it’s easy.” Shayne turned to face her from where they were walking along the strip of street by the gym, and cafe, she frequented. “You just say, hey, wanna grab coffee sometime, or something like that..” he paused. “I guess he works in a cafe, so maybe ask if he wants to get lunch sometime?”

“I’m not asking him out, Shayne.”

“Then you have to stop talking about him every damn hour.”

“I don't-”

“Don’t make me show you the notes sheet on my phone, because I will, Miller, don’t test me.”

“You’re over-exaggerating.”

“Am I?” He lifted his hands in exasperating. “When do I ever over-exaggerate. I neeeever over-exaggerate. It’s not like I act for a living or anything.”

“Shut up Shayne,” she slapped him in the chest.

“Now that hurt,” he pouted. “And please, please, just ask him out. Or I swear, I’ll do it for you.”

--- < / > ---

#cass clears out her drafts #my writing #fic #smosh fic

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