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twogyuu · 1 year

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Second Chance

Pairing: Junhui x fem!reader

Synopsis: World-class professional boxer, Moon Junhui has everything a man could desire: good-looks, money, fame, power, and a beautiful fiancé. Yet, there’s a void in his heart that cannot be filled despite the countless number of golden trophies and diamond encrusted belts lining the walls of his home. If he had a second chance to do this all over again, would he have chosen differently?

Genre: Fluff, crack(?), angst, boxer!au, time travel!au, forbidden relationship, amateur boxer!jun, coach's daughter!reader, older brother figure!Cheol, inspired by 'Tear' by BTS

Warnings: Fist-to-fist combat, minor inaccuracies about boxing (I did some research and pulled from what I know from watching with my siblings), reader cheats (playfully), italics refer to a past life (if this were a movie, imagine the scenes of both lives being shown simultaneously in parallel - yet the outcome doesn't change . . .)

WC: ~1.5k

A/N: I think the FML ver. 3 album was my sign to post at the very least a drabble/snippet from this giant writing project that I've been working on and off on for the past year and a half 🤧 Surprise :') There was a reason I never really wrote for Moon Jun. I was invested, but on and off writing for this fic that's already gotten to 22k words, but is still less than halfway finished 😭

If people enjoy this enough, just maybe . . . I'll consider turning it into a series? Idk . . . with the new job and all the transition stuff, I can't make any promises like I did with 'Terrifyingly Innocent.' Do know that I hold this fic near and dear to my heart and would do it in a heartbeat if the circumstances were different.

Last but not least, I'm also sharing this small snippet for the lovely @sleeplessdawn - though we met under "special" circumstances lol, I'm glad we did 💙 Thank you for always indulging in my insane dreams and writing ideas hehehe.

A long time ago, Jun decided he didn’t believe in fate.

If fate was real, his then selfish decisions wouldn’t have led him astray from you.

If fate was real, he wouldn’t have followed his head and his greed and chose you instead.

If fate was real, despite the challenges, it would've been you by his side at the gala, dressed to the nines with a heavy rock on your finger wrapped around your finger, signifying the promise of his undying love for you.

Yet, everything that has led him here, back to you in these moments in his youth that at the time he didn’t know were precious and fleeting, has him questioning his own beliefs.

The loose bands of the ring snapped against the corner board and vibrated the floor as you swung your legs inside. Hands wrapped in black and the soles of your feet dusted in chalk, you rolled your shoulders back and bounced on your feet to loosen your muscles before the fight.

Jun cleared his throat and turned so his back was facing you. He grabbed onto the thick rubber band, clenching and unclenching his fists around it as he strategized his plan against you, his mind wandering back to his first life when you had challenged him to a fight.

The conditions were the same: if Jun won, you would go on a date with him. If you won, he’d mop the floors in your steed for a month.

It started much the same as today: the gray hoodie with the sleeves cut off, the black hand wrapping, the plume of smoke that fogged over your feet with every hop, your hair swept back and the few strays of hair that made you look like a dandelion.

You cracked your neck with the tilt of your head to the right side, raising your arms into position.

“Break a leg, Moon Jun,” you taunted.

He found it endearing – trash talk didn’t suit you, but the attempt was appreciated. Jun only responded with a small smile as he took a few steps closer and mirrored your stance.

Seungcheol, refereeing the fight, stood relaxed to the side with a stopwatch in his hand. With a quick flick of his wrist, he started the time and announced the beginning of the game.

Jun was quick to learn, you weren’t strong, but you were swift. Your reflexes were a boxer’s dream – Jun was fast, but you happened to be a beat faster. Every hook, every jab, every cross, you were able to dodge, returning them on the opposite side with a quick slap of your knuckles against his rib cage or a tap on his shoulder.

Lips parted in a pant, beads of sweat starting to roll down his temple as he tried to keep up with you, Jun grew frustrated, his chest burning with both fury, and well, frankly, heartache. The tight squeeze around his heart every time you slipped out of his reach was just another painful reminder of how much he wanted you, but couldn’t.

His heart yearned for you – at least just one fair chance.

The situation wasn’t ideal and a part of him wanted to believe Seungcheol.

You were the coach’s daughter and though it could go very right, if Jun pursued you out of lust, this could end very tragically and jeopardize not only his career, but that of his team and his coach.

Yet knowing this, a part of him wanted to take the chance, and he’d like to think you did too. Perhaps he was being dramatic, but you seemed to fit so perfectly into his life – as if everything fell into place and felt whole since meeting you.

It’s why despite Seungcheol’s look of disappointment and behind your father’s back, Jun had mustered up his courage to ask you on a simple date.

But why did you have to make it so difficult?

Jun noticed a weak point in your defense as you tried to steady yourself on your feet after ducking under one of his hooks.

It happened so quickly, yet so slow.

A smirk painted his lips as he took note of the opportunity. Eyes flickering to you, he met your own gaze of horror as this once, you were the one a beat behind. Jun swung his left arm, his plan to take you down once he unstabilized your stance.

Yet, it seemed like you had one more trick up your sleeve – an illegal one, but still one more trick.

Just as his fist was about to meet your side, you fell to your right knee, extending out a leg and sweeping it right under him. Jun felt his legs give out, the slip of one foot and suddenly he was on his back. A groan left his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut in pain. It wasn’t only his heart aching now, but his back too.

He attempted to get up in all his stupor – a fight had to go on if he wanted this date to happen, but he found himself unable to. Eyes squinting open, he was met with your own sweaty face hanging inches above his own, your weight settled on his lower abdomen as you straddled his hips from getting up.

When you finally came into clear view, Jun noted a mischievous glint in your expression. His lips fell agape like a guppy fish – stupidly mesmerized by you, yet embarrassed to be in this compromising position.

His ears were ringing, but he was still able to make out muffled sounds of Seungcheol’s worried shouts and the intermittent scolding of you using your legs when this was boxing. You were quickly ushered off of Jun, Seungcheol waving a hand and calling his name to make sure the former was okay.

“Yah! Moon Junhui!” Seungcheol shouted as he jolted his friend’s shoulder.

He blinked a few times before shaking his head and coming out of your trance. Even though it was Seungcheol in front of him, his eyes followed you, lingering in the background – the triumphant smirk slowly melting off and being replaced by a look of worry the longer Jun stayed down.

“Moon Jun–”

“I’m fine! Stop!” Jun waved off his friend.

“How’s your head? Can you see okay? How many fingers am I holding up?” Seungcheol rambled.

“I’m fine,” Jun repeated himself as he tried to get up. He winced at the ache between his scapulae. Noticing, Seungcheol supported Jun’s weight on one side, muttering a string of curse words and scolds about your sweep kick.

“I’ll see you for ice cream tomorrow,” you called from the side of the ring. Jun looked up to find you, one leg hanging in the ring, the other one already ready to hop out. Perhaps he was still seeing stars after the fall, but he could’ve sworn he saw you wink.The corner of your lip twitched up into a small smile. You chortled, “Consider it a date.”

If fate was real, it didn’t matter if you beat him or if he beat you.

In this life, it was now Jun straddling your hips, an elbow gently pressed across your chest to stop you from struggling against him though you had already stilled. You stared back at him, cheeks warm and eyes wide in surprise at the way his own flitted across your face, the crease between his brows forming ever so slightly as if to seriously memorize every subtle feature and every crevice.

Because fate was real and it led him back to you.

You tapped his arm with your pointer finger to signal that you yielded and end the fight. However, he remained in the position, inquisitive – you wondered what he was thinking and what was going through that beautiful mind of his.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Seungcheol shouted as he hurried into the ring. He pulled off Jun by the elbow. “You won, get off her and let her breathe, geeze!”

Jun blinked blankly at Seungcheol a few times, dazed. The older man shook his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth and pushed the lovestruck boy aside.Seungcheol extended a hand to help you get up.

You feigned your cool and content, stretching out your back and paying extra attention to the chalk that had dirtied your black leggings, patting away the white.

“Are you okay?” Seungcheol took you by the shoulders and scanned you up and down. “You know your dad is gonna murder me if anything happens to you, right? At the hands of his prized boxer too!”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” you pushed his hands off your shoulder. You waved your limbs around to prove a point. “Nothing’s broken – see!”

Amidst your bickering, Jun cleared his throat, commanding silence in the ring again. You both looked up at him. He couldn’t help, but notice the way you had suddenly grown sheepish, inching ever so slightly to hide Seungcheol’s broad shoulder.

Like you that day, he smiled.

“I’ll see you for ice cream tomorrow,” Jun announced. He winked, his smile spreading into a grin. “Consider it a date.”

Like you that day, he walked out of the ring with his heart full and warm, but giddy and thumping off-beat than what he was used to.

#jun x reader #junhui x reader #junhui fluff #junhui angst #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen scenarios #junhui scenarios #jun fluff #jun angst #jun scenarios

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the-s1lly-corner · 3 months

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Shut In (Eyeless Jack x reader oneshot!)

Basic plot: its really cold outside, and you urge Jack to stay in your home with you... he decides to stay despite knowing full well that he will be fine out in the freezing temperatures. You both decide to do things to pass the time and stay warm! Turns out Jack can make a mean cup of hot coco, too

Extra notes: I dont usually write fanfics, and the last one I've written was a personal one from late August... so to say I'm rusty and underexperienced is an understatement! I feel this one ended up a little.. weirdly paced imo but I think I'm still happy with the end result! Dialogue I feel I could have done better on but I'm going to be nice to myself since I mostly write hc posts so this is way out of my comfort zone.. Drafted on Tumblr then sent through google docs to pick up on some mistakes I missed, briefly reread no proper proof reading imo... lets hope this isnt a train wreck + it copied back to tumblr okay!! LMAO

Brief joke about pregnancy/making a pregnancy but its like one small snippet but I know that can make people uncomfortable + implies at least one of the characters is AFAB

Word Count: 2915

Extra Admin's note: I want to say again that I am so so happy about this blog hitting 1k followers, when I first started this blog I was originally going to use it to burn time and have something to do on the side, as well as having a place to put out my cringe ideas and hcs. I never thought this many people would be interested in my dumb thoughts, but here we are! I intend to keep writing this year, and perhaps even make more non-celebratory one shots this year? Maybe? I don't know I guess we'll see the reception on this fic!

It was the middle of the night, around the middle of January. Your boyfriend and you were holed up inside your apartment, you having locked the man up with you after seeing that it was below freezing out, as well as raining. You had to practically beg your boyfriend to stay with you for the night.

Your boyfriend, who also just so happened to be a man eating demon with tar dripping out of his hollowed out eye sockets. Your boyfriend, who was currently sitting still and staring forward, the only sound in the apartment coming from the dripping of your faucet. You had asked him to come visit you, it'd been a while... and he would never ever let you go to his cabin when it's this cold out. So here you both were now.

You pat the palms of your hands on your knees, sucking in one of your cheeks and working the flesh through your jaws for a moment. You were both technically stuck in the apartment now; you didn't want Jack to go out and risk getting sick, and Jack more than likely wouldn't want you to step out for the same reasons. So, you were both confined to what you already had within the space. You were about to open your mouth to speak but Jack broke the silence first. "You're shivering, do you want me to get some blankets?", blunt and almost robotic. He was never that expressive. "Or would you like to go to your room?" He added after a brief pause, his fangs poking just over his lip before he readjusted his mouth. You were both in the living room, sitting together on the couch; the front door to your left and a view of the kitchen to the right. You thought for a minute as your eyes lingered on the kitchen for a moment. You'd already eaten, before your partner arrived... but..

"That's fine, I'm probably going to make some hot coco," You pulled yourself up, stretching up. "Powdered stuff ooor..?" Jack mimicked you. You only shook your head, earning a disapproving look from him. "What?" You questioned, but he only dismissed you. "Why don't you get some blankets, I'll handle it," and he turned on his heel to make his way to the kitchen. "Maybe put on a movie, too, your choice." He added as his voice carried off. "Are you saying I can't cook?" You called back, following after him. No answer as he tugged out a pot. "I'll have you know-" you started once more

"Do you have half and half?" He was already opening your pantry to grab things.

"No, I don't,"

"Heavy cream? Whipping cream? Whatever it's called..." He mumbled as he placed various ingredients on the counter. Cocoa powder, vanilla, salt and sugar. You only nodded, and as he was about to begin working he paused. "Do you want anything else in it? Cinnamon? Nutmeg?" He paused and through gritted teeth, "Coffee?"

It was almost midnight, of course he would be opposed to you having caffeine so late.

"Cinnamon is fine," You watched him get to work. He measured everything out; even mixing the heavy cream with some milk to make a substitute for half and half.... was that really all it was? You weren't sure what you expected it to be, if it weren't..

He pulled his head up and stared at you. It was then that you noticed he had actually taken his mask off and set it at the end of the counter and out of the way. The black ooze dripping from his eyes was slow and posed little threat to dripping into your drink. He had a fistful of napkins on standby to dap his face dry should the flow quicken. "Aren't you going to get the blankets?"

You pat your hands on your thighs, pausing... watching him. His body had a warm glow on him from the old light bulb in the ceiling; it flickered every now and then. Under the yellowed light he almost looked healthy and alive, though there was no glint where his eyes should have been. His sharp nail tapping on the counter brought you back to the moment, blinking a few times. "Yeah.." you mumbled, defeated at the chance of making a drink for yourself stolen from you. But was that so bad?

You backed out of the kitchen, dragging your feet across the floor. Your apartment was.. a little on the smaller side so within a few steps you were in front of your bedroom door. You didn't really pay much attention to your surroundings as you shuffled through the blankets on the bed.. eventually you settled on just grabbing an arm full and waddling back to the living room, dumping everything you had grabbed onto the couch.

The house smelled of cinnamon and chocolate.. with a hint of vanilla.

Turning your gaze to the tv, your eyes scanned across the DVDs you had stacked messily. Nothing sounded good. "Is there anything you want specifically?" You called out as you settled yourself down criss cross in front of the tv and pulling all the cases onto the floor next to you. "Movie wise," You added as you pulled the first case into your hands. The DVD collection for Child's Play.. you had gotten it a few weeks ago, finding it on sale at your local store. You still hadn't popped it in to watch..

"I have.. Chucky, uhm..." You shuffled for the next case. "All the movies by the way.. I have that and.. most of the Friday the 13th movies," You called out. No answer, the only sound coming from the kitchen was the noise of a whisk gently being stirred. "I don't have Jason goes to hell... But!" You pulled out a third case with the Nightmare on Elm Street DVDs. "I DO have Freddy vs Jason," You mumbled and spread the three disks on the floor in front of you. Most of the disks you had, you noticed, were mostly older slasher movies. Still, Jack hadn't answered you. You pull yourself to your feet and trudge back into the kitchen. His back was to you, too preoccupied with the stove... He hadn't noticed you, not yet. An idea blossomed in your head, a smirk pulling itself across your lips. You steeled yourself, trying to force yourself to stop shivering.. Jack was always paying attention to his surroundings, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

You take a step forward and he still doesn't notice your approach.

Another step.

And another.

Jack wasn't the tallest, in fact if you wanted to you could rest your chin on his shoulder... and that's what you ended up doing, while wrapping your arms around his thick waist. You could feel his body seize up just a little bit against you, before relaxing. "You didn't answer, what sounds good?" You pulled your eyes down to look at the pot. Your drink was nearly finished. You view rocked as your boyfriend shrugged, still silent but the twitching of his pointed ears let you know he was listening.

"Anything's fine," Another shrug as he cuts the heat. "You're the one cooking for me, you get to pick the movie," You insisted. He paused mid-whisk, letting out a soft huff. Suddenly he spun around, his face just a few inches from yours. In the dimmed light his eye sockets seemed deeper, it's black ooze lazily dripping down his cheeks. You noticed the smudges on his face, from wiping the streaks. You briefly wondered what it was like to sleep with them, but your thoughts were cut short as he pulled a blackened and clawed hand to your hair; tucking a lock behind your ear. "How does...." He paused, sucking in his teeth. He looked almost embarrassed. "Bride of Chucky sound?"

"What? Want to study the characters again so we can dress up again this year for Halloween?" You tease. You had convinced him a few months ago to dress up with you. With him as Chucky, and you as Tiffany... It had taken some begging and convincing but you ultimately got him to agree. Although you didn't go out to get candy, you were both fine with staying inside watching movies together in costume. It was also that night you got him to watch the movies..

His ears darkened, before he scoffed. "No... actually this year I was thinking of..." He took a long pause, visibly scraping his brain for names of characters, before seemingly giving up. "Look I don't watch many movies I don't know any.. characters.." He grimaced, before gently pushing you off of him so he could turn his attention back to the hot cocoa. "We've still got nine months, more than enough time to come up with something..." You shrugged, then smirked. "Not enough time to make a Glen... or Glenda," You teased before turning on your heel. You held back a snicker as you heard Jack splutter, finally processing what you had just said to him.

"W-"

"I'm gonna go ahead and put in the disc, I'll leave it paused for you," You cut him off, still grinning to yourself as you kneeled down to do as you had said.

Soon enough Jack walked into the room with a mug, as well as a platter of cookies. "You didn't have to," You mumbled as you eyed the treats, but he only waved you off as he placed the plate and mug onto the coffee table. "You don't have to eat them, but I figured you might want a snack while watching the movie," He mumbled. You took the mug, and swirled the drink inside of it. "I hope I didn't put in too much cinnamon," Jack added as he watched you. He leaned over and started the movie.

You took a sip, smiling a little as the warmness crept in. "You did good, probably the best hot cocoa I've ever had." You offered a grin to him. "That has got to be the fakest compliment I've ever heard," Jack shot back, though you could see the corners of his mouth turning up just slightly. "Oh, I'm sorry! I believe this is the most decadent and satisfying beverage I've had ever been graced with in my life, and-" You began, only for Jack to hush you. "I'd rather you throw it on me, don't... say words like that again," He grumbled as readjusted himself into the couch. You took a sip and shrugged, "It's just absolutely immaculate," and he lightly smacked you on the arm. "I'm never making anything for you again," He snorted, before turning his attention to the movie.

You weren't going to lie, you felt a little bad treating yourself to the cookies, knowing Jack was unable to eat them without upsetting his stomach. Being a man-eating monster must really be hard. You purse your lips, and shoot a look at him from the corner of your eye. He must have been doing the same, because he turned his head to look at you. "Do you want to do something else?" He asked lightly, his grin from a few minutes ago already faded. "Do you ever miss eating.. food?" You asked before you could stop yourself. He didn't bother pausing the movie, instead he just fell silent and stared down, into the space between the two of you on the couch.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up, I know it's a touchy subject for you," You mumbled and put the mug on the table. You sucked in the air between your teeth, flicking your eyes up to the movie, before bringing them back down to your lap. It stayed like that for a minute before Jack broke the silence. "I mean... yeah, I do. But at least I don't have to eat every day like you do, means I can have more time to do what I want," He said. Clearly, he was still bothered, tip-toeing around the big.. thing about him. The air was still tense and thick, all of the previous joking gone now. It was nearly unbearable. Nearly.

"You know," Jack began after a few more seconds of silence when you didn't reply. "I've never tried cinnamon in hot cocoa, I didn't know that was a thing people did," He was changing the subject. "You haven't?" You asked, raising a brow. He eyed your mug, but you both knew there was no way he was going to take a sip.

"It's really good," You mumbled, and took the drink, "The combo, I mean," You added. He hummed, patting his knees lightly. You swirled the drink again, watching the... what was it called? Those lighter swirls in the drink.. Did that have a name?

"You've had hot cocoa before, right?" You asked. He hummed again, nodding his head. "Well.. the cinnamon makes it warm. Taste wise.. It makes it.." You took a sip and thought for a minute. "Richer, I guess? It's hard to explain," You muttered, then looked back at him. You tore your eyes back down when you saw he was looking right at you, totally hooked onto your words. "I hear nutmeg goes good in it, too.. but I've only tried nutmeg and chocolate together in baked goods," You shrugged. "You did really good with this, you know... not too much cinnamon.. not spicy, at least." You smiled. He nodded, before turning back to the movie.

"Woody, I hear people describe cinnamon like that," He leaned back into the couch, a dull pop came from his back.

"Woody," You repeated, then took a large sip of the hot cocoa. You put the mug down onto the table, and leaned into your boyfriend as the warmth crept and settled into your bones. You weren't even paying attention to the movie, your mind was now occupied with how tired you were. Your eyes slipped up to the clock on the wall, It was nearly one in the morning. Had it only been an hour since Jack walked himself into the kitchen?

You lean deeper into Jack, not caring about his body's natural chill. His clothing still smelled a little like the cocoa from earlier.. "Gotta invest in some cologne, you smell nice like this," You mumbled into his arm. "The cinnamon?" He asked, not looking down at you. "No.. the cocoa, I mean cinnamon would be a nice touch... but you don't seem like a sweet smelling guy, do you?" You muttered. "Are you already getting tired?" Jack asked, and he leaned over you to grab the remote, pausing the movie. You muttered, the heat of the hot cocoa doing way more than you expected on the tiredness you didn't notice you had. "A little," You shrugged, "But we can still try to finish the movie," You offered, but he shook his head. Of course he would, as much of a hard ass or party pooper he came off as, he was going to make sure you were going to get your rest.

You put your hand in his, the one that had the remote.. you unpaused the movie. He paused it, and you unpaused it again. It kind of kept up like this before Jack conceited and kept it playing, although he did lower the volume.. The subtitles were already on, though. "I win," You smirked up at him, before crawling into his lap. You placed your head on his chest, pausing when you felt him stiffen before relaxing against you. His heart beat for a moment before settling to its barely there rhythm. For a minute you thought about asking about his heart, as far as you knew he explained himself like he was becoming a walking corpse... how does that work?

You decided against it, you already asked about him earlier.. and besides, your mind was already beginning to blank as Jack reached to the side of the couch, and turned the lamp off.. It was dark now. It was still raining, you could more clearly hear the drops outside now that the movie was turned down. Plus, Jack was running his fingers through your hair, lightly massaging your scalp. It wouldn't be long until you finally gave in and fell asleep.

"Are you going to still be here in the morning?" You asked, melting into his chest as he hummed in response. "Plan on it, I still need to clean up the kitchen," He added as he curled your hair around his hand. "It'll still be cold in the morning," He added, "I need to make sure you bundle up before you go out for work," He added. "I'm not that dumb," You muttered and lightly slapped his arm. You swear, if he still had his eyes he would have rolled them.

"How do you see? I know you're not.. a normal person, but," You blurted out, lifting your head. He pushed your face back down, shushing you. "Sleep," He ordered, before loosening his hold on you a bit so you could get comfortable. It wasn't an order but it may as well have been with how your body started to loosen into him within the next few minutes, quickly snuffling out your curiosity and questions.

He'd still be here in the morning, you could pester him then. After all, it's what he signed up for when the two of you started to date one another..

#creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x you #creepypasta imagine #eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack x you #eyeless jack imagine #creepypasta fanfic #eyeless jack fanfic

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stylinsoncity · 3 months

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posting this long snippet from the time travel fic i've been writing.. might not make any sense out of context but oh well. i think i'll also post a penn park snippet too. just to confirm for you all that i'm alive and writing lol

“This isn’t Back to the Future, Lou. Everything that’s meant to happen has already happened. Nothing you say can really change that. But it’s bad form and technically violates witch law for us to, like…tell you next week’s winning lottery numbers or something.”

“But it’s not against the rules to bring me here?”

“No,” Harry says. “It’s not like you’ll be going out or interacting with anyone else. You’ll be staying with us.”

“Who’s us?”

Harry peeks at him. He hesitates for a while. “Um. Me…and my husband.”

Louis angles his body to face him. “Husband?”

Harry throws another skittish glance his way.

“So you’re actually…?” Louis wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. “When did you decide for sure you were…?”

“Gay?” Harry supplies. “Maybe it was when you kissed me.”

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back,” Harry says. “Enthusiastically.”

“Whatever. Is that genuinely when you knew? You started snogging boys exclusively from then on?”

“Well, I was snogging a girl just now before we left, as you saw. And a boy,” Harry says. “But yeah, I guess…not long after that party, I decided to stick to blokes. Or just…one, really.”

Louis nearly misses that last bit. “What?”

Harry turns the radio up. “That’s enough questions for now. And we’re almost home.”

Louis goes on staring at him for a bit longer, wondering if he’s understood correctly. Did Harry meet his husband at that party? Was it someone he met the following week? Was Louis that stupid to step aside and let whoever it was take his place? Apparently so.

The mood grows tenser from then on, mostly due to Louis’ adamant silence and sour mood, neither of which he can justify. Did he expect Harry to never marry? Did he expect Harry to marry him?

Louis snorts aloud and sees Harry sneak a look at him. He sinks further into his seat, arms crossed over his chest, and stares through the windscreen for the rest of the ride.

Within the next few minutes, the car slows and turns at the corner of a downward sloping drive. At the end of the drive, as Harry approaches, a garage door rises. Louis didn’t see Harry press any buttons but perhaps it’s automatic.

Then Louis sees him. Or himself. Or his older self. At first he doesn’t believe his eyes. He’s still expecting something dimension-shattering to occur when he’s face to face with a future version of himself. He expects to implode or for Future Louis to fade out of existence. None of that happens, but there’s no denying that the man standing at the door connecting the garage to the house is Louis, eleven years older.

“Trippy, isn’t it?” Harry says, as he cuts the engine. “Ready to meet your future?”

And well, Louis won’t say it aloud because he’d just sound like a dickhead, but his future is quite fit, so the answer is yes. He’s got an actual beard, as opposed to Louis’ vague facial hair. He seems more built and broad around his shoulders and torso. It’s hard to be sure when he’s backlit by the light flowing from the interior of Harry’s home, but even his hair seems shinier and softer. He’s wearing a dark grey knit jumper with the sleeves pushed to his elbows and Louis catches sight of several more tattoos, although he doesn’t get a good look at them before the Older Louis pulls his sleeves down.

Harry pushes his door open, so Louis does the same. And finally meets eyes with himself, unobstructed by the windscreen.

“Forgot how small I was,” Older Louis says and nothing more.

Louis wasn’t expecting to be best mates with his older self or anything, but perhaps they won’t be friends at all. “You’re not exactly Dwayne Johnson, mate.”

Harry snorts, pushing the car door closed. “Don’t start,” he says to Older Louis. He noticeably pats his stomach as he eases past him into the house. It registers as familiar or even flirty to Louis, which is odd but reassuring. At least in the future, in spite of Harry’s husband, they manage to retain their closeness. Harry’s husband must not love that, but clearly Older Louis can’t be arsed.

Louis hears a chorus of barks from further inside and moves more quickly and curiously, eager to see every aspect of Harry’s adult life.

“Shoes off,” Older Louis says to younger Louis at the door. He tacks on a smile. “If you’d be so polite.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him as he shoves his shoes off.

“Come on,” Older Louis says. “I’ll be your tour guide.”

“You don’t even live here,” Louis says.

Older Louis looks at him. “Right,” he says. “Harry just lets me kip here every night ‘cause I don’t have a home of my own.”

“Seriously?”

“The future is tough, mate,” Older Louis says gravely. But just as he turns away, there’s a nearly imperceptible wiggle of his lips that suggests he’d like to laugh.

Louis decides his older self is not to be taken seriously. He’ll get his facts from Harry. Speaking of whom, they find him when they enter the kitchen as he steps inside from the back garden.

“What happened to your dogs?” Louis asks.

“I let them out. Jasper is a senior and when he gets really excited, he wets himself,” Harry says. “And he’ll get really excited seeing two of you.”

“I gave him his meds,” Older Louis says. “Should be fine in a bit.”

“Thanks, babe,” Harry says. His gaze flickers suddenly to younger Louis like he forgot he was there. He clears his throat. “Um, do you want a beer? Or tea? Water?”

“Whatever you’re having,” Louis says.

“Do you like wine?” Harry asks. “I can’t remember if we drank wine at your age.”

“Never too early to start,” Older Louis says. “He’ll like the Malbec.”

“Malbec, it is,” Harry says and goes into a walk-in pantry where he ostensibly keeps the wine. Meanwhile, Older Louis gets three glasses from a cupboard above the sink. He’s really a bit too familiar with Harry’s home. Maybe he is here all the time. Maybe he really doesn’t have a home of his own. Compounded with his imminent death tomorrow, the future doesn’t seem all that bright for Louis. No matter how hot he is.

But his friendship with Harry is a lot to be grateful for. Louis watches Harry and his older self speaking quietly to each other as Harry fills each of the three glasses. He watches Harry laugh at whatever Older Louis says and slap his hand playfully against his chest.

Louis wonders again about Harry’s husband. He wants to ask where he is and when he gets home, but he also never wants him to come home. So long as he’s away, Louis can keep tricking himself into believing he doesn’t exist.

But then he spies the wedding ring on Harry’s finger as Harry hands him a glass of wine and he can’t stop himself from blurting, “Where is he?”

Harry’s brows crease. “Who?”

“Your husband,” Louis says, pointedly.

“Oh.” Harry chews his top lip for a moment. “Why don’t we get comfortable first? Come on.”

Then he takes Louis’ free hand and pulls him off towards the sunken living area. It hasn’t slipped his notice how posh the entire home is. The kitchen was a massive gleaming wonder of marble and bronze. There were five cars in the drive and the first room Louis passed upon entering the home was a gym. He didn’t get a good look at the exterior under the cover of night, but what he could see revealed an expansive upper floor and several outdoor decks.

The living area features two parallel velvet couches, a marble coffee table, and a large flat screen tv mounted above a two-way fireplace. Louis can’t quite tell what’s on the other side of the fireplace but it seems like a formal dining room.

“Your house is fucking amazing,” Louis says, plopping down in a plush leather armchair.

“Thanks,” Harry says, smiling. He sits on the couch across from Louis. “It’s the kind of house you grow into. That’s why we bought it.”

Louis nearly asks if that means Harry has kids, but he has a big greedy gulp of wine instead. He shrivels at the taste initially, finding it bitter and sharp. But then he has another sip and it’s not so much that he likes it, but that he finds it distracting.

Older Louis enters the room much to Louis’ disappointment and takes up the seat right beside Harry.

“I can still get you a beer,” Harry says randomly. “If you don’t like the wine.”

“No,” Louis says. “It’s fine.”

“If there’s anything else you need, just let me know,” Harry says. “I want you to be comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable enough, Haz,” says Louis. “It’s just nice to see where you live in the future, and how well you’ve done for yourself. You deserve all this. The husband, too.”

Older Louis exhales a laugh. “Should I get a box of tissues?”

“Shut up,” Harry says.

“Tell him to shut up,” Older Louis says. “This is embarrassing.”

“If you’re so embarrassed, just leave,” Louis says. “I don’t even get why you’re still here.”

Older Louis groans suddenly and loudly, pressing his fingertips into his eyelids. “There’s no way you’re this daft. No fucking way.”

“Louis,” Harry says. “Please.”

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echoing--stars · 5 months

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Hello worm. For your prompts, maybe Wind trying to show off to Wars how he’s just as much a hero as him despite his age? It can be fluffy or angsty, you decide. Also bonus points if Wind discovers Wars enlisted early and starts calling him a hypocrite

This was an amazing idea! I wish I could write more for it, but I hit a wall of fatigue (thanks flu shot and covid booster cries) so this is all I got. Maybe I'll come back to it!

(If you read this and would like to request a short snippet, see this post!)

Wind was sick of being treated like a kid. He didn't get as many watches as everyone else and never the second watch. They'd stopped early when he'd complained about the walk — even though Legend had been complaining for an hour. He was stuck with guarding civilians while the others battled the monsters. And now Warriors was getting his arm stitched up by Sky after taking a hit meant for Wind. He bided his time, however. Wind was mad but he wasn’t mean. He waited until Sky was finished with the stitches and bandaged Warriors’ arm. And then waited until they’d moved away from the battlefield and made camp. Warriors stood and stretched, then grabbed his waterskin, saying he was going to the nearby stream. Wind grabbed his own waterskin and followed. Warriors didn’t acknowledge his presence, but Wind knew better than to think he hadn’t been noticed. He wasn’t exactly trying to be sneaky, but he’d long since learned to not startle the captain, especially after a battle. When Wind kneeled down next to Warriors to fill his water skin, Warriors turned to look at him. “How are you doing, Sailor?” Wind pulled his waterskin out and slammed the lid back on. He rocked back on his heels before standing up. “How am I doing? I should be asking you that.” Warriors sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. He stood up and stepped away from the water before turning to face Wind. “I’m fine. The cut was small and Sky took care of it.” “You took a hit meant for me.” Warriors froze for a moment, and his eyes met Wind’s. Like this, their height difference seemed greater than normal. “It—” “I’m not a kid, captain! I can fight my own fights! You don’t need to get injured to protect me.” “Sail—Link. That sword was heading for your back while you were engaged with another enemy. It was coming from your left, so you wouldn’t have been able to block it with your shield. I took a calculated risk to save your life.” Wind opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He’d known the enemy was there, had sensed the attack. But he hadn’t realized how dire it almost was. As much as he wanted to believe that he could have escaped the attack, he trusted Warriors’ battle experience to know what he was doing. “Okay fine. What about not letting me take second watch? And me taking fewer watches than everyone else?” Warriors tried to respond, but Wind cut him off. “Or putting me on guard duty while everyone else fought the monsters in Twilight’s world a few weeks ago?” Wind could feel the heat in his cheeks as he ranted. “I am just as much of a hero as anyone else. And I’m sick of being treated otherwise!” Wind took a deep breath. He spoke his final words soft and cold as a steel knife. “And one last thing. I overheard something the other day. That you lied about your age to enlist early. You’re such a hypocrite.” Warriors sighed and his shoulders fell slightly. It was as if he’d aged years just in the past few moments. Wind didn’t feel bad about it in the slightest. Warriors gestured to a fallen log a bit further away from the river. “Sit with me?” Wind huffed, but stomped his way over to the log and sat as far away from Warriors as he comfortably could.

“Link, I know you’re a hero. You’re amazing. Maybe even the best of all of us.” Warriors looked up to the sky where, the stars were just starting to come out. Wind scoffed. Fancy words with no substance behind them. “I’m serious!” Warriors said. “You’re the youngest of us, but your skill in battle rivals even the best fighters among us. You defeated Ganon and saved your world—” “Before you even joined the army,” Wind muttered and crossed his arms. “Exactly.” Warriors rubbed a hand over his eyes. “But that’s exactly why you should get to be a kid sometimes.” That made Wind pause. Warriors took the chance to carry on. “We all grew up too fast. Nearly all of us began our journeys before we reached adulthood. Some of us never stopped once we started, or at least not for many years.” Warriors expression was grim. It reminded Wind of the old man. “If I can give you — and all the younger heroes, for that matter — a chance to be a kid sometimes, I will take that chance. Over and over again.”

#worm writes #linked universe #lu fanfic #lu warriors #lu wind

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squeakykid · 11 months

Text

Reddie week- Day 2- Occupation swap!

My daddy likes boys. I don't know why that's such a big deal. I'm not a dummy. I understand that they don't mean he likes boys just as friends like me and Hank from my class. Otherwise, mommy and daddy wouldn't have broked up. I get it. It's about in love. Like Aladdin and Jasmine. They aren't both boys, but that's okay. I'm sure there are other examples of boys I'm just not thinking of.

Mommy already sees other boys. Daddy comes to watch me when she goes on her "dates" and we watch Bluey on TV or play hungry hungry hippos. Daddy is great at games, but I'm better because I always win. Still, daddy deserves to play games with someone he can beat. Someone he can go on "dates" with. Maybe on a magic carpet. Daddy likes cars, and that's a very cool and special kinda car. I wanna ride on one. Maybe if daddy's boyfriend has a magic carpet I can ride in the backseat and fly up high. That would be cool. That would be super cool.

I started kindergarten in the Fall. I'm in Mr. Tozier's class. He wears funny, colorful shirts and does voices that make me laugh a lot. When we learned about animals he made all the sounds. My favorite was when he made the goose sound. Mr. Tozier is the coolest.

And a boy.

And daddy likes boys.

Then I had an idea. My daddy and Mr. Tozier could be in love! That's a great perfect idea. I just needed to find a way to get daddy and Mr. Tozier to talk. When they talked they would obviously instantly fall in love because they are both awesome and fun and they both love me. It would be the greatest thing to have two daddies!!

I started small. Daddy tells me every day that I'm brave and I decided to prove it. I made sure Mr. Tozier was close and I climbed up higher in the jungle gym than I had ever climbed. The other kids watched and some waved and giggled. By the time Mr. Tozier noticed how high I climbed and started running towards me, it was too late. I bent my knees like a frog. Mr. Tozier saying ribbit ribbit popping into my head as I hopped off the roof (where I definitely wasn't supposed to be) and fell hard onto the ground.

Plop

I yelled and yelled and yelled some more. How was I supposed to know it would hurt THAT much. Mr. Tozier reached me quickly with his kind blue eyes twisted up in worry. "Frankie!" He yelped. "How'd you even get up there?" He was concerned, but I couldn't help but notice he also sounded impressed. This was going perfectly according to plan even though my arm hurt a whole lot.

Mr. Tozier carried me to the nurse's office. "I'm gonna call your parents, okay? Just sit tight buddy." I made a froggy sound and his worry melted away just long enough to do an, admittedly much better, froggy sound.

He rushed out the door. Oh no. "Call my daddy!" I shouted after him, hoping it was loud enough. My voice was usually louder, but my arm hurt too much! I waited to let my tears fall down my cheeks for after Mr. Tozier left. He probably thought I was very brave. Mr. Tozier and daddy will talk about how brave I am all day long until they fall in love.

Daddy didn't come. Mr. Tozier must not have heard me. When I saw mommy come through the door with her arms stretched out like she was ready to clean my dirty cheek with her spit, I cringed a bit and then started crying. This time it wasn't from the pain. Well, it wasn't just from the pain. This was going to be harder than I thought.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47678521/chapters/120180805

This is just the first chapter. I'm posting snippets for reddie week, so I am mentally able to finish them all. Whichever snippets people like, I'll finish! Happy reddie week and pride month!!

#reddie week 2023 #reddie week #reddie #richie and eddie #fanfiction #sunny writes #day 2 occupation swap

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charmwasjess · 1 month

Note

hi! for the choose violence asks: 7 and 13

Hi you!!! Thanks for stopping by ❤️

7: the character I hate not because of canon but because of how fandom acts about them ...well, this is the violence game on the getting too personal website, so I'll get a little too violently personal.

Honestly, a big part of why I stopped writing fic and ultimately left the fandom for over a decade was that I started to hate Dooku. I felt so fed up with having to justify and explain writing him as a Good Master, as a steadfast Jedi, when it felt like the much more popular version was to write him as a grimdark asshole who mainly existed to give angst and whump to Padawan Qui-Gon. (At the time, a major blorbo.) And yes, I got that the guy ultimately becomes a villain, I loved me some Sith era badness fics, but there were so few people writing in pre-prequels era/Dooku's Jedi years as it was, and that idea felt really pervasive. I say "felt." It's funny, over the years I've wondered how accurate my perceptions even were: I had great, supportive friends and a small but wonderful handful of readers, and I was writing mainly in a community of people who cared about the character as much as I did. You know, who was this mean cabal of people who I thought were judging me for not writing him evil enough in his Jedi era?? Was that real, or did I just have that perception because I was an insecure teenager uncomfortable with my own writing and projecting on it?

Over the weekend, I got Boli's kind tag in the WIP Graveyard and I looked at my old account to see about maybe pulling a snippet from my one big WIP from that era. Kind of a cute throwback post. You know, "wanna read my writing from when I was a baby Jess?!" But reading it again made me so unhappy! Not because it was bad or because of not loving my younger self enough or whatever, but that tension in how I was writing Dooku, the way that I could tell how much I was frustrated with and agonizing between how I wanted to write him and how I felt I should write him. How "the good writers" were writing him. The inconsistency all over the page. That's sounds SO dramatic but you know, it was a big deal to me at the time, and I could remember hating that feeling.

I will say now I feel totally differently. Jedi-era Dooku being a categorically good guy or bad guy is missing the point. He isn't an idea I'm defending in an essay, he's a character, he has good days and bad days, triumphs and failures, times when he gets it and times when he totally wipes out. Flaws, loves, moments of valor and moments of ugliness, contradictions, humor, rare sweetness, and above all, the strangeness that makes me love the guy.

13. Worst blorbofication Have you SEEN me with Sifo-Dyas?! My friend, I have no room to be hurling stones about blorbos from my glass house, which is itself shaped like the tragic, yet beautiful figure of Sifo-Dyas.

But probably Obi-Wan. :D I genuinely love him, but just saying... Fandom king blorbo? Probably Obi-Wan.

#and let's be fair CANON Legends Jedi Dooku was a real asshole #he's an absolute walking miserable shit in that damn legacy of the Jedi book #thanks for the ask!!!#and thanks for letting me go kind of wide with my answer I've been thinking about this all weekend #sometimes really nice people who remember me from back when are like why do you not bring your old fics over to your new account #and I think this is what makes me sad about those stories?#it's probably not a coincidence that canon providing a few sympathetic Jedi-era Dooku stories was what got me back into the fandom

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cellsshapedlikestars · 9 months

Note

Seeing all your cool home updates && half-watching some HGTV w/my mom while drawing had a simple prompt idea if you might be interested! Basically HGTV reno show Jonsa - Sansa is a designer and finally gets a chance for her own show but loses Rob (her #1 contractor) to an injury before filming starts && Jon jumps in (either to help Rob /or/ the studio execs (maybe Targs?) throw him in) and the two have to work together somehow. Idk idk, just wanted to share! <3

ANON.

No, you have no idea, I already HAVE a house reno wip. It's not super long, but... yeah. I've got that.

Here, I'll post what I have written of it, since we CAN'T GET ONTO AO3.

this isn't exactly your prompt, though I do honestly love yours a lot and sort of want to change mine. If I changed mine, the show Sansa works on would definitely be like Rehab Addict, where she restores old homes to their prior state instead of making them "modern"

But mine is sort of similar? This snippet is just the set up and doesn't include the part where Sansa decides to start a youtube channel for her renovations, (a la WabiSabE, which I used to watch and was probably the inspiration for this fic when I first started writing it like a year ago lol), and everyone starts shipping her with her contractor Jon, who she keeps forcing to be in the videos because she can't really make them without him being in it...

Sansa winces as her car hits another bump and jolts her in her seat.

“You owe me,” she huffs out, hands tight around the wheel.

“I know, I know,” Robb's voice comes through her sound system and fills the car. He's distracted, she can tell, and she bites back a snippy comment. Robb's just so busy, he couldn't possibly get away.

That's not fair, the small part of her brain that's still being rational thinks. Of course Robb couldn't drop everything and come out to the middle of nowhere to deal with their Great Uncle Brynden's estate. Robb's got a new baby and his job.

Robb's got a baby, Arya's got her tournaments, Bran has school, and Rickon's still underage. All of her siblings have lives they can't get away from. All except her.

No significant other, no kids. A tenuous career that she can technically do from anywhere.

“Oh no,” she breathes, when the house finally comes into sight through the trees.

“What's wrong?” Robb asks, his full attention back on her.

“Robb,” she whines, the car coming to a pathetic, rolling stop on the overgrown gravel drive. “It's a mess.”

“A mess?”

She doesn't answer, too busy staring at the mansion in front of her. Or, what used to be a mansion, she thinks.

It's still vaguely house-shaped, but... The roof is missing shingles in multiple places, the windows all seem busted out. The steps up to the covered front porch are fine, but the porch itself has a massive sinkhole, and half the wood looks rotted and ready to crumble.

Gods, if this is what the outside looks like...

“What kind of a mess?” Robb asks. She's just about to start listing the many problems when she hears another car approaching.

“I've gotta go,” she tells Robb. “I think the lawyer's here.” She hangs up before Robb can answer, and watches the other car slowly emerge through the trees up the bumpy road, past the broken gates, and onto the circular gravel drive. It stops behind her and a man gets out. She gets out, too, phone clutched in her hand, just in case.

“Miss Stark?” the man asks, and his face splits into a kind smile when she nods. “Perfect, perfect. I'm Samwell Tarly. It's nice to finally meet you.”

Sansa moves forward to shake the lawyer's hand. He isn't what she was expecting. He's young, for one – maybe only a few years older than her. And he seems just as nice in person as he'd been over the phone. She didn't think lawyers came in nice.

“We should have met at your office,” she says, eyeing up the weeds sprouting from between the gravel and brushing against her ankles. “I didn't realize the road here would be so...”

Mr. Tarly laughs. “This place has been abandoned for quite some time,” he agrees. “I never met Brynden myself, but I’d heard about him. Apparently he decided to up and travel the world and left this…”

Sansa looks back at the crumbling mansion and feels her face scrunch up. She tries to smooth it out. “So, how fast do you think I can sell this?” she asks.

That’s when Mr. Tarly’s smile falters. “Well,” he starts, hesitant, “you see, it’s in such a poor state, I can’t imagine anyone would be willing to buy it.”

“But the land must be worth something? They can just knock it down and-”

“Ah,” Mr. Tarly winces, and Sansa’s sentence breaks off, unfinished. “I suppose you didn’t read all the fine print?” At the slow shake of her head, he grimaces. “Riverrun Manor is a historic property. You, legally, are not allowed to tear the structure down. Anything you do needs to go through lots of committee approvals…”

“So what you’re saying,” Sansa says, closing her eyes as reality crashes down around her, “is that literally no one is going to want to buy this.”

“Maybe if you find someone who’s both very rich, and very interested in Riverlands history?”

She opens her eyes and there must be a glare on her face, because Mr. Tarly winces again.

Then she turns back to the manor, and really looks at it this time. Beneath the grime and the moss and the crumbling wood, she can see what it used to be.

“What if I fixed it up a bit?” she asks, turning back to the lawyer. “What if I just did the major repairs, do you think someone would buy it then?”

She doesn’t want to do that, but it beats letting the property sit around even longer and paying the taxes on it. Or, worse, not paying the taxes and having that on her and her sibling’s financial records.

“I’m not a real estate agent,” Mr. Tarly responds, looking at the building thoughtfully. “But this is a good location, lots of historic stuff around. I wouldn’t doubt you could sell it if the building weren’t… well, that.” He waves his hand towards the manor.

“Alright,” she nods. “Maybe we should head to your office to do the paperwork, though? Then I’ll… I guess I’ll look for a contractor?”

Sam nods, and a bright smile lights his face again. “Oh, I know someone you can call!”

#cellsshapedlikeasks #jonsa #jonsa fic #ao3 come back

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auxiliarydetective · 2 months

Text

Sanji/Cora/Zoro Fic Snippets, Part 1

I got a very lovely ask from @starcrossedjedis to write some fic snippets for my girl Cora and her boyfriends, so that's what I did. There are a lot of snippets, so they'll be in multiple parts! Prepare for lots of softness!

I made sure to put a bit more emphasis on Zoro this time, because my focus has been on Sanji these last few days - for obvious reasons - and I feel like I've been neglecting my beloved mosshead, so...

Hope you enjoy!

Note: These fics aren't in chronological order but in the order that the hearts for the prompts are in in the ask. The ask itself is gonna be posted with the very last part of the snippets. Also, I can't find one of the hearts from the ask in the prompt list (this one 🩷), so I'll just take it as a wildcard to pick a prompt from the remaining ones <3

❤️ First Kiss/Realization

Zoro was internally grumbling the entire time as Chopper kept performing various tests on him. All he had done was jump into ice water and get snowed in by an avalanche, what was the big deal? He wasn’t bleeding or anything. This little reindeer was just overbearing.

“Take off your shirt, please,” Chopper said. “I need to listen to your heartbeat.”

With a quiet sigh, Zoro pulled his shirt over his head.

This was really starting to get boring. The door to the examination room was slightly ajar and Zoro could hear the chatter outside. Usopp seemed to be telling another one of his stories, and Nami and Cora were listening, throwing in little remarks. A gust of wind opened the door a little further, just enough for Cora to become visible from Zoro’s point of view. Then, she laughed, and it felt like a flare went off in Zoro’s chest.

“Zoro?” Chopper asked, lifting his stethoscope from Zoro’s chest.

“Hm?” Zoro replied, the little smile that had formed on his face fading as he looked back down at the little reindeer.

“Your pulse got faster all of a sudden.”

“Oh. Yeah, it does that sometimes.”

For some reason, Chopper looked a little worried. “At random or in specific situations?”

Zoro furrowed his brows a little as he thought about it. “I dunno. I think it has to do with Cora most of the time. Maybe she did something wrong when she stitched me back together or something.”

“Oh!” Chopper gasped, his eyes widened with joy. “No, she didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just in love, silly!”

Immediately, Zoro’s body went rigid and his hand shot forwards to cover Chopper’s mouth. “Shut up!” he growled. “Someone’s gonna hear you. I’m not in love, and you know it!”

Chopper just nodded slowly, more intimidated than in agreement. It wasn’t enough that Nami was constantly teasing him about how he had a soft spot for Cora – he did, there was no denying that anymore, even if he tried – so Chopper really shouldn’t be joining in too.

“Can I go now?”

Once again, Chopper just nodded. “You seem healthy to me.”

“Good.”

Muttering curses under his breath, Zoro picked up his swords and left the room. But he didn’t get too far before Cora spotted him.

“Hey, Zoro! So you really didn’t catch a cold then?”

“Hm.” Zoro just responded.

“Oh come on,” Nami scoffed. “You’re still sulking? Cora saved us from turning into wax, you better be grateful!”

“Yeah, but she stole my swords in the process!”

“That way they didn’t turn to wax, you idiot,” Cora hissed.

“Whatever.”

“Oh, forget it. You’re gonna have to talk to me eventually. – Chopper!”

Cora’s tone changed instantly when she saw the little reindeer come out of the examination room.

“Look, I finished the jacket I promised to make you!”

With a bright smile on her face, Cora revealed a dark pink jacket from behind her back, small enough to fit a doll. Small enough to fit Chopper. She helped Chopper put it on, biting her lip in a small wave of anxiety. But as soon as Chopper had the jacket on, she was smiling again. He spun around in circles, looked at himself from every angle, thanked Cora over and over again. All the while, Nami and Usopp made little comments, praising both Cora and Chopper to their hearts’ content. Cora was blushing lightly, telling Chopper about her thoughts while designing the jacket, about the purpose of the various hems, about the properties of the fabric.

Zoro didn’t even notice that he had been staring until the thumping in his chest reminded him of reality. Why didn’t she ever talk to him like that? And why did she have to look so goddamn pretty blushing like that? Who had given her the right to be this pretty in the first place? And why did her lips have to look so freaking soft?! Wait…

“Fuck.”

Kissing in Bed/Lazy Kiss/Cuddling

The sun was shining in through the windows, shedding a gentle light on the mat laid out in the middle of the room. On it, Cora, Sanji and Zoro were sleeping peacefully, a tangle of limbs under their jackets and a blanket. It was the morning after a party and everything was quiet, the entire world seeming happily exhausted after such a big celebration. They had done it yet again. A seemingly unbeatable foe, defeated by a bunch of unruly pirates with a rubber boy for a captain. Now, for a few days, everything was alright again in the life of the Straw Hat Pirates. Until the next inevitable chaos, of course, but that was still in the future. What counted was now.

Sanji was the first to wake up, still groggy from sleep and at least a little tipsy from the lingering alcohol in his veins. When he finally registered where he was and who was with him, warmth spread in his chest and he couldn’t help but smile.

Cora was snuggled up to his chest, looking absolutely adorable in Zoro’s t-shirt, and completely peaceful. Zoro himself was cuddling her from behind, his nose resting atop her messy hair, his arm wrapped around her above Sanji’s, one of his hands tucked into a whole between the buttons on Sanji’s shirt.

Carefully, Sanji uncurled his arm from around Cora’s waist, then lifted Zoro’s hand out of its space in his shirt. Just as he was slowly wiggling his way away from the others, Zoro grabbed him by the shirt.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” he mumbled, sounding like he was still at least halfway asleep.

“To make breakfast,” Sanji whispered.

“No, you’re not.”

“Don’t feel like breakfast in bed?”

“I feel like sleeping. And Cora’s sleeping too for once, so if she wakes up because you left, I’m gonna take your head.”

Sanji bit his tongue from cooing teasingly, resorting to quiet chuckle instead. “Are you?” he winked.

“Shut up,” Zoro grumbled, but there was a smirk on his face.

As Sanji carefully snuck back into his old position, Zoro opened his eyes, blinking against the light. He gently picked up Cora’s arm and draped it back over Sanji’s torso. As if she recognized him by her side, be it by smell or by shape or by the feel of his clothes, Cora instinctively pulled herself closer against Sanji, grabbing the back of his shirt before her movements stilled again, her palm resting against his back.

“Look at her,” he murmured, carefully brushing a strand of Cora’s hair out of her face. “Like she doesn’t have a care in the world.”

“That’s because she doesn’t”, Zoro stated quietly. “She’s sleeping in the safest place there is. I wouldn’t worry if I were her.”

“You’re right. Our little princess,” Sanji sighed.

Carefully, he placed a gentle kiss on her scalp, thereby leaning his forehead against Zoro’s. Sanji ran a finger along Zoro’s jaw and along his neck to his collarbone before resting his hand between Cora’s shoulder blades, between her back and Zoro’s chest, feeling both of their warmth. He closed his eyes again with a content sigh. Maybe they’d stay like this for a few more minutes… Or hours…

Sadly, that plan was starting to look just a little impossible when there was a loud thud outside, followed by Luffy yelling only a second later. Cora stirred in her boyfriends’ arms, her eyes slowly fluttering open.

“Can’t even have one peaceful morning with this crew,” Zoro grumbled.

Then, Usopp joined in outside too, shouting something at Luffy.

“I had such a good dream,” Cora moaned, hiding her face in Sanji’s chest as if that would help to block out reality.

“You did, didn’t you?” Sanji hummed. “Hey, mosshead, you’re the first mate; why don’t you go check what our captain’s up to?”

“You’re the one who tried to get up just a minute ago,” Zoro threw back. “Why don’t you go check?”

Sanji sighed heavily. “Fair point. Might as well make breakfast while I’m up. – Sorry, princess,” he said as he lifted Cora’s arm off of him yet again.

He gave her a soft kiss to the lips, one that Cora barely reciprocated in her sleepy state, then another to the cheek. As gently as he could, he, along with Zoro, helped Cora turn around so that she wouldn’t put too much strain on her injuries. As soon as she got up, they’d surely start hurting, just like they always did. But for now, she got to snuggle into Zoro’s chest as he kept her safe and warm.

“I’ll make you something special, alright?” Sanji promised as he tried to make his wrinkled shirt look at least slightly presentable. Finally, he slipped into his shoes and patted Zoro on the head. “I’m counting on you, mossy,” he said with a smile. Then, he got on his way to find out just what mess the Straw Hats’ captain had started now.

Taglist: @starcrossedjedis @oneirataxia-girl @daughter-of-melpomene @supermarine-silvally - let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

#one piece #one piece live action #one piece oc #opla oc #fyeahonepieceocs #oc: akaito coraline #otp: you wouldn't fight a katana with a rapier #ot3: the prince. the princess. the knight.#fanfiction #ask #<- technically

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yuesya · 6 months

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When I read the way you described Megumi in the daughter au as the "reluctant babysitter", the first thing that came to me is that: "Damn, Shiki has a walking zoo as a babysitter".

Then came the images of young Megumi and baby Shiki just staring at each other, one in total confusion about what to do with a kid this small, and the other in curiosity with her big blue (cursed) eyes. Then somehow it end up with Divine Dogs being summoned as a playmate for the little girl. (Maybe with some other small Shikigami as well)

On another note, there is something that I have been wondering about: Do you have an estimated number chapters for each arcs before you write, like "This arcs will have X number of chapters, this one Y,..." I have always been curious about how fanfic writers such as yourself planned out your stories.

Also, any chance of all these snippets and aus being posted on AO3 in the, hopefully, near future? I love Zenith and all its glorious Au, but navigating these tags can be a pain in the ass some times. :v

Megumi would be a reluctant babysitter, but still an effective one! I think the Divine Dogs would be very effective in keeping young children preoccupied and out of trouble. The rabbits seem like they would make good playmates too, but at that point in time I don't think they would've been part of his repertoire. Maybe we add some toads for variety haha...

Or, maybe this kickstarts Megumi into working harder to add more shikigami to his roster! Such as: Shiki asks for new shikigami playmates and Megumi tells her he doesn't have any others, and she just kind of nods silently in understanding and doesn't say anything.

The next day Megumi walks through the door a little charred, a little smoking, but with a brand new mini-Nue sitting on his arm.

I don't have an exact number of estimated chapters before I start writing. I can't speak for anyone else, but for me personally, I always have a general idea of the overarching plot and major events before I start writing. Minor details get filled in as I go. Like, for a minor arc I'll tell myself, 'A, B, and C are going to happen,' and that's what I work with. Except sometimes D and E come along for the ride, too, so there's also that...

I do not see myself posting AU snippets on AO3 anytime in the near future, apologies! Like you mentioned, they're rather disorganized and not even written chronologically. Many of them are also responses to Tumblr asks, which only adds to the confusing nature of it all. (For those who are curious, all snippets can be found under the '#Writing' tag.) I have an index of sorts compiled on Ko-fi, but it's still rather disorganized without context. I don't want to post this mess onto AO3 since I think it could very easily get even more confusing.

... I figure that if people are looking through the Tumblr tags, then at least they probably know what they're looking for haha. Apologies for the inconvenience!

Currently I have no plans of posting these snippets on AO3, unless they get developed as proper stories in their own right. Which would probably be a ways into the future, if it ever happens.

#QA #zenith of stars au #daughter au #zenith of stars

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cicada-circuitry · 26 days

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#God tho this does make me want to pull back up that notebook fic snippet i had#of Margo confronting Molly about this too but like with science.#Margo would know. Just saying. She knows. ⃪ does this mean you have Molly/Margo fic?

Hi anon! sorry this is now several days late but boy do I. ( watched FAMK for the first time in February, wound up with Pages and pages of fic snippets (for a couple ships, margo x molly included) in chicken scratch on physical paper which is always a great sign that im being normal about a show, thought I'd cure myself if I just watched the whole thing a second time and absolutely only made it worse. )

I meant to answer this ask by just typing up the quick excerpt of the fic I was talking to myself in the tags about but...... started typing and did not stop. It lives over here now! Was not the one of the notebook fics I thought would see the light of day but you know? why not.

(I assume if you're here you, like me, have already read all the fics to be found but if you have Not read everything in that tag already, highly recommend. this fandom may be small but boy did it have good food on offer when I rolled in four years late fresh off a few episodes and absolutely screaming.)

Since I went ahead and dropped that one on ao3 at like 4am i'll throw in something a little more typical of the the notebook archives - how about this thing that exists entirely bc i noticed that used bookstore you can see beside the Outpost in season 1 and it gave me Ideas

Sometime post crossword-quiz / pre- run-in at the Jazz club.

Margo walks fast past the Outpost on her way over to Bargain Books. When she can, she prefers to park down at the other end of the street and not have to go by that eyesore of a bar in the first place, but when you double the size of the astronaut program with twenty female ascans, you turn street parking into a blood sport. On her salary, no way is she playing chicken with the corvettes, not even to avoid mustering a polite smile for a coworker at his inebriated worst.

Most days, that’s only an issue if she swings by after dark, the hour when everybody’s trickling out and stumbling home for the evening. Otherwise, the dingy whitewashed plywood keeps a nice impenetrable wall between book-seeking passers-by and drunken test pilots. Today, however, a spell of perfect weather is conspiring against her. Someone has the door propped open with a rusty paint can, letting the sound of laughter of clinking glass spill through it onto the sidewalk.

A flash of green catches Margo’s eye before she can make it past. Despite herself, she recognizes that shade in an instant. It’s the flannel shirt she had to reprimand earlier that afternoon for bringing a lit cigarette into the sim. Molly Cobb, bent over a pool table, chin twisted up towards Patty Doyle, grinning like a woman about to win.

Just Margo’s luck that this is the perfect time of day—indoor light matching outdoor light—for Molly to catch her eye straight through the open door as she makes her shot. 8-ball, dead in the pocket.

For no reason she can think of, Margo feels heat rushing up into her cheeks.

She stalks into Bargain Books in a hurry.

The sweater-vested owner behind the front desk gives her the polite nod reserved for a good customer (and disinterested conversationalist) as she beelines for Paperback Fiction. She finished Matheson’s Ride the Nightmare last night— should have picked up two when she noticed how short it was in the first place, but nothing else tickled her fancy when she was in here a week ago, so here she is again, browsing spines. Maybe it's time to cave and finally grab a 10¢ copy of Rosemary's Baby from the stack on the end, seeing as it’s the one highly recommended title in her genre-of-choice the entire country seems to have read in the last couple years, but she already knows the ending (and the entire premise of demonic pregnancy does not appeal for tuning out after the work day).

She’s dubiously eying the back-cover blurb on a Chandler detective thriller instead when a voice over her shoulder says, “Oh, Patty loves this shit.”

To her great chagrin, Margo jumps, gasps, and drops her book. “Jesus, Molly.”

“My bad.”

Molly squats down to pick it up, slouchy brown corduroy flexing over her thighs. She fixes a bend in the cover before offering it back to her, but when Margo tries to take it away, Molly doesn’t let go. Instead, she adopts a playfully quirked brow and tugs it back towards herself inch-by-inch, bringing Margo, frowning, a step closer than she was before. “Came here to see if I could talk you into a drink.”

Margo’s voice comes out approximately four steps too high as she looks around for some explanatory audience and says incredulously, “In there?” with a jerk of her thumb towards the Outpost’s adjoining wall.

“Yeah. NASA central, shithole though it may be, but I never see you around.”

“Well, I’m not an astronaut.”

“Neither are the five white-shirts who monopolize the best booth in the back six nights a week. They don’t check for a pin at the door, Madison. That’d be no way to run a business. It’s a bar. Come have a drink with me.”

“With… you.” She asks because she expects there to be an and. Me and the other ascans. Me and the rest of you white-shirt types in the back. Me and Patty Doyle.

But Molly just raps the cover of The Lady in the Lake with her knuckles and says again, “With me.”

#margo x molly #thx anon!! be warned if you give me an excuse to say literally any words about this show im going to say them!!#whats that tumblr rule about like as long as you put a certain number of tags the next tags don't sort into search?#love to categorize things for myself dont necessarily need the entire fandom tag seeing my questionable 4am fic offerings #is it five tags is that enough?#for all mankind #molly cobb #margo madison #the notebook fic probably mostly wont see the light of day bc its a lot of just going absolutely overkill #writing single protracted conversations about every event that made me mildly insane through the entire show #which does not come together well into something that actually Goes Anywhere or god forbid Actually Ends #but yes lol i very very very much do have fic

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gmariam19 · 19 days

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Well, I'm still working on the other fic snippet I shared-just need those last few lines that wrap it up. So I started another one-shot, the angry one. It's named Shouty Fic on my desktop, so I should probably start thinking about a better title. It's one of those fics I could probably tweak forever but that I will eventually have to stop editing and rewriting and just post. They are almost done arguing, so maybe I'll actually be able to post one of them this week! In the meantime, here's the opening to the Shouty Fic. Thanks for reading!

***

The meeting finally ends, and everyone slowly files out of the new command center. Except Finn. Finn, who had missed the holo-call with the representative from Akiva. Finn, who looks both apologetic and apprehensive. Finn, who Poe misses so much but can’t bear to look at right now, because he is so close to the tipping point. He begins gathering his things, waiting for Finn to speak first, half hoping he doesn’t.

“Look, Poe, I’m sorry,” Finn starts. He’s said that a lot lately. He’s been working hard, Poe knows that. They all have. Finn is learning about the Force, he’s helping Jannah’s company settle former troopers surrendering across the galaxy, and he’s trying to be the co-general he said he would be. Only he’s gone more than he’s not, and Poe is usually general on his own. He misses those first heady days and weeks when they really did lead together, make decisions together. Celebrate every small victory together. He sighs, his earlier anger dissipating into the smothering disappointment he feels most of the time now.

“It’s fine.” Poe turns away, sensing that Finn wants to say more, but determined to avoid the confrontation that’s been brewing for weeks. “But I’m tired, so I’m going to bed. Big meeting coming up.” He didn’t want to go to Akiva to help set up a peacekeeping force, but perhaps it would be good to get away, and at least he might see Wedge and Nora.

“Wait,” Finn says, and Poe can sense the other man’s frustration, which only adds to his own. Finn is standing in the middle of the room, his shoulders tense, his eyes uncertain. “I want to talk about it. We need to talk about it.”

“We?” Poe echoes, turning around with an air of frustration. He’s been having an even harder time than usual controlling his quick-trigger responses, at least when it comes to this. To Finn. “What do we need to talk about?”

“We need to talk about this trip, for one,” Finn replies. “But mostly about us. Why this is happening.” He motions between them. “Why we barely talk, why you’re always so mad at me, why—”

“The trip was already discussed at the meeting. And we don’t talk because you’re not around.” Poe is blunt. Maybe it’s not the whole truth, but it’s the biggest part of it. Finn is simply not there anymore. “That’s why. And I’m not mad, Finn. I’m tired. Literally and figuratively in every sense of the word.” He’s more disappointed than mad, though when he thinks about why he’s disappointed, then he gets angry. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, after the war.

Finn narrows his eyes, shakes his head. “Look, I’m know I’ve been busy, but you have too—”

“I’ve been doing my job,” Poe snaps. “The one I inherited three months ago when Leia died. The one I thought you were going to be a part of, that we were going to do together.” He wasn’t going to go there, but now that he has, maybe it will help him with the deep resentment that has been building for weeks as they drift farther and farther apart. Maybe he should have said something a long time ago.

“I am!” Finn exclaims. “I am a part of it.”

“Doesn’t feel like it. You’ve spent the last three months doing more Jedi training, more trooper support, than—you know, It’s fine.” Poe waves it away. He suddenly doesn’t want to get into it anymore, it’s too much. Easier to bottle it up, like he has been. “We’ve managed, so let’s just forget about it. I’ve got to get ready for Akiva.” The unspoken alone hangs in the air between them.

The look on Finn’s face is confusion crossed with hurt, which doesn’t do anything to lessen Poe’s resentment. What doesn’t the other man understand? Poe has been handling almost everything on his own while Finn trains and travels and occasionally checks in. Finn missed the entire meeting on the upcoming conference on Akiva, when Poe had expected him there. Of course Poe is upset. Then Finn opens his mouth and throws guilt into Poe’s mix of complicated and overwhelming emotions.

“You said you were happy for me,” he says quietly. “That you understood—why I wanted to learn about the Force, why I wanted to work with Jannah. You said you were proud.”

“I was,” Poe says, and Finn’s face falls. Misstep, and he feels bad, he does. No matter what Poe may be going through, he doesn’t want to lash out and hurt Finn. “I am—although sometimes it’s hard. Finn, I do understand, but understanding doesn’t make it any easier when half the galaxy is still putting out the fires of the First Order and the other half is riding my ass about what happens next! I’m tired!”

“You keep saying that,” Finn points out. “But I think you mean something else.”

#star wars #finnpoe #stormpilot #poe dameron #finn #fanfic #writing

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sam-loves-seb · 3 months

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larry fucking seaver sounds like a hillarious fic to read and mama's boy gives off angsty vibes...at least for me

anyway I'd love to know more about them! I'm literally addicted to ur fics🤭

omg hi hello thank u for asking about my worksinthedocs post 💙 you're so sweet, i'm so glad you like my silly little stories

i'll tell you more about them under the cut

larry fucking seaver:

this one is a vignette style fic where it's just little scenes of mickey having to explain his life to larry and/or larry trying to help him in any way he can and mickey begrudgingly accepting it. like, it starts with larry driving mickey to the gallagher house after he gets released, and mickey has to explain to him that it's his boyfriend's house

(i'll give u a longer snippet of this one since i don't have much for the next one)

“So,” Larry pipes up just as some pop song on the car radio fades into a commercial. “It says here that…” He taps on the screen of his phone, reading something from where it sits in its little air vent clip on holder. “1955 South Trumbull is your address on file.” Larry glances over at Mickey. “Is that where we’re going today?” Larry fucking Seaver—of course he gets stuck with a goodie two shoes parole officer. Nothing could ever be easy, right? Mickey’s had parole officers before, most of them assholes, so he knows how to deal with the jerks, and the hard asses, and the fake tough guy routine he was expecting to get. Instead, he gets—whatever the fuck this guy is, and he doesn’t really know what to do with that. But that’s a thought for another time, because right now they’re passing under the L and turning into his old neighborhood, and the thought of going back to the house he was raised in makes his fucking skin crawl. “No. I don’t…” he trails off, the words dying on his tongue. He doesn’t want to go back, doesn’t want to face anyone or anything that might still be lingering between those walls, but he can’t say that. Not out loud, and definitely not to this walking pep talk of a parole officer he just met five minutes ago. “I don’t live there anymore.” “Not a problem, Mr. Milkovich—not a problem at all,” Larry reassures him, tapping his phone screen again after he comes to a stop at a red light. “I’ll just make a note in your file here… Okay! So—where to then?” Mickey hesitates. “North Wallace,” he says. “Take a left up here.” Larry lifts his hands from his phone with a small shrug, nodding to himself as he follows Mickey’s directions. “Okay.” They drive past Trumbull and Mickey doesn’t so much as turn his head to look down it. “Is this your house we’re heading to?” Larry asks, not skeptical, but… curious. Mickey sighs through his nose. “No.” “A relative?” Larry prompts, putting his blinker on and glancing over at Mickey again. “Or a friend, maybe?” And honestly, Mickey kind of hates this question, because this short answer would be yes—friend, lover, family, Ian’s been all of that to him and more for as long as Mickey can remember—but that’s not really the sort of answer Larry’s looking for, and Mickey doubts he could try and explain all that even if it was. He knows he never actually lived in the Gallagher house, not officially, not even technically, all those years ago, but right now that’s the only place Mickey wants to be. He doesn’t give two shits about the house, only cares about what’s inside—specifically, the tall redhead that still sleeps in the same twin-size bed he’s had since the fourth grade. Because the first thing most parolees do when they get out is go home, and, well—Ian Gallagher is the only real home that Mickey’s ever known. That’s a lot to reveal to a parole officer within the first hour of knowing him, Mickey thinks, but he figures he’s going to be seeing a lot of this guy, so he might as well be honest. Might as well get it all out in the open now. Mickey bites at the dry skin on his lip for a second before he finally says, “Boyfriend.” Larry doesn’t say anything. He blinks, then looks over at Mickey for a second too long. “It’s my boyfriend’s place,” Mickey says again, nails pressing into his palms as his hands curl into loose fists. “Well, his family’s. I guess.” For a moment it’s quiet, the only sounds coming from the steady flow of the air conditioning and some boyband singing on the radio. Mickey swallows. Larry taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Huh,” Larry says mostly to himself. Then, a little louder, “Okay.” Mickey’s jaw visibly relaxes, and his shoulders drop a few inches as they pull onto North Wallace. The corner of Larry’s mouth quirks up into a grin. Mickey notices.

there's lots of other little scenes too (some i've written, some i haven't yet), like larry getting mickey the job at old army, mickey telling larry he and ian broke up--then telling him they're engaged, larry wanting to see pictures from the wedding, mickey and ian starting the weed security business and how that works with their parole, etc. etc.

but yeah. that's larry fucking seaver.

mama's boy:

this one is newer and still in an outline phase but it's not super angsty?? like it is, but it has a happy ending

it's basically a what if story, like what if: mickey's mom didn't die, she just left when they were kids. what if she's still out there somewhere, and sometime post-canon she's finally clean and sober and wondering about the kids she left behind all those years ago so she's slowly tracking them down one by one, and she shows up at apartment 218 one day to find a tall redhead answering the door that allegedly belongs to her son.

and mickey looks like he's seen a ghost, because he just assumed she fucked off and died somewhere outside of chicago, and that's why she never came back. but now she's here. in their apartment.

and she's telling him that his roommate seems nice and mickey's brain is still trying to process the fact that his mom is alive and sitting on his goddamn couch and she knows absolutely nothing about him.

so he tells her.

and it takes a while for mickey to loosen up around her, but ian is so excited for him, for both of them, because he knows what it's like to lose a mother--one that leaves--and as much as he hated monica, he loved her too, and he misses her more than he cares to admit

so he's not going to let his husband throw away a chance to have his mom in his life. not until he knows her a little bit first.

idk i just thought it was a neat idea, so. we'll see where i go with that one.

thanks for the ask! if anyone wants to know more about any of the fics in my worksinthedocs list, feel free to send me an ask 💙

#i kinda forgot about larry fucking seaver before this #maybe i'll go back to that soon #ask sam

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flashnthunder · 4 months

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it's me, bel ep6bastogne, on my knees BEGGING for a crumb, a sliver, of webgott small town coastal mystery. i'm imagining broadchurch-style lieb a la grizzled DI hardy with web doing his best impression of intrepid local girl sidekick DS miller!!!

@ep6bastogne ahh okay what i had written for this wip is a little bit of a different vibe but i am now lowkey obsessed with that concept of a broadcurch-y lieb omg maybe i'll see if it goes in that direction

(snippet under the cut)

The pier stinks of fish. Gulls walk the far edge of the weathered wood, digging between the joints of crab shells and fighting over fish guts. There had been a time when Joe had hated them in the way everyone hates a pest that follows them. They were there from the moment he woke in the morning, following him out to his boat and never leaving as he worked until he went home in the evening. They followed boats out into the ocean when they stayed in sight of the coast. There was no point in trying to chase them off. He had long since learned to live with the noise and flap of wings, the extra stench they brought in with them.

Leaning against the old shed built onto the pier, he smokes until until the sun sags near the horizon. Eventually, even the birds will leave to roost for the night. Water licks up the sides of the posts that hold up the pier, salt spray coating the old wood. Joe can feel it down in his bones, the dry and cracking salt that permeates everything.

The only disturbance in the squawking of the galls is a footfall at the top of the ramp leading down from the shore. A man is standing at the top, looking down at the pier. He almost looks familiar, but Joe can’t quite place his face. Joe squints up at him, the dying daylight casting flickering shadows that warp off the water. He’s wearing a sweater, too clean to have just come off a boat. No one else has come in since Joe had moored his own boat half an hour before. He hasn’t heard any cars running up on the road either. The wind skims off the water and blows through his hair.

There are times when Joe can feel the air change. Not in a way he could ever explain to anyone, but the feeling of standing on a boat out in the unbridled wind and knowing it was pulling something along behind it. It was looking at low waves and knowing the next few swells would grow. It’s never a calm before the storm on the ocean, never perfect stillness like there is standing on land. It’s a change in the rhythm that is the tell instead. For some reason, he can feel it now like he’s looking out on the gray ocean with no land in sight. Something is wrong. The wind is screaming the warning at him, and his whole body prickles with it.

The man shifts but doesn’t move. He looks just as surprised as Joe is to see another living soul out. Slowly, Joe puts his cigarette out on the side of the shed that has more stripped wood than paint left. He flicks the butt into a bucket near his feet. He doesn’t know why, but something tells him to start walking back up. It’s the same thing that tells him when there’s a storm building and when to watch for the next surging wave to break into whitewater.

As if in a mirror image, the man starts walking too. The creaking boards under his feet sound louder with two pairs of boots on them. They stop near the middle and Joe can see his face now, easier to recognize with the distance closed. He’s seen him in town, or maybe outside of the little church that stands perched within walking distance of the old lighthouse. The kind of person who hasn’t stopped to give Joe the time of day, even if he had been in the mood to talk when they’ve crossed paths before. He's still striking enough to remember, and Joe can think of even fewer reasons for him to be at the pier this late. There is still a good ten feet between them where they've stopped.

There’s blood staining the collar of his sweater. Not that much, just a few drops bleeding into an off-white fabric that draws his eye. Joe notices that before he notices his split lip, still fresh enough to be welling up with more blood. There’s a bag tightly clenched in his right hand, fingers curled so hard into the fabric that his knuckles are white.

The gulls have quieted. All he can hear now is the waves lapping against the land.

#bel i need you to know how much im thinking abt a more detective vibe now that is PEAK everything #band of brothers #webgott #david webster #joe liebgott #izzy writes #moodboard #mood board #flipping the script putting lieb on the boat now #also i have not made a mood board in years i forgot how fun it is #I NEED A NAME THERES NO TITLE

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flieslikeamoron · 3 months

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WIP Wednesday

I've posted a couple snippets of this before, but I finally feel like I'm getting somewhere with it. So this is the first two chapters of my Steddie Schitt's Creek AU. I'll start posting it on AO3 once I'm far enough into it, but if you want a preview...

This is about 5K words. Rated T so far for kissing and slightly impure thoughts.

Steve Harrington is in hell. Granted, he's not wanted for tax crimes, insider trading, money laundering and whatever else his parents were getting up to. So it's not like he needs to flee arrest like they did. But is he really better off?

They put away a nice little offshore nest egg, fled the country for the Maldives as soon as they realized the heat was about to come down, and never said a word to him about what was coming. No heads up. No maybe you should come on vacation with us. No here’s an account we set up for you in the Caymans. Nothing.

And that's what Steve has left to his name. Nothing. Just a handful of clothes. And a ludicrously small amount cash. It's the kind of money he used to drop on lunch, or drinks at the club. Nothing. The cars are gone, and the New York apartment, and the house in the Hollywood Hills, and the beach house, and the other beach house, and the European beach house, the jet, so much of his wardrobe it makes him want to cry... The only thing left, the only thing that wasn't in his fugitive parents' name, the only thing he actually owns is a Family Video store in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

Of all the pointless things. Why couldn't his parents have given him a sweet little boat or a cute little ski cabin or something the day he was born? Why did it have to be a useless video store?

He knows why. At the time they'd only owned about fifteen or twenty video stores. The start of a regional chain that grew into a national monster that grew into a media conglomerate. At the time it had been a way to welcome their new son into the family business. A new store. A new kid. Both born on the same day. It was symbolism, not a real gift. He's never seen the store. He doubts they have either. He completely forgot he even owned it until the lawyers sat him down and laid out the complete devastation of his life.

He doesn’t know who’s been running it, but someone has because it’s still open. Somehow. The Family Video part of his parents’ empire went under years ago, thousands of stores shut down all over the country. Just this one lonely shop left shambling along like some kind of zombie. An obsolete relic of a bygone era. He might as well own a Model T factory.

But it’s all he’s got. So now. Instead of whatever resort his parents fucked off to, instead of a fun little yacht or a Swiss chalet, he’s heading for Hawkins, Indiana. On a bus. A Bus! Where he has been trapped for over twelve hours with the absolute dregs of humanity and the pervasive smell of literal shit wafting from the disgusting excuse for a toilet.

He emerges. finally, with four suitcases, the last precious remnants of everything he holds dear, into the absolute worst place in the world.

The bus station seems to be right on the edge of what the sign across the street proclaims “Historic Downtown Hawkins.” There’s a row of quaint brick store fronts. Faded awnings over old-fashioned window displays. There's a restaurant called Mabel's. There's a Laundr-o-matic. There's an honest to God "General Store" like something out of a black and white movie. Like Steve's time warped into the actual past. Do these people even have cell phones? Has he discovered a land cut off from modern society like some explorer uncovering a hidden tribe in the Amazon? That would explain why they still have a video store.

His head is pounding. Everything is so fucking quaint. Someone says hi to him, giving Steve a cheerful wave as he passes. A disturbingly casual friendliness that puts Steve on edge. He waves back anyway, pasting on a big, fake smile. This is a nightmare, but he’s been in bad spots before. He just needs to sell the store and get the hell out of here.

But first things first, he needs a place to stay.

He pulls out his phone. Does this place even have Uber?

The car pulls up surprisingly quickly. A big boat of an Oldsmobile that’s seen better days. Not exactly Uber Black, but beggars can’t be choosers. Steve wheels his bags to the trunk. The driver doesn't seem like he's going to help, which is not going to do his star rating any favors. There's no porter so Steve pops the trunk himself. Only about two of the bags will fit. He puts the other two in the backseat, and climbs into the passengers seat.

The driver is a shaggy haired guy about Steve’s age. He just sit there. Staring at Steve, wide-eyed. "Hawkins Motel?" Steve says, annoyed. It's all in the app, isn't it? The guy opens his mouth, and closes it again. Is there something wrong with him? Does he not speak English? His haircut looks like he did it himself without a mirror. Steve mentally docks another star. "Anytime today," Steve snaps. He could maybe stand to be a bit more polite, but he smells of bus, and this has been the worst day of the worst week of his entire life.

The guy shrugs, still looking a bit surprised that driving an Uber means having another person in your car. "The motel you said?"

So he does speak English.

"That's right."

At least it’s a short drive. The motel’s toward the outskirts of the town, not that it seems like they get a lot of tourist traffic around here. As his driver pulls up to the check in office, Steve hesitates. The place looks- It’s a long row of dilapidated rooms with blue painted doors. Haphazardly tilted air conditioning units in the windows. A couple windows with cardboard taped in where the glass should be. An overflowing dumpster. It looks like it has been, or will be, the scene of a murder.

“Are you okay?”

“Be honest. Do you know of any murders that have happened here?”

The guy thinks about it for a second, rather than just rattling off a no. Which Steve appreciates. “Not that I know of,” he says. “But there’s a B&B back in town if this isn’t your speed.” He gives Steve a small smile. “Byers’ House. Really nice place.”

Steve can’t afford really nice. He mentally adds a star back to the guy’s rating for his honesty. “No, it’s- It’ll be fine. Could you just wait one second while I check in though? I need to get to Family Video after I drop off the bags.”

“I’m kind of in the middle of-”

“Five minutes, I swear. And you’re going back that way anyway, right? I’ll pay cash.”

The guy gives him a long look. “You can’t just-” the guy says, losing steam halfway through. Steve smiles as the guy caves with a muttered, “Fine.” It’s the Harrington charm. Works every time.

Family Video is on the other end of “Historic Downtown Hawkins” from the bus station. It seems to be getting into a less historic area, surrounded by a strip mall on one side. The video store has that classic brick look though. A mural on the side of the building with a mashup of movie characters from Elle Woods to Darth Vader. It could easily be removed, wouldn’t affect the sale price. There are large windows on either side of the door, the classic coming attractions posters surrounded by lights. But as Steve climbs the stairs he notices the posters are made by hand. Some of them look like well done art by someone who knows what they’re doing, some of them look like the scribblings of a five year old.

How quaint.

He grimaces, pushing the door open. Cringing at the cheerful tinkle of a bell. "Welcome to Family Video." The girl at the counter looks up from her magazine, bored. "Can I help you find something?"

"The manager?" Steve says.

"That's me." She straightens up. "Is there a problem?"

"I'm Steve." Steve tries out a smile as he makes his way over to the counter. He has a great one. But she seems unmoved, not smiling back. "Harrington." He points in the vague direction of the Family Video logo on the wall. "As in, the family in Family Video."

She cocks her head. "I think my family is the family in this Family Video. We've only been running the place for 28 years." She adds, "Buckley." She points to the nametag on her suspenders that says Robin. She's wearing suspenders. Somehow they kind of work for her.

"I'm sure my family appreciates all your family has done to keep the store up and running."

"Last one in the country."

Steve gives smiling one more go. She looks at him stone faced. So much for the famous Harrington charm. Steve supposes what he's about to say isn't going to give her a lot to smile about. "I guess this is awkward," Steve says. "But the fact is I own this building, and the franchise license."

"The hell you do." She crosses her arms over her chest, lifting her chin.

"I do though," Steve says. "I don't know what deal my parents worked out with your parents. Obviously, we've been- I've been- Hands off. So that's thirty years of profits you haven't had to share and rent you haven't had to pay. I won't be seeking to recoup that, by the way."

She snorts. "Go ahead and try. There aren't any profits to share. We barely keep the lights on."

"Maybe this is an opportunity then," he says. "To turn this-" He makes a motion, encompassing the worn counter she's standing behind, the overflowing shelves of Blu-rays and DVDs, the scuffed floors. The general aura of decline in this shrine to an outdated form of media. "Into something profitable."

"What exactly are you talking about?"

"Well, the building has value. If the business doesn’t."

"The business has value," she argues. "It's just not in profits."

Steve cocks his head. "I don't follow."

"It has value to the town. We host movie nights in the town square all summer. We have groups that meet here to talk about film or books or writing." She motions at a couple squashy chairs in the corner with another mural on the wall. It’s the Gremlins doing a dance from Singing in the Rain. "We have an annual film festival. It’s happening next month. There are-"

"That's great," Steve interrupts. "But I need actual money. Not feel good small town vibes." He has to get out of this hellhole. And if that means selling this building out from under this stranger he doesn't give a shit about, he'll do it. That's business. That's how the world works.

“And I need you to go be delusional somewhere else.” She frowns at him. “You don’t own this place.”

“Really?” he says. “Because I have a copy of the deed in my bag back at the hotel and another on file with my lawyer. How about you?”

“I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.” She manages to sound confident despite the fact that Steve knows for a fact she doesn’t have the goods.

“I’m happy to come back tomorrow with my extremely legal paperwork that will hold up in any court of law,” he says. “And you bring… Whatever you can dig up to help your case. If that doesn’t settle it, you can spend the profits you don’t have on a lawyer.”

“Great,” she says, voice flat. “Is there anything else I can help you with.” The amount of rage coming off her would be intimidating if he wasn’t completely sure he owns this place. And if she wasn’t wearing suspenders.

Steve heads to the diner down the street from the video store for dinner. He feels sort of shitty. Maybe he should have made his lawyer do this part, but he can’t really afford the retainer. So fuck it, fine. He’ll be the bad guy. It's not like it's his fault Robin’s parents put all their eggs in the basket of a store they didn't even own. What is Steve supposed to do about it? He needs the money. He owns the place. It's not on him to preserve some weird non-profit video store, just so kids can hang out there and talk about movies or whatever she was going on about.

"Anything I can get you?" a pretty blond asks. Steve grabs the menu, gives it a scan. The last few weeks have been one indignity after another. Steve didn’t really think he had any farther to sink, anything left to lose. But looking at that menu a lead weight sinks to the bottom of his gut, his throat suddenly going tight. He wants his salad with truffle vinagrette, he wants wagyu beef not meatloaf, he wants hiramasa not tilapia. He doesn’t want chicken fried anything ever.

"How about you bring me your favorite thing on the menu." He tries his smile out on the waitress just to make sure it's not broken. It’s probably not his best effort, considering how desperately he wants to cry about toro tartare. But she smiles back, charmed. He takes a second to notice how well she fills out her apron. Chrissy, her name tag says.

"Anything?" she says. "You don't have any food allergies, or-"

"Surprise me, Chrissy." She blushes at the sound of her name in his mouth.

“It’s so weird that you’re like… Here.” She shakes her head, wrinkling her nose. Very cute. “I’ve never met anyone famous before.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Steve teases. “I’m more handsome than the pictures.”

She laughs. “Are you here for a while?” He can’t tell if it’s a come on or just curiosity.

“I have some business to wrap up,” Steve says. “But I’ll be here for a week or two.” Not more than that, surely. How long can it take to sell a stupid building?

"I'm really sorry about what happened. With your family and everything." She leans in, like she thinks he might be embarrassed for anyone to overhear her talking about something that was all over the news, all over twitter, all over tiktok, all over everything. The charges being made public. The feds turning Steve’s New York apartment inside out. Steve getting escorted out into a sea of flashing cameras. Every microsecond of his misfortune documented.

"Thanks," he says, clipped. The last thing he needs is pity from some girl who probably peaked by captaining her high school cheerleading squad, some waitress who's probably never left her home town. Steve's fucking broke, but he's still better than this town. Better than these people. He doesn't need her pity.

She senses the shift in his mood, the smile no longer directed at her. And straightens up. "Anything to drink?"

Steve fishes his phone out of his handbag when she's gone. He knows he shouldn't, but he checks his Instagram. He has friends all over the world. Had friends all over the world. And now look, he can watch them having fun without him in real time. Watch them not thinking about him. Not missing him. It's all right there in the palm of his hand.

There’s Kassandra sun bathing in Ibiza. And there’s Oliver clubbing in Toyko. And there’s Stavros. His boyfriend of a record breaking three months. Kissing some guy on the private plane he was supposed to be using to fly Steve out of here. And there’s Stavros kissing that same guy on his yacht with a breathtaking Mediterranean sunset behind them. Steve zooms in on a carpaccio with a jealousy so intense he feels sick to his stomach. Fuck Stavros, honestly. But he would kill for that carpaccio.

"Here you go," Chrissy chirps. She puts down a plate. "It's not actually on the menu, but it's my favorite. It’s like avocado toast, but it’s hash browns instead of toast. The kitchen makes it for me special." She puts down a second smaller plate with a few huge onion rings. “Mabel’s famous for her onion rings. Or- It’s the sauce, really.” She adds a milkshake. “You can use the shake for dipping too.”

Steve looks at the food. It’s all so… Fried. He looks at her face, the tentative smile there. He feels a flush of something uncomfortable. Feels sort of small, air knocked out of him by the way she bounced off his coldness and came back with a little piece of herself and a smile. Something hooks into his chest, and tugs.

“Thank you.” It sounds- Pathetically sincere. “It looks delicious.” That’s a lie, but he’s fucking doing his best.

Her smile grows to a bright, wide thing. Her pretty face lit up. She tilts her head, taking a breath. "Listen. I know you probably have- It's probably not what you're used to," she says. "But if you want to meet some people, there's a party out by the lake tonight." She shrugs. "I know it's hard to be new in town." She smiles again. So cute. "At least you could get a couple beers out of it."

"Will you be there?"

She blushes and nods. Pretty. Tempting. A nice distraction. Maybe even something he could put on his Insta.

“I’ll see you there.”

The party is exactly what Chrissy said it would be. Big bonfire. A couple kegs. A bunch of locals getting drunk, getting loud, hooking up. Steve looks around for Chrissy, pushing his way through the crowd. He doesn’t see her, and being around these yokels is bad for his morale. He grabs a beer and does another pass through the crowd, looking for anyone who’d make a good picture. He doesn’t need to advertise that he’s at a shitty party, but making out with someone hot might give Stavros second thoughts about taking that generic twink to Mykonos when he could have had Steve.

Steve looks past the rowdy center of the party to a guy standing a bit away from the fire. Long hair. Leather jacket. Shit-kicker boots. Steve can see a tantalizing bit of ink on his hand as he lights a cigarette. A bit more ink peeking out of the worn neckline of his tshirt. He looks like the kind of guy that'll sell you drugs or steal your wallet.

Perfect.

The camera is already open on Steve’s phone as he steps in close to the guy. Steve takes a fist full of his shirt in hand to keep him from stepping back as Steve plants one on him. The phone clicks and Steve' glances over at, about to take one more.

The guy cups Steve's chin. Warm fingers insistent, turning Steve away from the phone. Turning the hurried, awkward mash of their lips together into something that catches. Steve opens up, unthinking, for the heat of his mouth. The hand tight on his waist urges him closer, into the brush of leather, the heat of a body up against his. There's a lazy confidence to the way the guy slips him a little tongue. Steve leans into it, into him.

And the guy pulls back.

It takes Steve a second to let go of the grip he has on the guy's shirt. To remember why he came over here. His phone. Right. He never did get that second pic. He licks his lower lip. His eyes still on the guy. On his mouth. When Steve looks up enough to catch the guy's eye, the cocky quirk of his eyebrow, he can feel his face going hot.

Jesus.

Why is this guy even getting to him? He flirted his way out a Saudi prince's compound. He made it through two countries without a passport. He got into KissKiss without a lock of human hair. He does not get flustered. Especially not by small town guys with hair like they've been in a bunker since the 80s, and rough fingers and that infuriatingly amused look on their face.

"Um," Steve says. The guy's smile gets wider. Fuck.

“I have to-” Steve makes a vague motion, and starts walking in any random direction that’s away from how hard his heart is pounding, from how obvious it must be that he wants. From how easy it was to get under his skin. He tries not to picture that taunting grin being directed at his back while the guy watches him basically make a run for it.

Steve hitches a ride back to the motel, dreading taking an actual look inside his room. The bags are where he carelessly tossed him. The floors are worn linoleum. The air conditioner rattles like a plane propeller. The tile in the bathroom is chipped and discolored. He lines up his bags neatly in the closet. No point in unpacking. He won’t be staying long.

There are cigarette burns on the blanket, but the sheets seem clean at least. He slides gingerly into bed and pulls out his phone. He looks at the picture he took. It’s not great. A bit blurry. There’s the awkward stretch of his arm holding the camera. But if he cropped it- He zooms in on the guy’s face, trying to get a better look than he did at the party. It’s really only half his face. Steve can’t see that glint in his eyes, that curve of the grin that sticks so sharply in Steve’s craw. The soft focus blurry moment of his mouth against Steve’s still sends a thick pulse of arousal through Steve’s gut. The memory of the guy’s fingers against his chin, the demanding heat of his mouth.

He deletes the photo from his phone without posting it. It wasn’t Instaworthy.

CHAPTER TWO

Steve wakes up feeling worse than he did the time he accidentally roofied himself. A shower helps a little. The water temperature could charitably be called lukewarm. But Steve stands too long in the tepid spray, drawing in deep breaths, filling his lungs with the smell of his shampoo. One of a kind, made just for him. Because he’s the kind of person people want selling their brand. Because he’s the kind of person who has what other people want. He’s the kind of person other people want to be like.

Or he was.

No, he still is. No one will touch him right now, but that’s temporary. The next scandal will come along. People will forget about the bullshit, and remember that he’s Steve Harrington.

He fortifies himself with a look in the mirror. He hasn’t changed. He’s still got a face made to sell collagen spray and a body made for thirst traps. He takes a little extra time with his hair. He takes a little extra time choosing his outfit, running his hands through the couture in his suitcases, the thick wool and crisp linen, bumpy tweed, featherlight jersey. He pulls out a couple favorites. The gray pleated skirt. Thom Browne, of course. He hesitates between the matching sports coat and the red LV bomber. He always feels like hot shit in the bomber, but he should probably go for the look that says I’ll see you in court. His fingers trail over the soft leather of the bomber as he puts it back in his suitcase.

He snaps a couple pics when he’s done. There’s no way he’d post something with this hotel room as a background, but look at his hair. Perfect. His outfit. Impeccable. And there’s that Harrington smile.

There only seems to be one Uber driver in this town, but at least the guy was- Well, no, he wasn’t friendly. But he did help Steve carry his bags to the motel room. He knows the town too. Maybe Steve can pump him for the dirt on Robin and the store.

It’s a van than pulls up to the motel parking lot though, not the Oldsmobile from yesterday. Steve peers in the window, just in case he’s about to get kidnapped.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath when a very familiar pair of brown eyes meet his. Long hair and tattoos. Leather jacket just like last night. Steve would almost rather walk. But he is dressed to threaten legal action. Probably best not to show up sweaty.

Steve opens the sliding door to the back. It’s full of an alarming amount of crap. Tools, and random metal parts of something. A car? Steve doesn’t know. Wood, a small plastic lawn chair, a lawnmower, an amp for some reason-

The guy pats the passenger’s seat. “Up here, big boy.”

Steve climbs in as smoothly as he can. Just because he humiliated himself last night doesn’t mean he has to do it again.

“I’m Eddie,” the guys says. “And you’re… Steve?” He reads off the phone in his hand. “I didn’t catch your name before.”

Steve could maybe pretend he doesn’t remember. Do the whole “I’m sorry have we met?” It can be devastating if you drop it on the right person. But he’s pretty sure all he’ll get if he tries it on this guy, Eddie, is a knowing smirk.

Fuck it. “Came on a little strong,” Steve says. “Sorry, I guess.”

Eddie pulls out of the parking lot. “No apology needed. You’re not that bad a kisser.”

Steve knows exactly what Eddie’s doing, but he can’t just not set the record straight. “I’m a good kisser.” Eddie shrugs, still with that teasing grin on his face. His eyes on his rearview. “I escaped from the Yakuza because of how good a kisser I am.”

Eddie shoots him a skeptical look. “If you say so.”

“I’m serious. I have literally been given a car because of how good a kisser I am. A really nice car.”

Eddie laughs. “I mean, if you want to prove it we could try again. See if I’m inspired to buy you breakfast.” He chucks Steve under the chin, condescending. Steve wants to eviscerate him. He also kind of wants to take him up on it, a surge of heat spearing through his gut. What is it about this fucking guy? He bats Eddie’s hand away.

“Excuse you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are we asking for permission before we grab each other now?”

“That was a one time grabbing,” Steve says. “Temporary insanity. So how about we both agree to keep our hands to ourselves from here on out.”

“Your loss.” Eddie flashes his teeth. He’s such an asshole. It’s really unfortunate how bad Steve wants to touch his dick.

There’s a closed sign on the door of the video store, and no lights on. It’s well past nine. This is no way to run a business. Steve knocks on the door, but the lights stay off.

He waits five minutes, ten, before giving up and heading down the street toward the diner. He’ll kill some time having breakfast, then try again. Chrissy’s at the counter in her perky little ponytail. He smiles when she gives him a blushy wiggle of her fingers, and takes a seat at the counter.

“Did you have a good time at the party?” she asks.

“Would have been better if you were there.” She giggles, handing him a menu. “I looked for you.”

“I had to close up.” She bites her lip, scrunches her nose. “I got there late.” She leans in across the counter and lowers her voice like she’s telling secrets. “I looked for you too.”

Steve wouldn’t mind the distraction. A no strings fling with someone like her. Someone who’d be sweet on his tongue. Soft in his arms. Not like Eddie. Eddie’s too-

Eddie pops up from behind the counter with a screwdriver in his mouth. Fucking hell. Is the guy a living jumpscare? Why is he everywhere Steve goes?

He has his hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, and his jacket off. Tight Metallica tee that shows off the tattoos on his arms. Full sleeves of stark black ink that Steve doesn’t have time to pick apart before he’s making himself look down at the menu. He’s thinking about breakfast and not about rough fingers on his skin, a warm mouth wrapped around his- Nope. He’s not thinking about that.

“Flirt on your own time, Chris.” Steve looks up at the warmth in Eddie’s tone. It’s teasing, but without the edge he takes when he’s poking at Steve.

Chrissy rolls her eyes at him and smacks him on the shoulder. “Shut up, jerk. I’m not paying you to hassle me.”

“Where’s that replacement motor?” Eddie asks. She looks around, and snatches it up off the counter. He takes it, and holds on, her hand caught in his as he raises an eyebrow and says, “Be good.” They both look at Steve. He hopes they don’t think they’re being subtle.

Steve watches as they look back at each other, a whole conversation in the way Chrissy wrinkles her nose and Eddie gives his head a shake. They’re definitely fucking. So much for that distraction.

The store’s still closed when Steve gets back from the diner. This has to be deliberate. Is Robin avoiding him? Hoping he’ll go away? Joke’s on her. It’s not like he has anywhere else to go.

A bunch of kids are sitting on the steps of the store, arguing with each other about Minecraft or whatever kids like.

“Anyone know why they aren’t open?” Steve asks.

One of the kids, curly haired with a trucker hat shrugs. “We were wondering the same thing.”

“Maybe she’s sick,” a red headed girl offers.

“She seemed fine yesterday,” Steve says.

“Usually you’re not sick right up until you are, so-” The red head looks at Steve with a level of withering disdain only middle schoolers are capable of.

“What are you guys even doing here?” Steve says. “Don’t you have netflix?”

“Of course we have netflix,” a lanky, dark haired scarecrow of a boy says. He runs a close second on the withering disdain meter to Red Head.

A chorus of voices overlap each other.

“Robin has lots of stuff that’s not on netflix.”

“And she lets us play DND at the store.

“We’re making a movie.”

“What kind of movie?” Steve instantly regrets asking.

Five voices start clamoring. Steve gets about three words of it. One of the words is “Demogorgon,” which he’s pretty sure is not actually a word. A smaller boy with stick straight brown hair in a truly unfortunate bowl cut holds up several weird drawings that don’t help make anything clearer.

“Did you do the window?” Steve asks the kid, ignoring the rest of the useless non-information being yelled at him. He points at the poster for Ghostbusters. It’s one of the better ones.

“Yeah,” the kid says. “I’m Will.” He points at a signature in the corner of the poster. Steve’s having a hard time not looking at his haircut. He’s pretty sure it would qualify as child abuse.

Trucker Hat grabs the stack of pictures from Will’s hand and starts laying them out on the sidewalk. The other kids start yelling again, rearranging the order and calling each other stupid, uninspired, derivative…

“We still don’t even have a hero!”

“And who’s going to play Daisy?”

“Plus the third act and-”

“But the costume has to-”

“Guys,” a good looking, dark-skinned boy says, swinging a bat in front of him. “Come on. I can play the hero.”

“You’re not a hero, Lucas. You’re a shrimp,” Trucker Hat says.

“We already decided none of us would be the hero,” Scarecrow says.

“What about him?” Red Head asks.

Steve looks up from the pictures he’d been trying to puzzle through. It’s like a very confusing comic book with no words. “What?”

“Are you like, athletic?” Will says.

“He is pretty tall,” Scarecrow admits reluctantly.

“He’s obviously not busy.”

“Can you swing a bat?” Lucas asks.

Steve isn’t sure he likes where this is going, but- “Can I swing a bat.” Steve snorts. “I played polo against Prince William. And I won.”

“They don’t use a bat in polo,” Trucker Hat points out.

“Gimme the fucking-” Steve snatches the bat out of Lucas’ hand. He puts his handbag down and spins the bat around his wrist once to get a feel for it. Then swings at the closest thing to him. Which happens to be a mailbox. With a gnome sitting on top of it.

The gnome goes flying, and keeps flying.

“Holy shit,” Lucas says. The kids watch wide-eyed as the thing sails all the way down the block and across the street. Knocking through a window with the loud smash of glass shattering.

Oops.

But still. “I told you,” Steve says, flipping the bat up and catching it one handed.

“Jesus Christ.” Trucker Hat sounds a little bit impressed, and a little bit freaked out.

“That’s the police station,” Will says, sounding more freaked out than impressed.

A few cops burst of the building.

“Run for it,” Red Head says, taking off on her skateboard with a gaggle of bicycles in hot pursuit.

By the time the cops make it down the street Steve’s the only one there. Bat in hand.

“Fucking kids.”

#my working title is #hide your diamonds hide your exes #wip wednesday #my fic #my fic: schitt's creek au #steddie fic #steddie au

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