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anotherdayinchuckletown · 4 years

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They’re Funny That Way, Chapter 1

Hey, guys! How’s it going? I’ve been writing for about ten years now, but this is only the second ever fic I’ve shared anywhere, so I’m super nervous!!!

This is basically my take on a Harley Quinn origin story tailored to the universe of Joker (2019). It’s going to be Harley like we’ve never seen her before, with lots of Arthur, lots of Sophie, lots of original characters, and lots of twists and turns.

I’m SO beyond excited to finally share this with you guys, and I hope you all enjoy! Please like, comment, reblog if you do so that I know if you guys love reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it! This fic is also posted to my AO3 account (https://archiveofourown.org/users/marie_deneuve), so you can also read it there if you’d like!

Without further ado, heeeere we go!!

Chapter 1

The apartment building at Eleven-Forty Anderson Avenue is an eyesore situated in the midst of a likewise ugly city called Gotham. A pimple on a face only a mother could love. A pariah among pariahs.

Management has long since stopped caring about its maintenance, leaving it a patchwork of leaking ceilings, cracking foundations, and broken windows haphazardly boarded shut. Even the most seasoned resident of Gotham City would quicken his pace when passing the telltale archways which separate the apartments from the rest of the city.

Sophie Dumond is currently doing her best to avoid saying any of that out loud.

“It’s really not that bad,” she lies. “Definitely a far cry from where you’re living now, but once you get used to it, it’s not the worst.” Although she is on the phone, she looks down at her shoes anyway, so as not to look her guilt in the face. A crack in the tile beneath her feet stares back accusingly.

“Really? My brother told me his appliances never work, and the maintenance crew is impossible to reach,” the voice on the other line replies skeptically. It belongs to another young woman by the name of Emma Boulanger – Emma Scott, actually, ever since her marriage – who has been Sophie’s best friend since the two of them met in elementary school. She is also the godmother of Sophie’s five-year-old daughter, which was an unpopular decision she had been made to justify more times than she would have liked (honestly, though, her sister could call her if she ever became less of a pretentious bitch).

This phone call marks the first time Sophie has heard from her in one month, two weeks, and six days. Not that she’s been counting or anything.

It’s just strange not to talk to her, as she’s always the first to know of any big changes in her friend’s life. Emma is certainly the first to know about changes in Sophie’s life as well. She’s there when they both open up their letters of acceptance into Gotham University, whooping and cheering and dreaming of finally, finally leaving this shithole, getting glamorous jobs in the big city. She’s there when Sophie is curled up on her bathroom floor, crying and clutching a positive pregnancy test, wanting the best for the child growing inside of her, yet fearing she would never be able to provide it.

That’s why it’s so odd when Emma’s twin brother is the one to mention in the hallway one day that his sister has filed for divorce. And furthermore, that she’s returning to Gotham to live with him until she gets back on her feet.

“Like I said, Emma, it’s not perfect,” she relents. “But hey, at least it’ll be nice to hang out again. It’s been way too long.”

“Yeah, it really has! I moved, what, almost two years ago?” Emma’s voice brightens marginally, and Sophie can nearly see the lopsided grin spreading across her face, so familiar is she with every tic, every tell, every minuscule inflection to her words. “Metropolis is boring as hell, by the way. I almost miss Gotham - call me crazy.”

Sophie huffs, knowing full well that Emma is playing it cool - trying not to let on how much she dreads moving back to a city she called a living, breathing prison for so many years. Best to keep things lighthearted then. Empathize with her, acknowledge her feelings, but never, never pity her. “You’re definitely crazy, Em,” she shoots back, raising an eyebrow. “What exactly does it for you, the enormous rats or the graffiti dicks?”

An almost imperceptible chuckle filters through the receiver. “Well, no one ever really escapes Gotham, do they? I figure I might as well develop a little Stockholm Syndrome.”

Sophie doesn’t immediately respond to the bleak sentiment. It’s simply a joke, of course, and as a matter of fact, very on-brand. But there’s enough truth to it to cause a momentary lapse in the lightness of their conversation.

Sophie has found gradually that Emma was right growing up. Gotham truly seems less like a place and more like an entity. It has a certain way of taking, taking, taking from a person, and when that person has nothing left to give, taking just a little bit more. The citizens meander like restless spirits, doomed to wander to and from their low-wage jobs for eternity. The air is heavier out there, tugging their faces down into sour expressions, aging them prematurely. A reflection of their surroundings.

Sophie often wonders if she looks the way they do.

If Emma notices the shift – which she certainly does, she always does – she politely ignores it. “I guess beggars can’t be choosers… It was nice of Eddie to let me stay with him on such short notice.” Fondly, she adds, “He may be a bit of a shithead, but he’s a good brother.”

Before Sophie can stop herself, she laughs aloud. “No comment. We do live on the same floor, you know.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Do you two ever hang out?”

“Not particularly.” Sophie doesn’t dislike Eddie – quite the opposite, in fact. She always chalks up her lack of chemistry with him to simply having nothing in common. He and Emma share nothing but a birthday, a head of golden hair, and a pair of striking ice-blue eyes.

Rapid footsteps make their way into the foyer, breaking Sophie out of her reverie. “Mommy, look what I drew!”

Muttering a quick “hang on a second” into the receiver, she turns toward the source of the sound, and a sheet of paper is practically shoved in her face from below. She is met with a mish-mosh of various shapes and colors, one large brown figure taking precedence in the middle of the page.

She smiles warmly. “Wow, that’s very good, Gigi! What’s that a picture of?”

The artist beams with pride. “It’s the roach you killed in the bathroom yesterday!”

Son of a bitch.

“Can we put it on the fridge, Mommy?”

Blinking owlishly, Sophie scrambles for a response. They really don’t teach her this shit in those parenting books she sometimes finds at Gotham Central Library.

She settles on, “Honey, you already have so many nice ones up there, I just can’t decide which ones to keep! Let’s put this one away for now, and I’ll think about it, okay?” She offers her free hand to take the drawing so that she can accidentally misplace it later.

It does the trick. “Okay!” her daughter chirps, proudly handing over her portrait. Encourage, then swiftly change the subject – a motherly sort of manipulation that works in everyone’s favor.

“Holy shit, I haven’t even asked about Gigi yet!” Emma exclaims. “God, she must be getting so big! She starts Kindergarten this year, right?”

“Yeah, in the fall. And she comes all the way up to my waist now, isn’t that insane?” Unmistakable pride colors Sophie’s response.

“That’s so awesome! Did she miss me at all?” comes over the receiver as Gigi simultaneously begins an onslaught of “who’s that, Mommy, who’s that?”

“Miss you? Are you kidding? Listen to this.” Sophie crouches next to her daughter, holding the phone away from her ear, but nearby so that Emma can hear. “Gigi, your Aunt Emma’s on the phone. She’s coming to live here again soon, isn’t that great?”

The resounding shriek is a good indicator that she agrees. And that Sophie is going to have to bring the neighbors another gift basket so they don’t complain about her to the landlord.

“Can I talk to Aunt Emma, Mommy? Can I, can I, please, please, please?” Tiny, impatient hands grapple for the phone as laughter pours in from the other line.

“Come on, if I let you talk to her now, we’ll be stuck here forever.” A quick glance at the clock reveals that it’s nearing eight o'clock. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for bed soon?”

Gigi wrinkles her nose in distaste, and Sophie cuts her off before the complaints can begin. “No arguments, Gigi. Go start your bath – I’ll be there in just a minute.��

She receives a defiant huff; nevertheless, Gigi stomps her way to the bathroom, and Sophie waits for the sound of running water before she returns to the previous conversation.

“So anyway, Eddie tells me you’re holed up in a hotel room until the weekend. I’m guessing that Daniel didn’t take the…the breakup news very well?” she asks, somewhat cautiously. Talking about Emma’s husband – now ex-husband – is a mixed bag, even back when they were dating.

“You could say that,” Emma responds sheepishly. “It wasn’t pretty, let’s leave it at that. I thought it would be best for me to get out of the house right away, give him some time to himself.”

It makes Sophie nervous that she is skirting the question, but then again, Emma’s in a vulnerable position at the moment. And she’s rarely one to talk at length about her own emotions in the first place – she’s much more of a listener.

Sophie would like to ask what she means by “it wasn’t pretty”, but decides against prying. She would also like to ask why she ever married that jackass in the first place, since their relationship had been obviously strained from day one. It was always as if the two of them were tightrope walking over a volcano – bubbling quietly, boiling and threatening to swallow them both whole. The smallest change in the wind, the most harmless comment about Daniel not picking his towel up off the floor could send them tumbling into the inferno. She supposes one of them finally fell.

Something about that man has always creeped her out, but she gave up voicing her discontent with him after about the thirtieth time Emma brushed her off. She won’t say “I told you so”, since she wouldn’t want to belittle whatever pain Emma is going through. Still, she can’t help but feel a little relief – that doesn’t make her a terrible friend, right?

All of this can wait, though. It can wait until they’re seeing each other face-to-face again. Until Sophie isn’t on a strict time limit. She needs to wrap up the current conversation quickly because if she doesn’t, she could possibly be dealing with a flooded bathroom shortly. Five-year-olds do not generally care about the cost of repairing water damage if it seeps into the downstairs neighbor’s ceiling.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay, with…you know…everything.”

“Of course!” Emma reassures her. “I’m perfectly fine. Like I said, I’m looking forward to being home. Honestly.”

Sophie is not convinced, and frankly, it sounds like Emma is not either. She wonders if her friend has been checking in on the worsening condition of their hometown from Metropolis. The homeless population is growing by the day, and the working class is becoming more and more restless due to low wages and poor working conditions in the inner city. Rumor has it that sanitation workers are chief among the dissatisfied, and a garbage strike is all but guaranteed by winter.

So much she wants to say. So much she can’t say. “That’s good. I’m happy for you.”

_______________________________________________________________

Emma remembers around this time last year taking a trip to Paris, France. She saw the premiere of a musical there called Les Misérables – it was based off of her favorite book by Victor Hugo, so naturally, she begged and begged to go.

And what a payoff! The show was spectacular, from the costumes to the stage design to the music. Oh, the music! Despite being there with her then-husband, she had the most fun she’d had in years, letting the melancholy chords turn her as light as the air and the lyrics carry her far, far away in the wind.

Even more than the music, she was captivated by the plot. She could practically feel the plight of the poverty-stricken citizens. One of the opening scenes depicted the starving masses singing of their grief over the way they were snubbed by the wealthy, left to rot in the streets.

That is the scene Emma finds herself stepping into today. Only this time, she is not a passive observer, watching the events unfold without being affected. From today on, she is one of the characters.

From the moment she arrives in downtown Gotham City by taxi, the tension claws at her with icy hands. It digs into her ribcage with each glare aimed her way, even in the mild September breeze. She knows she sticks out like a preacher at a Pride parade in her obviously expensive skirt and heels. It’s not like she had time to go digging around her closet for something more appropriate that night she left her house.

Handsomely tipping her driver, she climbs out of the car and rushes underneath a set of archways and inside the apartment building where she’ll be living for the foreseeable future. She doesn’t look very closely at it from the outside, so desperate is she to get off the street and away from whatever the hell that smell is.

Emma uses the opportunity to finally look around a bit, taking her surroundings in with narrowed eyes. The lobby is dimly-lit, with no color to it whatsoever. The walls are painted a chipped-up brownish yellow, which could have been white many years ago. It reeks of mold, to the point where the smell outside might be the lesser of the two evils.

Leaning carefully against the nearest wall, she mutters, “Not that bad, my ass.” From her purse, she retrieves her recently-purchased copy of a new novel titled Jumanji, and she waits.

And waits.

…

Emma’s eyes snap open - she hadn’t consciously closed them to begin with. She realizes with embarrassment that she almost fell asleep standing up. God, she’s more exhausted than she thought. How long has she been standing down here anyway?

“I’ll be home from work around four; I just need a little time to tidy up before you head over,” Eddie had said on the phone the night before. “I’ll meet you in the lobby and walk you up at six, okay?”

“That works,” Emma had replied. “As long as you’re actually there at six.”

“Hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve never exactly had a reputation for being punctual.”

“Jesus, Em. You think I’m gonna leave you hanging out down there alone?”

“We’ll see.”

Shutting her book, Emma checks her watch.

Six forty-five. That fucking flake forgot.

She groans, pushing herself languidly off the wall and scanning the room for assistance. No one at the front desk - in fact, there hasn’t been anyone there since she arrived, making her wonder briefly if she’s even in the right building.

Her eyes next land on the myriad of mailboxes against the opposite wall, closed off from the rest of the lobby by rusted wrought-iron bars, most likely to protect the postman. She walks through the open gate tentatively, and upon closer inspection, each mailbox has a sticker labeling the residents by apartment number. Bingo!

It doesn’t take long to find what she’s looking for. On the eighth floor, perfectly spelled out for her, she sees both S. Dumond in 8B and E. Boulanger in 8H. Why not visit the one who didn’t leave her stranded for an hour first? She could always call Eddie on Sophie’s phone anyway - the asshole probably smoked a joint as soon as he got home and passed out on the couch watching Magnum, P.I.

She heads for the elevator and presses the call button. As it whines slowly and almost menacingly down the shaft, she hears someone softly trudging along behind her, the very first sign of another life in here. As she enters the elevator, she politely holds the door open, and makes room for the clown getting on after her.

No, not a silly person. An actual clown. Painted face, red nose, neon green hair and all.

Of all the weird people she might expect to see in a place like this… Not even two hours in Gotham, and the evening is already shaping up to be quite the roller coaster.

Emma can’t help but stare as the doors shut and the clown punches the button for, coincidentally, the eighth floor. She settles into the far corner as she discreetly analyzes him. His posture, his defeated gait, the pitiful expression underneath his painted-on smile… His aura permeates the entire space, seemingly enough to weigh them both down, causing the elevator to drag slowly up the shaft like molasses, screeching all the way.

This is without a doubt the saddest clown Emma has ever seen. And she’s seen Pagliacci.

Around the third floor, there’s one long, particularly loud screech. Emma’s heart leaps to her throat as their ascent suddenly comes to a complete halt, and the lights in the tiny elevator space flicker on and off once. Is a three-story drop enough to kill a person her size? She prays that this isn’t how it ends - in this dingy elevator, terrified, with no one but a fucking clown. A clown who hasn’t moved an inch this entire time.

Thankfully, after a few seconds that seem to drag on for a lifetime, they start to slowly crawl up the shaft once more. Emma breathes an audible sigh of relief, and the clown seems to finally notice her, tossing a quick look of sympathy in her general direction.

Once she’s certain she can speak without her voice quivering, she does so. “Does…that happen often?”

Her voice really gets his attention. He whips his head around so fast she almost worries his little hat will come flying off like a frisbee. He blinks at her once, then twice, as if processing the fact that she is addressing him. For a split second, it looks like he’s going to say something.

Then, remembering himself, he simply shrugs bashfully. Emma lets out a breath she doesn’t realize she’s been holding.

She notices the decorative red flower adorning his lapel, one of those prop flowers that’s actually a tiny water gun. Smiling in a way that she hopes is charming instead of ill-at-ease, she points to it. “I, uh…I like your flower. It’s very pretty.”

The clown tilts his head curiously. After a beat, he wordlessly reaches up and into his bright plaid coat, holding said flower slightly out toward her. Offering for her to come closer, to lean in and smell it.

Emboldened, she grins, shaking her head at him. “No way, mister. I know how that trick ends.” She’s kidding around with him, but she really can’t afford to get her clothes wet right now; she only has the ones on her back, after all.

Still, his lips at last curl upward, a real smile that reaches the lights of his eyes. And it’s then that Emma can see the color in them, an enchanting seafoam green that inexplicably draws her in, pulling her away from the corner and toward his side. He watches her carefully and intensely with an expression she can’t quite read. When he turns to face the doors once more, it’s not without keeping her settled in his periphery.

Most people would probably be a bit nervous being…examined so thoroughly. However, Emma finds his mannerisms endearing in an odd way. She’s never cared much for clowns before, but this one doesn’t seem so bad.

They ride in comfortable silence for another few moments. When they reach their destination, Emma is the first to exit.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m definitely taking the stairs from now on,” she says.

The clown nods in response as he exits behind her, giant red and blue shoes flopping comically over the threshold.

The hallway is a bit noisy, voices of the residents drifting through the paper-thin walls like a mist, creating a fine haze over everything. The walls are just a touch too close together, making Emma claustrophobic and urging her to get to 8B as quickly as possible.

Not wanting to come off as rude, she introduces herself. “I’m new to the building, by the way - my name’s Emma. It’s a pleasure.” She extends a hand to shake.

The clown does return the gesture, but not before staring her hand down for an abnormally long period of time. And his grip through the rough material of his gloves is so soft and careful, it’s as if it’s barely there.

She’d honestly like to chat with this fascinating new neighbor of hers a bit longer, but instead, she pulls her hand away, settling for a polite nod and a cheerful “good night”.

She does not look back to see that the clown’s unwavering gaze follows her all the way down the hall.

#joker 2019 #Joker (2019)#joker #arthur fleck #sophie dumond #harley quinn #my fic #joaquin phoenix joker

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land-of-brains-and-chocolate · 5 years

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Hey. At this point I don't think I'm ever going to read Cates, unless that proves necessary for appreciating the art. Anyway, I haven't and this is not to defend him, just-- do you think there's any chance he is aiming at aaaaangst with a happy ending? Because he may have the proportions all wrong and do dumb things other ways, but many people do like fictional angst w/ a happy ending better than just fictional sweetness.

he’s absolutely gonna have a happy ending, good lordt, that’d be the cherry on top, just killing eddie off at the end of his run or whatever. no.

angst with a happy ending is good and popular. the problems are:

nobody is actually calling for just fictional sweetness. nobody expects that from a comic book. people thinking that the cates run is too dreary to get invested in does not mean that they want a story without any drama or conflict. it’s a jackass move to say so to invalidate them.

ten issues without a single ray of hope. almost a year of expecting us to not grow emotionally fatigued when it’s just one thing after another. two arcs of nothing but added trauma, nothing resolved, no moments of relief. and we’re still only ramping up, if even one of our predictions is correct.

it’s not angst? it’s not good angst, at least? i can’t actually empathise with eddie, i just feel frustrated with the writing?

it’s… i hate to say it, but it really is manpain.

It’s marked by excess. The tragedies of the character’s history are extreme: his reaction to them is melodramatic: his pain is tacitly or explicitly acknowledged by the story and/or other characters to be worse than anyone else’s.

the symbiote is making eddie do horrible things. the symbiote god is coming for eddie personally. the symbiote loses its voice. eddie finds out that flash is dead. eddie thinks the symbiote never thought he was good enough. eddie gets punched by his dad. eddie’s homeless and penniless. eddie’s cancer comes back. eddie’s brother wants to kill their dad. carnage is coming and eddie’s all aloooooone. like please. every single one of these could have been enough for some quality angst if they’d been fleshed out.

It is self-centered and inner-directed; events, especially traumatic events, in the narrative are typically viewed through the lens of how they emotionally impact the bearer of the manpain, who is often a figure of isolation.

THIS IS THE WORST ONE. the symbiote essentially dies for eddie and eddie reacts with nothing other than self-pity. the narrative doesn’t spare the suffering of anyone but eddie a single thought. here, look, i’ve complained at length. now we can also add eddie sitting across from his beaten up brother asking for his help and thinking about how annoying this is to HIM to the list.

i’m being yelled at to feel sorry for eddie while i can see everybody else also suffering behind him, but every time i look, he waves his hands in front of my face and goes HEY. HEY. LOOK AT ME.

The character’s painful history is frequently (although not universally) created by exploiting the death/suffering/loss of a woman, or children, or both. These women and children are often not characterized as having any importance in the narrative other than as plot devices to create manpain.

the symbiote. not a woman or child, but… the symbiote. his sister, too, but she foretells some meta memory bullshittery going on.

The manpain serves a dual function. It is an easy way for a creator to shorthand a male character as vulnerable, and therefore sympathetic. It is also used to excuse a range of behaviors that often include actions that would otherwise be read as unsympathetically selfish, anti-social or violent.

showing him suffering and suffering and suffering is all this run does to make eddie sympathetic. see also the twitter conversation about HOW could you think eddie’s a shithead? he’s been through SO MUCH.

important note: i haven’t read #10, i probably won’t read any more.

#you'd have to convince me.#takes of varying temperature

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skeletonscribbles · 6 years

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1 with Richie and Eddie for the writing prompts!

Got you covered, friend! Hope the Tumblr crowd is feeling a Stan POV on Reddie, because I sure as hell was. This is straight comedy, too, so those of you who are here because of Wildflowers…here’s proof that it’s not sad around here ALL the time.

#1, by the way, is “Yes, I did say that, but I didn’t think you were going to be a dumbass!”

And here we have:

Sugar, Spice, and Bad AdviceT-ish for language and reference to Richie’s dick (deep sigh)2500 words

Summary: Stan has absolutely no idea why Richie comes to him for romantic advice...so, like any respectable businessman, he outsources.

Stanley Uris did not consider himself a romantic person by any means.

He appreciated romance, certainly. From a very young age, he was poring through books with clever heroines and rooting for them to end up living happily with attractive, intelligent partners. (More often than not, said heroines never encountered anyone as smart as they were, and so they had to settle. Stan thought that was a shame. If he were writing books, he would write romance very differently.) That said, in real life, he tended to be more realistic and less dreamy about matters of the heart.

All of this being the case, it really didn’t make any sense at all that Richie Tozier was coming to him for romantic advice…but then, Stan had long since come to terms with the fact that nothing about Richie made any sense.

“You’ve gotta help me out here, buddy,” Richie was saying, pacing back and forth as Stan watched him disinterestedly from the couch. “I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say to him…do I say anything to him? Fuck, Stan, I’m gonna fuck this up, I’m such a piece of shit and he’s so….so….”

“Paranoid?” Stan offered, thinking of Eddie and smiling thinly. “Shrill?”

That was another baffling thing about the situation: Richie was pining over Eddie. Eddie, who they’d known since kindergarten; Eddie, who cried in sixth grade because Greta Bowie wrote the word ‘cancer’ on one of his papers in Social Studies. Dirty, lewd Richie Tozier was having feelings for nervous, naive Eddie Kaspbrak. It was highly illogical, and Stan usually hated things that were illogical….but for whatever reason, his brain was somewhat settled with the idea of this particular pair of friends getting together, which was bizarre in and of itself.

Richie threw himself on to the couch with a groan, sprawling across Stan’s legs. Stan tried to kick at him, but he was pinned under Richie’s lanky frame. “I was going to say perfect,” Richie sighed wistfully, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes.

Stan made an exaggerated whipping sound and gesture, and Richie responded by pulling himself over and blowing a raspberry onto Stan’s knee.

“Disgusting.” Stan shoved Richie off of the couch, and Richie hit the floor with a hard thud. “Have you asked anyone else for advice about this? Perhaps they’d be able to do a little more for you than roll their eyes.”

Richie raised his head, peeking at Stan over the side of the couch. “You think they’d be okay with it? I keep thinking that Big Bill’s gonna kill me immediately upon hearing that I have designs on Eds’ virtue.”

“Don’t say that thing about virtue again. It was awful.” Stan shook his head, shuddering. “And trust me when I say that Bill is all for you and Eddie finally getting your fucking shit together.”

That much, at least, was true. Stan’s entire last conversation with Bill, much to his dismay, had been centered around getting Richie and Eddie to stop pining for each other. In fact, Stan’s recent conversations with most of the other Losers had been centered around getting Richie and Eddie to stop pining for each other. The situation was pretty universally annoying.

“Wait, but why would Bill’s love advice be better than yours?” Richie was looking at him curiously. “Or Bev’s or Ben’s or Mike’s, for that matter?”

Stan looked back at him flatly. “Richie. You know me.”

Richie thought about that, and then nodded. “Fair point. So…”

“Try Mike first,” Stan advised, thinking of Mike’s warm smile and feeling a little hot. “He’s got game.”

—-

The next day at school, Richie approached Eddie with a small bouquet of flowers.

It was, without a doubt, the worst bouquet that Stan had ever seen.

Richie had obviously picked it himself. Half of the flowers still had roots attached, and the bouquet was pretty much only made up of dandelions and violets, with the odd daisy or tulip that he’d probably taken illegally from someone’s garden. Richie had been clutching them tightly for quite a while, and they were starting to go limp in his grip.

In short, there was no fucking way that Eddie was going to touch that, and sure enough, when Eddie showed up, he recoiled.

“Richie, did you go through Mrs. Conway’s garden again? I TOLD you, she doesn’t grow marijuana! Not that you’d even know what marijuana looks like anyway, Went would fucking end you if he smelled smoke on your–”

Richie cut off Eddie’s tirade by shoving the flowers towards him. “They’re for you, Eds! And only a few of them are from Mrs. Conway’s.”

Eddie stared at him, horrified. “You expect me to touch those? First of all, you’ve been sweating all over them for probably twenty minutes now. Second, poison ivy–”

“Okay, if I don’t know what marijuana looks like, you definitely don’t know what poison ivy looks like,” Richie interjected hotly.

“I know what poison ivy looks like,” Stan informed them, unable to help himself.

“No you fucking don’t, jackass. Not every plant is poison ivy,” Richie all but yelled, face crimson with either frustration or embarrassment (Stan couldn’t tell).

“Anyways, asshat, bad fucking joke. Do better next time.” Eddie stomped towards the high school in a huff, and Richie looked helplessly over at Mike, who had been watching the whole escapade unfold with a grim expression.

“So, flowers are out,” Mike finally said, shrugging. “Sorry, Rich.”

“Shit.” Richie dropped the “bouquet” and sighed. “It’s okay, Mikey, you meant well.”

“That’s pretty much the extent of my flirting expertise, unless you want to bring Eddie a chicken.” Mike wrinkled his nose at the thought. “And that’s a terrible idea, by the way. He’d flip.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Bev muttered, obviously visualizing Eddie’s inevitable chicken meltdown.

Richie turned to look at Beverly after she spoke, cogs obviously turning in his head. “What about you, Bevvy? Any grand ideas for what is now apparently my crowdsourced seduction of Eds Kaspbrak?”

“Bevvy has nothing,” Bev said solemnly, opening her arms and closing her eyes. “Bevvy was clever enough to land the perfect guy without having to resort to cheap tactics.”

Richie flipped her off with both hands, and Ben crossed to her to hug her from behind, beaming.

“I have a thought,” Ben said, smiling into Bev’s hair.

“Yes?” Richie crossed his arms.

“Beverly doesn’t have a suggestion…” Ben trailed off, eyes glinting, “…but Benverly does.”

“I’m listening,” said Richie, narrowing his eyes.

—-

Ben had wooed Beverly by way of a little haiku-esque poem, and so his advice to Richie was, predictably, to put together some sort of piece of writing for Eddie.

Stan knew right away that this plan was destined to fail, but he kept his mouth shut and let Richie try, not wanting to become the advice-giver again. The strategy was good, all in all, but for it to be effective Richie would have to be…less Richie, which was impossible.

A week after the bouquet, Richie joined the Losers in their before-school spot wearing a nice, collared shirt (buttoned all the way up, so no one could see the graphic tee underneath) and a pair of khakis that was slightly less wrinkled than Stan expected from him. He had obviously attempted to comb down his wild curls - attempted being the keyword. It wasn’t a look that suited Richie at all, but he was almost endearing, Stan thought, just by virtue of his obvious effort. (Almost.)

When Eddie arrived a minute later, he just about tripped over his own two feet gawking at Richie.

“Did Stan let you borrow clothes, or what?” he asked, staring unabashedly at the buttons on Richie’s shirt.

Stan resented that, and was about to tell Eddie so, but Richie was pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, so he held himself back.

“Eds,” he began, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “Spaghetti-o.”

Eddie buried his hands in his hair, pulling nervously. “What is happening.”

“Your freckles are like constellations,” Richie began. He was playing it off like he wasn’t nervous, but there was a telltale shakiness to his voice. “They trail up to the galaxies of your eyes….”

Stan couldn’t help but be impressed. Almost a whole line in, and Richie hadn’t mentioned Eddie’s mom once.

Eddie was less enthused. “I’m really fucking tired of being the butt of your jokes, Richie.”

“It’s not a joke,” Richie explained exasperatedly.

“And my mom isn’t the biggest bitch in Derry,” Eddie jeered, fed up. “Let’s just go to class, okay? Mike, did you understand the statistics homework?”

Mike looked defeatedly around at the other Losers, and then joined Eddie in walking back towards the school building. Once they were far enough away, Richie threw his poem in the air in frustration.

“If it helps, I thought you were off to a good start,” Stan offered.

“It doesn’t help,” Richie grumbled.

Ben looked perturbed. “I really thought he’d go for that. We took all references to Richie’s dick out of it and everything.”

Ah. So Ben had a hand in the creation of the poem. The sweetness of it suddenly made sense.

“Looks like it’s on you, now, Denbrough,” Bev said, looking expectantly at Bill. Bill swallowed hard, and Stan rolled his eyes. If Bill couldn’t figure out that Stan had been flirting with him for the past three years, he wouldn’t be able to help Richie.

“I could p-probably suggest something,” Bill said meekly, and it was all Stan could do not to bang his head into the nearby telephone pole.

—-

“I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again,” Stan hissed, “Bill’s advice is garbage, and this is a disaster.”

Bill Denbrough, literary genius that he was, was absolutely horrible at romantic suggestions. He had reminded Richie that Eddie had a sweet tooth, and had advised him to make cookies for Eddie as a gift (and as a kind-of apology for the last two disastrous attempts at flirting).

So far, Richie had burnt two batches, and the batter consistency of the third was…alarming, to say the least. He’d called Stan in a panic some twenty minutes ago, and Stan had pedaled over in a huff, cursing Bill Denbrough’s name.

“You’re the one that said it would be a good idea to ask the other Losers how to go about doing this!” Richie retorted, gesticulating wildly with a cup of flour and then groaning as most of the flour flew out of the cup and on to the floor.

“Yes, I did say that, but I didn’t think you were going to be a dumbass!” Stan went for the broom and dustpan, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on.

“You didn’t?! Come on, dude.” Richie leaned on the counter, took off his glasses, and rubbed at his eyes. “You call me a dumbass, like, every day.”

“Yes, and I mean it, and this time I mean it about the rest of our friends, too. And Eddie. Dumbasses, all.” Stan swept the flour neatly into the dustbin, scowling. “Just tell him how you feel. The hokey tactics that everyone is suggesting are terrible. Ask each other out pointblank, for fuck’s sake.”

“Ask who out?” A high-pitched, familiar voice sounded from the doorway, and Richie whipped around so fast Stan was a little worried that he’d break something (probably himself).

“Eds?” Richie panicked and headed for the trash can, seemingly to try and block Eddie from seeing its contents. “Uh, what?”

“Bev said she thought she could see smoke coming from your house, so she sent me over to check,” Eddie said, and Stan silently thanked Bev for trying to be proactive about shutting down Bill’s stupid cookie plot. “Who are you asking out, Richie?”

Stan could all but see the ‘your mom’ that was racing to make its way out of Richie’s mouth. Fortunately, he was standing close enough to remedy it. He kicked at Richie’s ankle, and when Richie looked over at him, he gave him a significant look, hoping that that would be enough for Richie to remember what they had just been talking about.

Richie nodded, and took a deep breath. “I, um, have something to tell you, Eds, and, uh, you might not like it–”

“Is it that you like me?” Eddie asked nonchalantly. “Because I know that.”

Richie gaped. “Say what now?”

“I’m not stupid.” Eddie shrugged and peered past Richie, trying to discern what was in the trash can. “You’ve been acting weird for a while, and then you started dressing differently and bringing in weird stuff for me. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

“And you’re not mad?” Richie asked weakly.

“Nah.” Eddie stuck his hands in his pockets. “With the poem, I was just mad you were trying to pull that shit in public.”

“And the flowers?”

Eddie fixed Richie with a look. “If you can call them that, you mean.”

“All right, all right, fine.” Richie’s ears went red. “But…Christ, Eddie, why didn’t you tell me?”

Eddie smiled. “I kind of wanted to see what you’d do.” He paused, examining Richie’s face. “I like you too, by the way…even if you did burn a fuckton of cookies today.”

“Oh,” Richie blurted, grabbing his glasses from off of the counter. “Um. Can I kiss you?”

“Wait until I leave, for the love of God,” Stan begged, jolting up from where he had been leaning on the counter.

Richie and Eddie both jumped. They’d obviously forgotten that Stan was still there.

“Looks like your advice was the best after all, Stanny Boy,” Richie grinned after a moment, sliding closer to Eddie and throwing his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “I was right the first time about which Loser to listen to.”

“Was Stan’s advice to just cut the crap and go for it?” Eddie asked. Richie nodded, and Stan rolled his eyes. They made him sound so ineloquent.

“He always tells it like it is,” Richie said fondly.

“He is truly the best of us,” Eddie agreed. “Now if you don’t mind, Stanley, you absolute gem of a human…get out of here so I can make out with Richie against this disaster zone of a counter.”

“With pleasure,” Stan said, all but bolting out of the door.

He was smiling, though, in spite of everything.

Maybe he was a little romantic, after all.

—-

(And even though he still thought that the other Losers had hokey romantic tactics, when he received a bouquet of flowers from one anonymous admirer and a batch of cookies from another, he couldn’t help but feel warm inside.)

#ask #reddie #reddie fanfic #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #bill denbrough #mike hanlon #stanley uris #beverly marsh #ben hanscom #benverly #bill/stan/mike #it 2017 #stephen king's it #it movie #loser's club #i can't ever help myself from writing copious amounts of stan #he's not so secretly my favorite loser #pretend that mike went to school with the rest of them ok

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bluezey · 6 years

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Bluesy ramblings about Spongebob SquarePants

@scribblinglee made a post about Spongebob as a cartoon currently, and it's basically what I hear about a lot. Usually people who talk about the show miss the older seasons and believe the current seasons are hollow or utter trash. Which makes me think, where do I fit in this? Because, I'm not sure myself. So, I thought I decide to talk about my experience with the show.

So, Spongebob began in 1999. And, here's where things get interesting from my perspective: I was a freshman in high school at the time. Maybe that's not weird cause the show can reach teenagers and adults, but I dunno, it still baffles me. And what did I think of the show when it came out? I thought it was a good show. I wasn't obsessed with it, it lived it, but I did see it's potential. I liked it enough to watch it and have a few favorite episodes. One was Pizza Delivery. I think one reason I liked it was how in the end of the episode Squidward stood up for SpongeBob. He does in other episodes, but how he did it in this one felt perfectly Squidward. Another all time favorite of mine was Band Geeks, but that's for a biased reason as I was a band geek in high school. So, seeing an episode about a marching band was awesome to me, and also amazing as I don't remember watching another cartoon that focused on marching bands. While in the end it didn't show off marching bands as accurately, compared to the movie Drumline, Band Geeks was as accurate as band geeks are gonna get. Also, I love the ending of the episode, and how Squidward came out on top.

You know, I'm noticing now that even back then I may have found a favorite character with Squidward. I have my reasons for liking him now, but back then I had no favoritism, I just liked him out of the others. My best guess was even back then his character seemed to be the straight man of the series. He was gruff and mean, but you could sympathize with him as you can tell he got that way from life beating him down when he chased his dreams, while others kept chasing their dreams in the show and not getting much of a beating from life. I think Squidward was and is representing how jaded adults got after trying to pursue their dreams, and every decade I'm seeing people become jaded sooner in life, even before they graduate high school.

But, back to the show. The episodes were funny, clever at times, and even brash with it's humor. I mean, looking back, they got away with a lot of crap in the early seasons. Like the Christmas episode has aired fir nearly two decades, and every year they get away with blatantly calling Squidward a jackass. Oh, and how Sailor Mouth got away with swearing, and the infamous cut scene from Just One Bite and how it managed to make it to air for a while before being cut from future airings. And the characters were loveable, funny and relateable, but if I had to make one critique they did hammer in one particular aspect of their personality. It didn't make them one dimensional, but enough that we only knew Spongebob as happy, Patrick as dumb, Krabs as money loving, Sandy as a cowgirl and Squidward as grumpy. The one who barely had a blatant personality trait to me was Plankton, and that's barely as his motivation for being the villain flipped between evil and jealousy. One episode he just wants the formula to destroy the Krusty Krab, and another episode it's world domination. But they weren't blatant flaws, just little speed bumps that kept a great show from being perfect.

Now I remember watching the Spongebob SquarePants movie in 2005 on DVD, and I thought it was fun and simple like the show. But, I'll admit, as we went into the era of seasons 5-8, I did see a slump in in the show. But, believe it or not, I couldn't grasp why. I just assumed it was going through the same slump all shows go through when they've been on the air for that long. Every show hits their slope, and usually it's a sign that the show would end if it didn't hit that upswing back to what it once was. But, looking back, I can see the problems some fans gripe about. Mr Krabs got a little too greedy for money that he came off as evil as Plankton at times. Patrick would be mean, and at first I thought it was because he was too dumb to know any better, but there are times when even I couldn't see that as an excuse. I mean bratty toddlers don't know right from wrong, but eventually someone would step in and talk some sense into the kid. Squidward kept getting brow beaten by life for seemingly no reason. I mean, I actually believe Squidward getting the shirt end of the stick would work if he did something to deserve it. Like in Scavenger Pants, the more dangerous the tasks he gave the two, the bigger his coneuppance. But in these seasons, most of the time he didn't do anything to get what life gave him, so the joke fell flat because it was a punchline with no setup. And, yeah, eventually it just look like cruel torture at his expense. But, despite these major flaws and the show losing it's spark, I could still see it's potential. It had it's okay episodes, some good episodes, and even some jokes that would get a big laugh. I could still see effort, and the crew trying to make the show work. So while many call seasons 5-8 it's dark times, I just see it as a rough patch. This was after the creator left, and the show was showing that they were running out of ideas.

So, eventually I stopped watching Spongebob around season eight. Now, you may think it's because I gave up on the show. But, funny enough, it was an outside source that pulled me away from the show, as well as Nickelodeon. That's when my college roommates introduced me to Cartoon Network, and their shows were better, funnier and more bizarre than what Nick was making at the time. So I quit watching Spongebob and whatever Nicktoons the network was trying or failing with, and was watching shows like Kids Next Door, Camp Lazlo, Foster's, and Ed, Edd and Eddy. Oh, Chowder and Flapjack too. And, they still had reruns of Courage and the Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy, and I was surprised with how much Cartoon Network got away with such scares.

So, for years I was watching Cartoon Network. I went through it's dark times of CN Real, and it's next generation of classic cartoons such as Adventure Time, Regular Show and Steven Universe. While I switched over to Nick for Avatar and Monsters vs Aliens (I liked the DreamWorks movie and Dr Cockroach okay? Also Staabi was a great character too), I hardly ever saw Spongebob, and when I did catch it it was an episode I saw before.

I did come back to the show, and how is kinda as strange as how I left it. It was also kinda an outside force. It was when I saw the cast of the Spongebob musical perform Bikini Bottom Day at the Macy's Parade. After that, it was a full month of following clips and pictures from the musical, until I came to a point where I needed more, but the bootleg wasn't out yet. (By the way, I keep losing my link to the bootleg!! Can someone link me a good copy of the Broadway show so I can FINALLY see this thing??) So, I went back to the show by watching a livestream on YouTube, full of never seen episodes from seasons nine and ten. And guys, it's like seeing the light of heaven. This is Spongebob! This is the show! They got back on track and are making new episodes for a new generation!

Okay, now that we got my initial reaction out of the way, let's talk about seasons 9-11. First, drastic change in animation. But, you have to expect that for being on for twenty years. There's a wider aspect ratio, and the animation is now digital. But, it's not that distracting, it's just the show, only brighter and bouncier. Now, the controversial thought, I like the bouncy animation. It reminds me of bouncy animation from the 50s, 60, hell, even 90s, and Spongebob is a 90s show. Is it reminding me of Ren and Stimpy? Only because Ren and Stimpy does bouncy, expressive and over detailed still. If anything, the bright and bouncy reminds me more of Superjail. Nice to know where those animators went. (Oh, can we have the Warden guest star?) The characters are back to how they started, mostly. Patrick can be mean, but usually he's just dumb. Krabs isn't mean for money, but damn is he still hungry for it. Squidward gets some torture, but now there's setup and reason. Also, he's not tortured in every episode he's in. Mustard O'Mine had him following along, hell he was happy at times. Mermaid Pants may had him grumpy, but man was his shift at the end perfect! Pate Horse, horse puns. Squid Noir. Squid Noir. Other changes, I can see they're being inventive. Some shows are mixing up character dynamics. At least two episodes have Squidward and Plankton. One episode had Sandy and Karen. An upcoming episode has Squidward and Pearl. Hell, Mall Girl Pearl was all Pearl. They're doing small things that surprisingly make a big difference. For example, Spongebob isn't always happy. Yeah, he can not be happy, like sad, but it was so rare yes almost one dimensional. In Drive Happy, however, we see him get sad, tired and even pissed. In Old Man Patrick, he starts acting like an adult when babysitting the old folks at Bun E Buns. And back to Squidward, but did you know he's germophobic, claustrophobic, allergic to nuts and snails (but he can handle one or two snails in a room) and apparently has an inking problem. Okay, I could go on and on about this part, now controversial thanks to Ink Lemonade, but did you know Stephen Hillenberg himself wanted ink jokes to begin with? The biggest character change I believe is Plankton. Ever since Sponge Out of Water (and yes, I saw that too, a lot, Nick plays it every other week) Plankton has become somewhat of a friend, at least with Spongebob. Sure he's the villain, but Spongebob sees him as a friend who happens to be a competitor, and I think the others do too since the second film. I mean, Grandmum's the Word would never had worked before the second film.

So, we've gone from classic from the 90s, to so downhill that I switched to Cartoon Network, to back to it's original stride. But, is it the same show or us it a hollow shell? Guys, it's neither. Spongebob has gone through a lot of development over the years. It's had it's golden times, it's been out of ideas, it's had it's instant classic and it's blunders. The characters are still the same, but if they appear different it's because they've been through a lot. We all act different after twenty years of life's crap. And yes, to reiterate, this show has been on for twenty years!! It has it's own big task of changing for a new generation while entertaining the old one. It needs to bring in new viewers while keeping the old ones. It needs to be fresh and relevant while remaining classic and timeless. It will follow the trend of theonth, but it will try not to steer too far from it's core of being a 90s cartoon. Will it lose viewers? Yeah. It even lost me for a time. Will it deserve it? No. Even it's bad episodes have a silver lining. Did you know I watched a list of dark kids episodes where the reviewers said good things about Are You Happy Now? (Please send all flames to where they will most likely ignore you https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=hXwhVUWwHlM) Through it's ups and downs, Spongebob's going to be on for years. But, just years. Sadly, the creator has ALS, and if the show doesn't retire after the creator does, every show has to end sometime. But through it's ups and downs, and even the praise and criticisms, we can all agree that fans young and old will enjoy the ride.

#spongebob squarepants #bluesy ramblings

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strangersatellites · 1 year

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It had all started in Photography 101.

All he had needed was one more elective added to his schedule for the fall semester to be considered a full-time student. It was Robin who had suggested photography.

Steve had never had that great of a memory to begin with, the numerous blows to the head from juvenile high school fights certainly doing him no favors. Sometimes the amount of time it took to jog Steve’s memory surpassed the time it would’ve taken to simply tell him the story as if he hadn’t been there himself.

He was always able to grasp the memory eventually, but sometimes they were slippery in his mind.

He and Robin had found that his memory was ten times better if he had something to look at. Sometimes that was a souvenir from a trip, sometimes it was a takeout menu with his order circled in red pen, sometimes it was a physical scar on his skin from some silly injury. But most of the time it was pictures.

Steve took to taking photos of everything. His friends, his food, the landscape, a book with a pretty cover, anything he wanted to be able to remember.

The walls of his room grew to be covered with polaroids and prints, some staged, most not. Many blurry and out of focus, but in the moment just the same.

So when Robin suggested Photography 101, Steve saw an opportunity to take something he did for his own benefit and turn it into something he really enjoyed, something he was good at.

The semester was a breeze and Steve flourished under the attention of his professor. He was constantly drowning in compliments about the movement in his photos and his eye for composition.

(Robin would tell him on several occasions that she had never seen him enjoy something this much.)

By the time the semester was coming to a close, he was left with one final project. The professor had been intentionally very vague in her description of it throughout the semester, so Steve was a little on edge.

Sitting in the front row of the small classroom, he twirled the strap of his camera around his fingers while he daydreamed. The room slowly filled and the professor settled in behind her desk.

About five minutes after class was supposed to have begun Steve noticed they were all still sitting in silence. Glancing at the professor he saw her brows furrow and a frustrated lilt to her lips as she looked at her watch.

What are we waiting for?

She stood and dusted off her pants before clapping her hands together.

“Well,” she began, “I guess we can go ahead and get start–”

The door at the back of the room swung open and knocked against the wall with a resounding slam.

“Shit! Fuck! So sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch.”

Steve is so caught off guard by the man who just burst into the room that he barely even registers the words he’s saying.

He’is tall and all lanky muscle, dark curls and jewelry, tattoos and the smell of smoke, chains and leather and everything Steve’s not. Everything nobody in this class is.

He’s even more caught off guard when his professor laughs and pulls the man into a tight hug. There are only five other students in this class, surely he’s not the only person confused.

He keeps an arm around her shoulders as she introduces him to the group.

“Guys, this is Eddie. He’s a family friend and he’s going to be your subject for your final project.”

Steve’s own eyebrows furrow as he tries to understand how this was the project she has been keeping under wraps. They’ve had plenty of portrait sessions this semester, with models and subjects of their choice alike.

The guy, Eddie, claps a hand to his chest in a dramatic show of faux humility.

“Thank you for having me, Joyce. It's such an honor to be here.”

She smacks at his arm and carries on.

“So, Eddie is your subject and you have no parameters. The only requirement is that he is the inspiration for your shoot. This can look like a standard portrait session, this can be contemporary urban street photography, whatever you like. Eddie does not even have to be in the photo! He just has to be the inspiration for it.”

Steve's brain is already running a mile a minute, conceptualizing shots faster than he can keep up.

Dingy bars, backseats of cars, details of his eclectic style.

But one idea sticks out from the rest. As Steve lifts his eyes to Eddie once more and meets his own twinkling with mirth and smirking back at him he makes his decision.

He’s going to take his mugshot.

*****

“I want to take your mugshot.”

They’re at the campus coffee shop. Joyce had scheduled a few hours for Eddie to meet with the other students during their class time so they could talk through their projects.

Eddie barks out a laugh. “What, man?”

Steve twirls his straw around his drink and tries not to bristle at the reaction.

“Look,” he starts, running a nervous hand through his hair, “I don’t really know where the idea originated but once I had it, it stuck. I just saw this vision of the shot in my head and it was sick, dude.”

Eddie leans back in the booth, one of his boots knocking into Steve’s foot under the table. He crosses his arms and tilts his head.

“Thought this shoot was supposed to be inspired by moi,” he says, gesturing a hand towards himself. “You saying I look like I should be in jail?”

Steve groans and puts his head in his hands. “No. I already told you I don't know where i got the idea–”

But that’s a lie isn’t it. He knows exactly where he got the idea. It was somewhere between the chains dangling from Eddie’s jeans and the handcuff belt he was wearing the day they met.

He put his hands together on the table between them. “Okay. No, I’m not saying you look like a criminal, Eddie. I’m saying I think you want to look like one.”

Eddie blinks at him for a moment before his face breaks into a slow smirk. He huffs a quiet laugh and leans closer. “Guilty as charged, Stevie. Besides, I was arrested once actually.”

Steve gawks while Eddie laughs. He is unfairly attractive when his dimples pop and Steve is going to have such a hard time holding it together behind the camera.

*****

Steve takes his shoots very seriously. Every detail has to be perfect, even the ones not relating to the subject of the photo.

So it is wildly convenient that his professor happens to be married to the chief of police back in Hawkins.

One quick phone call from Joyce and Steve and Eddie were granted access to the booking room at the police station. You know, for the sake of realism.

Steve’s setting up his tripod while Eddie takes a chalk marker to the placard and writes up his own booking ID, a long series of random numbers with E.M at the end.

Steve would be lying if he said Eddie’s choice of clothing wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.

He’s wearing a ratty, old band t-shirt for some group Steve’s never heard of. There’s his usual black leather jacket and the silver chain around his neck. His ripped black jeans and fingers covered in rings and black nail polish.

It's perfect for the shoot. But Steve’s sanity is struggling.

He gets the camera and the lighting set up just as Eddie steps into place in front of the height measurement wall.

Steve puts his hands on his hips and gives instructions.

“Okay, so I know you’ve done this before–”

“Hey! It was one time!”

“So you know how this goes. We’ll do one forward and then one to each side.”

Eddie shakes out his hair and rolls his shoulders back. He holds the placard up in front of him and levels the camera with a dead-eyed stare.

He looks good.

Steve is less than shocked that he looks even better on camera.

He lines up his shot. Click.

Eddie turns to his left. Steve gets a little distracted by the line of his jaw.

Click.

He turns to the right and of course only now does Steve notice his ear piercings.

Steve takes a deep breath and focuses.

Click.

Before he can even look through his shots Eddie is dropping the placard on the desk.

He’s halfway out the door before he grabs the frame and leans back in. “One second pretty boy, I have an idea.”

He’s back before Steve snaps out of his stupor at the nickname. This time, he has a pair of handcuffs swinging from his index finger.

Steve snatches them out of his hand. “Where did you get these?”

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. “I know a guy.”

He rolls his eyes.

He’s already picking up the placard and setting up some detail shots when Eddie grabs his wrist and stops him. He freezes for more than one reason.

“Hey, uh. Not to step on your toes or anything, but I actually have another idea.”

Steve is about to start on his spiel about ‘not messing up his flow’ when Eddie rubs his thumb over the inside of his wrist. Gentle and reassuring.

“Do you trust me?”

Honestly Steve has no reason to trust him, he’s basically a stranger.

A pretty one. His brain supplies.

But he does. Trusts him enough to let him take Steve’s creative liberties and throw them out the window apparently.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Eddie’s smile is blinding. He turns Steve’s hand over and drops the handcuff key into it.

“Don’t lose this big boy,” he says as he snaps the cuffs around each of his own wrists.

Steve laughs, loud and shocked. He waggles his eyebrows at Eddie.

“Well, now didn’t this take a turn.”

Eddie rolls his eyes this time and lifts his hands as much as he can.

“Don’t try to sexualize my creative prowess, Steve. I am a professional.”

He nearly trips on his way back to his place in front of the wall and Steve has to hide his laugh into a cough.

Steve’s back behind the camera, hands back on his hips when he asks, “Alright, what’s the plan?”

Eddie smiles and says, “You just shoot, Harrington. I’ll do the rest.”

He leans down to finalize his camera settings and line up his shot. When he finally looks through the viewfinder his jaw drops. Because while Eddie was clearly joking about being a professional, if Steve didn’t know any better, this shot would have him believing it.

Eddie’s got both of his pinky fingers tucked in the corners of his smile, tongue bitten between his teeth. His thumbs are raised along with his middle fingers, while he’s got his nose scrunched and one eye squeezed shut. The cuffs hang right under his chin and accentuate his silver jewelry in a way Steve never would have anticipated.

Click.

The next is a close-up of the booking placard between his teeth.

His hands twisting to unlock his own cuffs.

He’s a natural, and Steve’s camera roll can attest to the fact.

It wouldn’t be until Steve was reviewing and editing the shots that he caught on. The booking ID on the placard looked long because it was. It was Eddie’s number.

*****

Steve got an A.

He got an A, an endless stream of compliments from Joyce and a dorky hot boyfriend.

The rest of the class went the route Steve expected them to.

Dingy bars, backseats of cars, details of his eclectic style.

But Steve’s mugshot series stood leagues above the rest.

Later in their lives, when one of their friends would see the photo in Steve’s wallet they would ask when Eddie got arrested and why.

It quickly became a game between the two.

He’s been arrested in high school for selling drugs (True.)

When he was twenty for public indecency.

At twenty-two for arson.

Thirty for contract killing. This one was followed up with the claim that he was in witsec and was now going to have to change his identity and flee the country.

But the real when and why Eddie got arrested is because when he was twenty-one Joyce told him there was a nice boy in her class that she thought he should meet.

#photographer x mugshot au #steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #one thing about me: my Eddie is going to be a jackass in every universe #also not to toot my own horn #BUT #Joyce being the professor? when her son??? is a photographer?? who probably learned it from her????#toot toot bitch #its canon I don't make the rules #can you guys tell I am a photographer be honest #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #gin writes #fin gin #shot of gin #steddie nation #come get y'all juice

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