#mike teavee aesthetic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itsteaveetime · 8 years ago

Note

An AU where the Wonka kids aren't completely messed up from the tour and go on to live decent and somewhat fulfilling lives.

[Prompt meme: drop a prompt in my inbox, get a one-shot/drabble]

((Thanks for this prompt, anon! Sorry it took so long.))

He can feel someone’s eyes on him. The man seated next to him is giving him a very long look. And this isn’t really that kind of bar.

“Didn’t you used to be Mike Teavee?” The man asks, shaking his finger like someone has tried and failed to pull a fast one on him.

It’s going to be one of those conversations.

Mike Teavee turns on his stool and gives the man a close-lipped but not unfriendly smile.

“I like to think I still am,” the twenty-seven year old says.

The man laughs, like they always do, and it only grates a little.

“Man, that Wonka contest,” the man says, shaking his head, and Mike lets him go on, because that’s all people really want, and it’s not like he doesn’t have the time. “I spent an entire month’s allowance on Wonka bars. Can you imagine doing something like that now?”

“Not really,” Mike replies, chuckling politely, even though he never spent a single penny in the first place.

“Still,” the man says, pointing at him again. “You got to see inside. You lived the dream.”

“I definitely lived it,” Mike agrees. “It was a trip.”

“Lucky sonuvagun,” the man says. “Oh, and hey, my little nephew? He loves your games.”

By which, Mike has learned over the years, the man means: he has no nephew and is speaking of himself, but is too embarrassed to admit he still games in his thirties.

“Lemme buy you drink,” the man offers.

Mike waves him off.

“Thanks, I don’t drink,” he says. And then, because he can feel the question of why he is in a bar at all start to form in the man’s mind. “I’m here meeting some friends. But: it’s always great to hear people are enjoying my stuff. I gotta go; nice meeting you though.”

He gives the man a firm but distinctly final handshake, and moves toward a back corner where he has spotted her lurking.

“I think you did not even roll your eyes at this one,” she says, her Russian accent slightly more muted than it was at twelve. “I am impressed.”

“Prozac,” Mike insists.

Veruca laughs, and it doesn’t grate at all. The slender young woman is wrapped in a scarf he thinks might be longer than she is tall, a slouchy sweater, leggings, and well-worn over-sized boots. This seems to be one of the default uniforms of all off-duty ballerinas (and some models). Her blond hair is pulled up into a tidy bun. His own hair, by comparison, is a spiked quiff that is a mess by design.

“It’s good to see you,” he tells her.

“Hug me, you idiot,” she demands flatly.

He does. When he pulls back, a meaty hand lands on his shoulder. He turns to face its owner.

Augustus Gloop looms over him. Augustus Gloop looms over almost everyone. A growth spurt at fifteen that Mike cannot help but envy eventually left the German six feet and six inches tall. It thinned him out somewhat as well, and although he will never not be big-boned, Gloop is no longer as wide as he is high. He retains soft edges, a rounded stomach, a slightly ruddy complexion, and a warm friendly face.

“Hallo Michael.”

Like Mike, Augustus has long since lost his high pitched prepubescent voice, but he has retained more of his German accent than Veruca has. He has also retained his blond hair, but it no longer looks like it was placed under a bowl to be cut. In a flannel shirt and hoodie that his mother did not knit for once, Gloop looks pretty cool.

Mike lets the German envelop him in a nearly rib crushing bear hug that momentarily lifts him off his feet. Once released, he goes immediately for Gus’ messenger bag, crouching down, because Gus wears the bag low on his hip, and running a hand over the soft leather.

“This is one of yours, right?” Mike asks.

The German nods.

“Goat leather. Mother had gotten more orders for them, so she had sent me more hides.”

Sewing, apparently, runs in Gloops’ blood as much as sausages do.

“I have made a batch,” Augustus continues, “and that same shop downtown will take them. But also there is a crafting fair that maybe I will go to if I have the days off at the restaurant to-…”

“Shut up and take my money,” Mike says.

Augustus laughs.

“Michael, you know I never charge you. In black, you will want it?” Gus guesses correctly, because Mike remains somewhat predictable about certain things, and Mike is already imagining studding the strap of such a glorious beast as Gloop embraces Veruca somewhat more gently.

“Do we wait for her?” the blond woman asks, more or less rhetorically.

Mike shakes his head.

“We all know she’s gonna be late,” he says.

They head through a door and down a flight of stairs few people know about. A girl at the bottom recognizes Gus from restaurant circles and ushers them into an intimate space where they take a seat in a comfortable booth with privacy curtains. Gus is only still a rising star on the chef’s circuit, but it’s funny how small New York actually is.

It’s funny, how they all ended up in New York, at least, for the time being.

(It’s funny that they are here at all.)

Well. Not that funny. Each of them walked out of Wonka’s factory exactly as they walked in. It was their parents who were altered (although also: not physically).

No magic spells, no potions: just as the Candy Man promised, but one thing Wonka certainly was, was an illusionist. And he had seen immediately who needed to be shown the error of their ways, and few things are as motivating to a parent as the idea of their child in peril.

“I was barely in the chocolate,” Augustus had been the first to explain, the first time they all reunited. “I fell through a bottom. I was not in a pipe at all. It was, I think, a doll to look like me. The falling in was still startling.”

“Yeah, the bloating was not fun,” Violet had said. “But those Oompa guys gave me some antacid and it went away. I got no idea what my dad thought was me that exploded, or what he medically thinks is inside of people, but, uh, thanks for groovin’ on a bop while y’all thought I was dying.”

“Also doll,” Veruca had told them. “How could I call for my pappa with my head removed?“

“…V.R.,” Mike had reluctantly admitted. “I thought I seriously got shrunk and teleported inside the internet, but then it went black and I was just down a trap door with a V.R. headset on. I was kinda bummed, honestly. But on the plus side: I did get a eight inch remote control replica of myself. That was pretty awesome.”

And they had all watched as their parents had reacted to their apparent untimely demises. Had realized the peril their parenting (or lack their of) had placed their children in.

(It had taken Mike slightly longer to realize that his mother had not really been happy about the idea of him being shrunk; that the idea of seeing something like that done to her son and not being able to do anything about it had actually driven his mother temporarily insane, which is probably the strongest and most negative reaction it is possible to have. But he had gotten there.)

After the factory, things had been…different.

None of them had been punished (because none of them had been truly to blame), but all of their parents had certainly changed their tunes.

And somehow it hadn’t been so difficult to get used to after all.

They sit around a table now, well adjusted young men and women. Or: woman, at the moment.

Augustus Gloop has been making a steady name for himself as a gourmet chef. He is working under a celebrity at the moment, producing the epic tasting menu’s the Swiss establishment is known for, but he has headed his own pop-up’s and food carts to great success and reviews.

Veruca Salt is currently a soloist at ABT, after training and dancing at the Bolshoi and the Vaganova. They have all seen her perform: she is generous with her comp tickets. She is also undeniably talented. There have been rumors circling that she may be promoted to principal next season.

Mike Teavee designs video games. Because of course he does. Immensely popular games that require strategy, and critical thinking as much as hand-eye coordination. Some of them have won awards for serving educational purposes. These games, along with several well-received apps have left him unexpectedly wealthy. His first apartment is in San Francisco, but he likes the vibe and the weather in New York so much so that he has a residence in the city as well.

And Violet Beauregard is always late.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” She says, breathlessly, as she joins them. “A thing. But you all know. I don’t even gotta tell you.”

Violet is a celebrity hair and make-up artist. She made her name on YouTube, but she’s as legitimately trained as Veruca and Augustus are. She’s in high demand from both companies and clients.

She frowns at Mike’s hair.

“What happened to the blue?” She pouts.

Mike runs his hand carefully over his ‘do.

“It faded really fast and I didn’t wanna rebleach,” he explains. “It’s fine.”

“I know you’re punk rock as all hell, but seriously: let me do it,” Violet insists. “I will do it in yo’ bathroom sink for the sake of your authenticity if I gotta.”

He eventually agrees.

“Your mothers are having the good time,” Veruca says, with a smirk.

Both Mike and Augustus freeze, because it is their mothers she is talking about. Mrs. Teavee and Mrs. Gloop have long since struck up an unexpected single lady friendship and enjoy taking vacations together. They are currently on an Italian river cruise making the most of Italy, Italian food, and Italian men in a photograph that is burned in both Mike and Gus’ mind that neither of them are sure they were meant to receive and both are afraid to ask about.

“Yes,” Augustus says, smiling a little more rigidly than usual. “…jah.”

“Did she drop a new post on Instagram?” Violet asks Veruca.

“I will never get over the fact that you follow my mom on Instagram,” Mike says.

In her retirement, Ethel has joined Instagram. Instagram is very about her retro aesthetic. She has been interviewed for ‘Racked’.

“She is crushing it,” Violet tells him. “Did you teach her hashtags?”

He maybe guided her in her hashtagging.

“Annnnnnyway,” Mike says, changing the subject and turning towards Veruca. “How’s what’s-his-face?”

“We do not speak his name,” Veruca hisses. “Ballerinos! все мужчины сосать. All men!”

She looks pointedly at Gus and Mike, who know better than to argue with her.

“Yeah, speaking of,” Violet says. “No more 3am Teavee specials?”

“What is this?” Gus asks.

“I kept getting these late night texts from him, and I’m all jazzed because I think Teavee’s got some serious tea for me that can NOT wait and instead I get bull. What was the last one?” Violet asks, while scrolling through her phone. She stops and reads:

“‘Treasures in disguise as monsters’. What in the Dungeons and Dragons is that supposed to mean?”

Mike has buried his face in his hands, but he’s laughing behind them.

“It was the Ambien again, I swear,” he swears. “I got off it. At least I didn’t buy any more non-refundable plane tickets to Shanghai.”

“That was fun, though,” Augustus points out.

“Yeah, it was,” Mike admits.

Off of Paxil, it turns out Mike likes to eat. Like, a lot. And still has the metabolism to mostly deal with it. Gus had been very willing to join him on a tasting trip through Shanghai, lest the tickets go to waste. The trip had left both with fond memories of Ci Fan Tuan, and You Dunzi, as well as up a pants size, but that’s what vacations in your twenties are for.

Gus, Violet, and Veruca order and then sip cocktails. Mike sticks to ginger ale and truffle fries. He has never had a problem with alcohol, because he has never let himself have one, and he knows himself (and his family history) well enough to know that he too easily could.

Things are too good to wreck like that, you know?

He checks his phone.

“Hey, it’s time,” he says.

The others put their drinks aside, and Mike…unfolds his phone. The palm sized device becomes twice its size, then three, until it is a twenty-inch tablet with an extendable stand that Mike places in the middle of the table, and then taps on.

An app connects. A screen pops up. A hand reaches through the screen. They all help Charlie Bucket until he is sitting in the booth with them.

Bucket is thin, for a chocolatier. He is only a little taller than Mike, who is short. He has the same boyish grin he had back when he and his family had nothing.

Mike refolds his device, until it looks like just a phone again. He spends the rest of the evening wedged comfortably between Gus and Violet. Plans are vaguely made for another trip like Shanghai, and more concretely for a sort of pub crawl that consists of, instead of drinking, eating dollar slices of pizza until they have located the best one. Veruca refuses to take part, but will still come along. Charlie cannot make it: he has a factory to run, but they promise to send him a winning slice.

It’s just one of many good days in a more than decent life.

#charlie and the chocolate factory #catcf broadway #fanfic #mike teavee #Augustus Goop #veruca salt #violet beauregarde #a lil' adulting

27 notes · View notes

itsteaveetime · 8 years ago

Note

Trick or Treat - Sweater

((For the Trick or Treat meme: Send me “Trick or Treat” and a word (or sentence/prompt/etc) and get a drabble.))

Mike Teavee stands shivering and dripping on the floor of Wonka’s office, skinny arms wrapped around himself, face set in stubborn defiance despite his chattering teeth. He jerks his chin at the neatly folded pile of neutral colored clothing in Wonka’s hands.

“I’m not wearing that,” he says.

Not all accidents at the Wonka Chocolate factory are fantastical. For instance, sometimes pipes break, and it isn’t anyone’s fault, but certain visiting technology addicts get drenched with the frigid water from an air conditioning unit, and really need to get into some dry clothes before they catch pneumonia.

Certain technology addicts are being difficult about it.

“Mike, really. You’re too big for anything of Charlie’s-...”

Even Mike’s feet are bigger than Charlie’s feet, a fact Mike seems to take some solace in.

“...Grandpa George is the closest to your size. They’ll still be a little big, but it’s only temporary,” Wonka points out. “We could see about growing you into them, but I don’t think your mother would appreciate it if I returned you looking like Augustus Gloop.”

“I’m not wearing old people clothes,” Mike hisses. “I’d rather freeze.”

But he wouldn’t, of course. Not really. He’s struck by a particularly violent shiver, and all Wonka has to do is extend the dry clothes pointedly. Mike makes a frustrated noise, snatches the clothes from him, and stomps to the bathroom.

Well. Squelches.

Wonka takes a seat. Waits. Waits. Waits...

“Problem, Michael?”

“Not coming out,” Mike mumbles from the other side of the bathroom door.

“That will make it particularly easy to use the bathroom,” Wonka points out. “But it doesn’t sound very entertaining.”

The door opens slowly. The butterfly emerges from its cocoon.

Mike Teavee looks miserable. His still damp dark hair hangs limply around his pale face. He’s had to cuff George’s tan trousers. His white t-shirt is also oversized, but he seems the most distressed about the light grey, cable knit cardigan that has been thrust upon him. It’s very ‘Mr. Rogers’, and Mike holds his arms away from his sides like it might be contagious. He casts a glum glance towards Wonka’s desk, where his phone rests in a container full of rice. It cannot help him now.

“I look like a total dork!” He whines.

Wonka has ducked into the bathroom to retrieve Mike’s momentarily useless clothing. It is all folded in the sink, not strewn in puddles across the floor like he had half expected it to be. Even Mike’s soaked sneakers are balanced on top of the pile. He calls for an Oompa to transport it all down to the laundry room, and take great care not to shrink anything, even if in his opinion Mike’s usual pants could stand to be a bit less baggy. That is the horrible style, apparently.

He returns to his office.

“Not a total dork,” he tells the boy, intentionally implying that total is the operative word and missing the mark on comfort by a wide margin.

But it is true: Mike does not look like himself.

He looks very small. He is a small boy, and always has been, and has also been much much smaller, of course. But this is a different sort of small: a weak sort of small. Mike Teavee is tough. Not actually tough, but he manages to talk like he is, and seem like he might be. The cardigan seems to have sucked all of that right out of him. He does not seem sure how to be...Mike, at the moment.

“They’re just clothes,” Wonka says. “They aren’t who you are.”

“I know,” Mike grouses. “But they are too. Like what you want people to think about you. Who you want people to think you are. Like I bet this is totally who my mom wants people to think I am.”

“I think your mother would prefer a much more vintage aesthetic, but that’s not really my point,” Wonka says. “I’m completely confident you’re entirely capable of dastardly delinquency regardless of how you’re dressed.”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees. “But people won’t know I’m cool.”

“How to put this...” Wonka begins.

“Don’t even think about it, Old Man,” Mike says, eyes narrowed dangerously, and also looking somewhat more Mike-like.

“I was only going to say you aren-...”

“I said don’t! Look. You wouldn’t dress like how you dress, if you didn’t want people to think stuff about you. ...Whatever that is,” Mike insists, eyeing Wonka’s garish ensemble.

“I don’t always dress like this,” Wonka counters.

Mike snorts.

“I know. It weirds me out. In your, like, suburban dad gear? Casual Wonk. So freaky.”

“Well, frankly Michael,” Wonka tells him, adjusting his tie and smoothing his wounded pride. “I don’t care what you think. I dress how I want. And I’ll have you know that the particular outfit to which I know you are referring is a disguise for when I have to conduct important market research.”

“Whatever!” Mike says. “I dress how I want too, and this isn't it!”

The chocolatier pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Michael. I am only saying: the opinions of others needn’t matter quite so much. You are much more than this.”

He waves his cane at all of Michael’s currently frumpily dressed outer shell.

Michael is quiet for a moment.

“I guess,” he agrees, finally and unsure-ly.

There is a soft knock on the door. Mrs. Bucket has appeared there, deftly finishing embroidering something. It is, Wonka can see when she presses it against Michael’s temporary sweater, a patch shaped like a skull. She fastens it to the boy with large safety pins, like young people who are fans of particularly loud and discordant music often do. She peers at him a moment, then ruffles his hair. Mrs. Bucket is one of few people who are capable of touching Michael’s hair without being bitten. His hair spikes up obediently under her fingers.

“Better,” she declares.

And just like that: he’s Mike Teavee again. Cocky. Smirky. Slouchy. Bratty. Full of himself, and successfully able to hide almost all loathing of himself.

“Really?” Wonka says, flatly.

“Uh huh,” Mike replies, Mike mode fully activated. “See: she knows what’s cool.”

#Catcf #Charlie and the chocolate factory #fanfic #Drabble meme #Wonka #Mike Teavee #Mrs. Bucket who is cool #Casual Wonk

4 notes · View notes