WiP Wednesday the Aliens in Missouri HS AU
aka the no villain dads are evil, they are just annoying and petty AU.
There aren't any official "Peter at 16 "pics so this is the thumbnail.
For a million years, Ego the Living Planet had wandered the universe searching for meaning. He had set foot on hundreds of worlds and interacted with beings of all sorts. He had tried delicacies while indulging himself in vices that would destroy lesser creatures. And yet, he had found nothing that offended his sensibilities as much as Mrs. The Destroyer’s lemon bars.
Grainy and gelatinous, they were an affront to baked goods everywhere and to the Band Booster Sale they were meant to serve. His only consolation was that they were far away from his own superior eclairs.
None of this culinary drama concerned his son Peter Quill, who was too busy helping one of his fellow band members set up a table.
“That hard driving guitar and the harmonica add these surprising elements that brings ‘Mary Jane’s Last Dance’ into the 90s but it still feels like it’s in conversation with Petty’s old stuff.” Peter stepped back to admire his handiwork. It was definitely a table with baked stuff on it. “Does that make sense?”
His friend, Rich Rider, looked at Peter like he’d grown another head. “Why can you never sound like this in English class?”
“I just,” Peter deflated a little, “I just like music, man.”
At sixteen years old, puberty had hit Peter hard, making him tall and gawky but at least his skin remained mostly clear. His dad wouldn’t let him grow his hair out yet so he wasn’t exactly “on trend” but at least he could still engage with the oversized tees and flannel his peers were wearing.
Rich glanced over Peter’s work. “That looks good.” He turned back to his own task, finishing tying the last ribbon bows on wrapped parcels of chocolate chip cookies.
Peter propped his head on Rich’s shoulder to see what he was doing. “Oooh, nice.”
“I don’t know Pete,” Rich pouted, “I mean, mom’s made these chocolate chip cookies but I don’t know if they’re going to sell.”
The notion that anyone would be unimpressed with Mrs. Rider’s cookies baffled Peter. “Are you kidding?” he said, flailing around. “Everyone loves your mom’s cookies.”
“Yeah.” That would normally be the case; unfortunately, Rich had doubts. “But they’re up against eclairs made by a literal god.”
“God little g,” Peter said as an afterthought. Then, he glanced back and forth to make sure no one was paying attention before whispering: “And he made them using his own matter. That’s kind of like cheating.”
The look of horror that crossed Rich’s face was one for the ages. “How does that even work?”
“I don’t know.” A shrug was the best answer Rich was getting out of Peter. “I got a ‘C’ in Science.”
“Wait,” Rich asked. “Which science?”
“I don’t know!” Peter flailed again. “I got a ‘C.’”
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