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neferaskingdom · 2 months ago

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♡ It's Not You, It's Your Pants | CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader [Crack Fic]

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Summary: Girl roasts Charles Leclerc’s tragic pants online, then accidentally crashes into him in Monaco. Cue spilled coffee, fashion rants, and an existential crisis about how her life turned into a Wattpad fanfic in under five minutes.

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A/N: Just a random crack idea I had after seeing Charles' pants on Pinterest.

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check out my other works: Masterlist

The pants in question:

Monaco was as glamorous as your Instagram feed had led you to believe—blue skies, sparkling yachts, and streets that looked like they’d been personally polished by billionaires. You’d come here for a break from your intense fashion studies, soaking up the vibes (and let’s be honest, hoping for a celebrity sighting). And maybe—just maybe—you’d catch a glimpse of a certain F1 driver whose face had become a staple on your social media, along with some questionable fashion choices.

It was your first time here, a small vacation before diving back into the hectic world of fashion school. Your excuse? Inspiration. But honestly, you just wanted to escape to the Côte d'Azur and sip some coffee.

But you weren’t just an F1 fan. You had your own little corner of fame on Instagram. As a fashion student with a decent following, your niche was breaking down and rating celebrity outfits. Recently, you’d gained serious attention for a video where you roasted none other than Charles Leclerc—the beloved racing prince of Monaco—for wearing, and you quote yourself, “blue baggy pants that looked like they were in a fistfight with a bunch of scissors.”

It wasn’t personal; it was business. And the fact that the pants had star-shaped rips in them? Your comment was basically a public service announcement.

“Look at these pants,” you’d said, holding up a screenshot of Charles sporting his, ahem, questionable fashion statement. “I mean, what are we even doing here? Are these pants or a craft project gone wrong? Who looks at a pair of baggy jeans and thinks, ‘You know what’s missing? Giant star-shaped cutouts for maximum confusion!’”

As you strolled through Monte Carlo, cappuccino in hand, you scrolled through the comments on your viral video.

“Not gonna lie, I kinda miss when Charles used to wear those skinny jeans that made him look like a confused hipster.”

“ARE WE JUST NOT GONNA TALK ABOUT THE STAR CUTOUTS?!?!”

“I think Charles Leclerc has been taking fashion advice from his 8-year-old self. Stars? Really? Babe, it’s not the 2000s anymore.”

“Not the hero we deserve, but the one we need—thank you for saying what we were all thinking about those pants.”

“Leclerc’s stylist should be fired, immediately.”

You chuckled at one of the memes someone had made—a zoomed-in shot of Charles in his infamous star-cutout pants, captioned: “I’m a star, literally.” Honestly, the internet was undefeated.

Mid-laugh, you rounded a corner, not looking where you were going, and—WHAM—collided with someone solid, causing you to spill your coffee, drop your phone, and let out a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

“Oh my God! I am so, so sorry!” you babbled, fumbling to grab your phone off the ground.

“No problem, really—”

You froze. That voice.

You didn’t need to look up to recognize that slightly accented, velvety smooth tone. The universe had decided today was the day it turned your life into a Wattpad fanfiction.

Charles Leclerc was standing right in front of you.

And not just standing. He was smiling—that damn heart-stopping smile—and then something in his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed slightly as if he was trying to place where he knew you from. You, meanwhile, were contemplating whether it was possible to will yourself into nonexistence through sheer force of embarrassment.

“You’re…” Charles blinked and then a glint of recognition flashed in his eyes. “Wait, you’re the girl from that Instagram video. The one about my pants.”

If your life was a movie, this would be the part where someone hit pause so you could have a full existential crisis. Unfortunately, reality didn’t work like that, and all you could do was stare at him, jaw slack, as your brain tried to reboot.

“I, uh… well…” you stammered, unsure of how to explain to the very person whose fashion choices you’d roasted in front of millions of people that it wasn’t personal.

Charles tilted his head, his smile widening. “You really didn’t like my pants, huh?”

Oh God. This was happening. This was actually happening.

“I mean, it’s not that I didn’t like them…” you began weakly, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that you were currently being confronted by Charles freaking Leclerc. “It’s just… they were, you know, kind of…” You gestured vaguely toward his legs as if that would somehow help explain your deep-seated hatred for the star-ripped monstrosities.

“Kind of what?” he asked, clearly enjoying watching you squirm.

You took a deep breath, deciding to just go for it. “Okay, look. They were confusing. Like, were they pants? Or was it some weird attempt at turning your legs into a constellation? I couldn’t tell. They had star-shaped rips, Charles. also, why were there so many weird cutouts? Are they… windows? Are your pants ventilated?”

Charles let out a snort, clearly struggling to keep it together. “Ventilated?”

You nodded, gaining momentum now. “Exactly! They look like they’re half-torn on purpose, but not in a cool, grungy way. It’s like someone started cutting them up and then gave up halfway through. And the bagginess? Charles, I don’t even know where to begin. It’s like you bought them two sizes too big, but then tried to fix it by adding rips. And it just… doesn’t work.”

Charles burst out laughing, his hand covering his mouth as he tried to rein in his amusement. “You really think they were that bad?”

You blinked at him, dead serious. “Charles, those pants looked like they got into a fight with a pair of kindergarten scissors and lost.”

He was full-on laughing now, and you felt a small victory in that. At least he wasn’t offended. Although, considering how often people talked about drivers online, he probably had thicker skin than you’d given him credit for.

“I have to admit, I didn’t think anyone would notice the stars,” Charles said between laughs, wiping away a tear from his eye. “But you? You gave them a whole five-minute segment.”

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I didn’t mean to turn it into an entire rant! It just… it snowballed.”

Charles grinned at you, his expression softening a bit. “No, it was funny. I saw the video. My brothers couldn’t stop laughing. Arthur sent it to me like five times.”

You blinked. “Your brothers… sent you the video?”

“Yep. They even gave the pants a name. They call them ‘the constellation pants’ now.”

You couldn’t help it. You snorted. “You should burn those pants. Like, immediately.”

He looked down at his legs, pretending to think it over. “They’re not that bad.”

“Charles,” you sighed, suddenly feeling a wave of passion wash over you. “Those pants were an abomination. They weren’t just bad—they were like an insult to pants everywhere. Like, what even were they? Baggy, ill-fitting, with random star-shaped rips? Did they start out as pants or was it some kind of tragic attempt at upcycling? Because I swear to God, it looked like a fabric store exploded on your legs.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting you to dive headfirst into a passionate rant about pants, but there was no stopping you now.

“And don’t get me wrong,” you continued, gesturing wildly. “I’m all for experimental fashion. I love a good risk. But those pants? They looked like you lost a bet to a five-year-old. I’ve seen better craftsmanship at a kids’ summer camp sewing class. They were offensive, Charles. Offensive to pants, offensive to legs, and offensive to anyone with eyes.”

Charles looked back up at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Okay, but what’s so wrong with adding a little personality to my wardrobe? Stars are cool.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking your head. “Not when they’re cut out of your pants, they’re not!”

“Fair enough,” he said, still smiling. “But now you’ve got me curious. If I did burn the pants, what would you suggest I wear?”

Was this a trick question? Was he seriously asking you, the random fashion student who insulted him online, for fashion advice? What was your life?

“Well…” you began, mentally assembling an outfit in your head. “For starters, how about something that doesn’t look like it belongs in a bad 2000s boyband? Maybe some slim-fit jeans that actually fit properly. And—oh!—ditch the weird rips. You’re Charles Leclerc, not a rejected *NSYNC member.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed by your decisiveness. “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I’m just saying… you’ve got the face, the career, the whole package. You shouldn’t let the pants drag you down.”

Charles grinned, leaning in slightly. “So, you think I have the whole package?”

Your brain screeched to a halt. Did he just—? Did Charles Leclerc just flirt with you?

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, star boy,” you shot back, smirking despite the fact that your internal monologue was currently having a breakdown. “I’m only here trying to fix your fashion sense.”

Charles chuckled, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. And that’s when the next bomb dropped.

“Well then, maybe you can help me shop sometime?” He said it so casually, like he wasn’t currently turning your entire existence upside down with one smooth sentence. I THOUGHT CARLOS WAS THE SMOOTH OPERATOR.

“I—wait, what?” You blinked rapidly, wondering if you’d heard him correctly. “Did you just… ask me to go shopping with you?”

He smiled again, that devastatingly charming smile that should probably come with a warning label. “Yeah. I mean, you clearly have strong opinions about what I wear. Might as well put them to good use.”

Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. This was fine. Everything was fine. You were standing in the middle of Monaco, and Charles Leclerc—your internet crush since forever—was asking you to go shopping with him. Totally normal. Just another Tuesday. Nothing to freak out about.

Yet your inner monologue was screaming, “MY LIFE IS A WATTPAD FANFICTION, WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

“I, uh…” you stammered, trying to process this. “Are you serious?”

“Of course,” Charles replied smoothly, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve got to fix my ‘constellation pants’ problem, right? Who better to help me than the girl who went viral for hating them?”

You were pretty sure your brain had short-circuited at this point. But somehow, you managed to respond, your voice steady despite the fact that your insides were doing cartwheels. “I mean… I guess I could do that. If you really want fashion advice.”

Charles nodded, then casually pulled out his phone. “Great. Let me get your number, and we’ll sort something out.”

You stared at him. Was this real life?

He handed you his phone, and you slowly, robotically, typed in your number, still half-expecting to wake up from this fever dream.

After you handed it back, Charles shot you a grin that could probably melt steel. “So… how about lunch tomorrow? We could discuss your fashion intervention plan.”

Your internal monologue was now full-on screaming. WHAT IS THIS LIFE?

“Lunch? Uh… sure?” you replied, feeling like a character in a rom-com who was two seconds away from tripping over their own feet.

“Perfect,” he said, his smile widening. “I’ll text you.”

And just like that, Charles Leclerc—the man whose fashion sense you had ruthlessly destroyed in front of the entire internet—waved goodbye, leaving you standing there in a daze, wondering if you were hallucinating or not.

Your life? Officially. Unreal.

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rambling-at-midnight · 3 months ago

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Second Chances (Part 2)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Vigilante!Reader, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne & Reader

Summary: Your and Jason’s relationship gets off to a rocky start in that, well... it doesn't have a chance to start, because the whole universe is conspiring against Jason. Everything comes to a head when a particle collider in STAR Labs malfunctions.

Word count: 5.8k

Six days after Jason discovered your regeneration abilities finds him waiting at a coffee shop at 8:53 a.m. He anxiously checks his watch again. You agreed to meet at 9, which really means you’ll be there by 9:10. He didn’t want to drink his coffee too quickly (how long did coffee dates last? He looked it up online and the results were inconclusive) so he drank a cup at home before leaving to sate the caffeine addiction every vigilante in Gotham suffered from.

It hadn’t made him more alert. Just more jittery.

Jason’s knee jogs beneath the table. It felt too high school prom to ask what you planned on wearing beforehand, so he used his best judgment (Damian would say Jason’s judgment was never good, but what did Damian know) and wore his only pair of jeans and a plain gray t-shirt. He knows a suit is too formal for a coffee date, and his usual sweats or gymwear is too casual. You’ve seen him in all kinds of clothing, so his appearance barely even matters, but at this point he’s going to sweat through the t-shirt before you even get here.

Instead of fiddling with his clothes, Jason combs his bangs back again.

As he walked through the door, Jason’s stomach had flipped like it was freefalling. A hundred little thoughts occurred to him, like, What if the shop’s closed today or What if this is the only coffee shop in Gotham that requires formalwear?

All his fears were unfounded. In the corner, a hipster wearing a fedora sips on his iced macchiato. Two tables down is a gaggle of GCU students that look like they’re cramming for finals. No one even looked over when he sat down to reserve this table for the two of you. It’s right next to the big ornamental bookshelf in the back of the shop, so hopefully you two will have a little more privacy.

Everything should be fine.

Everything is fine.

Jason checks his watch again: 9 a.m. sharp.

Shit. Should he order you a coffee before you get here? Is that presumptuous? Jason knows your usual order, but what if you have a different one here? What if you’re running even later than normal and by the time you get here all the ice is melted and you drink sad, watery coffee to make him feel better?

He should order your drink. Or maybe he should let you order your drink, and he should buy your pastry. Jason stands, then checks his phone to see if you’ve texted. You haven’t.

There’s no line, so he has no time to ponder the decision. When the barista asks what he wants, Jason panics and orders two drinks and two pastries. He saw something on the internet the other day about how women don’t like that anymore because then they feel obligated to stay at the date, but you know that he won’t pressure you, right? Like, sure, he’s never been in a relationship before, and Jason’s pretty sure he’s been in love with you since before he died, and he also wouldn’t be mad if you moved into his apartment tomorrow and never left, but he doesn’t have any expectations for today.

He thinks you two are compatible. Jason hopes so.

He checks his watch again: 9:04. A terrible thought occurs to him. What if you sleep through your alarm and never show up?

At 9:07, Jason’s order is ready, and when he turns around with two drinks and a bag of pastries in his hands, someone says, “Hi,” at his elbow.

Jason is a highly trained vigilante. The sight of him makes criminals crap their pants. He’s mastered over twenty styles of combat.

Jason jumps and drops the coffees.

Because you’re also a highly trained vigilante, you catch them without a drop spilling. “Hi, Jay,” you say again, eyes crinkling with your smile. You look… nice. More than nice. Just like you’ve seen Jason dressed any way, he’s seen you wear anything, and you never look anything less than perfect. But he appreciates that you put in the effort today.

Jason swallows. “H—” His voice cracks. “Hey, Y/N.” He cringes internally. So smooth.

You check the labels on both drinks and tape a sip of the one for you. “Thanks for ordering. Sorry I was late. Wanna sit down?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Jason. He sits in the chair across from you, then feels awkward with his hands. Should he put them in his lap? Keep them in sight?

You, on the other hand, seem completely at ease. Your eyes flick over him as you take another sip of coffee. Jason’s whole body flushes at your examination. He busies himself with his drink.

After about thirty full seconds of silent coffee drinking, you tilt your head and ask, “So how have you been?”

“Good,” Jason says. “I’ve been—good. You know. Recovering.” Internally, he curses his twisted tongue. “How have you been?”

“Pretty good,” you reply. Take another sip of coffee. Maybe you’re just as nervous as he is.

Jason nods. “That’s good.”

After another brief silence, you sigh and lean forward. Your eyes sparkle, like you’re trying to share a secret just between the two of you. “This is awkward, isn't it?”

Oh, God. You’re about to tell Jason that you two are better off as friends. “I mean, first dates are supposed to be a little awkward, aren’t they?”

“Well, yes, but because you’re essentially meeting a stranger. We’re not strangers, though. I know basically everything about you, and you know all about me.”

“Oh.” The thought of meeting up with a stranger to establish a relationship doesn’t appeal to Jason, honestly. He doesn’t think he could ever love someone he didn’t know. He doesn’t think he could love anyone more than you.

You cover your mouth with one hand. “Holy shit. I totally forgot. This is your first ever date, isn’t it?”

Jason feels his cheeks flush scarlet. “Well, technically, but—”

“Yeah, hanging out with Janie Morris in the library in seventh grade doesn’t count.” You wave your hand. “I’m so sorry. I’m totally ruining your first first date.”

“I wouldn’t call this ruined,” says Jason. He asks hesitantly, “Would… would you?”

You smile sweetly. “No. I’ve just never gone on a date with someone I liked this much. I’m a little nervous.”

Jason’s stomach flips. He opens his mouth to say something, but the sound of gagging cuts him off.

Damian and his friend, the youngest Kent kid, stand in line for coffee behind an absolute dickhead wearing a Blüdhaven police officer uniform. Dickhead has his back turned to you, ordering for the ungrateful kids, and Damian’s lip is curled while Jon Kent has his tongue out and finger pointed at his mouth, pretending to retch.

“What are you doing here?” you and Jason ask at the same time, but with vastly different tones.

As soon as he pays, Dickhead turns around and grins brightly. “Hey, guys! So you’re the reason Dami insisted on getting coffee before school.”

“Did Alfred give permission for that?” you ask.

Jon shoves his hands in his pockets and whistles. Damian suddenly finds the ceiling very intriguing.

Jason checks his watch. “He’s going to be late,” he says pointedly.

Dick shrugs. “That’s okay. I was late almost every day to Gotham Academy.”

“Yes, because you were a teenage delinquent. Those of us that actually care about our academics—”

As Jason continues to argue with Dick, Damian turns to you and says plainly, “You could do so much better, Y/N.”

“Come here, Dami.” You beckon him forward, and he sidles over reluctantly. You rub at his cheek with your sleeve. Gently, quietly, so he isn’t embarrassed, you chide, “That’s not a nice way to talk about your brother.”

Damian scowls. “He is not—”

Suddenly, the cash register topples over, pushed out of the way by Kite Man’s expanding kite.

You shove the kids behind you. Jason shoves you behind him. Dick shoves all of you behind himself.

Kite Man shouts at the underpaid barista, “What do you mean no one ordered my special drink this week?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the barista says. “Nobody wants green raspberry lattes.”

“Green raspberry?” Jason asks in disbelief. “Does that even exist?”

Kite Man whirls around. “Yes, it does, and it’s fabulous!” He stands in front of the door and shouts, “Nobody leaves until you all have tried my signature drink!”

Well, of all Gotham’s rogues, Kite Man is relatively harmless. It’s probably easier to just try the drinks and tell him that it tastes good instead of fighting.

Judging by the look on your and Dick’s faces—mutual exasperation—you’re all on the same page.

Unfortunately, the hipster in the corner doesn’t agree. He throws his fedora on the ground and raises his fist in the air. Presumably he has something motivational to say about nonconformity or whatever they care about nowadays. Unfortunately, the shop’s glass windows shatter, and four men with Penguin masks and large guns enter.

“Hey!” Kite Man complains. “I was in the middle of holding these people hostage!”

A squat figure waddles into view. “Fly away now, little birdie, or you’ll find yourself between my minions and a hard place.”

Kite Man shakes his head. “Just because you buy into your bird theme doesn’t mean we all have—”

One of the goons cocks his gun.

“Fine,” he huffs, “I’m going. But I’m telling everyone that you stole my heist.”

Cobblepot rolls his eyes. “You do that.”

Clothes rustle behind Jason, and when he glances over his shoulder, your date clothes have been replaced by your Ghoul costume. How did you even do that?

The Ghoul mask has no visible eyes, but Jason sometimes thinks he can see yours through it. “Get down.”

“Ghoul—”

“All right!” Cobblepot shouts. “Everyone, hands up and wallets out. As long as you’re smart birdies, I’ll let you all fly the coop.”

“Speaking of flying, has anyone here ever seen a flying idiot before?”

Cobblepot pauses. Everyone slowly looks up, and up, until they see you perched on top of the ornamental bookshelf.

“They’re about to,” growls one of the goons. He raises the barrel of his gun, but you’re already jumping to avoid the spray of bullets, feet out and aimed right for Cobblepot’s middle.

The force of your jump sends him across the shop. You land much more gracefully, put your hands on your hips, and say happily, “Now everyone has.”

The goons open fire.

Jason flips the table up, then crouches behind it. He pulls Damian down and curls around his soft human body. The Kryptonian kid will be fine. In fact, he’s in front of Dick, doing his best to use his invulnerable skin to deflect any bullets that fly in their direction.

Jason’s teeth grind. He hadn’t brought his helmet because he’s an idiot. There are a couple knives tucked into his left boot, and one handgun hidden in his right, but bullets spew so heavily over their heads that he doesn’t think he can join the fight without his armor.

Bodies hit bodies and people grunt. A man grunts, and you cry out. You grunt, and one of the men cries out.

Dickhead finally does his job. He twists around, face twisted into a snarl, and tackles someone out of sight.

“It’s Signal!” one of the goons screams.

Jason squeezes his eyes shut and covers Damian’s when the force of the sun lights up the room. Judging by a couple screams, the goons weren’t so smart.

When Jason straightens up, two of the goons roll around on the ground, clutching their faces and screaming about going blind. Dick has the other two handcuffed, and Signal has Cobblepot pinned.

Where are you?

Jason scans the entire shop, but he doesn’t see you.

“Todd!” Damian tugs his hand. “This way.”

Jason lets the kid steer him through the shop and out the back door. After a second, he realizes that the kid is following a trail of blood.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You’re in the alley behind the coffee shop, wedged between two dumpsters. Judging by the smear of blood in front of the one meant for recycling, you collapsed in front of it, then dragged yourself between the two to hide. Blood stains your pale suit from the trail of bullets in your stomach. One of the goons managed to hit you with at least seven. They’re all in a straight line across, too, and Jason would admire the marksmanship if it didn’t mean you’re bleeding out in the middle of an alley.

You rip the fabric of your suit until the torn skin is visible. Then you reach into one wound with your bare fingers. Sharp, pained gasps escape your mouth, sounds that would be screams had you more strength.

You pull out one bullet. It rolls away underneath the dumpster.

Jason drops to his knees. As much as he knows, intellectually, that you won’t die, it’s something else entirely to watch you bleed out. “Ghoul?”

Your helmet lolls. You cough, and red stains your mask from the inside out. “Hey, Jace. Sorry. Give me a sec.”

Damian pushes past Jason. You manually push your legs out of the way so he can crouch next to you, ignoring the puddle of blood growing around his shoes. They’re black, so the stains won’t be visible.

“Hey, bud,” you say weakly. “You okay?”

Damian nods. “I am fine.”

“Fucking Gotham,” you mutter. “Not even nine-thirty…”

Someone gasps behind Jason. He whirls around, ready to defend you when you’re unable to.

Dickhead has one hand over his mouth and another over Jon’s eyes, even though the alien can probably see right through his fingers. “Oh, that’s not good.”

“S’okay,” you say. Try to give them all a thumbs-up. “They nicked my spine, actually, so I can’t feel anything.” You cough again, make a choking sound, and go limp.

Jason feels it when you die. His heart twinges, and everything in his vision goes half a shade grayer. There’s less color when you aren’t in the world.

“Oh, my God.” Dick pulls on his hair. “Oh, my God, they’re dead.”

Jason tilts his head. “You don’t know?” He looks at Damian. “He doesn’t know?”

“I don’t know what?”

“Ghoul’s healing abilities are more advanced than we were led to believe,” Damian says briskly. He pulls tweezers out of somewhere and roots around in your wounds, extracting each small bullet with expert precision.

“Dami, stop that,” Dick says. He pulls out his phone. “We need to call someone. Jason, you stop Damian—”

“He has to remove the bullets before they can heal around them,” Jason says.

Dick stops dialing whatever number he’d thought of. He stares at Jason. “What? Jay, Ghoul’s—”

“Dead.” Jason’s mouth is sticky around the word. “Yeah, I know. But not for long.”

“Whoa,” breathes Jon. “I can see them healing.”

“Okay, someone had better explain to me what’s going on right now.”

Jason opens his mouth to, but then you suck in a deep breath and sit up, patting your stomach to check that you’re intact again.

And. Well. That pretty much explains it all.

You and Jason try to plan a makeup first date four days after, just a quick lunch on your work break, but that’s interrupted by a last-minute order, and you cancel when Jason’s already outside the building with flowers in hand. Then you stop by Jason’s apartment for a bookshop trip, but find him passed out on the ground from several stab wounds, and ‘patching Jason’s wounds and ordering takeout’ doesn’t quite count as a first date. Every time Jason visits, Damian is already there with a smug smile to belittle everything he says. Your relationship deserves a proper first date, with nice clothes and the right setting, and he can’t do that simple thing for you.

Two weeks go by, and Jason still can’t take you out on a proper date. The whole universe, and especially Damian Wayne, are conspiring against him.

But tonight will be the night. Tonight, Jason set up a (fake, he doesn’t want to set the whole building on fire) candlelit dinner in his apartment. Tim has been thoroughly bribed to keep Damian busy no matter what, Cass and Babs are handling Crime Alley, and Nightwing is patrolling your usual stomping grounds. Bruce accepted all this as measures to keep Gotham nightlife on its toes, so Jason doesn’t expect any issues from him.

Tonight, nothing will go wrong.

Only two minutes after the arranged meet time, you knock on his front door, and Jason trips in his haste to answer it. He almost brings down the entire table, but his hand narrowly misses hitting the edge. Jason catches himself against the wall and wrenches the door open.

“Hey, Jay,” you beam. You’re dressed somewhat nice, not that Jason’s complaining, but now he feels overdressed in his button down. At least his feet are bare. Speaking of, where are his socks?

“Hey. How are you doing?”

“I’m good, I—”

You stop short at the sight of the dinner. Jason swallows. Is it too fancy?

Then you snort.

Jason’s chest hurts.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately. “Just—I didn’t think you were the kind of guy to celebrate every milestone.”

“What?”

“Well, I mean, this is our two-week anniversary, right?” You step further into the room and shed your jacket. “It’s sweet, Jay, really, but it’s really not necessary. Between the two of us, I’ll probably forget our one-year anniversary, so at least you’re good with dates.”

“Hang on,” Jason interrupts. “What do you mean, it’s our two-week anniversary?”

“Um, yeah?” You give him a weird look. “It’s been two weeks since we started dating. Or did I get the dates wrong?”

“We’re dating?” Jason squeaks.

You squint, open your mouth, and check the date on your phone. You close your mouth and say hesitantly, “Aren’t we?”

“You never told me that!”

“I didn’t realize it needed to be said!”

Jason splutters. Of course it needed to be said! “I never asked you to be my partner!”

“Well, duh, but you asked me out and brought flowers to my work.” You put a hand on your hip and pop it out. “I thought we would work out the details later. Look, am I wrong? Did I interpret this all wrong?”

Jason could rip his own hair out. “I’ve been trying to take you on one good date this whole time!”

Your face is blank for a while. Then you cover your mouth too late to hide your snort. “Sorry, sorry.” Your hands flap in the air, then you give him an apologetic look and set them straight at your side. “I’m being serious. Just, hon, what about the other dates weren’t good?”

Jason bluescreens at the nickname. He’s not sure how long he stares at you, but once his brain reboots and he realizes he’s standing like a creep, he wipes his chin to make sure there’s no drool on it, then says, “I didn’t even say anything to you when I dropped off the flowers!”

“Yes, I was on call, but I appreciated the gesture.”

“Then that other time, I nearly bled out and stained your clothes with my blood.”

“Yeah.” You bite your lip. “That was kind of stressful, but you weren’t in any real danger of bleeding out. I would have freaked out a lot more if that was the case. Besides, I like taking care of you.”

You have got to stop saying cute shit like that, because Jason’s whole face heats up like a tomato and he can’t muster up any real words. What is it about you that turns him into such an idiot?

“Every time I go to your place, Damian’s there.”

“Damian is literally always at my apartment. I’m afraid that you’ll see even more of your brother if you really start dating me. Since we haven’t been already.”

Jason sheepishly rubs the back of his neck as you sidle closer and grab his other hand. Your fingers intertwine with his. “I guess that was kind of stupid of me, huh?”

You shrug. “Not stupid. A little silly. But still cute.” You bounce on your toes and give Jason a look, and all he can think is Oh my God.

Because this is it.

He might have read everything else wrong, but Jason is pretty damn sure that you want him to kiss you for the first time. He might be awful, might be the worst goddamn person you’ve ever kissed, but he’s willing to practice until he’s the best.

Jason’s neck cranes. He leans down and you lean up, eyes fluttering shut, and…

Your phone rings.

Everything pauses. Your eyes open, and a crinkle appears between your brows. “I should take this.” You silence the sound, then look over the electronic screen. Jason doesn’t peek, although his Bat-paranoia is begging for him to.

“Isn’t your ringer always off?��

“Yeah, it’s, um… it’s an alarm,” you say.

You’re a terrible liar.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You smile, but this time it looks forced. “I’ll see you later, Jay.” Instead of trying for a kiss again, you trap his arms to his side in a bear hug, then dart out the door.

Jason sticks his head into the hallway and shouts, “Are we still getting coffee tomorrow?” That was his backup plan for if something fucked up this attempt at a first date.

And something did.

You’re already gone.

He goes to your weekly coffee spot anyway in the vain hope you’ll show up. Nine o’clock passes, then nine-thirty, then ten.

After two hours of waiting, Jason has to concede that you’re not showing up.

The moment he stands, someone clears their throat, and when he looks back, Damian is in the chair across from him.

“Do you ever go to school?”

“At approximately nine-forty last evening,” started the brat, but Jason cut him off.

“Not interested in whatever tantrum you’re pitching now.”

“Sit down, Todd.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I know where Y/N is.”

Jason sits down.

Damian clears his throat again. “At approximately nine-forty last evening, Barry Allen sent a distress signal to the Justice League. Batman went to Star City to investigate, and he took Ghoul with him.”

“Why would he do that?”

“How should I know, you insufferable hooligan?”

Seriously. Victorian child. It was honestly ridiculous.

Damian lost a bit of confidence. “I am…” He bit his lip. “Worried.”

“Why?”

“I have not heard from Father or Y/N since their departure.”

Shit.

Jason shot to his feet. “Do we have a zeta to Star City?”

Damian scoffed. “Of course.”

“Good. We’re going to use it.”

“Affirmative.”

Jason drags the kid by the collar of his shirt. His bike is too far, so Jason hotwires a car and hauls ass to the Cave. Everyone else in this stupid nocturnal family is still asleep, so no one interrupts them when Damian turns off the zeta’s parental override and plugs in their coordinates. It’s a good thing he keeps a spare suit in the Cave; he hadn’t even thought to grab it from his apartment.

Jason takes a deep breath before stepping through. He’s had some time to think, so he knows exactly what he wants to say. He’ll apologize. He’ll ask to work through why you think your pain is such a non-issue that you’ll throw yourself at death headfirst. You’ll explain your thoughts, and agree to start thinking about your own health, and then maybe you’ll say ‘I love you’ to each other and kiss and live the rest of your lives happily ever after.

Jason steps into a tornado.

A metal plate zips by so close it nearly shears off his nose. Jason cries out and stumbles back, tripping over Damian as he emerges from the zeta.

“Are you sure you took us to the right place?” he shouts over the whirlwind screaming in his ears.

“Of course!” Damian yells back. “I do not make mistakes.”

“Then what the hell is going on here?”

“Unclear! The zeta should have put us in STAR labs!”

Jason stares at the big metal contraption in front of them. “I think it did.”

“What?”

He shouts, “I think it did!”

If Jason is ever going to look at a machine and think, Wow. That looks exactly like a time machine, this is that machine. It’s almost too massive to take in. And something is definitely wrong with it, unless lightning is supposed to be crackling around it and its metal plates are supposed to be peeling off.

Why had the Flash called Batman to help? What could Bruce do that a speedster couldn't?

“He’s gonna kill me for bringing Robin here,” Jason groaned.

Damian shouted, “What?”

“Nothing!”

Something yellow zips in front of them, and all of a sudden Jason can hear. His stomach just about falls out between his teeth when he pukes.

Damian doesn’t puke, although he does look queasy.

They’re now in another room in the lab. Thick glass windows separate them from the tornado. Watching the metal whirl around is kind of hypnotizing.

“Sorry,” says the Flash. “That happens a lot, actually.”

When Jason looks up, Batman and Ghoul are glaring at him. Funny how he can tell, even though neither vigilante’s mask exposes much (or all) of their face.

“Red Hood,” growls Batman, “what are you and Robin doing here?”

Jason looks past him and says to you, “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

Flash looks between you and Jason and coughs into his hand, “Awkward.”

You roll your eyes beneath your mask. “I thought this would take an hour, tops.”

“Things have gotten… out of hand,” says Batman, which is akin to someone else screaming about the apocalypse and end of all humanity.

“Two important pieces in the collider disconnected early this morning,” says Flash.

“Okay,” says Jason. “So put them back together?” Aren’t these two supposed to be Earth’s smartest heroes?

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Quantum mechanics,” says Batman. “Too complicated to explain.”

You whisper behind your hand, “He’s been trying to help me understand all night.”

“So there’s technically good and bad news,” says Flash. “Good news: the malfunction is fixable. Now. It wasn’t before. Bad news: holding the machine together while it resets will kill you of radiation that unwinds your DNA. Good news: if I vibrate at just the right frequency, I may survive.”

“Okay, great,” says Jason. “What are you waiting for?”

“For you four to get out of range of the blast zone, mostly,” Flash says. “There is a small non-zero chance that the whole building will combust.”

“Five minutes should do it,” Batman growls. “Come along, Robin.”

Instead of coming along, Damian says, “What is that?” and points over Batman and Flash’s shoulders.

Everyone turns to look.

“I don’t see anything,” says Jason. He turns around to see Damian’s arms wrapped tight around your middle. By the time Flash and Batman turn back around, the boy’s arms are crossed over his chest as if nothing happened.

“Apologies,” Damian says stiffly. “I must have imagined it.”

Batman knows his son well, and he eyes Damian suspiciously, but at that moment a piece of debris hits the glass at the right angle, and shoots into the room. Flash jumps out of the way and it buries into the wall behind him.

The tornado’s cacophony is even louder, if that’s possible. Flash blurs into motion, and the ground pulls away from Jason. When he stops moving at the speed of light, he’s crouched beneath a desk next to you. Damian and Batman are together under the desk to your right.

Jason peers around the edge. All he can see of Flash is a yellow blur darting all over the machine. For a moment the wind stops, and every piece of debris clatters into the walls, then onto the floor. Jason’s ears ring.

“Is that it?”

There’s a tremendous crash, and Flash slams into the wall. The force of it holds him there for a moment, and then he tumbles to the ground, unconscious.

Batman darts out from the desk to pull the man’s body to safety. He taps Flash’s cheek, but the man doesn’t stir.

Well, shit. How long can they wait for Flash to wake up?

You say something, but Jason doesn’t hear. He shouts, “What?”

Your hands pull at your mask, and you yank it off, ruffling your hair. Jason smoothes it away from your face on instinct.

“Just tell me what to do,” he shouts.

Your eyes close against the wind. Tears escape the corners of both.

Jason feels your gentle fingers around the edge of his mask, and he helps you remove it. “What is it, Y/N?”

“I’m sorry,” you say. “This isn’t fair.”

“We can—why are you saying this?” His eyes dart between you and Batman. The tornado in the other room is growing worse by the second, but he’s just looking at you two like some soap opera.

“Hey!” Your fingers latch in the front of his collar, and you yank Jason’s surprised mouth down onto yours. Your noses bump, and he forgets to breathe (he should joke that you take his breath away when all this is over) but it’s… It’s perfect.

His first kiss.

Damian yells, “Gross!”

You pull back. A brilliant smile lights up your face. “Hey. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jason breathes.

Metal clicks around his wrist.

Jason looks at the handcuff, not really understanding your plan until you latch the other cuff around one of the desk’s bolted-down legs. “Don’t you dare,” he says. Jerks his wrist back. The cuff clatters but holds.

“I’ve got a chance.”

“Not a good one!”

“I’ll see you in a sec.” You stand up.

“What are you doing?” Damian hollers.

“Don’t do this!” Jason shouts. He fights with the handcuffs, and they creak, but he won’t get out of them in time to stop you. Anxious desperation courses through his veins. “Y/N, get back here!”

Damian’s head whips between you and Jason. His eyes widen, and he lunges out from behind the desk to stop you, but Batman catches him around the middle and hauls him back kicking and screaming.

You shout to Batman, “Get them out of here!”

The cowled man looks at you for a long moment. Jason’s spirits rise: will Batman stop you?

But then he nods smartly, giving you permission to exit the room and enter the tornado. Batman tears the door handle off seconds before Robin hits it, banging his fists on the metal and screaming your name. He lets Robin tire himself out doing that and crosses over to Jason. “Will you fight me?”

Jason stares at his father, tears brimming in his eyes. “How could you let them do that?”

Voice completely emotionless, Batman says, “It was the most practical risk to take.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s okay.” Batman crouches and reaches a hand out. He strokes Jason’s hair twice, the way he used to when they were younger, and Jason hates the way he leans into it. “I’ll be back for you, then.” He straightens and barks, “Robin, to me!”

Damian whirls around, teeth bared in a feral snarl. “I will not leave Ghoul!”

Jason can’t hear whatever Bruce says to him, but somehow he persuades Damian to help pick Flash’s limp body off the ground. With a flourish of capes, they disappear, and Jason’s left alone, handcuffed to a desk, listening to the tornado in the next room tear apart the love of his life.

The wind crescendos.

Abates.

The building holds its breath, and then—

Whoosh.

Jason curls up into as tight a ball as possible, teeth gritted against the terrible flooding heat. If not for the shelter of an entire wall and desk separating him from the flames, Jason would be burnt alive. No one could withstand—

Jason whirls around and screams, “Y/N!” The stupid fucking handcuff, he pulls against it, and it bites into his wrist, drawing blood. “Fuck, I’m being so fucking stupid—”

Jason braces the metal chain against one of his knives and applies pressure until it snaps. Then he’s up, feet skidding over glass and metal shards, and he bursts through the door to the particle collider. “Y/N! Ghoul!” He can hear his own panicked breathing, but he can’t regulate it.

You’re okay. You have to be okay. You survived a broken neck, severed spinal cord, and seven bullet wounds to the abdomen. Just because Jason can’t find your body doesn’t mean anything. Just because the room is filled with ash and dust and dirt and no fucking body doesn’t mean anything.

Jason screams your name until his throat is raw. The particle collider is ruined, partially collapsed, and Jason slices open his palms on jagged edges trying to shove it away. Are you stuck beneath it? Jason doesn’t even know what parts were broken.

Something clatters behind him, and Jason whirls around, but it’s just Batman.

Surveying the damage, the man abruptly looks old beyond his years. He barely spares Jason a glance before beginning his own search for you.

“Y/N! Please!” Jason begs. “You can’t be dead, you promised—”

“Red Hood,” Batman says, and his voice is so raw that Jason whirls around.

There’s a pale-clothed arm in Batman’s arm. Jason gasps.

Then he sees that it’s attached to a torso.

Batman grunts and tugs, and the rest of you slips out from under a thick sheet of metal. “Oh, fuck,” Jason says hoarsely. He stumbles over the mess and falls to his knees in front of you. “You smart little asshole, you—” Jason feels for a pulse.

Nothing.

What had Flash said? The radiation unwinds your DNA? Is that something Professor Pyg’s sick experimentation could protect you from?

“Hood,” Batman says.

“No.”

“Hood—”

“Fuck off, B.”

Instead of fucking off, the older man pulls down his cowl and sinks to Jason’s level. “You’re bleeding, son.”

“It’s fine,” Jason mutters. His hands are rubbing it onto your suit, but you’re good at getting bloodstains out of the fabric. It’ll be okay. “Come on, Y/N.” His lower lip wobbles, but Jason resists the stone forming in his throat. You’re fine. You’ve always been fine.

Maybe you just need to breathe better. Jason rips off your mask, but that doesn’t help. Maybe he needs to breathe. He removes his own helmet, but that, too, makes little difference.

Physically, you look fine. Jason doesn’t see a single wound.

Of course, it would be hard for the naked eye to recognize unwound DNA, wouldn’t it?

Jason abruptly has a rush of sympathy for Dr. Fries. He doesn’t give a shit how long it takes or if the technology hasn’t been invented yet, your DNA is getting re-wound.

Then you suck in a deep breath. Your eyes fly open.

DC taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3

forever taglist

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

#reader insert #jason todd #jason todd fic #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you

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conkreetmonkey · 1 year ago

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Splatoon 3 is wild because imagine if you were living in Japan due to a recent economic and cultural boom, and suddenly a space shuttle with a mutant house-sized T-rex riding it suddenly burst from the center of Mt. Fuji and disappeared into space without explanation, and all you ever find out about what the fuck that was about is that Zuckerburg mysteriously disappeared the same day and was never seen again, but still "officially" ran Meta through an open secret Queen-Elizabeth-being-in-good-health gaslighting campaign, and everybody kind of suspected he may have been connected but never figured out anything conclusive.

Also the T-rex is now orbiting the earth in the fetal position like the guy from Jojo, and there are rumors of a substance that, if touched, turns you into a half-dinosaur monster. Nobody understands any of this but Meta employees just keep going to work and pretending Zuck still exists. The same 12 prerecorded voicelines constantly squak from the PA system.

Oddly, the statue in front of Meta HQ of a T-rex eating a human changes overnight into one of a giant human eating a tiny T-rex. Nobody noticed the switch, despite the statue being in a constantly bustling area. It happened shortly after the shuttle incident.

Jack Black's tiny clone, Lil' Jack, now wears a headset at all times and has been acting really shady since the incident. Also they're both hyperintelligent, immortal velociraptors found in an ancient cryogenic chamber who spend their days judging college football and eating the legally harvested flesh of hillbillies. Lil' Jack is probably plotting to kill Big Jack, but Big Jack doesn't seem to care, growing fat and lazy, sleeping on public benches in a bed of throw pillows. Also, he's very open about the fact that, as a velociraptor, humans look delicious, but he hasn't actually eaten anybody aside from the aforementioned hillbillies because he's civil.

Everyone is just expected to move on with their lives after this. This is normal to you.

The local art school was recently attacked by giant sea serpents, which were actually hideously bioengineered hillbillies, fulfilling a biblical doomsday prophecy, and they were driven back by Meta's army of minimum wage, part time child soldiers armed with warcrimey jury-rigged weaponry. The sea serpents had giant frying pans grafted into their mouths, which launched primitive tactical nukes made by filling garbage bags with their explosive blood. They still exist, and occasionally defend their comrades, but spend most of their time in the deep sea.

The local homeless emo twink everyone's attracted to is a closet millionaire who sells bootleg clothing in exchange for live rats, which he messily devours behind closed doors. He's also 8 feet tall and British and only has one eye.

North Korean refugees now flood the western world, after a greasy 14 year old hipster, under the guidance of Ariana Grande and Taylor Swift, beat Kim Jong Un in a mech battle, and the EDM remix of the Japanese national anthem they performed caused like half the soldiers to immediately realize North Korea sucks ass and defect. One of these individuals, 7 foot tall hypergenius, becomes a newscaster alongside a nepo baby rapper with dwarfism who likes to eat entire jars of mayo, and also they're a popular band. Also also, they may or may not be gay. Almost the entire population is gay, so this isn't a huge deal.

The new local newscasters are a famous Japanese lion tamer, an Indian girl with a bloodline trait allowing her to control snakes, and a Brazillian man the size of a smart car who exclusively communicates via grunts.

Gods, souls and zombies are objectively real, and you're effectively immortal because real-life respawning was invented a while ago. It works like a Keurig, but with mucus instead of coffee. Submersion in water kills you.

A good deal of the population is a hivemind. They pretend to be individuals for no reason.

Almost all men are now femboys.

Despite all this, you still have to go to work at 9 tomorrow.

#splatoon 3 #splatoon #splatoon fandom #splatpost #splatposting #splatoon lore #mr. grizz #new agent 3 #neo agent 3 #return of the mammalians

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thepromptfoundry · 26 days ago

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Calling all history nerds, period piece connoisseurs, and fans of time-travel plots! Decades December is coming up here at The Prompt Foundry!

This list is being posted a little earlier than usual because historical work can take some time. The list has some reference points for you to jump off from. Show off your special interest in a particular era or event, or start a wiki walk from the the Wikipedia page for each decade to learn something new!

Have fun exploring resources like @thetimelinesofslang, the Fashion History Timelines from NYSU's Fashion Institute of Technology, or the fashion plates and historical photos from blogs like @omgthatdress or @historical-fashion-polls!

If you use this list, please tag me here @thepromptfoundry, I’d love to see your writing and art!

Feel free to combine different days' prompts with each other, or combine them with other events! Use your OCs, your favorite characters from media, your own experiences, whatever tickles your fancy.

Respond to as many prompts as you want or as interest you, don’t worry about missing or skipping any. Remember, this is supposed to be fun!

If you have any questions or musings, check our FAQ, and if you don't find your answer, shoot me an ask.

Plain text list below the cut:

1) 0010s Xin dynasty in China, Caesar Augustus in Rome

2) 1900s Edwardian era, Russo-Japanese War, release of the first feature film The Great Train Robbery

3) 300s Teotihuacan flourishing in present-day Mexico, writing of the Kama Sutra

4) 1910s World War 1, the Russian Revolution

5) 1440s Late Middle Ages/Early Renaissance in Europe, the hangul writing system is introduced in Korea

6) 1920s Prohibition in the US, rise of fascism in Europe, earliest sync-sound movies

7) 0070s Roman Epire, destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem, eruption of Mt. Vesuvius and destruction of Pompeii

8) 1930s The Great Depression, the Declaration of the Independence of India, art deco, color film

9) 1090s The First Crusade, the Liao, Xia, and Song dynasties in various parts of China

10) 1810s The Napoleonic Wars, the Regency era in England

11) 1940s World War 2, post-war rebuilding

12) 1000s BC The Iron Age, King David of the Israelites, development of the Phoenician alphabet

13) 1950s Baby Boom, Red Scare, the Korean War, rock'n'roll, zippers and television both become commonplace

14) 1340s The Black Death in Europe, decline of the Mongol Empire

15) 1590s Late Elizabethan Era in Europe, William Shakespeare, Imjin War between Japan and Korea

16) 1960s Moon landing, hippies, mod fashion, Chinese Cultural Revolution, Stonewall, Star Trek, the Civil Rights movement

17) 1770s The American Revolution, founding of the real Illuminati

18) 1860s American Civil War era, late Edo period in Japan

19) 1970s The Sexual Revolution, disco, the first video games, end of the Vietnam War

20) 2200s Whatever the future holds!

21) 1980s End of the Cold War and fall of the Berlin Wall, beginnings of the World Wide Web, the First Intifada in Gaza

22) 1660s Part of the Golden Age of Piracy, the English Restoration

23) 1990s Internet access becomes widespread, grunge, the Gulf War, the Troubles in Ireland, height of the AIDS crisis, Princess Dianna, first Pokemon games

24) 1230s University of Cambridge founded in England, beginnings of the Mali Empire in Africa, rein of Emperor Shijo in Japan

25) 2000s The “War On Terror”, rise of Big Tech, Y2K fashion, emo culture, cell phones become commonplace

26) 1880s Gilded Age, the first skyscrapers, electrification of cities, first household electrical appliances like fans and irons

27) 1640s Qing dynasty begins in China, the First English Civil War

28) 2010s Hipster culture, height of video streaming, YA lit boom

29) 500s Liang and Northern Wei dynasties in China, Heptarchy period in England, height of prosperity of the Mayan Empire

30) 2020s Present day!

31) 3130s Whatever the future holds!

#the prompt foundry #Decades December 2024 #history #historical fashion #historical fiction #prompt list #drawing prompt #writing prompt #art prompt #writing challenge #writing inspiration #drawing challenge #drawing inspiration #art challenge #art inspiration #speculative fiction #time travel #period piece

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starmieknight · 16 days ago

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Stars Align

Headhunters Pt. 1

17 Again AU: After a disastrous first day with the twins, Stan swears to do better as an uncle. But fate loves playing tricks on him and the magic 8-ball in the attic is more than it seems.

Now on top of having a pair of twelve year olds around the house while he tries to finish the portal and bring his brother home, Stan has to deal with being back in his seventeen year old body! Summer has never been weirder in Gravity Falls.

AO3 link

Concept Art

Legend of the Gobblewonker (Art)

Prologue, The Legend of the Gobblewonker (previous)

It was only with mild surprise that Stan woke up young again.

Gravity Falls weirdness wass unreliable on any given day. The state he was in didn't seem to be going away anytime soon.

So Stan grits his teeth and heads downstairs to make breakfast anyway. This is still fine. He was still fine.

He can't afford to keep the Shack closed another day, so he improvises his usual look a bit. The jacket stays even if it's a bit big on him and the shoulders aren't as filled out as they normally are. But he doesn't have to shove himself into the girdle and counts that as a win. Beneath the jacket he dons a plain white T-shirt and a pair of old jeans from the back of the closet.

They might have been Ford's at one time, though they seem kinda small...

Mabel calls his outfit 'hipster-business casual' when she sees him and he has no idea what that means.

Wendy is off work that day, leaving him without a teen-speak translator.

Absent-mindedly, Stan wonders if she'd caught sight of him yesterday at the lake.

Hopefully, she hadn't and the weirdness will be gone in the morning.

In all, the day turns out pretty uneventful ― aside from a few tourists giving him extra tips after tours.

They thought it was adorable that he was so interested in the 'family business' and laughed when he claimed he was well into his fifties.

Not with that baby face, they'd say.

Fine ― if they wanted to throw more money at him, he wouldn't complain.

Before long, the day is done and Stan eagerly shucks the blazer and his jeans in favor of boxers and a T-shirt.

He avoids the mirror, memories of Glass Shard Beach plaguing his every step.

He swears he can hear his mother on the other side of the wall, schmoozing some schmuck over the phone. Sees his father glaring at him from the corner of his eye.

Feels the phantom hands of his brothers on the stairs, Shermie's large and powerful on his shoulder while Ford tugs at his sleeve more hesitantly.

Stan shudders and leans against the hallway wall, squeezing his eyes shut against the memories.

He breathes deep and carries on, planning on joining the twins downstairs when the scent of dust and wax catches his attention.

A long-forgotten door beckons to him from down the hall, filled with waxy faces of celebrities and fictional characters.

Huh, he'd forgotten all about these guys.

Outside, he can hear Soos and the kids coming and can't resist the set-up for a good prank.

Having to hide in a dark, dusty room for a chance at a jump scare is worth it.

Stan cackles at the twins' screams before bundling them up in a bear hug.

"It's just me!" he crows joyfully. "Your Grunkle Stan!"

They scream once more out of reflex before settling down.

"Grunkle Stan, what is this place?" Mabel asked, flopping over his arm to stare upside down at the displays.

Dipper wriggles in his grasp, in danger of being dropped, before Stan sets them back on their feet.

"Behold ― the Gravity Falls Wax Museum!" Stan declares, proudly spreading his arms and spinning on his heel. A born showman even as a young man. "It was one of my most popular attractions... before I forgot all about it."

More like got creeped out by the things and hid them away so he didn't have to look at them anymore.

Like Ford's old room.

The loss of wax Abraham Lincoln makes him pout and whine, but Mabel is quick to offer a solution.

It's amazing to watch the kid work through the night, but when she refuses to stop and sleep, Stan puts his foot down.

He manages to get some food in her and gets her to take a nap, but the girl is too much like Ford to stay down for long. She'll be up soon and Stan will have his hands full.

------------------------

The next morning was... interesting.

This time, when Stan woke up as a teenager, he didn't question it and went about his business. Mabel was still passed out on the couch in the living room, fingers sticky with wax and glitter as she took a small break from her work. Stan puts her pancakes in the microwave and eats a quiet breakfast with Dipper, both of them too out of it to form proper conversation.

Stan didn't know if it was a side-effect of being a teenager again, but it was incredibly difficult to wake up before noon. His mind felt like it was running on empty until the sun reached its peak in the sky. On the other hand, it was easier to stay up at night. It'd work out in his favor when he got his hands on Dipper's journal. Whenever he could swing that.

The kid had it hidden well and never left it laying around in the Shack.

Stan could feel that the answers to getting his brother back were closer than ever and the set-back of keeping it secret at the same time was almost too frustrating to bear.

He huffed to himself and slumped down onto the couch outside, half dressed in his usual attire. The summer morning was turning out to be a hot one and he was already sweaty enough. The jacket stayed off, draped over the arm of the couch and in-reach in case a tour bus suddenly appeared.

A rustling around the side of the porch had him tensing instinctively, too many years on the streets and in nasty situations to let him relax for long. Even using his twin's identity didn't keep him safe from everyone after him. And with this face, it’d be even harder to keep convincing people he was the real Stanford Pines.

Stan slipped his hand into his jeans pocket, fingers sliding into his brass knuckles. Even in this body, they fit like a glove, the only consistent part of his life from the past 40 years. The knuckles had come with him from New Jersey, the one thing he'd ever chanced lifting out of his old man's shop.

The thought of Filbrick finding out that Stan stole from him was still a chilling one.

Stan positioned himself to watch the side of the porch as casually as he could, muscles lax in preparation to move whatever direction he needed to.

It probably wasn't the kids ― they were naturally noisy. So was Soos. The only other person who'd be hanging around the Shack was...

"Who are you?"

Wendy.

The girl really was cool as ice, merely raising a curious brow as Stan explained his plight.

"That's some freaky shit, man." She said finally, dropping onto the couch beside him instead of heading inside. The slacker. "But you've still got your memories, right? You're not just, like, mini-Stan Pines from 1940 or whatever?"

Stan pinned her with an irritated look. "How old do you think I am? You kids have no idea how age works."

"So?"

"And stop swearing! The kids are around here somewhere."

"They'll hear worse in high school."

"Yeah, but I ain't gonna have them go home talkin' like that and have their parents come up here to murder me."

"Would they even recognize you like that?"

Stan grew quiet, his brow furrowing as he stared into the treeline.

No, they wouldn't.

The last time he'd seen his nephew as himself and not using Ford's name had been back in 1972. Back when he really was seventeen.

Alex had been a baby back then, wailing in his grandmother's arms as Filbrick threw Stan into the street. He'd never known an uncle aside from Ford.

Or, at least, the man he thought was Ford. Alex had visited once when the Shack was still the Murder Hut. They'd spent the month fishing and riding the backroads through town, Stan teaching the kid how to drive and use bad pickup lines on girls.

It'd been the highlight of his thirties. He'd hoped it would be the same when the twins came down to visit.

It was turning out to just be weird.

"I'm sorry, man." Wendy said suddenly, drawing Stan out of his memories about a freckle faced kid with too many freckles to count.

"It's fine, kid." He sighed, rising to his feet and sliding on his jacket. "Go on and get to work. We've got customers to rip off."

Wendy hummed in agreement, her eyes sharp beneath their lazy lids. She held her tongue, though, and he was grateful for that much.

Mabel was missing from the couch when they came in, a nest of blankets the only indication that she'd ever been there.

"Kids?" He called, moving into the parlor. "Where'd you― GAH!!"

By some miracle, Stanford was standing in front of him. The twins and Soos crowded him, only that familiar face visible over the kids’ heads and grinning at him.

Which was weird.

Even when Ford smiled, he never looked like that. And he certainly wouldn't smile at Stanley.

"Grunkle Stan!" Mabel cheered, dripping glitter onto the hardwood. "What do you think of my masterpiece? I thought about recreating this new, young you ― but that would have been pretty confusing for the customers. Like a waxy twin!"

A waxy twin.

That's all it was.

Ford was still trapped on the other side of the portal, likely hurt and resenting Stan.

"Grunkle Stan? Are you... alright?"

Dipper crouched down next to him, brow furrowed in concern.

Stan sucked in a deep breath, vaguely acknowledging that he'd stopped breathing at the sight of what he'd thought was his brother. It wasn't Ford. Just a wax figure.

And the twins were looking at him strangely now. Time to redirect.

"Can a teenager have a heart attack?" He asked seriously before pasting on a cheesy grin. "Because that hunk is making my heart do flips!"

The twins laughed, the tension breaking as Soos helped Stan back up. It was strange how easily the handyman could lift him now, like he weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes. And he handled him so gently. Like a child!

Stan remembered when Soos was the child, all chubby cheeks and wide eyes as he followed him around the Shack. Like a little baby duck.

He'd been a pretty cute kid, honestly.

Ugh. Being young again was turning him into a sap.

He needed to change the subject and Wax Stan had just given him the perfect idea.

"Kids," he grinned eagerly as he drew them near. Mabel had a light shining in her eye, apparently on the same wavelength as him. Dipper looked more skeptical. "The Wax Museum is back in business!”

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