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angeli-marco-writes · 3 years ago

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Harry Holland - Polaroids

A/N & WC - I do not know Harry or the other people mentioned in this fic, nor do I claim to; this is a work of fiction. 3.9k.

Warnings - Swearing, mention of food, smut: depictions of oral (m+f rec), penetrative sex, use of toys, bondage & bdsm, photos being taken in the act, mild exhibitionism and definite voyeurism (not Harry or reader) 18+.

Summary - You and Harry have an exciting intimate life to say the least, and he rather enjoys taking photos of the two of you in compromising positions. However, in his sex-addled mind, one vital fact is let slip when he allows Sam into his room unsupervised.

“BUD, WHERE ARE THOSE PHOTOS you took of my food the other day?” Sam asks.

The sizzling of pancakes overlaps the conversation, and you mussing up Harry’s hair distracts him, his attention drawn to more important matters than his brother. Harry barely swallows his giant mouthful of food before speaking.

“By my bed there’s a huge pile, they’ll be somewhere,” he answers flippantly.

Flippantly.

Usually so cautious and so organised Harry lets one thing slip his mind for five seconds, and his life is going to fall through the cracks. His reputation will be utterly destroyed. Just with his brother, but it still stands. Sam is… more innocent than Harry has ever been. And Sam will also tell the others, and likely their friends…

“Remembered something, baby?” you muse sardonically from beside him, your hand halting its movements as you cup his jaw, turning him to face you.

The second his green eyes meet yours, you watch the world crumble in his eyes. You’ve never seen him scramble up from his seat so quickly. His bare feet slap on the tiled floor violently, thudding sounds echoing through the house as he blunders around, swinging around the banister with the force and elegance of an elephant.

“Sam! FUCK— Wait!”

“Don’t look in that pile of photos,” you add in a feeble shout.

It’s not like what Sam’ll find there is any secret. You’ve been together a long time, you and Harry, and everyone knows full well that you’re shagging, but that doesn’t mean you necessarily want them to know exactly what happens in the bedroom, in your most intimate, secret moments together. That’s sacred, even if it seems like sacrilege to so many.

No matter how quickly you hear Harry legging it upstairs, his lean legs carrying him up the stairs perhaps three at a time, his curly hair even more unruly than before from the exertion, you know he won’t be fast enough, and that Sam is an insolent bastard when he wants to be. You’ve lived with them all long enough and have had more than your fair share of near misses: no chance will you not be found out, this time you’ll be caught. Better than the alternative and the other times, you suppose, as you cram one more syrup-drizzled and strawberry-covered pancake into your gob, reluctantly trudging your way upstairs to the hive of fun.

It’s chaos by the time you get there. Dozens of artfully-taken photos spilled out onto your duvet, Harry’s freckled face paler than you’ve ever seen it, his hands tugging at his pyjama shirt convulsively while Sam stands on the other side of the room, his dark eyes wide, his expression agog, his jaw unhinged, staring blankly and pointing at whatever the most incriminating thing is he sees next. You just hope he doesn’t go ferreting through your drawers, because then you’ll really be in trouble.

“What… the fuck.”

You come up to Harry’s side, and wrap an arm around his slim waist, lending a weak, “Surprise?”

It’s their fault if they haven’t guessed, frankly.

You can’t draw your eyes away from the pictures, so many of them, all displaying different aspects of your sex life at varying degrees of explicitness. You can even recount the minutes and hours of pleasure that led to the photos, each occasion etched into your mind. Sure, you and Harry go at it a lot, but you don’t always go the extra mile, hence why these commemorative photos of your special nights are so treasured. And private. Or, were.

The first one… oh boy, that takes you back to the most far-out, extreme experiment you tried—the most recent, as well: just this past weekend. You’re still covered in rope burn from it, though that could’ve been prevented if you hadn’t writhed or wriggled about so much while in those bonds. The amount of attempts it took, the sheer number of YouTube tutorials you had to watch, but it was definitely worth it. The intricate patterns the ropes formed all across your body, creating braids down your back, suspending you prone with little movement in your arms or legs. It was heaven to have Harry tugging on the ropes, contorting you into new and wonderful positions for his own delightful access to all of you. Perhaps it’s not something you’ll gravitate towards again, but it was fun while it lasted, and it’s another thing to tick off your list of fun, kinky bedroom experiments to try. To be fair, even though the swathes of soft, rose-coloured rope, intricately woven around you were a lot, you certainly wouldn’t be averse to trying something else with rope. Less shibari, perhaps just normal levels of bondage. You can feel the skin on your arms prickling with heat: Harry feels it too, winding his fingers into yours, holding on tight as he struggles to suppress a smirk.

The next set is interesting, and rather common. Harry’s freckled, ring-less hand is unmistakable in the dappled light as it grapples with the handle of a leather whip, or a paddle, even his belt, bringing them down harshly onto your ass cheeks, already reddened with hand prints, purple from bruises. In one of them, your skin is even glistening with his release, and another, your hands are suspended behind your back. Harry’s always been one for spanking, and the rest of them know it. Even before you were sleeping together he’d playfully smacked your bum, and he certainly hasn’t stopped even with the sexual connotations it now conveys between the two of you. As though he can read your mind, he snakes a hand down and pats you on the bum; his wink telling you it’s just for good measure. Cheeky shit.

One in the dead centre brings shivers throughout your body. Not because it wasn’t fun or pleasurable, but because of the way it made you feel afterwards. Yes, you’d talked through it in thorough details—as with everything the two of you do—how it made you feel going in, throughout, and you’d got a safe word sorted, but perhaps you hadn’t discussed all the long term risks of it. The pretty pink collar, the satin blindfold… The whole subservient thing is a big turn on for Harry, and you played into it, you always do and you naturally fall into a position of less power in your relationship because of the way you are, but being degraded in such a way isn’t for you. You can’t help but feel a sting of shame ricochet through your heart. Harry must feel it this considering how reactive he is: he leaps towards the bed and snatches it up, shredding it before your eyes, chucking it into the bin, and curling another protective arm around you.

“Look,” you whisper to Harry, turning his attention elsewhere as you point to the bottom few: your favourite photos of all.

Despite the disarray, they’re all together, and they remind you of an incredible night. Your anniversary, and what a special day it was. Butterflies swarm you at the sight of them again, but it feels strange for someone else to be looking at them. Not that you or Harry are exactly in a fit state to be proactive about preventative measures now Sam’s seen them all. His eyes bulge from his face, his mouth going dry as he swallows viciously, suddenly having to shift his already apparently tight shorts. Again.

“You’re so sexy in those, baby,” purrs Harry.

He’s damn right, you do look incredibly sexy. And though the first one in the chronological series is you mostly covered, you can remember how hard his dick was at the sight alone, salivating, clenching his fists to stop from ripping the lingerie from you piece by piece. You wanted to put on a show for him that day: who was he to deny you?

On top of your bra, panties and stockings was a nightgown, and above that, a dressing gown. Each image shows you in a further state of undress. It was a deep burgundy lace set of negligée with soft satin straps that pushed your boobs together, lifting them up, the lace hooked together with a single eyelet on your spine, whereas the panties, though half covering your cheeks with dustings of lace, hid nothing while they sat high on your hips, revealing your entire upper thigh where a matching satin garter sat with tiny lace bows. The entire thing cost a fortune. You forked out a damn arm and a leg for what you got, even with a discount included with a certain toy you bought.

First went the dressing gown, letting it fall from your shoulders, allowing it to pool around your feet as you showed off the skimpiness of the silk slip in a series of flourishing twirls, much to Harry’s delight. Next went the slip, and you honestly wish you’d taken a picture of his face utterly agog—as you stood there in stockings held up by garters, barely there panties and a push up bra. There’s one shot of his rough fingertips playing with the trim of the stockings delightedly, like a kid in a candy shop. Next went the feeble scrap of fabric that you dared to call a bra, barely covering your nipples, allowing your breasts free, spilling into Harry’s awaiting hand. You remember the next part vividly, because he was just about to peel the panties off when you laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve got a surprise for you, babe.” you cooed.

His twinkling eyes grew as wide as saucers, and you dared to card your fingers through his curls as you settled yourself over his lap, letting him keep his camera in one hand while leading the other down, down, a little further…

He’s never since made a sound quite like it, so visceral and animalistic, so ready to devour you, to come on sight. He’s never been as hard as he was in that instance.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he moaned, a deep groan released from him the second his fingers slipped through your folds to find dripping arousal all ready for him. “Just—wait a minute…”

You followed his every instruction for the next few moments, finding yourself standing up in a good lighting position, Harry strategically beneath you as he snapped a particularly incriminating (yet oh so sexy shot) of your bare pussy in crotchless panties. Harry’s never recovered. He’s already openly admitted that he uses those particular photos more than any others to get himself off whenever you’re away from him. However, the creases and folded corners of one particular photo can’t be blamed on him, since that’s the one you use when you're away, two of his fingers plunged knuckle-deep inside you in those exact panties, from that exact angle, desperately trying to replicate the irreplaceably pleasurable feeling of him within you. He took a good few more than had to be thrown away. Spillages are awfully unfortunate… He fucked you that night with the panties, stockings and garters still on. Twice. Then without the panties, then without the stockings, then nude at last at some ungodly hour of the morning when he took you at last as the sun rose. You didn’t sleep a wink.

There are more of you with lingerie on, nightgowns and matching sets, scraps of silk and strange one pieces that took you hours to get on, but they’re bound to make a sort of book, stowed away neatly (mercifully) beneath his bed.

Sam still hasn’t moved from his state of paralysed shock, and though you should probably clear the photos up from where they’re dumped, you feel a filthy swelling pride within your chest, a glean of risk as you watch Sam rove his eyes over some more, these all involving toys. If only he knew where you hid them. One his eyes focus on is you with a thick purple rubber dildo deep inside you, a rabbit vibrator stuck to your clit. Your body is but a blur, writhing around for Harry, your hands cuffed before you and not released no matter how much you moved. Harry wouldn’t let you stop coming for what felt like hours: it was the first time you squirted for him as a cry tore from your heaving chest, drenching the bed with your fifth orgasm of the night. Harry vowed he’d be the only one to make you squirt after that, no toys involved, and he’s stayed true to his word.

There’s a few more, and Sam seems to be furrowing his thick brows at the sight of the Polaroids. Glass wands, spreader bars, clit suctions (that admittedly look like they’d be used in a spa for a facial). Poor boy is being corrupted...

Good God, you need to get those toys out again.

With his twin's attention diverted, you snake your hand down the front of Baz’s shorts, wrapping your fingers around his already hard member through his boxers: he seems to be enjoying this as much as you are.

You point out one of your favourite pictures, a debauched mess that shouldn’t be viewed by anyone else, frankly. Harry was reluctant about hurting you or pushing you too far, but you begged to be gagged. You meant just by a tie, maybe his bandana—which features in many images in many different manners: as a bind for your hands, tying you to the bed, keeping your ankles together, even wrapped lightly around your neck, but never as a gag—but he went all out. When you got home, he was waiting in his room with a leather-bound ball gag.

“You begged, baby,” he said, and you couldn’t refute. You had begged, but this was above and beyond. You complied with his every wish that night, and though you’d do it again in a heartbeat, Harry wasn’t a fan of not being able to shove his fingers or cock down your throat at any given moment. He liked hearing your whines and moans and hushed curses, prayers of his name. He also liked hearing your bratty, belligerent rebuttals when he took on a dominant role. You enjoyed it more than a little, but only now can you see how much of a mess you were, messy hair and tears spouting from your eyes, drool down your chin...

Given the chance of the slightest spark of stimulation, you’ll be coming on the spot.

There’s a scattered pile of the two of you in just about every position under the sun, every shape in the karma sutra, fucking both inside and out, al fresco sex beneath the big oak in the garden, anyhow, anywhere and everywhere you could fuck safely and privately, you would, and you didn’t even realise Harry had snapped some of these shots after consenting to him taking them at any time. Your eyes squeezed shut as you peaked, Baz’s palm kneading your chest, your skirt hiked up around your stomach while your jaw was agape, your pussy exposed and glistening slick in the mirror, penetrated by Harry’s cock. That was a good day, mirror sex, and definitely something you’ll try again. This time with your own mirror... There are a few snapshots of oral, perfect Polaroids of Harry’s nose nuzzled into your pussy, his tongue deep in your core, his lips on your labia, all of them for your sake whenever he goes away.

“Gonna recreate that one tonight,” Harry husks, pointing towards one image in particular of you sucking him off.

His huge member down your throat, you’d trained yourself to breathe solely through your nose, but the neatly trimmed patch of hair there tickled your nostrils. Harry’s talent for photography reveals your doe eyes were red rimmed, saliva trickling from the corner of your mouth matching the mascara tracks down your cheeks. You’ve never looked so fucked out, and Harry couldn’t believe you remained in that innocent façade, rosy cheeks and a coy expression even with his dick rammed down your throat, making you gag.

However, the one you’d like to recreate is one he picks up on, surreptitiously moving a hand to your chest, his fingers hovering over your peaked nipple.

“Reckon we can go again the second Sam fucks off?”

“Yes,” he eagerly exhales.

You don’t blame him, especially not when both twins are staring at the same image of your tits, pushed together with Harry’s dick between them, fucking your chest despite the fact his come already painted your chest in hot white strips, a beautiful painting you’d always wish to frame. He certainly has an obsession with your boobs so there are a couple like that, his hands all over them, the tip of his member tapping them, but the debauched one is by far your favourite. Similarly, there’s one of you tied to the bed, completely spread eagle, his dick resting on your stomach while your belly is coated in his come once again.

It seems, however, that’s what snagged Sam’s attention and has his face a ghastly shade of grey because it's so pale, is the one photo Harry never wanted anyone to see. You leap and snatch it up in one fell swoop, and Harry draws you into a bear hug within his arms, kissing your temple affectionately in thanks as you stow it away for safekeeping. Though Harry naturally carries the more dominant title in your relationship, you always like to shake things up, hence why this photo (and a series of others he already has hidden) depict Harry as your submissive. You walked around as the picture perfect dominatrix in stilettos, carrying a whip while Harry lay there with his hands bound, a blindfold on in some photos (you took them so they’re not as great, but he still looks damn sexy) with a vibrating cock ring wrapped snugly around his girth. He’s never come so hard or so much after you finally removed it and cuffed his hands to the bedpost and began to ride him. You can still feel the warmth of him climaxing within you if you close your eyes and clench your thighs.

“I promise I’ll touch you later,” boy do you hope he sticks to that promise he whispers while nibbling on your earlobe, “but Sam’s coming out of his daze in 3... 2... 1...”

“OH MY GOD.”

“Okay, I didn’t see that coming,” he remarks breathily, hazel eyes wide as he pivots, met with two incredulous stares. Tom’s cry wakes Sam up right on cue.

“Harry! What the fuck?!” Sam demands, his voice a bellow, horror and disgust and... something unattainable just emanates from him. “Why do you have three porn mags worth of your girlfriend down here? That’s fucked, mate.”

“No it’s not. We just like to have photographic reminders of all our... sexcapades.”

Sam is, unsurprisingly, retching, now finally turning his head away from the pile without even bothering to pick up.

“This was cool until you called them sexcapades,” Tom chimes, smacking Harry upside the head as he swaggers over to the bed, fishing a few photos up before tossing them back down.

Sam's horrified attitude doesn’t seem to be spreading thankfully, but you and Harry are understandably rooted to the spot, stuck to the carpet, just biding your time until this is over. Then again, you can’t really tell, since no one is saying anything. You nor Harry want to be the ones to break the silence, though, and you can tell with the furtive and expressive stares you’re sharing that his anxiety is increasing the more people are seeing this.

Momentarily, you think someone may remark about your silent communication, your fixed glances and speechless conversation, but instead, Harrison comes up to you both, a sly smirk etched onto his pretty model face as he clasps a hand around one shoulder of yours and one of Harry’s.

“Harry Holland, you kinky fucker,” he praises.

You definitely feel a swell of pride at that. And the fact that Tom is trying desperately hard not to look at you while also trying to hide how flustered he is, somehow still abhorred by the sight. Harrison’s intrigue is palpable, gnawing on his lower lip as his lithe fingers trace you on the polaroid's, whereas Sam? He can’t decide whether to cry or scream. Harry huddles in closer and cuddles you, ensuring you feel every part of him, just how much he wants this lot to leave to finally have you at his mercy once more.

“So you two are shagging,” Tom observes.

You and Harry nod between kisses.

“Dangerously.”

You nod again, though this time a little reluctantly.

You expect Harry to nestle down with you again, but instead he detaches himself, unravelling his arms, and shoulders past Tom and Haz. He gives Sam a death glare as he piles up all the Polaroids and shoves them deep in a drawer for him to organise later, away from prying eyes and judgemental comments.

“Really, though?” Sam bursts out, flailing his arms before grasping Harry’s collar. “I thought you’d just handcuff her and give her a smack at most, very vanilla.”

As much as he tries to fight it, Harry’s face flushes bright red, leaving no visible distinction between his forehead and hairline. “I think those photos, erm, tell a different story.”

He rocks on the balls of his feet, tugging himself out of his brother's grasp, only to fall into another, saved by Harrison’s scowl at Tom.

“Can you lot bloody get out? Please? I’d like some alone time with my girlfriend after that sodding invasion.”

“If you’re having alone time, we’re leaving the house for a while,” Tom jokes, “how long?”

You smirk, striding over to meet Harry, eyes fixed on him as you press onto your tiptoes, wrapping your fingers around his shoulder before kissing his earlobe. He wilts into your touch.

“Two hours should be enough time. Scram.”

They do, gladly, and you slam the door shut as their scurrying footsteps down the stairs recede. Harry’s grip increases around your waist, a growl escaping him as he pushes you onto the bed. You gasp when your back hits the mattress, his lips instantly attacking your jaw.

“Which of those polaroid's do you wanna recreate first, baby?”

—

It’s hours later, and you're all around for your weekly dinner at the Holland house. You and Harry, having some ‘business’ to attend to before leaving the house, are the last to arrive, and Paddy, poor unfortunate Paddy, has the delightful job of letting you into the house.

“Sam asked me to give you this,” he says barely before you’ve entered the porch.

Harry’s face pales as he unravels the small piece of paper bundled into his hand by his younger brother, but you could swear all blood drains from him the second the words sink in.

‘You took them, you lost them, you collect them. What would mum and dad say, Harold?’

“Harry, what’s happening?”

“That utter wanker stole the polaroids as revenge for scarring him. He’s hidden them around the house. We have to find them before mum and dad go looking. You in for the ride?”

“Only if Haz can join us tonight,” you tease, and after calling a hello to Harry’s parents, you follow him around the house, detaching all the pinned photos.

Harry's learnt a solid lesson today: hide his damn Polaroids better from now on, away from the prying eyes of his bloody brothers. But, he thinks with a smirk, by no means will the two of you stop taking them.

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trashytummiez · 3 years ago

Note

I don't know if I've ever asked you, and if you're not interested just ignore me, but would you maybe write some stuffing content for Giriko? ;w;

It took you a while but you eventually made it back to your apartment and his hideout with his order. The murderous chainsaw now had before him what had to be enough fast food to feed about a dozen people by the time you laid out the meal. Yet here Giriko was about to cram it all down his gullet like always.

And you couldn't be more into it.

"Fuckin' finally. I'm starvin' here!" Giriko complained and rubbed his stomach as it growled impatiently.

"Party-sized orders take a while for greedy chainsaws," you teased and sat down besides the villain.

Giriko scoffed and unwrapped his first burger. He licked his chops eagerly and opened wide giving you a nice peak at his pearly white fangs which he used to chomp down onto his burger. That had to be a solid half of his burger munched in one go. He chewed down on that very sizable portion of burger making his cheeks bulge out. Then he clenched his eyes shut and swallowed hard. You watched a thick lump press out of his throat and vanish past his broad chest. The way his throat squelched made your cheeks heat up.

The chainsaw smacked his lips and downed the rest of his burger in no time. He got to work chomping away at his next. Like a greedy pig Giriko had no pause between burgers. He was just chomping away and downing it in about as short an interval of time as his last burger.

This steadily became a pattern for the gluttonous maniac. He was practically shoving burger after burger right down his gob and demolishing it in just a few bites. Those incredibly attractive and perfectly sharp fangs Giriko had allowed him to get food down in a very quick pace.

With so many burgers getting scarfed down all at once the impact it had on Giriko's tummy was pretty blatant. His usually lean stomach was starting to press out against his sleeveless whitish tan shirt. It very quickly started getting rounder the more he ate. So much so that Giriko's shirt barely managed to contain his tummy after a while.

Your eyes struggled to pull away from Giriko's growing belly. Especially when you heard it begin noisily churning to get to work digesting so much food in one sitting.

On top of all of his burgers Giriko had a six-pack besides him to help wash all that fast food down. After swallowing such an insurmountable amount of food in one go the chainsaw cracked a beer can open and guzzled its contents like a pro. You watched his throat throb with each hefty gulp he took. Beer was rushing down his throat so fast you guaranteed he could school anyone in a drinking contest if he wanted.

It wasn't even a full forty seconds until that can was drained. Giriko crushed the can against his forehead and lazily tossed it aside while also gulping down the last of its contents. About a second later Giriko burped so hard the couch quivered.

BRRUUUUOOOOOOORRRRRUUUUURHP!!!!!!

"Excuse you," you uttered with an intense blush on your cheeks.

Giriko lazily smacked his lips and grinned cockily. "Y'know ya LOOOOOVE...it...ahhh..."

It wasn't immediately clear to you if he meant to burp the word 'love' in your face but the way he sighed after suggested he certainly wasn't embarrassed by it. And the way your blush grew worse suggested you weren't especially bothered either.

He quickly went back to stuffing himself with more burgers. His pace had slowed down a little bit clearly he was starting to get full. But even in an overstuffed state the vile chainsaw was still munching down fast food faster than anyone you'd ever seen eat so much junkfood at once.

The swell in Giriko's belly only continued grow rounder and heavier. His shirt started riding up and revealing his bare tummy. Giriko was stuffing himself so fast that it rode up enough to start peaking at his belly button. Not that such a thing bothered Giriko. And it damn sure didn't bother you either.

Giriko paused to take another beer break. He cracked another can open and chugged its contents down. Even with how much fuller he was getting Giriko never flagged in the beer chugging department. Like before he sucked that can dry in under a minute crushing it against his forehead and lazily chucking it next to the other can.

"You know there's a bin right there," you said pointing to an annoyingly unused trash bin not too far away from Giriko.

Giriko's only response was a heavy burp.

BWOOOOOOOOORRRRRP!!!!

He grunted but shook his head dissatisfied. The chainsaw thumped his chest a few times until he made himself burp again. This one was a lot louder than the last one and gave him the relief he wanted. He sighed afterwards and slumped back.

"Fuck..." Giriko moaned rubbing the incredible swell in his tummy. He was looking really bloated but nonetheless shrugged and continued.

You watched Giriko's belly grow bigger and heavier. It was getting so bloated that it was really weighing down on his jeans. His shirt rode up completely to reveal the entirety of his enormous round tummy. The deep acidic noises you could hear bubbling from its depths were a clear sign that Giriko was well past his limits if his tummy was digesting that heavily.

It was so big and inviting from all the burgers and beer cans that you couldn't help rubbing it while Giriko finished the rest of his meal. Your hand rubbed circles all across that vast bubbling tummy. The roundness of it was absolutely perfect with a considerable heft in Giriko's lower stomach where everything was being digested. His tummy felt so warm from the intense digestive process which gave his normally tight flesh a much softer texture. It meant every time you patted his tummy there was a ripple in his flesh.

He cracked another can open and guzzled it down. But Giriko was so full that he actually had to stop halfway into chugging just so he could burp and make more room before chugging some more. You heard him burp again into his can as he chugged the rest of it. When he hiccuped loudly his big round belly jumped a little with a thick slosh that left him groaning and left you blushing.

It was clear that he was a little drunk despite having anything but an empty stomach.

You kept rubbing his belly to soothe how upset it was from his gorging and to help ease his stomachache enough to let him eat the rest of his food. His belly was getting so heavy that you worried his pants would burst at the seams if you didn't help him. So you fumbled with the waist of his pants and undid both his belt buckle and pants button. Giriko's big fat stomach spilled out freely from the space you'd provided it which made it bounce heavily between his legs. Girikko moaned in euphoria at how liberated he felt while you thought your eyes would bug out of your skull.

That certainly helped give him the second wind he desperately needed.

By the time Giriko was finished he almost looked like he was pregnant just with a deepened but shallow belly button and some intense sloshing erupting from his enormous tummy. With a lifeless groan Giriko slumped into his seat and held his hugely stuffed belly with both hands to unleash a massive burp.

BRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUURRRRRAAAAAAAAAAHPP!!!!!!!!!!

You blushed even harder both from Giriko's burp and the way you felt his tummy ripple with the gas.

"Good one," you praised and patted the side of his giant tummy. It jiggled with each pat you gave.

Giriko hiccuped loudly from the pat then again. His tummy jiggled heavily with each hiccup he gave. He moaned and wearily nursed his aching tummy with both hands rubbing up and down his thick rounded sides.

"Unnnnngh...Hic! Woof...m'so FUUUUUUUUUULL!!!!!" Giriko moaned hiccuping again and eventually burping the last word of his sentence out.

You gave his tummy a light squeeze and caused another huge burp to blare out of Giriko's mouth.

"Unf...shit..." he moaned after. "Feels like I'mma fuckin' puke..."

"You won't," you said confidently and kneaded your fingers into the middle of his massive belly pushing into Giriko's belly button. You knew the way Giriko's tummy operated after watching him stuff his face just a few times. You were trying to push some gas out of his belly and resorted to pushing hand against Giriko's belly button deeply.

Giriko winced but then unleashed a huge deafening burp that easily dwarfed any he'd let out yet.

BWWWRRAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUURRRHHHOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRAAAAAAAHHHAAAAAAAAAAAHP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Your face couldn't get any redder when you felt his tummy ripple violently with that massive expulsion of gas. It ripped out of Giriko so long it could've been ten seconds for all you knew! You could pick up the scent of beer and digested burgers which wasn't the most pleasant scent in the world but it was worth it to hear a burp like that.

Giriko's eyes glazed over as his head rolled back with a moan of utter relief. "Fuckin' shit I needed that...whew..." Giriko moaned and slapped his belly with really boastful relief. His big fat tummy rippled heavily at the slap and made himself hiccup again. He was too full to care.

You just continued rubbing his massive tummy and occasionally kissed at it.

"I can't believe how much this thing can pack away," you praised getting a hold of his tummy and giving it a light jostle to hear it gurgle and slosh heavily.

The sloshing upset some of the pressure still brewing in Giriko's stomach. But the chainsaw grinned wickedly. When he felt the gas rushing up his throat he held you by the chin and made you look up at him just in time for Giriko to unleash a throaty burp right in your face.

HHUUUUUOOOOOOORRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHPP!!!!!

Your eyes widened as the warm gas pelted your face stinking of beer and digesting burgers. If you had any snide remarks they quickly left your blank mind as you sat there red as a ripe tomato.

Giriko shamelessly smacked his lips and grinned. "Never underestimate how much this bad boy can pack away," he said patting his glutted out tummy for emphasis while you savored the sounds emanating from his belly with his pats. "Now keep rubbin'. I didn't eat half yer fuckin' body weight in all this greasy shit fer nothin'."

You very happily complied, rubbing that massive belly well into the night and savoring every rich sound that tummy made from the deepest blorps to more of Giriko's burps.

He wasn't right in the head but then again neither were you so it ended up being a match made in hell that you wouldn't trade for anything in the world.

#kink fic #giriko #soul eater #giriko x reader #ship #belly kink #stuffing #post stuffing #weight gain #belly play #tummy ache #stomach noises #burping #burp kink #kink teasing #hiccups #getting drunk #overstuffed #drunk

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xbunnybunz · 4 years ago

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Weak Hero University (2/?) [Reader x Weak Hero]

Summary: I know you assholes are crying now that the first season of Weak Hero is over. But you’ve got other things to focus on, like where the fuck you’re going to live after getting kicked out of your old dorm. Luckily, you’ve found one last open room on the other side of Weak Hero University. What could possibly go wrong?

Genre: Romance, Humor, Slice of Life

Date: 6/1/2021

A brief introduction of everyone later, you haul a suitcase into the room while Ben noisily and clumsily pulls on his shorts, after much persuading from his friends.

“You’re living… Here? In the boys dorms?” Eugene asks, tagging beside carrying your schoolbag. “Isn’t that against the campus policy?”

You park the suitcase beside by your room and sigh, popping your back briefly.

“I’m just as confused as you guys are, but the keys here seem to be for this room here.” You allow a single gold-hued key to dangle from your fingers on a cheap polyester lanyard, Eugene’s eyes follow the menacing stare of the school mascot printed on the side until you pull it out of his sight.

“Let’s see just how fucked up this school is when it comes to money extortion.” You put the key in the door and hear a tell-tale metallic ‘click.’

“Wow.” A voice says from the couches. “Pretty fucked up.”

You sigh, shoulder slumping forward. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”

Most of the items go into your room without much hassle at all. A suitcase full of cute PJs you and your nonexistent best gal roommates could rave over, a plastic box full of face masks you’d probably never be able to use without being made fun of, and a waterlogged ziplock baggie half-full with notes (and corn chips) from last semester.

What? A folder? What the fuck is a folder?

A boy with silver hair passes by and begins to say something to you, but seems to debate better options when he sees the plastic baggie on the floor.

Feeling slighted somehow, you ask Eugene who he is once he’s out of earshot.

Eugene laughs and begins to speak but an arm looping around his neck cuts him off.

A pair of shimmering emerald eyes meet your own, but it’s clouded with a shadow of mischief. “You haven’t heard? That’s the white mamba of E-quad. He’s fearlessly beaten bastards so bloody with belts that we have metal detectors installed at the dining hall entrances now!”

“Stop exaggerating, Alex.” Eugene chokes out, sounding mildly discontented while desperately trying to pry the arm from around his neck.

“Wait, that was because of him?”

Eugene and Alex both freeze, brows furrowed. “Wait, you weren’t kidding?” Eugene asked.

“I was.” Alex says.

They both fix their gazes on you, and you’re suddenly struck with the memories of needing to surrender your lockpicking kit in front of several dozen freshmen behind you, and the hot desire to bury that memory consumes you.

“Haha, me too.”

They don’t seem convinced.

Before the conversation about buckle-assisted homicide can continue, a large shadow descends upon your form and a great arm reaches out from the heavens above. “Here, I grabbed this from the kitchen in case you needed a snack.”

You look up and see Gerard, the tallest and blindest of the group. You accept his gift of a single (1) lunchables capri-sun with much adoration in your heart.

“Thanks Gerard.”

He gives you a smile to remind the audience that he is, simply put, cool as fuck.

“No problem.”

Well, one problem. You eye the last bit of your luggage sitting at the doorway like a heaping pile of hot flaming garbage. It’s an amalgamation of the extraneous bits of your personality you’ve collected over the course of the past semester at Weak Hero University and maybe a forgotten bagel. Despite your previous roommate’s pleads for you to throw some of it out, you’d be damned if you weren’t a treacherous little hoarder. Simply put, it was a huge box of insignificant trinkets that made for a very significant problem. You had gotten lucky to cross paths with a cute but gullible junior earlier, who you immediately marked as prey and flirted with before unceremoniously dumping your crap on him to carry across campus. But now you’d have to pick up the box of crap yourself, which would prove to be a challenge with how little you actually wanted to be responsible for your own items.

The three boys see you eying the box and you perk up immediately, eyes glimmering with the possibility of wooing the fine gentlemen into helping a oh-so-meek lass like yourself.

You twirl a piece of hair between your fingers and bat your eyelashes at nothing at all, pouting your lips and hoping they weren’t too crusty. “Oh, I’m so tired. How am I ever going to move that big and heavy box?”

You stare dismally into an off-corner and attempt to look forlorn, grimacing when you see a weird construction of a human-sized dorito-chip statue made of empty dorito bags beside the television. This was the moment your main love interest would swoop in and offer his servitude to you, dewey roses blossoming on convenient parts of the screen. Here it was, your very own shoujo moment!

But there’s no offer. In fact, you stare so long at the doritos statue that you begin to get spots in your vision.

When you turn back, the boys are by the box in question, though they are not attempting to move it at all. Instead, they lament over the problem with you as opposed to offering a solution.

“Ah, that thing looks so heavy. Sucks to be you.” Alex laughs.

Euguene shakes his head. “Right? I wouldn’t even be able to get a corner off the ground.”

Gerard places a thoughtful hand on the back of his neck. “You should probably save the capri-sun for after moving everything.”

Ugh.

Just when all hope seemed lost, Ben meanders out of his room. This time, all his articles of clothing are intact.

“Hey, what are you guys staring at?”

Yes! This was your movie-moment after all!

“Oh Ben! Thank god you’re here.” You resume your maiden in distress pose. “I was just so tired from the trip, my feeble heart and body can’t bear to-“

Alex pokes his head up when he hears Ben approaching, waving him over. “Look at all this shit she has. She’s like those people on My Strange Addiction!”

Irritated that he’s cut you off, you try to continue. “I won’t ever be able to lift all that on my own-!”

“Aren’t you talking about Hoarding, Buried Alive?” Gerard asks, clearly already losing interest in the luggage.

“Actually, I think that would be Hoarders, the reality television show that aired a little before My Strange Addiction took flight! It’s actually really interesting how that all started out, if you want to hear about it.”

You scowl at the back of Eugene’s head and stop quickly when Ben shoots a grin at you.

He puffs out his chest in a stupid himbo way and thrusts his thumb into his chest. “I can move this for you! No sweat! Just tell me where you want it!”

Sweet! You were about to resort to desperate begging, but those plans are cancelled!

You clasp your hands together and sigh, envisioning a world where men with muticolored hair fall in love with you.

“Oh, anywhere in here is fine, thank you so much Ben!”

As he goes in to lift it, you can see his muscles straining against the well-fitting fabric of his shirt.

Oh yes, this is definitely worth the dorming fee.

“Ben, you’re so sweet for helping me with this!” He ambles past you while struggling to hold the lid of the box closed. A strained voice comes from beyond the green rim of the bin. “Yep, no problem at all.”

You follow him into your room, tailing him while rambling about how grateful you were.

“You know, there was a junior who I met by the campus square on my way here. He helped me move everything to this building, but he struggled with that box a lot longer than you! I’m actually not sure how you’re even getting it off the ground without a wedge and trolley, but boy am I glad!”

Ben stops at the foot of your bed, barely able to peek over the edge of the bin. “Erm. Is here okay?”

“Hey I mean, as strong as that guy was, you’re definitely cuter than him. I was almost sad to see him go, but that’s the life of a busy woman!”

“Pleasemyarmsareshaking-”

“As great as all this is, I’m actually really excited to make friends with everyone! Given these strange circumstances that usually only happen to indulge borderline psychotic fans, we should take advantage and-”

Ben drops the box on the floor and you screech, a pain shooting up your leg and pumping adrenaline into your veins.

“-FUCK! Shit!”

Ben freezes and realizes the absolutely fuckery he has just caused, but before he can react, you grab the corner of the box and throw it off your foot in a show of brute gorilla strength, crumpling to the floor in agony.

The boys have their heads poked into the doorway, curious after hearing two cuss words successively. They blanche when they realize the situation.

“Oh fuck. My bad?” Ben wants to comfort you but is frankly quite scared to after seeing your display of power.

“Did she just throw that thing with one hand?” Gerard asks.

Alex stares at the scene before him. “What the hell happened to her foot?”

Eugene titters about nervously, playing with his fingers “Do we have first aid?”

From the kitchen, a deadpan voice is heard. “Where’s my capri sun?”

#weak hero #webtoon weak hero #weak hero x reader #weak hero university

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vagrantblvrd · 4 years ago

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That time Din gets hired on as part of a crew for a heist back in the Imperial days, right?

An old friend of an old friend and favors are owed and if - if - they pull this off Din’s cut will be substantial, but mostly it the favors owed part of things.

Doesn’t like it, but again with the favors owed and finding work’s been harder than usual and so on.

Besides, Outer Rim and might be a good idea to lie low(ish) for a bit.

It’s definitely a ragtag bunch of criminal lowlifes he’ll be working with, shifty-eyed and untrustworthy as hell even if he’s been assured they know their jobs. (Won’t try to stab him in the back until the heist is over, which is oddly reassuring.)

He gets dirty looks from them which he’s used to from others, it’s the calculating looks that concern him. (Mandalorians have a reputation and it gets them all sort of attention, usually the wrong kind.)

Strangely, it’s not Imperial defector that worries him most with the crew, it’s the kid.

(Din’s not so much older, but looking at the kid and how bright he is it’s hard to remember that.)

Pilot, wheelman, Din’s been told he can fly anything, which. Yeah, sure, Din will believe that when he sees it because the ship they’re going to be using is decades older than him and maybe, maybe, Din’s making a mistake taking the job, favors be damned.

And the kid, can’t be older than twenty if that, blond hair and blue eyes and friendly in a way that unsettles Din.

It’s an act, it has to be because no way someone like that would be that bright after this kind of life for any length of time. Or, and this might be worse, it isn’t and this will be the kind of job that breaks that spirit of his, clean down the middle.

Either way, Din tries to stay as far away from the kid as he can once they set off to wherever for the job.

The armor makes it easier, all the stories people tell about Mandalorians and the reputations they’ve built for themselves over time reinforce them, don’t they.

So Din keeps mostly to himself when he can. The others snap and snarl at him - literally in some cases and posture, but Din can’t be bothered.

Knows his worth, and it’s that certainty that has them backing down when he does something so small as tilt his head a certain way.

The only ones who don’t seem to be on the same page are the Imperial defector and the kid.

Snide remarks, barbed comments from the former, wide smile and cheerful chatter Din tunes out easily enough.

It’s a long way out, though. Some backwater ball of rock and dust and shattered dreams and they have to stop to replenish supplies, and somehow, somehow, the kid’s just.

There.

Din heads off to touch base with contacts in the area and so on, and the rest are picking up supplies getting drunk and a little - only little because they wouldn’t want to draw unwanted attention to themselves - wild before they set off.

When he gets back to the landing pad the kid’s...tinkering, is the best way put it, on the ship.

Muttering about this and that and talking to himself about who knows what having to do with lower than expected performance from the engines and he just. Gets lost in it, doesn’t seem to realize Din’s there for the longest time as he crawls over, inside the ship, the engines.

(Reckless, Din thinks at the time, but that’s not quite right. Or it is, but there’s something else about it too he can’t pin down.)

When the kid does notice he’s got grease smudges across one cheek, the bridge of his nose. More on his clothes like he’d wiped his hands on them and didn’t realize, and he tosses Din this smile.

Bright, friendly, a wave of his hand and then he hops down and comes over to where Din’s sitting on cargo containers, sits himself down without an invitation.

Din’s braced for more of that relentless cheerful chatter, but it doesn’t come.

When Din glances at him the kid looks, he looks tired. Dark circles under his eyes, set to his mouth as he looks at their ship.

Old, old, thing, pre-Imperial and then some, well past its last legs and too stubborn to realize it.

Smiles, this small, wistful thing as he drags his eyes away from the ship to settle on Din. Still doesn’t say anything, which is odd for the kid, but Din’s not going to be the one to point it out.

Minutes pass, the kid shaking his head and letting out this sigh, tired, weight to it that seems at odds with the kid’s usual cheerfulness, and he looks back at Din. Looks like he’s going to say something, and then there’s noise, raised voices, too-loud brash.

The rest of the crew coming back and the kid - Din watches as the kid slips back into the role of the cheerful, gullible newbie, going over the others and letting them bully him into loading the supplies they brought back like they’re doing him the favor, giving him his big break and all.

It.

There were things about the kid that didn’t seem to fit right before, that unsettled Din when he was around him, but this -

Interesting.

Dangerous, too.

Too easy to know to look for people like the Imperial defector, the countless dregs of society he’s met over the years all too happy to upfront about wanting to stick a knife in your back in one way or another, but this?

The kid?

The kind of thing you don’t see - forget about in the face of more over threats - until it’s too late.

Like he knows Din’s watching him, the kid looks over him and smiles before one of the others yells his names and he hurries to see what they want.

Din sits there for a while after that, listening to others bustle about before he gets up and walks up the ship’s lowered ramp.

Means to keep a closer eye on the kid after that, but the others make it difficult, riled up because there’s a Mandalorian involved and eager to prove themselves or make a point and Din honestly couldn’t care less, but they’re persistent about it.

Still, a job is a job is a job and he deals with it.

(Doesn’t start fights, but everyone knows who ends them)

The kid and that mask he wears, this look in his eyes sometimes when he thinks no one’s looking, like he’s seen too much in too short a time and it’s made a mark on him.

And then he’ll shake himself out of it and slip that mask back on and things just go on.

Then the heist happens where everything falls apart before it even starts because someone sold them out, let the Imperials buy them and then it’s all running and shooting and dying.

Din’s got no loyalty to the crew, but he tries to keep them from dying, but they’re outnumbered and outgunned and panic and fear and Din’s the only one to make it back to the landing pad.

Too quiet, and there’s a moment he thinks someone got the kid, waiting for them to come back from meeting with a contact in the city, scouting the area -

When he gets closer to the ship he hears voices the Imperial defector and the kid.

Arguing about going to get the others, that they can’t just leave then, and when Din walks up the ramp it’s not hard to figure out who sold them out. Not when the Imperial defector’s holding a blaster on the kid, is actually gloating. Saying something about getting more for the kid than a lifetime of heists like this one, which Din doesn’t understand.

But.

Between the kid who hasn’t done anything against Din and this bastard who sold them all out, with Imperials hot on his tail, it’s an easy enough decision to kill the defector.

Ignores whatever reaction the kid has to that as he kicks the body down the ship’s ramp and heads up to the cockpit to start the pre-flight.

Knows it’s a risk turning his back on the kid, but Imperials on his tail and a problem for later, assuming there will be a later.

The ship’s lifting off when the kid slides into the co-pilot seat next to him and at a look from the kid when they see a damned star destroyer sitting in high orbit with Tie fighters riding escort -

“Time to earn my pay,” the kid says, like either of them are going to get paid after this mess, and something has Din give him the controls.

Some fancy flying later and they break past the blockade and hit hyperspace.

Don’t say anything for a long, long time, and when he looks over at the kid that’s look is back on his face, too old for how young he is.

They don’t talk much as they make their way to safe(er) territory before they part ways.

The kid off to who knows where, and Din to where the Crest is waiting for him and a word with the old friend who got him tangled up in the botched heist.

Doesn’t think too much about the job, the kid, after that until he picks up a bounty puck some time later.

The kid’s face and a different name than the one Din had known him by and he sighs as he stares at it before he pockets it along with half a dozen others.

Slings the kid’s puck into a bin of spare parts on his way up to the cockpit and focuses on tracking down the rest, and so on and so on.

Wonders at the the kind of odds that has him running into the kid himself, a new name on a different planet and the same kind of trouble.

Startled smile and recognition and trusting Din not to shoot him in the back while dealing with said trouble.

Again and again, and it’s more the fact that whatever trouble the kid’s caught up in has to do with Imperials than the kid himself that has Din lending him a hand before he knows what’s going on.

Doesn’t know if the kid’s just that bad at picking jobs or if it’s something else, something deliberate, but he still helps him out when they run into each other.

(Sometimes, though, the tables get turned and if the kid just happens to be in the area Din’s the one who gets rescued, teased, the kid’s laughter stuck in his head long after the danger’s past and they’ve gone their separate ways again.)

Din picks up regular bounties in the meantime, and always this moment of disbelief when he runs across the kid’s face and a whole slew of different names attached to a bounty puck over the years. Wonders if the kid knows some of his identities are worth more than others, and that bin with the spare parts and bounty pucks fills up and doesn’t look past that because sometimes it’s better not to know.

The second Death Star goes the way of the first one and the Empire falls, but it’s not gone.

Remnants of it wherever you look if you know how towards the Core, more and more blatant the further out you go because the New Republic is hindered by politics, can’t operate the way it did when everyone called it the Rebel Alliance.

Creates more work for people like Din, though, one way or another.

And then he takes that bounty from Karga and gets in over his head, only seems to dig himself deeper as he goes. Finds people willing to go down alongside him, and then Gideon and the Jedi.

Older now, going by yet another name, when Cara and the others apparently recognize him.

Din’s tired, confused, and his kid is staring at the Jedi with this. This longing Din’s far to familiar with, and with everything that’s happened, will happen, it’s -

Not the easy choice, to send Grogu with the Jedi, far from it, but it’s the right one. (Knows by the way it hurts it must be.)

Din goes back to his life after that, avoids Bo-Katan’s calls and pretends he can’t feel the weight of the Darksaber on his hip.

Pretends he doesn’t see the looks Karga gives him before handing over bounty pucks, the ones Cara gives him.

Goes on with his life because there’s nothing else for it, but then there’s this dusty little planet somewhere.

A bar.

Figure in a black cloak and a bounty puck tossed on the table between them, Din’s own face on it for a change.

The kid - Jedi - taking a seat across from him, what looks like a smile on his face from the light the puck gives off.

“I’m looking for someone,” the Jedi says. “Do you know where I can find him?”

Din stares at the Jedi, not sure what he wants, is there for.

If it about the price on Din’s head he wouldn’t bother with all...this.

Before he can ask, though, there’s a very familiar noise. Soft coo, and he sees the ears before the rest of Grogu, poking up over the edge of the table before the Jedi laughs and picks him up to set him on the table.

“What is this?”

The Jedi pulls his hood down, glances at Grogu who’s staring up at Din, tiny hands reaching for him.

Second nature by now to reach back, but attachments. Cruel for someone Din hasn’t considered an enemy in...he can’t remember, to be honest.

The Jedi must see it, or maybe senses it, because he drops his gaze, leans back in his seat and sighs.

“They were wrong, you know,” he says, and Din doesn’t know who or what he’s talking about, but the Jedi continues. “They were wrong about ‘attachment’.”

His eyes meet Din’s, erring.

Apologizes for the abrupt way he left with Grogu, for not contacting him before this, but -

“You’re a hard man to find.”

Strange smile as he says it, eyes flicking towards the puck and back to him.

Trouble and all the ways it finds him, or the reverse, and there was a time the Jedi was part of it all.

Might be now, when he extends an invitation to go back to his school with them, and Din.

Lets himself look down at Grogu and tells them yes.

But there’s trouble before all that, hunters and bounties and Din doesn’t know who they’re after - the Jedi or himself, Grogu - but it hardly matters in the end.

A Mandalorian in beskar and a Jedi and a little one to protect and it’s short work, if not without casualties.

“Not again,” the Jedi sighs, taking in the wreckage of his X-Wing.

Din looks at the Jedi, and little Grogu in his arms and sighs.

He’s got a new ship now, still learning it’s quirks, but there’s enough for the three of them, and they can tow the X-Wing along behind.

Drops a hand on the Jedi’s shoulder on his way past, and tips his head towards his ship nearby as he walks past.

Strides up the ramp of his ship, Grogu chattering to himself as he looks around, and after a brief hesitation drops the bounty puck with his face attached into a bin half full of spare parts and bounty pucks bearing the Jedi’s face.

A smaller collection than the one that had been on the Crest, but large enough to catch the Jedi’s eye.

Din busies himself with making sure everything’s stowed away, working around Grogu who trails after him with determination wherever he goes, and avoids looking at the Jedi when he activates one.

Grateful for his helmet as the Jedi laughs, note to it Din doesn’t try to identify when he finally turns around to look at him.

Studying the bounty pucks with a slight frown, and Din meets his gaze steadily when he looks up.

Tilts his head just so, and turns on his heel to head for the cockpit, stopping only to pick Grogu up.

Glances over when the Jedi slides into the co-pilot’s seat and once they hit the black of space sees a glimpse of the kid he met all those years ago in the grin, smirk, he sends Din.

Cocks his head just so, and something about it has Din giving him the controls.

No need for fancy flying now, no Imperials or otherwise after them, but there’s bit of flair, flourish to it as the Jedi sends them into hyperspace, home, Din doesn’t think because it’s too soon for that, but Grogu will be there along with the Jedi, which is more than enough.

(Okay, but this is all an extremely long-winded way to blather on about that time Luke was on sekrit mission for the Alliance and things got was more complicated than anyone expected? Contacts he was supposed to meed with killed in an ambush and a Mystery that ended with him being hired on for a heist??? Because Imperial defector and information and whatnot, but then there was also that Mandalorian character and anyway.

Yes.

Luke giving poor Artoo a message to give Leia and the others when they came looking for him when he didn’t check in and that whole thing with the ambush? Please don’t worry, Luke’s fine, just kind of involved with a heist and such, like you do, be back as soon as possible!

And then more shenanigans in which he keeps running into that Mandalorian while on sekrit missions for the Alliance and so on and Din is just ??? as Luke explains that because he kind of hates how it makes sense in all the way it shouldn’t.

Also? Leia Organa-Solo shot Din the moment she stepped off her ship on her visit to Luke’s school because someone forgot to inform her he was there now, and just.

It’s a lot, okay, a lot.

Also.

Leia kind of looks like she wouldn’t mind shooting Din again when she figures out Luke got FEELINGS for him, just on principle.

Rather than be offended or anything like that, Din is immensely relieved to learn at least one of Luke’s people has common sense, like for real.

But yes.)

#star wars nonsense #dinluke #i'm a bit fixated on the whole bounty hunter thing alright #it's a weakness #¯\_(ツ)_/¯#technically not a fic #vagrant fic #long post

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lettheladylead · 4 years ago

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Not Your Aunt

Chapter 3: Gladstone [ao3 link]

It’d been a year since Scrooge started regularly babysitting his niece and nephew. Goldie had only had the misfortune of interacting with them a handful of times, though one of those handfuls was a week-long bedridden visit where they asked too many questions and got way too attached to her. So before leaving, she stole from their piggy banks to teach them an important lesson: Goldie O’Gilt is not their family and she’s certainly not their aunt.

The next time she visited after that, the kids seemed properly sour and uninterested in her, so clearly they got the message. Or they just had a bad day. Either way, she could focus on Scrooge and treasure and then move on with her plans. She was able to visit without interacting with children a good half a dozen times after that, which really made her days go faster. It was nice.

She was stopping by in early February to grab some items she’d left behind (for safekeeping, of course) when Goldie learned that Scrooge’s family was continuing to...expand. There were now twice as many children in the mansion and the two new kids were apparently not deterred by Donald and Della’s attempts to warn them about their uncle’s thieving ex.

The kid in green found her in the foyer and lifted up his sunglasses to wink at her. “Well hello there!”

She blinked down at him. “...hello.”

He shuffled closer and stuck out his tiny little hand. “Gladstone Gander! And you are…?”

Goldie pinched his hand between two fingers and gave it a single shake before letting go. She didn’t appreciate the tone she was getting from this child who couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve. “You can call me Miss O’Gilt.”

Gladstone pouted at her response and then shrugged before putting the sunglasses back. “Suit yourself. I’m a real catch!”

“I’m sure,” Goldie groaned. “Where’s Scrooge? I need to talk to him.”

The kid pointed towards the stairs. “Uncle Scrooge is in his office, I think.”

“Uncle?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Did Hortense have another kid or...are you Matilda’s?” The concept of Matilda having a child had Goldie immediately confused. She was pretty sure she knew that woman’s goals and motherhood was never on her list. They’d bonded over the lack of interest once in the past.

“Huh?” Gladstone tilted his head. “No, Auntie Hortense is married to Uncle Quackmore, who’s my mom’s brother. Who’s Matilda?”

Goldie closed her eyes and put two fingers to her temple as she felt a headache forming. She supposed if they stretched the definition enough, then Scrooge could be literally anyone’s uncle even if they had some gigantic distant relation to him. It was kind of annoying. “I guess she’s...also your aunt. You’ll probably meet her someday.” With that, Goldie turned around and started towards the stairs.

The kid followed her and she resisted the urge to punt him into another room. “So you know Uncle Scrooge and Auntie Hortense? Are you Uncle Scrooge’s secret wife?”

“No.” She didn’t even give him a glance as she headed up the stairs.

“Does that mean you’re single?” he asked with a toothy grin.

Goldie looked down at him again and then rolled her eyes. “You’re a bit young to be at this level of annoying.”

“Annoying?” Gladstone put a shocked hand to his chest and frowned. “You must be unlucky like Donald and Della. Only unlucky people call me annoying!”

Alright, that was a curious enough statement to make Goldie pause and lean against the banister. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gladstone walked up another few steps so his head was about the same height as her’s. “I’m the luckiest goose in the world! Even luckier than my mom!”

Goldie quirked an eyebrow. “Luckiest in the world, huh? How would you know that?”

“I know that ‘cause...I’m Gladstone Gander!” He did a little spin and stuck his hands into his pockets before pulling out a dozen twenty dollar bills. “I found all of these just on my walk earlier!”

She stared at the money and, on reflex, plucked a few out of his hands. He didn’t even react as she pocketed them. “That’s pretty normal when you’re walking around Scrooge McDuck’s mansion, kid.”

He reached into his pockets again and pulled out another dozen bills. “No, no, these aren’t from Uncle Scrooge! I got these while walking around town!”

That caught her attention a bit more. Goldie pocketed a few more of the twenties before putting a hand against the bottom of her beak. “That does sound particularly lucky.”

He gave her a thumbs up, clearly happy that he’d convinced her of his gift, and Goldie thought about her plans for the weekend. She’d intended on grabbing a pair of earrings she’d left in Scrooge’s dresser and a mystical gem-finder he’d locked up in his Other Bin before heading to Macaw, but...perhaps she could use a partner. Well, more like a sidekick. Or a mascot.

“How would you like to go on a trip and really put your luck to the test?”

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

Despite him being a very, very annoying little kid, Goldie had to admit that bringing him along was worth the frustrations.

She’d never done this well at the Galaxy Macaw, especially not at the slot machines. She could cheat her way through any old card game, but playing with other people brought too much attention to her presence. And the owner would be very unhappy if he saw she’d returned after what happened last time.

Her disguise wasn’t particularly artful - just a short black wig and green-tinted sunglasses - but it was enough to keep security from noticing her striking blonde amongst the sea of dark-haired birds around them. Gladstone managed to win a new little outfit for himself within a few minutes of entering the casino, and Goldie was happy that no one questioned the child’s presence. After a few wins at the slot machines, earning herself and her little partner a significant bit of cash, Goldie let the kid wander off on his own and started casing the place, getting ready for the actual reason for her travels.

“Miss O’Gilt?” Gladstone asked as he reappeared, tugging at her hand to get her attention.

“I told you not to use my last name here,” she hissed in response, glancing around to make sure no one overheard.

“Oh, right!” He tapped a finger against his chin. “So, then...Aunt Goldie, why exactly are we here? Not that I’m not having fun, but…this all seems kind of random.”

She held back a growl at the name - why did these kids always lean into the “aunt” moniker first? - and plopped her hand on top of his head. “Don’t worry about it. You should just keep having fun while I cash out and take care of some business.”

He shrugged. “Alright, but I bet I could help you with whatever you’re really here for! Uncle Scrooge never lets me help him find stuff ‘cause he says it’s cheating, but this is just how I live, y’know?”

Goldie removed her hand from his head and laid it on her hip. “I appreciate the offer, but this is something I need to take care of alone.” She glanced around the room and paused at the sight of a line of phone booths. “If I’m not back in a half hour, call your uncle to pick you up, alright?”

Gladstone followed her line of sight, then turned back to look up at her. “Are you doing something dangerous?”

“Hopefully not, but you never know.”

The kid pouted and leaned back on his heels. “...are you sure I can’t come with?”

Goldie crossed her arms over her chest. “Just stay here,” she said sternly, and quickly disappeared before Gladstone could follow.

He frowned and looked around himself. He knew nothing bad would happen to him, but it was still weird for an adult to leave him alone in a place so filled with strangers. Goldie was certainly unlike any other adults he’d spent time with, and he wasn’t at all surprised that Donald and Della had such conflicting feelings about her.

That being said, he could see a snack stand not too far away, so he rushed over to grab some pretzels. As soon as he arrived, the man running the stand gave him a big toothy smile, said he was the one thousandth customer of the day, and then handed him a giant pretzel for free.

It was nice being Gladstone Gander.

As he chomped away, a big banner above some of the slot machines caught his attention. In bright, bold letters he saw the words THE MACAW RUBY and more information about it being some rare, potentially mystical artifact that would be on display starting at 5 o’clock sharp.

He thought about that for a moment. From what he knew about Goldie, which wasn’t much but he’d understood the gist of it, she liked to steal things. Really cool, expensive, fancy things. He didn’t have to be a genius to put two and two together and realize she was after that ruby.

Whether or not she wanted his help, Gladstone decided he was going to be a part of this. After all, maybe the ruby would just come into his possession thanks to his luck! No one would need to steal anything, it would simply belong to him. And then he could give it to her and she’d give him a hug as thanks and who wouldn’t want that?

By the time he arrived at the place where the ruby was going to be displayed, it was only a few minutes to five and Gladstone took note of the extremely heavy security detail in front of the curtain. If Goldie hadn’t already gotten the ruby, there was no way she was going to get past all of them.

So he walked up to one of the guards and locked his hands behind his back. “Hi there!”

The guard looked down at him and didn’t respond.

“I’m Gladstone!”

Still no response.

Gladstone pouted, but he was pretty sure he could charm this guy into showing him the gem. “Can I see the fancy ruby?”

The guard made a face at him before turning to look at another guard and then proceeded to speak in a language that Gladstone didn’t recognize. He realized after a moment that it was probably Mandarin, which would make a lot of sense, considering where they were.

The other guard walked over and grabbed Gladstone by the back of his shirt, holding him up in front of his face. “Where’re your parents, kid? You shouldn’t be walking around here by yourself,” he said in a rough, heavy accent.

Gladstone frowned and crossed his arms. “I’m no kid! I’m just really short for my age! And I’ve won, like, fifty thousand dollars today, so you can’t tell me what to do!”

The guard frowned and his grip on Gladstone’s shirt tightened. “What’d you just say to me? I’m not in the mood for some brat and his-”

“Excuse me, sir,” a new voice called out.

All three boys looked over to see Goldie standing there, arms crossed and looking certainly unhappy, and with a purse over her shoulder that Gladstone didn’t remember being there when they’d arrived at the casino.

“That’s my nephew you’re manhandling, you oversized hog,” Goldie growled, reaching out and grabbing Gladstone so she could properly plop him down next to her. “You treat all your guests like this?”

The guard stood up straight and glared at her, pointing angrily towards Gladstone. “You might wanna teach your kid some manners, lady! He won’t be so lucky next time he pisses me off.”

“I’m sure that’s very difficult to do,” Goldie said with an eyeroll. “Come on, Gladdy, it’s time for us to go.”

Gladstone just nodded and took her hand. As they were leaving, a bunch of rich-looking snobs were walking in the opposite direction, probably excited to see the fancy gemstone that was about to be unveiled. He was pretty sure Goldie had already taken it and it was sitting in her bag right by his face. Though he wondered if she replaced it with a fake or if things were about to go crazy in this casino.

A moment later and Gladstone turned his head at the sound of an announcer and some clapping and a stunned silence and then an audience-wide gasp. Goldie clutched his hand a little tighter at the sound of the gasp and he noticed she’d picked up a tiny bit of speed.

With her walking faster, he fell behind her and looked up to see a shocking and unfortunate sight: a few strands of long blonde hair had fallen out from under her wig and were completely visible to anyone who could see her back. He opened his mouth to say something when he was cut off by the loudest scream he’d ever heard from someone that wasn’t Donald.

“IT’S GOLDIE O’GILT! GET HER BEFORE SHE GETS AWAY!”

Suddenly Gladstone was picked up and being held in Goldie’s arms as she quickly exited the building and ran towards the nearest available taxi. He didn’t even have a second to breathe before she had the driver heading towards the airport as fast as he could go.

She tore off the wig and sunglasses and shoved them into her bag, which Gladstone noticed didn’t seem to get any bigger as she did. He looked into it and saw what seemed to be some sort of endless vortex. Neat!

Goldie laughed and patted his head. “Good job out there, kid. That was fun,” she said as she reached into the bag and pulled out another wig - this time it was brown and wavy. It seemed she was prepared for the possibility that someone might try following her.

“Thanks, Aunt Goldie,” he responded with a smirk, remembering how much that name annoyed her earlier. “So where’s my cut of the profits?”

She raised an eyebrow at him and clearly looked like she was about to laugh at his question. “Why don’t we focus on getting you home before we talk about that?”

Gladstone put a hand to his chin in thought. Really, money wasn’t an issue for him. He found money all the time, and even when he didn’t, his parents had plenty of money of their own. But he did feel like Goldie owed him for all his help. “Okay, sure.”

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

First their taxi driver gave them a free ride because he was in such a good mood, then their plane tickets ended up being free thanks to a clerical error, and they were given a free ride from the airport to Scrooge’s mansion because who the hell could keep track of all the reasons why things were free? Goldie was certainly enjoying the perks of carrying around Scrooge’s little luck magnet. If she didn’t have places to be, she’d stop by his office and yell at him for not telling her about the kid sooner.

That being said, he was starting to get a little too attached and it was bugging the hell out of her.

“So when are you gonna visit again? We could go to another casino!” Gladstone said excitedly, bouncing in his seat. “Or some other place you’d need my luck for. An underground poker game, maybe?”

Goldie chuckled and leaned back, recognizing the area the taxi turned into as only a few blocks from Scrooge’s place. “Look, kid -”

“Gladstone!”

“...right. Gladstone. This has been lots of fun, but you shouldn’t get confused. I’m not a part of your family, I’m not gonna just stop by and visit and take you on trips all the time. I just conveniently already had plans to go somewhere where I’d benefit from some luck.”

He frowned. “So this is it? You’re just done with me now?”

“Well…” She shrugged. “I don’t like to limit myself. Who knows what the future will hold? I just wouldn’t get your hopes up or plan for me coming back anytime soon.”

Gladstone pouted again and let out a quiet hmph! before turning to look out the window. They’d arrived at the front gate of Uncle Scrooge’s house and he’d decided he was just about ready to leave.

They came to a stop and Gladstone quickly opened up the door and stepped outside, stretching dramatically and yawning. He turned to say something to Goldie when he was cut off by a loud, familiar screech.

“THERE HE IS!”

Gladstone turned to see Donald and Uncle Scrooge running towards him from down the sidewalk. He was very confused to see that they’d gone for a walk instead of hanging around the house, since they never wanted to go for walks when he was in the mood.

“Hi, Uncle Scrooge-”

Scrooge ran over and swept Gladstone up in a giant hug. “We’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you, lad! Where’ve you been? What did you…” Scrooge’s words faded out as he noticed the familiar smirk staring at him from the inside of a taxi.

“Hey there, hun.”

“G-Goldie?!” Scrooge looked at her and then down at Gladstone and then back up at her. “Did you take him?!”

“Sure did,” she responded with a shrug. “I left you a note in your office. You should really pay more attention to these things.”

Donald just watched this conversation with a frown. He wanted to assume that Aunt Goldie was lying about leaving a note, but he also knew that Uncle Scrooge definitely didn’t check and just assumed the worst when they couldn’t find Gladstone all day. He’d been screaming about how Daphne was going to kill him for losing her son, but it seems he didn’t lose anyone at all.

Scrooge sputtered angrily at Goldie, holding Gladstone against his legs and trying to find his words. “You-! You...you kidnapped him!”

“I did no such thing, you old miser. He wanted to come along,” Goldie said, glaring angrily. She turned towards her cabby and said something that the boys couldn’t hear, then the car started to drive away.

Scrooge glared right back until Gladstone, a few moments later, shook himself out of Scrooge’s grip and ran towards the car. “Wait! But-! What about my profits?!” he shouted as it turned onto the next street over.

Gladstone sighed, realizing his luck wasn’t gonna bring his money back to him. Though he guessed he still had a really fun time and he didn’t exactly need the money, so maybe that was enough. He looked up to see Uncle Scrooge staring down at him. “What’s up?”

“Should I be concerned about this?” Scrooge asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Gladstone shrugged. “Should I be concerned that a stranger came into your house and took me on a trip across the globe without you knowing about it?”

That one shut Scrooge up, and he huffed before turning around and heading back to the manor. Gladstone looked over at Donald who just seemed to be confused.

“What’s wrong, Donald-o?”

He frowned and shrugged. “I’m just surprised that Aunt Goldie took you on a trip, is all. She’s never taken me or Della anywhere.”

Gladstone slapped Donald on the back a little harder than he meant to, making the slightly younger duck quack. “Eh, I wouldn’t think too hard about it. Ladies can’t resist my charm, after all!”

Donald rolled his eyes. “You know she’s Uncle Scrooge’s girlfriend, right?”

“Huh?” Gladstone put a hand to his chin and thought about some things Goldie had said to him over the past twenty-four hours. He nodded slowly. “You know what? That makes a lot of sense. Yup, yup. That explains everything.”

“So happy for you,” Donald mumbled and started the long walk back to the manor.

Gladstone quickly caught up to him and smiled brightly. In fact, he just wouldn’t stop smiling at his cousin. He was smiling so much that it was making Donald even more irritated than he’d already been.

“What?”

“Don’t you wanna know about my trip?”

#ducktales #goldie o'gilt #gladstone gander #donald duck #scrooge mcduck #not your aunt #fic #fics

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psychovigilantewrites · 5 years ago

Text

Don’t Call Me That (pt. 1)

Pairing: Jason Todd/Reader

Genre: Aftermath of torture, healing, and sex in later chapter hehe

Word count: 9000

Summary: The new Robin and Batman stumble upon a cell in Arkham Asylum that was occupied by a very much injured, and very much still alive Jason Todd. Bringing him back, Bruce realises that Jason is unstable and keeps him locked in a room in the mean time. Reader helps Jason get used to being around another human being once more, and finds herself falling deeply with the damaged Jason.

A/N: This was meant to be a one-shot, but I realised that it's a bit too long, so I'm splitting it into two chapters. Here's whatever I wrote so far. Psst, the sex will come later! I think this has got to be the most favourite one-shot I’ve written so far!! I’m addicted to this story, and I hope you guys will like it too! Let me know!

Masterlist

Kofi

Ao3

The light was getting dimmer and dimmer the further you strayed from the main building. The walls cracked, wallpaper peeling back to reveal brick and concrete. The air was getting thin, and the smell.

Rat piss, sewage, and that suffocating damp humid smell that reminded you of dirty laundry- except it filled the whole Old Wing of Arkham Asylum.

“Do youreally think the security breach was sourced from here, Batman?” you voiced out your doubts.

He was walking next to you, his steps hardly making a sound. “We need to make sure. Half of the East Wing’s cells were suddenly opened automatically. There is a main powerframe in the Old Wing that someone could have damaged.”

“Someone, as in..?”

“Not sure. Joker has been in his cell for the past 19 months since he broke out two years ago.”

You ignored the way his voice cracked at the end.

Two years ago, before you were involved with Bruce Wayne and his fight for justice, Joker had broken free, got hold of Jason Todd, your predecessor whom you had never met, kidnapped him, tortured him, and then killed him. After sending a video tape of his Todd’s death to Bruce, he went and created a drug that made people go crazy and kill each other. Bruce caught him then, broke half the bones in his body, and then threw him back in the asylum.

“Why did they stop using this wing?” you asked, your voice echoing back to you.

The two of you were walking down a corridor, with cells on either side. Each cell had a metal door with a rectangular slot at the top of the door to peek inside and another longer slot in the middle for passing inmates food. Some of the doors were opened ajar, nothing inside but old beds and overflowing toilet bowls, some were locked shut.

Your heart was racing. It was like you were in a horror movie. You stepped over the empty gas canisters and toilet paper that was strewn all over the floor of the corridor, walking around a rusty old wheelchair and made sure to follow Batman closely.

“Abandoned when a riot broke out five years ago,” he answered, “Something about hauntings.”

“Hauntings?” you widen your eyes.

“These are superstitious folk,” he explained, “The riot took a dozen lives. Violently. Some nurses got tortured. Rumour has it that this wing is haunted.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you declared, though you felt chills run down your spine anyway.

“Indeed. Some of the security guards say they’ve heard screams coming from here. None dared to approach.”

“Screams? Please, I’m sure it’s just the-”

A crash came from one of the cells. You jumped so violently in shock that you tripped over a catheter on the ground. You and Batman looked at each other for one second, and then he raised his finger to his lips, making sure you kept quiet.

Nodding, you followed behind him as he investigated the cell the sound came from. He slid open the viewing window of the door, and despite the darkness you saw his expression twist to one you’ve never seen before.

Horror.

He took out a small explosive from his belt and attached it to the door. A small boom, and the door swung open. Batman rushed inside, and you were hit with the worst smell you’ve ever experienced. It made you gag, your eyes tearing up.

It smelled of blood and human feces and urine, and something that was decomposing, like the big trash bins lined up behind one of those dank alleys, overflowing with a week’s worth of disposal.

The cell was bigger than the others, and it didn’t have a bed. Only a toilet and a wooden chair that was toppled. Batman was next to the chair, kneeling on the ground over something, unmoving, as if frozen in spot, his back turned to you.

“B?” you whispered, “What is this place?”

There were scratches on the walls, some in blood. Little bones were tossed in a corner, lying in what looked- and smelled- like dry vomit.

You walked over to him, slowly approaching with caution. As you got nearer, your vision became clearer.

He was kneeling over an unconscious man wearing your Robin uniform.

Now, it was your turn to be horrified.

The uniform was tattered, cape dirty and stained with bodily fluids. The man?

Scars and dried blood littered his face and arms, his dark hair matted and sticky. He was obviously large, his frame almost as big as Bruce’s, yet you could see that he was malnourished, his cheeks slightly hollowed, his skin hanging loosely over the remains of his muscles.

And he was still breathing.

***

Alfred, Bruce, and you stared in silence at the man on the bed, now clean and hooked to an IV. None of you had said a word since you got back. Alfred was rigid the whole time he cleaned and examined him, with Bruce shadowing him closeby. You could do nothing but stand back, waiting for an explanation.

Now you were in the infirmary, the steady beat of vital signs machinery annoyed you.

“How is he alive?” Alfred broke the tension with a small whisper.

“There were small animal bones in his cell,” Bruce said with a strained voice. You knew he was doing his all to keep it together.

“Goodness,” Alfred responded, “But- the video-”

“Must have been a fake,” Bruce said, his voice now cracking, “I should have known. I should have- I- oh, God.”

Without warning, Bruce crumpled to his feet. You have never seen him like this. He was always strong, stoic, and he never let his emotions show.

The sight of him burying his face in his hands in anguish- it scared you.

“It’s not your fault, Master Bruce,” Alfred put a hand on his shoulder, “You couldn’t have-”

A grunt came from Jason Todd as he stirred awake. All three of you snapped your heads to him. You saw the way he opened his eyes, blinking at his surroundings as he tried to register where he was. Bruce rushed to his side.

That was his mistake.

Jason Todd started screaming.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” he roared, sitting up and crawling out of bed, ripping the IV from his hand.

“Jason-”

“NO!” he yelled, “YOU’RE NOT REAL. STAY AWAY!”

His voice was deep and hoarse, like someone who had been screaming his whole life.

“Jason, it’s me,” Bruce tried to slowly approach him. He was on his feet now, though he stumbled getting there. His expression was wild, his mouth downturned into a scowl, his eyes darting from Bruce, to Alfred, to you, to the bed, to the whole room, like a wild animal cornered.

“This is real?” he growled a question.

“Yes, son,” Bruce assured, “This is real. We found you. Please, lie back down. You’re hurt.”

“You’re… real?” his voice broke halfway.

“Yes, I’m real,” Bruce’s voice was the same.

Then, Jason let out a laugh. A loud, haunting, hysterical laugh that was absent of humor.

“Good.”

He jumped at Bruce and tackled him to the ground, his fingers around Bruce’s neck. You reacted quickly, rushing over and kneeing him in the face so that he let go of your Bruce and stumbled backwards. He recovered quickly and set his eyes on you.

He proceeded to attack you, but before anything, Bruce had him restrained, wrestling him to the ground.

“Jason! Calm down!”

“NO!” he shouted, “NO! NO! IT’S YOUR FAULT. IT’S YOUR FUCKING FAULT. DIE! DIE!”

He trashed about with surprising power, trying to get Bruce off him. Bruce got his arm around Jason’s neck, and you saw him clawing at his arm, attempting to break free. The younger man’s movements got slower, weaker, as Bruce cut his oxygen supply and eventually knocked him out.

Bruce carried his son to the bed.

“Alfred, please sedate him,” he instructed. “We’ll move him to the cell downstairs. He’s too unstable to be here.”

“Are you okay?” you reached out to your adoptive father.

“Yes,” he nodded, “He’s surprisingly strong.”

“He’s a survivor, Bruce,” you smiled at an attempt to comfort him, “I can’t imagine what he’s been through, but he’ll get through this.”

“I hope so.”

***

The cell Bruce had in the Batcave was less like a cell, and more like a room. It was a large square box with four walls and a roof on one side of the Cave, with high end security. It had double doors, each requiring a registered thumbprint to enter. Bruce had built it in case he needed to hold someone hostage there. The outer layer was made out of lead, and you wondered what had gone through Bruce’s mind when he added that feature. The cell even had a small bathroom with a shower, toilet, and a sink.

This time, though, he made sure the room with white interiors looked more comfortable for Jason. He put in a double single bed with fluffy sheets and pillows, a whole bookshelf full of classic literature, a cupboard, a desk and chair complete with a table lamp.

Jason was still sedated when all of you moved him to the cell. He had been sedated for a while so he wouldn’t wake up and rip off his IV. You helped lift him up, and found that he was heavy, heavier than you had expected him to be.

Then, Bruce went to the Batcomputer and switched on the security camera inside the cell and watched as he slowly regained consciousness and went all ballistic again. He toppled over the shelf, the chair, the desk. Threw the books around, ripped out the pages, punched the walls, and was screaming.

“Let me go!” “Fuck you!” “I’m going to fucking kill you!” were some amongst the many extremities he shouted at the camera.

And you watched as Bruce stared into the screen showing his broken, damaged son.

***

“He’s quiet,” you pointed out when you walked over to Bruce at the computers. It had been a week of watching Jason scream and thrash about in the room- which was a complete mess.

“Yes, he has been that way for a few hours now,” Bruce frowned.

You saw from the screen. Jason was just sitting down in one corner of the room, staring into space.

“Well, at least he didn’t throw the food down the toilet bowl this time,” you shrugged and sat down next to him. Alfred would bring a tray of warm soft foods and set it on the tray of the rectangular food delivery hole of the second, internal door.

Out of spite, Jason would take the food and throw it down the toilet before returning it empty. This time, you saw that it just sat there on the tray, untouched.

“I was thinking,” Bruce mentioned, “Of bringing in Dr. Leslie or Dinah. He is familiar with both of them. They could help with putting him on medication and giving him psychotherapy.”

“Yeah, for some reason,” you began, “I don’t think he’ll take that so well.”

“I… don’t know what to do.”

You stayed silent for a few moments. The past week, you saw Bruce in a light you had never seen before. Emotional, vulnerable, helpless. You appreciated that he trusted you enough to reveal that side of himself in front of you.

“Let him calm down a bit,” you suggested, “And maybe… Maybe I can help.”

“How?” he frowned.

“If you bring in Leslie or Dinah, he’ll know in an instant what you’re up to,” you explained. “And maybe it’s too soon for therapy. I think right now he just needs to get used to being around another human being.”

“Hmm,” Bruce considered, “Okay. We’ll go with your idea. How will you do it?”

Your heart swelled with joy. You loved it when he acknowledged you.

You waited a couple of days before trying it out. The whole while, Jason was just sitting down in his corner, silent and unmoving.

Nervously, you approached the first door on the external side of the box, pressing your thumb to the digital square on the wall and hearing it beep in approval. You opened the door and closed it behind you before approaching the second door.

You took a deep breath, felt for the taser on your belt, and then pressed your thumb on the second door.

The first thing you saw when you opened the door was Jason scrambling to his feet in surprise, his eyes vigilant. You lift both your hands up in surrender.

“Not here to hurt you,” you said slowly, “Just here to chill.”

He narrowed his eyes at you in suspicion.

To prove it to him, you sat down on the floor by the door, and took out your book. Heart beating in your chest, you tried to calmly open the book and stared intensely at the words, not reading anything.

In your peripheral vision, he just stood there, stiff and still like a statue, staring at you, analysing you. You had expected him to attack, but ten minutes passed, and he was still there.

Then-

“What do you want?” he croaked, voice harsh and gritty.

“Nothing,” you shrugged, eyes not leaving your book, “Just chilling.”

A momentary pause.

“Leave.��

“No,” you simply said, turning a page.

“Why are you here? Did he send you?” he demanded.

“No. I just want to read in silence, if you don’t mind,” you rolled your eyes.

You wished you could see his expression.

Another five minutes passed, and he didn’t say anything else, or do anything else, but stare at you in caution.

After an hour, you got up and left, leaving a very confused Jason Todd in his cell.

***

You continued that routine for the next three days without exchanging a word with Jason. He would just stand there and glare at you for an hour while you pretended to read. On the fourth day, however, there were more than just a few words exchanged.

“You again,” he growled at you as you entered.

“Hello,” you smiled warmly.

“What do you want from me?” he barked.

“Nothing,” you repeated, “I just want to-”

“Chill?” he cut you off, “I don’t fucking believe you. I don’t trust you. What is he planning? Is he trying to mock me?”

“Mock you?” you responded, taken aback, “Why would he do that?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jason grit, “He’s done worse. He just wants to see me suffer.”

“What?” you frowned, “No. He just wants to help you.”

“Well, he’s too late for that,” he spat.

“Look-”

“Get the fuck out. Don’t come back.”

“He thought you died,” you tried to explain, “Jok- He got sent a video. Of you getting shot. Dying. He didn’t know.”

“I don’t care,” he fumed.

“He loves you, Jason,” you said softly.

Then, a light flickered in his eye. “What did you call me?”

“Uh, Jas-”

You choked on your words when Jason suddenly had his hands around your neck, squeezing the air from your lungs. You didn’t have time to react, scratching away at his arm helplessly.

“Don’t call me that,” he growled.

You were going to reach for your taser, but then he let you go and went back to his corner. You sucked in a deep breath, eyes watering.

You ran out-

-and closed the door behind you to lean against it, trying to get your breath back.

“Are you okay?” Bruce worried, approaching you fast, “I’m sorry. I should have waited out here instead of at the computers.”

“I’m fine,” you panted, “He didn’t hurt me. Just scared me a bit, that’s all.”

“This was a bad idea,” he frowned, “We should stop-”

“No!” you hurriedly denied, “No. It was my fault. I didn’t know. I said his name. He didn’t like it and reacted to it, that’s all. I won’t say his name next time.”

“No, it’s too dangerous.”

“Bruce, please,” you insisted, “I want to help him. Please, let me continue.”

You looked at your father’s blue eyes, full of concern. “Okay.”

***

Despite the scare he gave you, you were ready to enter again the next day. There was something about Jason Todd that made you feel like you owed it to him to help. Maybe it was plain pity, or maybe it was the way that his eyes had a flicker of hope when he realised he wasn’t imagining things.

The digital screen beeped in approval as it registered your thumbprint, and you pushed open the door. Jason was already standing, muscles taut, ready to spring at the first sense of danger.

You didn’t say a word, but just smiled at him and sat down where you usually did, pushing over the fallen books and torn paper on the floor to create a little space for yourself.

Trying your best not to look nervous, you opened your book and stared at the words again.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he grit.

“Yeah, well. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want to get rid of me, my dude.”

“I’m not your dude,” he said in disgust.

You looked over to him and smirked. “Whatever you say.”

And you continued to pretend to read.

After several minutes, you heard a heavy sigh coming from Jason. Out of the corners of your eye, you saw him give up and slump back onto the ground, his knees up to his chest. He leaned his head back against the wardrobe and closed his eyes.

And for the first time in his presence, you found that you were actually reading.

***

You continued for a month. Entering and sitting down for a couple of hours to read before going back out. Sometimes with few exchanges of “Good morning” or “Miss me?”, mostly going unresponded. Sometimes he would sit down and glare at you, or stand up and glare at you, or sit down and rest his head and close his eyes. Always from a distance.

The first time you started picking up the books and rearranging them back onto the bookshelf, he looked like he was about to burst a vein in his temple.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he growled.

“I’m cleaning up,” you replied nonchalantly.

“Don’t.”

“What are you gonna do, choke me again?” you rolled your eyes.

You could almost hear him seething in his corner, vibrating in anger.

The next day you came back, the books were back on the floor, strewn everywhere.

But every time before you left, you would still rearrange them back.

Sometimes you would bring in food with you, simply leaving the tray on the desk. He did eat a little, but never when you were around, and never more than a few bites. He ate only to survive. In fact, the more you went to see him, the more you started to notice the little things.

His bed was unmade, the sheets pulled back and covers thrown about. But you knew he had never once slept in it. He never changed his clothes either. It had started to bother you, because he never showered, and his body odour was getting quite distinct.

His eyes were sunken and dark, his hair was greasy and messy, his facial hair overgrown. You wondered if Bruce left a razor in there for him. It was probably a bad idea.

One day while you were sitting down and reading, Jason was in his corner, curled up and eyes closed, Alfred entered the first door and slid in a tray of food from the compartment of the second door. You got up to take it, feeling Jason’s eyes on you as you walked. But instead of setting the tray on the desk like you usually did, you put it on the ground next to you as you sat and read again.

That day, the menu was pumpkin soup with toast. Alfred had always kept the food light and easy to digest. You picked up a piece of toast from the plate, dipped it in the soup, and ate it while reading.

“Are you eating my fucking food?” Jason fumed from the distance.

“Someone should,” you bit back, dipping the toast back in the soup and continued to eat.

“Stop it.”

You looked over at him with challenging eyes. “Why should I?”

“It’s my food,” he insisted.

Jason hardly ever talked to you. In fact, that was the most words you’ve heard him say in a couple of weeks. He was possessive over his food, apparently, which didn’t make sense because he hardly ever ate.

“But it’s not like you eat it,” you argued, curious as to where this would take you, “I’m making sure it doesn’t go to waste.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, and then shifted slightly closer, leaning in towards you. “Give it to me.”

You pretended to consider it for awhile. “No.”

He growled.

“Come and take it if you want it so badly,” you challenged.

Immediately, you regretted it. Because he got up, and walked slowly towards you, looming over you like a predator watching its prey. Your heart started to beat faster in your chest, your palms started beading with sweat.

He then crouched down and snatched the piece of toast from your hands, taking the tray away and walked back towards his spot on the floor. Setting the tray down, he immediately started to ravish the soup and toast, his eyes never leaving yours the whole time.

It was the most he’d eaten ever since he arrived.

“You shouldn’t eat too fast,” you warned, “Your stomach’s not used to that amount of food yet.”

“Watch me.”

He cleaned the bowl in three minutes as you stared in shock.

***

“Who are you?” Jason asked out of the blue.

It was your sixth week there. Six weeks of sitting down in silence and hardly ever talking. Occasionally cleaning up after him, just to see the room messy again. Occasionally trying to spark up conversation, only to be greeted by silence. But that time, it was him who started it first.

You told him your name, still pleasantly surprised at his engagement.

“I don’t give a fuck what you’re called,” he spat, “It doesn’t explain to me who you are.”

Frowning, you closed the book. You wondered if it was a good idea to tell him that you were Bruce’s newly adopted daughter. Would he feel betrayed? Jealous? But if you didn’t and he found out, wouldn’t that be worse? Plus, you didn’t want to lie to him.

After all, you were trying to help.

“Bruce adopted me a year ago,” you explained, “I’m officially his adopted daughter. I’ve only recently been Robin. When we found you, it was just my second month.”

Anger flashed in his eyes, his jaw clenched. “Typical. Lose one toy, find another one to play with.”

“I’m not a toy,” you defended heatedly, “He… saved me. I owe him.”

He didn’t ask, but you knew he wanted to, so you continued anyway. “He found me at a bid. A human trafficking bid. After my parents died, I ran away from the orphanage. I got kidnapped. After finding out I was a virgin, they organised an event to see who would bid the highest to own me.”

It seemed like Jason’s expression didn’t change, his mouth still in a scowl. But you saw the way his eyes softened. It was a good idea to explain, after all. He must have drawn conclusions that Bruce had replaced him with you shortly after his death.

“Batman crashed the party right before I was about to get sold off for… Five thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars,” you scoffed, “I guess that was how much I was worth. Could you even buy a car with that? I’m not sure. Maybe a used one.”

“Anyway, I was quite shaken up. He took pity on me, I guess. Maybe it was my puppy dog eyes that made me look so pathetic that he decided to take me in. Mom always said I had a pathetic look,” you shrugged, “That’s who I am I guess. Now I’m in my last year of highschool. I turn seventeen in two months! I'm only a year or so younger than you. You don’t have to get me anything, of course. It’s cool. I never really cared much for birthdays anyway.”

You tried to lighten the mood, but all you saw was Jason’s unchanging expression. You guessed that was as much as he was willing to say that day, so you got up and started cleaning again despite knowing he was going to just mess it up.

***

He did mess it up again, but what shocked you that day was not the mess, but the fact that he was actually on the bed. The bed was still unmade, and he was sitting unnaturally upright, but still. It was progress.

You sat down on the floor and read your book. After five minutes, he asked, “What’s the book about?”

Trying your hardest not to look surprised in case he took it the wrong way, you answered, “A brief history of mankind. From evolution, to the agricultural revolution, to the current day.”

He just blinked at you in response, and you wondered when was the day that he had stopped glaring at you.

You tried to break the ice. “Bruce put all the books he thought you might like on the shelf. I’ve noticed that they’re mostly classic literary novels. You like those, huh?”

Not a word.

“I never really could get into those. I tried, but it’s not my thing, you know? Or maybe I started with the wrong book.”

He closed his eyes instead of answering you.

Sighing, you decided not to push it, and went back to your book.

About fifteen minutes passed. And then-

“You like science and shit?” he spoke up, his eyes boring into yours.

“Uh, yeah,” you said, taken aback by the sudden question.

“Start with Jules Verne. Twenty thousand leagues,” he told you, then closed his eyes again.

“Thank you,” you smiled.

Silence.

***

“Why do you sit there?” Jason asked you two days later.

“Huh?”

“Why do you sit on the floor when there's a desk?” he repeated in annoyance, like an underpaid customer service worker at the mall.

“Well, I didn't want to intrude on your space,” you told him.

“You being here already intrudes my space,” he rolled his eyes.

Jason was more relaxed now. He was actually leaning against a propped pillow on the bed, one knee brought to his chest, the other leg crossed over it.

And he was reading a fucking book.

“...so you can sit anywhere you like. Doesn't make a difference,” he continued.

“Then can I sit on the bed next to you?” you teased lightly.

You had expected him to glare at you in contempt, to tell you to fuck off or get out, or even not respond to you at all. So you were very much surprised when he said what he did.

“Whatever,” he mumbled.

Despite trying your best to act neutral, your jaw dropped. You quickly recovered, and cleared your throat nervously, standing up and slowly walking towards him. Jason shuffled a bit, going upwards against the wall at the head of the bed.

You slowly sat down at the foot of it, still maintaining some distance from him for his sake. Bringing your bare feet up, you crossed them and leaned against the wall the bed was pushed against.

Getting comfortable, you opened your book and started reading. For two hours, you and Jason Todd sat on the bed next to each other, reading with no other sounds except the occasional rustling of a page being turned.

You closed your book once you were done, but before you could get up, he asked in a small voice. “How long was I… There?”

The way his voice was shaky, the way it came out in a harsh whisper, and the fact that it had taken him seven weeks to ask- it tugged at your heart.

“Two years,” you said objectively, making sure no emotions leaked into your voice.

“And he thought I was dead the whole time?” he grumbled.

“Yes.”

“That's why he never came?” he choked out.

Fuck, you tried not to let your tears fall.

“Yes,” you whispered back.

“World's greatest detective, my ass,” he snorted.

“He's killing himself over this,” you told him softly, “I’ve never seen him like that before.”

“Like what?” he demanded, looking at you with anger, with red eyes pooling with tears.

“Vulnerable. Clueless. Breaking down and crying next to you while you slept,” you elaborated. “You may not forgive him for now, and that's understandable. But Bruce? He’ll never forgive himself. Not in a million years.”

“Please leave.”

You didn't argue. You didn't hang around to clean up. You left immediately, because of the way he said his please, like someone who was tired, so tired. It was the way he told you to leave, it wasn't out of anger or spite. It was out of desperation. Because he was looking away when he told you, refusing to let you see the tear that fell on his face that you saw anyway.

***

“What are you looking at?” he grunted. “Close your mouth. You look like an idiot.”

You snapped your mouth close, not even aware that it was ajar.

The room was exceptionally clean- cleaner than when you cleaned it yourself. Jason had properly made the bed, fitted the sheets and folded the covers. The torn pages of paper were gone, and on his shelf were all his books, neatly arranged.

In alphabetical order.

Yet, Jason was still smelly, and he still hadn’t changed his clothes despite the wardrobe full of fresh t-shirts and pants.

“You clean up better than I do,” you grumbled, sitting at the foot of his bed carefully.

“That’s because you’re useless,” he snapped.

You tried not to smile despite his insult. The bickering was fun, and it showed that he was more familiar with you now.

Trying to push it a little further, you narrowed your eyes at him and started sniffing the air loudly.

“You smell,” you told him.

“If you don’t like it, leave,” he bit back.

“There’s hot water in the shower you know,” you reminded him, “You could go shower. I’ll wait right outside.”

“What for?” he eyed you suspiciously.

“For moral support!” you grinned, holding two thumbs up.

And whaddaya know?

He snorted a laugh, and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” you whined, “You really stink. You’d give Killer Croc a run for his money with that stench.”

“If you don’t like it,” he leaned closer towards you, “Leave.”

“Ugh,” you grunted. And then, you had an idea. Probably a bad idea. He would probably murder you.

You stood up and announced, “I’ll be right back.”

After ten minutes of running around the mansion looking for items, you finally came back with a bucket, a sponge, and a fluffy towel.

“What the hell are you up to?” Jason demanded, sitting upright.

“If you won’t go to the shower, then I’ll bring the shower to you,” you grinned triumphantly and went to fill the bucket with warm water from the shower. You set down the filled bucket on the floor and motioned to Jason.

“Well, get on the floor.”

“What?”

“I’m going to give you a bath, and if you stay on the bed, it’s going to get all wet,” you explained, “So get on the floor and take off your shirt.”

He stared at you with bewilderment in his eyes, and then suddenly let out a bark of laughter. “Why on Earth would I listen to you?”

“Because if you don’t, I’m going to splash all this water on you, and you’re going to have to sleep in a wet bed,” you threatened.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he bickered.

“Fine, I’ll bargain with you,” you said, “If you listen to me, I’ll tell him to turn that off.”

You pointed to the single security camera at the top corner of the room, always switched on, watching and recording.

He clenched his jaw, contemplating your tempting offer.

“Fine,” he conceded, and slid to the floor, taking off his shirt.

You smirked.

“If you wanted to see me shirtless, you could have just asked,” he smirked back.

You really didn’t expect him to mess with you like that, and in result, you felt your cheeks heat up.

“N-no,” you denied, “I- you just stink.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Rolling your eyes, you kneeled in front of him, bringing the bucket of water closer. You took the sponge and soaked it, but before you pressed it on his skin, you just realised the situation you put yourself in.

That close to Jason, with him looking up at you and waiting, you gulped. Because his body wasn’t as bad as you thought two years of starvation would have caused. Sure, he was definitely skinnier than he should ever be, and his muscles were barely there, but his overall frame, the structure of his body was still large.

You finally pressed the sponge against his rising and falling chest, not meeting his eyes. The warm water spilled from the sponge and trickled down his chest, onto his stomach. You moved your hand in a wiping motion, cleaning the sweat off the surface of his skin.

Scars littered his body, healed cuts of various sizes. Some were burns, some were bullet wounds, and some were the crescent shapes of bites.

You moved the sponge to his arms, wiping down the contour of the remaining biceps he had left, going under to wash his pits, then going down to his forearms, which you noticed had long rough scars running down from his wrists to the crook of his elbows.

Your chest tightened.

Despite the hell he went through, you still thought he was beautiful.

You felt your breathing start to quicken.

Moving to his stomach next, you noticed that the water had seeped into the fabric of his grey sweatpants, making it turn dark, making it stick to his skin, stick to the long cylindrical shape of his-

“Your pupils are dilated,” he pointed out.

Your eyes snapped back to his.

“Wh-what- I wasn’t- they’re not!” you sputtered angrily.

He looked at you with an odd expression. Well, any expression that wasn’t a hateful glare was odd, you supposed. But his eyelids were droopy, the corners of his mouth relaxed and not tight.

It looked like he was actually enjoying it.

“You don’t find me disgusting?” he whispered.

You frowned at him in question, bringing the sponge up to wash his neck. “Well, you smell a bit gross. But by the time I’m done with you, that’ll be gone.”

“No. I meant by me. My body. My face. You don’t think I’m disgusting?” he said in a voice so small, you could barely make out the words.

His body made you think things, but none of them were disgusting. In fact, if he looked like that now, you wondered how his body must have looked like before, when he was healthy. You glanced at his face.

He had scars there too. One at the corner of his upper lip that made him seem like he was permanently smirking, one across the bridge of his nose, another long one that cut from his temple down to his brow, barely missing his eye. And you didn’t even count the smaller ones, silver little lines that were scattered all over his skin.

His cold blue eyes had scars in them as well. Not physically, not literally. But when you stared deep into them, you could almost see how truly scarred he was, and that scar had nothing on the ones you could actually see.

“There is no way that I could ever find you disgusting,” you told him earnestly.

He stared at you for a while, and then looked away to the side. You soaked the sponge and wiped his face, pressing it to his cheek. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he allowed you to travel up to his hair, wetting it, going behind his ears, and back to his nape.

With a plunk, you dumped the sponge in the water and then opened the cap of the soap you had brought.

In an instant, Jason recoiled from you, “No. No soap.”

“Just a little bit?” you pressed.

“No soap,” he insisted, pushing your hand away, “It smells too strong. Makes me sick.”

And suddenly, it clicked.

The reason why he left his room in a mess, the reason why he didn’t sleep on the bed, the reason why he never showered or changed.

Because it was all too much.

The sudden change from a disgusting, smelly, rat-infested torture room to a clean, proper, neat environment with a warm bed. It was too much for him, and he wasn’t used to it yet.

He wasn’t used to being clean.

And the smell of a perfumed body wash would most definitely be too much for him.

“Okay,” you nodded, setting the soap down. “Then I’ll wash you up one more time, is that okay?”

He nodded, still not looking at you.

You were back at his face again for the second time, and then you cupped his cheek, using your thumb to feel the roughness of his overgrown facial hair.

“Do you want me to help shave you?” you asked.

“No way in hell would I ever let you come near my fucking face with a razor,” he scoffed.

“Fair enough,” you mumbled back a reply.

Once you were done, you took the towel and wiped him dry, trying your best to avoid looking at his crotch because you knew his pants were absolutely soaked through. You got up and went to the wardrobe to take a fresh pair of pants- a black sweatpants this time- and a white t-shirt. You set them on the bed, and took the bucket to the bathroom to throw away the contents.

Once you were done, Jason was already changed into his new pants, and had just finished putting on his t-shirt. He looked much better, fresher, and-

“You smell way better now,” you chuckled.

“I did what you asked,” he said, “You better make that happen.”

He gestured to the camera with his thumb.

“I will. Promise,” you smiled, picking up his stinky shirt and wet pants before heading out.

***

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bruce grumbled.

“He’s not an experiment, or a criminal, Bruce,” you argued, “There’s no reason for you to keep surveillance on him that way. He deserves his privacy.”

“It’s about safety. His and yours,” he explained, “I wouldn’t know what’s going on in there while you’re inside if the camera is deactivated. I wouldn’t know if he’s- if he’s hurting himself.”

“I trust him, Bruce,” you insisted, “And he trusts me too! Look at what happened! He let me give him a freaking sponge bath!”

Bruce frowned in contemplation.

“He’s finishing his meals, he’s reading, he’s actually having conversations with me,” you listed, “He’s improving. Fast. Next thing you know, he and I could be best friends.”

“Fine,” he sighed, “But next time you go in, you’re bringing a panic button with you.”

The panic button you kept whenever you went for patrol was so that you could trigger a silent alarm to Bruce if you were in trouble.

“Okay, that’s fair!” you nodded your head excitedly, watching him as he pressed a button on the keyboard, switching off the camera in Jason’s room. The last thing you saw on the screen was Jason lying down on the bed, sleeping soundly.

***

“Okay, so,” you announced, standing up while you opened the plastic bag, “I got you a few things.”

Jason was on the bed, but proceeded to get up on his feet and tower over you. For some reason, he had started sitting or standing closer to you.

“I got you unscented shampoo and body wash,” you looked into the bag, naming the items you got, “Unscented shaving cream, and an electric shaver! You can’t hurt yourself with this, so Bruce agreed to-”

You looked up and gasped slightly at the closeness of his face to yours. You didn’t realise that he had stepped over so close to you that you could almost feel his warm breath on your face. Almost.

He took the plastic bag from your hands, his skin brushing against yours, and for a brief moment, it gave you goosebumps. He turned around with the plastic bag now in his hands, leaving you in shock.

That is, until he started taking off his shirt.

“W-woah!” you called out, “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my clothes,” he simply said, now not wearing a shirt.

“Why?”

“Because I want to shower,” he looked over his shoulder to give you a smirk. “Why? Wanna join?”

“Wh-wh-j-join?” you stuttered, “Uh, no thanks. I’ll just. Leave you to it, then.��

You turned to leave. Then-

“Wait.”

You stopped in your tracks, turning back around to look at him, trying your best to maintain eye contact.

“Is that… diner in Gotham Village still around?” he asked quietly.

“The corner one on Vincent Street? Sure, it is,” you tilted your head in curiosity, “Would you… like anything from there?”

“The burger,” he said gruffly.

Your mouth widen into a smile. It was the first time he ever asked for anything, more so food. “Fries?”

“Sure.”

“Milkshake?”

“Yeah.”

“Chocolate?”

“Strawberry!” he looked at you as if you were crazy, and then disappeared into the toilet.

“I’ll be back in an hour!” you announced, skipping out in joy.

Vibrating with excitement, you opened the door to Jason’s room, not expecting to see a totally different man in his bed.

No, it was still Jason, but fuck.

Fuck.

He cleaned up well.

Finally showering after eight weeks, Jason Todd had transformed into an almost different person. His uncut hair that poked his eyes was no longer greasy. In fact, it had a slight bounce to it now.

He changed his shirt into a light blue V-neck, and most significantly of all, he shaved

Now you could see the way his angular jawline was cut into a shape as if some Greek artist sculpted it, the way his pink lips stood out against his milky skin - lack of tan from being kept indoors for so long, the way his cheekbones highlighted his facial structure.

And as if you didn’t think of it before, you thought about it again.

Jason Todd was a freaking hottie.

“Uhh, uhmm, uhhh,” you said, stunned and fully aware of the way your face was probably flushing.

He let out a chuckle, and walked towards you, reaching out to take the bags of food from your hand. All the while you were stunned in silence, unsure of how to react to the changed man.

“Anyone home?” he snapped his fingers in front of you.

“Uh, yes, sorry,” you shook your head, “I, uh, didn’t expect it, that’s all.”

“Expect what?” he set the bags on his desk, reaching in to take a fry. “Me to look so good?”

You were sure your ears were burning. “N-no! Not at all. Not that you don’t look good, but- uh- I mean- fuck!”

“I don’t understand you,” he took out the food and arranged them on the table. “My scars are more obvious like this.”

“I think your scars are sexy,” you blurted out.

He blinked.

“Uh, I mean!” you tried to backtrack, “Ugh, fuck it, let’s just eat!”

You took your own burger and went to sit on the bed.

“No food on the bed!” he barked.

“Okay, dad,” you rolled your eyes, settling with sitting on the floor.

To your surprise, Jason took all the food and put it on the floor in front of you, and then sat down opposite you.

Discreetly, you watched as he took the first bite.

He closed his eyes, chewing slowly, savouring the taste in his mouth. It was as though he was passionately making out with his burger, caressing the bun with love.

Smiling to yourself, you ate yours in silence, letting him appreciate the intimate moment he had with his food that he must have thought about while being forced to live on rats.

***

“What’s that?” Bruce asked curiously.

Ever since he switched off the camera in Jason’s room, he had been more agitated- or as agitated as he could get. He kept on asking you what you did, having you report back to him, demanding every little detail on his son’s wellbeing.

“My laptop,” you answered, “I was thinking we could do something different today. Maybe watch a movie. He’s missed out on so many.”

“A laptop,” Bruce hummed, “Do you think he would like one? To occupy his time? Or a television? Or a phone? Or- a tablet? Or-”

“Woah there, cowboy,” you chuckled. Bruce seemed desperate to provide Jason with anything he wanted. Maybe as a way to push the guilt away, maybe as a way to reconcile.

Or maybe he was just being a father who wanted to spoil his son.

Whatever the reason was, you thought it was extremely sweet.

“He’s only now just getting used to being in a clean environment,” you explained, “All of that may overstimulate him, and I don’t want him to revert back to how he was.”

“I see.”

“But I’ll ask, okay?” you said, heading to the room. “We’ll see how he handles a movie.”

You opened the door to see Jason sitting on his bed with his legs spread in front of him, reading a book.

“Hello,” you greeted.

“What’s that,” he narrowed his eyes at you.

“My laptop!” you told him excitedly, “I thought maybe we could watch a movie today.”

“Movie?” he frowned, crossing his legs to make space for you on the bed.

“Yeah,” you sat down in front of him, “I’ve got a whole terabyte of illegally downloaded movies and shows. We can choose one together and watch, if you’d like?”

He contemplated for a while, eyebrows drawn together while you opened your laptop. “Fine.”

“Yay!” you cheered, “Okay, so what do you like to watch? Action? Drama? Thriller? Comedy? Or… Romance?”

“Put on your favourite movie,” he stated.

“What? Nah, you can choose something you’d like to watch,” you declined, “I’m cool with anything.”

“I want to watch your favourite movie,” he deadpanned.

You purse your lips. “Okay, sure. Scoot over.”

He propped two pillows up against the headboard of his bed and moved to the side so you can squeeze in between him and the wall. At first, you were not used to being in close proximity with him, and you wanted to give him personal space.

But after a while, Jason himself had sat next to you closely, stood in front of you or behind you closely- so close that the skin of your arms would brush against each other, or in this case, the heat of his thigh against yours as you balanced the laptop on each of your thighs.

The next surprising thing that happened, though, was when he put his arm behind your shoulder so casually, that anyone would have guessed it was a thing he did on the regular.

You were taken aback by his advances, but appreciated that he felt comfortable with you. It was such an accomplishment considering everything that happened, so you leaned into him snuggly.

You clicked play.

And then, he came in close to you, brushing his lips against your ear and said in the lowest whisper that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

“If this movie sucks, I’ll kill you.”

It wasn’t a threat, you knew it wasn’t.

But the heat on your neck from his breath when he whispered to you, the low tone of his voice-

You couldn’t help but clench your thighs together in arousal.

***

“I wonder if he’ll be okay,” you thought out loud.

“I’m so jealous that you’re the only one who gets to see him. When can I go?” Dick whined.

“Two weeks is a long time,” you ignored Dick, “Bruce, is the phone offer still available?”

“Of course,” Bruce said, cutting his steak as silently as he walked. “I already have one. It’s on my desk.”

“That’s great!” you scooped up mashed potatoes.

“Seriously, though,” Dick pressed, “It’s been like what, five months? I want to see him.”

You looked across the dining table to meet your older brother in the eye. It was rare that Dick came over and had dinner with everyone, but his visits had been increasing ever since Jason got back.

“We can’t risk overstimulation, Dick. The only reason why he probably accepted me so easily is because I wasn’t part of his old life. He hasn’t even mentioned anything about… you know. And he hasn’t brought you or anyone else up.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed, “It’s just- he’s my brother.”

Those last three words spoke volumes. A simple fact that carried so many emotions. Sadness, relief, longing, regret.

Dick was really special. You got the younger sibling treatment from Dick as well, and you only knew him for a little over a year. Even then you had formed such a bond with Dick Grayson you knew you wouldn’t have with anyone else in the world.

You couldn’t even begin to imagine his relationship with Jason, and how painful it must be to find out his little brother is alive but not allowed to see him.

“He just needs more time and space,” you said, “But he’s getting better, Dick. Much better. Even making jokes and teasing me. You’ll know once he’s ready. And I don’t think it’ll take too much longer.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him, haven’t you?” Dick narrowed his eyes at you. “Like, every single day.”

“Well, yeah, he’s probably bored,” you shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.”

“A little birdie told me that you gave him a sponge bath a few months ago,” he wiggled his eyebrows.

You looked at Bruce accusingly, in which he responded with a simple, “Alfred.”

“He wasn’t showering at the time, and he stank like hell,” you explained.

“Sure, use that as an excuse,” he grinned, “Have you seen him shirtless since then?”

“Why?” you asked a little too defensively, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“Nothing,” Dick laughed, “I wanted to ask about his progress. Health wise.”

“Oh,” you calmed down, “Well, Alfred has him on a high protein diet now. He’s definitely filled up since then.”

“Filled up,” Dick winked.

“Grow up, Dick!” you snapped.

After dinner, you went to Bruce’s desk to pick up the smartphone and brought it downstairs to Jason’s room.

“Two visits in a day. A late one, too. What’s the occasion?” Jason mused when you came in.

“I have something for you,” you sat at the foot of his bed.

“Is it my birthday?” he teased.

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes, “We got you a smartphone. It has internet access and my number. You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. In fact, it’s switched off. I’m gonna leave it here on the shelf. And if you don’t want it, just ignore it.”

“Why all of a sudden?” he eyed you suspiciously from where he was sitting at the top of the bed.

“Well,” you started, “I’m going to be away for a couple of weeks. On a trip with my friends. Sort of a post-graduation celebration. And I thought that since I won’t be here to keep you company, you might like to… you know…”

He raised an eyebrow at you.

“Talk? Text? Call?” you winced at your own awkwardness. Why were you even nervous? “I mean. You’d be bored so at least you have internet. If you want, of course.”

“Are you implying that I’d miss you while you’re gone?” his lips turned into a smirk, “Or are you the one who will miss me?”

“Neither!” you huffed, “I just thought that you might want some other form of entertainment besides books.”

“I was locked away in a cell for two years without food, water, books, or the internet,” he scoffed.

“And look how great you turned out,” you bit back sarcastically, before realising what you had said. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“Jesus, calm the fuck down,” he complained, “It’s fine. You don’t have to be careful with me, I’m not a fucking baby.”

You knew that, but at the same time, you still couldn’t call him by his own name.

“Okay,” you nodded, “Well. I’m leaving in the morning. I’ll be back on the tenth.”

You glanced at the digital clock on Jason’s desk. It was one of the most important things in his room. It allowed him to keep track of the time and day- imperative to keeping one’s sanity in check.

“Tenth, twentieth, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“You’re not a prisoner,” you reminded him, “You do know that we’ve unlocked the door a couple of weeks ago, right? You’re free to go anywhere you want.”

Everyone had deemed him more or less stable. He wasn’t going to hurt himself or anyone else unless provoked or triggered, so Bruce decided to leave his doors unlocked, but Jason has yet to step outside.

“Doesn’t make a difference,” he mumbled, lying back down to face the ceiling.

Deep down, you knew what he meant.

It didn’t make a difference if you left the door unlocked, or threw him out of the room. Because at the end of the day, Jason was still being imprisoned by himself.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd reader #jason todd reader insert #jason todd #red hood #robin #dc #dc comics #batman #batfamily #bruce wayne #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth

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popculturebuffet · 4 years ago

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Shadow Into Light (Lena Retrospective): Magica’s Shadow War

Hello all you happy people! And welcome back to Shadow Into Light, my look at the life and times of Lena Sabrewing. We’re in the end stretch, just two more installments after this: one covering what may be my favorite episode, and the other covering Lena’s season 3 appearances, as unlike Seasons 1 and 2 she shows up outside her own episodes fairly often and most of those apperances touch on how far she’s come or her life in some way shape or form, so I really can’t skip over them.

But before we can get to the end of Lena’s arc, we have to once again go back where she came from. Previously I covered the one and only apperance of Minima DeSpell, a character Lena took some inspiration from. But Lena is a combination of Minima and another Ducktales 87 character but this time one from the show itself, in the same episode we meet Magica no less. Given how much frank loved the original, it’s not a huge shock one of the most vital and intresting new characters from the reboot was partially taken from an episode he probably watched 80 dozen times. So how does the original shadow stack up with her rebooted counterpart? Is the episode any good? And should I watch invincible. The answers to this question are under the cut!

To answer your question on invincible.. Yeah you should. It’s gorgeously animated, has a MASSIVELY talented and diverse cast, and perfectly adapts the original source: Adding in great new stuff and shuffling things around to work better for the pacing of a tv show. And after loosing The Tick to Amazon’s greasy clutches, not to mention Danger and Eggs and Alpha House before that with no formal cancelation so they coudln’t move elsewhere, i’m not taking any chances despite the odds being far more in invincibles favor. Check it out, just mind that it has a shocking amount of gore, if you like superheroes. Or even if you don’t, it’s pretty much guaranteed to have someone you like doing a voice.

Enough shilling for an unrelated show though, let’s get to this one. We open with our introduction to the De Spells. Magica is hovering over a caludron with a diabolical new plan to steal Scrooge’s #1 dime. Why?

Or at least I didn’t. I knew why she wanted the dime itself mind you: The Dime has picked up some powerful emotoinal energy from being around Scrooge all his life as he built his fortune, made his way square and fought Teddy Roosevelt. All that good stuff. So naturally if used in a spell, that spell is going to be massively powerful. I just didn’t know what the spell was.. and now I do.. i’mmm underwhelmed. She wants it to gain the midas touch, i.e. the ablility to turn things she touches into gain, using the dime as a power source for an amulet.

Magica, via her potions and spells has the powers to do just about ANYTHING. And her goal is.. make some things into gold. She has a giant volcano laier, whatever resources she needs to go after Scrooge, and in this series at least can buy a haunted house on a whim. She HAS money.. why would she need this. And second... the midas touch is a bad thing. You cant’ USE or enjoy anything because it turns to gold> That was the whole fucking point of the myth. If it removes the weakness than fine.. but again it seems like a lot of effort for something with a short range and heavy possible drawbacks. I tfits her personalty to a point but even then she has better spells. I’m going more with it simply allowing her to supercharge.. is it more simplisti? yes. Does it make more sense than “Give myself a power that can easily be turned back on me by just making me touch myself “ yes, yes it is.

Meanwhile the boys dick around playing Candid Camera with a new camera Gyro gave them that is no more advanced than your average instant camera. You’d expect this new invention to come in handy against Shadow Magica. And you’d be right. You’d expect the boys to at least suggest hte idea before the climax. You’d be wrong. This big is just.. irrtating. It’s just the boys being dicks to everyone by taking embarssing photos and really adds nothing to the episode of any remote subtsnace.

Conversley Magica continues to be the highlight, as her check in with airport security gets her through as she has no fruit. Ah the days before they throughly scanned us and most tsa jokes were about shoving hands up someone’s ass. Seriously.. why. .why is that a common joke. I’ve never had it done but unless you fully consent to it it’s not fun to get your hand up there but it was an oddly common gag for a long time.I.. really don’t get it.

She arrives in america and buys a haunted house, to the realtor’s shock but eh it’s a sale. The black mold just makes it more sinister. Magica sicks Shadow Magica on the bin, with an elaborate plan but giving the Shadow one hour to do it because otherwise it will disapate.. given it dosen’t it’s likely more Magica trying to keep her double in line, having ran into trouble earlier with shadow her trying to steal the wallet of what I can only assume to be gus goose. So he was on vacation tha’ts where he was.. from what I don’t know he dosen’t actually do work and the house of mouse hadn’t been established yet. Maybe Gramma Duck just gives him vacation days.

So the shadow ALMOST gets away with the dime.. but accidnetly knocks over a pedestal and warns Scrooge and the Boys, who manage to chase her off. Scrooge having only one magical nemisis in his Rogues gallery, that we know of, knows who did this and prepares for an attack. Magica.. berates her doppleganger and while she considers a spell to power her up, decides against it since what would stop the Shadow from betraying her. The shadow agrees.. and locks Magica and Poe in a closet and makes the potion herself, taking on a creepy new form and planning to raise an ARMY of shadows.

And here... is where the split between Lena and The Shadow is very deefinite. While Frank and Matt kept the shadow and Magica really not getting along and only working together out of necisity on both ends.. the shadow here REALLY is just magica. Just as evil and ambitious, and just as sneaky. The only diffrence between the two is the shadow’s logical weaknesses of being a shadow, i.e. light weakens her and she can only hide in darkness or other shadows, and how they were born. Shadow magica is every bit as evil and devious as the main one. I do get why she stuck in Frank’s brain though: the idea is simple but ingenious, someone’s shadow gaining sentience, and the cool tricks you get with that as she ducks and darts between shadows. It’s really good stuff and frank expertly expanded it with lena, making her basically humanoid duck other than where she came from, but still using the neat tricks with the shadow itself for Magica’s imprisoned form and later the shadow army. It’s a good example of taking a really good idea.. and making it even better, by having said shadow being deal with not being considered a person by the person who spawned her and really ramping up the idea of a shadow army, which Shadow Magica eventually summons, from about ten guys to an entire cities worth. The shadows also you know come from people instead of just thin air but semantics. Point is it’s a very good concept and done really well esepcially for the 87 cartoon, and while Frank’s take was unique and very well done, it dosen’t make the original any less good.

And it’s shown off with a cool sequence of the shadow infiltrating the manor and nearly getting to the dime with Scrooge having rigged the place to all hell with lights as a percaution. It nearly wins but louie uses a shadow puppet to scare it off. While Scrooge ponders this latest attack Poe shows up, and offers Magica’s help.. but Scrooge rightly dosen’t want it, as he can’t trust her and only agrees when the boys bring up the power bill from keeping the lights on.

Now getting Magica on board is not an idea: The shadow’s a threat to both of them and they need each other. The next part though.. is a bit stupid and drags the episode down a bit. Magica asks for the dime to beat the thing. Now Scrooge wisely is hesitant to do so.. but everyone else treats it like his usual greedy antics. Thing is.. it’s not. We don’t, at least in this adaptation, know what Magica wants with the thing or the full extent of what she can do with it or if she even actually needs it. While getting her help is one thing, giving her the DIME well...] ]’ii98[[

Why would you give someone you KNOW wants to use the dime to conquer the world or whatever the thing she wants? It’d be like handing Thanos the Infnity Gauntlet to take out Galactus. Yes, your handling a big problem.. but your burning the world to do it. It’s just so frustratlingly dumb. There’s a good idea in there, Scrooge being forced to lend Magica the dime, but it’s buried under Mt. Contrivance!

So Scrooge reluctantly goes along with operation:seemed like a good idea at the time, and cleverly puts the dime in an empty stadium. Unfortuantley the lights malfunction and Shadow Magica summons MORE Shadows, and now has an army. Launchpad ends up being helpful, also he’s in this episode for some reason, by pointing out shadows need light.. and thus another logical weakness as killing the rest of the lights renders them weak and allows our heroes to lure them to the vault where Magica waits> Magica is able to weaken it with the spell.. but even with that the Shadow SITLL is too powerful..

Enter the cameras, which take out Shadow Magica, saving the day. We get a lesson about trusting Gyro’s gadgets for.. some reason and Scrooge stops Magica from fleeing with the dime with a shadow puppet. Smiles and cheese sandwitches all around

Final Thoughts on Magica’s Shadow War: This episode is not half bad. While the Dime Thing is mindblowingly moronic, and the camera thing is REALLY poorly set up, I have not had a more apt use for that Scott Pilgrim Panel yet, the sheer concept and June Foray’s sheer force of personality as both magica’s makes it work. It’s a fun, engaging adventure and a solid chonk of classic ducktales. As for how it relates to Lena it does so decently. But with this our side trips are at an end. Only two episodes left! And then onward to the lilo and stitch crossover arc! Yes really. Kev wanted a buffer before getting to the Season 2 arcs and I loved tha tshow as a kid so why the fuck not.

Next Time on Shadow Into Light: Lena gets welcomed to prime time bitch as Magica pulls a freddy and stalks her through her dreams. Sadly she did indeed forgot about the power glove. Can the rest of the kids break away from dreams of high school musicals, becoming a garfild, giant legs and libraries long enough to save Lena? Will we have a very queer in the best way possible musical number about Lena and Webby’s anniversary? Will I talk about Huelet? In order, yes, yes, and probably. But join me anyways won’t you.

If you liked this reviews, subscribe for more. If you have a ducktales episode from seasons 1 and 2 of the reboot or the whole of the 87 series, drop me a line through my ask box, my dm’s or my discord, technicolormuk#6550. Reviews or only 5 bucks an episode for tv. Other prices on the blog. Or if you can’t spare that much, join my patreon. Even a buck or two a month helps reach my stretch goals and the more of those I hit the more disney content you get a month. The current one is only 5 bucks away. I’m 15 and if I hit 20 that guarantees a darkwing duck review every month AND reviews of the super ducktales mini series. But if you can’t that’s cool and I get it times are hard, it’s why I have to shill so hard. But until the next rainbow, it’s been a pleasure.

#ducktales #ducktales 87 #magica's shadow war #lena sabrewing #shadow into light #magica de spell #poe de spell #scrooge mcduck #huey duck #louie duck #dewey duck #bentina beakley #launchpad mcquack #the disney afternoon #disney +#disney plus

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thephantomofthe-internet · 4 years ago

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Read into Me Chapter 11: Love Story

Steve Harrington x Reader

CATCH UP ON THE SERIES HERE

Words: 4,771

Warnings: fire, injury-all end of season three things!

Author’s Note: Happy belated Strangers Things 3 Day! I wanted to get this up yesterday, but I didn’t have it in me to work. This is the end of the series, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! It was a fun little ride!

Series Tag: @divinity-deos @thecaptainsgingersnap @wolfish-willow @scoopsohboi @herre-gud-nej @clockworkballerina @maddie1504 @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary @jisungiesluv @wildcvltre @stanleyyelnatsiii @n3wtscaseofniffler5 @peterparxour @linkispink1995 @a-big-ball-of-idk @used-avocado @mochminnie @sledgy14 @the-creative-lie @yall-wildin-like-siriusly @ggclarissa @voidnarnia @anonymousonion33 @awkwardnesshabitat @darkcrystal-wolf @hannahrisacher

Paris was a lonely city. You’d arrived alone, having not seen Steve since prom and still desperate to see him one more time. You’d selfishly kept his sweatshirt, wanting a piece of him to take with you to a different country. Your mother hadn’t picked you up from the airport, having sent a car instead. She didn’t seem much interested in speaking to you after months apart; she was much more interested in redecorating her new condo and talking about her fiancé. You met him, a French fop named Jean-Pierre at least fifteen years her junior. He was nice enough, although a bit fruity for your liking. His interests were more on the modeling jobs your mother was getting him. She had no time for you, which was fine since your lessons at the salon began immediately.

You and thirty-five other young hopefuls spend your days locked in a studio with abundant resources and endless models and objects to sketch. And you hated it. You hated the long, rambling lectures from the artists who came to the salon to preach the values of the school and the importance of French art. They alternated between speaking in French and English without explaining themselves as they switched tongues. Your French language skills were nonexistent, so the lectures were exhausting and endless. The only time they ever seemed to help was when they brought you all to the Louvre to examining the long dead French men who’d made the museum possible. There, you could at least sketch out the greats and enjoy the beauty of the art. Inside the studio, you felt as though your head was going to explode. The lectures spoke too loudly and loomed over you without warning or word, you weren’t allowed your headset or Walkman in the studio to combat them, and the smell of various paints and clays made your stomach churn. The girl who’d taken up the easel next to you, a little German named Lisle, had taken to making clay pots and sculptures and the sound of her pottery wheel mixed with her incessant humming made you want to commit manslaughter. It didn’t help that the smell of the brown clay invaded your sinuses and made you sneeze violently. You dreaded the salon. But you dreaded being at home more.

Your mother had hired you a French tutor, utterly horrified by the fact that you hadn’t been practising. You tried to tell her that, despite her assumptions, Hawkins High had stopped offering a French elective two years before you started there.

“You cannot live in Paris without speaking French! It won’t do!” she moaned. Jean-Pierre was already on the phone, speaking fast into the receiver. You didn’t see what the big deal was. Everywhere you went, people spoke enough English to communicate with you fine. It didn’t occur to you till after dinner that if you were to study in the country, you’d need the language to understand your lessons.

So you got a French teacher, a short tempered older man who insisted on being called Monsieur Bérnard. His greying whiskers moved sharply as he spoke and he often spit on you as he taught proper pronunciation and conjugation. He ranted and raved all afternoon, disgusted by your apparent lack of an ear for languages and your doodling on the edges of notebook paper instead of working. You’d go from sensory overload in the salon to being bullied by a Freud-looking asshole each day with no room for a break or a breath.

You lived for weekends. Rest was very well thought of in the city so the hell spawn tutor didn’t work and the salon locked its doors. You were allowed to wander the city at your leisure, your mother glad to have you out of the apartment. You’d spend most of your days sat at a café near the Eifel Tower, a prime spot to tourists. Every day, you’d bring your sketchpad and try to draw out the profiles of those you passed you by. You spent two weekends working on a sketch of people sunbathing on the lawn in front of the tower. But it seemed you left all your talent in Hawkins. You’d spent so long drawing familiar faces back home, now that you were away from your nest, you found yourself without the skill to capture the faces around you. It occurred to you that you knew the faces of Hawkins far too well. They were engrained in your mind, your hand working like a stamp to put them on the page. France was full of strangers. You didn’t know how to understand them like you understood Hawkins. France wasn’t home. You couldn’t work out in a world of strangers.

You couldn’t work in the salon either. It was too much. Everyone was constantly showboating and trying out-do one another. You couldn’t work with people spying over your shoulder. You felt judged and insecure about what you could do. You didn’t want to be watched as you tried to make art. It didn’t help that you had no idea what to make. The closest thing you’d gotten done is that sketch of the Eifel Tower and that wasn’t something you couldn’t buy on the streets around the monument. You’d tried all the things that you couldn’t in your bedroom-paint splatter art, pottery, carving, paint pulling, mosaics. You never finished anything. The drive to push through wasn’t there.

When the loneliness and fear became too much to bear, you held Steve’s sweatshirt and cried. It still smelt like him; Irish Springs soap and Fabregè Organics shampoo and hairspray and a bit like sweat. It was nice though. You missed him. You tried to write him letters, but you knew that they wouldn’t get home before you did. You’d made up your mind that whatever the answer was, you were going home. Whether that meant deferring a semester or missing the first week of school you would go back to Hawkins. Still, you’d written over a dozen letters, all crumpled in your waste bin.

You waited until the last minute to finish something for submission. You’d tried to sketch your mother, to find who you knew in the fancy woman in front of you. With her bleached blowout and designer clothes, thirty pounds lighter and yellow gold jewellery glinting in the midday sun. She looked like the epitome of elegance, straight out of a magazine. The woman you remembered had greying roots and love handles, her only jewellery the wedding rings your father had given her. Europe had changed her into someone who you didn’t know and who didn’t seem to want to introduce herself to you. Nothing you drew seemed to capture the middle between who she was and who she is now. You realized in her profile that you weren’t a part of her life anymore, that she didn’t want you there. You were as strange to her as she was to you. You passed each other like ghosts in the hall, almost recognizable but hauntingly foreign.

The day before your final piece for submission was due; you got a letter from Steve. It only had one sentence.

“I should have asked you to stay.”

It was all you needed to hear to be inspired. You made your final project a tribute to him, mixing memories with unfinished letters building into his face. You used plain black ink to sketch his profile on the surface of the mess, building him into your loneliness. You only had your memory to recreate his face and your own letters to fill the canvas. Still, it was the only thing you’d done the whole time you were in the country that you were actually proud of. You didn’t finish it until the sun rose and you handed it off to be judged without a second thought, bleary eyed and exhausted.

You were on a plane home by the wee hours of July 4th.

Hawkins was a depressing place. After graduation, Steve found himself listless and at the hands of his father. He was a failure, a disgrace of a son. He was unready to start into the family business. His grades were pathetic. He had to get a job. Of course, with no job experience and late to the game, no decent place wanted him. The new mall only offered him one place of employment, Scoops Ahoy. And the uniform was embarrassing. Stupid sailor shirts and matching shorts, fucking knee socks and a corny paper hat. He looked like a certified geek. And his co-worker was a freak. Robin fucking Buckley did nothing but bug him all shift. It didn’t help that he had no friends without you, even Dustin had left for some nerdy science camp after the school year ended.

He was alone and lonely.

He tried to write you a half dozen times. But nothing seemed to make sense, nothing was worth telling you. What was he supposed to tell you? That he had become an even bigger loser overnight? He felt so utterly pathetic. He just wanted things to go back to the way things were. But what did that even looked like anymore? It wasn’t a life with Nancy, she’d dumped his ass, and it wasn’t a life with you, you’d left him for a different continent. He didn’t have a clue where he was going anymore. So he did what any lonely, practically friendless teenager did-he worked his ass off. Eight hours every day in the mall with smart ass Robin Buckley, waiting for the ground to suck him up. And sure, he tried to hit on the girls his age that came around. It was a good distraction from his broken heart. He’d made up his mind that he was ready to move on and try to date again. That he needed a girlfriend. That he needed to be cool again.

And then, Dustin came back and Hawkins started acting up again. He thought it was over. Those damn dogs were gone, the thing was closed, the kid was safe and acting like a kid. Everything had gone back to as close to normal as he’d seen it in awhile. But Dustin just had to find a secret code and Buckley just had to decode it and Lucas’s bitchy little sister just had to be small enough to fit into the vents and find a secret Russian elevator. And they just had to get stuck in it.

He couldn’t keep that damn kid from seeking out trouble. And yeah, it was kind of fun in a scared shitless kind of way, but it wasn’t worth getting drugged and beaten up and nearly dying for. And it certainly wasn’t worth getting tricked into thinking that he had feelings for fucking Robin. He could murder that kid for getting it in his head that he liked that girl. Robin was cool; he wouldn’t pretend that she wasn’t a decent friend to have at the end of the world. But he didn’t need the embarrassment of trying to ask out a lesbian. At least the reason for her rejecting him wasn’t that he was unattractive or lame, just that she didn’t dig dudes. He was cool with that. And at least he got to punch out a communist. If he could tell his father that without going to prison or being murdered by a Russian goon, he’d be proud. Fuck that, he was proud. He won a fight! He beat up a Russian spy! More than one, he beat some up while drugged out; at least he thought he did. He couldn’t remember much, other than watching Back to the Future with Robin. That movie was too confusing. And then he stole a car, he saved Nancy’s life, he set up that weird tower thing for Dustin-there was too much going on to even recognize how crazy he sounded. How crazy all of this sounded.

And then, the mall was on fire.

Your flight landed on the fourth of July at about ten fifteen in the evening. It took about forty-five minutes to get from the Indianapolis International Airport back to Hawkins. You were buzzing. Seven words had given you all the hope you needed to push you back to the states. Every fibre of your being was alive with energy, with excitement. You couldn’t wait for your grandfather to park the car, you jumped out as soon as you were settled in the driveway.

“Don’t you want to go upstairs and unpack?” your grandmother called after you as you booked it down the driveway.

You turned back “No, I’ll be back later!” you called. Steve’s car wasn’t in the driveway but you figured if anyone was home they’d know where he was. You bounded up the stairs, ringing the doorbell twice.

Mrs. Harrington came to the door in her bathrobe. “Oh, hello there…” she trailed off, obviously unable to remember your name.

“Y/N, hi it’s nice to see you, do you know where Steve is?” you asked, bouncing from your heels to your toes.

Mrs. Harrington narrowed her eyes “He’s at his job I assume. At the mall.” She said slowly.

“What mall?” you demanded. Mrs. Harrington’s eyes blew wide open and you realized that you were probably coming off like an insane person. “Sorry, I’ve been out of the country for about a month.”

“It’s where the Hawkins Laboratories were, off East Wood Road.” She pointed out the door towards the roads. You knew instantly that the fastest way to get there was through the woods. You ran through the backyards of your neighbours and into the woods. You didn’t like the Hawkins forests. They were dark and dim and poorly maintained. The county hadn’t been out to cut down potentially problematic trees on the few hiking paths in the woods. Burs caught your socks and twigs scratched your legs as you hopped logs to try to get there faster. They’d carved a road through the woods, you’d found it halfway to the mall, deserted and blocked off. You could see the bright orange flames from a mile away.

Your heart stopped dead in your chest. Steve was in there. You could cry.

Instead, you hopped the blockade, running down the road despite the calls of passing fire trucks and police. You didn’t care if they tried to arrest you, although you doubted that they could. It would be a waste of time to bother with you during an emergency.

The parking lot was filled with emergency vehicles. Massive streams of water were attacking the building. Luckily, it seemed the mall was closed, judging by the few people who were milling around not in uniforms. You sprinted into the crowd, looking around frantically.

Steve had been ushered into the back of an ambulance and draped in a bright orange emergency blanket. It wasn’t that cold but he felt as though he was freezing. The EMTs had checked his vitals and disinfected the wounds on his face and knees. As for the remaining drugs in his system, he chose not to mention them. He knew that the high would wear off eventually. Robin was sat next to him, equally bandaged up and silent, save an uncontrollable shiver. Wordlessly, Steve took the blanket off his shoulders and placed it over hers. He wasn’t that cold. Moreover, he just felt numb. He’d had this happen so many times; his face beat in, an otherworldly thing trying to destroy his life and hurt his family, a major building destroyed-it all felt familiar. It made him sick to his stomach to know that it was familiar. If he had anything left in his stomach he would’ve thrown up.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something running towards him. At first, he tensed. He didn’t know what it was and it could probably kill him. His heart stopped and then raced wildly. He held out an arm to protect Robin and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Steve!” you cried. He was in an ambulance. He was hurt. He was alive. You felt as if you could cry. In the span of fifteen minutes he’d gone from working to escaping a fiery building to missing in a fire to simply hurt. And hurt was just fine, you could handle hurt.

“Oh my god Steve, are you okay? Are you alright? I love you so much…”You grabbed his face, examining the bruises. You pulled him tightly to your chest, trying not to cry or freak out. You knew it wouldn’t help.

“I love you too…” he breathed into your ear, pulling you close to him. He recognized you by the smell of your hair, the feeling of your arms around him. He could cry. He didn’t believe you were real. But when you pulled away and his hand came to your face. You were real. And you were here. And he was safe. He was safe and alive. Feelings of relief rushed through his body. He wanted to cry, but the shock was too overwhelming for a tear to even drop.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper and hoarser than he’d ever felt it. “I thought you were still in Paris.”

“I came home early,” you chuckled, pressing a kiss to his jaw bone. “I didn’t get in.” That was the nicer version, the judges laughed at your final piece, they called it pedestrian. You should’ve been more upset, your mother was furious, but you couldn’t have cared less. You were free to go home. You could’ve thanked them for rejecting you.

Steve pulled away, looking you squarely in the eye. He wouldn’t have you give up on school to hang out with him in bum fuck Indiana. But you were telling the truth, it was written plainly all over your face. “Those bastards…” Steve murmured. You laughed, your eyes watery and throat thick. You were overwhelmed. You expected to come home and just see him in his element. You expected him to not necessarily want to see you. You didn’t expect a fire or Steve being injured or Steve to even be there at all. You pulled Steve back into your arms, you didn’t want to let go.

“I missed you so much…” you whispered. Steve’s arms came around your hips, pulling you in between his legs. He needed you here, to keep you in place for awhile.

“I missed you too…” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Did you get my letter?”

You looked up “Yeah I did…” you said “I wish I had written you, I tried so many times but I couldn’t find the words and-” Steve kissed you hard, stealing the words from his throat. He didn’t care if you didn’t write him back; this was the best thing he could’ve gotten from you. A letter wouldn’t do it justice.

You were lit up by his kiss. This is what you needed. No words could do the feelings he expressed in his kiss justice. You felt alive. You felt at home. Steve tried to pull away, but you pulled him back by his shirt, kissing him as if your life depended on it. Maybe it did. You couldn’t be sure anymore.

A loud clearing of one’s throat interrupted you and you pulled away to see Robin waving awkwardly. “Oh hey Buckley…” you muttered awkwardly. “How’s Samantha?”

“No clue, she never called me back.” The younger girl shrugged nonchalantly, hopping down from the ambulance deck. “I’ll catch ya later, Harrington.”

You turned your attention back to Steve, looking down at the material still in your fists. He looked ridiculous. “What the fuck are you wearing?” you asked with a laugh. Steve’s hands settled on your lower back, holding you in between his knees as if you’d run off if he didn’t.

“Oh this? This has been my whole summer.” He groaned “I’ve been captaining a boat on an ocean of flavours.” You couldn’t help but cackle, you had no idea what he was talking about but he seemed so serious.

“And by that you mean?” you lifted the fake red neckerchief attached to his shirt, running the material between your thumb and forefinger.

“Ice cream store in the mall,” he pointed to the embroidered Scoops Ahoy logo on his breast.

“You’re kidding…” you shook your head as if to shake the idea out of your mind. Steve’s fingers trailed the raggedy edge of your sweatshirt. Well, his sweatshirt, his last name and basketball jersey number were embossed on the back; he could feel the textured design on your lower back.

“I like my sweater,” he chuckled, reaching up to adjust the length of the drawstrings on the hood. You looked away, a bit embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean to keep it I just…missed you,” You replied “You can have it back.”

“Nah, it suits you,” he smirked “Besides, I want my girl in my stuff, it’s cute.”

“Your girl?” you grinned giddily, elbowing him in the ribs. “Since when am I your girl?” You liked the idea of being Steve’s girl. It had a nice ring to it.

Steve smirked, squeezing your hips in his hands. “Oh come on baby, you’ve been my girl for awhile…”

“Oh really? Well, I wouldn’t know since you’ve never asked me…”

You heard a loud yell and turned to see a set of paramedics carrying a stretcher towards you and Steve. They were sprinting and bringing a badly burnt and unconscious Billy Hargrove towards the ambulance you sat on. You quickly moved out of the way. Steve grabbed your hand, allowing you to tug him from the ambulance’s deck.

You only got a brief look at the teenager, but it made your stomach churn violently. You felt ill. You felt Steve squeeze your hand. You turned to look at him and saw how hollow his eyes were. You wrapped your arm around his middle. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you said, trying to stifle a yawn. You were exhausted from your flight and your run here and the trauma that had smacked you across the face.

Steve noticed anyway “Did you just get here?” he asked, lifting your chin.

“My flight landed at ten, I came to see you as soon as I could.”

“You should’ve gone home to rest, I wouldn’t have been mad at you.” You looked absolutely exhausted. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like.

“I missed you too much to not see you. And what if you had gotten hurt, if you hadn’t made it out then I would’ve never forgiven myself…”

Steve wrapped his arms tightly around you, shielding you from the scene, as more mangled people were brought out. The beast must’ve fallen apart once the brain was destroyed. It looked as though a bomb had gone off. Steve squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to leave, but he knew that the FBI would be called and he’d have to talk to them again. He wanted you to go home, but that didn’t seem like an option now. Selfishly, he liked having you there, it was comforting to have you in his arms, squeezing him under his ribs and keeping him calm.

“I’m not gonna get hurt, I’m okay…we’re okay…” You nodded roughly against his chest. You felt as if you were burning up and freezing at the same time. You saw blinks of red flashing lights and sirens as one of the ambulances sped past. You were so thankful that he wasn’t on that ambulance.

“Yeah, I know, I’m not gonna let you out of my sight ever again.” Steve lifted up your chin, raising an eyebrow at you. “What? Last time I did you nearly died and for what? A shit job in the mall?”

“Well, not just for a job, I was helping Robin and a couple kids who were with us,” That wasn’t the whole story. Steve knew he’d have to tell you eventually about everything, but for now he was more than comfortable ignoring the looming problem beneath their feet.

“What a hero…” you giggled, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Something had been bothering Steve for awhile now and he determined now was the best time to tackle the subject. He turned away from you, folding his hands in his lap.

“Did you mean it when you said that you loved me?” he asked quietly. Truthfully, he wasn’t certain that you meant it. Or if he had even heard you correctly. After Nancy, he wasn’t sure if anyone actually loved him back. He’d given so much of his heart away only to have it tossed to the floor and tread upon like it was nothing more than a cigarette butt. He wasn’t sure if he could trust that you meant it.

You let out a small sigh through your nose, crossing your arms over your chest. You were a bit embarrassed. You were half hoping that he would forget about it. Your response brought all of Steve’s hopes crashing down. “Yeah, yeah I do,” you admitted, rubbing your arms, having suddenly gone cold. “I will admit, I hadn’t planned on saying that this early, feels a bit middle school to say that you love someone before they’re even your boyfriend.”

Steve turned to look at you once again, a bit surprised. Your face had gone red, adorably red, but still very red and your gaze had turned down to the asphalt at your feet. He reached out and took your hand, interlacing your fingers with his. “Good,” he said with a smile. You turned up to look at him; brow furrowed “I thought I had like imagined it.”

“Oh…no you’re good.” You said slowly. He looked like a little puppy dog, his whole face was radiating sunshine; it was almost hard to look at. It was harder to not match his energy, to get drunk off it. Then again, no one was stopping you from just enjoying the moment. You let out a small breath, not so much heavy with sadness or regret, but simply exhaustion. You let your head rest on his shoulder, smiling softly despite the scene in front of you. If it weren’t for the smouldering building and the emergency vehicles surrounding the pair of you, it would almost be romantic. The fact that you were even trying to find romance in the scene felt a bit silly, but maybe that was what this was supposed to feel like. Finding love in a burning building was a bit dramatic, it certainly not what you’d expected for your life, but you determined that no matter what you’d keep Steve safe. You had no idea what was going on at this scene, you had no idea what happened. But no matter how scared you were, you knew that Steve must’ve been even more scared. You knew that you couldn’t protect him, the same way that he couldn’t protect you, but maybe together you could keep each other safe for awhile.

“I love you too, you know,” Steve said quietly, his gaze trailed on the smoke of grey smoke coming up off the extinguished fire. The front of the mall had crumbled and the giant neon ‘Star-Court Mall’ sign shattered on the pavement. You hadn’t seen the mall before the fire, you didn’t know what it was supposed to look like, but a cavernous jagged mouth probably wasn’t the design goal. Still, you turned your attention to the side of Steve’s face. He couldn’t face you, the tips of his ears bright red underneath his flat, sweaty hair.

You swallowed hard “I know,” you say softly. Steve turned to look at you, examining your face with a nervous expression. You smiled and nodded reassuringly “I know.” Steve smiled and laced his fingers with yours. He squeezed your hand tightly in his and you squeezed his back, the feeling of his hand squeezing yours the only feeling left in your body beyond the giddy buzz. You didn’t know how any of this worked, you didn’t know if you were doing this right, if there was a right way to do it. The buzz under your skin was two parts anxiety and one part excitement. But you didn’t pull away. You were glued to his side.

“You know, I think that was one of the first normal conversations we’ve ever had,” Steve mused.

You scoffed loudly rolling your eyes “That was not normal.

Steve shook his head with a small laugh “Yeah, I know…”

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smalltragedy · 4 years ago

Text

* herman tommeraas, cis man + he/him | you know donovan mercer, right? they’re twenty one, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, four months? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to ice boy by corbin like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole fear hidden behind a stoic stare, bleeding from your nose and from your gums, and the night sky with all its stars, with all its mystery and unknown thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is march 15th, so they’re a pisces, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( james, 21, est, they/them )

yes hi i did bring ducky back. i promised. please love him jst the same im sry he had 2 go fr a while.

ABUSE, VIOLENCE, DRUG ABUSE, EYE INJURY, GANG MENTIONS TW.

mini playlist.

father ;; the front bottoms / ice boy ;; corbin / lose yourself ;; eminem / my own worst enemy ;; lit / say it ain’t so ;; weezer / maps ;; yeah yeah yeahs / star stopping ;; lil peep / benz truck ;; lil peep / trauma ;; nf / northern downpour ;; panic! at the disco / your graduation ;; modern baseball.

statistics.

full name: donovan mercer.

nickname(s): ducky.

birthday: march 15th, 1999.

zodiac: pisces sun, aquarius moon, aquarius ascending.

label: the despondent.

hometown: hell’s kitchen, new york.

sexuality: bisexual (bt not out).

pinterest.

biography.

born in hell’s kitchen to vinny mercer and a mother who ran out of the hospital as fast as she could, as soon as she was able. she’d gone so quick that she’d never given ducky a middle name - just donovan. the younger brother of mercy (shoutout 2 bri)

his father’s the right-hand man of a well known mob boss named lars amaretto, and so, you can imagine the kind of environment ducky (& mercy) grew up in. weapon & drug dealings, interrogations, violence around every corner. a brutal way of living, no place to raise two children.

implied abuse tw // their father was not kind, or merciful - and ducky was a runt compared to mercy, small and sensitive and kinder than his brother. weak, and filled with softness, with big brown eyes and a smile that should’ve been able to melt ice - but it didn’t. and it never did.

he cried often, and was punished often for it until he learned to stop crying - at least in front of their father, and mercy too, at some point. only in the comfort of his room, with doors locked and blinds drawn closed. implied abuse end of tw

he dreamed, too, dreamt often. he’d been obsessed with outer space since childhood, as long as he could remember. school had once shown man landing on the moon, and ducky wanted that. wanted to be that, wanted to be there, up with the stars, discovering the unthinkable.

abuse mention // but it was discouraged, heavily so - projects destroyed by an angry fist only to be reconstructed to the best of ducky’s ability, with mercy’s help, all throughout the night. he’d saved up for a telescope when he was thirteen, but it’d been destroyed almost immediately when discovered. not a day went by that their father didn’t tell ducky that he was, first and foremost, stupid - and would always be. end of abuse mention

to the point where he stopped trying, simply. he never graduated high school.

abuse mention // anxiety mention // anyways … at the age of fifteen, he’d have enough. he was sick of the abuse, the pain - the crying behind closed doors, the sneaking around, the constant feeling of needing to escape, impending doom, anxiety attacks in the shower and in school bathrooms and at the back of the bus where nobody sat besides him because he was - that boy, the son of that man, the brother of that brute. he’d been a teenager and he’d already been an outcast by all means - an outcast in his family, no matter how hard he tried to appease vinny, and an outsider everywhere else.

the plan took months of preparation, paper ripped out from the back of his school notebook and stuffed beneath his mattress, details of his escape from a checklist of essential items to makeshift maps of bus routes to different cities.

all for nothing, the moment vinny discovered it, the edge of a map sticking out after a rushed morning.

heavy abuse tw // violence tw // it’d been the same day he’d gotten the nickname - ducky - the way the wound wrapped below his mouth, and the way it’d begun to heal - puckered, at first, like a duck’s bill. a better name than eyepatch, at the very least. the scar’d run from the arch of his left brow, across his eye, down his cheek, and below his lip. his eye sustained injury, and not allowed to see a doctor about it, it never healed properly.

eye injury // corneal scarring, impairing his left eye. astronaut dreams destroyed, but not in a matter of seconds. in the matter of an hour, maybe more - and that’d been much, much worse.

he stopped trying to run away after that. tried to be more like their father, more like mercy - more brutish, less feeling. spoke less, and less. spoke hardly at all, unless spoken to first.

still didn’t matter. still lived his days in fear, still knew it’d never change. nothing would ever change.

the mercer brothers have been floating around the north carolina scene for ~5ish years now, trailing after their father who is consistently chasing after their mother with no luck. they’re currently residing in palm motel. can we get a hell yeah?

personality & facts.

he’s actually very? intimidating? when you first meet him. mercy’s younger brother, with a criminal’s record almost as long as his - a scarred face and a mean resting face. it takes at least five minutes of conversation beyond small talk before it starts to weigh on your mind that maybe, he’s not as bad as he seems.

and - well, he isn’t. but he’s guarded - so guarded. more-so than mercy, because mercy’s quicker to anger, quicker to react, and ducky tries so hard to drown out the noise. but he’s not a robot, and his facial expressions can give him away in a second.

he’s seen what happened when mercy had a glimpse of something good in his life (though, it wasn’t actually good at all - mercy had someone, at least. at the very least) - and how quickly it’d all fallen, and so ducky puts a barrier between him and others. distant, as much as he can be.

it hurts, because ducky isn’t by any means antisocial. he doesn’t hate people - he wants to be normal, wants to have friends and a girlfriend - or maybe even a boyfriend, god - but he’s so afraid. ducky is, by nature, a very scared person. terrified to his very core. he knows there is always eyes on him, and mercy too, and he knows that nothing is worth getting someone else hurt.

you know him as mercy’s little brother, and he’s quiet you know that - but his name is ducky, and you think - he’s not too bad. and he knows this, knows the doubts. knows that it’ll get back to mercy, eventually, that his brother is nothing more but a pussy. so he fights more than he’d like to, against the guilt that buries itself deep within his chest with every thrown fist. he throws up, afterwards, in the garbage can outside. too much to drink, he says, rare grin - because grins are convincing, and grins with bleeding gums are intimidating. he learned that from his brother.

violence makes him sick to his very stomach. he can’t watch horror films, or even action films, without feeling queasy. there’s been more times than he can count where he’d thrown up after a fight, or after an interrogation, usually in private but in the occasional presence of mercy.

they fight, a lot, sometimes - ducky’s too soft, too weak, and it’s bad and it’s terrible and ducky knows that mercy’s afraid. for him, of their father, and his wraith. ducky knows that if mercy isn’t hard on him now, their father will be on him harder. still. there’s resentment, small but there, like the flame of a match. he doesn’t know what’ll happen when there’s nothing more to burn, but he doesn’t want to find out. he’s afraid to find out.

he’s still in love with the moon and the stars, and the planet’s - and their moons, too. its subdued, now, though. a silent passion - one that is often not watered, left for rot. he sneaks into engineering lectures at the community college, occasionally, or physics, or whatever peeks the small curiosity inside of him.

commits small acts of kindness when nobody looks. doors held open, the meals of elderly folk eating alone suddenly paid. picks up litter besides trash bins, and always cooks extra than what he needs and leaves the rest for mercy. it’s these small things that make him feel, just the slightest, better about himself.

because god - there are layers and layers of self-loathing. it’s a labyrinth, and he’d never speak of it - but he can’t stand his own reflection. doesn’t keep photos of his family, only a few sparingly of mercy.

a liar, sad to say. has little experience with. ehem. intimacy, and the bodies of others, but lies often and says that he does. mostly to his brother, but word travels quick - and he’s not nearly as much as a fuckboy as is rumored, having only been with a handful of girls, if even that. it’s better this way - if people know that he throws others away like they’re nothing.

he ghosts often, too, if he does get to talking with anybody. the moment ducky feels a spark, something pulling at his poor heart, he ghosts. he develops feelings too easily, too often than he’d like. has left many friendships without explanation, because of this. you know the priest in fleabag season 2? the scene where he comes to fleabag’s house? yeah. tht’s ducky!

has maybe half the amount of clients that mercy does, but he’s working on it.

pretends he doesn’t care as much as he does. pretends a lot, like there’s nothing soft to him. but a trained eye can see clearly through this. even so - even if you can see that there’s more to ducky than violence and drug deals - you’d still have to break through a dozen walls.

in the rare occasion you get him talking - i mean, talking a lot - he’ll talk about space. ramble off a dozen useless facts about dwarf stars and black holes and all of jupiter’s moons. about a video game he likes, about nothing and everything at all. but as soon as he begins, he stops - embarrassed. apologizes, shuts his mouth, disappears to wherever. anywhere but there.

drug abuse // has a. complicated relationship with benzos n xanax n a various assortment of painkillers. ironic bc he hates drugs due to. his chosen career n wldnt do most of what they sell, bt yknow. this ws inevitable. hates beer bt forces himself 2 drink it bc toxic masculinity probably man idk.

overall just … he’s a soft boy, with a big heart - bigger than anybody else in his family, that’s for sure, but his exterior is far different than that, and it’s hard to tell.

violence mention // purposely loses fights so that he doesn’t have to severely hurt someone. because sometimes he just - he was raised in a violent environment, and sometimes he snaps. sometimes ducky just fucking snaps. and his vision goes red, and he can’t control himself - because need to survive kicks in, and violence is all he knows. if someone pushes ducky - pushes him enough, he breaks. he fights back. it’s all he knows. it’s all he knows. it’s all he knows, and that’s not an excuse - and he knows this, and god, he’s so tired. he is so. tired.

wanted plots.

u look good tonight ... ;; wld love a connection in which he is feeling emotionally compromised n maybe kinda hs a thing w someone bt hes like. very unreliable n kinda ghosting bc he is very afraid n it wld b maybe bad fr them to b anything other than hook ups. cld apply to smth very intensive or smth very surface lvl i’ll take thousands.

palms sweaty ... moms spaghetti ... ;; ppl tht ducky just hs fkn brawled. cld b anybody fr any reason. ducky prob lost n he prob lost on purpose bt also ur muse cld maybe kick ducky’s ass? cld b a fake fight cld b a real fight. cld b a npc fight n then ur muse cn patch up ducky? possibilities endless. maybe they hv a nice spaghetti dinner n both of them r both bruised up frm their fight. sometimes fights end in spaghetti dinners. thanks eminnem or whatever.

own worse enemy... ;; ducky needs friends bt hes bad at making friends n sometimes he fks shit up by pushing ppl away n self sabotaging n being a major cunt n sometimes he just ghosts bt hes always very remorseful abt it? this cld b a very like. up n down friendship of any type its just. where do they stand. r they friends. r they enemies. r they lovers? probably not lovers. prob just platonic. but still its the thought tht counts.

and also ;; literally just like. anything. clients who buy off of him n like. casual friends n casual enemies n casual hookups. ppl hes ghosted. ppl hes embarrassed himself in front of. maybe ur muse tries to get ducky to socialize or maybe ducky is like. u are too much fr me. n ur muse runs off crying. endless possibilities all u hv to do is call this number now.

#irvingintro #abuse tw #violence tw #drug abuse tw #gangs mention #eye injury tw #chuckles evilly #im a madman #anyways this is like essentially a repost

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georgemackayhey · 4 years ago

Text

Worth Fighting For (Part: 3)

summary: You're entirely certain George is the one. So he hasn't got to put up much of a fight... but in a way, that's all he knows to do.

a/n: I've been so busy!? But like I said, I'm commited to this story so here's part three! Gotta build up that drama..... Some true blue (probably poorly written) boxing content is about to be unleashed. So I've got a question.... would yall mind if the next chapter was written from Georg's point of view? Please let me know!

w/c: 3k

Part 2

───※ ·❆· ※───

The end of another weekend like the one before was shifted by the excitement of a party. The kids had completed their run of the Peter Pan musical, and you made it out to see the last show. All the dances you'd thought up for the musical were made better by the kids who nailed each move, young and old. And when it was over you invited the lot to come to the studio to celebrate all their hard work. You bought sweets and streamers and played music and danced all night long.

And when the kids had packed up and headed home, little Louis was still lingering near the door, standing on his tiptoes to peer out of the glass. You stalled in the middle of your clean up to meet him.

"Your mom isn't here yet, huh?" You knelt to meet him. His big brown eyes looked up into yours as his bottom lip stuck out in a pout.

"Danny is supposed to come get me. He forgot." Louis whimpered, fighting tears. You commiserated and pulled the kid into a hug, assuring that his big brother couldn't have forgotten and was likely just running late. After a quick call to the kids mother, who assured she'd track Danny down and send for Louis, you kept the music playing and offered him an extra slice of left over cake. You even danced around a little more, and taught Louis a watered down fouette that he nailed in the first couple of tries.

But when you glanced up at the clock another hour had passed and the worry in your gut that you'd been trying to suppress was sprouting. As you thought of who to call, there was a knock on the door as it creaked open.

It was Geogre, who you were just as surprised to see as Louis.

"Figured you might want help cleaning up." George grinned, easing into the room. Since the night you spent with him, you stayed two more days in George's flat. When your power finally came back on, you didn't have an excuse to stay any longer, and Geogre let you leave without begging otherwise. The last thing he said to you was that he'd pop round the studio this weekend, to help clean up the party you were planning.

But you didn't take his word for it. You figured he was just offering a polite farewell. You figured you wouldn't hear from him for the rest of the week, and you hadn't. You knew George wasn't like the other people you'd been with. But you didn't expect him to be as good as your imagination made him out to be, either. Nothing ever was. So how, despite your other predictions coming true, did George keep surprising you?

But before you could smile back at the guy you hadn't stopped thinking of since you broke your bloody hand, a question flashed urgently to mind.

"Hey, do you have Danny's number?" You asked, when George's big blue eyes landed curiously on Louis, who stood clutching your bright yellow sweatpants despite having met the brooding blonde once before.

George pulled his phone from his pocket in a flash, after shooting you a sure look. The way you could read his eyes then sent a chill down your spine. You hadn't seen him since he'd made you feel at home in his very own bed. You weren't sure how to act, now.

But before George could raise his phone to his ear, Danny strolled in the door.

"Louis, I'm sorry." He seemed to pant, resting his hands on his knees as you felt the kid relax at your side.

"Nice of you to make it." You frowned, unable to greet him happily. Danny was a nice guy, but this wasn't like him. It cracked your heart to see little Louis so worried, even though he smiled as he ate his extra bit of cake.

"I lost track of time on my run. Cross my heart it won't happen again." Danny nodded to you, seemingly truly apologetic. The dark headed fellow ushered his kid brother to grab his shoes so they could hit the road. And after a polite farewell, Danny and Louis were gone. You and George were left alone.

"Danny started his run before I left the gym, today." George noted, turning his curious gaze from the empty doorway to you.

You didn't want to worry. But something wasn't right. You knew Danny well enough to know that. But not enough to gossip. So you nodded past your furrowed brow and moved to start cleaning up. George followed your lead.

"You didn't have to come and help. But it's nice you did." You noted. There wasn't much to do. Tear down the dozen streamers, toss the rubbish and turn the lights out. No sooner than you'd had the trash in the bin, George had yanked down the streamers, and left them to rest on a shelf in the far back corner.

"Well I left my bag in the gym, so I did have to come back round here anyway." He explained, walking toward you as you turned to listen, "And I did tell you I'd be by to help." George didn't quite smile, but you noticed the turn of his lip and recognized the way his bright blue eyes lit up. As he stalled a step away, you glanced down for a beat to hide your blush.

"Both excuses just to see you again, of course." Geogre's voice softened as his piercing blue eyes locked on yours. You bit your lip to stall from bursting into nervous laughter.

"Oh yeah?" You asked, a small chuckle escaping. George rose a brow, reached over to switch the lights out and nudged your toward the gym to collect his things. You shuffled along, perhaps too quickly, with your shoes in hand, and sat on the bench along the wall to slide them on.

You let out a sigh mentally cursing yourself for putting off buying cheap slide on sneakers, because tying these was a hassle in your current one handed state. George heard you grumbling, crouched without question, and reached for the laces of your shoes.

"Two more weeks in this thing, then I won't need you anymore." You chuckled, resting your nonfunctional hand in your lap. You got to take the brace off whenever you pleased, but your doctor recommended another 14 day's worth of support. That meant another 14 days of feeling terribly embarrassed for how long it took you to do most basic things single-handedly.

As he pulled your laces into a bow George said, "But I'll still be around, so you better get used to it." The sweet smile he gave you settled your soul and sent your heart into a frenzy all the same. Where did the two of you stand? Just then, the entry door jostled open.

"What are you two still doing here?" Barney asked, with a hand on his chest, startled to find folks in the gym at such odd hours, relieved it was only you two all the same. The older man let the door shut as he shuffled in for a chat, you presumed.

It was a treat to see him, as you hardly seemed to these days. It was like none had passed since your last chat with the owner of this place, your safe haven, as his crooked smile shone your way. Sure he was a little older and his beard was peppered with white patches, but he was still the brilliant supportive fellow who'd talked more than most of the gym and studio patrons to stick around and be their best selves.

"Just another late night." George shrugged, standing from his spot on the floor at your feet. You started reaching for your jacket as George grabbed the bag he'd forgotten.

Barney explained he'd stopped by to do some paperwork in his office. Apparently, some big annual event was coming up, where all kinds of fighters from nearby states worked toward winning the top title and a pretty penny. You listened to the old man's rambles and watched his eyes glisten as he spoke of the excitement of it all. You wondered what kind of boyhood dream he might have had of the event he spoke of so fondly.

George listened too, offering Barney small grins as he collected his things.

"I know you're weary these days... but don't you miss it?" Barney asked George in a cautious yet obviously hopeful tone.

"I've got nothing to fight for, mate." George let out a small laugh, sliding his bag over his shoulder.

"S'that so?" Barney asked. The room fell silent for a beat as you stood to leave, catching Barney's curious gaze set on you. But before you could leave, the old gym owner had more to say.

"I'm looking for someone to sponsor, George." Barney shifted in his place, glancing at the guy at your side.

"I'm a trainer. Why shouldn't I sponsor someone?" George countered. You stood watching the unexpected standoff, biting your tongue.

"Because you could win this whole thing. You nearly did before throwing in the towel." Barney grew passionate, the sparkle in his eye shining brighter. "Even after all this time, you're better than half the meatheads who've been working for this."

George nodded, but not in agreeance, only in understanding. In a flash, you recalled all the things he'd told you about boxing, so far. Why he loved it. Why he hated it. What it all meant to him. You had no idea what might have been running through his mind now, though.

"It would be a shame for all your talent to go to waste in your prime." Barney challenged. "And winning... it's a lot of money. You could by your future and call this whole scene off for good; leave this moldy gym behind and paint all day, or press your own books or whatever hobby retirees pretend to like."

Barney started to back away as his speech came to an end, reaching for the door to the hall. George reached for your hand, all the same. The only one he could hold. He'd never done that, before.

"Just think about it, yeah?" Barney finished, opening the door, raising his brow and locking eyes with George before shuffling away. "And turn the lights out, you hooligans."

You let a small laugh escape your lips as you were left alone in the gym once more. You bit your lip and glanced up to George who was stood, already looking to you.

"What are you thinking?" You asked in a hush, curling your fingers around his a little tighter.

"I think it's time we head home," George spoke with a shy grin. He stepped toward the door that hadn't shut all the way, and turned the lights out. You floated along in a love-struck haze, glancing at the glowing light from the end of the hall where lied Barney's office, and wondered what the morning would bring.

///

You stayed with George that night, and spent it like the ones before. You woke up and weren't afraid to scurry about the kitchen and make some morning meal. Sadie wove between your feet, meowing in response to some of your questions about where on earth the salt and pepper might be hiding. George awoke to the sound of the kettle whistling and padded in to find you'd set out an impressive spread of things Geogre hadn't even realized he'd had the stock to create with.

He poured your tea, saying something about how he wanted to feel like he was helping, and the two of you ate in a comfortable quiet. He asked about your week ahead, and you asked about his, and then you decided to see yourself out. Because you wanted nothing more than to stay right where you were, but you couldn't overstay your welcome.

George let you go without much more than a pleasant goodbye, and you wondered what the hell was going on. He obviously liked you enough to bring you home, more than once. And your own feelings were seriously sickening.

You tried not to worry much. In fact as you went about your usual routine, you felt glad that you'd gotten the chance to know George as well as you had. If nothing more came of your knowing him, you could only feel elated that you had, in some very lucky ways.

You tidied up your home, called your landlord to send for an electrician, and headed out to the studio. You taught kids to dance, and went to the local college to help the newly established cheerleading squad stick to a certain rhythm. You were talked into thinking up a program for the local nursing home, by one of the mothers who stuck around to watch you teach her child one on one. All the while, you tried not to worry when Louis wasn't showing up as often, and took his mother's word that his schooling was becoming more intense. And then you went home at the end of every day to something falling apart, much like usual. You'd come to treasure the bus ride to your place; the calm before the storm of stepping foot into the dingy old flat.

When the weekend came and ended, George was at the end of the hall, waiting for you. A routine you'd grown fond, and a little tired of. Would you be stuck in this loop with him, forever? You accepted his offer to DeAngelos with a grin, and felt bad that you couldn't invite him over to your place, in turn. Not if he enjoyed staying warm and didn't mind the sound of melting snow dripping from at least one place in every room.

"It's the holidays. What do you normally do for them?" George asked on another drive to your beloved weekend restaurant, at the end of another mundane week. Only this time, the town square was setting up fairy lights and plastic snowmen as Geogre drove by.

"Not much, these days." You shrugged, already dreading the coming week your landlord would be an ocean away, with his family, leaving you quite literally, in the dark.

"Good." George said. It made you laugh. He invited you to come and stay on Christmas eve. You tried to pretend it wasn't a big deal, but agreed in a hurried manner, in case too much silence set in and changed his mind to take back the offer.

So you stayed with him that night.

And then the next.

And the next.

And one morning you woke up and realized a whole week had passed, and you'd been totally unaware of anything besides George. Besides the way he'd taken to holding you close as you fell asleep. The way he'd wake earlier than you to make breakfast, even when you tried to beat him to it. Even the way he kept to himself, as you watched films or sat in the quiet of the same rooms. He'd shoot you a look with those crystal blue eyes and you'd feel dangerously right at home.

So one night, when the threat of another average work week was one sleep away, you got the guts to say something.

"I could tell you that my shower stopped working. And my ceiling is leaking. Or, I could just tell you I really like staying with you, anyway." You grinned, lingering in the kitchen doorway. George looked up from whatever he was so concentrated on making and said,

"Good."

It made you giggle.

"I wouldn't like to see you go." He added, before waving you over to try the recipe he'd been working on.

So you stayed with him that month. And you shared his bed. But nothing else had much changed. You went about your separate jobs and duties. You met up for dinner, and chatted over things you always used too. And then you'd go to sleep.

It perplexed you, but you knew better than to question what was going on between the two of you. And you were too scared of ruining a good thing by pushing to make it better so you didn't curl into his side unless he pulled you in first. And you didn't ask any of the millions of questions you had unless he'd approach the topic himself, and those times were more rare than anything.

And in between it all, there was the hell hole of a place you called your own apartment. On trips over to collect a new set of nightclothes or switch out the buckets that caught the numerous leaks, you didn't know what to do. This place was only worth it, because it's all you could afford. You still needed to save up for another year to even dream of moving. Even though it was a mess, it was all you had.

As you sat going through bills and junk mail, a knock came on your door. You rushed over to answer it, ready to give your landlord an earful. But your slimey, frail landlord wasn't looming in the doorway. Instead, you found George with a worried expression on his pretty sculpted face.

"I've been trying to call you for ages." He spoke, batting the hood of his jacket away and stepping past you, inside. He'd been around a couple times, but only to help you shut the broken window, and another to bring you back to his place. You hated to let him in, though you kept the place clean and in order, it felt as if you were living in a damp cardboard box.

"My phone died," You sniffled, wrapping your sweater a little tighter around your frame to beat the cold. You could have charged it, but sure enough as you plugged something into an outlet your power would have gone out. So you didn't.

You followed George's lead toward the kitchen where you'd only just come from. He took in a seat in the chair you'd been sat in sorting through the mail, and before you could pull out the other seat, George latched onto you. He pulled you to his lap without a word, and ran his strong hands along your arms in an effort to stop you from freezing. You dared not question it. You only settled against his chest and lost yourself in the feeling of George's embrace.

"What did you need?" You wondered after a while, keeping your head tucked against his shoulder. George kept his hands traveling against your arms, slower than before, but still. You could feel the rumble of his gentle response when he spoke.

"I wanted to ask you something."

You meekly encouraged George to go on, and stayed glued to his side. He stilled his movements to loosely wrap his arm around your middle.

"I've been thinking of what Bareny said." George spoke softly. You rose a brow and waited. After a beat of silence George asked,

"If I do it... if I say yes," George chose his words with great care, and you felt his fingers curl around the fabric of your sweater. "Would you be there?"

You had to peel yourself from him now. You had to see his piercing blue eyes lock onto yours.

"Of course I'd be there." You said, searching his face and the barely unchanged furrow of his brow.

"Why would you ask that?" You wondered through a small grin. Hadn't you made it obvious you were well attached to George by now? That you'd go any place he so much as nodded you toward following along?

He searched your face now too, keeping one of his fists balled around the fabric of your top, and the other of his hands wrapped around you.

"No one ever used to come." George shrugged. "Well, my dad just the once." You thought back to the photo framed in the hall of George's home, as he spoke to the tune of the drip of your ceiling. "But then he passed and... well there was no one. And that's why I stopped."

George explained that coming home to an empty house night after night seemed to make his aches and pains from all the fights seem even harder to handle. He said it wasn't worth it, hurting all the time. He said he wasn't sure if it was worth even thinking about now, but that he couldn't get Bareny's offer off his mind.

When he'd finished saying the most at once than he ever really had, you placed both hands, even the bandaged one, on either side of his face and felt George's arm tighten around your middle.

"Whatever you decide, I'll support you. I'll be there if you go. And I'll be here if you stay."

You watched George watch you with those brilliant eyes of his, and felt his calloused hands pull you ever closer toward him. You could tell, somehow, that George had already made up his mind. And you realized that even though you couldn't tell what was running through his head, that you'd managed to learn how to read him, and a wave of some kind of contentment washed over you.

And after stamping an assured kiss to his lips, George moved to stand, nudging you to do the same. Then he said,

"Get your things. Let's go home."

───※ ·❆· ※───

taglist: @haileymorelikestupid @maria-josefin @imaginesandyeah @queen-bunnyears @okaymackay

#george mackay #george mackay x reader #george mackay imagine #george mackay fanfic #Boxer!George

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paullicino · 5 years ago

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Vancouver

As the sun sets into the Pacific Ocean, each mountain wears a different shade of serenity, growing fainter and fainter as they fade like ageing memories. The most distant lack all definition, dissolving into the sky, barely any different to the clouds above them.

Every time I see a view like this I think of the term aerial perspective. I think about how I learned it through my very imperfect attempts to educate myself about art. The background of the Mona Lisa shows aerial perspective. Leonardo was one of the first Western painters to show distant objects as hazy and indistinct. Some critics will suggest that it represents the mysterious nature of the subject. I think it represents the past.

I’m not a religious person, but I think every sunset might be a miracle. Many of my best memories are of summer evenings and if there’s an afterlife for people who have been good, it’s an infinite sunset where all the day’s duties are done and there are no more worries beyond choosing the best spot to sit. The world is awash with the most romantic of colours, but it’s also populated by the unremarkable and the urbane. These hours are made of a million tiny moments and the delight is in the details.

Everything is familiar. This city is almost the same as I left it, an experience I find strangely alienating. I was expecting adjustment. I was expecting to have to settle again. It’s as if every element but one is identical.

Me.

As the sun goes down, the skunks come out. They forage around bins and they scrape away at lawns because this is where they find the scraps and the bugs that make them plump and doddering. They can’t see very much and their terrible eyesight and constant hunger tempt them into all sorts of trouble. They will bumblingly and brazenly trace a scent straight to your feet before realising that you are a person, not a pole. What then follows is a flustered flurry of scuttling and confusion, but it’s all over in a moment and their noses are soon back on the ground.

Oh, to be scared for only a moment and then to be all right again.

I imagine the quick retreats and the wide berths they are given have helped downtown skunks become so habituated to humans. These great lanky creatures never interfere with them, even if they’re underfoot, leading to a complicated coexistence where it can sometimes be difficult not to step on a skunk and essential to accommodate its every whim. Dogs, however, introduce an entirely different dynamic and many a dog owner puts themselves in peril if they let their pet get too curious.

I have never had any trouble with these tiny trash animals. I have been investigated, followed and sniffed on more than a few occasions, but staying calm and showing that I am no threat has saved me every time. Making noise is also a sensible idea, as the creatures are often too caught up in their dinner to notice anything until it’s right on top of them.

I meet a lot of skunks because I go out a lot. I have never lived anywhere else where I go out so often. I frequently walk with no objective and no destination in mind. I don’t know what waits for me. I will find a fifty-year-old car in immaculate condition. I will find a raccoon on a fence. I will find a good cup of coffee. The small things are often the best. The delight is in the details.

This is the way it always was here, which feels very odd now. How can things be the same after so long?

It’s difficult for me to recall the final weeks of 2017, the time when Canadian immigration told me to leave. I know that, back then, I never expected to be gone for over a year and a half. I know that I saw my departure as an adventure and not the start of some seemingly endless journey. There weren’t supposed to be any great changes. None of the things that happened were supposed to happen.

Most of the people I have come back to here were not witness to those changes. They have not been where I have been. They have not seen or heard or touched or felt the things that I have. I feel that, should I start talking about all of my experiences, I might as well be telling fairy tales. Even now I’m not sure how real these things are. They fade. The most distant lack all definition.

I have been unpacking things that I left in storage with friends. I must’ve packed these things in a hurry, because some of them weren’t worth keeping and others are strange things to choose to pack. A few are extremely personal and very much needed looking after. They include a stuffed bear I have had since I was a year old and also my Cheburashka.

Nobody knows what Cheburashka is. He is “an animal unknown to science” who fell out of a box of oranges one day, somewhere in Soviet Russia, in a story not unlike a fairy tale. A series of stop-motion children’s films describe his attempts to understand himself and to make a home far away from wherever it is he is supposed to have come from. He finds a house and a job and friends and acceptance. He is small and brown and has large ears and behaves a little like a bear cub.

When I squeeze my Cheburashka he says indecipherable things in Russian about friendship and kindness. Unfortunately I can no longer reach out to the person who could translate these for me. I know one of the things he asks is if you’ll accept him without knowing what he is.

He sits beside my bed once more and watches as I try to understand myself and all the rest. My thoughts are indecipherable things in English about friendship and kindness.

Everything else I have unpacked has been a kind of digital time capsule. My old phone showed me photos and videos of routines I had taken for granted and never expected to lose. I turned on my iPad and it presented me maps of distant places full of distant people. My old, old laptop grunted and groaned and took a day to run dozens of updates, before grumbling that Windows 7 will soon be obsolete. Hey, it then said, here’s all the things you cared about in 2017. Here’s what you loved. Do you still love it? I don’t know, cause I’ve been sleeping so long and maybe your human love fades like your ageing memories.

I don’t know if we ever stop loving things. I’m not sure if there’s an expiry date or a statute of limitations. I know that I love sunsets and skunks, that I love fifty-year-old cars in immaculate condition, raccoons on fences and a good cup of coffee. I’m glad all of those things are still here. It can be all too easy to lose the things that you love, particularly when you chase after that which is less important.

The sun sinks below the Pacific Ocean, all of those mountains disappear into dusk and I know now that the most important things in the world are friendship and kindness. That people are priceless and paramount. That delight is in the details. That I had to make so many of the changes that I did in my life because of love. And that it’s really easy to forget, particularly in the pursuit of the less important.

Someone different came back to the same place. That’s the opposite of what was supposed to happen. But I’m so glad that I made all of the changes that I did. That I tried so much. That I never gave up hope. Because I almost did. That’s something I haven’t told you about yet.

It will be sunrise again soon and not so long until the next sunset. Aerial perspective will make everything about distance and definition. I will still love all the things I did in 2017. There were just a few things that happened in between.

Writing like this is funded by my Patreon. If you enjoyed this, please consider sharing it and supporting me there for as little as $2 a month. That’s less than 50 cents a week and the pledges I receive make a big difference to me.

#Cheburashka #Vancouver #aerial perspective #skunks #travel #Patreon

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sirkkasnow · 5 years ago

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13 Take ‘Em For All They’re Worth

Ao3 link

07/26/13 Friday

Stan pulled himself together before dawn on Friday, hating every second of it, and shuffled down to the kitchen for an emergency infusion of caffeine. He paused in the doorway.

Clary and Ford were already up. They stood side by side, looking out the window across the misty lawn and the shrouded tents. She was dressed for the day and ready to go, complete with bandana, Ford in flannel pants and a well-worn t-shirt. Clary spotted movement at the door and murmured to Ford as she turned away. “See you in a few. Good morning, Stan. All set?”

“Ask me that after a couple shots of coffee.” They did a little do-si-do in the middle of the kitchen as Stan went for the pot and a mug. He shot a questioning look at his brother as Clary eased out of the room and got a vague shrug in return.

Ford finished off a last mouthful of marshmallow-studded cereal and set his bowl in the sink. “I’ll be right back once I’ve changed. We’ll be taking the truck, I believe, she plans on hauling everything up here in one go.”

“Fantastic.” Stan dumped too much sugar into his coffee, stirred twice with the handle of Ford’s spoon and drank, wincing against the heat.

The kitchen at Greasy’s was scrubbed to a shine when they got there. He knew for a fact that the place usually lived up to the name. Even the sink was empty, shelves groaning under the unaccustomed weight of every clean plate in the joint.

They were early but there was already some activity, the skinny kid who was running the morning shift for the summer glancing up as they arrived. “Morning, Miss Clary!”

“Good morning, James.” Clary plucked aprons off a hook and tossed one each at Ford and Stan before strapping on her own, blotched with faded pink and with a ‘Bobbi’ nametag pinned at the shoulder. “We should be done well before noon but we’ll have to share space. I’m going to help run the tables if it gets lively out front.”

She headed for the dented door of the walk-in fridge, rummaged around inside for a minute, then hauled out a bin stacked high with plucked fryer chickens. “Ten pieces per bird. Drumstick, thigh, wing and we’ll halve the breast. Has either one of you done this before?”

Ford looked slightly appalled. Stan stuck up a hand. “Been a while, but yeah, I can piece one out pretty quick.”

“Show me,” she ordered, and Stan did, while Clary started measuring out flour and spices into a wide bowl. “Looks good. Toss the carcasses and the wingtips into that.” She indicated a giant stockpot on a back burner with a set of tongs. “I’m trading out a chicken-and-dumplings special for part of the kitchen time.”

“So now you’re a short-order cook?” Stan eyed her sidelong and Clary raised a brow at him.

“So far as this shindig is concerned, I’m a four-star chef. Get chopping.”

Ford got a crash course in dredging while Clary fired up a pair of gigantic cast iron Dutch ovens over at the cooktop. The scent of frying chicken gradually filled the air, and Stan had to admit that it smelled good. James kept glancing over with his nose twitching between rounds of flipping flapjacks.

When they were all a bit punch-drunk on divvying up chickens, Clary held one up by the neckbone and waggled it at Ford. “Behold, a man!” Ford doubled over, wheezing with laughter, and had to be left to recuperate in a kitchen chair for a good five minutes for reasons Stan could not even begin to fathom.

There was a wicked glint in Ford’s eye when Clary headed out into the diner to drop off another breakfast order. “If you don’t get around to smoothing this over, I will.”

Stan jolted as though he’d been stung. “Excuse me? I saw her first!”

“If you want to get technical, I did. She really is an interesting woman. Far too interesting to just let her drive off into the sunset, for certain. Why, I’d bet she would make an excellent assistant.”

“You try to pull that ‘assistant’ crap with her and I’m pretty sure she’ll blister your ears clean off.” Stan scowled down at the hapless chicken he’d just split down the middle with a too-vigorous stroke of the cleaver. “I’ll talk to her after tonight’s big thing, long’s she’s still speakin’ to me after dinner with the Gravity Falls elite.”

Ford hummed to himself, deftly dunking chunks of chicken into seasoned flour and dusting them off. “She doesn’t hate you, Stanley,” he said at length, all humor set aside. “She won’t dismiss you out of hand.”

God, I hope not, thought Stan, parting out the bird on his cutting board into neat serving pieces and shoving them along down the assembly line.

Clary stuck her head in over the order counter. “Fellas, how many chickens have we got left? I’ve got half a dozen people out here wanting the chicken-and-waffles special we didn’t plan for.”

They ended up raiding Greasy’s scant backstock of fryers and sending out plates of the ‘special’ at a tidy premium between rounds of finishing off the dinner birds and taking stock of everything that had already been prepared. Tate’s spare pickup truck was packed to the gills with bags of ice, foil-wrapped trays of fried chicken, more buckets of side dishes than Stan could easily identify and the sixteen cherry pies Clary had baked off with Susan yesterday.

By the time they were headed back up towards the Shack, Clary driving with casual precision and an arm draped half out the window, the sun was well up and the sky clear. At least they’d lucked into a perfect picnic day.

Clary trundled the pickup right over to the long table set aside for the buffet. Soos and Melody were working on the speakers; Dipper and Mabel waved from the balcony high up on the side of the Shack. “All right. Everything’s cold right where it is so we’re going to let it stay put for a bit. We’ve got a crew coming in to help set up the food in about an hour.” She shifted into park, shut down the engine and pulled out her phone, skimming through the checklist.

“What, we have servers?” Stan blinked over at her across Ford.

“Mmhm, we need someone to keep the buffet loaded. I think you should both check in with Mabel once you’ve washed up.” Her regard came up, refocusing, an amused little smile plucking at her lips. “We’ve all got outfits.”

“What?!”

“Relax, it’s just a new Hawaiian shirt. We all have to look our best, you know.” Clary slid out of the truck and shouted up to the balcony. “Mabel! How’s it going up there, honeybee?”

Ssssssshhhthunk! A long strand of pastel pennants shot out across the yard, carried by the modified grappling hook and snagging into the branches of a convenient pine. “Looking great, Clary! All the table arrangements are done and if I may say so they look plenty snazzy!”

“Great job! There’s still some work to do but I’ll be ready to change in about an hour!” Clary looked down along the line of gleaming steel chafing dishes with a critical eye and reached out to tweak one more precisely into line. Stan shuffled up alongside her, hands in pockets.

“This, ah. This is kinda a lot, isn’t it.”

“We’ve got a lot of folks to feed. Might as well make it memorable.”

“I didn’t plan for it t’get this big.”

Clary clicked her tongue and gave him a sharp look. “You sold fifty tickets. People are still calling the front office.”

“I swear I had no idea - ”

She threw up her hands, already turning away. “Just - keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll get through. This is going to be a great party. It’ll be fine.”

The cloud of doom hanging over his head didn’t ease up one damn bit, even as he did a quick walk around the tables and found everything in order, even when he helped Soos set up the series of streamer-festooned ice chests they’d be serving soda pop from. He’d been so busy with the station wagon and the exhibit that only now did he really get a feel for the scale of the enterprise.

She was, he thought ruefully, good at this.

When Clary reappeared her carefully pinned-up hair was still damp. The party dress was knee-length and boat-necked, all abstract splashes of petal pink and soft orange with a fluttering silk kerchief to match. She swatted lightly at his shoulder as he hauled down a bucket of baked beans from the pickup. “Go on, you, go get respectable! I think Mabel hung your shirt on your door. We’ve got the rest of this.”

Three young ladies he half recognized as friends of Melody’s from the Meat Cute came trotting over at Clary’s signal, trim and polished in black slacks and crisp white shirts. “Helloooo, Mr. Pines,” they chorused, giggling among themselves as they went straight to work setting up the buffet.

Stan checked his watch. Picnic time at two. Guests were sure to start trickling in any minute. He ducked into the house, scrambled upstairs and groaned at the sight of his new shirt. As usual there was no telling how she’d pulled it off but Mabel had come up with one in summery pink and orange, patterned with tropical drinks, to match Clary. There was no time to argue so he showered and changed as quickly as he could.

Even from upstairs he could hear the rising chatter as people began to gather outside. Stan found a mirror, raked a hand through his still-damp hair, and pulled up the million-dollar smile.

“Still got it, Pines,” he muttered, all too aware of the bitter edge in the sentiment, and headed downstairs.

He’d been handling crowds for a living half his life, but after all the time cooped up on the boat with just Ford for immediate company it was still a bit of a shock to see this many folks assembled in one place. Melody, smiling sweetly at everyone, was collecting tickets and directing traffic.

Most of the usual suspects had managed to finagle invites somehow. The Corduroys were out in force, wearing what he swore was freshly ironed flannel. The Mayor had come up with an eye-searing suit jacket in scarlet and emerald parrots to go with the usual sash.

Ford - in orange, but not pink - had immediately gravitated to McGucket, the two anchoring a table out on the far fringe. They’d actually managed to attract a curious audience. A scatter of ruffled pink dresses dispersing and gathering again through the throng marked Mabel and her gang.

Clary was busy coordinating with the servers. The pickup had long since been unloaded and was well off to the side, parked in a neat line alongside the El Diablo and the Fairlane. People drifted over in the general direction of the buffet table, some tricked out in fancy party clothes, most in casual summer wear. The little Sterno cans under the hot dishes were doing their job and the scent of the bourbon baked beans was reeling them in quick.

Stan slid in alongside Clary. “They’re gonna stampede the buffet,” he said under his breath.

“Then it’s time we got to work. All we have to do is slow them down.” Clary crooked a finger and didn’t wait for him to follow before throwing herself into the fray. He stood back for a moment and just watched; she clasped hands and patted shoulders with the eternal enthusiasm of a born politician.

“Oh my,” she said in the midst of conversation, looking over to him with a glimmer of command in those cool eyes - ‘don’t you dare leave me out here alone,’ was what he read there - “you’re really going to have to ask Stan about that. He and his brother have had all kinds of adventures.”

He grumbled to himself, tacked on the grin and waded in after her to trade pleasantries and tell tall tales about his time at sea. Between the two of them it was easy - Stan tossed bad jokes at Clary, she answered with a slyness that they couldn’t have scripted better. Amidst the general laughter, the lust for lunch was blunted enough to make the line almost orderly, and within a few minutes people were fanning out towards the tables with loaded-down plates.

Eventually Stan went in to sample the spread, looking out across the lawn while savoring messy bites out of a drumstick, and it occurred to him that this was going well. No explosions. No giant robots.

He caught Clary’s eye over a gaggle of guests and flashed her a thumbs up. Her lips twitched in return.

There was only one issue and he didn’t even register it until nearly an hour later - he hadn’t had a chance to spend any time with her at all.

That stayed true as the afternoon wore on. The buffet was increasingly picked over by ravenous locals led by the Corduroys. Clary drifted from group to group, never carrying anything more substantial than a bottle of water, laughing as she gathered names and asked what everyone was doing for the summer.

Shadows were growing long by the time he finally managed to end up next to her in an eddy of relative quiet. Clary tipped back her head and downed half her water in a few gulps, barely glancing over. “Looking good so far,” she murmured, her eyes tracking out across the scattered crowd. “When do we expect the dance crew to start trickling in?”

“Half an hour, maybe. Listen, did you even get lunch?”

“Enough to tide me over. I’d better make sure the leftovers are getting packed up.”

Stan leaned in a little, trying to catch her direct attention. “Can’t you take a bit of a break? I’m sure the girls you brought in are doin’ fine. See, Melody’s already on it. Have you even sat down this afternoon?”

Clary rocked back in response, regard narrowing as she finished off the last of her water. “Since when do you hover like an anxious parent?”

“Since I’ve watched you spend the whole damn week puttin’ this thing together. Aren’t you gonna enjoy yourself?“

“Whose party is it anyway?” Her perfectly pink lips curved in a wry slash. “It’s under control, Stan, no trouble. We actually have enough to feed everybody and then some, and they all seem to be having a swell time.”

“Fine. Yeah. You’ve done a hell of a job with hostin’.” Clary spared him an ironic dip of the chin. “We got a ways to go yet, though, so will you at least do me a favor and let someone else do the cleanup?” Sincerity felt all kinds of weird on his tongue, but she was deflecting like a champ even though he could see the weariness behind the veneer.

The line of her shoulders softened a bit. “No promises. But I’ll try to stay out of the way.”

“Maybe I can sweeten the deal a little.”

“Mmhm. I might be willing to listen.”

He let his voice drop into a low cajoling rumble. “All right, so, once things calm down some - “

“Hey. Stan.” Dammit.

Pacifica cut across the lawn,wearing a determined frown. “Listen, you should know that my parents got themselves dance tickets, so you’re probably going to see them this evening.”

“Wait, really?” Stan looked at her in doubt. “I didn’t think minglin’ with us common folk was ever gonna be on their radar.”

“Yes. Well. This year’s been educational for both of them. Honestly I think they’re kinda bored? And congratulations, you really did manage to throw the biggest party of the summer.” Pacifica nodded to Clary, who blinked in surprise. “I just wanted you to know they’re coming.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” Clary said cautiously.

Pacifica tossed her hair back. “I hope not. Good luck out there. You two look, ah, very well coordinated.” Her assessing eyes raked over them both as she twirled away.

Clary glanced over, mouth twisted in a dubious line. Stan shrugged. “They’ll probably be a pain in the ass, but it’s not like they can do much damage. Hell, we did sell tickets to half of town. I’d bet on them gettin’ one clear look at this crowd and bailin’.”

“Anyone else I should be looking out for?”

“Everythin’s under control. Don’t you worry your pretty head. Just keep pourin’ on the charm.”

She didn’t quite laugh, tugging out her phone to check the time. “Sixty minutes to showtime. I’d better head in for my costume change.”

“Lemme guess, we’re gonna be coordinated again.”

“I don’t really know but I definitely have an outfit.” Clary tipped him a mocking salute as she stepped away. “See you in around an hour for the next act.”

Stan watched her go with a sigh, then jumped as Mabel’s voice piped up just to his left. “You should be fine in your mystery suit, Grunkle Stan. You look plenty sharp in that. Soos had it cleaned and pressed.” She winked, then glided past with an anxious Ford in tow. “He was gonna do an ‘Our Founder’ tribute exhibit but I talked him out of it until the end of the summer, so you’ll just have to be a relic in the flesh for tonight!”

“I’m not encouraged, Mabel!” he yelled after her.

“It’s gonna be great! Trust me!” She vanished inside with Ford, who managed to catch Stan’s eyes in desperation as the door closed. Tough luck, Sixer.

The serving crew had what was left of dinner packed away by now and were dishing out cherry pie, lemon bars and explosive krispy treats to anyone who had the energy for more. For the moment everyone was stunned into somnolence by food. Lucky ticket-holders were draped over the Northwests’ fancy garden party chairs like victims of a weaponized lullaby. Stan snagged a couple of lemon bars on the way past, scarfing them down without regard for the sprinkle of powdered sugar he ended up wearing, and headed into the house.

There was no telling where Ford had ended up. Stan didn’t really want to know, Sixer was a big boy and could take care of himself and Mabel probably wouldn’t cause any permanent damage and he had his own problems to deal with, starting with the suit he found hanging neatly on the inside of his bedroom door.

He ran careful fingers down the sleeve. This had actually been decent when he’d scavenged it up half a decade ago, wool instead of polyester for once. Since he’d last worn it someone had done delicate work with a needle to mend the frayed spots at cuffs and inseam. The scorch marks had been professionally rewoven.

Stan thought he’d shed this particular skin for good. He shoved down misgivings he didn’t have time for, tossed aside the Hawaiian shirt and buckled down to business.

The old suit fit well – better than well, actually, he was a bit slimmer than he’d been at the end of last summer. No hat, of course, that had passed down to Soos. With squared shoulders and all the swagger he could conjure he headed out to the bathroom and the biggest mirror in the house.

He stood looking into his reflection, tweaking his ribbon tie one last time and feeling a bit out of place, when a tap came light at the door. “Yeah, yeah, just a minute.”

“Are you decent? I just need a moment with the mirror.” Crap. Her.

“Sweetheart, never in my life have I been decent. C’mon in.”

Clary drew the door open and stood aside to let him emerge into the hall. Her frank regard swept him from toes to crown. “Looking good, Stanley. The pictures don’t do the real thing justice.”

Words died in his throat as he got a chance to take her in - black sleeveless cocktail dress, wide neckline showing off her collarbones, flared skirt, tightly cinched waist with a tiny rhinestone buckle at the center. Her hair was pulled back in waves to a French twist. The inevitable scarf was a broad, soft band of scarlet silk wrapped twice and pinned to cascade down the center of her back.

“Not bad yourself, Miz Merrick.” Stan managed to swipe the gobsmacked look from his face in less than a second, though he was sure she’d noticed. He caught her hand and bowed over it with a flourish to cover. “You’re gonna break hearts out there.”

“I’m just here to show folks a good time.” Her smile was small and a little tired, her fingers soft though he could still feel the bumps of fresh calluses on her palm. There was a fleeting squeeze as she ducked past him to the mirror, touching up ruby lipstick and clipping more rhinestones at her ears.

“Ready to knock ‘em all dead?”

“Let’s go give the people what they came for.” She looped her hand lightly into the crook of his offered arm.

The house was quiet as they walked through the shadows of gathered twilight. No one had been through to snap on all the lights but both of them were comfortable enough with the internal peculiarities of the place to navigate.

Stan paused at the door which led from the house to the museum proper, where they’d cleared enough space for the dance floor. A faint undercurrent of conversation and music was just audible. He glanced over to her, aware of the tension singing in her spine, and flicked a broad wink when he saw her focus shift in response. “What’s the worst that can happen?” he whispered. “We got this, kid.”

Clary heaved an inaudible sigh and nodded. He set his hand to the doorknob and led her through before either of them could think better of it.

They stepped out into the party space at the dance floor’s edge and someone, somewhere, had been watching.

A musical cue welled up and a spotlight picked them out before they’d made it more than a couple of feet. Clary froze, her fingers going rigid at Stan’s elbow.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Our hosts for this evening, the Mystery Shack’s own Mr. Mystery and Miz Enigma!” Soos’ cheerful tones rang out on the speakers, and dozens of eyes turned their way. A spatter of polite-or-curious applause rippled along the room.

“Oh my god,” Clary hissed through bared teeth. “I didn’t know I was getting promoted.”

“Neither did I,” muttered Stan, making a mental note: Have a serious conversation with Soos about this later. His own grin snapped wide as he waved back at the crowd. “Sorry, doll, guess we’re on the spot. Just look at me,” which she did, terror and indignation in her eyes. “Take a bow,” which she did, dipping in a reflexive curtsy as he stepped back and bent at the waist, showing her off with a flash of his free hand. “An’ hang on tight. We’ve done this a dozen times.”

He swept her into his arms and after one stiff millisecond she followed. Her palm lit at his shoulder, his at her waist. Clary was collected enough to sweep her searchlight smile out across their audience as they took the first few whirling strides across the boards. “Just think about how righteously pissed off you are at me.”

“Rest assured you’re going to pay for this.” Threat or not, she breathed it into his ear in passing and he shuddered despite himself, then spun her out into a pirouette that tugged gasps from startled throats. Oh, yeah, they had this just fine.

Whoever the hell was in charge of the tunes - no way that wasn’t Mabel - had taken pity on them because come on really they’d walked into a total ambush. The song was familiar, his steps and hers were sure and solid, and by the time Stan dipped her nearly upside down the grin she wore was the real thing.

The room exploded with applause. Stan got Clary upright, he bowed, she curtsied, and the crowd closed in on them. Mabel muscled her way right to the front and caught his free hand. “My turn!” she called.

Clary plucked a scarlet-eared Dipper out of the throng. “Come on, Dipper. I promise I’ll make you look good out there.” He stammered as she winked, and the four of them wheeled out across the floor for a few bars before everyone else joined in.

The joint was jammed. Stan had lost track of how many dance tickets they’d sold days ago but ‘half of town’ seemed pretty accurate. They got through three more tunes, both he and Clary trading off partners each time, before the overflow spilled out into the yard. He followed along both to control the stampede a bit and to catch a breath of fresh air. The evening was well into deep twilight by now, a breeze picking up to provide some relief from the heat.

Guests were picking up and moving tables out of the way, clearing most of the space they’d set up for the picnic. Someone had gotten the roof lights going so folks wouldn’t trip unless they really tried to.

He’d long since lost track of Clary as the chaos level ratcheted up, more and more townies and a handful of tourists swirling onto the grounds past Melody’s ticket booth. When the brief squeal of a police siren fired up he nearly jumped out of his skin. The sheriff’s cruiser rolled up to the Shack, Blubs half hanging out of the passenger window, Durland at the wheel.

Stan straightened the suit and headed over, knowing full well that his smile was a little strained. “What’s shakin’, officers? Felt like you were missin’ out? Or is the middle of town just that empty since everyone’s here?��

“Oh, it’s pretty quiet downtown, all right. But this particular gathering looks like it might be getting a bit out of hand.” Blubs tweaked his shades up and smiled placidly at Stan. “Just how many people did the fire department decide you could jam into the Shack again?”

“Well, see, that’s why everyone’s outside, it was gettin’ hot in there anyway. Fresh air, good company, I’m sure everyone’s just gonna settle down an’ chat.” Something was moving around on the roof; he couldn’t quite get a bead on it from the corner of one eye. Hopefully the damn goat.

“I don’t know, Stan. This might be approaching illegal levels of fun.”

Durland snickered cheerfully from his side of the car.

“Don’t you give me that, Blubs, I know Soos got the permits for this thing, this’s just a peaceful family party with a really big extended family - “ Yeah, that was not the goat on the roof, that had to be Soos from the bit of silhouette he was able to catch, shifting something huge and squarish into place at Wendy’s old hangout spot.

Stan looked back over his shoulder just in time to catch a faceful of floodlight. He yelped, dazzled, then managed to resolve the dark shapes up there into Soos with a speaker nearly as tall as he was.

"Hey, Mr. Pines!" Soos shouted from up top. "I thought things might get pretty nuts, so we've got a backup plan!" He jabbed a button and the whole space around the Shack filled with booming music. The party attendees cheered and Stan groaned under his breath. Just as well the grass was more or less blasted to a crisp by this time of year anyway.

“See?” Stan half-yelled over the thump of the bass. “Just a nice mellow gatherin’ that is totally not gonna run into the municipally mandated quiet hours!” Soos was fiddling with the lights up top. Another switch flipped and a mirror ball whirred to life, scattering a million multicolored spangles across the trees, the ground, the guests, the Shack, and the cruiser. Another roar of approval went up.

Blubs shook his head, stepped out of the car and clambered up onto the hood. “Deputy, hit the lights!” Durland obliged. Swaths of red and blue swept out over the crowd, a few people blinking back in surprise.

The sheriff waited a beat until he had the attention of most of the folks outside, then whipped off his duty shirt - sweet Moses, that was a sequined tank top underneath - and shouted, full-throated, “Let’s dance!”

Both Blubs and Durland hurled themselves into the crush of jiving couples.

Stan sagged against the cruiser and wondered how much longer he had to live.

Soos emerged from the Shack in a new suit after a couple minutes. This one had mirror-tile lapels and a matching fez for pity’s sake. He and Melody managed the mayhem like a couple of practiced hands, music and lights shifting to direct the dancers through an eclectic track list that kept everyone’s feet in motion.

Stan was about ready to roll up his sleeves and start plowing through in search of Clary, and for that matter his brother, when both appeared around the further shadowed edge of the yard. Apparently she’d managed to track down both Ford and McGucket; she had an arm from each of them locked up in her own and approached the cruiser at a brisk clip. McGucket cackled with glee all the while.

Stan met them halfway. “You three all right? Sixer, what the heck - ?” Ford was tricked out in a three-piece suit and looked more dapper than he did. “Where’d that thing come from?”

“You didn’t manage to go through all the storage space in the house.”

“The hell I didn’t.” They eyed one another narrowly for half a second until Clary chimed in.

“We’re beating a strategic retreat. I had to rescue these two from a fascinated horde of Gravity Falls’ most eligible ladies.” Ford coughed sheepishly into his sleeve.

“I ain’t had this much fun since last summer!” McGucket patted Clary’s hand and peered up at her. “Why don’t we do this at my place next year? The Hootenanny Hut’s got plenty a’space!”

Pure surprise arched her brows and parted her lips for a bare moment. She flicked a tiny, fleeting glance over to Stan - he wasn’t sure what she was looking for, because he was as startled as she was - then she answered McGucket with a tentative smile. “I guess we can talk about it, Fiddleford. Come on, let’s get something to drink. See you when it all settles down, Stan. If anyone wants a dance with the hostess you know where to send them.”

But I want a dance with the hostess, was what he didn’t say. “Trust me, kid, I’ve seen crazier than this. Soos an’ I can keep it all under control.”

Someone shouted ‘CONGA!’ behind him and he gave Clary the cockiest of grins as cheers rang out from the crowd. “I’d get while the gettin’s good, though.”

She almost said something, then snapped her mouth shut and led her charges up the Shack stairs. Ford looked back over one shoulder with a deepening frown. Stan shrugged and turned, grim-hearted, to make certain the conga line led by the Mayor didn’t wander right off the edge of the Bottomless Pit.

Another forty minutes of thankless idiot-herding elapsed before people finally started to wear out. Some collapsed onto scattered chairs, some shuffled wearily homeward into the night. Stan shook hands, clapped shoulders, smiled until his face ached and got as many of them off his damned property as he could manage.

“An’ don’t come back until you’re ready t’pay for the whole tour,” he muttered after one bedraggled group heading out along the drive. He stretched, wincing as his back creaked in a couple places. “Soos, think you got the rest of it handled?”

“No problem, Mr. Pines! What a night, huh?” Soos’s grin twinkled as brightly as his disco-ball suit. His enthusiasm hadn’t flagged all night. “I think they’re still going over in the museum. Miss Clary’s been dancing with anyone who asks nice. Dipper’s getting really good with the DJ turntable!”

Stan closed his eyes, counted to ten, and looked over to Soos. “Miz Enigma?”

Soos laughed. “Wasn’t that a nice surprise? One night only, exclusively at the Mystery Shack!” His hands traced a broad marquee arc in the air. “You should go on in, Mr. Pines, I bet she’d like to see you.”

Stan felt his joints lock up in hesitation, not feeling nearly as sure about that. Soos laid a steadying hand at his arm. After a second he screwed his courage down and straightened. “Fine. I mean if you insist.” He waggled brows at Soos with a confidence that was all surface luster and headed up the stairs.

The dance floor they'd set up inside the museum was an oasis of relative peace. Plenty of guests were still dancing but there wasn’t anything near the crush that had gotten so out of hand outside. He swept a look across the room - pretty much all people he recognized. Manly Dan was rounding up his sons who'd all but wiped out the snack table in one corner. Lazy Susan and a handful of the Greasy's staff perched on chairs and giggled among themselves.

The music was brassy and bright. Dipper sat behind the turntables chatting with Wendy and flipping through a crateful of old vinyl LPs. Clary’s musical taste had won the day in part, at least.

Many of the dancers had withdrawn to the edges of the room for a better view of Preston Northwest whirling Clary across the boards in a surprisingly expert tango. Apparently he had decided to mingle with the common folks.

Stan's hands tightened into fists on reflex. He stalked up to the border of the dance floor, landing right next to Priscilla. Cold fury radiated off her tense figure.

"Evenin', Mrs. Northwest." He got a glare and a fleeting sneer for that. Preston swept Clary through a turn, a dip and another turn, neither of them missing a beat. "Didn't figure you two would make it."

"We are the founding family," she replied, tone level if frosty. "Since we don't expect to host this year, Pacifica suggested we might gain something from slumming it a little." Even when she turned to look at him it wasn't quite direct, like her eyes wanted to slide right off. "I can't say I understand the appeal."

Stan shrugged. "Good. So, anyway, wanna dance?" Priscilla scoffed in delicate disbelief. "Can't think of a better way to cheese off your husband out there."

He watched that sink in, perfect lips peeling back from perfect teeth in a sort of posh snarl, and when she caught his hand and dragged him out onto the floor he allowed it. She wasn't half bad. Stan handled her with all the respect he’d give a wagonload of dynamite, alert as they traced an arc that would intercept Clary and Preston just before this particular tune ended.

“Excuse me,” Priscilla hissed sweetly just as they came into easy range, “may I cut in?”

Clary immediately raised both hands and took two steps back from a startled Preston. “My word, Priscilla dear, please do.” Stan caught her by the waist and swung her away as the Northwests sized each other up.

He felt her tremor of relief as she half-sagged into his arms, one hand light at the back of his neck as they spun across the floor. “Thanks for the save.”

“Anytime, kid.” Over her shoulder the Northwests had taken their first few steps together, so practiced that their whispered conversation didn’t disrupt them much. Not his problem.

The tune blurred into something softer, the tempo slowed, and for the first time that day there was a moment of shared quiet. Clary relaxed against him, cheek half pillowed at his shoulder. He didn’t dare burst the bubble for a while. Her feet were heavy - she’d been dancing without a break, he figured - and he was more than content to just shuffle along.

“So,” he murmured at length. “Wanna blow this popsicle stand?” Her chuckle vibrated against his chest. “Hop in the car, maybe go find someplace empty?”

“We’re hosting this thing.”

“C’mon. It’s almost midnight an’ it’s startin’ to slow down anyway. We’ll let Soos an’ the cops chase off the stragglers. Go check out the sky from somewhere nice an’ dark.” He had a clear look at her in the soft glow of the party lights, a few tendrils escaping her carefully set hair, pinpoint freckles scattered over her pale shoulders. “Moon should be comin’ up by now.”

“I mean it, Stan. You and I are on the clock until everyone’s gone.” Clary twitched her chin to indicate one side of the room. He followed the gesture, landed on Bud Gleeful happily chatting up Sheriff Blubs, and nearly tripped over her feet. She managed a neat little bit of waltzing jiu-jitsu to keep him upright. “Take it easy! I’ve been keeping him entertained for most of the last hour.”

“What the hell is he doin’ here?” Stan hissed.

“Bought a ticket, like pretty much everyone else.” He didn’t quite break out swearing but she patted his back soothingly anyway. “Mabel and her gang are keeping tabs on Gideon. Everything’s fine. Just play nice.”

Clary’s lips assumed a gentle, calculated curve as the song wound down. She walked fearlessly over to Gleeful with Stan in reluctant tow. “Bud, I know you said it was about time for you to head out? It’s been such a pleasure to have you.”

“My goodness, Miss Merrick, if you ain’t been the most generous hostess.” Gleeful clasped her hand in both of his, smiling past her to Stan. “It’s not often our little town is graced by such a treasure. So kind of you, Stan, to extend everyone the opportunity to enjoy her company.”

Stan folded his arms; it helped suppress the automatic urge to deck the guy. “Gleeful. Nice t’see you made it to the event of the summer. I’m so glad you had a swell time and we’re all so sorry you’ve gotta go.”

“Oh, it’s true, it’s gettin’ late and my sweet wife is about ready to faint.” Mrs. Gleeful was, in fact, spinning blissfully across the far end of the floor in the arms of the most handsome of the town’s firefighters. “But I understand Clara Jane here’ll be leavin’ us soon, so perhaps just one more dance to remember her by?”

Stan gritted his teeth so hard he felt the enamel creak. Clary shaded a pretty smile behind her fanned fingers. “Perhaps I’ll be back one of these days. I had no idea Gravity Falls was full of so many lovely people. Of course, Bud, by all means.” They strolled out past Stan as some mid-tempo number welled up on the sound system, Gleeful sparing him an amused glance on the way.

For a glum moment Stan just watched. A soft clearing of the throat to his left caught his attention, and he turned his head to spot Lazy Susan, dolled up in polka-dotted pink and a hopeful smile.

He heaved a shallow sigh and offered his arm. “C’mon, Susan. I guess I owe ya one.”

The evening finally wound down over the next half hour. Both Stan and Clary spent the whole time busy with goodbyes, last dances and air kisses. Clary pressed business cards into a few select palms and waved a cheerful farewell to the Northwests, who took a good bit of tension with them as they left.

The music ground to a halt as Stan shooed the last couple guests out the door. Dipper was half passed out in his DJ’s chair, cheek pillowed on one turntable. “Are we done, Grunkle Stan?” he yawned, propping himself up just enough to peer blearily over.

“That oughta do it, kid, we’re leavin’ the cleanup for tomorrow. Where’s Clary?”

“Said she was going to get some fresh air, I think.” Dipper straightened and stretched elaborately. “Man, I’m gonna sleep for a week.”

Stan struck out into the night, hunting through darkened garden-party tents, glaring at the handful of lingering partiers until they had the sense to start heading for the exit. The plump quarter-moon cast silvery light over what he knew would look like a disaster zone in the morning.

He found her at the far edge of the yard among a scatter of abandoned tables, a tied-off trash bag at her side. She was flopped into a folding chair with her head tipped back and a cup of what he hoped was water lolling dangerously in one hand.

“Clary. What’d I tell you about cleanin’ up.” Stan dragged up a chair of his own and let himself collapse.

“Not to do it.” Her eyes didn’t open but a slow, satisfied smile curved her red mouth. “Hell of a party. Did I meet the entire town?”

“More’re less everyone that matters. Did you actually dance with Durland?”

“I did! You’re right, they’re not bad guys at all, but I’m not sorry in the least that they’re a little oblivious.”

“That’s enough of that. Feet.”

She straightened just enough to look at him as though he’d sprouted a second head. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ditch the shoes, gimme your feet, you’ve been on ‘em all day and you’re more or less limping.”

Clary sputtered briefly. “...are you suggesting a foot massage?”

Stan braced an elbow on his knee, leaning in with an arched brow. “I am a man of many talents, Miz Merrick. Quit stallin’.”

Clary stared at him for a good long moment before toeing off her strappy sandals. Stan dunked a bar towel into a pitcher full of mostly-melted ice and took up her feet one at a time, scrubbing them down ruthlessly while she yelped and kicked and made a fuss, then started with the left and pressed both thumbs into the center of the arch. She bit off a curse and he glanced up at her over the glasses. “Language.”

“Hot Belgian waffles,” she spat back at him, and “ow!” when something popped in the middle of her foot. He eased up right there, let his palms warm her chilly skin and began to walk thumbs from the base of the toes back towards the heel, feeling the bones shift subtly in his grip. Clary whined in protest but he didn’t relent until the worst of the tension was beginning to unlock.

By the time he’d wrapped both hands around her ankle and begun to work his way up she’d settled down a bit, watching him through drooping lashes.

“Consider this the quick an’ dirty,” Stan muttered, feeling a flush creep up the back of his neck as he traced lines of muscle along her calf and inched his way up to the knee. “We’ll get you a hot soak when we get back to the house.”

“I’d ask where and how you picked this up, but frankly I don’t care.”

“You think I’ve never had a girlfriend who waited tables?” He outlined the curve of her kneecap with solid pressure, rippled his fingers in a caterpillar walk up the soft space framed by tendons at the back, then patted her shin and reached for the other foot.

“You think I’ve never waited tables?”

“Until I saw you in action this mornin’ at Greasy’s, I gotta admit I never thought a well-bred broad like you had waited tables.” Stan started out a little more gently this time, tracing a loose loop along the base of the big toe. “Not the first thing I’ve been wrong about.”

“I find that hard to believe. Stanley Pines is right about pretty much everything.” That was pure sarcasm no matter how deadpan her delivery was. He set to work and wrung a series of little noises out of her, some approving, some pained. “Ow. You were certainly right about everyone wanting to meet me.”

“You sure as hell made time for everyone.”

“That’s the job when you’re hosting, Stan, especially when you’re one of the main attractions.”

“You danced with Gleeful.” Stan was having to actually try not to sound hurt and failing miserably. Clary watched him with shadowed eyes and a crumpled mouth.

“And if all it takes to keep him sweet is a spin around the dance floor and a slice of leftover pie, we’re getting off cheap. You know that.”

“Well, yeah, but it would’ve - I’d’ve liked it, y’know, if - “ He was tripping over his own tongue, he knew it, and so he shut up and went back to sketching circles along her ankle with his fingertips.

Clary growled back at him, husky and tired. “There’s only one man here I really wanted to dance with. But no, you big jerk, you had to sell tickets - ” One toe kept poking him in the shoulder for emphasis. “ – so that half of town shows up and I have to waste time playing coy with Preston Northwest, who is a terrible, selfish dancer, by the way. I just – ugh.” She clapped a hand over her eyes. “I just wanted to do something nice. I wanted to do something nice for Ford and the kids and especially you.”

Yeah. That stung even as it lit a little spark of embarrassed pleasure in his chest. “Things got out of hand.”

She snorted in unvarnished disdain.

Stan swallowed hard, pride sticking bitter in his throat. “Okay, fine, I made things get out of hand. I’m sorry.” She peeped out at him over her fingers, brows screwed tight. “I’m sorry, princess, I mean it. What’ve I gotta do, kiss your feet for a chance to make up for it?”

Clary tilted her head a shade, hand dropping to her mouth. He realized his mistake as she gently tugged her foot from his clasp and presented it, knee flexing, long toes pointed.

Stan huffed out half a laugh as the tension between them shifted from frustrated crackle to uncertain hum. “What, seriously?”

“You offered.”

His eyes narrowed, but she looked back at him with imperial calm. Fuck it, he thought, he’d paid higher prices for less, cradling her heel in both hands and dipping his head for a wary kiss, fine bones and fragile skin taut under the fleeting contact. A faint tremor ran through her in response.

She picked up the other foot and delicately extended the leg; he let the press of his lips linger for a moment and skimmed the pad of one thumb along the inner arch. No shiver this time, just a tightening through the calf as he felt her stifle any reaction.

“I’ll plan on leaving Tuesday morning,” Clary murmured after a moment.

That left him the whole weekend. Three days. All right, then. “Thanks, sweetpea. You were amazin’ out there, y’know.”

Her cheek was nestled into a cupped hand, her smile slight and slanted. “So were you.”

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“If you don’t get around to smoothing this over, I will.” Ford’s got that look in his eye and you instantly regret every dubious thing you’ve ever done.

Maybe she’d make a decent research assistant.

No way. I saw her first!

You don’t know her like I do.

#Gravity Falls #gfdatingsim #DDtMMW #Swooning Over Stans #Stanley Pines #OClicious #fanfic

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turtlepated · 6 years ago

Text

The Turnings of Fire

“This world, which is the same for all, no one of gods or men has made. But it always was and will be: an ever-living fire” - Heraclitus, The Weeping Philosopher

---

Chapter 1:

The worst thing about the American southeast in the summertime had to be the humidity. The air was the consistency of hot soup, causing his hair to plaster lank and limp against his sweat-drenched head. It really wasn’t even worth it to try and wind it up into a bun to get it off his neck, that just made it easier for the damn mosquitos to find someplace to land.

For the millionth time Hellboy swatted his massive stone hand at the high-pitched buzzing near his ear, even more annoyed by how useless it was. The little bitches would be back, the swamp was thick with them. On the upside he didn’t have long to think about the dozens of mosquito bites driving him nuts, because Alice went completely still as voices he could not hear whispered to her. She confirmed that they’d reached their destination, wincing slightly from the onslaught of emotion and horror brought on by whatever visions had barraged her mind.

Daimio cut the outboard and let them drift silently down the slow-moving blackwater river toward a small island studded with cypress trees, nestled in waist high weeds behind curtains of Spanish moss, prime real estate for a man-eating lizard monster.

Locals had told stories for years about the reptilian creature that lived in the miles of dense wetlands, reporting occasional sightings to drum up tourist interest in the town. Then the bodies had begun turning up. At first it was only animals, strays and missing pets found torn and shredded and showing definite signs of being partially eaten. Then remains of the town drunk were discovered in two different locations. The following day an old woman hanging laundry in her back yard was heard screaming and all that was found of her was bloodstained grass and drag marks.

Over the course of a couple weeks the attacks grew more brazen and more vicious. Two days ago a pair of kids walking home from their bus stop disappeared. One still hadn’t been found, the other was recovered wandering in a state of delirium, unresponsive and near catatonic. The town authorities, totally out of their depth, had reached out to the BPRD.

Tracking the reptilian beast had been something of a challenge, but Alice’s medium abilities had led them deep into the swamp where she made contact with at least two fishermen who’d also had an encounter with the monster. Despite their grim fate, the men had provided them with valuable intel on their quarry and as soon as the trio located its den they set about laying a trap. Hellboy was always pleasantly surprised when a trap went the way it was planned. But one thing he had learned in his time with the BPRD was that even when things when right, they could still go terribly, terribly wrong.

The creature, all of nine-feet of ugly muscle with a flat, alligator-like head and burning red eyes, was pissed as hell by their intrusion on its lair, but it also turned out that their bullets pinged right off its thick, scaly hide. Even the Samaritan failed to make a kill shot. Thinking about every episode of Swamp People he had ever seen, Hellboy realized they’d have to hit it at point-blank range, preferably in a spot with no armor. Physically stronger than his two teammates, Hellboy took the brunt of the creature’s fury in order to get close enough to restrain it. Daimio moved in for the coupe de grace, straight through the left eye.

They took samples of blood, tissue and scales for the BPRD scientists, and after a moment’s contemplation Hellboy lopped the monster’s head off for good measure. It was while they were loading up the boat and preparing to head back to town that shit decided to go even more sideways. A second creature exploded out of the shallow water by the bank, just as big as the other but possibly even more enraged. Its jaws had latched onto Hellboy’s stone arm, raised reflexively to shield his head, and forced him to the ground under its bulk. Before any of them had a chance to aim for its eyes, it had let go of his arm, seized him by the foot and dragged him into the swamp.

Unable to see in the brackish water, Hellboy wouldn’t have been able to shoot the thing even if he could spare a moment to grab his gun. Instead he grasped the creature’s snout with both hands, trying to pry the jaws open and free himself while it trashed its head, slinging, spinning, and tossing him through the churning water much like a regular alligator. It finally released his ankle after he slugged it in the side of the face with his stone hand, retreating while he clambered for the surface. Disoriented after getting the spin-cycle treatment, Hellboy staggered back up the bank and drew the Samaritan, spitting out foul swamp water while they all scanned the turbulent water for the creature.

He and Daimio took up forward positions, keeping Alice behind them while they waited for the next attack. When it came, the creature lunging out of hiding in the murky water with its mouth agape and a snarl rumbling in its throat, Hellboy stepped up to meet it. With a roar of his own he jammed the muzzle of the Samaritan into the open maw and squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. With most of its head now a pulpy mash of blood, bone fragments and gray matter, the creature toppled over backwards into the water and sank out of sight. Cautiously they all re-holstered their weapons, adrenaline still pumping as Daimio posited out loud, “You don’t suppose that was a female, do you?”

Another twenty minutes of searching the small island and they found the nest with half a dozen small ivory eggs in the mud. These they carefully collected to be stored in the BPRD where they couldn’t do any harm. By the time they made it back to the boat landing dawn had lit the tops of the trees. Waiting in a makeshift landing pad nearby was their chopper, with a half dozen anxious looking townies gathered around it waiting for news. Several of them gasped, murmuring amongst themselves and pointing to the beast’s severed head Hellyboy carried in one hand as he and Alice strode toward the chopper. While Daimio approached the locals to advise them of the situation, Alice opened the large rear cargo door and ascended the ramp. Hellboy went behind her, his feet squelching in his wet boots. Even though it was still early morning, the humidity was already horrible and his hair and clothes hadn’t dried a bit, hanging heavy on him. Once out of sight of the gawkers he reached down to adjust the crotch of his pants. Was there anything more miserable than soggy britches?

He dropped the reptilian head carelessly onto a metal bench mounted to the wall, settling there himself with a long harsh sigh as he began undoing the laces on his boots. Alice slid open a pressurized drawer with a hiss and a puff of condensation, carefully placing the samples and the bag of eggs inside where they could be kept in a temperature-controlled environment until they made it back to HQ. “Ugh, don’t just leave it there,” Alice chided, pulling a face as blackish blood and other fluids began seeping from the stump of the neck, dripping through the grillwork of the bench and onto the floor. With one foot she slid a plastic bin across to him and he reached over and knocked the head inside, where it landed with a muted, wet thud.

He pulled off one boot, tipping it upside down and grumpily watched muddy water spill out in a thin drizzle. “Purgatory’s hot, but damn, at least it’s dry,” he grumbled, wrestling to pull off the other boot. Finally he stripped off the sodden socks, letting out a contented sigh when his hoofed feet met the floor just as Daimio came up the ramp, closing it behind him. “You’re really going to make us smell swamp-water and hoof sweat all the way back to Colorado?” he japed, perfectly deadpan and expressionless. “Kiss my ass, Snagglepuss,” Hellboy shot back without missing a beat as he shrugged off his heavy overcoat.

Daimio scoffed but said nothing, heading for the cockpit and calling over his shoulder. “Wheels up in five.” After spreading his coat out on the bench to dry, Hellboy propped his ankle across the opposite knee to get a better look at the half dozen small punctures from the lizard monster’s teeth. Alice looked on from the row of bucket seats across from him, wincing sympathetically as he prodded around the wounds with his flesh fingers. “Does it hurt?” she asked. He gave a shrug and noncommittal grunt. “Not too bad. I’ve had way worse,” he replied. “Make sure you flush it with disinfectant. You heal fast, but they found some really nasty bacteria on the bodies they examined. Best not to chance it.” He hummed an affirmative, flexing his hoof back and forth and turning his ankle in a slow circle to test for any more pain or discomfort.

The floor began to thrum beneath them as Daimio fired up the engines, the propellers whining as they began to spin. Stretching his arms over his head, feeling vertebrae popping one after another, Hellboy spun in his seat and reclined back along the bench with his left arm draped over his face. “Wake me when we get there, will ya?” he called to Alice. He was already thinking fondly of his large shower and an equally large breakfast…

A few hours later and they were touching down on the landing pad outside the BPRD’s headquarters in the Colorado Rockies. He handed off the reptilian head to the first person he saw in a lab coat, the man cringing slightly, while Alice bequeathed the eggs to the BPRD lab manager. Hellboy moved quicker than he might have normally, eyes sweeping the personnel swarming around him. If he hurried, maybe he’d be able to avoid – “Agent Hellboy,” called a tinny voice with a crisp, pronounced German accent. Hellboy froze on the spot, cringing, cursing quietly. “Did you forget the debriefing? You seem to do that quite a lot.” Not bothering to try and stifle his exasperated sigh, Hellboy turned to face the speaker.

The “man”, in the loosest sense of the word, stood straight backed with his arms clasped loosely behind him. Though there was no facial expression to read, there was a definite if mild tone of rebuke in the disembodied voice emanating from the clear glass helmet atop his shoulders. From what he’d heard around HQ over the last month, Johann Kraus had had a body once, but in the course of some paranormal accident he’d lost it and was now confined to a semi-gaseous ectoplasmic form which he sustained by means of a specialized containment suit. Personally, Hellboy thought it made him look something like a cross between a deep-sea diver out of a Jules Verne novel and an astronaut, but he was hardly in a position to judge someone based on their appearance.

Not when his personality was so much more grating.

After the loss of Professor Bruttenholm, a thought that still made his breath clench painfully in his chest, there had been a bit of a shake up in the upper echelons of the BPRD. General operations were now headed up by Tom Manning, a former FBI director, which worked out all right since there was a bit of overlap between the two agencies’ work. The science/research division and field work, meanwhile, had been taken over by Johann Kraus. Hellboy hadn’t had much to do with Manning yet, but Kraus’s bureaucratic, cross-the-Ts-and-dot-the-Is approach was in stark contrast to the way Bruttenholm had run things. Pedantic was the word that came to mind to describe Kraus, though Hellboy had no trouble coming up with other descriptors just as fitting if less professional.

“Agents Monaghan and Daimio are already on their way to the conference room to give their reports,” Kraus stated, somehow managing to be polite and authoritative at the same time. Hellboy ground his teeth and let a long, slow exhale out through his nose. “Well we were all on the same mission,” he pointed out, trying his best not to sound too insubordinate. “Do you really need three reports on the same case? I thought the lizard head was pretty self-explanatory.” Kraus didn’t have lungs, so he couldn’t actually give a long-suffering sigh, but there was a pregnant pause before he spoke again. “That is beside the point, Agent Hellboy,” he replied, but sensing that a lecture was forthcoming Hellboy cut across him.

“At least let me change clothes and dry off first. I kinda went swimming in the swamp, probably got algae growin’ in my asscrack by now.” He walked off without waiting for Kraus to respond. It was around twenty minutes later that he shouldered his way through the conference room double doors, a towel slung around his neck and steam still rising from the crown of his head. “Glad you could join us,” Daimio sniped, seated near the head of the long table. “Did you wash behind your ears?” Alice chimed in with a teasing smirk. “Hardy-har-har,” he drawled sardonically, settling himself in the seat next to her. “Let’s get on with it. There’s a short stack in the mess with my name on it.”

Kraus, positioned at the front of the room where he could face all three of them, turned his attention to Hellboy. “It’s my understanding that you were injured?” he said. Hellboy shrugged casually. “ ‘S nothing,” he replied. “Love bite.” “Regardless, report to sick bay for an examination. We don’t want to take any chances.” Hellboy rolled his eyes, ignoring Alice punching his knee under the table. It took less than five minutes for them to relate all the details of the case to Kraus, but just when Hellboy was sure they’d be dismissed Kraus produced a file folder. “I’m afraid there’s another matter which requires our attention,” he told them. “I have here a number of reports that seem to indicate a possible wyrm infestation in Centralia, Pennsylvania.”

Hellboy frowned, Kraus’s words enough to snap him back to the conversation and away from the thought of a late breakfast in the commissary. “Centralia? Isn’t that the town that’s been on fire for fifty years?” Alice’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Like the burning mountain in Germany?” “Quite correct, agents,” Kraus responded. “In 1962, a former strip mine in the town was repurposed as a landfill. Later that year, the town council met to determine how to clean up the area. No official records exist to describe the plan they decided upon, but they later hired several local volunteer firefighters to conduct a controlled burn at the landfill, which was illegal in the state at that time. However the landfill fire started, it quickly spread through an unsealed opening in the pit floor and into the coal mines beneath the town. It has been burning ever since.”

“The town itself is now condemned and almost entirely abandoned,” Kraus went on. “The fire is located primarily in the southern end of the borough, and sinkholes are common, as well as poisonous carbon monoxide. Investigation of recent seismic activity has revealed a number of collapsed tunnels as well as the presence of new tunnels. Judging by the circumference of the newly dug tunnels we believe a wyrm may be burrowing in the mine, possibly a female in search of a place to lay a clutch of eggs. It would be attracted by the burning coal and the noxious fumes.” Hellboy sighed, slumping low in the seat. “Of course it would,” he said heavily, taking the towel in both hands and draping it over his face, letting his arms fall lax to either side of his chair. “Wyrms lay twelve eggs or more at a time,” added Daimio. “They’ll be nearly five feet long at birth. A dozen hatchlings digging in a burning coal mine could be a disaster.”

“With the mines already unstable from the coal fire, further excavations by even one wyrm could allow the fire to spread even further and endanger nearby towns,” Kraus concurred. “Which is why we need to find the wyrm and remove it as soon as possible.” He turned to face Hellboy. “You will need to take point on this mission. Neither of your teammates are impervious to fire and heat, but you are. Surface temperatures have been recorded in excess of 200 degrees Fahrenheit.”

Hellboy swiped the towel off his face and into his lap, sitting up and fixing his golden eyes on Kraus’s inscrutable transparent head. “What about the carbon monoxide?” he demanded. “I may be fireproof, but I still need to be able to breathe.” Kraus nodded impatiently, gathering the papers back together into the file. “Yes, yes, of course, you’ll have an external breathing apparatus. And Agent Monaghan and Agent Daimio will still accompany you as reinforcements. I realize you’ve all just returned from a mission, but this is rather dire, so you will be departing at twelve-hundred hours.”

Kraus stood and they followed suit. “Dismissed, agents. And best of luck.” Daimio led the way out of the conference room and down the corridor outside, Hellboy and Alice trailing along behind him. “So much for breakfast,” the half-demon grumbled. “Maybe we can talk Daimio into stopping for drive thru,” Alice offered. “Worked before.” Hellboy chuckled, rolling his shoulders as they prepared to separate at fork in the hallway. “After three days sloggin’ through a God-forsaken blackwater swamp, a burning coal mine might be nice.”

I’m hoping that if I keep the chapters relatively short, maybe it’ll help me churn them out faster! Review appreciated!

#hellboy 2019 #hellboy fic #Pate writes #hellboyxOC #alice monaghan #ben daimio #johann kraus

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