Spanning more than 90 years of art from across the globe, this collection of short stories celebrates the fictional character in all its horrors, from the oil monster of FernGully to the demon kings of Blue Exorcist's Gehenna. Beginning with the bla...
WARNING: implied physical abuse (not by Scrooge), emotional abuse (not by Scrooge), violence, blood, implied death, reader has a romantic partner, toxic mindsets.
A.N. - This was initially part of a series, but it became long enough that I decided to post it individually.
I was listening to the soundtrack for The Shining when I wrote this. Do with that what you will.
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Dewey twirled in his seat and belted out the highest note his throat could muster, flipping his hand and knocking a half-empty can of Pep into your lap.
Louie ceased his lackadaisical singing and lurched forward in horror. "Dude! My Pep!"
As the rambunctious triplet anxiously apologized under the glare of his older brother, you raised your arms and flashed a grimace at the purple liquid seeping into your clothes in dark, viscous splotches. Stinging erupted in your forearm, prompting you to wince and clutch the inflamed area.
A coldness flooded your face as you peeked askance and caught Scrooge's skeptical stare.
Donald removed his hands from the sides of his head, a scowl present on his contorted features. "Boys-"
Della placed a hand on the temperamental duck's shoulder and smiled.
He reluctantly deflated and sunk into his chair, arms crossed.
The triplets' quarrelling fell silent when their mother fixed Dewey with a disapproving frown. "If you're going to spill Pep on someone, spill it on your brothers."
Louie pointed to him with a triumphant grin. "Ha-wait, what?" He shot Della a look of betrayal, his family's resounding laughter prompting him to tug his hood over his face in shame.
"My apologies, you know how boisterous the boys can be." Scrooge's beak curved upwards with an embarrassed smile as he pressed his handkerchief to the nearest stain, only to succeed in spreading the mess. "I hope this wasn't your favourite outfit."
Your napkin was quickly reduced to a dripping tangle of sticky, shredded cloth. Despite the expectant stare of your partner plopping a crushing weight on your shoulders like an anchor dragging you to the bottom of the ocean, you replied, "No, I haven't worn my favourite in a while."
Their expression became one of shock and outrage.
Scrooge's squinted eyes widened in relief, and he reeled backwards with a hand in the air. "Beakley, kindly escort my good friend to the wardrobes." He glanced at you and added in a quieter tone, "Take anything you'd like," before returning to his meal.
