#I PROMISE I CAN BE LEFT UNSUPERVISED | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ckret2 · 22 days ago

Text

Chapter 91 of Bill Cipher, still in drag as a Normal Human, getting an unusual amount of unsupervised time outside of the Mystery Shack: Agent Powers very seriously pursues the truth behind what happened last summer.

Meanwhile, the other agents very goofily pursue the truth behind what happened last summer.

Lookit'em go.

Meanwhile meanwhile, Bill faces down the metaphorical specter of his own dying legacy.

####

Ford paced across the ritual chamber, reading and re-reading the script Bill had handed him, stroking his chin in concentration.

Bill watched him from the Blind Eye's favorite brainwashing chair, one ankle hooked over the other knee in a figure 4, hands laced behind his head. "I know the script's a little hammy, but you saw those recordings! This is genuinely how these guys talk, I promise!"

"No no," Ford said. "The script's fine. It's just—I've never played a villain before. I need to get in character."

"Oh, you nerd!" Bill rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "This is a big DD & More D session to you, isn't it!"

"Of course not. DD & More D's RPG system is far better suited to swords & sorcery than cloak & dagger."

"You know what I mean."

Ford was fighting to prevent a giddy smile from breaking out across his face. "I assure you, I'm taking this completely seriously."

"Ha! Sure. You're lucky you're behind the camera, that face would ruin the performance," Bill said. "At least it's an improvement over that scowl you always give me." Slightly deflated, he said, "Yeah, that scowl."

"We shouldn't waste time. Should we...?" Ford gestured to the wrist straps on the chair.

"Ha! I don't trust you that much." Bill held his hands behind his back, wrists crossed. "Just pretend I'm tied up, it's fine."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"What's that supposed to mean."

"I'm not an actor. You're a liar but you're not an actor either. We're missing the chanting chorus the cult leader usually has when he does this. We need every tool we can get to make this look convincing."

"Pfff!" Bill waved off Ford's worries. "Re-lax, he won't suspect a thing. Guarantee it."

"Are you sure he's dumb enough to buy this?"

####

Powers sat on the floor, staring into space, as he reevaluated everything he knew about this town.

####

"It's like that goat can teleport," Trigger grunted, trying to get between a couple of trees. "How did it get all the way—?" He tripped over a fallen tree hidden beneath a blanket of ferns and crashed to the ground with a yelp.

Dale leaped over the log, offered Trigger a hand, and said, "Maybe the trees are messing with the radar?"

Trigger brushed some leaves out of his hair. "Where's it say it is now?"

"About twenty feet..." Dale pointed. "That way."

They looked.

Gompers was stood staring over a thick bush at them. Tauntingly.

"Ah-ha!" Trigger ran for him; Dale followed close behind, looking at his tablet. "Now we've got you!" Trigger fought through the bush forming a barrier between him and the goat. "Stay right there, you—"

He yelped as he stepped on air and lost his balance. Dale managed to stop just in time, the tips of his shoes over the edge, only for Trigger to grab his wrist and drag him down—straight into a ten foot deep crevasse that the bush had been hiding.

Gompers stood on the other side of the crevasse, looking down at them curiously.

Dale and Trigger were tangled at the bottom, stuck in a mud puddle that had been left over from the past weekend's rains. Dale groaned at the goat, "How'd you get over there?"

Trigger attempted to climb up the steep side, dislodged a sheet of dirt, and slid back down on top of Dale. "How do we get over there?"

Gompers bleated at them and took off deeper into the woods again.

####

While the agent was busy having what was no doubt a very exciting look into Gravity Falls' secret unauthorized mental health charity service, Bill decided to make a visit to that curtained-off wing of the museum he'd seen last night—the one with all the warnings against bringing a camera into the area.

It was a lot less exciting than Bill had expected. Just a display of a bunch of local Native art—hide clothes with elaborate quillwork and beadwork, jewelry made of shells and claws, stone carvings, baskets... Most of it was the kind of stuff that had been made in this area only long after the locals he'd befriended had so callously betrayed and banished him several thousand years back; only a couple of objects looked like things the people he'd known might have made, primarily the stone things. But even though most of the stuff in the room was "modern," he thought it looked too modern, not like the centuries-old works he'd expected.

The room was familiar—distantly, fuzzily familiar. As though he'd seen it in a dream.

A glance at a plaque on the wall explained why everything looked so new: most of the displayed items were replicas. This was a collection of objects that the Northwest family had stolen from tribes in the area over a hundred years ago. When the Northwest Manor had been sold to one Fiddleford H. McGucket, all objects left behind in it had conveyed, stolen artwork and crafts included—and an oil painting of the sleazy-looking Northwest who'd done a majority of the stealing, which was now hanging in the museum with a list of his known and suspected crimes and injustices displayed next to the painting. It was, Bill had to grudgingly admit, pretty funny. Kudos to whichever museum employee had thought that up.

According to the plaque, Fiddleford had contacted the nearest tribes to ask them whether they recognized anything in the Northwests' collection and to offer to return the pieces—which surprised Bill. He'd never seen Specs as the kind of guy to be particularly interested in repatriation. Most of the ill-gotten art had been gladly taken; anything that nobody had wanted, Fiddleford put in the museum; and a few artisans had even offered modern replicas of some of the items Fiddleford had returned, for public display with the artists credited.

He didn't see why this room was behind heavy curtains with half a dozen "no photography" warnings. It wasn't like these were priceless antiques at risk of degrading under flash photography; aside from the oil painting—which he doubted anyone was too precious about—everything in this room was under a decade old. So why...?

He had seen this little exhibit in a dream, he was sure of it. He tried to find the point of view he'd seen the room from. The room wasn't a perfect rectangle. It turned, L-shaped, into a little alcove. Bill wandered into the alcove—and froze when he saw his own face.

He was eyes-to-eye with the apocalyptic tapestry through which he'd watched the Northwest Manor's great hall for decades: black sky, red inferno, dead trees, dead humans, dying survivors, and above it all Bill's eye shining blood red like the sun hidden behind wildfire smoke. Another: the odd spaceship-shaped gap in the mountains around the town, and Bill—bright yellow against a deep red sky—framed by the gap as though his eye were the setting sun. And another—a pattern consisting of nothing but triangles with eyes, the geometry unusual for art in this region—and another—Bill surrounded by blue lightning, probably a distorted remembering of the unsuccessful redwood portal—and another, another...

Six tapestries in all, of varying sizes. These weren't replicas. Each showed varying degrees of age—broken quills, frayed edges, fading dye, the grime of an article centuries old that had been poorly cared for—but they were all centuries old. The tributes to him made during his long absence: the echoes of a millennia-old generational trauma memory.

The tapestries weren't all that was contained in this little alcove. He forced himself to break eye contact with himself to look at the other items on display. Photographs of several cave paintings—the zodiac, the ritual to summon Bill, the prophecy of his defeat. A few small carvings of his face in stone and wood. Spear tips with his face carved in them, broken due to the way a hollowed-out eye compromised the structural integrity of the stone. And—one of Mabel's blankets, sitting innocently behind a glass case. He stared at it in amazement. Who would have imagined that he'd find a little shrine to himself, right in the middle of the Gravity Falls Museum nearly a year after his death?

On the blanket, his eye had been crossed out with an X of black electrical tape. Bill's blood ran cold.

He forced himself to look at the tapestries again. Some of the quills were broken with age, yes; but someone had also taken a sharp knife and sliced two neat, clean lines across his eye in each of the tapestries, almost invisible except for a few of the broken quills that now bent out of place. The geometric pattern of triangles had been so criss-crossed with slashes that it was amazing it hadn't disintegrated.

His eyes darted over the rest of the objects, studying them more closely. The stone and wood depictions of his face—all freshly re-carved into, X'es covering the eyes. Where he'd first assumed the spear tips had broken with age, he could now see how they'd all been snapped neatly, precisely in half. In the photographs from the cave, he could see his eyes had each been covered by a red spray-painted X. The summoning ritual had also been defaced: apparently not content with painting over it, someone had fully scraped the ritual off of the cave wall, leaving behind only a few missed marks.

None of these items had been defaced before. Bill had made sure that the people in the area passed on a "superstition" against damaging any images of the One-Eyed Beast. (Translation: after they'd figured out that Bill was bad news and decided to cut ties to him, he'd contacted them in their dreams—"If any of you humans even try to take out my eyes, I'll haunt you all so hard. I'll be in your nightmares, I'll be in your kids' nightmares, I'll be in your grandkids' grandkids' nightmares, do not test me!" That had been about the time the shaman locked Bill out of the valley and ensured he couldn't make good on his threat—but the superstition lingered.) He knew for a fact that some of these eyes had even been working as recently as last summer: he'd watched the Northwests' every move through those tapestries. All this damage had been done after his death.

The only item that hadn't been defaced was the blanket. The plaque: "Artist: Mabel Pines, great-niece of town heroes Stanley and Stanford Pines, age 13. Acrylic yarn, 2012. Recreation of a ritual symbol designed to defeat the Beast with One Eye. Donated by Fiddleford McGucket." He suspected this blanket got electrical tape instead of a brutal slashing as a courtesy not to the artwork's subject, but to its artist.

He read the informational plaque accompanying this anti-shrine.

These were the only items in this wing that weren't replicas—because no tribe with ancestry around Gravity Falls Valley wanted them back. (So Fiddleford had offered to return art in Northwest Manor, had he? Begged was more likely.) The plaque explained that neighboring tribes considered depictions of "the Beast with One Eye" to be cursed. "Cursed" wasn't quite the correct term, Bill knew well; but the plaque didn't leave room to expand. It kept its description as terse as possible. (After all, anybody in Gravity Falls already knew exactly why these particular items were cursed; and tourists didn't need to know.) The plaque ended, firmly, "They say they would rather forget about the Beast with One Eye."

Somebody else had scrawled underneath in red marker, "AND SO WOULD WE!"

Underneath the marker scrawl , someone had written in smaller, neat, black pen, "יִמַּח שְׁמוֹ". Yimakh shemo. May his name be erased. A death threat would have hurt less.

There were under ten humans in Gravity Falls that Bill knew had studied Hebrew. He forced himself to wrench his eyes away before he could be sure he recognized the cursive handwriting.

Behold: the legacy of the great, the godly, the All-Knowing and All-Seeing Bill Cipher. Relegated to old history, shoved disdainfully in the corner of a stupid hick town's stupid local museum, with people fighting over who has to put up with the last remnants of him. For thousands of years, the locals had been driven to preserve his memory, but it hadn't been preserved out of reverence; and from now on, it wouldn't even be preserved out of fear.

Without Bill around to pull the strings, the superstitions would fade, the myths would be forgotten, and humans would get bored with the All-Seeing Eye symbol and stop using it. Eventually, humanity's influence would wane, and another species whose culture he'd never influenced would take over; and within a few short millennia, his face would be forgotten on Earth. His face would be forgotten everywhere.

How could this have happened to him?

He glowered at the array of blind eyes staring at him from the walls.

Bill's pocket vibrated. He pulled out his phone. Ah, right, Powers. He'd almost forgotten about him completely. Ha.

Powers had texted to ask him to come downstairs. He said there was something Bill needed to see. Yeah, he bet there was.

It was certainly better than this.

####

"Hey there," Dale said, crouched on the sidewalk, voice high and soothing, "come on, this way."

Gompers stared at him distrustfully from just within the protective boundary of the forest's treeline.

Dale was holding out a slice of Greasy's cherry pie on a paper plate. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "We want to help you. You've got a little piece of plastic inside you that we need to get out... it'll probably be good for your health..."

Slowly, Gompers crept out of the forest, watching the agents warily as he approached the plate of pie.

Standing a safe distance behind Dale with his arms crossed, supervising, Trigger said, "You have quite a way with animals."

"I've always found that animals have a calming effect on me, so I've tried to cultivate a calming air in return." He looked up at Trigger. "You see, the key is respect. Mutual respect. From man to animal and from animal to man. One time I was meditating with this Tibetan monk in a dream, and—"

He turned back toward the goat. The pie was gone. Along with half the paper plate, and a chunk of his suit's sleeve.

Gompers was hightailing it down the street.

"Oh."

Trigger said, "I don't think he reciprocates your respect."

####

One of the files Powers had found was in code—he'd have to ask Goldie to take a look at it—but the other file, the one on the Memory Gun, was all in plain English; and for the past few minutes, he'd been reading through a list of adverse side-effects the Blind Eye had discovered from using the gun. Victims who had forgotten how to drive, forgotten their children, forgotten their own names... The aim of the document seemed to be to determine how to refine their wording when they programmed the gun in order to more accurately select their desired memories.

But whoever had written it seemed more concerned with the victims who remembered more than they should have.

Powers was startled by a knock on the door. He slapped the file shut. "Hello?"

"It's me." That was Goldie's voice.

He heaved a sigh of relief. "Come in, it's safe."

There was a moment of silence. "It's stuck."

"What?"

"The door. It, ah—must be... heavy?"

Huh. He crossed the room to help open it. It was a pretty heavy door, but it didn't seem stuck to him; but Goldie just swept past him with a muttered thanks. "What's this room?"

"It's—memories, I think," Powers said. "As outrageous as it sounds, it appears that a secret society stores stolen memories in this room. I've only watched a few, so far I can't figure out the pattern to who's being targeted or why, but..."

He trailed off. Goldie had drifted past the piles of memory canisters with only quick glances, drawn to the odd-looking TV-like screen at the back of the room, as if mesmerized by its glow all the way from the door. He sighed quietly. "There's... something I think you should see."

He couldn't look at Goldie while the recording played. Instead, he watched it again, staring at the past Goldie's terror and rage.

When it was over, all she said was, "Wow." Her voice was strangely flat. It was another couple of seconds before she added, "That's—pretty bad, huh."

Her reaction was underwhelming. Powers turned to look at her, puzzled.

Her expression was terrifyingly blank. There was something hard and heavy and distant in her eyes. Exhausted. Like she was just holding it together under some sort of heartbreak. She was always so animated; the change was almost scary.

He said, "I'm sorry, I should have warned you. It must be a terrible shock." He'd been too shocked to think of warning her.

The comment seemed to shake her out of some sort of trance. "It's—fine. Just gimme a sec, I..." She rubbed her eyelids with one hand. "Wow! Okay. I can handle this. It's just..." She gestured vaguely at the screen. "It's a lot to process."

He could only imagine. "Do you remember this happening at all?"

She took a long moment to answer, fingers still pressing her eyes shut. "No," she finally said. "I think I remember being here before. The room looks familiar." That explained how she'd navigated it so confidently. "But—not that. I don't know when that happened. When did that happen?"

"I think it must have been last summer."

Powers explained everything he'd found so far—the contents of the other canisters, the blueprints for the Memory Gun. Goldie had to sit on a nearby table as she processed this—elbows on her knees, knuckles pressed against each other, index fingers tapping together as she listened.

"It looks as though this 'Society of the Blind Eye' has been erasing the memories of people in town—and people who know too much about them. But I don't know why they're here or why they're doing this," Powers said. "In one of the memories, Preston Northwest mentioned a secret town founder. It might be irrelevant to whatever's happening here, but it does sound like the most important thing on any of the recordings I watched. Aside from—yours."

He sat beside Goldie. "I suspect you were a part of the bureau." It was horrifying to think—that they might have worked together and both forgotten—but...

"Yeah. It's possible," Goldie said.

"Do you remember anything that might have suggested you were part of the bureau? Something we could look up and verify?" Powers asked. "Somewhere you lived in Washington, or maybe part of your training...?"

She winced and broke eye contact with him. "Uh... no. I—I don't."

How much had she lost? Far more than just the details of the investigation she'd come to town for. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders reassuringly. She tensed, then relaxed, then leaned against him—but hardly seemed to notice he was there.

"I think something's coming back," she said, gaze faraway. "Now that I'm here... I remember being in the museum. I think I was caught by somebody wearing a hooded robe."

(Powers glanced at the carving of a robed man in front of the altar.)

"They were angry that I'd taken... some kind of map? It was square, looked really old..."

"A map!" Powers jumped up to grab the file on the Memory Gun and pulled out an odd paper he'd found sticking out of it. "Is this it?"

"That's it!" Goldie favored him with a smile, her first since he'd shown her that memory.

"It looks like gibberish, though," Powers said. "There's several partial images, but nothing clear. I don't know what to make of it."

Goldie glanced over it. "Have you tried folding it?"

He gave her a quizzical look. "Folding it how?"

She raised her hands in a shrug. "It's got creases on it. Looks like somebody's folded it before."

He'd assumed that someone had just folded it to stuff in their pocket at some point—but the creases formed an odd, precise geometric pattern of triangles and diagonal squares. Now that she mentioned it, it didn't look the way anyone would normally fold a paper. He studied the directions of the creases, folded the four corners in to meet in the middle—and a drawing of a pointing hand emerged from what had once been unintelligible lines and curves on the corners of the page. Look at that.

But now the four new corners of the image were covered in inscrutable lines of their own; maybe...? He turned the map over and repeated the process, folding the four corners into the center; and there was a new image, but it looked like a couple of different images jumbled together. "Hmm..." He stroked his chin, staring perplexed at the image.

(Next to him, Bill pressed his lips flat together to keep himself from telling Powers to unfold two opposite flaps and see what happened, come on, do a little experimenting, man. Schoolchildren made these things when they were bored in class and pretended to tell each other's fortune with them, this wasn't that complicated. But no, be patient, it was fine, it was fine, Bill had shown more tolerance for denser humans solving simpler problems than this. What kind of a muse and mentor would he be if he couldn't show a little patience with ignorant mortals? Heck, it was a tribute to Bill's personal patience and strength of character that he hadn't spontaneously combusted the entire Nightmare Realm in the process of trying to get a portal built.)

Eventually, Powers figured it out himself, unfolding the top and bottom flaps to reveal a hidden diagram: a crude graveyard with a tunnel weaving underneath, the tunnel marked with arrows pointing at it. Closing the top and bottom flaps and unfolding the left and right flaps revealed another diagram: it looked like a building floor plan, with a dotted line that led to an equilateral triangle pointed downward. He recognized the floor plan. Aside from the triangle, he'd seen the same map upstairs less than an hour ago. "This is the museum."

"Looks like it. Think it's something important?" Goldie smiled wanly. "You don't typically think of important things being left to rot in some dusty corner of a small-town museum."

"Don't you? If a small town has a museum, I'd think that's where they'd preserve the most important objects they have."

Goldie processed that silently. "Yeah," she said, voice hollow. "Maybe."

"At any rate, it was important enough to erase your mind over. Let's go."

At the door to the pneumatic tube room, Powers said, "I'll follow this map; you watch the exits and alert me if anyone's coming. We don't know who at the museum might be working for..." He turned to look at Goldie, and found she was no longer at his side. "Goldie?" He turned around.

She was storming back across the room, finger pointed like the tip of a saber at the wooden cultist sculpture. "You think you can erase me?! You think you can make the whole world forget I ever existed?!" She clawed at the wooden hood like she was trying to get her fingers into the fabric and strangle the placid-looking figure. "I bet you think you're such a hero! Defending your precious little town from the big scary monster who came here to help you! But you'll never destroy me! I'll make your skin into shower curtains! I'll—let go of me—I'll flip your electrons into positrons, I'll—"

Powers managed to get an arm around Goldie's shoulder and lead her back to the door. She spat in its blinded eye as she left.

####

While Goldie stared at a display on the town's lumber industry (Powers suspected she wasn't actually reading it), he followed the map to find a painting—an odd inclusion in a history museum. It took him a few minutes to realize it should be turned upside-down to match the shape in the map, snapped a picture, and turned his phone over to find an image of an angel.

He didn't know what to make of that; and when he asked Goldie if she could see any sort of codes or disguised messages in it, she said she couldn't. The angel appeared to be a dead end; their only other lead was the town graveyard drawn on the map.

Goldie was uncharacteristically forlorn as they returned to Powers's car and he opened the passenger door for her. As they got on the road, Powers asked, "Are... you alright?" Stupid question. "If there's anything you need..."

"Promise you'll never forget me." He could feel her eyes blazing against the side of his face, staring at him, commandingly.

He nodded. "I promise." Traffic was light; he took one hand off the steering wheel to offer to her.

She seized it firmly, like they were sealing a pact.

####

Gompers ran across the roofs of the businesses lining Main Street, jumping from rooftop to rooftop and bleating in fear as he was chased. And Trigger chased after him, just a building behind Gompers.

But Main Street wasn't very long. Gompers scrabbled over the sloped shingles of a small salon, jumped down to the flat roof of the rival barber shop next door, and found himself out of buildings. He turned around to nervously watch his pursuer.

"I've got you cornered now," Trigger said. "Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be. Just come along quietly, and..." The roof creaked under him. "Uh oh." It collapsed under him.

He landed flat on his back in the middle of a salon. A couple of hairdressers and their customers stared at him. He sat up, looked around at them sheepishly, and said, "Afternoon, ladies."

####

The angel statue was visible through the trees even before the rest of Gravity Falls Cemetery. When they were close enough to inspect it, it was clear the angel's left hand matched the hand drawn on the map; as Powers was inspecting the hand, he accidentally bent its index finger, and the ground opened up.

Goldie elected to stand guard near the entrance, sitting on the steps, as Powers explored deeper; which was just as well, because the tunnel was apparently boobytrapped. (What in the world was the Blind Eye's budget? Hidden subterranean chambers in the museum, hidden underground tunnel in the cemetery, a memory-erasing ray gun, a poison dart trap...)

At the bottom of a steep incline, the tunnel opened up into a chamber. He expected maybe money, or stolen and forged property deeds, or even bootleg maple syrup... you never knew in this town. He didn't expect piles upon piles of crates and files with the Official United States Government Cover-Up Seal—the seal of the Bureau of Covert Investigations' parent department.

He didn't like this.

He steeled himself and began exploring the room.

####

Goldie lifted her head as she saw Powers coming up the tunnel. "Hey!" She held up one of the files they'd taken from the Blind Eye's filing cabinet. "I decoded that ciphered document you found. It wasn't even a good cipher. I think we've got the Blind Eye's address book! Names, addresses, officer titles—say, what do you think a 'secretary' does in a society that tries to erase memories? He's probably not recording meeting notes..."

She fell silent as Powers flung down a file on the step beside her. "What's that?" She picked it up. The file was titled "THE NORTHWEST COVER-UP" and stamped TOP SECRET. The cover-up seal took up most of the cover; beneath it was an X'ed out eye and the typewritten letters, "in collaboration with the Society of the Blind Eye".

"Everything about this town is a lie," Powers said.

"Everything? What do you mean?" Goldie flipped open the file, skimmed it, and frowned. "Who founded the town?"

"President. Sir. Quentin Trembley. The third. Esquire." Powers pronounced each title separately. He sat down next to Goldie; his hands were trembling. "He was a secret United States president. When he was evicted from office—he wasn't even impeached, they just kicked him out!—he fled across the country and founded This. Town." He shook his head in disbelief. If he hadn't read it himself... "This—this Trembley was an utter madman. He declared war against pancakes, appointed infants to the Supreme Court, banned pants, raved publicly about giant spiders... I'm not surprised he was ousted, he sounds like a complete lunatic."

As he spoke, Goldie's expression darkened. "Huh." But she didn't say anything else. She just stared at the cover-up file.

"Somebody decided to erase his entire existence from history. Nathaniel Northwest was named the founder of Gravity Falls in his place. He sounds like he was just as mad as Trembley was, but—he was just the village idiot, I suppose he must have been easier to control than this Trembley." Powers shook his head.

"So... what does all this have to do with the Blind Eye?" Goldie asked.

"In one of the memory canisters, I saw them discussing this cover-up with Preston Northwest—Nathaniel's descendant. He knew about the cover-up—of course he would, his family's fortune rests upon it!—but... they erased Preston's knowledge of it, too. Not only is this town the center of a cover-up to hide the fact that we once had a lunatic for a president, but also the government set up an entire secret cult to erase the memories of anyone who finds out about it... or, by the looks of things, about anything else happening in Gravity Falls that the government doesn't want civilians looking at too closely."

Powers took a shaky breath. "And that's not the worst of it."

"Oh-oh." Goldie closed the cover-up file and looked at him warily. "What's the worst?"

Powers held out a business card—bent, dusty, worn around the edges from age—that he'd found sitting next to the projector. It was his own business card. "The worst part is, I already knew about it."

####

Dale waited outside the salon, hands in his pockets. He checked his watch, then rocked back on his heels.

Trigger stepped out of the salon with frosted tips. Dale stared at him. Awkwardly, Trigger said, "Well?"

Dale nodded. "Yeah, you look nice, it's nice."

"Thanks. I've always wanted to try the look but never had an excuse," Trigger said. "Anyway—what do we do about the goat."

They started walking back to where they'd parked their car. Dale said, "In my opinion, it's time we call in the big guns."

"You mean...?"

"That's right. Animal control," Dale said. "We can set up a perimeter around town, then slowly close in. We'll tighten the net around it, and—"

Trigger clapped a hand on Dale's shoulder. He pointed down the alley they were passing.

Gompers was eating out of a spilled trash can. He looked up like a kid who'd just been caught shoplifting by two cops.

The agents exchanged a look, then lunged at Gompers.

####

When Bill got back to the shack, he owed the Pines a round of congratulations. Stan for stealing back the file on the Northwest cover-up from the police department, and for planting the papers from the case file and the threatening letter in Powers's motel room without getting caught; Mabel for the terrific forgery work on the fake map, the modifications to the cover-up file's cover, and the threatening letter itself; Ford for—well, he hadn't done a lot, but he'd been a decent actor—but on the other hand that yimakh shemo had burned up nearly all the goodwill Ford had earned last night, maybe Bill would skip thanking him; and Dipper had barely done anything, he'd just helped plant the file and the old business card in the chamber beneath the graveyard, Bill could skip thanking him too. Maybe he'd make a point of praising Soos for his chauffeuring just to rub in the fact that he was leaving Ford and Dipper out in the cold.

Thinking over his plans gave Bill something to entertain himself with while Powers clung to Bill's hand and reevaluated his entire life and career.

"I just don't... What else did I forget?" Powers asked. "I apparently forgot about the first time I learned all this... I must have forgotten you..."

"Hold on. Did we know each other before?" asked Bill, as if he hadn't planted all the clues to ensure Powers would come to that exact conclusion.

"We must have," Powers said. "You were investigating in this town, and yet I don't know you; the letter I received threatened that I might lose 'another' team member; and in your stolen memory, the Blind Eye told you that your team wouldn't remember you. I don't have a cryptologist on my team, and you're a cryptology expert. It all fits together."

Bill nodded encouragingly—yes, that was exactly what he'd wanted him to conclude.

"And there's all the other little clues that fit into place. The way you were so interested in this investigation, right from the outset. It makes sense if it was subconsciously familiar. And you think you're a visitor to town but the people here talk about you like you're a resident. They even seem to know you by two different genders... and when you told me to buy a car, you said to say that a 'Mr. Locke' sent me. You must have been communicating with people in town under two identities."

Hold on. That was dangerously close to information Powers shouldn't have. How had he found that out?

"And you know my first name," Powers went on. "Most of the BCI's field agents use code names even in the office. I've been working with Trigger since he joined, and he still doesn't know my first name. If you do..."

Bill was relieved they were back on track. He'd planted that clue on purpose. "Then we must have been close. No wonder I can't keep away from you."

Powers glanced away bashfully. (Ha! Too easy.) "And yet... I don't even know your name."

Alarm shot up Bill's spine. "What?"

"I thought 'Goldie Locke was an improbable name the first time I heard it. But, it's the exact kind of name the bureau would give a field agent. It has to be a code name."

Bill mentally kicked himself for the hundredth time for not choosing a subtler fake name. At least Powers had drawn the wrong conclusion. "Oh. Well. When you put it that way."

"Do you remember your real name?"

He hadn't prepared a backup fake name. He scrambled for another name that wasn't too masculine, too exotic, or even more fake sounding, and came up blank. "Uhhh, yyy—no."

"I wish I could help you remember it," Powers grumbled. "How much do you remember about your life?"

Bill had been deciding that since Powers asked at the museum if he remembered any verifiable biographical details (a question he should have anticipated sooner). He didn't want to say nothing, that might look too suspicious; but he didn't want to give any leads Powers could follow up on. "Not much. Faces without names, flashes of different cities I must've visited... I thought I just... had some kind of amnesia. The people in town have been nice enough to let me bum around here while I figure things out."

"At the Mystery Shack?" Powers asked. "You've been working with Stanford Pines."

Bill flinched. "I—yeah. I have." Sheesh, how did he know that?

"You didn't mention you were staying there," Powers said wryly.

Bill laughed. It came out more nervous than he'd have liked. "Yeah, well. I'm gonna come clean with you: I didn't want you to find out when I was trying to charm you into charming me out of my dress." (He was gratified to see Powers flush pink and turn away to loudly clear his throat. Bill had lost control of this conversation so fast, it was nice to know humans were still predictable in some ways.) "I mean, who wants to tell the handsome federal agent in the nice suit that you're a brain damaged bum couch-surfing in Oregon's most rickety tourist trap?"

"With all due respect, the brain damage wasn't as well-hidden as you think."

"Wh—hey! What's that supposed to mean?!"

"Your trouble with your eyes. Issues with binocular vision are a common consequence of brain damage." (For the first time that day, Bill was suddenly hyperconscious of the way one of his overtaxed eyes was twitching as he struggled not to let it squint shut.) "And I skimmed the file on the Memory Gun. It mentioned cases of victims forgetting how to safely cross a street, how to ride a bike, how to throw a ball... I figure forgetting how to open doors falls under the same umbrella."

A chill settled over Bill. "Oh," he croaked. "Noticed that, did you. You've... been paying pretty close attention to me." Not to mention talking to someone about him.

"Of course. You're a mysterious woman. I want to learn more about you," Powers said. "We spent all day talking yesterday, and I don't think I learned anything about you except that you've been in town for a month, you have an uncanny knack for cracking ciphers, and you make very interesting culinary choices. You kept the conversation off yourself."

Bill hadn't realized he'd noticed that. Powers wasn't supposed to have noticed any of this. This was what Bill got for trying to dupe a professional investigator. Thank goodness he'd gotten him set him up on this wild goose chase before he'd really dug up too much about Bill's history. Sometimes it was easy to forget that some of this planet's idiots were smart. "Well," he said awkwardly, "now you know why. At the moment, I don't have much I can tell you about myself."

Powers gave Bill a wan, sad smile. "It'll be alright," he said, sliding a reassuring arm around Bill's shoulders, and Bill realized more of his panic must be showing on his face than he'd wanted. "We'll fill in the gaps."

That was just what he was afraid of.

For the first time, the arm around Bill's shoulder felt less like a piece of a puzzle slotted into the proper place—all according to plan—and more like the kill bar of a mousetrap that hadn't yet realized a rodent was standing on the trigger.

Powers's phone rang. He picked it up, and Bill quietly sighed in relief. "Hello?"

"Sir!" That was Dale's excited voice on the line. "We got it! We've captured, extracted, and sterilized the flash drive!"

"Didn't you say it was in a goat? How did you get it out?"

"The, uhh... old fashioned way. Apparently cherry pie didn't agree with his digestive tract."

His voice a little more distant, Trigger emphasized, "Thoroughly sterilized."

"Excellent work," Powers said. "Where are you now?"

"En route to the motel."

"Very well. We'll meet you there."

Perfect, thought Bill. The sooner he finished this, the sooner he'd never have to worry about the agents learning too much again.

####

(Post-TBOB edits! Had to change the age of the items on display in the museum, since TBOB changed Bill's interactions with the shaman from being about 1000 years ago to about 4000 years ago; and since a tapestry like we saw in the Northwest Manor is unlikely to have lasted 4000 years and is made in an art style that seems to be about 1500 years old, had to make up an excuse for it to exist; in the tapestry description, added in the tapestry in Pacifica's room mentioned on TINAWDC; and I think that's it? Just minor details.

And now y'all know why a few chapters ago I had to very clearly establish the distance between Powers's team and the guys who actually know about Trembley lol.

Anyway we are MOST OF THE WAY through the exciting action! Looking forward to hearing y'all's thoughts on this week's chapter! And I mentioned it on my blog but for those of y'all that only show up for the chapters: we're switching to every other week posts for a while because working on another flashback arc ate up more of my chapter buffer than I'd like. In between weeks with new chapters, I'll be editing and posting old chapters to AO3.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #agent powers #agent trigger #(also featuring: agent dale cooper from hit tv show twin peaks!! he is not—I repeat—NOT a cheap knockoff.)#(you have to read the previous tag in stan's voice to get the full effect.)#gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

264 notes · View notes

minihotdog · 1 year ago

Text

Have You Seen My Boyfriend?

Summary: You see Simon in the mask for the first time

C/W: angst (?)

A/N: I've been wanting to write this fic for a while now and I didn't really know what to do with it BUT @celestialwhoree wrote this lovely fic right here and it lit a fire under my ass. I also don't think Simon would wear his mask outside of combat-active areas sooo I threw that out the window to make this work.

Word Count: 723

He didn’t even remember that he still had that damn balaclava on when they touched down on the runway. Months had gone by and eventually, as it always did, it began to feel like a second skin.

He never let you see him with it on either. Simon made sure to keep Ghost on the field and Simon at home. He’d watched countless men throughout his career take work home with them and the damage it left on everyone they touched. He wasn’t perfect. He had his own struggles in disconnecting from the adrenaline and danger, but he’d been meticulous so far.

Since you came into his life the balaclava stayed in his ready-to-go bag that you weren’t allowed to touch.

The bulk of the unit grabs their bags and heads towards the hangar as fast as they can, happy to be freed from the C-130 they’d been cramped into like sardines for hours. Their families wait for them, cheering as they get closer.

Simon knew you didn’t like crowds and messaged you to meet him at the compound instead, he’d instructed a private to let you inside the barrack’s common area to wait for him.

You were sitting on an ugly old brown couch fidgeting with your fingers. He’d been gone for months and your excitement to have him back home was mixing with the anxiety of being in this environment that didn’t feel right for you to be in. You wondered if he’d get in trouble for letting you be there.

At some point, you get on your feet and begin pacing away from the door in case they barge in to take you away for being in a restricted area unsupervised.

Simon detours to throw his bags in his office before heading towards the common area. His weapon and clips are long gone, turned into the armory waiting for his next embarkment. His vest is still snug on his frame, his skeleton-printed gloves still donned with months of sweat and grime soaked into the fabric, and his forgotten balaclava sticking to him absentmindedly.

You jump out of your skin in fear when the door swings open and spin around on your heels to meet your awaiting demise. Your nerves don’t subside when a giant man steps into the room. All the air suddenly gets sucked out.

He’s covered head to toe and the only thing your eyes can focus on is the skull print on his face. He closes the door behind him, his eyes not leaving yours.

You swallow harshly, trying to force words out. Or do anything to save yourself.

“Have you seen my boyfriend?” You squeak out. You watch the mask move over his features and you avoid his eyes at all costs. The overcast from the eyeholes makes them look like black holes.

“Y/n,” He breathes out while taking a step closer. You swear to yourself he almost sounds like your Simon but the alarm bells continue going off at the sight of him. You take a step back and in his exhausted state, it finally clicks. His eyes close and his eyebrows furrow in disbelief. He looks over you taking in your reluctance and the fear coursing through you.

Fuckin’ Hell

He reaches up slowly to not scare you. His fingers pull at the fabric at the top of his head slowly pulling the balaclava off to reveal his all-to-familiar face, his messy blond locs sticking out in every direction.

“Jesus, Simon!” You gasp, running to him and banging on his chest. “You scared the shit out of me! What the fuck!”

He wraps his arms around you, pinning you to his chest. You writhe in his arms trying to escape.

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to.”

You look up into his sad chocolate brown eyes now freed from the darkness that hid them before. “I never wanted you to see that, doll. That isn’t me, I promise.” His voice comes out soft and full of regret.

He yanks his gloves off letting them fall to the ground so he can lace his fingers in your hair. He holds you against his chest, occasionally brushing his lips against your forehead.

Cats out of the bag.

He doesn’t know what to do now. What if this is the start of something he can’t prevent?

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley drabble

3K notes · View notes

cruel-seduction · 18 days ago

Note

Hi lovey! I loved your werewolf Theo x reader so muchhh! I was wondering how Theo would be there for reader when the reader is really upset or sick etc. Like some sort of emotional bonding between them

Feverish & Feral

Werewolf!theo au (u can read it as standalone)

word count - 3.5k+

Summary: You thought Theodore only wanted you for one thing, but when illness hit and you refused help, he was still there. Reluctantly taking care of you in ways he never imagined for anyone—fighting, cooking, cleaning, and even washing your clothes—he started revealing more than just his usual sarcasm. In the mess of tantrums and stubbornness, confessions slipped out, changing everything.

Content Warning: Fluff, stubbornness, fights, Theodore being surprisingly domestic, injuries while cooking, cleaning period panties (yes, you read that right), clumsy room, messy life, emotional tension, and unexpected vulnerability.

The storm outside had been relentless for hours, thick raindrops battering against the windows, the howling wind rattling through the cracks. The cold seeped into the walls, an unwelcome guest lingering in the dimly lit space. The fireplace in the corner had long since burned out, leaving only the faintest traces of warmth, smothered by the icy air that hung around like a phantom.

And then, there was Theodore Nott.

Standing in the doorway like a shadow come to life, his long coat soaked through, dark curls damp from the rain. His face was unreadable, but his presence was suffocating, demanding, an unspoken weight pressing into the room.

You barely had the strength to sit up, but your glare was unwavering.

"Do what you wanna do and get the hell out."

Your voice, rough from fever, scraped against the silence. The venom was still there, even as exhaustion made your limbs heavy, your body sinking deeper into the couch.

But Theodore didn’t move.

His sharp, calculating gaze swept over you, taking in the disheveled state you were in. Messy hair, swollen eyes, a sheen of sweat clinging to your feverish skin. You looked ruined. Broken. And his jaw clenched.

Something inside him twisted, coiled tight like a snake ready to strike. Someone had hurt you. Who? Who had touched what was his?

You saw it then—the flicker of rage in his eyes, the unmistakable promise of violence. His hands curled into fists at his sides, chest rising and falling as his breathing grew measured, controlled. But his silence spoke volumes.

"Calm down, prince charming. I’m just sick, not murdered."

Your dry laugh barely made it past your lips, your head tilting back against the couch cushions. But Theodore didn’t look amused. Instead of rolling his eyes, instead of scoffing and turning on his heel to leave, he did something you hadn’t expected.

He stepped inside.

The heavy door clicked shut behind him, sealing out the storm. His coat dripped water onto the wooden floor, but he didn’t bother removing it. His focus remained locked onto you, assessing, calculating.

"You look disgusting."

His voice was low, even, laced with something unreadable.

"Charming. Should I swoon?" you rasped, shifting under his gaze.

"You should take better care of yourself."

"Wow, great advice. I’ll be sure to pass that on to my immune system."

His nostrils flared. You were insufferable.

"You let yourself get sick."

"Oh, I let myself get sick? My bad, next time I’ll simply choose not to catch a fever."

"Next time, I expect you to have the sense to not run yourself into the ground."

"Next time, I expect you to mind your damn business."

His eyes darkened. There she is. Even feverish, barely able to sit up straight, you were still all sharp edges and venom. He had expected nothing less.

Theodore sighed, rubbing his temple. "Where’s your medicine?"

"Gone."

"You didn’t restock it?"

"No, because I didn’t think I’d need it."

"You are single handedly proving that you should not be left unsupervised."

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I’ve survived just fine without you."

The moment the words left your mouth, your vision swam. A wave of dizziness washed over you, dragging you under. Your head lolled, breath hitching. And before you could even process what was happening, Theodore was already moving.

He caught you before you slipped off the couch, his strong arms wrapping around you with an ease that made your stomach twist.

"Fucking hell—" he muttered under his breath, shifting you effortlessly against his chest.

"Put me down—"

"Not a chance, little tyrant."

You weakly smacked his shoulder, but he didn’t so much as flinch. His grip was firm, steady, his scent—expensive cologne and rain—wrapping around you as he carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing.

"You’re overreacting."

"Oh, forgive me for reacting at all. I should’ve just let you collapse onto the floor, hmm?"

"That would’ve been preferable."

He scoffed. "Of course it would."

The bedroom door creaked open, and the next thing you knew, you were being deposited onto the bed, the sheets cool against your overheated skin. Theodore didn’t leave—not that you expected him to. He merely straightened, rolling his sleeves up to his forearms, his watch glinting under the dim lighting.

Then, without a word, he turned and left the room.

You barely had time to revel in the brief moment of peace before he returned, a glass of water in one hand, a damp cloth in the other.

"Drink." You eyed the glass warily. "No."

"Drink."

"What if I don’t?"

"Then I’ll make you."

"You wouldn’t dare."

His brow lifted, a silent challenge. And before you could react, he was already sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping your jaw—not hard, but firm enough to leave no room for argument.

"Open."

"I hate you."

"That’s lovely, dove. Open your mouth."

You glared at him, your pride warring with your exhaustion. But Theodore was not a patient man, and before you could push him away, he tipped the glass against your lips, forcing the cool water into your mouth.

You sputtered, swallowing instinctively.

"See? Not so hard." His voice was annoyingly smug.

You would’ve thrown the glass at him if you had the energy. Instead, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, scowling. "You’re the worst person I’ve ever met."

"Oh, I’m honored."

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Theodore had seen horrors in his life. He had seen blood spill like ink, watched men beg for their last breath. He had seen war, death, and things that would haunt most people in their dreams.

And yet, nothing—nothing—had ever tested his patience like taking care of you.

His eye twitched as he surveyed the disaster you called home. Clothes were thrown carelessly over furniture, blankets tangled on the floor, dishes stacked in the sink like some kind of structural experiment. It was truly impressive how someone so meticulous in insults could be this much of a mess.

"It’s like I walked into a crime scene," Theodore muttered, stepping over a pile of unfolded laundry.

"Oh, piss off," you grumbled, still wrapped in blankets on the bed, looking utterly miserable. "I’ve been sick. Excuse me for not putting on a maid outfit and dusting for your majesty."

"Sick or not, this is borderline a health violation. How do you even find anything in this pigsty?"

"I have a system."

"A system? Where? Under this pile of what I can only assume were once clean clothes?" He nudged a discarded sweater with the tip of his shoe.

"I know where everything is."

"Really? Where’s your medicine?"

You opened your mouth—then promptly shut it. Theodore sighed through his nose, exasperated. "Exactly."

Ignoring the insult you were most certainly preparing to launch at him, he shrugged off his coat and rolled his sleeves up again. He had no idea how long he would be here, but judging by the pathetic state you were in, he figured he should make himself useful.

"Alright, since you clearly have no sense of self-preservation, I’ll do it for you."

"Do what?"

"Cook, clean—basic survival skills you seem to lack."

You snorted. "Seeing you I am pretty sure you don’t know how to cook." Theodore’s lips curled into something sharp. "I am aware."

"Then don’t bother."

"Would you prefer to starve?"

"Yes."

"Well, unfortunately for you, I have more sense than to let you perish over your own stubbornness."

You groaned dramatically, shoving your face into the pillow. "God, I hate you."

"Mm, of course you do, darling."

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The kitchen was… an experience.

Theodore had seen others cook. Watched as chefs prepared extravagant meals in his father’s estate. But he had never actually done it himself. He was quickly realizing that it was far more tedious than it looked.

He frowned at the pot of soup simmering on the stove, stirring it as though it had personally wronged him. How hard could it be? Water, vegetables, heat—done. He had barely thought of the words when a sudden sizzle cracked through the air.

Pain shot through his hand, sharp and biting. He jerked back, glaring at the pot as if it had insulted his entire bloodline.

What the fuck.

Theodore turned on the sink, shoving his hand under the cold water. How did people do this daily?

"Did you just burn yourself?"

Your hoarse voice echoed from the doorway. He turned to find you standing there, wrapped in a blanket like some fever-ridden specter.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

"Observing your downfall."

His jaw ticked. "Sit down before you collapse and kill yourself."

"Did you really burn yourself? After mocking me for not taking care of myself?"

"It was a minor miscalculation."

"Right. The soup fought back."

Theodore exhaled sharply through his nose. "If you must know, I was ensuring the proper temperature."

"By sticking your hand in it?"

"I do not recall asking for your input."

You grinned—weak, but victorious. Theodore turned back to the stove, only to immediately hiss in pain when he went to grab the knife. Blood beaded at his fingertip.

A small cut. Minor inconvenience.

But then—laughter.

Theodore stilled. He turned his head, watching as you clutched the doorway, giggling despite how miserable you looked.

"You’re useless!" you wheezed. "Oh, this is so funny. Where’s that brooding alpha jerk??? Like Babygirl daddy’s here." You tried to fake deep your voice and then continued laughing.

Theodore’s fingers tightened around the counter. "You are one second away from not eating at all." You wiped tears from your fever-bright eyes. "Worth it."

With an exhausted sigh, Theodore forced himself to focus. The soup—which he would not let defeat him—was almost done. He ladled some into a bowl, the scent of vegetables and herbs filling the air. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was edible. He turned, approaching you with the bowl.

"Eat."

"No."

"Eat."

"Absolutely not."

Theodore pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are insufferable."

"And you are a failure of a chef. How do I know this isn’t poisoned?"

"Oh, trust me, if I wanted you dead, I’d have found a far more efficient way than making you subpar soup."

You huffed. "Flattering."

"Eat the damn soup."

"Make me."

A mistake.

The moment the words left your mouth, Theodore took the spoon, scooped up the steaming liquid, and shoved it toward you. You barely had time to react before he had a hand cradling your jaw, forcing the spoon between your lips.

You sputtered, choking slightly as you swallowed. "What the fuck, Theodore!"

"Hmm. Looks like you can be fed like a child after all."

"You’re psychotic!"

"And yet, I’m the one keeping you alive."

Your glare could have melted glass. Theodore, however, simply smirked, lifting another spoonful.

"Open up. Unless you’d prefer me to hold your nose next time?"

This was going to be a long night.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Theodore stood at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands wrist-deep in soapy water. If someone had told him three weeks ago that he’d be here—half-drenched in dishwater, hair mussed from steam, and wearing one of your oversized jumpers which barely fitted him. It was like it was crushing his biceps and chest because he’d spilled broth on his own—he’d have hexed them into the next century.

But here he was, doing the dishes with the grace of a man who had never been forced to do anything domestic in his life.

The plates clinked softly against each other as he washed them in slow, methodical circles, jaw clenched and expression unreadable—except for the slight twitch in his lip as his thoughts wandered back to last night.

You. Sitting on the floor. Wrapped in two blankets, hair a mess, hoodie hanging off one shoulder like you’d given up on sleeves. He’d walked in expecting to find you asleep—and instead saw the horror.

Ice cream.

Double chocolate. Straight from the tub. In the middle of a raging fever.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing?” he’d asked, eyes wide with actual offense.

You had blinked at him like he was the stupid one. “Poison kills poison.”

He’d stared at you for so long you thought he’d short-circuited.

“That’s not— That’s not how that works.”

You’d just shrugged, licking the spoon and mumbling something about healing through indulgence.

He’d snatched the tub out of your hands like it was radioactive and chucked it straight into the bin, ignoring your dramatic shriek like he was swatting away a mosquito.

Now, as he scrubbed the last bowl, he muttered to himself, “Poison kills poison... Absolutely brain-dead logic.”

Still, when he rinsed his hands and wiped them off on a towel, there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth. Just the smallest one. Barely there.

He padded into the bedroom with the grace of a man intending to collapse face-first onto the mattress. His back ached, his shoulders were tight, and he’d sliced his finger on a bloody carrot peeler an hour ago—an injury he’d rather die than tell you about.

And yet, he’d done it. Cooked. Cleaned. Took care of your chaos. And the most baffling part of it all? He knew—knew with the kind of certainty that scared him—that you were never doing this alone again. Not while he was around.

Of course, he’d rather swallow nails than admit that aloud.

He needed a break. A nap. A moment of silence where he wasn’t being called a controlling bastard for insisting soup had more nutritional value than sugar-infused dairy.

But the moment he stepped into the room, any trace of peace shattered.

You were moving—more like stumbling—toward the ensuite bathroom, one hand pressed against your abdomen, the other trying to hold your oversized hoodie in place.

Theodore's sharp eyes dropped to the ground. A small, red smear trailed faintly on the edge of your sweatpants.

Oh.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound. For god’s sake, he wasn’t a child. He understood what this was.

But what he did feel—unexpectedly, irrationally—was a jolt of guilt. Followed by something fiercer. Something territorial.

He didn’t like that you were in pain. He didn’t like that you were hiding it. And most of all, he didn’t like that you looked so damn ashamed for something as natural as bleeding.

“Wait,” he said, voice level.

You froze mid-step, halfway through shutting the bathroom door. “What?” You sounded defensive already. Bristling. As always.

“I’ll wash them.” His tone was softer than usual. More command than request, but not quite either. “Your clothes. Hand them over.”

There was a long pause.

Then a dry, scoffing laugh. “Yeah, no. I’m not handing you bloody underwear, Prince Charming. That’s where I draw the line.”

Theodore narrowed his eyes, but remained calm. “The washer’s broken. You’ll strain yourself trying to do it by hand.”

“And?”

“And I’ve already wiped your fever snot and forced soup into your mouth like you’re five. I’m on a roll.”

You groaned through the door. “Theodore. I swear. This is humiliating.”

He stepped closer, voice lowering like he was speaking to a spooked animal. “You’re unwell and on periods. This isn’t shameful. It’s just life. Now stop being stubborn and pass them here.”

“Fuck off.”

Theodore let out an exhausted sigh. “I’m trying to be polite here, which is more than you deserve, gremlin. Please—yes, I said please, and I’ll be revisiting that decision in therapy later—just hand them over.”

“Not happening,” you called again, tone final.

He looked toward the ceiling, then back at the door. “I’ll count to three. After that, I’m opening this bloody door and taking them myself. Your pride can recover in hell.”

Finally, a soft huff. The door cracked open half an inch. A small bundle of fabric shoved hastily through the gap.

“Don’t look,” you snapped.

“Wasn’t planning to,” he replied smoothly, taking them with practiced indifference—but something about the way you trembled as you passed them over stuck with him.

He didn’t comment. Just turned, walked back toward the sink, and began washing them—by hand. Silently. Methodically.

The water turned pink. He didn’t flinch.

This—this right here—was insanity. He’d never done this before. Never imagined he would. He grew up in a house where even lifting a teacup was someone else’s job. Where softness was considered weakness, and empathy was a curse.

And yet here he was, sleeves rolled, bloodied water on his fingers, doing something no one had asked him to do.

Something he hadn’t even known he was capable of.

All for a girl who would curse him the moment she found the soup too salty.

He shook his head slowly, drying his hands once he was done.

“She’s going to kill me,” he muttered under his breath, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t sound like he was joking.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Night pressed against the windows like a quiet promise, the air in the room still and warm, laced with the faint smell of eucalyptus and leftover soup. The fan above hummed lazily, stirring shadows across the ceiling, and somewhere in the sheets, your foot brushed against Theodore’s leg by accident—though you didn’t move it away.

You both lay on your backs, inches apart, the silence between you no longer hostile. It wasn’t easy, being in the same space as him, let alone the same bed. But it was... safe. He made it feel safe.

Theodore didn’t say a word. He hadn’t, not for the past hour. You’d taken your medicine without swearing at him this time, and he hadn’t mocked your blanket burrito technique, just smiled faintly and climbed in beside you—without making it a thing. That was the most irritating part about him. He never made things a thing.

You should’ve been asleep.

But your thoughts were clawing at you like ghosts with unfinished business.

He was here. Still here.

He could’ve left. He should’ve left. But he hadn’t. And that fact was unraveling something in you you weren’t ready to name.

You hated him. You swore you hated him.

And yet—

“…Why?” you whispered into the dark, voice scratchy from fever and emotion. “Why are you even doing this?”

The question hung in the air like smoke—impossible to ignore, too fragile to touch. You didn’t expect him to answer. Hell, you weren’t even sure if you wanted him to.

But he turned.

Not away.

Toward you.

His body shifted, slow and deliberate, until he was propped on his elbow, looking down at you. The light from the hallway barely touched his features, but his eyes burned in the dark—molten, unblinking, impossibly steady.

“You’re mine,” he said softly. “And I’m yours.”

His voice didn’t shake. It was steady. Low. As certain as a heartbeat.

“Every breath I take is for you.”

Your chest tightened.

He didn’t stop.

“I didn’t know I was lost until I met you,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle against your cheekbone like he was afraid you'd disappear. “I thought wandering was just who I was. That some people were made to drift. Never stay too long. Never care too deep. I thought I was one of them.”

His breath caught—just a little.

“And then you looked at me,” he whispered, voice lower now, barely there, like confessions were sacred. “And suddenly, everywhere I had ever been felt like it had only existed to lead me to you.”

You blinked, frozen, barely breathing.

“You’re not the destination,” he continued, gaze unwavering. “You’re the reason I stopped running.”

He laid back down, this time closer. His voice was just above your ear now, not a declaration but a quiet truth shared in the dark.

“You’re the soft light in a room I didn’t even realize I’d been locked inside. You’re the stillness that made me realize how loud my emptiness had become.”

You closed your eyes, throat tight.

“With you, I don’t want to be more,” he said. “Not a better man. Not a stronger one. Just… the truest version of myself. The one who smiles without knowing. The one who believes in the morning again.”

He paused. Not for drama. Just to breathe.

“You don’t complete me—you calm me. You don’t fix me—you see me. And somehow, that’s enough.”

His words fell into the silence like a match to dry leaves.

And you…

You were glassy-eyed.

Staring at the ceiling. Not blinking. You could feel your chest rise too quickly, your fingers curled against the blankets to keep them from shaking. He didn’t even know what he’d done. What he’d just said.

You hated him. Swore you hated him.

And yet. You rolled onto your side to face him. And you didn’t say a word.

Because you couldn’t. You wouldn’t survive it.

But you knew. Deep down, with every part of your fevered, bleeding, breaking body—you knew.

Whatever this was…

It wasn’t going to end well.

But god knows, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Taglist - @empath-bunny @gipsonnikki @emptyachingblue @syymplypotter @a-little-funny @chimchoom (comment/Dm to get added)

243 notes · View notes

puppy-steve · 6 months ago

Text

promise you forever

steddie ☆ 971 ☆ cw: none ☆ appalachian eddie ☆ao3

“phone for ya, eds,” wayne chuckles as he comes out of the house to the front porch where everyone’s sitting. “think your boy’s had one too many.”

eddie frowns and stamps down the worry bubbling inside him. steve rarely ever drinks anymore. doesn’t smoke anymore, either. not since starcourt. eddie slides off the porch swing where he’d been sitting with his aunt pep and goes inside to the wall phone in the kitchen, the receiver laying on the counter.

“steve?” he says, lifting the phone to his ear.

“country boy, i love youuuuuuuu!”

steve’s words are slurred, which doesn’t make eddie any less panicked. what happened? was he okay? eddie leaves to visit his family for one week and he can’t seem to escape the horrors that hawkins, indiana seems to breed every day.

“stevie? baby, you okay?” eddie tries to keep his voice from shaking.

there’s a laugh on the other line and steve flat out yells into the phone, “eddie! hi!” yep. he’s definitely drunk. eddie strains to hear any background noise that would give any hints as to where steve is at, but it’s silent.

eddie’s knuckles grip the phone. “where are you, sweetheart? are you safe?”

steve makes a grumbling noise, like he’s talking to someone else and eddie doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse.

“i’m fiiiiiine, eds,” steve says after another second of grumbling. “teds. teddy. teddy bear.” he starts listing ever iteration of eddie’s name, and eddie doesn’t want him to stop. if he keeps going, then eddie knows he’s not in immediate danger.

“dingus! stop hogging the phone!”

wait.

“robbie, i’m trying to talk to me boyfriend,” steve whines and there’s sounds of a scuffle and “no—hey—robin, it’s still my turn—!”

“hi, eddie!” robin’s voice is suddenly in his ear and sounding just as drunk as steve. jesus christ, eddie’s never leaving them unsupervised again.

eddie sighs and runs a hand down his face. “robin, where the hell are you? and why are you drunk?” these two are gonna finish what the bats started and put him in an early grave, he swears it.

on her end, robin groans. “dingus!” she scolds steve. “you didn’t remind him?”

“remind me of what, bobbie?” eddie asks. now that he’s sure the two of them are somewhat coherent and probably not in danger, he feels so fucking tired all of a sudden.

“it’s my birthday, doofus!”

well now eddie feels awful. steve reminded him before he and wayne left, but in all the excitement of seeing the rest of his family again, it slipped eddie’s mind.

robin continues, “and you, theodore munson!”

if eddie thought he was off the hook, he’s dead wrong. he’s never hearing the end of this now. it’s not likely, but maybe luck will be on his side for once and she’ll forget this conversation ever happened.

“you owe me a birthday breakfast, lunch, and dinner when you get back. and you have to buy me a present.”

eddie rests his forehead on the wall as a laugh bubbles up out of his chest at the ridiculousness of the situation. “alright, birdie,” he promises. “as soon as i get back, i’ll start right on it and get you the most expensive present i can afford.”

“it better break your bank account, munson!” she threatens, but eddie knows she’s bluffing.

“alright, birthday girl, can you put steve back on?”

robin yells out for steve. “you better not be doing any hanky panky on my birthday, dingus,” she warns before steve comes on the line.

“hi, baby.” he’s definitely still drunk, but he’s quieter, not yelling into the phone like he was a few minutes ago.

warmth fills eddie’s chest and he leans his shoulder on the wall, angling himself away from the door to give himself a sense of privacy in case anyone comes inside. “hey sweetheart,” he says just as softly. “you two having fun?”

he can practically see steve’s nod. “mhm,” he confirms. “miss you, though. wish you were here.”

eddie’s gonna marry this boy someday, just you wait.

“i miss you, too, sugar,” eddie tells him. “wayne said he thinks you’ve had a little too much to drink.”

“no i haven’t!” steve’s voice raises for a second before dropping back down again. “just had one… three… four beers, i promise.”

eddie hums, not bothering to hide the amused grin on his face. “uh-huh. s'at why you sound drunker than a skunk, right now, sweet thing?”

steve huffs and eddie wants so badly to kiss the pout off his boyfriends lips. “m'not drunk,” he says without any real argument.

“alright, i believe you,” eddie concedes. he can’t help but to let a little worry back in. he bites his lip. “can you promise me something, stevie?”

steve’s answer is immediate and almost shatters eddie’s heart. “i’ll promise you forever, teddy.”

eddie takes a breather to calm himself down so he doesn’t jump in wayne’s truck and make the five hour drive back to hawkins. “promise me you’ll call nancy if either of you start to feel weird?”

steve hums in his ear, like a purring cat. “i promise, baby. cross my heart ‘n everything.”

eddie grins and wishes he was there in front of him so he could touch him. “thank you. i won’t keep you any longer, then. i’m sure birdie’s getting impatient.”

“she’s always impatient,” steve huffs. “it’s her best quality.”

there’s no argument there.

“i love you, stevie. call me tomorrow when you wake up?”

steve sighs softly. “i love you, eddie.” he makes exaggerated kissing noises over the phone until he hangs up.

eddie hangs the receiver up. he’s here in his grandmother’s kitchen, surrounded by his family, but his heart has never felt as full as it does in this moment.

buy me a ☕?

#steddie #steddie ficlet #appalachian eddie #.txt #.doc

251 notes · View notes

plussizefantasia · 7 months ago

Text

CozyTober Day 7: Fresh Baked Goods

Bucky Barnes x wife!reader

wc: 0.9k

warnings: anxiety induced baking

an: this was one of my favorites and now I have a few more ideas of what I should bake this month hehe. Reblog if you enjoyed, I'll see you tomorrow for Day 8!

Since you were old enough to use the stove unsupervised baking has been your main way to get rid of stress. The way that it captured all your focus and kept your hands busy made it the prime choice for distraction in moments of chaos.

When finals week would roll around you would be drowning in all sorts of breads, cookies, muffins, and pastries. You had resorted to donating them to a local soup kitchen whenever you could, or forcing them off on your friends, teachers whoever would take them really.

The habit had not broken in adulthood, though you were now more mindful about other ways to cope, when the stress got to be a little too much you resorted to finding a new recipe and firing up the oven.

And your husband going on two week-long missions where he wasn’t allowed to contact you was a great example of the stress becoming too much. Currently, the little kitchen in the townhome the two of you had bought together last year was absolutely covered in all kinds of goodies. You had some pumpkin rolls, several batches of apple cinnamon muffins, caramel apple cookies, apple turnovers, and some pumpkin and chocolate chip loaf.

You were rolling out the four sheets of pie dough you had prepared for the various flavors of filling that are currently cooling in your fridge. Suffice to say that you had overdone it but you really had nothing else to do.

You had finished all the cleaning there was to do the first week he had been gone, and you didn’t want to mindlessly watch the shows on your list because you promised Bucky you wouldn’t watch them without him. You had gone through your entire closet and pulled out things you could donate, you had asked for more tasks from work and then promptly finished all of those too.

You had nothing to distract yourself, so you resorted to baking. You knew the treats would get eaten, either by your husband’s team or the people at your own work if they were left in the breakroom. But you’re not really sure how much longer this can go on before it’s considered an actual problem.

Luckily and unbeknownst to you, you wouldn’t have anything to be worried about in a few hours, because your husband would walk through your front door.

Bucky hated blackout missions, not only did he think the whole concept was paranoid and that was a lot coming from him, but he had people to miss now. He had ties to the real world, ones he didn’t feel entirely comfortable abandoning for two weeks even if you’d talked about it before he left.

He worked hard to get the job done as soon as possible and told Ross to shove it when the general had asked him to stick around for one more day so he could complete the mission debrief. That was Sam’s job anyway, the type of bureaucratic responsibility that came along with the stars and stripes plastered across his chest.

So he shed himself off his mission gear, changed into his civvies, and hopped on his motorcycle. He didn't wait a second before revving it up and coming home to you.

He did not expect however to open the door and be assaulted with the smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove. He sighed and shook his head with a smile, mentally preparing himself for the sight of his kitchen being turned into a bakery.

You didn’t hear the door open, too busy humming along to the Fred Astaire record spinning on the table in the corner. You didn’t notice Bucky slipping off his boots or hanging up his jacket. You didn’t hear the padding of his feet as he made his way to the kitchen and you didn’t notice when he propped himself up against the door frame and took in the sight of your baking breakdown.

You did however hear his slightly teasing lilt of “Honey, I’m home.”

You spin to face the voice and let out an undignified squeal. You spin around looking for a place where you can set the hot pan in your hand and give up, practically throwing it back into the oven before taking a running start and launching yourself at him

His deep chuckle blesses your ears and you dig your nose into his chest taking a big breath of something that can only be described as Bucky.

“You’re home!” yelled muffled by his chest.

He ran a hand down the back of your head over his hand, “You baked.”

You pull back and look sheepishly at him, hoping that the kisses you scatter across his face will distract him from the abundance of carbs behind you.

It doesn’t work. The two of you eat muffins for breakfast every day for the next two weeks, Bucky takes some of the treats to the base with him and says the trainees are grateful but that the sugar makes them annoying. You bring some of what’s left to your own work and are met with a bunch of thank you e-mails and even a thank you coffee from the nice older woman who sits three desks away from you. The rest you bring to the children’s hospital the next time the two of you visit, sweets are always a hit there.

Bucky does ban you from the kitchen for three weeks after though, afraid you’ll get the urge again and he’ll have to add a few more hours of gym time to his routine to burn off all the carbs he’s been eating.

151 notes · View notes

cozycitrus · 20 days ago

Note

Hi!!! Hope u won't mind a rat skittering into your inbox :>

How does Moon's venom work exactly? You said kissing him will paralyze us (that won't stop me) but how fast? Will I be able to land a second smooch before dropping between his arms? And how long do its effects lasts? Def not thinking about smooching him again as soon as I can 👁👁 definitely not 👁👁 I am a resposible person that can be left unsupervised around hot worms I promise

HELLLOOOO RAT IN MY INBOXXXX

lets see if I can type this in a way that's readable...hehehoho

Moons venom is a general paralytic agent found in his spit and any other various fluids-- side effects are

-Initial numbness and tingling (1 - 2 kisses)

-Paralysis to the local area spreading further out if you hold extended contact. (3-4)

and well....if you keep it up

-PERMANT NERVE DAMAGE!!! SCARY.. (most seen in cases of biting or perhaps steamy makeouts cough,,,but um,,responsible worm kissers know the signs to BACK OFF)

Numbness can be an all day affair while paralysis wears off in about 2-3 hours or so. Case by case basis.....if you will.

HOWWWWWEVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR---

You absolutely can build a tolerance/resistance ----!!!!!!!! It may take a few months but I mean... who doesn't love a good slow burn.

Also other fun facts--

Moon is a kleptomaniac.. he loves to steal ur stuff,,,trash,,,ur heart,,, ect

He is also NOT BALD1!! ! ! WOAHH... he has soft almost feathery fur on the back of his head hehe....

#citrusposting #fnaf au #daycare attendent #fnafsb #moon fnaf #mermaid au #bobbit worm

96 notes · View notes

crusty-chronicles · 9 months ago

Note

Hi can I request an angst to fluff scenario of having an argument with Kite? Just thought that'd be interesting. Really love your works btw Sun and Moon just💛😭🫶 So happy to find an active HxH blog too😭😭😭 thanks!

An: Bon Appetit. 😈

Kite isn't the type to get mad easily. He prefers seeing things with a clear level head. Usually managing to avoid confrontations all together. He's not very quick to anger when he's frustrated or irritated either. But when it comes to your safety, he can't help but snap a little.

Just what the hell had you been thinking!?!

You'd been contracted to study a rather large type of protected species. It was out of Kite's level of expertise, but the job promised a surprisingly decent pay. One neither of you could turn down.

Everything started off fine at first. Watching the creature from a distance and gathering data. It was on the third day you noted it had a cub. You both promised to be extra careful from then out.

He should've known something would go wrong. Nothing ever went off without a hitch when you were involved.

The creature had left its cub unsupervised to look for food. And unfortunately for the small critter, it was being hunted by something much larger. It let out a screech seeing the predator and made a dash to the left. But it just wasn't fast enough.

There was always an unspoken rule between you two. You were observers. Whatever happened, you weren't supposed to interfere. Your job was to gather data and report back to your contractor. To let things play out the way they were intended.

However, it was something you struggled with. Kite didn't have the chance to react before you rushed forward. Picking up the cub and quickly subduing the other creature with your nen. He sent you a disapproving look when the shock had faded. Getting up from his place on the ground and making his way towards you. Your expression was pleading, preparing for the scolding that was about to come.

“It would've died.” You said before setting down the small creature.

It was always the same excuse with you. You liked to help, which inherently wasn't bad. But this was not the time nor place for that. You were just lucky this time the creature had been small. Still, he couldn't help but scold you for getting involved.

“It's not our place to meddle in-” But something had caught his eye before he could finish.

From your left came the mother of the small cub. Charging forward in an attempt to protect its baby. Instinctively, Kite summoned his ability and swung. He wasn't counting on you blocking his scythe with your own ability.

You were too naive.

Wanting to protect the mother because you understood the animal's fury. It was only trying to keep its cub safe. It's that rational that has you forgetting another important rule. Any animal that attacks a human must be put down, or else it'll continue to do so to anyone that crosses its path.

Yet you ignored it. The beast had an unforgiving look in its eye, one that let him know it was about to attack. And as soon as your back had turned, the creature struck. Claws tearing through your back.

He was angry. Absolutely furious…But he was scared too. Scared he might've lost you. All due to your carelessness. Your way of thinking that somehow always led to you getting injured.

Which brings you two to where you are now. Kite chewing you out once you reached your hotel. Calling the mission off to take care of you.

“If you'd have just waited instead of jumping in headfirst like you always do, we wouldn't have been set back weeks of research.” It was not at all what he meant, but he was too frustrated to choose his words carefully.

Unfortunately, it led to you becoming more defensive as well.

“What the hell's that supposed to mean!?! It's not like I go out actively seeking trouble. And you're one to talk. We would've been just fine if you hadn't attacked first!”

“If I hadn't attacked first, it would've gone for your throat! You wouldn't have moved out of the way in time.” He argued.

Steadily, both of your voices had risen. Bordering on yelling at each other.

“I'm not some amateur unable to avoid being hit. So stop treating me like it! I'm a pro hunter just like you, yet you're always underestimating me!” You pointed out.

“You're reckless. You can't take on a job without something going wrong. And you never learn from it either. You think just because you got out fine this time, you can keep repeating the same mistakes. It's hard to work with someone who just doesn't listen.”

“Then maybe I should just quit!” You shouted.

“Maybe you should!”

The silence was deafening. Your eyes widening in shock. Kite's expression quickly changing into one of regret. He shouldn't have said that. He doesn't know why he did in the first place. Trying to backtrack before it was too late.

“I didn't-” But you'd cut him off.

“Don't.”

There was nothing but ice in your tone. One that was reserved for when you were angry. When you hated something. He tried to approach you, but you backed away.

“Just leave me alone.” You said before going into your room. Slamming the door closed and locking it.

You never locked the door.

He let out a drained sigh, mulling over what just happened.

Of course he didn't want you to quit being a hunter. You were good at your job, and he could never ask that of you. The same way you’d never ask that of him. You were just too risky for his liking. And taking as many chances as you did usually meant death…or worse. Especially in this line of work.

You thought he was underestimating you. He never did. You were more than capable of taking care of yourself. He was just protective of you. Holding you back from doing the more dangerous things because he didn't like to see you hurt. He never wanted to risk your safety. It didn't occur to him that it looked like he thought you were inexperienced. That you were weak.

He just hoped you'd calm down soon so he could properly explain himself.

—--------------------------

You were angry. Pissed beyond belief. But more than that you were hurt.

Were you really that much of a liability he actually suggested you quit? Did Kite hate working with you that much? Thinking you were just getting in the way of completing jobs?

Did he really think that little of you?

Fine. You'd never take on another mission with him again. You two were used to working alone anyways. He wouldn't have to worry about you ‘screwing things up’ again.

You winced at a wave of pain washing over your back. Reaching behind you to soothe the ache. Your expression softening when your fingers skimmed the bandages covering your wound.

The first thing Kite did when you got back was tend to your injuries. Putting all his focus into taking care of you. Making sure you were okay.

He…always put you first.

The thought had you feeling guilty. He put up with your impulsiveness and here you were internally cursing him out. He even went as far as to cancel the mission when he could have continued on his own.

Maybe you really were dragging him down.

At the very least, you were putting him in danger. Rushing in because of your own morals and making him go against his own. Adding yet another useless kill to his credit.

Perhaps you should quit. It'd be a lot less stressful that way.

—------------------------

A whole day. You ignored him for a whole day. He'd be lying if he said it didn't kill him a little inside. You were right there, and still he couldn't reach you. He understood that you needed your space, but he wanted to talk to you. To hear your voice.

He remembers why you started working together in the first place. You hated long distance. Planning and searching for the rare days your schedules would actually line up. He hated it too. Coming home to your shared apartment only to find out he just barely missed you.

When you two were working together, everything just fell into place. Neither of you wondering when you'd see the other.

If you quit, it'd be back to square one. If you decided to stop working with him entirely, he doesn't know how he'd handle it. Knowing the chances of you coming back to him were slim. He thinks he hates both possibilities more than you ignoring him.

He was sorry for blowing up at you. For saying things he didn't really mean. But he wasn't sorry for being worried. He wasn't sorry for caring about your safety.

He went to knock on the door at the same time you opened it. Both of you stared in shock at the other. Neither of you knew what to say. Who should speak first. Yet despite that, both of you could tell the other wasn't angry anymore. Eyes regretful with a certain softness in them.

“I'm sorry.” You said at the same time, effectively baffling each other.

It was funny in a way. How both of you seemed to come to your senses at the same time.

Kite spoke up first, effectively breaking the silence.

“What are you sorry for? You didn't-”

“I was reckless…and stupid.” You interrupted, failing to notice the subtle way his eyes softened.

“I shouldn't have interfered.” You should've stayed put.

“I just don't like to see animals suffer if I can help it. It's why I became a hunter in the first place. But maybe that bias is why I should quit. I don't wanna hold you back.” You explained.

You were expecting an ‘I told you so’ at the very least from him. Instead, he pulled you close. Wrapping his arms tightly around you. You realized you've been craving his touch. His warmth. Retuning his embrace and resting your head on his chest.

“Don’t quit.” He said quietly, holding you just a little bit tighter.

You thought you were holding him back? If anything, he might've been the one holding you back. He wanted you to know that he trusted in your skills and abilities. He knew you were more than capable of handling what came your way. But he would always be scared of the slim chance you couldn't.

“I only said it for my own peace of mind,” he started.

“Our job is dangerous. It has all sorts of risks and trouble. Getting hurt is part of it… That doesn't mean I enjoy seeing you in pain.”

It hadn't occurred to you until a few moments ago how strenuous it must've been for him to see you hurt so often. How unfair it was.

“I don't ever want to lose you because I didn't react fast enough. I know you don't need me to protect you, but I can't help it sometimes. You're one of the most important people in my life.”

The confession has you melting even further into his arms. How lucky you were to have such a wonderful partner. Unawares he was thinking the same about you. You pulled away just enough to look up at him.

“I'll be more careful.” You promised.

He met your eyes and leaned down. Resting his forehead on yours.

“I won't butt in unless you ask for my help.” He swore, sealing both promises with a kiss.

—------------

#hxh x reader #hunter x hunter x reader #hunter x hunter x y/n #hxh x y/n #hunter x hunter #hxh #x reader #hxh kite #kite x reader #kite hunter x hunter #kite hxh #kite x y/n

178 notes · View notes

werepuppy-steve · 1 year ago

Text

promise you forever

steddie ☆ 971 ☆ cw: none ☆ appalachian eddie ☆ ao3