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silent-stories · 2 days ago

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𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐎

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader

Summary: based on this.

Noah felt it before you even said a word.

That something sitting between you, like you were about to say something that was going to change everything. You were curled up on the couch, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve, your knee pulled up to your chest like you were trying to make yourself smaller. That wasn’t normal.

And then you spoke.

"I got a job offer."

His fingers stilled around the beer bottle, grip tightening just enough that he could feel the condensation slide against his skin. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t trust himself to. "Yeah?"

"In another city."

The words hit harder than he expected.

For a second, just one, he let himself think about what that meant—about this house without you in it, about days without your voice filling the empty spaces, about knowing you were somewhere else, somewhere new, somewhere without him.

And it made his stomach fucking sink.

But you didn’t belong here, did you? You never had.

You weren't his and he wasn't yours. All you had ever been was just friends.

He always knew you’d go. He just never thought it would be so soon.

You kept talking, explaining—something about better pay, bigger opportunities, a smart move. Noah heard it all, but it was like listening through static, every word just another reminder that this was real. That this was happening. That you weren’t just thinking about leaving. You were already halfway gone.

And what was he supposed to do? What was he allowed to do?

Because yeah, maybe he thought about it. Maybe he thought about pulling you in, pressing his forehead against yours, telling you he didn’t want you to go. That he needed you here, that he—

And then, for the first time, it really hit him.

He never told you. Never fucking told you.

Not when he first realized that the way he looked at you wasn’t the way a friend should. Not when you laughed at his dumb jokes, and he caught himself staring at your smile like it was something he could get addicted to, wishing he could bottle up the sound of your laughter, save it for the nights when the silence felt too heavy—when you weren’t there to fill the space beside him.

Not when you fell asleep on his shoulder during long car rides, and he stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, just to make the moment last a little longer. Not when he watched you dance around the kitchen in his hoodie, not when he felt his heart ache just being near you.

Not when he should have.

Not when it would’ve mattered.

And now, sitting here, the words he should’ve said—I like you. No, I love you. More than a friend. More than anyone—were useless. Too late. You were already slipping through his fingers, and he had no one to blame but himself.

So he stayed quiet. Because what was the fucking point now?

What was he supposed to do—throw everything at you now, at the last second, when you had a whole future waiting for you? When you were basically already half out the door? When he had every chance before, and he wasted them all?

No. That wasn’t fair.

Not to you. Not to the life you were about to build. Not to the love he’d never had the guts to give you.

So he bit his tongue. Kept his hands in his lap so he wouldn’t reach for you. Forced his voice steady as he said, "You should take it."

And fuck—he hated how easy it sounded. Hated that it came out smooth when his chest felt like it was caving in.

You hesitated. He could feel you watching him.

"You think?"

Noah swallowed hard, leaned forward, let his eyes settle on the floor instead of your face. "Yeah," he said. "Sounds like a great opportunity." Another shrug. Another lie. "You’d be an idiot not to."

The silence that followed was the worst part.

Because he could feel it—the shift, the way something between you cracked, just slightly, just enough that he knew it wouldn’t go back to how it was.

He tried to imagine what it would feel like to be around someone else the way he was with you. He’d never been able to picture anyone else in your place, never wanted to. You were a part of him now, you were the person who knew him best, the one he always leaned on when things got heavy, the one he could rely on when everything else felt like it was falling apart, the one who always answered his texts sent in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep.

And now you were walking away. And he couldn’t imagine filling that gap.

The comfort of having you around, the steady presence of your friendship, even if it had always just been friendship, was something he never thought would disappear. It was just always there. And it was hard, almost impossible, to wrap his head around the fact that it might never be like that again.

How would he ever find that again? He couldn’t even begin to picture it. And the worst part? He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to. You were it. And now, as he sat there, heart heavy with the weight of what he couldn’t say, of what he had never had the guts to tell you, he knew that he had just let you slip through his fingers. The easy, effortless thing they had—the laughter, the comfort, the quiet moments, the understanding—was something he couldn’t replicate. Not with anyone. Not now. Not ever.

"Right," you said, voice quiet. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

Noah didn’t move. Didn’t look at you.

Because if he did—if he saw the way you were looking at him, if he saw even the smallest flicker of doubt in your eyes—he knew he’d break.

And if he broke, he’d beg you to stay.

So instead, he just sat there, fingers gripping the beer bottle like it was the only thing holding him together, and let you slip further away.

A few days later, you were sitting on the leather couch in the living room of the house you’d spent so many nights in again.

Folio was giving you one of his usual "don’t forget" lists—one that had become a comforting part of your routine over the years for all the times you went on a tour or trip together. This time, however, it sounded different, as if it was the last.

"Okay, remember to pack all your jackets. And the extra batteries for your camera. Oh, and make sure you’ve got your phone charger, you always forget it!" He waved his hands in the air as though he was trying to remind you of the most crucial thing in the world, like the fate of the universe rested on you not forgetting your phone charger.

You chuckled, leaning back on the couch, a small smile tugging at your lips as you gave him a playful eye roll. "Yeah, yeah, I got it, Nick. I’ll pack everything. No need to worry."

Folio grinned. "Good. You know I worry." He paused, then his tone softened, almost hesitant, like he was preparing to say something serious. "I’m really going to miss having you around. It won’t be the same without you here."

The words hit you harder than you expected. You had been preparing yourself for this goodbye for days, but hearing him say it out loud made it real, made it feel final. You swallowed, forcing a smile. "I’ll miss you guys too. And don’t worry, I’ll send plenty of pictures. And I’m sure I’ll come back to visit."

Folio nodded. "Yeah, of course. And we’ll come to visit you, too. So you don't forget us." He said it with such certainty that for a brief moment, you let yourself believe it—believe that things could stay the same, even when you knew they couldn’t.

But as Folio finished his sentence, you glanced over at Noah. He had been sitting at the other end of the room, quietly listening, but now he abruptly stood up, his movements stiff and awkward, as though something had snapped in him.

Noah didn’t say anything, just turned toward the door and walked out without a word. His departure felt like a heavy silence in the room.

You blinked, watching him leave, confused. "Did I say something wrong?" you asked softly.

Folio didn’t seem surprised by Noah’s reaction, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. "It’s been like that for a couple of days now," he said, his voice low. "I don’t know what’s going on with him. He’s been… off. Something’s going on in his head, but he won’t talk about it."

You felt a knot form in your stomach.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had acted the first time you spoke about the job offer. That cold, almost detached response, like he had no opinion on the matter at all. You replayed it in your mind over and over: "You should take it. Sounds like a great opportunity." But something in the way he said it—something in the way he couldn’t even look at you when he spoke—made you wonder if there was more to his reaction than he let on. Was he angry? Disappointed? Did he hate you for making the decision to leave?

You tried to push those thoughts away, but they kept creeping back. It was impossible, you told yourself. He couldn’t possibly hate you. Because you were just friends, right?

But just friends never felt like the right term for what you two had. Not for the long nights you spent talking, for the way you always seemed to understand each other without saying a word, for how comfortable you felt in his presence—like you were home when he was around. It had never been just friendship for you. Not really. Maybe it had started that way, but over time, something shifted. You couldn’t pinpoint when it happened, but you’d always known that your feelings for him ran deeper than what you were supposed to admit.

You thought back to that first time you’d met him, to the way he’d walked toward you with that easy, confident stride but still looking so damn shy. You liked his long hair t, and his eyes—those brown eyes, warm and sweet—that had locked onto yours in that instant.

He had smiled, and you’d felt it all the way down to your bones. It was like something clicked, something undeniable. That’s when you knew, even if you didn’t have the courage to admit it then, that there was something about him that made your heart race.

And all these years, that same feeling never really went away. Not when he touched your hip for a second to grab a cup from a high shelf you couldn’t reach, not when he would pass you the last slice of pizza even though he was starving, not when you’d sit together in silence and it never felt uncomfortable.

You told yourself over and over that it was just a crush, that you were just friends, but every time he touched you, every time his hand brushed yours or he’d take your hand in his while walking through a crowded space, your heart would skip.

And when he would hold your hand, you’d feel the heat flood your face, and when he was on the stage and his eyes locked with yours for a moment, it was like the world disappeared. It was just the two of you.

Did he ever notice?

Did he ever feel what you felt? Was it possible he ever sensed the way your heart raced when he would grab your hand, as if the world didn’t matter and you two existed in your own little bubble just for a while? You wondered if maybe, just maybe, he’d caught the way your breath would hitch when he’d look at you with those brown eyes, like you were the only person in the room.

But now, all of that was left in the past. You were about to leave, and nothing between you two was ever going to change. You were just friends.

You thought about getting up and going after him. But what could you say? "I'm sorry I'm leaving?"

He was the first person to tell you to take that job, it wouldn't have made sense. So you stayed there.

The day had finally come. It felt surreal, the finality of it weighing on you as you stood in front of the door, ready to say your goodbyes. You had spent the last few days avoiding the inevitable, pretending like you still had time, still had something to hold onto. But now, as you stood there, your suitcase in your car and your heart feeling like it was somewhere deep inside your chest, the reality of leaving was all too clear.

You walked into the living room, where the band was gathered. They were all quieter than usual. Folio was the first to greet you, giving you one of his bear hugs that made you feel both comforted and sad at the same time. “Take care of yourself, alright?” he said, pulling back to look at you. “Don’t forget the pictures. And don’t be a stranger.” You nodded, blinking back the sudden lump in your throat.

“Yeah, yeah, I will,” you managed to say, your voice wavering a little.

Then, one by one, the others came over to say goodbye.

“Don’t forget us,” Matt said, pulling you into a quick hug. “I'll miss the food you made for us.”

You laughed and pushed him away as he pretended to be hurt.

Finally, there was Noah. He was standing a little apart from the group, his hands in his pockets. He didn’t approach you right away, and you weren’t sure why that felt different. But when your eyes met his, his gaze softened, and you could see something unsaid flickering in his eyes.

He stepped forward slowly, pulling you into his arms, and for a moment, you didn’t want to let go. You hugged him tightly, the warmth of his body against yours a reminder of all the small moments you’d shared over the years. You could hear his breath, steady and calm, like he was trying to hold onto this moment too.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, and the quiet between you both felt almost too much to bear.

“I’m really going to miss you,” you whispered, your voice cracking just slightly.

Noah gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His hand lifted, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face, a touch so tender it made your heart ache.

“I’ll miss you too,” he said softly, then, without saying another word, he kissed the top of your head.

You only looked at him for a few seconds before taking a step back, as if if you stayed longer, it would only hurt more.

Then, you finally turned toward the door, ready (or maybe not) to leave and start something new. But you also knew, deep down, that no matter where life took you, a part of you would always be right here, with them. And with him.

About two hours later, Noah was sitting on the edge of the couch, his leg bouncing up and down nervously, the restless energy radiating off him like a low hum. His gaze was distant, unfocused, as if he was somewhere miles away from where he actually was, lost in thoughts that seemed impossible to escape.

Nick, who had been trying to make sense of the silence in the room, finally broke it. "What's going on with you?" he asked, eyeing Noah with a raised brow.

Matt, who had been observing Noah for a while, leaned forward, a knowing look crossing his face. "It's about Y/N, right?"

Jolly, sitting across from them, raised an eyebrow. "Y/N?" he echoed, confused, like he hadn’t caught on.

Matt shot him a look as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. "Of course, it’s Y/N. He’s been in love with her since the first time he saw her."

Nick blinked, a little stunned. "What? And you never told me?" He looked genuinely surprised, a slight hint of betrayal in his voice.

Folio let out a smug little laugh. "Ah! I knew it. I ducking knew it!"

Noah, who had been tuning them out, suddenly snapped back to reality. He stood up, his frustration bubbling over. "Enough. You’re not helping," he interrupted, his voice louder than usual, the words spilling out in a rush. "I fucked up. I let her go. I feel like shit. Because…" He hesitated, but it was like the weight of it was too much to keep in. "Because I love her. I’ve loved her for years. And when she told me about the job… I thought it was too late to say anything." He shook his head. "I’m such an idiot. I'm such a fucking idiot."

"Yeah, you are." Said Folio, who had been waiting for the confession.

"It’s not too late." Jolly spoke.

Noah turned to him, shaking his head with a defeated look in his eyes. "Yeah, it is. She’s gone."

Matt glanced at his watch. "Her flight hasn’t left yet," he said, his voice steady, as if offering a lifeline Noah hadn’t considered.

Noah froze, his eyes wide for just a moment before the doubt came crashing in. "I can’t do it," he muttered.

Nick leaned forward, a serious expression on his face. "Do you love her?" he asked, not bothering with any other words, just cutting straight to the core of it.

Without thinking, Noah nodded immediately. "Yes," he said, his voice barely a whisper but resolute. "Yes, I love her."

Nick didn’t waste any time. "Then go," he said, his voice firm. "Go fucking get her."

The words hung in the air, and for a split second, Noah didn’t move. He was caught in all his own doubts, his fears, his regrets. But then, something clicked. Maybe it was Nick’s certainty, maybe it was the look in his friends’ eyes, but Noah felt it—he had to go. If he didn’t, he would regret it forever.

He had nothing to lose.

Noah never thought he’d be that guy—the one who ditches his car in traffic, sprints through a crowded airport, and makes a total fool of himself in the name of love. And yet, here he is, running through the terminal, heart hammering in his chest, lungs burning with every breath, because you’re about to board a plane and leave, and he can’t let that happen.

Traffic had been his worst enemy, but he didn’t care. His car had been left behind in the middle of the arrivals lane, engine still running. The thought of you, suitcase packed and ready to leave, was all he could focus on. Every second spent on the road felt like an eternity, but he had to get to you.

He run through the airport.

He narrowly avoided a child who’s been skipping along, then almost tripped over a suitcase abandoned in the middle of the aisle. He bumped into people left and right, his shoulder knocking into a couple who glared at him as he shouted, “Sorry! Sorry, I’m in a hurry!” He didn't wait for their response, didn't care. His focus was on you only.

He cut through crowds, hands brushing against strangers as he weaved between them, the sound of his own breath growing louder in his ears. Another wave of people blocked his path, and he barely managed to swerve, knocking into a woman holding a cup of coffee. It splashed across the floor, the warm liquid spreading out in a wide arc.

“Watch where you’re going!” she yelled.

"I'm so sorry! It's important, I swear!"

The overhead announcement blared, sharp and unrelenting. Final boarding call for Flight 237, please... He didn’t hear the rest. His mind was focused on one thing: You. The gate was in sight. There you were, standing at the counter, your ticket in hand, a look of quiet resolve on your face, your eyes scanning the people around you.

"Wait!"

Heads turned. People gasped. A security guard stepped forward as Noah sprinted toward you, chest heaving, his breath coming out in ragged bursts.

"Don’t go," he blurted out, his voice raw with desperation.

Your brows furrowed as you turned to face him. "Noah, what—?"

He took a step closer, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to confess everything he’d kept locked away for years. "I love you," he said, the words tumbling out, frantic and real. "I fucking love you," He could barely keep his breath steady as he looked at you, his heart thundering in his chest. "And I know—I know I should’ve said this sooner, that I should’ve told you everything before it got to this point. I should’ve been braver, I should’ve figured it out sooner, but I didn’t. I’ve been so damn stupid, too scared to say what I’ve been feeling because I never wanted to mess this up. But I can’t—I can’t let you go without telling you, because if I don’t, I’m going to lose you, and I can’t lose you."

He ran a hand through his hair, "I know I don’t deserve a second chance. Hell, I probably don’t deserve even one, not after all the times I avoided the truth, but please—please don’t get on that plane. I can’t imagine my life without you in it. It scares the shit out of me, honestly, because I’ve let you slip through my fingers, and I’ve never been more afraid of anything in my life than losing you."

He took a deep breath, struggling to steady himself. "Please, just… give me a chance. Don’t go. We can figure this out. You and me, together. I’ve been an idiot for not telling you this sooner, but I know now—I know what I want. And it’s you. It’s always been you. Just don’t walk away from me. Not when I finally have the guts to tell you that I have been in love with you since the first moment I saw you."

There was a moment of silence.

You were sure that a girl was filming the scene, ready to post it on tiktok, probably without even knowing who Noah was.

The security guard took a step toward him, but Noah didn’t flinch. “Sir, you can’t be here—”

"Just give me one second," he said with his eyes locked on yours, pleading.

You stared at him for a moment, a mixture of shock and disbelief in your eyes. Then, as if the weight of his words hit you all at once, your ticket slipped from your fingers and hit the ground. Without thinking, you grabbed his face, pulling him into a kiss.

It wasn’t like the movies—there wasn’t a crowd cheering or anything like that. Just the hum of the airport and the soft murmur of an old woman sitting nearby, who, after a brief pause, simply gave a small smile as she went back to reading her book. It made you almost laugh, the absurdity of it all.

Noah smiled against your lips, the warmth of your kiss sinking into his chest.

“You are such an idiot,” you murmured, smiling through the kiss, your hand gently resting on his cheek.

“But an idiot you love, right?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

You rolled your eyes, but there was no hiding the affection in your gaze. "Yeah, you idiot. An idiot I love."

You both shared one last smile before you pulled away, glancing back toward the gate. The security guard had stepped back, his hands raised in surrender.

Noah took your hand, leading you out of the airport, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief.

As you walked with him, you couldn’t help but tease him a little. "I never thought you’d pull the 80s movie move to tell me you love me."

Noah gave you a sheepish grin. "At least the security didn’t tackle me."

You laughed, the sound light and free, as the two of you walked through the terminal, together.

"You should write a song on that, you know?"

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog

#noah sebastian x reader #bad omens x reader #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian #x reader

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astro-b-o-y-d · 3 days ago

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Triangulum - Chapter 8 - Pin The Fist On The Triangle

— — — — — — —

“You sure you know where we’re goin’, Dip?”

“Positive.”

A twig snapped beneath Dipper’s shoes as he hopped onto a nearby log. “Granted, we only went to the bunker, like, once last year,” he explained, shielding his eye with one hand to get a proper look at his surroundings. “But I did read Ford’s journal cover-to-cover a few dozen times, so I at least know what the tree hiding the entrance looks like.”

He flashed Stan a grin. “Plus, you know—found the journal itself near the bunker. And I’m never going to forget that day as long as I live.”

“Heh, yeah, I’ll bet,” Stan added. “Still can’t believe you managed to keep that a secret from me for over half the summer.”

The hand above Dipper’s eyes was slapped flat against his forehead. “I know, right? And I can’t believe you managed to hide all the portal stuff even longer than that! Man, if we’d just…said something to each other sooner, maybe we could’ve gotten Ford back a lot quicker!”

“Preachin’ to the choir with that one, pal—huh, hang on, now I need t’ breathe—”

With a wheeze, Stan propped himself against the nearest tree with one arm. “Can’t help Ford and Mabel out if one of us drops dead from ‘no-air-in-lungs’ disease before we get there.”

Dipper looked down at him and folded his arms in amusement. “You know if Ford was here, he’d probably correct you with the phrase ‘oxygen deprivation’.”

A grin of his own tugged at the corners of Stan’s mouth. “And if Mabel were here, she’d point out how you sound like just as much of a giant nerd as he does for knowing that.”

The two of them shared a laugh, one that petered off into a gruff sigh on Stan’s end as he shifted to a position with his back against the tree. “So, uh—that little birdie from before didn’t really explain why the two of you crafted some kinda plan to run off and help Ford. Or why you were the one to stay behind at the party instead of your sister.”

He winked playfully at him. “No offense, kid, but you ain’t the first person in the family I’d turn to when it comes to bein’ a party expert.”

“None taken, it wasn’t the original plan,” Dipper explained. “I offered to go after Ford myself, but Mabel was pretty set on being the one to go help him. Said she wanted to spend more time with Ford this year. But—”

The rest of his sentence fell with both his expression and body as he hopped back down from the log, and Stan quirked an eyebrow. “But, huh? Feel like sharin’ those thoughts you’ve probably been twistin’ yourself into knots over all day?”

“More than all day,” Dipper admitted. “Mabel’s just been acting kind of off lately. Not even lately, actually—ever since we got home last year. Every time the topic of Weirdmageddon comes up, she just gets so—okay, I know it’s the most obvious way to describe it but weird.”

A shrug. “She didn’t want to talk about it with Mom or Dad, and I didn’t really want to either. They had a lot to deal with last year, and we kinda just…agreed to keep that one to ourselves—”

“Smart call.”

“—but she also just kinda goes out of her way to avoid talking about it at all,” Dipper continued. “Even with me. Which, you know, I get it. I don’t really like thinking about it or talking about it much either. But with her, it just feels…different, you know? Like there’s something I’m missing that’s so obvious, but at the same time, it could just be me overthinking things like I always do.”

He pressed his hands to his face with a drawn-out groan. “Ugh, I kinda hope it’s that second one. I mean, Mabel and I are supposed to be a team, right? I thought after last year, we’d be able to talk to each other about anything that was bothering us. If we can’t do that…”

His words trailed off once again as he cast Stan an uncertain look. “Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about all this,” he said “You were going on and on about how much of a Pines man I’ve become, and here I am—still getting anxious over stuff that’s probably nothing.”

He let out a weak laugh as his gaze fell to his hands, while Stan kept his own locked on Dipper for a moment of quiet consideration. One that he was quick to break before he could get too lost in it with a light nudge to the boy’s arm. “Hey, come on—you’re just worried about your sister havin’ something that worries her, and thinkin’ she can’t share that worry with you,” he pointed out. “‘Cause when you’ve got a twin, you would think that one of your worries is both of your worries. And then when it’s not, you’re left with your own batch a’ worries about their worries, and whether or not you’re worthy of knowin’ about their worries in the first place—”

He circled a hand in the air. “And now I’m talkin’ in circles and ‘worry’ doesn’t even sound like a real word anymore. Point is, it’s practically a Pines family tradition at this point to get yourself tied up into thought-knots over your twin’s safety and wellbeing.”

Dipper cracked a small smile up at him, one that fell into a knowing look almost immediately after it had formed. “Is that what’s been happening with you and Ford?”

A grunt was Stan’s response, his actual reply going unsaid for a few seconds longer than he would’ve preferred. “We’re talkin’ about you and Mabel right now, aren’t we?”

“We are,” Dipper agreed. “But you did say that ‘no one else was stepping up to help Ford out’ before we headed out here. Is that why you were spending all day on the boat? You wanted to find a way to help Ford?”

“I said we’re talkin’ about you,” Stan insisted, before pressing a hand to his own forehead and peering through a cluster of nearby trees. “So, either keep yappin’ about how worried you are over your sister or go back to pointin’ me in the direction of the bunker.”

BANG!

A loud gunshot echoed through the surrounding wood, snapping their attention towards the direction of the sound. “Huh, I think Ford might’ve just picked an option for me,” Dipper said.

“That, or some random hunter who’s late to the Shack party,” Stan added. “Either way, a gunshot usually means the opposite of anything good.”

He pressed a hand to his chin. “Unless you fired it yourself, but even then it’s only good if you succeed in takin’ out whatever you were firin’ at in the first place. If it was dangerous enough to fire a gun at to begin with, you don’t wanna go and mess that up. Consider that some kinda life lesson or whatever.”

“Considered,” Dipper said. “But if it was Ford who fired the gun, that could mean something went wrong in the bunker. Him and Mabel might need our help!”

BANG!

Another shot being fired enveloped the area, and Dipper sped off through the underbrush in a hurry. “Wait, Dip—hold on a sec,” Stan called as he quickly followed after him. “Probably a bad idea to go running after the sound of a gun in the middle of the woods at—”

His warning was cut off as he stepped through a pair of bushes, only to immediately lose sight of Dipper between the dark trees. “ —night.”

He let out another sigh—one that finished just before a third shot was fired, and he took off running again with the faintest, stupidest hope that it really was just a random hunter with a complex for being fashionably late to parties. Those probably existed somewhere, right?

…Even in a town with as much weirdness as Gravity Falls, Stan still wasn’t sure how much of that he could actually buy.

— — — — — —

“Stop running, Bill! You know we’re faster than you!”

Bill peered out from behind the tree he had ducked behind for protection, one hand resting against the trunk while he cupped the other around his mouth: “Question for you, Shooting Star: do you really think that asking politely is gonna make me obey?”

From where her and Ford stood a short distance away, Mabel stomped her foot with a huff. “Well, I’ll never know unless I try!”

Ford remained silent during their banter, gun raised once again as he took aim at Bill. He had already fired several shots, all of which had been targeted at a non-lethal part of Bill’s body; legs, arms, even maybe a shoulder.

Unfortunately for Ford, the number of bullets that landed a hit had been a big, fat, goose-egg of a zero. But now the chance to once again lodge a bullet into Bill’s skull had presented itself to him. A clear and easy shot if he moved quick enough.

Yet here he was—a hesitant finger trembling half an inch above the trigger.

He still hadn’t quite processed what had happened down in the bunker. One second Bill’s lifeless body had been sprawled out across the control panel, and the next he was barreling out the door towards the exit like he had never been shot in the first place—the only evidence to the contrary being the slowly-drying blood that still decorated the control panel.

All of which had taken place outside Mabel’s line of sight, an option that was no longer available due to the jabs and jeers from his right side.

He dared to pull his attention from Bill for a moment to watch her out of the corner of his eye. How did she feel, as she countered Bill’s retorts with her own? Had she concluded that any attempt to kill Bill had merely resulted in failure, and simply not dwelled further on that train of thought? Did she still harbor a grudge towards Ford over a mere attempt—successful or otherwise—to kill someone who so strongly resembled her brother?

“Grunkle Ford, shoot him!”

…Well, clearly the evidence presented to him suggested otherwise.

But despite Mabel’s insistence, Ford’s gun remained unfired. Even if Mabel herself truly held no negative feelings towards the ordeal, there was still plenty of other things to worry about when it came to the option of shooting Bill again.

What exactly did it mean if Bill was able to survive a gunshot to the head? Ford had originally assumed that Bill had been goading him into firing a shot as a means of escaping his vessel, but he had popped back to normal while still inside said vessel. Had a mad dash for freedom while his captor was too stunned to react properly been his real real plan all along?

His gaze returned to Bill. And what did that mean? That Bill simply couldn’t be killed at all, and he wanted Ford to be aware of that fact? Had that been his actual plan? What did it mean if—

“Grunkle Ford, he’s getting away!”

A tug on his sleeve and another outcry from Mabel finally snapped him from his thoughts entirely, just as Bill finally ducked out of sight and took off running again. Biting back a curse, he gestured for Mabel to follow as the two hurried after him—Bill’s devilish laughter trailing behind him and encircling them like snares around the necks of unsuspecting rabbits—

“ACK!”

—only to be completely cut off by a yelp of surprise and the sound of something tumbling to the ground just beyond a set of bushes. As Ford and Mabel finally drew closer and stepped through, they were greeted by the sight of Bill on his knees in the middle of a clearing—hands slapped to his forehead as if he’d collided hard with something at full speed.

And as their gazes travelled further over to the right, they were quick to realize that had been the exact scenario to unfold as someone else came stumbling out of a patch of nearby shrubbery.

“Dipper?”

Sure enough, Dipper now stood before them in the middle of the clearing—clothing a stained mess of dirt and mud and a hand pressed to his own forehead with a pained: “Ugh, did I just run into a wall?”

“Hey, you’re the one who ran into me,” Bill griped. “Seriously, Pine Tree, where’s the fire? What, did you mistake me for another redhead you never had a snowball’s chance of getting with in the first place?”

“Hey, I—”

Rather than acknowledge him, Dipper’s hand trailed all the way up to his hair and patted the top for a moment. “Aw, man, he knocked off my hat,” he muttered in annoyance before his gaze fell to his clothes. “And got dirt on my—ugh, come on, I just washed everything too! How is there this much mud out here, I’m pretty sure it hasn’t rained in a while…”

While he attempted to brush some of the dirt from his clothing, Mabel bounded quickly over to her brother’s side. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” he pointed out, directing an especially-perturbed scowl at one of the stains on his shirt. “Weren’t you supposed to be down in the bunker?”

“Ugh, tell that to him.”

Mabel followed up her reply with a scowl in Bill’s direction, one he reciprocated before pulling himself back to his feet. “Yeah, well, wouldn’t want to intrude on this touching family reunion, so if you don’t mind—hey, HEY!”

Before he could make a move to start running again, a strong hand grasped the back of his jacket and hoisted him up off the ground with a sharp yank—seconds before something cold and metal was pressed against his cheek.

Well, guess someone did mind after all.

Despite being quite literally caught off guard, however, Bill eyed the end of Ford’s gun with an unimpressed look. Now that he knew about Tangy’s rule of not being able to truly die until the game was over, any threats on Ford’s end were about as threatening as—

—well, honestly as threatening as they would’ve been back in his original form. What’s the worst that Ford could do now, put another bullet in his head?

Just for good measure, Bill cast a sidelong glance at his left wrist for a quick look at his speck. Most of it was hidden by his sleeve, but he could still make out the topmost—bottommost? It didn’t mattermost.—points just barely peeking out from beneath his cuff. Just enough that would be easily missed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it, but still noticeable for those who knew it was there.

He risked letting his gaze linger on it for a millisecond longer before his pupil shifted back to Ford. If he had had no way of knowing about Tangy’s little respawn trick until it mattered, then there was even less of a chance that Ford knew how it worked. Poor Fordsy’s mind had to be racing with possibilities about how he popped back to life down in the bunker—likely with no clear answers about how it happened and a million theories branching off in just as many directions.

The corners of his mouth twitched with devious intent. Well, when the driver already had little control over the wheel, the best thing to do was to grab it with both hands and veer him so off-course that he went carreaning over the side of a cliff!

And sure, Bill might’ve no longer had access to the car dubbed Ford’s Mind, but he still had ways to tamper with the breaks. “So how’re we gonna do this, Sixer? You feel like trying to shoot me again?”

The gun clicked as Ford turned off the safety. “Stop talking.”

“Make me stop talking, then,” Bill goaded further.

From where her and Dipper stood, Mabel’s scowl lowered further for a moment before she turned to her brother with a brighter expression. “You said you lost your hat?”

“Yeah, might’ve landed in the bushes somewhere,” Dipper said, and started fumbling through the leaves. “He ran into me pretty hard—oh, wait, there it is—”

“I think I heard ‘em over here!”

As he rose to his feet with the hat clutched tightly in hand, the sound of footsteps approaching caused both children to take a few steps back—just in time for Stan to step out into the clearing. And upon seeing the group, he called behind him with a: “Yep, they’re h—”

A pause, before he looked back at them with several blinks of confusion. “Hang on a sec.”

“What’s wrong?” a voice called behind him, seconds before another person stepped out into the clearing to reveal—

“Wh—Dipper?”

Sure enough, a second Dipper now stood at Stan’s side, giving his sister a wave as he slowed to a stop. “Hey, Mabel, what’s—”

And suddenly his words were interrupted as well as he also took in the sight before him. “—happening?”

The entire group was silent, befuddled gazes shifting from one Dipper to the other. Even Bill couldn’t help but glance between them with a raised eyebrow of his own. “Well, this night’s just full of surprises, isn’t it?”

“You stay out of this!” Mabel chided him, before giving the identical boys another unsure look. “But…yeah, this is pretty weird.”

“Okay, so what’s goin’ on here?” Stan asked, pointing a finger at the Dipper next to him. “We got one—” He moved the finger to the Dipper who had originally crashed into Bill. “—two—”

And finally, to Bill himself. “Somethin’ ain’t right here. This one of your tricks, pal?”

“First of all, Goldfish, why would I tell you if it was?” Bill asked. “Second of all, what would making two Pine Trees accomplish for me personally?”

He flashed his teeth at the rest of the group. “Heck, it’s bad enough that one of ‘em exists already! Personally I think not bringing another one into the world is just me doing the rest of you a favor!”

He let out a cackle. “Meanwhile the faker’s just performing a microaggression against everyone else’s peace of mind! Haha!”

“Ugh, do you seriously have to lay it on that thick?” The Dipper from Stan’s side piped up in annoyance, before pressing a hand to his forehead. “Nope, no—not focusing on you right now. First we’ve gotta figure out why there’s currently two of me standing here.”

“Who cares why there’s two of me?” The other Dipper added. “I think the actual thing we need to be focusing on is which one’s the real one—”

He looked over at Ford. “Or, you know—getting rid of him, like I’m guessing you were trying to do until now? I just came out here to help you find a solution.”

“Hey, that’s why I came out here, too!” The Dipper beside Stan added, narrowing his eyebrows at the doppelganger. “And I’ve even got Grunkle Stan to back me up for that first thing! We’ve been together the entire time!”

“Darn right we have,” Stan agreed loyally, pointing a finger towards the other. “If anyone here’s some kinda fakey-fakerson, it’s that one!”

“Thank you,” the Dipper beside him said appreciatively.

“...Sure, there were a few seconds where the two of us got separated in the woods, but other than that, the kid hasn’t left my side once!”

The same Dipper cast a flat look up at him in annoyance. “Really?”

“Well, I’m not a fake!” the other Dipper insisted. “Ask Mabel, she’ll back me up! Right, Mabel?”

He cast a hopeful glance to his sister, only to be met with a lukewarm, so-so hand gesture in response. “I meaaaaan, we did just run into you a few seconds ago,” she pointed out. “I want to trust you’re the real Dipper, but you do have a weird trend of ending up with clones that look exactly like you.”

“That’s what being a clone means!” The Dipper beside her insisted. “Of course we’re going to look alike!”

“I don’t want to agree with him,” the other Dipper added. “But he does raise a good point, Mabel. It wouldn’t be a clone if it didn’t look exactly like me.”

“Alright, alright, everyone just calm down for a sec,” Stan ordered, turning his gaze to his brother. “Ford, any input on this whole Seein’ Double ordeal?”

Bill felt the tip of the gun withdraw from his cheek the slightest amount, and he once again cast a glance up at its owner. Ford had remained silent throughout the whole doppelganger reveal, and his expression was studious as he looked between the two of them.

Despite the concentration he put up for the rest of the group, Bill could feel the hand on the back of his jacket trembling just the faintest amount. A fact that once again returned the smile to his own face.

Perhaps Ford was genuinely trying to figure out the correct answer to the issue at hand. Or perhaps the sudden reveal of yet another Pine Tree was only scrambling his brain matter even further than it already was, leaving him open for further scrambling until his thoughts were completely servable with a side of mind bacon and a glass of mind orange juice.

And boy howdy, did Bill need himself a good plate of mind breakfast! The middle of the night was the best time for it, after all!

Yeesh, first a mind car, then a mind breakfast? He was going all over the place with his metaphors. Point was, some higher power was being overly generous with all the opportunities they were granting him to mess with Ford’s head. And with the entire family—plus one—as witnesses, maybe revisiting the events of the bunker would succeed in agitating him further.

Worst case scenario, he got another bullet in his head for a few minutes. But in turn, the rest of the family got some trauma outta the ordeal and he had another opportunity to escape while they were too shocked to react.

“Sounds to me like there’s some pretty damning evidence on both Pine Trees’ sides,” he said aloud with a grin. “Perhaps a classic case of ‘shoot them both in the foot and see which one of ‘em cries harder’ is in order.”

“Absolutely not,” one Dipper replied sharply.

“Not in a million years,” the other added in agreement.

“I’m just saying, it’d probably be an effective method in finding the fake Pine Tree,” Bill pointed out, with a wink up at Ford. “Unless Ford would rather just give them both the same treatment he gave me down in the bunker instead.”

The gun was pressed against his cheek again in an instant. “Stop. Talking.”

He felt the hand on the back of his shirt tense, curling his smile further. “What, Fordsy, not up for a repeat performance now that you have an audience to see what you did?”

His grin widened as the rest of the group’s attention immediately shifted from the dopplegangers to Ford with varying levels of confusion. “Grunkle Ford, what’s he talking about?” one of the Dippers asked.

“Yes, whatever is he talking about~?” Bill asked, batting his eyelashes up at his captor. “Feel like sharing with the rest of the class? Or, I guess, showing the rest of the class? You were sooooo quick to do it when it was just the two of us down there, weren’t you?”

He continued to stare up at Ford with a smug expression, far too pleased by the malice in his own features as he pressed the trip of the gun further into his cheek. Oh, such malice might intimidate a lesser being into behaving properly—but for Bill, it only further confirmed what he’d known since the second he’d regained consciousness the day before.

Ford was terrified. Terrified and confused and desperate to keep control of the situation. And with the new information he’d learned down in the bunker, the cracks in his armor were becoming clearer and clearer—

“Who cares what happened down there?” Stan piped up. “Like we’re gonna listen to anything that’s coming outta that twisted mouth’a yours.”

“Yeah!” Mabel chimed in. “And anyway, why would we even think about shooting either of the Dippers! That’s the dumbest idea ever from the dumbiest, dum-dum ever!”

Momentarily caught off-guard by the interruptions, Bill cast them both a nasty look. One that only fell further when the grip on the back of his jacket relaxed again. Spoilsports. “Well, I don’t hear the rest of you coming up with any solutions.”

“You know, I might have a solution that doesn’t involve listening to him,” the Dipper beside Mabel spoke up. “In fact, that’s why I came out here in the first place. Well, sort of, I was already looking up a way to help you out with him—” A gesture towards Bill. “—but then I spotted something else in the journals that we could probably use to solve this issue, too.”

With a grin, he reached for Mabel’s hand and gave it a tug to pull her along. “So all we have to do is go back to the Shack…and—”

When the hand-pulling ceased to be effective, he looked back to see her giving him a confused stare. “Woah, woah, pop the breaks for a sec, Bro-Bro,” she said, pulling her hand away. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“What do you mean what am I talking about?” Dipper asked. “I’m talking about the journals. You know, the ones full of all the weird and wacky creatures and magic stuff? The ones that he wrote?”

He gestured over to Ford for support, only to be met with a look of suspicion in response—all while the smile on Bill’s face returned in full force. “Well? Isn’t anyone going to answer him?”

The Dipper blinked in disbelief, the grip on his hat tightening as he looked over to where Stan and the other Dipper stood. “Come on, back me up here—”

In response, Stan moved to place a protective hand in front of his Dipper. “Think you might’ve just given us the answer we were lookin’ for, pal.”

“What are you TALKING about?” the other Dipper asked, tone rising in anger. “Is this some kind of elaborate joke, or do none of you seriously remember the journals?!”

“Oh, they remember,” Bill chimed in with a smirk as he glanced at his nails. “It’s just that they’re no longer an option for any sort of help.”

The smile twitched wider—revealing most of his teeth—as he pressed the hand to his chest. “Since yours truly set them all on fire last year~! Hahaha!”

“And when they did return to normal,” Mabel added with a suspicious glare at the other Dipper. “Grunkle Ford tossed them down into the Bottomless Pit!”

“They did what?! He did what?!”

Bill’s smile vanished in an instant as his gaze whipped back to Ford. “You did what?! Yeesh, Sixer, way to break your toys so no one else could use ‘em.”

“The point being made here,” Stan spoke up. “Is that the real Dipper would’ve known that by now.”

“And he does!” the Dipper near him chimed in. “He very much does!”

“Yeah, so give it up, you faker!”

Fists raised, Mabel took a step back towards the rest of her family as they all stared at the newly-dubbed fake Dipper with suspicious realization. The fake Dipper who was twisting the hat in his hand with a vice-like grip and blinking an unusually rapid rate.

But rather than blink the usual way, his eyelids appeared to open and close sideways, similar to some kind of reptile or insect.

In fact, a lot of the faux-Dipper’s mannerisms had grown a lot more insect-like now that he was under suspicion. His arms and legs twitched with jerky spasms, ones that grew too sporadic for him to keep hold of the hat, and it tumbled to the forest floor.

And not even the dirt and grime that had stained it in the earlier collision could mask the familiar pine tree symbol on the front of the hat.

A telltale sign that the group had correctly identified the imposter.

An imposter who’s body suddenly began to morph and shift into a large bug creature—its tendrils waving about widely as it let out a violent, animalistic roar that shook the forest around the Pines. “What the heck is that?!” Stan asked, hands slapped to his ears.

“Shapeshifter.”

Ford’s gun had moved from Bill to the massive being without a second thought, as it slammed one of its front appendage to the forest ground with a menacing thud. “Well, if this isn’t a pleasant reunion,” he spat at them with clear disdain, gaze landing on the adults. “Old Six-Fingers returns after thirty years—”

A quick morph and he now resembled Ford.

“—and a second, just like him!”

Another, this time with Stanley’s appearance as the end result.

“And who could forget the kids~?”

Dipper, then Mabel—before he turned his gaze on Bill, still clutched tightly in Ford’s hand. “And the detested one with the big mouth, of course! Ooh, this one’s new.”

A final morph and the group found themselves face-to-face with a short, blonde boy. Despite every instinct telling him to kick Ford in the ribs and book it while he was distracted, Bill found himself momentarily stunned as he continued to stare as the shapeshifted being before him.

By process of elimination, he was now staring down at the spitting image of his vessel’s appearance.

As initially speculated, the resemblances to Dipper were clear as day—with the hair color and eyes being the main differing factor. But outside of that, it was like he had jumped back about a year—poking and prodding at his new flesh-puppet’s face while he stared into the mirror of the Mystery Shack’s attic while the kid’s spirit watched on in horror.

Overall, highly unimpressive and disappointing. Just the face and body of some twelve-year-old brat.

A final morph and the shapeshifter transformed into a horrific conglomeration of all five of them, one that proceeded to launch itself at Ford for an attack. Unprepared, Ford stumbled back as he raised his gun to fire off a defensive shot to the shoulder—

—only to release his grip on Bill’s jacket in the process, sending him tumbling to the ground.

Despite his appreciation for the incomprehensible horror before him, Bill knew a distraction to take advantage of when he saw it, and that it was definitely time to book it outta there! Which is exactly what he did; scrambling to his feet and taking off like a shot into the woods. An escape attempt that went unmissed by Mabel, who had quickly moved off to the side of the fight with the rest of her family. “Bill’s getting away!”

“Not for long,” Stan said. “You kids go after ‘em, I’ll stay here and help Ford with this oversized caterpillar!”

Despite the attack, Ford managed to get a few bullets on Shifty, causing him to retreat backwards for a moment. “What—no, nobody go after Bill!” he ordered, moments before Shifty leapt at him again. “I’ve just got to—”

Seconds before Shifty could make contact, Stan’s fist collided with the side of his face and sent him crashing against the nearest tree. “Go after Bill!” he repeated to the kids. “I doubt I need to tell you not to let him get away!”

“Stanley, I just said—”

“Yeah, and I said what I said!” Stanley countered. “You’ve got the gun, and that’s gonna be needed to take this bastard down. I stay to help you here, and the kids get Bill.”

“We’re on it, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper said, with a gesture to his sister to follow. “Come on, they can handle the shapeshifter on their own!”

“Right!” Mabel agreed. “Don’t worry, Grunkle Ford, we’ll get Bill!”

Before Ford could protest further, the younger twins took off running in the same direction as Bill, leaving the adults to grapple with a furious shapeshifter. One who was quickly shifting between several different forms in an attempt to gain the upper hand.

Eventually he settled on the form of a vicious mole-creature before launching his entire body at Stan, earning himself a brass-knuckled punch to the jaw. “Come on, Ford,” Stan said, fists still clenched as he jumped back in time to avoid a swipe from the being’s claws. “I know I ain’t exactly the best at puttin' that three-sided jerk under by twice as many feet, but you can’t tell me you don’t at least trust the kids to get the job done right.”

Despite Ford’s attention being mostly fixed on unloading a round of shots into Shifty’s body, he managed to cast Stan a look of genuine confusion. “Stanley, what are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talkin’ about!” Stan protested, taking a fighting stance as Shifty decided to crawl up a nearby tree for an aerial advantage. “That’s why you didn’t want me helpin’ you out today, right? Because you think I’m gonna screw it up like I did last time—”

Stan was cut off as Shifty lunged for him in the form of some giant, wolflike creature, and the two of them disappeared into the dark underbrush of the forest.

“Stanley!”

Ford was hurrying after them without a thought; darting his gaze around for even the tiniest sign of movement against the darkened woods.

Any sign at all—any sign that Stanley was okay—

And suddenly he popped into view again, clearly in some kind of physical battle against whatever was on the other side of the tree that obscured Ford’s line of sight, until it finally ventured out into view to reveal—

—another Stanley.

Oh, no.

— — — — — — —

Despite his exhaustion from once again having to run with legs clearly not built for the task, the temptation to direct mockery at the footsteps behind him was simply too tantalizing for Bill to resist.

And if the sound of footsteps wasn’t enough, a quick look over his shoulder that confirmed Dipper was hot on his trail only set him further in his decision. “What’s wrong, Pine Tree~?” he called with delight. “Can’t run with those short little leg—ACK!”

His smack talk and removal of attention from the path ahead proved to be immediately karmatic—for it was only a second later that his foot snagged on a tree root and he was sent tumbling forward to the ground.

And as he attempted to pull himself to his feet again, a sudden kick to the ribs—one accompanied by a yelp that trailed beyond him and onwards ahead—brought him back down in an instant, face bouncing hard off a nearby boulder.

Despite the pain quickly spreading through his ribcage and lip, Bill forced himself back to his feet just in time to see Dipper slow to a stop just a short distance ahead of him—fists raised as he took on a defensive stance. “Apparently my short legs can still run better than yours.”

At a glance, his pose and smart comeback might’ve implied a sense of control. But the slight wobbling in his legs, uneven footsteps in the dirt, and earlier yelp implied that the kick he had delivered to Bill’s side might’ve been more accidental as opposed to deliberate.

Heh, Pine Tree had absolutely tripped over him when he’d fallen and was trying to play it off like he had the upper hand in this situation. How precious.

The taste of metal brought a hand to Bill’s mouth, crimson staining his pale skin as he scrubbed away the blood. Looks like even with Birdbrain’s little respawn abilities, his body could still bleed.

Even with that kind of power, there were still weaknesses to be found.

His grin returned as he wiped his hand clean on his pant leg. No matter how tough Pine Tree tried to pretend he was now, he was still the weak, pathetic, anxiety-riddled twerp he had always been. All Bill had to do was find the right ways to make him bleed.

Another thoughtful glance down at his hand as the grin twitched with malice. Well, if it had worked on Ford—

“You think you’re soooo tough, don’tcha, Pine Tree?” he jeered. “But now you’re stuck out in the middle of the woods with me~! And you can act as tough as you want, but I know how terrified you really are of me.”

He winked at Dipper with wicked delight. “And I think we both know why, don’t we?”

Despite his attempt to keep his stance firm, even Dipper couldn’t hide the way his shoulders tensed at that question. A motion that brightened both smile and wickedness further as Bill cupped his chin in one hand. “Nostalgic, isn’t it? Staring directly into your own face and body while someone else is at the wheel?”

Ooh, if that didn’t completely wipe the mask away from Dipper’s expression and display his fear in full force! “Y-you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, come on, kid, I think we both know I do,” Bill taunted, pressing a finger to his cheek. “What, you really thought I didn’t know what was happening here? Thought I just picked this body without knowing full well what I looked like—”

THUNK.

Bill’s mockery was swiftly cut off by something hard smacking firmly against his forehead, and he slapped a hand to the spot with an offended look. “Did you just throw something at me?!”

From where he stood, Dipper tossed another rock up and down in his hand with a proud grin. “Huh, guess even a nightmare demon’s not immune to monologuing long enough for someone to chuck a rock at his head.”

With a furious shout, Bill launched himself at Dipper to try and knock him down. An attempt that seemed to work, with Dipper collapsing to the ground beneath their combined weight and the rock he’d been juggling rolling just out of reach.

With the weight of his body keeping Dipper pinned, Bill quickly fumbled at the nearby ground for his own rock and raised it over Dipper’s head with a manic little giggle. Heh, looks like he’d get a chance to spill some blood outside of his own tonight~!

And just so Pine Tree knew his intent—“Well if I’m not immune to getting my pasty human brains splattered everywhere, then I know for a fact that you’re not immune to it either!”

He reared his arm back to give himself more force, but the attempted impact was thwarted by Dipper’s hand gripping his wrist in defense. Tightly and successfully gripping his wrist, for Dipper apparently possessed enough strength to keep Bill’s arm locked in place.

Weird, Bill could so clearly remember Pine Tree’s body being too weak to race around a stage for more than a few minutes last year. Where the heck was all this new muscle coming from? “I mean, it’s not my go-to method for getting rid of you,” he continued, voice strained as he fought against Dipper’s grasp. “Would’ve preferred a more creative approach, like flinging you off the nearest water tower—”

“Get off of me!” Dipper protested with an attempt to wriggle himself free.

“But hey, when in Rome: bash a kid’s skull in with the nearest heavy object!”

Despite Dipper’s admittedly-successful attempts to keep him at bay, Bill fought just as hard in return to overpower him. To overpower him, to bring the rock clutched so tightly in his hand that his palm was beginning to hurt down on his stupid, pathetic face, to force him to stare directly into his own twisted reflection as it delivered painful blow after painful blow, until the light slowly but inevitably faded from his eyes for good—

“Hey, Bill!”

Before Bill had time to process another voice behind him, a ropelike object was thrown over his head and pulled taut around his throat—his focus snapping away from Dipper long enough for the other boy to knock him off and send the rock scattering out of his reach.

Luckily for Bill, his assailant released the grip on whatever they had used to try and strangle him once Dipper had tossed him aside. And he was quick to his hands and knees again, one pressed against his throat as he cast an irritated look towards whoever had thwarted his little murder attempt. Although he had a pretty good idea of who the culprit was, even before his functioning eye landed on her ridiculous popcorn sweater.

Sure enough, Mabel now stood several feet away from them, a braided rope of streamers in one hand and a fierce expression on her face. “I’ve got something I’ve wanted to say to you all day—”

“Did you seriously just try to choke me out?” Bill asked, rubbing the sore spot with a wince. “Yeesh, Shooting Star, I gotta stop underestimating your bloodlust.”

“Wh—” Mabel started, confident demeanor faltering for a second. “I mean, yes, I did, but—”

“Guess I’ve also gotta stop underestimating your creativity, too,” Bill continued. “I mean, choking a guy out with streamers? Not a bad play, I’ve gotta admit. A lot more creative than Pine Tree just throwing a rock at me.”

“Hey, I’m trying to say something here!” Mabel said, stomping her foot with an indignant pout.

“Yeah, well, I was trying to bash your brother’s head in with a rock,” Bill pointed out in return. “So I guess none of us are getting what we want, are we?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Before Bill had time to respond, a pair of arms had wrapped themselves around his legs and yanked backwards, bringing him back down to the forest floor with a hard thud. “I think I’m getting what I want pretty easily!”

While Dipper let out a delighted laugh at his success, Mabel hurried to join them with a proud fist in the air. “Nice one, Bro-Bro!” she cheered. “Can’t believe that actually worked with him, too!”

“Haha, I know, right?!” Dipper agreed excitedly, the lower half of Bill’s legs still clutched tightly in his embrace. “Sorry to interrupt what you were trying to do there—I saw what it was, I just couldn’t resist.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Mabel insisted. “I wasn’t entirely sure if it was the right time or not anyway, so not a huge deal.”

She scowled down at Bill. “Plus he interrupted me first, so the moment was ruined anyway!”

From the ground—face once again smushed into the messy soil—Bill was seething. At this rate, he was going to have to slot ‘being knocked to the ground and forced to consume a mouthful of dirt’ near the top of the list of the most annoying things he’d been forced to endure across the past day. Maybe right above ‘falling to the ground while tied to a chair’ and just beneath ‘people giving him headaches, under several definitions of the word’, given Dipper’s stupid little rock stunt.

As he moved to press a hand to his forehead again in bitter pain, his eye landed on the speck still barely peeking out from beneath his sleeve—the thought to ask Tangy for help bubbling to the front of his mind.

No, he knew the answer to that before he even considered it further. Even without their little cooldown remark in mind, Bill was beginning to question just how resourceful they actually were when it came to helping him out. Sure, he’d had more than his fair share of moments where he unfortunately had to give them credit for thinking ahead, but there were just as many moments where they had conveniently forgotten to tell him something important about their little game.

As for the game itself, Bill was also beginning to question if Birdbrain’s special prize truly was worth all this trouble. Was the destruction of the town barrier really worth racing around in some fleshy little bone suit, being constantly hunted down by Ford and his stupid family? Was it really worth all the secrets on Birdbrain’s end, all the rules they conveniently forgot to tell him ahead of time?

Yeesh, at this rate he was better off finding a way to just torture the information out of Ford again. Sure, that’d be more difficult the second time around, but at least he wouldn’t be caught up in some wild goose chase.

Yes, he’d already used that bird pun before, but it was also the most accurate one for his situation! Not only was he practically being chased from one side of the valley to another by Ford’s stupid family, but he was so busy trying to escape from his stupid captors in general that he had no idea where to start looking for any pieces of Tangy’s stupid charm—

A cawing sound overhead pulled Bill’s gaze upwards, and he narrowed his eyes at a crow that had settled in the tree above him and the kids. Great, just what he needed—another annoying bird.

His irritation earned him another caw before the crow shifted to preen itself, the shifting of its wings revealing something shiny and golden clutched in one of its talons.

Bill’s eyes widened, all previous gripes about the game momentarily forgotten as he squinted closer to try and get a better look. Could that really be the first piece of Birdbrain’s stupid puzzle? It was a longshot for sure; for all he knew, the crow had just snatched some random person’s jewelry. Completely-unrelated-to-the-other-annoying-bird’s-game jewelry.

“—should probably tie him up, huh? Think those streamers of yours will work as a rope?”

“Psh, you know they will! Remember what I told you earlier about using them to scale a tree?”

“Oh, yeah, you did do that, didn’t you? Speaking of which, actually—why didn’t you just use your grappling hook?”

“I haven’t unpacked it yet, and the streamer thing was way cooler anyway!”

Shoot, the brats were starting to wrap up their conversation. Heck with it—even if it wasn’t a part of Tangy’s charm, Bill wasn’t going to be able to find any actual pieces if he ended up restrained again. He needed to get away from them as quickly as possible.

Before Mabel could approach him with her streamers in hand, Bill reared back his left leg and kicked as hard as he could—his efforts rewarding him with a painful yelp on Dipper’s end and the grip around his legs being released. Taking quick advantage of his freedom, he scrambled back to his feet and dashed off once again.

Rather than immediately follow after him, Mabel was at Dipper’s side in an instant to examine his face. “Dipper, are you okay?”

“Fine, fine,” he insisted, pressing a hand to his sore nose. “Nothing broken, just surprised me more than anything. …Honestly, I think Waddles might’ve had more of a powerful kick than he does.”

A pause. “Not sure what that says about my kicking abilities from last year, though…”

“Let’s keep chasing after him, then,” Mabel said, gripping her streamers tight. “I’m gonna call that triangle a dumbass to his face at the right possible time if it kills me!”

Before Dipper could reply, she took off like a shot into the night—leaving her brother standing alone in the darkness. And with a sigh and shrug, he hurried after her with a: “At least stay close enough to where you can hear me, we already had to deal with one shapeshifting fake-out tonight!”

“Who’s fault is that?” she called back to him.

“...Not mine? I wasn’t even there when he got out!”

— — — — — — —

“Ford, shoot him!”

“I refuse to partake in this nerdy clone trope, just shoot both of us if you’ve really gotta do it!”

The hand around Ford’s gun trembled as he watched the two Stans before him struggle to gain the upper hand over each other. After spending several years raising a shapeshifter and watching him transform into other beings during his research, one would’ve thought that he had picked up the ability to tell Shifty apart from the original being he was imitating.

And yet, here he was. Forced once again to aim a gun at his own brother, while he struggled desperately to distinguish him from an imposter.

“After all, you are the expert in destroying those who are just trying to help you, aren’t you~?”

His grip on the gun tightened as Bill’s earlier words from the bunker flooded his thoughts. He shouldn’t have let Bill get under his skin, shouldn’t have let his temper flare up to the point where he made such an amateur mistake as not double-checking the storage room before he left. He should’ve stayed behind and make sure Shifty and the others that had been locked in the cryogenic chambers were taken care of first and foremost—

“Come on, Sixer! Just—take a page outta the triangle's book and shoot us in the foot or whatever! I can walk it off, you know that!”

“He does not know that! What he does know is that I ain’t as young as I used to be, and there’s no way I’m getting anything done with a busted-up foot!”

“Watch it, pal, I ain’t that outta shape—ack, was that cracking sound your back or mine?”

“Think it mighta been both of them, actually.”

The sound of the Stans’ protests snapped Ford out of his thoughts. “I’m not—I don’t want to shoot you, Stanley!” he insisted aloud, barrel of the gun shifting between them. “Regardless of body part!”

“Aw, come on!” one of the Stans argued. “You really think I can’t handle one measly bullet to the foot? ‘Sides, the sooner you take care of this, the sooner you can get back to chasin’ after Bill, right?”

Bill…

That’s right, Stan had been saying something about Bill before Shifty had attacked him. Something about screwing up like he had done last time?

If Shifty had no way of knowing about Dipper’s change in style or the fate of the journals, there was no way he would know what the real Stan had meant by that. And if Ford could get the real Stan to explain that further—

“What did you mean a few minutes ago?” he asked aloud. “About me thinking that you were going to screw it up like last time?”

One Stan gave him a confused glare as he succeeded in pinning the other to the ground. “Wh—seriously, Ford?! I’d rather just take the bullet in my foot!”

“Yeah, at this point I might actually prefer the bullet too,” the other added.

“I am not shooting you. Answer the question.”

A grunt as the Stan on the ground managed to swing a fist into the jaw of the other, causing him to lose focus long enough for the first Stan to slam him against the nearest tree. “Look, it’s not a big deal, okay?” the tree-pinned Stan called out with a struggle, the other’s arm pressed against his neck. “We both know the little triangle demon was supposed to burn up in my head, and that didn’t pan out like we wanted. I screwed up like I always do and now you feel like you’ve gotta handle all this Bill stuff by yourself again.”

He swung a fist into the other’s gut and it was the other Stan’s turn to stumble back while the first returned to a fighting stance. “And I don’t blame you for not wantin’ my help this time around, alright? After all the other times I’ve ruined your life in the past, I wouldn’t want my help again either.”

He barely managed to dodge as the other lunged at him. “But you can’t just keep dealin’ with him all by yourself, either! I know just how badly that little jerk messed with your head, even if you don’t ever talk to me about it! So even if I’m still the world’s biggest screwup, lemme at least help you by doin’ the one thing I’m actually good at—takin’ a hit for you!”

Both expression and posture sank, the fight momentarily forgotten. “And yeah, yeah, I know I’m not actually all that good at it. But I’m pretty sure even I can’t screw up gettin’ shot by an actual bullet—”

BANG!

Stan was knocked to the ground by a swing of the other’s fist, an inhuman howl escaping the attacker as if he’d been the one to be injured instead. And after a painful grunt from the impact, Stan quickly realized that had been the case when his eyes landed on the doppelganger’s shoulder—blood now gushing from a wound the exact size and shape of a bullet.

Stan’s gaze traveled further over to where Ford stood, landing on the faint whisps of smoke trickling out of the still-raised gun barrel. “Give it up, Shifty! You’ve been found out.”

The other Stan let out another roar of pain before his body morphed and shifted back into his usual form, blood from the wound splattering across the forest floor as he scuttled backwards from Ford. “You think you’re so tough, don’t you?” he spat at Ford, tone laced with metaphorical—and potentially literal—venom. “Think you can just come crawling back after thirty years and keep ordering me around?”

“Yeesh,” Stan said, backing up on his hands towards Ford. “Remind me who this ugly mug is again?”

“Like I said before, he’s a shapeshifter,” Ford explained, keeping his gun aimed forward. “I hatched him from an egg, back when Fiddleford and I were doing our research. When he got bigger, he started seeking out—let’s call them questionable ways to get ahold my journals so he could learn more dangerous forms to imitate. Eventually it got so bad that I was forced to seal him away in one of the cryogenic chambers.”

“You thought you sealed me away,” Shifty corrected. “I spent countless years wandering around that wretched bunker, desperately trying to claw my way to freedom. Until those brats of yours sealed me back into one of the chambers during one of their little escapades.”

His mouth curled into a snarl. “But not even they could stop me from finally escaping that wretched hole in the ground. They couldn’t stop me, you couldn’t stop me—and you are NOT taking me back!”

A swing of his fist shook a nearby tree, scattering a flock of nearby birds into flight. And with another roar of anger, Shifty’s body shrank to their size and took flight—soaring up and through the tops of the tall pine trees that made up the forest and vanishing out of sight and reach.

With a sigh both full of relief that the fight was over and full of weight at what was to come of Shifty’s escape in the future, Ford shakily turned to help his brother up from the ground. “You alright?”

Stan groaned, his joints cracking several times as Ford pulled him to his feet. “You’re askin’ the guy who took down an army of mutant crabs off the coast of Jamaica if he’s alright after dealin’ with some overgrown grub? Or—what’d I call him earlier? A caterpillar? Whatever, a giant bug’s a giant bug.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Stan’s expression fell as they stared at each other in tense silence for a moment—

—before a synchronized shout of “The kids!” hurried them off in the same direction that the younger twins had taken off after Bill.

— — — — — — —

“Stop running!”

“Once again, Shooting Star, do you really think asking politely is going to get me to do anything?”

“I’m optimistic!”

A blur of pink went sailing past his left side, the streamer unfurling as it whizzed past and tangling itself in a nearby bush. Guess she’d resorted to throwing her remaining streamers at him in an attempt to stop him from running.

Welp, at least it wasn’t a rock this time. Maybe Pine Tree had been spooked enough by his earlier stunt to not reconsider the idea. Or maybe they just couldn’t grab any while racing after him.

Either way, Bill kept running—much like he’d been doing throughout the past day. Running despite the annoying pain in his stupid, flesh legs and annoying burning in his stupid, flesh lungs, and annoying footsteps of the stupid, flesh pursuiters behind him.

He heard another caw overhead, pupil shifting upwards in time to see the crow from before soaring straight ahead, the unknown item from before still clutched firmly in its left talons. From where he stood—or ran—it was still too difficult to tell whether or not it truly was a piece of Birdbrain’s puzzle. But when the bird veered hard to the right, Bill was quick to follow regardless—letting out a small cackle at the sound of frantic skidding and leaves crunching behind him.

Haha, sounds like the brats need to give their breaks a fresh can of oil!

A zinger he probably would’ve said out loud, if his attention wasn’t sorely fixed on the path and bird ahead. Hey, whether or not the bird was carrying one of Tangy’s charm pieces was still a win-win on Bill’s end if he caught up to it.

If it was a charm piece, he was that much closer to winning their game. His earlier thoughts about giving up on the game entirely were irrelevant—he could always change his mind again once the piece was actually in his hand.

If it turned out to just be some random piece of jewelry—well, that just meant he’d get a random piece of golden jewelry out of the ordeal! One he desperately needed as a way of accessorizing the incredibly generic suit that Birdbrain had stuck him in; seriously, what was with their sudden interest in not picking the tackiest, gaudiest outfit this side of the Multiverse?

And if it turned out to be fake gold? Well, looks like he’d get that chance to bash someone’s brains in with a rock, after all. Or rather, something in the form of the little birdie who’d put him through this chase in the first place.

Man, he was really on his head-bashing-based torments tonight. He blamed Ford’s little stunt down in the bunker—it just wasn’t fair if his brains were the only ones that got to be used as decorative wallpaper.

The bird soared onwards through the wood, towards a series of bright lights that began to poke through the gaps in the trees—ones that came with the addition of faint music and joyful chattering. Almost as if he were approaching some kind of massive gathering or—

Oh, right.

Sure enough, when Bill slowed to a stop between a pair of birch trees, he was greeted by the sight of the Mystery Shack—with hundreds of partygoers crowding the property on all sides.

So the knuckleheads had gone through with having their party after all, huh? And not too shabby a job, by the looks of things. Pretty nice turnout, building itself covered top-to-bottom in an excessive number of decorations. Heck, Bill was almost impressed. Almost. He definitely could’ve done a better job if they’d put him in charge of things.

More cawing overhead reminded him of his mission, and he looked up in time to see the bird exiting the forest and circling above the crowd for a bit, before finally settling for one of the letters on the busted roof sign.

He let out a low chuckle. Looks like Bill Cipher was finally slipping back into Lady Luck’s favor tonight~! Not only would it be easy enough to climb up to the roof, but the large crowd meant shaking his pursuers would be as easy as taking candy from a baby.

“Bill!”

Speaking of which—

With a smug grin cast behind him—and fond remembrance of a time where he’d stolen a lollipop from Paci-Fire—Bill took off into the crowd just as the kids finally caught up to his hiding spot.

“He’s getting away,” Mabel said, making a motion to continue after him—

—before a hand on the back of her sweater stopped her in place. “Hold on a sec,” Dipper said. “If we just go charging after him in front of all those people, someone might catch onto what we’re doing and start freaking out. Remember what Grunkle Ford yesterday?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mabel said thoughtfully. “It’d be pretty hard to explain the whole ‘Two Dippers’ thing to people without revealing that one of them’s actually Bill.”

She tapped her chin. “I guess we could always try passing him off as our long-lost cousin or something, but eugh—” A shudder. “Even just pretending that he’s related to us makes my skin all creepy-crawly.”

“Ditto.”

Dipper peered out to the crowd again with silent contemplation as he searched for any sign of Bill among the partygoers. Lazy Susan was holding a conversation with a random barf fairy—a conversation that ended as stomach-churning as expected and Dipper quickly forced his attention away with a look of disgust. A group of non-barfing fairies all gathered around the punchbowl while Pacifica’s parents conversed with them—Dipper’s gaze lingering on Pacifica herself for a second too long before he tore it away with pursed lips. All the Manotaurs were still gathered around the Meat Table and still just as loudly passionate about their food of choice—

“Kids!”

The sound of someone else’s voice behind them drew both Dipper and Mabel’s attention from the party and back to the forest behind them—just in time to see both Stan and Ford emerging from the darkness. “Are you two alright?” Ford asked as they slowed to a stop.

“Are you?” Dipper asked in return. “That was a pretty quick fight…”

“Come to think of it,” Mabel added, peering closely at them. “Are you sure you two are actually you?”

“Yeah, no, we’re not doin’ that again,” Stan said, before pointing between himself and Ford. “I’m me, he’s Ford, and what’s-his-face-when-it’s-not-his-face turned into a bird and flew off after Ford shot him in the leg. If you don’t believe me, I can just rattle off all the different joint pains I’ve gotten from running around the woods all night.”

With a wince, he gingerly tapped his left foot against the ground. “Think I might’ve regrown a couple’a old bunions in the process too if you really need hard proof—”

Mabel winced in disgust. “Eugh.”

“That’s what I thought,” Stan said, flicking a thumb at himself. “There’s not a shapeshifter alive that can truly replicate a guy like me.”

"Definitely Stan,” Dipper said.

“No doubt,” Mabel agreed, before casting a suspicious look to Ford. “Although…”

“Stan and I have been together since the fight ended, and we can discuss shapeshifter-proof codewords at a later time,” Ford said, his grip on the gun tightening as he peered out at the party. “Where’s Bill?”

“Oh yeah, that’s him alright,” Mabel said with certainty.

“We chased him all the way here, but lost him when he took off into the crowd,” Dipper explained. “Only reason we haven’t followed after him was because we didn’t want to start a panic with the whole—”

He gestured to himself, then proceeded to form a triangle with his fingers. “—thing.”

“I appreciate you kids taking my initial concerns into account,” Ford said. “With a crowd as big as this, there’s a chance he could start yelling or attracting the attention of any nearby onlookers if we found him.”

He pressed a hand to his head in exasperation. “Although, I guess that’s not all we’d have to worry about now, is it?”

His words trailed off, the rest of his explanation lingering in an uncomfortable half-silence that was only broken by the sounds of the nearby party. “So, uh—” Stan began awkwardly. “Wasn’t gonna give the little jerk the satisfaction of knowing that he actually got me curious about it, but I’m gonna guess your bunker plan didn’t go so well?”

“Yeah, I was wondering about it too,” Dipper admitted. “What happened down there? Why were you two chasing Bill through the woods, and having to deal with the shapeshifter? And what did Bill mean by ‘not up for a repeat performance now that you have an audience’—woah, hey, Grunkle Ford, are you okay?”

“I—”

It was only at that moment that Ford processed just how much of his body weight he’d sank against the trunk of the nearest tree, and just how badly his entire form was trembling on legs that were barely keeping him upright—

Nope, there they went as he finally collapsed into a kneeling position, any attention to regain his footing immediately thwarted by matching pairs of hands in his own. “Grunkle Ford, no,” Mabel scolded lightly from one side. “Don’t make yourself stand up again.”

“Yeah, you look like you’re about to pass out,” Dipper added from the other. “Have you…eaten anything today since breakfast?”

Between the younger twins, Stan knelt down with a narrowed glare. “Did you eat breakfast at all?”

“I…” Ford started. “Did you?”

“We’re not talkin’ about me, and that tells me all I need to know,” Stan said, folding his arms. “Gonna guess you probably don’t have some kinda magical refrigerator that restocks itself down in the bunker, either. Or any of those nutrition pills you used to take before you remembered actual food exists?”

“That would be…a fair guess.”

“You didn’t eat ANYTHING while you were down there?” Mabel asked worriedly, reaching into her sweater pockets. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ve got plenty of snacks left—ooh, I haven’t even finished off half the corn dogs in my corn dog pocket!”

She fished out a fully-cooked corndog and held it up with a flourish, causing Dipper to raise an eyebrow. “You have a corndog pocket in that thing?”

“I’ve even got one that doubles as a cooler for soda,” she said, patting the other side of her sweater. “I told you I was set for the day.”

“Alright, alright, forget Bill and the bunker for a sec,” Stan said. “You’re gonna get some food in your body first, Sixer.”

“Stanley—”

“No Stanleys, pal,” Stan insisted. “You’re not gonna get anywhere near catching him again if you keep on going the way you are now.”

Ford stared hard into the face that mirrored his own—just as he had done many times across the past few days. Into the face of the man he had successfully picked out of the earlier fight with his doppelganger, without having to resort to firing a bullet in him.

“Lemme at least help you by doin’ the one thing I’m actually good at—takin’ a hit for you!”

But the main concern there hadn’t actually been piercing out the real Stan, had it? The main concern had been Stan’s insistence on taking a bullet for him at all—and the reasoning behind said insistence in the first place.

Ford could feel his insides twisting with a mess of emotions—guilt, realization, potentially hunger as his focus passed lazily over the corndog in Mabel’s hands. Did Stan truly think that he’d denied his help because he thought he had failed to stop Bill the first time? Stanley—brave, heroic Stanley who had sacrificed so much more than anyone should sacrifice, thought himself a failure?

It wasn’t as if Bill’s return had been his fault—and even if by some misfortune it had been his fault, Ford could never bring himself to truly blame Stan for that. Out of anyone in the world, Stanley had to know just how important he was—

“I screwed up like I always do and now you feel like you’ve gotta handle all this Bill stuff by yourself again.”

He…had to know that, right?

“After all the other times I’ve ruined your life in the past, I wouldn’t want my help again either.”

“After all, you are the expert in destroying those who are just trying to help you, aren’t you~?”

Bill’s taunting words from the bunker echoed through his mind as his gaze and palms found the forest floor, nails digging sharply into the topsoil. Loathed as he was to give anything Bill said the time of day, they blurred so neatly, so perfectly with Stanley’s own claims that he could feel his insides twisting further from a sensation that he knew for a fact wasn’t from hunger.

Had his own insistence to keep Stanley away for his own safety truly strengthened that negative view of himself? Further pushed him to think that the only way he could possibly be useful was to take another bullet for someone? All this time he had been trying to protect his brother, but had he simply just made things worse—

“Sixer?”

Ford lifted his head again, eyes once again meeting the features that mirrored his own to a near-perfect degree. Meeting them, before immediately falling back to the ground in a dazed lull as he tried to refocus his vision. As much as he hated to admit it—the rest of his family had a point. He truly was running on less than fumes at this point, and Bill had already escaped his clutches several times over as a result.

Even if he somehow managed to catch him again in his current state, he no longer had his gun as a failsafe option—with or without all the surrounding partygoers—and there was always a chance that Shifty had destroyed the cryogenic tubes in the bunker before his escape to freedom.

Taking all of that into account alongside his ever growing concerns about Stanley—

“You’re right.”

Stan blinked at him in surprise. “Wh—come again?”

“You’re right,” Ford repeated, lifting his head again. “I’m not going to catch Bill if I keep on going the way I am. I need you to take charge of this situation for me.”

“Wh—” Stan started, taking a confusing look around him as if he half-expected Ford to be talking to someone else. “Okay, I know what I said before, but you’ve gotta be delirious from hunger if you’re seriously expectin’ me to take charge of this whole thing.”

“Even if I was, it’s all the more reason to pass this matter into someone else’s hands,” Ford insisted. “And I can’t think of anyone I trust more to take over for me than you.”

His gaze shifted to the younger twins, a worn smile tugging at his lips as he stared at Mabel. “Well, you and the kids, of course. After all, a braided rope is stronger than a singular rope, isn’t it?”

Mabel’s expression lit up as she dug out a roll of streamers with her free hand. “Yeah! Braids solve every problem!”

“Not that I don’t think you should take a break or anything, because I do,” Dipper said, holding up a finger. “But, uh—are you sure you want us to take over for you, Grunkle Ford? I mean, we don’t even have a plan on how to catch Bill yet.”

“Kid’s got a point, Ford,” Stan added. “Plus I can’t promise it’ll go as smoothly as it would if you were the one leadin’ the charge.”

His expression fell. “Can’t even promise that we’ll be able to catch the little bugger.”

“It can’t turn any worse than how I’ve handled things so far,” Ford pointed out. “Under my lead, I’ve managed to lose hold of him and unleash a shapeshifting monster onto the town.”

He reached a shaky hand towards his brother’s and gave it a tight squeeze. “And…even if you do somehow manage to beat me in that regard, I will never regret turning to you for help in the first place, Stanley.”

Stan’s hand lingered in place for a moment—and Ford could almost feel it squeezing his in return—before he finally retracted it with a gruff laugh. “Hey, come on, Poindexter—what’d I tell you about gettin’ all sappy and makin’ the squirts wanna blow chunks on their first day back?”

While Dipper and Mabel exchanged looks of amusement on the side, Ford simply cast him a weak smile. “You realize that it’s now their second day back, don’t you?”

“Then that just means they’ll blow twice as many chunks!” Stan countered with a low cackle of his own. “And if they’re too busy blowin’ all those chunks, then they’re gonna be too busy to help me with Bill wrangling!”

“We’ll never be too busy for that, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel said delightedly, gripping both corndog-stick and streamer roll alike with a look of determination. “We’re gonna catch him if it’s the last thing we d—oh, uh, wait, we still need to come up with a plan on how to do that first, don't we?”

“We do,” Ford said, pulling himself into a sitting position. “And there’s no time like the present for us to start.”

“Bup, bup, bup—” Stan said with a warning snap of his fingers. “If you’re puttin’ me in charge of this mission, then I’m orderin’ you to leave us in charge of the thinking while you go ahead and get some food in your belly. Mabel, corndog.”

With a serious nod, Mabel held out the corndog towards Ford. “Let me know if you want anything else,” she said, patting the front of her sweater once again. “I’ve got this puppy loaded with just about every snack you can think of! Mom says I save our family a bundle in snacks every time we go to the movies!”

“Just the corndog’s fine for now, Mabel,” Ford assured her, before raising it slowly to his mouth for a bite—

—one that admittedly made his smile falter. “Oh, that’s…an interesting flavor.”

“Yeah, even when we’re saving a bundle, Mom still goes for the generic ones instead of name brand,” Mabel explained.

“Generic or not, you’re gonna eat it anyway,” Stan ordered.

“Never said I wasn’t,” Ford reassured him with another bite.

While the rest of his family conversed, Dipper cast another thoughtful look back out at the party guests. Specifically the Meat Table, where Mayor Tyler was cheering on its inhabitants from beneath one of Manly Dan’s massive arms—seconds before Soos strolled into view with a barrel of freshly-brewed meat.

Dipper stared at Soos for a moment, then back to Mayor Tyler, and finally down at his own hands. Hands he had used to grab Bill’s wrist earlier. Hands he had also used to yank Bill down on his face.

Hands with fingers, ones he slowly touched to his own arm, then face, before finally forming another triangle shape with his fingers—

“Hey, I…might have an idea,” he said aloud. “It’s a super risky one and would go against Ford’s original request to keep Bill’s existence under wraps as much as possible.”

A shrug. “But if we succeed, it shouldn’t incite a panic and we should still be able to recapture Bill without anyone catching onto what we’re doing.”

Stan looked to his brother. “Whaddaya say, Sixer?”

“You’re the one in charge now, Stanley,” Ford reminded him. “It’s your call. But I do have one request at least.”

"Oh, here we go," Stan said with a roll of his eyes.

"Promise me you won't do anything reckless to go and hurt yourself."

And suddenly Stan's eyes were back on Ford again, staring hard into his features as if that were the last thing he’d expected to hear. Rather than comment on it, however, he simply pointed to Dipper. "I mean, pretty sure that's up to the guy with the plan," he pointed out. "Can't go promisin' anything if I don't even know what he's got up his sleeve yet."

"He won't do have to do anything reckless," Dipper assured both of them. "And if anything, the only one who'll get hurt is Bill. Plus it’ll probably be really embarrassing for him, which I think is just an added bonus."

"Then I have no objections," Ford said. "I leave this in your capable hands, Stanley."

More staring followed, almost as if Stan expected him to go back on that claim if he waited long enough. And when Ford simply followed up his words with an encouraging nod, he finally turned to Dipper proper. “Alright, kid, lay it on me. Whatever it is, I’m in!”

“Me too! Me too!” Mabel added excitedly. “I wanna help embarrass Bill!”

“I’m happy you say that,” Dipper said, a smile forming as he looked to his hands again. “Because you two are gonna be playing the most important roles…”

— — — — — — —

Despite her earlier protests, Wendy could only hide out in the boat for so long before the call of the party outside eventually beckoned her to join.

Regardless, she did give pause on the deck to scan the crowd for any sign of the Pines family among them. Any sign of that familiar old hat she had plopped on Dipper’s head the year prior, any random bursts of glitter from Mabel, any heads of grey hair from the Stans—

Her gaze landed on the Meat Table, its inhabitants still devouring the spread before them with their usual amount of gusto and chanting. Currently said chants were aimed towards her father at the far end of the table; an overly-sized drumstick clenched tightly in his raised fist and his other arm draped around—

An annoyed scowl made itself at home on Wendy’s face as she stared at Tyler— his usual trademark of “Get ‘em! Get ‘em!” cheered with more enthusiasm than the entire group of Manotaurs combined—before she forced her attention to the rest of the partygoers. Well, at the very least, she now knew where he was, and knew which side of the party she needed to avoid—

“—yeah, no, he was acting super weird, right?”

“I don’t know if I’d say super weird, but regular weird for sure.”

The sound of voices trailing beside the boat made Wendy peer down over the side, where she was greeted by the sight of Candy and Grenda passing by with cups of punch. “Heya, squirts,” she said, folding her arms and leaning over the railing with a grin. “Enjoying the party?”

Both stopped in their path to look up at her, and Grenda’s expression brightened. “Hey, Wendy!” she greeted, waving her arm so passionately that the punch went flying out of her cup. “Where’ve you been?”

“You missed out on one intense Meat Eating Competition!” Candy added, flexing her own arms in such a way that caused her own punch to also spill out onto the ground. “Womanataur never stood a chance against us!”

“Aww, sick,” Wendy said proudly. “You finally won against her?”

“Oh no, we lost real bad,” Grenda clarified. “...We didn’t specify what kind of chance she stood against us.”

“Thought we might’ve had a shot against Manly Dan, though,” Candy added. “What with him spending half the time going all googly-eyed over Mayor Tyler, and all.”

Despite her scowl threatening to return, Wendy ignored it in favor of giving the girls an amused wink. “Eh, don’t sweat it too much, you two will get a win one day,” she assured them. “And to answer your question from before, I’ve been up here on the boat. Needed to get away from all the weirdness for a bit.”

“Ugh, don’t I KNOW it?” Grenda agreed with a gruff sigh. “I swear, getting this much of the town together in one spot has to, like…mess with the air or something and make everything even more weird than it already is!”

She placed a hand on her hip. “At least, we’re pretty sure that’s what happened to Dipper.”

Wendy tilted her head curiously. “Dipper? What happened to him exactly?”

“Well, everything was fine when we talked to him earlier,” Candy explained. “He had that usual amount of anxiety and cryptic-ness that only Dipper Pines could provide.”

“You know the amount, you get it,” Grenda added.

“But then when he raced past us over by the punch bowl, he was laughing to himself and talking all strange,” Candy continued, touching her free hand to her head. “Also his hair was blonde, for some reason?

“And he was dressed up in a yellow-and-black tux,” Grenda pointed out with a look of confusion. “Dunno why he picked yellow, though, it’s soooo not his color. Mabel’s the twin with the right complexion for bright colors for SURE!”

“They look much better on her,” Candy agreed, before her eyes lit up. “Ooh, you know what it might’ve been? Maybe it was part of the surprise he was talking about earlier? The one with Dr. Pines and Mabel that he couldn’t say much about?”

“Augh, that would make perfect sense!” Grenda agreed, tossing her hands in the air and spilling the last of her cup’s contents out onto the grass. “That lying jerk, telling us he had no idea what they were up to when he knew all along!”

“Maybe he was respecting the element of surprise,” Candy pointed out.

Wendy’s expression stiffened with a mix of realization and annoyance. A blonde-haired Dipper in a yellow-and-black tux running past them and acting all weird?

…Yeah, so there was a high chance that something had gone wrong over at the bunker. Which probably meant that Bill was now wandering around the party somewhere and the Pines were hauling tail back to the Shack to try and recapture their escaped prisoner.

She glanced out at the crowd again. And if they weren’t here already, they were probably going to need someone to be their eyes in the meantime.

“Aw, who cares about Dipper and his secrets?” she heard Grenda say below. “Come on, Candy, let’s go refill our punch before those old-timey ghosts pull their ‘expired juice’ prank.”

“You know you can say they’re spiking the punch, right? Because they are.”

“Yeah, just still feels kinda weird that I can say that now.”

Wendy caught the girls hurrying back towards the crowd out of the corner of her eye, before she pulled out her cell phone—

—and as if right on cue, a series of text from Dipper popped up on her screen:

[Dr. Fun Times: Sending out a mass text to everyone still at the shack: Bill escaped and is somewhere on the premises.] [Dr. Fun Times: It’s a long story on how he got there, but Mabel, Stan, Ford and I are gathered at the edge of the forest near the shack.]

Another text joined the conversation, this time from Mabel:

[Unicorn Punisher: We’ve got a plan to catch him, but we’re gonna need some help getting eyes on him before we can put it into action!]

[Bossman: So you need us to keep our eyes peeled, in an ironic twist on HIS weird, all-seeing-eye thing that he has going on??] Soos added a few seconds later.

[Dr. Fun Times: You got it, Soos.]

[Bosswoman: We’re on it, Dipper. Wendy, I see you in the group, are you able to help out?]

Melody’s question prompted Wendy to mash out a quick reply:

[Wendy: Waaaay ahead of you guys on that one. Caught wind from Candy and Grenda that they saw a blonde-haired ‘Dipper’ run past them earlier.]

[Dr. Fun Times: Ugh, GREAT.] [Dr. Fun Times: It’s bad enough he LOOKS like me, now other people are starting to think he’s ACTUALLY me?]

[Unicorn Punisher: I mean, isn’t that important for your plan?]

[Dr. Fun Times: Yeah, but I don’t have to LIKE it.]

[Bosswoman: Like Soos said, we can keep an eye on the crowd for him. Anything else you need?]

[Unicorn Puncher: Uhhh, the Shrink-and-Span! And the Manotaur’s stage!]

[Bosswoman: I can get both from storage, and have guests clear out a space for the stage.] [Bosswoman: I assume you’re going to regrow it to its usual size?] [Bosswoman: Assume with only a fraction of certainty; I’ve quickly learned to expect the unexpected with this town.]

[Unicorn Punisher: No, no, you got it right the first time!!!] [Unicorn Punisher: We’re about to give this party and Bill a surprise they’re NEVER gonna forget!!!]

[Dr. Fun Times: Thanks again for the idea, Soos, it’s really saving our butts!]

[Bossman: You’re welcome, dude!] [Bossman: What idea was that again?]

[Dr. Fun Times: You’ll see soon enough.]

[Bossman: Works for me! Soos Search And Locate Freaky Triangle Dude, go!]

[Bosswoman: I’ll get what you need and be waiting by the gift shop door.]

[Wendy: Keep an eye out for the little jerk performing identity theft, got it.]

With that, she tucked her phone back into her pocket and cast one last look out over the crowd, this time in the hopes of spotting any telltale signs of black and yellow—

—just in time to see a flash of blonde hair dart beneath the very dirty tablecloth on the Meat Table.

Narrowing her eyes, she hopped straight over the boat railing and landed with a hard thud on the ground below. Ugh, great—he had to go and pick the one table she was trying to avoid.

Eh, maybe she’d get lucky and the little creep would so get freaked out by the sound of fists slamming on the table, that he’d book it outta there before she got closer.

— — — — — — —

The good news for Bill was that it looked like his plan to lose the kids in the crowd had worked.

The only issue with that was the size of the crowd itself.

Yeesh, Question Mark’s little girlfriend hadn’t been kidding when she said they were having a party! Felt like everyone and their six-footed, googly-eyed grandma now crowded the grounds of the Mystery Shack.

BANG! “Meat Table!” BANG! “Meat Table!” BANG! “Meat table!”

Speaking of which…

Bill cast a glare upwards at the table he was crouched beneath, one that shook with every pound of a fist from the Manotaurs crowded around it. Not the quietest hiding spot in the world, but maybe the gang of massive meat fanatics would be enough to keep the Pines family at a distance.

Still, he couldn’t hide here forever.

He peered out from beneath the meat-stained tablecloth and looked towards the roof of the shack. The bird he’d been tailing before had settled up there, right next to a woodpecker and a couple of Eyebats. A sight that brought a frown to Bill’s face as they scanned the crowd with innocent curiosity, as opposed to their past behavior of turning any moving beings into petrified statues. Somebody must’ve found a way to placate them during his absence, or had a large supply of eyedrops on hand to keep them mellowed out. Traitors, the lot of them!

Eh, at least sneaking up to the roof would be easier without the threat of re-statue-i-fication looming over him in the process.

After a quick look around, Bill darted out from beneath the table and hurried towards the shack’s nearby storm drain—one that was conveniently within reach of the nearby metal awning. And after a quick hope that his stupid noodle arms had at least enough strength left to climb, he grasped it with both hands and began his ascent up the side of the building—

“Hey!”

—his quick ascent as he heard a voice call out behind him. He didn’t bother looking back, just kept his focus on getting to the top before whoever had spotted him could get to him first.

Sure enough, he felt a rush the air pass his foot caused by the sensation of a hand just barely missing its grasp on him as he scrambled up and onto the awning to safety. Once he knew he was properly out of harm’s way, he finally cast a glance down at his attempted assailant—mouth spreading into a wide grin at the sight of flannel and a familiar pine tree hat atop a head of red hair. “Well hey there, Red! Enjoying the party?”

“Save it, pal,” Wendy called up to him, eyes narrowed. “And get your three-sided butt back down here before I climb up there after you. Pretty sure you know I can and will do it, too.”

“Once again, it must be a night where people think asking me to do something I don’t want to do is going to make me comply,” Bill taunted, hands cutely tucked under his chin. “I’d say it’s funny how dumb you all are, but really, it’s just getting redundant now. Come on, gimme something new.”

“Oh, I’ll give you something new—”

She balled up her fists and gave her knuckles a crack, giving Bill the incentive to hop to his feet and scramble further up towards the roof. With a huff, she made a dash for the nearby porch to scramble up the railing and follow after him.

Before she could pull herself up and onto it proper, however—

“There you are, Wendy!”

Her mouth fell into an annoyed scowl as a nearby voice called to her from behind, one that lowered further as she turned around and saw Tyler approaching from the Meat Table. “Been looking all over for you!” he said delightedly. “Great party, isn’t it?”

“Super,” Wendy replied in a deadpan voice while she returned her attention back to the railing. “Can’t talk right now though, Tyler, I’ve got something to deal with. Official Mystery Shack business or whatever—”

“Oh! Well, that’s alright,” he said, cheery tone wavering the slightest amount. “Just wanted to stop and say hello—”

“Wendy!”

The sound of another voice from her right once again gave Wendy pause from her current task, although her expression did brighten at the sight of Stan and Mabel approaching them. “We~ell, if it isn’t Stan and Mabel Pines!” Tyler said with delight. “And here I was starting to think you Pineses were deliberately trying to miss your own welcome back party!”

Mabel pressed a solemn hand to the front of her sweater. “Mayor Tyler, I would never miss a party—welcome back or otherwise—of my own accord! Who do you think I am?”

“My feelings vary by event, but I got a good reason for bein’ so scarce ‘til now,” Stan added, with a look to Wendy. “In fact, that’s why Mabel and I are here. Need to talk to Wendy about the uh—the thing we’ve got planned for tonight.”

“The thing!” Wendy agreed, pointing a finger at them. “Yeah, I know the thing. In fact, I was just on my way up the roof to take care of the thing.”

While she made an obvious motion with her pupils towards the top of the roof, Tyler clapped his hands together in excitement. “Oh~hoh, the thing, you say? That thing wouldn’t happen to be the big, mysterious surprise that’s been keeping most of you Pines away from all the fun this evening, would it?”

“It sure is!” Mabel said, and held up a finger. “And while it’s not finished yet, we should have everything ready to go very soon! So go spread the mayor-ly word to everyone about gathering on the other side of the shack for the big surprise!”

“Just make sure they stay outta the way of the exhibits area,” Stan added. “That’s where we’re gonna be setting up the stage.”

“The stage?” Tyler repeated with delight. “Ooh, this really is gonna be quite the surprise, isn’t it~?”

He gave a whimsical little wave to Wendy. “Sorry for dashing so quickly, Wendy, but duty calls—”

“No need to apologize, just go,” she quickly assured him.

With that, he turned and hurried off with a spring in his step—leaving the three of them to watch him go in silence. A silence that was quickly broken by Wendy with a: “Triangle’s climbing the roof, was about to follow after him when Tyler showed up. Catch him and meet you guys over there for whatever you’re planning?”

“You got it,” Stan confirmed with a nod.

“Good luck, Wendy!” Mabel said with a thumbs up. “See you there!”

With a thumbs up of her own, she pulled herself up onto the railing and finally made a reach for the awning above. Leaving the two of them below as Mabel whipped out her phone again. “Gonna let Dipper and Grunkle Ford know that Wendy’s hot on the target's trail.”

“Of course the little jerk would try scalin’ the roof,” Stan muttered with a roll of his eyes. “Big man’s always gotta be towerin’ over everything, huh? Desperate for everyone else’s eyes to be on him…”

“Hehe, well, he’s gonna have allllll the eyes on him once we’re ready,” Mabel said, casting a cheeky grin up at him. “Isn’t he?”

Stan returned her grin with one of his own. “You know it, Pumpkin! C’mon, let’s go find Melody.”

— — — — — — —

Bill knew it was only a matter of time before Wendy made her way onto the roof after him. If he wanted that piece of Birdbrain’s puzzle, he had to move and move quickly.

And move quickly was exactly what he did—roof tiles slipping down the side as he bounded across them like stones on a river, in a mad dash for the bird that waited atop the brightly-decorated sign.

As he approached, most of the gathered beings took off in a rush—the Eyebats fluttering out of place and into the air and giving Bill pause to shake his fist in their direction. “What the heck are you irised idiots doing, getting all cozy and domestic in some backwoods town?! Go turn a baby into stone or something!”

One of the Eyebats narrowed itself at him, seconds before a burst of energy erupted from its cornea towards him and giving him barely enough time to dodge. “ACK! Not me, not me!”

More tiles shifted as he dodged another attack, but luckily the Eyebat didn’t attempt a third and simply fluttered off after the others into the night. With an exhale of relief, Bill’s gaze moved back towards the bird still situated on the sign—one that had somehow remained despite the chaos around it.

Luck continued to be on his side, for the bird had been far too distracted with pecking at one of the nearby streamers to pay any attention to him. And distracted it remained until Bill grasped a hand around its throat, a strangled caw of surprise escaping the poor bird as he drew it closer with a proud flourish. “Hehe, looks like a bird in the hand really is worth more than just two in the bush!”

Despite the bird’s frantic wriggling in an attempt to free itself, Bill managed to wrestle the piece out of its talons. He did earn himself several scratches to his hand in the process, but if a straight-up bullet to the brain wasn’t enough to kill him, then potentially catching Cryptococcosis was of little concern to him.

And once the mysterious object of gold was clutched safely in his hand, he raised it to the sky to investigate further.

Now that he could get a clear look at it, there was no doubt in his mind that it was one of Birdbrain’s charm pieces. The colors of the surrounding party danced across its golden surface, giving it an otherworldly shine. And on top of that, Bill could feel a familiar, confusing warmth from within the charm piece. An odd, almost alive pulsing that spread from his fingertips to the rest of his body as he gripped it tightly in his hand.

Almost as tightly as he continued to grip the bird's neck, a shark peck from its beak to his arm finally enough pain for him to release it into the night sky.

Whatever, who needed some stupid bird when he’d gotten what he’d scaled the roof for in the first place?

“Cipher!”

Right, he still had one other problem to deal with.

After tucking the piece of the charm into his pocket, he backed up towards the edge of the sign platform just as Wendy pulled herself onto it from the other side. “I’d say I appreciate you giving me a chance to get away from the crowd,” she said. “But catching you after you keep wriggling out of everyone’s grasp is really starting to get old.”

She flashed him a condescending grin. “Come on, jerkface, it’s your turn to gimme something new.”

“Throwing my own words back at me, Red?" he asked with a smug wink. “I’m flattered, but I’ll have you know that unlike the body I resemble—I’m not so easily smitten by a redhead in flannel.”

Wendy gave him a flat look and began to crack her knuckles again. “...Yeah, alright, first of all: I’m going to break your legs. Second of all, I’m going to break your arms.”

“Ah, ah, wait—” Bill started quickly, taking another step backwards. “Don’t forget Fordsy’s little rule of not killing me!”

Hey, if Wendy wasn’t aware of what happened down in the bunker, he wasn’t about to go and spill the beans. Especially if it prevented her from kicking his ass from here to the other side of the valley. Just because it wouldn’t kill him didn’t mean he was interested in dealing with levels of pain that intense. Yet.

“Who said I was going to kill you?” It was her neck’s turn to get cracked. “I said I was gonna break your arms and legs. You can easily survive that, but you’ll probably wish you hadn’t.”

Son of a—

Bill’s foot met air as he tried taking one more step backwards and he went tumbling down the other side of the roof with a yelp, barely managing to grab onto the gutter before he could fall—

—only for the gutter to give way in seconds, sending him the rest of the way down to the waiting ground below with a hard thump.

The impact hurt, but nothing felt broken as Bill pulled himself up with a drawn-out groan and a nasty look towards—

—the dozens and dozens of people around him, all staring him down with looks of curiosity and wonder.

Sure enough, it felt like every party guest’s attention had fully locked onto him as he slowly rose himself to his feet. While he was more familiar with being the one to do the ogling, Bill was no stranger to being ogled at himself. If anything, he relished being treated like some kind of sideshow circus oddity or incomprehensible eldritch horror in his usual triangle form.

Being stared down in this small, pathetic human vessel, however? He was staring to feel like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. The subject of everyone’s attention, but in the most unenjoyable way possible.

Which was, obviously, no fun at all and an issue he neede to rectify immediately.

Alright, Cipher, time to think fast! The majority of the townsfolk had only seen him in his glorious, triangle form—and that same majority probably had no idea about his ability to possess people. He just had to play things cool, get out of sight before the rest of the Pines caught wind of his location—

His left hand subtly shifted to his pocket where the piece of Tangy’s charm lay hidden as a smile threatened his lips. Hmm, counterpoint: he had the first piece of the charm that he needed. If he announced his return, it would potentially incite a panic big enough for him to either sneak off into the night undetected.

Either that or it angered them so much that they took a page out of Ford’s book and tore him to pieces—which would eventually result in him popping back to normal and sneaking off into the night undetected.

Either way, it guaranteed an escape. And much like his original plan back in the woods, at least one of the options came with the added bonus of leaving a few folks with some lifelong trauma! Yay!

“Haha, how’s everyone doing tonight~?” he asked, tossing his arms in the air with gusto. “Havin’ a good time at your little shindig? Little hurt that you didn’t invite me of all people~!”

He pressed a hand to his chest with a wicked grin. “Although I guess any party’s gonna pale in comparison to the one I threw for you suckers last year~!”

A wicked laugh bubbled out of him, resulting in a tidal wave of gasps from the surrounding crowd. Bill’s smile widened as he braced himself for either the sound of frantic screaming, or the sensation of being beaten to death by an angry mob. He wondered what kind of tools or weapons the townsfolk use in this specific instance; he knew the Falls population was often drawn to the usual ‘pitchfork and torch’ approach, but the surrounding party embellishments might allow them to get a bit more creative—

“Aww, isn’t that adorable? Dipper’s gone and dressed himself up in a funny little Bill Cipher costume!”

…Wait, what?

The remark from somewhere in the crowd earned a series of affectionate sounds from the rest of the partygoers, and Bill blinked several times in stunned confusion. “Who’s done what now?”

“Aww, look at his little suit!” Tyler cooed with delight. “Why, this must be the surprise that the Pines family was planning!”

“Oh, that explains the blonde hair and the yellow!” Grenda piped up, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I was wondering, and now I know!”

“Told you so,” Candy added with a grin.

“That’s right, everyone~!”

An arm was slung across his shoulder before Bill had time to react, knees buckling slightly from the impact as he turned to see Mabel standing beside him. “And there’s more to the surprise than just some silly outfit!” she continued with a grin. “While Dipper’s wearing this outfit, him and Grunkle Stan are going to do a recreation of Bill’s defeat—just so everyone here can get a chance to see Bill Cipher getting punched in his stupid, triangle face~!”

…Second verse, same as the first—wait, what?

Actually, no, he was saying that out loud—”Wait, what?!”

“And now it’s your turn to be right, Mabel!”

Bill was suddenly scooped up into the air by a much larger hand, and he turned his head to see Stan standing before the crowd with a familiar, scheming grin on his face. “I mean, the only one who got to see the little bastard get his lights punched out was me, right? Seems only fair that you folks get to see it too, right? …For te—twenty bucks a person, obviously.”

A beat. “Make it thirty…plus ten!”

There was a scattered murmuring of agreement amongst the crowd as Stan stared making his way through them, Bill still clutched tightly in one hand while money was placed in the other. “That’s right, keep it coming.”

As the townsfolk hooted and hollered with delight, Bill cast a glare at their surrounding faces. “Are you nerve-driven flesh mounds really that dense? There’s no way you people are stupid enough to fall for such an obvious lie!”

Despite his insults, the audience still seemed to eat it up as Stan approached the waiting stage at the edge of the property. “Aww, listen to him!” one audience member cheered, hands clasped to their cheeks. “He’s even got the attitude down to a T!”

“Normally, the thought of Bill Cipher’s return would be quite the cause for alarm,” Preston Northwest added. “But when it’s the little Pines boy in a ridiculous costume, well—that’s just downright humorous!”

"Indubitably," Priscilla added with a haughty laugh.

“He’s really keeping in-character!” one of the Manotaurs agreed loudly. “It strengthens the illusion! And strength is GOOD!”

While the rest of the herd slammed their fist on the table with hearty agreement, Bill stared in disbelief. “They’re really that stupid…”

“Don't tell me you're actually surprised by that one,” Stan muttered quietly.

Bill crossed his arms defeatedly across his chest as they headed up the stage’s steps. “No, no you’re right—that’s my fault for expecting any sort of intelligence out of them.”

Voice still low, he raised an eyebrow at Stan. “So, which one of you Pineses came up with this whole idea? I can’t imagine Fordsy would be too keen about you flaunting me in front of the entire town.”

“Psh, shows how much you know, pal,” Stan replied. “As for who came up with the idea…why don’t you take a look in the mirror?”

Stan gestured subtly towards the curtain at the back of the stage, and Bill cast a look towards a thin crack between them to the sight of Dipper and Ford—the former casting him a smug grin complete with a lewd hand gesture.

“Aww, isn’t he just the cutest in his little tuxedo?” Lazy Susan piped up. “It almost makes me not want to see Stan punch him in the face! ...Almost~!”

“Oh, well, it’s great that you say that, Susan!” Soos said from the middle of the stage, microphone in hand. “‘Cause the entire surprise is ruined if you folks don’t wanna see the hit!”

“Come on, party people!” Mabel added excitedly. “Don’t tell me you wanna miss out on seeing Stan give Bill another black eye!”

This got a bout of enthusiastic cheers from the partygoers and Stan flashed Bill a grin. “Better grit your teeth this time, wise guy.”

“Don’t you da—ACK!”

Bill’s order felt on deaf ears as Stan’s fist collided with his face, the force of the hit sending him through the air, and hitting the hard stage a few feet away.

Naturally, the audience clapped and cheered with delight, as Stan flexed an arm with pride. “That’s right, I still got it~! Now pay up, I know for a fact some of you yahoos are tryin' to stiff me! And while I respect it, I ain’t about to let it slide!”

While the audience tossed their money at Stan with enthusiastic abandon, Bill let out a pained and irritable groan as he pulled himself up with his hands, barely having time to react before someone else grabbed him with a: “Thanks a lot, folks! Hope you enjoyed our little recreation!” and began to pull him through the stage curtain.

With a wince from the pain that was once again swelling around his eye, Bill cast a dirty look up at Ford. “You’d better hope none of those idiots noticed just how real that looked,” he warned. “Might be bad news for dear old Stanley if rumors started going around that he gives his precious great nephew black eyes for profit.”

“It would be,” Dipper piped up from Ford’s side. “If I wasn’t about to do this!”

With that, he hurried out to the other side of the curtain, and the audience roared with applause. “Haha, yeah, thanks so much, everyone! Yeah, that was…that was fun, right? We have fun here.”

“Yeah, give it up for the kid!” Stan added. “Ain’t he talented? …So talented, in fact, that praisin’ him’s gonna cost another ten!”

As the audience continued to cheer from the other side, several more folks—Soos and Mabel to be exact—ducked back behind the stage’s curtain to join Ford. “I think it worked!” Mabel said delightedly.

“That was such a good idea, dudes!” Soos added. “It’s like…we wanted to keep Bill’s return a secret, and now we’re still keepin’ it a secret because they think he’s actually Dipper!”

He made an explosion sound next to his head. “Like, boom: Mind. Blown!”

“Yeah, Dip really outdid himself with this one,” Stan added as both he and Dipper ducked behind to rejoin them. “Thanks for bitin’ the bullet on that one, kid. Probably wasn’t easy to see a guy who looks like you gettin’ socked in the face.”

“No bullets bitten whatsoever,” Dipper said proudly. “It’s not like I’m taking the hit myself.”

“Oh, well—aren’t you so clever for putting this much thought into such a mediocre party trick?” Bill asked bitterly as he dangled in Ford’s grasp. “I wouldn’t expect a call from Daniel Raine anytime soon, though, Pine Tree. Pretty sure even a kindergartener could come up with something like that.”

“You’re just mad because it worked!” Mabel said proudly.

“It probably helped that you went and ran your mouth as much as you did after falling off the roof,” Stan said, smug grin returning as he gave Bill’s arm a nudge. “Heh, still can’t resist the chance to try and be the big man in charge, eh, Cipher?”

Bill could only glare at him with a burning rage that was sure to be turning his face red, as Wendy also joined the group behind the curtain. “Melody’s getting the crowd back into regular party mode,” she explained. “So we’ve probably got at least a few minutes before someone comes poking around the other side of the stage to investigate how you did your little swap act.”

She gave a thumbs up. “By the way, that was awesome!”

“Sounds like got just as much time to get this jerk outta sight as quick as possible, then,” Stan added, and held out a hand. “I’ll go stick him in the Shack until the party’s over—gift shop side should still be cleared out enough if I run and use the woods as a cover. Unless you’re feelin’ up to the task, Sixer?”

“You know, I think I’ve dealt with enough of Bill for tonight,” Ford added. “You take care of him for now, Stanley. Soos, the rope?”

Bill could feel his face getting hotter from a mix of rage and humiliation as he was passed from one twin’s hand to the other, once again with as much ease as passing a small kitten from one hand to another. Only this time around, Bill couldn’t even find it in himself to be as smug as before while Ford retied a rope around his body, once again tightening it with just as much spite as he had possessed earlier in the day. In fact, Bill was finding it a struggle to be truly smug about anything as he was once against clutched like a sack of luggage in Stan’s fist and lead back towards the dark wood that waited just a few feet from the stage—

“Grunkle Stan, wait!”

Stan paused at the sound of Mabel’s voice behind him, and Bill was spun back around to the sight of her hurrying towards them. “I’ve been waiting to say this to Bill all day!”

She held a fist to her mouth to clear her throat, then pointed a finger at him with a fierce expression. “Get pranked, dumbass!”

Behind her, the rest of the group melted into amusement—Dipper nudging her with a laugh while Wendy plapped the top of her head with a proud: “Nice one, Mabel!”

And with a laugh of his own, Stan gave her a thumbs up before turning both of them back to the forest that waited ahead. Leaving Bill to stew in that one last insult to injury as the party raged on behind him.

No doubt in his mind at that point, he definitely would’ve thrown a better one.

#Hayley Writes Triangulum #Gravity Falls #Triangulum The Fic #Dipper Pines #Stanford Pines #Bill Cipher #Shifty #My Writing #Long Post #(More characters; those are just the ones on the poster)#(This chapter's VERY Pines-centered overall and Wendy gets a bit of time to shine too)

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demigod-shenanigans · 22 hours ago

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Leo And Jason DoorDash A Baby

Summary: Jason made a displeased noise as the lights came on. He said something that sounded like half a nickname in garbled Spanish and grumbled about it being late and being abandoned to sleep on his own.

“Yeah. Sorry about that, Sparky,” Leo said. “More importantly, though: look at this baby I found.”

“Can you please come to bed first and make jokes at me after?” his husband complained, yawning. “I just want to cuddle for a bit.”

“I would, but I think we’ve got more immediate problems than me depriving you of cuddles. Namely: the fact that I’m holding a child.”

“Leo, I love you, but what in the world are you talking about?” Jason murmured, finally starting to untangle himself from the blankets.

Then the little girl in Leo’s arms started crying.

Jason sat up with a start, wide awake the instant it dawned on him that this wasn’t one of Leo’s jokes. “What did you do?”

Leo looked his husband dead in the eyes and said, “I cloned myself.”

—

Or: someone leaves a baby at the entrance of the Waystation in the middle of the night. It’s not quite how Leo and Jason expected this whole adoption process to work, but, well… when has anything in their lives ever gone the way they expected it to?

Word Count: 7.3k

Rating: Teen and Up (just to be safe)

CWs: mentions of past traumatic experiences, since those are gone into to a certain extend (Jason is not going to be okay about finding an abandoned child when he’s been an abandoned child in the past).

I have spent a lot of time waffling with @queenjunothegreat about this concept and had a lot of fun writing it out! Ended up quite a bit longer than I expected, but I’m not complaining.

Main focus of the fic is accidental baby acquisition feat. married Valgrace, but there is also some lost trio content (Piper is having a great time during that particular Iris message, lmao), and little Emilia McLean from this fic is also here, a little older now! There’s references to that fic in this one but reading it is not a requirement to understand this fic.

———

It was 3 am, and Leo was just trying to get to the bedroom after finishing up his latest magic object repair project in the workshop. As was the case with the Waystation sometimes, he tripped out the front door instead.

That was just how it worked, living in a magic building. Sometimes it was convenient, like when someone was hurt and the Waystation made the infirmary appear in the next room, or when Leo and Calypso had needed space after their breakup and simply hadn’t crossed paths for a week. Sometimes, it was a little less convenient, like when the workshop was suddenly next to the bedroom so Jason only had to cross one room if he wanted to drag his sleep-deprived husband to bed. Once, when Leo had neglected maintenance for too long, the Waystation had dropped him into the pool fully clothed. It had an attitude like that.

Currently, Leo couldn’t think of anything he might have done to piss off the building, though, so there was probably a different reason why he’d ended up out here.

The air was cold enough that he pulled the large hoodie he’d borrowed from his husband a little closer around himself. He realized how stupid the impulse was a moment later—he could have just upped his body temperature instead. That was sleep deprivation 1, Leo Valdez 0.

It was a night of a full moon, and between the moon’s soft glow and the street lights, Leo could see alright. No need for a flashlight or to light himself on fire.

He let his eyes wander, trying to figure out why he’d been thrown out of his home in the middle of the night. They didn’t have to wander far.

Someone had placed a basket beside the entrance to the Waystation. And inside that basket…

“Holy shit.” Leo pinched himself, trying to confirm he wasn’t so sleep deprived he was hallucinating the whole thing.

Nope, the basket was still there. And that was definitely a baby. What the hell?

He kneeled down next to the basket, looking at the infant that had been left here all alone, with no one but the moon to guard her.

They were wide awake, looking at him with large, dark eyes.

“What are you doing out here, hm?”

He scanned the area again, trying to see if there was a parent around who’d come back to collect their baby. He couldn’t see anyone. Not that leaving a child on some stranger’s doorstep to go buy groceries or something would have been peak parenting, exactly.

The wind was bitingly cold. And if it was that bad for him, Leo couldn’t imagine basket baby was doing much better, in their thin onesie and blanket.

“Okay, we need to get you inside,” he decided, reaching out towards the basket, then stopping suddenly as he spotted something tucked underneath it.

It was a small piece of paper, no larger than a postcard. He pulled it out from beneath the basket so he could take a look at it, slowly, so as to not startle the child in the process. Words had been hastily scribbled onto the paper.

‘I can’t care for her, but I know she’ll be safe here. This is what’s best for both of us.’

Leo’s heart was hammering in his chest, aching for the poor kid and whatever demigod had dropped her off here—and it had to have been a demigod. No one else would think to drop their child off at what the general public considered to be a generic event space—never mind in the middle of the night—expecting her to be safe.

Leo folded the note and put it into one of his many, many pockets.

He hesitated again, trying to remember whether he’d washed his hands properly coming out of the workshop. He decided better safe than sorry and went for the effective, if slightly unusual, disinfecting technique of temporarily setting his hands on fire.

Once he’d put them out and cooled them back down to a semi-normal temperature, he reached out to scoop the baby up out of the basket.

Thankfully, Leo wasn’t completely useless with babies. Em, his honorary niece, was three now, but he’d held her enough times as an infant to know how this went. Make sure the head and neck are supported first, then place the other hand under the baby's bottom and lift them up carefully.

He still remembered how Piper had first explained it to him, Reyna glaring at him from across the room like she was fully expecting him to drop the baby. That had made two of them.

He’d been weeping, still reeling from the declaration that the girl was named after him—as a gesture of love and because in a world where names had power, the name of someone who’d defied death twice and found his happy ending against all odds was good luck. He’d spent so long thinking of himself as a curse that someone choosing his name as a blessing hadn’t quite computed.

“Don’t mind my lovely wife. Rey’s just nervous,” Piper had whispered to him, patting his arm encouragingly while he held Emilia for the very first time. “You’re the first person aside from us and the hospital staff who gets to hold Em.”

Leo had understood nervous, then, with his best friend’s kid snuggled up against his chest. He understood nervous now, with this small, vulnerable human in his arms. Despite knowing exactly what he was doing, he was still anxious he might hurt her accidentally. This had to be terrifying for her, and the last thing he wanted was to make it even worse.

The Waystation roulette was merciful. After walking back up the ramp with the baby in tow, Leo found himself standing right outside his bedroom door.

Thank the gods. He really needed Jason right now.

Okay, technically Emmie and Jo would probably have been more convenient than Leo’s poor husband, whose experience with babies was about the same as Leo’s own—limited to playing with Em and babysitting for Percy and Annabeth back at uni. But Emmie and Jo weren’t here right now. They were in New Rome with Georgina.

The thought of Georgina at NRU was still weird as hell. Leo had known this kid since she was seven years old. The fact that she was attending university now would never, ever, feel normal to him.

But in all honesty, even if his foster parents had been at the Waystation right now, Leo probably still would have wanted Jason. He was pretty sure wanting your husband there was a natural instinct when one found a child on their doorstep. He’d have to ask around for reference.

Leo pushed open the bedroom door with his hip, wincing as it creaked. He’d been meaning to take care of the rusted hinges for a while, but between the dracon incident last month and an emergency pegasus landing two weeks ago, he’d been preoccupied with other fixes and forgotten about this one. He hadn’t exactly thought to account for the inconvenience the issue might cause to any babies found on the doorstep in the middle of the night.

The little girl in his arms scrunched up her face like she might start to cry.

“Shhhh. Hey. You’re okay,” he tried to soothe her, bouncing her awkwardly. “That’s what I get for prioritizing fixing the person-sized hole in the roof over some rusty hinges.”

The baby didn’t start crying, though she still looked very unhappy about the entire situation. Leo couldn’t say he blamed her.

Jason shifted in his blanket heap.

Leo wasn’t surprised he’d woken up. Creaky door or not, he almost always woke up when Leo came to bed. His husband had always been a light sleeper—all too ready to jump out of bed with his sword drawn at even the hint of a threat. Even though more than a decade had come and gone since he’d been an active member of the legion, he’d never quite managed to break that particular habit.

Usually, Leo felt bad for waking him. Right now, that he woke so easily was a huge relief. Having to shake Jason awake with one arm while balancing a baby in the other wasn’t an experience Leo was particularly sad to miss out on.

His husband made a displeased noise as the light was switched on. He covered his face with one arm, said something that sounded like half a nickname in garbled Spanish and grumbled about it being late and being abandoned to sleep on his own.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry about that, Sparky. More importantly, though: look at this baby I found.”

“Can you please come to bed first and make jokes at me after?” Jason complained, yawning. He patted the mattress next to him. “I promise I’ll laugh, even if I’m way too tired to understand the joke. I just want to cuddle for a bit.”

“I would, but I think we’ve got more immediate problems than me depriving you of cuddles. Namely: the fact that I’m holding a child right now.”

“Leo, I love you so much, but you know I don’t have the capacity for your sense of humor at this hour. What in the world are you talking about?” Jason murmured, finally starting to untangle himself from the blankets.

As if on cue, the little girl in Leo’s arms started crying. Whether this was because she was hungry or cold or because the existential dread of being ditched on a stranger’s doorstep by the only person she’d ever known was starting to hit her, Leo couldn’t immediately tell.

Jason sat up with a start, wide awake the instant it dawned on him that this wasn’t one of Leo’s weird jokes.

He looked at the two of them, eyes wide as saucers. “What did you do?”

“I cloned myself,” Leo said, looking his husband dead in the eye. The joke didn’t entirely work. Her skin was a shade darker than his and the tufts of hair on the girl’s head were clearly brown instead of black.

He rocked the baby gently against his chest.

“What?” Jason was out of bed at a speed that was honestly frightening, even for someone who had seen him go from zero to battle-ready in under thirty seconds before.

Jason looked frantic, apparently completely willing to believe Leo’s stupid joke, the obvious inconsistencies be damned. He moved to stand beside them.

“Kidding, mi cielo. I’m still working on cloning.” Leo grinned at him. He felt as terrified as Jason looked, and even now, despite the fact that he was supposed to be a semi-responsible adult and had been married for almost a decade, jokes were sometimes the only thing that helped. “I just ordered DoorDash. Not sure why they sent a baby. I’m pretty sure I just asked for fries.”

“Leo, whose child is that?”

Okay, that was enough with the jokes. They might have been helpful for Leo, but it was obvious they were doing the opposite for Jason, and getting him even more worked up would probably not help the situation.

“I have no idea,” he admitted. He continued to rock the baby, but it wasn’t helping. She just wouldn’t stop crying. “It wasn’t DoorDash, but someone did leave her at the entrance of the Waystation with no intention of coming back.”

“Oh.” Jason’s posture immediately changed. The tension went out of his body, replaced with a kind of vulnerability Leo had only seen his husband show a handful of times. “But she’s so small.Someone just abandoned her?”

Leo’s chest constricted. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Jason sound so utterly broken.

The parent that had left the girl here probably had their reasons—and, speaking as someone who’d spent a lot of time in the care of foster parents who hadn’t been fit for the job, sometimes not having a parent at all was definitely the preferable option.

But how could Jason have thought of anything other than the feeling of being that small, abandoned child, waiting in the woods for a mother who never came back?

Leo wanted to pull his husband to his chest and soothe him, but currently he had an armful of wailing baby, which made that a little difficult.

“Come on, let’s sit for a while, yeah?” Leo suggested gently. Jason nodded, and together they sank down onto the edge of their bed, the mattress creaking slightly as they did. “You wanna hold her for a bit?”

“I…” Jason hesitated, then nodded. “I do, actually.”

Leo very carefully handed him the baby. That made her crying even worse. Leo gulped, wondering if she thought she was being abandoned again.

“Hey, cariño, I’m not going anywhere, okay?” he said soothingly. “That’s Jason. He’s nice, I promise. I wouldn’t have married him otherwise.”

He gently poked one of the girl’s palms with his finger. She immediately grasped for it, meaning she had to be very little. He knew that because he loved being Em’s tío and had been endlessly bummed out when she’d grown out of automatically grasping his fingers at five months.

“Hey. You’re going to be okay,” Jason said to the girl, sounding almost shy. His voice was quavering as he cradled the child protectively. He looked at her with all the determination of someone who knew exactly what it was like to be abandoned and would have done anything to make sure it didn’t happen to anyone else. “I’m sorry. This is so, so much, and it has to be so overwhelming for you. But you’re safe. We’re not going to let anything bad happen to you, I promise.”

His voice cracked.

Leo wrapped his free arm around his husband, placing his head down on Jason’s shoulder. Jason was shaking.

“You’re okay, too,” Leo reminded him gently, pressing a kiss to the side of Jason’s head. “I’m not going anywhere. Expert at sticking around, remember?”

Jason nodded, smiling weakly.

“I love you,” he sniffled, leaning into Leo. His eyes were brimming with tears. “She’s so upset.”

“I know, Jase.”

Leo thought for a moment, then started humming the melody of an old lullaby his mom had sung to him when he’d been little, the words of which long since been lost to time.

Between this, Jason’s gentle rocking and Leo’s finger grasped tightly in her little fist, the baby startled to settle down, staring at them with large, dark eyes.

“There you go. That’s better. You’re way too young for that level of existential dread,” Leo joked, heart aching. “I could go find you a warmer blanket, if you want? You’re a little cold.” He tried to pull his hand back, but the second she lost her grip on his finger, she started crying again. “Or not! Maybe you’ll continue to hold my finger hostage instead,” he decided, letting her grasp it again.

She immediately quieted back down.

Leo’s tool belt wasn’t super helpful at producing blankets. It could do car covers and cleaning rags, but Leo wasn’t convinced those materials were baby-safe, so instead he leaned as far as he could off the bed without removing his finger from the girl’s little fist again and pulled a fresh bed sheet out of a drawer. Then, he asked the tool belt for scissors.

~~~

A few minutes later, Jason had wrapped the baby up in the remnants of a very wrecked bedsheet. She cooed happily, still hanging onto Leo’s hand, though he put a stop to it when she tried to stick his finger in her mouth.

“Trust me, kid. You do not want to do that. My hands are clean-ish, but you don’t know where I’ve been.” She scrunched her face up again. “Nope, I’m not budging on that. You do not need to know what oil tastes like yet. Spoilers: I’ve tried it. Do not recommend.”

He hummed at her again, which slightly soothed her offense at the terrible injustice of not getting to eat his fingers.

“I wish we had a pacifier we could give her,” Jason said quietly.

“I’m not sure Georgina’s twenty year old pacifiers still exist, but even if they do, I don’t think they’d be any safer for her than my fingers,” Leo commented, sighing. “I wish we had something to give her, too. Her bio parent at least could have had the decency to dump her on our doorstep with some basic necessities.”

“They’re really not going to come back for her, are they?” Jason asked. He didn’t look like he was about to break down in tears anymore, but his breaths still came shakily.

“No,” Leo said, running his free hand soothingly down his husband’s arm. “The note they left made it sound pretty permanent.”

Looking at him—at the way Jason was smiling down at the child, so, so very gentle despite all his grief, and the way all three of them fit together—something in Leo’s mind began to click into place.

Before he could decide what, exactly, that something was, Jason beat him to it.

“Can we keep her?” he asked suddenly, with no preamble or warning. He was tense, anxiety written all over his face. He continued hastily, “I know it’s not really how we planned to do this, but-”

“She’s here now. And she needs someone,” Leo finished, smiling at the fact that their minds had gone to the same place. They were like two gears in the same machine, running perfectly in sync.

Jason nodded. Some of the tension went out of his shoulders.

“You don’t think I’m being completely ridiculous?”

“For wanting to adopt a child you met maybe ten minutes ago?” Leo beamed at him. “I mean, a little. But I can’t be making all the ridiculously impulsive decisions in this relationship.”

He pressed a kiss to Jason’s temple.

Jason smiled weakly. The grief in his expression started to melt away into something soft and almost hopeful. “So you’re saying we’ll think about it?”

That would have been reasonable. This was maybe not the sort of decision one should make at this hour of night. But Leo had never been the reasonable sort. Mostly, this had been to his benefit—if he had been reasonable, he would have been extremely fucking dead, and Jason with him.

Honestly, Leo made some of his best choices when he wasn’t overthinking things.

Besides, considering how easily the girl had settled in his husband’s arms, and the soft way Jason was looking at him…

Well, fuck being reasonable.

“Eh, I’ve told you before that I try not to think too much. It interferes with being nuts.” Leo grinned. “So, I guess we have a kid now?”

Jason leaned forward and kissed him.

~~~

Maybe Leo should have been freaking out more. That seemed like the reasonable way to act when you’d suddenly become a dad from one minute to the next with no warning.

But apparently he’d gotten most of his frantic energy out of his system when he’d found the baby, and now that Jason was with him and they knew they’d be keeping her, the whole thing didn’t seem quite as ridiculously terrifying anymore.

When the baby started crying again—utterly inconsolable this time in a way that, from all their past baby experiences, made Jason and Leo agree she was probably hungry—he didn’t let himself panic. He briefly left his husband and the baby to go bother the nice mortal couple down the street about diapers and formula and a baby bottle, fumbling his way through an explanation about unexpectedly ending up with a Safe Haven Box baby. He figured that was close enough to the truth.

Preparing the formula wasn’t too hard, but he was glad he had practice from babysitting.

When he got back to the bedroom, Jason was hovering—like, literally hovering a good foot above the ground—and talking to the baby in a hushed tone.

“What in the world are you doing?” Leo laughed, raising an eyebrow at his husband.

“I don’t know. She seems to like it,” Jason told him, slowly floating back down.

The baby was still obviously unhappy, but she wasn’t crying quite as hard anymore. Huh. They'd have to put that down for future reference.

“Hey, cariño. I brought food.” Leo waved the bottle at her. “Jase, do you wanna feed her?”

Jason’s eyes gleamed. “Would that be okay?”

“I mean, it’s not like this is a one and done kind of deal. I can feed her next time. Besides,” Leo continued teasingly, “seems only fair that you take more of the baby feeding shifts. We both know I’m gonna be making most of her food once she grows out of formula and puree age. You’re a safety hazard in the kitchen.”

“You’re impossible,” Jason laughed, sitting back down on the bed and adjusting his hold on the baby to get her into a better position for feeding.

“I’m also right.” Leo smirked. “Remember that time back at NRU when you tried to make popcorn and somehow exploded the microwave?”

“That was ten years ago,” Jason pouted.

“And you’ve since managed to fry our microwave a minimum of five times, and the oven at least twice. You are not helping your case, mi cielo.” He handed over the bottle. The baby looked at it suspiciously for a moment. “Solid instincts, cariño, but I made that one. It’s good, promise,” Leo told her, feeling incredibly smug when she started to drink.

Her tiny scrunched up face started to relax.

“There, that's much better, isn’t it?” Jason asked soothingly.

“Look at that. A bit of Chef Leo food and she’s immediately content,” Leo announced, ignoring the fact that in this particular case, his specific input in preparing the food had been minimal. “I can’t believe she’s been with us for all of an hour and she’s already taking after you.”

His husband gently headbutted Leo in the neck, like he sometimes did. He was a fucking weirdo.

But he was Leo’s fucking weirdo. Forever.

“Hey, it’s not our fault you’re a great cook.” Jason was smiling softly. “She’s gonna fit right in.”

“Yeah, she is.”

Leo was transfixed on the image of Jason holding their baby. Their baby. They had a daughter now.

It was almost startling, how quickly the certainty of it had settled over him. How right it all felt. They’d been talking about adopting for a while, and it had felt more and more like it was the right time.

Her appearing on their doorstep now… it was something like destiny.

Normally, the concept of destiny would have set off alarm bells in Leo’s head. For most of his life, destiny hadn’t been a good thing. So little of his and Jason’s lives had ever been coincidental. They’d both spent their entire childhoods tangled up in strings the Fates had woven for them.

But he figured after all the awful things he’d been destined to be—an orphan and a hero and dead—being a dad wasn’t a destiny he minded all that much.

“The note didn’t mention a name, right?” Jason asked as he put down the bottle. Leo shook his head. “Does that mean we get to choose one?”

Jason shifted the baby in his arms, holding her upright and gently patting her back to burp her.

“Yeah. She seems very enthusiastic about being named.” Leo chuckled. “I’m partial towards Leo 2.0, personally, but between me and Em, that might get a little confusing, so 3.0 might be better.”

“Serious suggestions only, please?” Jason asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Sorry, if that’s your condition you’re gonna have to find a different husband.”

Leo flicked him in the head, still grinning, but then he dutifully redirected his attention towards the baby. He thought back to the list of baby names they’d made—a list that he’d always figured they most likely wouldn’t need, considering most adoptees came much older than this, with a name already attached. Jason had insisted they make a list anyway, just in case. Leo hadn’t had the heart to tell him no.

And, well, considering their 3 am postal delivery baby, that was a point in favor of Jason’s incessant need to prepare for all possible scenarios.

Names—especially demigod names and the power woven into them via the Fates—were kind of a huge deal, and not a decision to make lightly. He was more than glad their past selves had narrowed it down.

“What do you think of Sofía?” he asked, tilting his head at the baby.

She cooed at him.

“She seems to like it. I think that’s a good sign.” Jason smiled, but there was a hesitation in his expression, like there was something more he wasn’t saying.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. If you’d rather name her something else-” Leo started, but Jason shook his head.

“It’s not that. I think Sofía fits her. I just thought maybe she’d like a middle name.” He bit his lip, but then he looked right at Leo with those startlingly blue eyes of his that Leo loved so much. “We don’t have to, if it doesn’t feel right to you, but… what do you think of Sofía Esperanza?”

Leo’s heart skipped a beat.

It had taken him longer than he felt comfortable admitting to talk about his mom to Jason—to really talk about her. The good times they shared and the joyful memories and the stinging feeling of loss that still remained, despite everything.

Leo had gotten closure. He had a mother who loved him dearly, throughout life and beyond death. Jason’s mother had been such a dickhead that she’d made a point of breaking out of the Underworld to re-traumatize him. How was it fair to burden him with all this—to share his mourning for a kind of love Jason had never known?

But when Leo had finally fully shown that part of himself, Jason had held him through it, and gladly. Through the joy and the pain of it all.

They carried each other’s burdens, the way they always had.

Jason wouldn’t have made the suggestion lightly. He must have been thinking about this for a long time. Maybe since they’d first made that list, back when the child in question had still been entirely hypothetical.

“Would that… is that really okay with you? I mean-” Leo stammered, struggling to find the words—struggling to find any words at all. His thoughts were failing him utterly.

In his defense, it was almost 4 am, and they’d just adopted a baby on a whim. These things tended to turn one’s brain to mush even when they occurred separately.

“Of course I’d be okay with it. It was literally my suggestion, mi vida.” Jason smiled softly at him. “Besides, Esperanza means hope, right? If we’re worried about names having power, I think this one is powerful in a good way.”

And, as was the case far more often than Leo would ever admit out loud, his husband was right. They’d both learned a long time ago that hope was perhaps the greatest power of all.

“Wisdom and hope, hm?” Leo gently booped Sofía’s nose. “Guess we’re really trying to drive home the fact that you’re not related to either one of us.“ Sofía smiled up at him, catching one of his fingers in her little fist again, and Leo laughed. “Look, Jase, she’s got your reflexes.”

Her hand was warm and soft and her adorable little smile made Leo melt.

Jason looked down at their daughter with pure adoration in his eyes.

Oh, they were in so much trouble. Leo wasn’t sure how they’d ever manage to tell her no on anything.

On the upside: they’d make sure little Sofía Esperanza would never feel unloved a day in her life.

~~~ Leo was officially never sending a vaguely worded Iris Message again.

His first impulse had been to call Piper—because, well, it was Piper—which would have worked great if she had been awake, but that seemed like a long shot at this hour. The thing was: Piper slept like a log. When she was out, she was completely dead to the world, and if that was the case, they would be sent right to rainbow voicemail.

Going with “McLean household, Oklahoma. Just give me whoever is most awake,” had seemed like a safe bet at the time. If Reyna and/or Piper were up, they were good. If neither of them was, then they’d at least know that it was pointless to call again tonight and they’d just try again in the morning.

Except, well… Leo was currently looking at his three year old niece.

“Tío Leo!! Uncle Jason!” Em beamed at them. “I’m up!”

“We can see that.” Leo blinked at her. “Uhm, as awesome as it is to see you, could you maybe get one of your moms? Either one works.”

“But I wanna talk,” she pouted. Then she sat bolt upright. “You’re playing dolls? Without me?”

“I would never,” Leo said in mock-offense. “Also, that's a baby, not a doll.”

He shifted Sofía in his arms so his niece could take a proper look at her. Jason had handed her back to Leo when he’d gone to collect Georgina’s old bassinet from the attic that had mercifully decided to pop up next door, and Leo had been holding her since.

“A baby?” Emilia stared through the rainbow with wide eyes. “She’s so small.”

“Yeah. Babies are kinda just like that. They don’t come in too many different sizes,” he explained with a shrug. “This is Sofía. Say hi to your prima, cariño.” The baby just kind of blinked at Em, but she was smiling, which he figured probably counted. “Sorry. They don’t come very talkative at that age, either.”

Em didn’t seem to mind. She waved at the baby excitedly.

“Hi Sofía.” Her voice was full of wonder. “She’s adorable.”

“Yeah, she’s kind of perfect, isn’t she?” Jason’s voice was stupidly fond. Leo would have married him all over again in an instant.

Before anyone could say anything else, the door to Emilia’s room opened, light spilling inside from the hallway.

Leo made a little shushing noise at his niece, holding the baby just out of frame. Emilia giggled.

“Emmy, I thought we decided you were going back to sleep,” Piper’s groggy voice came from somewhere beyond the rainbow’s visual range. “Hang on, is that an Iris Message? What the-” A second later, her face appeared in the corner of the rainbow. “Leo? Jason?”

“Pipes! Hey!” Leo beamed at her. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I say this in the fondest way possible, but I am literally going to kill you guys. I just managed to get her settled back in bed.”

“Sorry,” Jason said immediately. “It’s kind of an emergency.”

“What sort of emergency requires you to call my toddler in the middle of the night?” She looked at them incredulously “Leo, it’s four thirty in the morning. I know it’s a full moon, but can you please get your werewolf husband under control?”

“No, I cannot. May I remind you that you were the one who said if you wanted a responsible godfather, you would have picked someone else?” Leo asked with a grin. “Though, in our defense, we were technically trying to call you or Reyna. Iris just decided to be funny.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think you’ll probably forgive us, considering the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Piper narrowed her eyes, looking suspiciously from Leo to her giggling toddler, like she expected them to have hidden paint bombs across the house together.

Talk about bearing grudges. They’d only done that once.

…okay, maybe twice. But still.

Besides, Leo was halfway across the country right now. That made getting into trouble with his niece a lot more difficult.

“And what were you trying to call us about? Because you both seem way too cheerful for this to be an actual emergency.”

“It is an actual emergency. The good kind, though,” Jason explained, voice soft. He wasn’t even looking up at Piper. He’d gone back to smiling at Sofía. The little girl cooed happily at him.

“I don’t think that’s a thing.” Piper paused. “What was that noise?”

“Surprise! You’re an aunt now!” Leo lifted his armful of baby into the frame. “Sofía, this is Piper. Piper, Sofía Valdez.”

Piper rubbed her eyes. Then, apparently realizing that the baby was very much still there and not going anywhere, she stared at him in utter disbelief. “Leo, what the f-”

“No cursing!” Jason yelped, moving to cover Sofía’s ears.

Emilia burst into a fresh fit of giggles. “Mommy said a bad word.”

“Yeah, I did. But it’s a mommy only word, reserved for special occasions, so please don’t use it, okay?” Piper said quickly. She covered her face with her hands.

“Okay, no saying fuck,” Em agreed, causing Jason to make a fresh offended yelping noise while Leo just burst into laughter.

“Not. A. Word,” Piper grumbled, glaring at him.

Leo would have pointed out that technically, he hadn’t said anything, but figured that if he was planning to see his daughter grow up, he should probably leave it.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said instead, taking a few breaths to try and get himself to stop laughing. It was only semi-successful. “Emilia, listen to your mom, okay?”

“I am!” she pointed out, grinning. “No using the word. Just said I won’t.”

“Smart kid,” Leo said approvingly, which just made Piper glare at him even harder. Hey, it wasn’t his fault his niece had inherited Piper’s chaotic energy and Reyna’s ability to win political debates. His only crime was not discouraging her.

And honestly, which decent tío would have? As far as he was concerned, she should be allowed to make use of her natural talents.

“Matters of teaching my child to curse at four thirty in the morning aside,” Piper sighed, shaking her head, “would you guys please tell me what in the world is going on? Whose child did you two kidnap?”

“She’s ours,” Jason said, completely matter-of-factly. “No kidnapping involved.”

“I’m a prima,” Emilia told her mom, beaming.

“That’s great, sweetheart.” Even through the rainbow filter, it was easy to tell that Piper was barely listening to Emilia. She looked from Jason to Leo to Sofía, wide-eyed, apparently reassessing the situation. “You two are actually serious.”

She sat down hard on her daughter’s bed.

“Yeah. Why would you think we were joking about that?” Leo asked, shaking his head. “Gods, Pipes, I’m thirty years old, for crying out loud. Don’t you think I’m a bit too mature to prank call you at four thirty in the morning?” Despite the fact that she was obviously in shock, Piper still raised an eyebrow at him at that question. “Okay, fine, maybe I would do that, but what would the punch line even be in this case?”

“I don’t know!” Piper gestured vaguely. “Where did you guys get a baby at four in the morning?”

“Annabeth had Cooper at one in the morning,” Leo told her with a shrug. “Babies don’t exactly come with business hours.”

Sofía cooed in his arms.

“That’s different!” Piper protested, clearly exasperated. “I saw you guys last weekend! If one of you had been pregnant, I’m pretty sure I would have known!”

“Someone left her on the doorstep of the Waystation an hour ago,” Jason explained, that same fragility from earlier creeping back into his voice. “She’s ours now.”

“Oh.” All the fight drained out of Piper in an instant. She turned to Emilia, putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Can you do me a favor? Can you go wake your mamá for me, sweetheart?”

“But I wanna stay,” Emilia pouted. “Sofía’s cute.”

“I know, honey. But she’s still gonna be here when you get back. And mamá’s gonna want to meet the baby, too.”

Emilia thought about this intensely for a moment. Then she nodded and climbed out of the bed. “Okay.”

“Besides, mommy might need to use a few more curse words, and I do not want you around for that,” Piper muttered after her daughter had left.

Jason crossed his arms. “Hey, you can’t curse at our child, either.”

“She’s not gonna remember at that age,” Piper said. She looked a lot less confused and a lot more upset now. “Is she okay?” she asked, wringing her hands.

“Dunno. She had a bit of a crying fit when I brought her inside, but Emilia had a lot of crying fits at that age without you guys ditching her at a random event space, so I’m not sure that’s related,” Leo told her. He gently bounced the baby in his arms. Sofía was cooing at him again, waving her little hands around. Considering everything that had happened tonight, Leo was surprised she still had this much energy. “We’ll ask Nico if he can shadow travel Will over in the morning so he can check her over. She doesn’t seem hurt or sick, but we figured it’s better to be sure.”

“She’s really small. I don’t think she actually understands what’s happening,” Jason added. “But we’re gonna make sure she’ll be okay.” He said it in such a fierce, protective way, and Leo’s heart broke for his husband for the umpteenth time.

“Are you guys okay?” Piper asked. She was looking directly at Jason now. “This is a lot.“

“We’re okay,” Jason said, in a way that made it blatantly obvious to both Piper and Leo that he wasn’t. “It has been kind of overwhelming, but I’m managing. Leo’s been amazing.”

“Superman’s being unnecessarily modest,” Leo told Piper, shaking his head. “He’s doing a great job. He fed her and found her a crib and everything.”

Jason smiled weakly. “I- thanks.”

“She’s lucky to have you both,” Piper said. She still looked tired and seriously worried, but her voice was fond. “I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re amazing, and you only want to kill us a little bit for Iris Messaging your toddler in the middle of the night,” Leo said, smiling at her.

“Just this once, you’re pardoned due to extenuating circumstances,” Piper decided solemnly. “Besides, I’m not orphaning your child.”

“Thanks?” Jason said. It came out more like a question than a statement, but his voice was tinged with amusement, and after everything that had happened tonight, that was a huge relief. “We wanted you and Reyna to be the first ones to know. And, uhm. Maybe ask if you’ve still got some of Em’s old baby clothes?”

“We do.” Piper smiled softly. “Reyna couldn’t bring herself to get rid of any of them. She’s incredibly sappy at heart.”

“Oh, we know,” Leo said with a grin. “We’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

Piper sighed contently. She opened her mouth to say something else, but she was interrupted by the sound of a door banging open.

“Em said you used a bad word and also something about a kidnapping?” Reyna asked, sounding seriously concerned. “Who are you IMing at this hour? Is anyone hurt? Do we need to send out search parties?”

She stepped into range of the rainbow, but she wasn’t looking at the Iris Message. Her eyes were firmly on her wife, their daughter clutched protectively to her chest.

“No one’s hurt. No one’s missing, either.” Piper made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “So glad our three year old covered all the important bullet points.”

“I got mamá awake,” Em reported, yawning.

Leo couldn’t blame her. It was almost morning. He was starting to feel seriously tired, too.

Sofía wasn’t. She was still wide awake, cooing and wiggling happily in his arms. Leo wasn’t sure if that was normal, but he figured it did not bode well for the amount of sleep he and Jason would be getting going forward.

“That you did, sweetie,” Piper said, smiling at her daughter. Then she looked up at her wife. “Morning, Love. I promise it’s nothing bad, but you might still want to sit down.”

“Hi Reyna,” Leo greeted her. “So, uhm, funny story. You know how Jason and I have sort of been talking about adoption for a while?”

~~~

By the time they got off the line with Piper and Reyna, it was well past six am. Em had dozed off on her mamá’s lap more than an hour ago. Sofía was somehow still awake, though she’d been wiggling a lot less and yawning a lot more in the last half an hour.

In the end, it took a diaper change and a second feeding session for Sofía to finally start dozing off in Leo’s arms. By then, the sun was starting to come up.

He still held her for a while after, making sure she was well and truly asleep before swaddling her properly and gently transferring her into the bassinet. The sunlight through the window was tickling his face as he sat back down on the bed with a quiet thunk.

“I can’t believe she’s inherited my awful sleep schedule. That's not good,” he joked, letting himself sink into Jason’s side. “Make better choices, kid!”

“On the bright side, you probably won’t have any trouble staying up with her,” Jason said, wrapping both arms around Leo and pressing a kiss to his curls. “We’re really doing this, hm?”

“Yeah. Weirdest adoption circumstances of the century, maybe, but we are.” Leo laughed. “Man, this is so on-brand for us. We can never do anything the normal way.”

Jason laughed right along with him—a low, rumbling sound that reverberated through Leo’s body with how close they were pressed together. Leo loved that laugh. Loved that it wasn’t the suppressed chuckle that had been Jason’s default when they met. It had been so hard to make him laugh, back then. Not that it had ever stopped Leo from trying.

For a while, they just sat there, all wrapped up in each other as the sun slowly rose on the other side of the window.

“There’s so much we don’t know,” Jason said eventually, breaking the silence. Leo didn't have to see his face to know he was looking at Sofía. “Do we have any idea what we’re doing?”

“Do any parents? Especially demigods?” Leo asked, raising an eyebrow. When that just made his husband grow even more tense, Leo hugged him tightly. “Hey. We managed to save the world when you didn’t know anything except for your first name, sword fighting and whatever vague mythology fun facts your godly stepmom decided to leave inside your skull. Compared to that situation? I think we’ve got a lot to work with here.”

“I just don’t want to fail her,” Jason said, very quietly.

“I don’t think we’ve ever failed at anything we did together.” Leo paused. “Well, at least not when it comes to anything important. Despite your best efforts, I’m still a really shitty dancer,” he amended.

“You’re not that bad,” Jason insisted, pressing another kiss to his hair.

“Right. And you’re only a mildly terrible cook,” Leo teased, still holding on tight. “We’ll figure things out, Jase. We always have.”

“You’re probably right,” Jason sighed, sinking into him and gently nuzzling Leo’s cheek. “Together.”

“Always. You married me, so you’re never getting rid of me now,” Leo told him, failing to suppress a yawn.

It had been a long night, but he wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world.

Leo looked back at Sofía, who was peacefully snoring away in her bassinet.

If ‘together’ meant three of them instead of two of them now… well, he was more than okay with that.

Leo had faced the end of the world with Jason by his side. He figured they could probably handle parenting, too.

———

Fic Notes:

-Sorry about the extremely silly fic title. Juno made a joke about this to me forever ago when we were first talking about this concept and it just kind of stuck.

-Fun fact: I've been working on this fic on and off since last year! I cannot believe how long it ended up being, lmao.

-Family stuff is super fun to me, and considering Jason’s was abandoned as a little kid and Leo knows exactly what it’s like to not have anyone look out for you from his later childhood and teens, I always knew they'd somehow end up adopting. Me and QueenJunoTheGreat have been chatting about Sofía forever now, and I’ve made several tumblr posts about her, so it’s a little strange that this is technically the first fic I’ve posted about her.

-This kid has a lot of lore and thoughts attached to her (as does Em, though this is technically her second fic), so if you wanna read more about her you can always just scroll through my tumblr and specifically the (specifically the “pjo next gen” tag)! -Would actually love to write some more fics about these kids, but we’ll see how it goes.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments extremely appreciated!

#valgrace #jason grace #leo valdez #heroes of olympus #hoo #leo x jason #jason x leo #sofía valdez #pjo next gen #piper mclean #Emilia McLean #fanfic #pjo fanfic #my writing

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rrat-king · 2 days ago

Note

Some combination of Mordred Manor residents and number 20 for the fic prompt game perhaps?

I hope you are having a nice day/night/time

thank you my love i hop you are also having a wonderful day/night time!!!!

20. “It’s 8:30, I have a hangover and you’re annoying me.”

There were seldom moments that Aelwyn got to herself, so in the reletive quiet of the midmorning in Mordred, she basked in the odd time alone.

Well, she supposed "alone" was a relative term as she pushed one of the cats aside with her ankle, careful not to step on his paws as he seemed on a mission to tangle himself between her legs and cane.

The cats didn't count. If they did, Adaine wouldn't have worried about her being alone in her apartment, but then again that might have had something to do with the state of said apartment. Who needs a security deposit back when the whole complex goes up in flames?

If she flinched as the kettle whistled on the stove, that was between her and the cats. Her head pulsed a steady, irritating beat, yelling her to drink water, but tea would have to suffice. Even her own poor choices the night before could not perseuade her to drink from the tap and she knew that the filtered water in the fridge was empty. Not that she was going to be the one to refill it.

Peace, in the form of tea and Dexter, her particularly gnarly looking tabby, curling up on her feet, was rudely interrupted as footsteps, clomping and clumsy, rang out as someone came downstairs.

Sadly, Aelwyn knew who.

Kristen Applebees in all her strange, disfuntional glory managed to come into the kitchen with enough noise to rival the cacophony that usually accompanied the bad kids in totality. Aelwyn wondered if their numbers were just covering up for the unfortunate fact that thier cleric seemed louder than most gods.

Her cats, as they usually did whenever Kristen was around, fled. Aelwyn only had a moment to mourn the loss of her foot warmer before her eyes landed on Kristen, swallowing down the barbs at the state of her.

Adaine said she could afford to be a little bit nicer to Kristen. Aelwyn thought maybe Kristen could afford to give her less ammo. As it was, she was too tired to come up with anything too scathing, instead just sipping at her tea and raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

For what it was worth, Kristen seemed shaken enough by the lack of comment that she considered it a success, though that shakyness did not deter her from coming right up to Aelwyn, only shifting slightly to dig through the fridge.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" Kristen asked, head deep in the refridgerator.

"Shouldn't you be at school?"

Kristen didn't say anything, instead huffing as she discovered what Aelwyn had to assume was the empty water pitcher. She pulled it out, setting it next to the sink but not bothering to fill it. At least Aelwyn had someone else to blame then.

Her head was still pounding and even leaning against the counter, Aelwyn could feel her knees begining to ache. She half wanted another cup of tea, but she was only a few sips into her first cup and didn't care to be in the company of her sister's strange friend longer than necessary.

She was thinking of whether she could get away with just taking the kettle whole cloth when she realized she was being watched.

Kristen had turned at somepoint, looking at her more carefully than Aelwyn could deal with. "What's your deal?" she asked, far too much drippy empathy in her voice. The house was full of saps who didn't know how to mind their own buisness.

"It's 8:30, I have a hangover and you're annoying me," she told her bluntly, silently hoping she could intimidate her way out of having to deal with this mini Jawbone.

The barb seemed to pass her by, Kristen instead smiling, if just only a quirk a the side of her mouth.

It took Aelwyn a moment to realize what was happening, only recognizing the fact that she was being healed as purple twilight seemed to glimmer in the air around her, the ache in her head and knees cooling under pine-scented balm.

Maybe she was expecting a thank you, or some sappy talk of family and taking care of each other, but Aelwyn, despite the kind if invasive gesture, was not one for big sappy speeches. The most annoying part of it was that Kristen didn't even seem to mind, instead turning around to to grab a mug off of the drying rack and fill it with tap water.

It took her watching Kristen put the mug in the microwave to realize what she was doing, Aelwyn huffing out a sigh as she pressed the cancel button. Kristen looked like she was going to say something, but was quieted as Aelwyn shot her a look.

She didn't care about being healed, or sappy family bullshit, but she couldn't watch someone make microwave tea. It was sacralige.

Instead, she pulled out clean cup from the cupboard, one she was half certain once belonged to Tracker but was certain she had seen Kristen use before. She poured the rest of the kettle into the cup, setting it infront of Kristen and walking away.

It was only once she had made her way into the livingroom that she heard a too loud "thank you" called after her.

this uh. this got away from me. have some kristen+aelwyn aka one of my secret fav duo's to write :))

send me prompts here!

#d20 #dimension 20 #kristen applebees #aelwyn abernant #my writing #bird answers #i should um. maybe put this on ao3 we will see it was incredibly stream of conciousness #fantasy high

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dravidssideblog · 6 days ago

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IMPsurance (550 words)

Finally, after hours of letting me stew in terror, moments before being thrown into the slavers' wagon, my imp shows up.

Everyone turns toward the sudden flourish of flames, and when the flames die, the imp gives a bow with a grin. "Why hello there, general! Seems that the war is going well, quite the spoils from that village. Very impressive."

The general draws his sword. "Begone, demon. I have no interest in your deals."

"Oh, but I'm not here for you..." The imp's gaze drifts to me as they step forward. "I'm just here to collect my property~"

The general's eyes narrow. "That belongs to me."

"That would be the case, but I called dibs~" Their tail lifts up my shirt, revealing the glowing purple mark on my waist. "That's my mark, you see, taken willingly. Indisputable proof of my ownership under demon law." They snap their fingers to summon a scroll of parchment. "If you'd like to see our contract-"

The general swats it away, looming over the imp like a tower of steel and muscle. "And what care should I give to the laws of monsters?"

The imp's smile widens. "Even the paladin order thinks twice before violating demon law. You really want to fight TWO wars? Just for one little slave?"

They stare each other down for a long moment. Finally, the general snorts. "Take your slave and get out, demon."

The imp's tail flicks in amusement. "Glad I could clear things up. My pet and I will be going home then. Ciao!"

In a literal snap, I find myself in a familiar place: My imp's house. I drop to my knees and gasp for breath, terror finally flushed out by overwhelming relief. "Couldn't you have just teleported me out SOONER!?"

"What, and miss the chance to brag? Come on, you know me, pet~"

Anger starts to replace relief, but a hand gliding from my head down my back soothes my emotions and chips away at my tension. My owner guides me into a proper kneeling position as they stroke my hair, scritching behind my ear, kissing me on the forehead. "Good pet," they praise with a pat on the back, "you fell into your role quick today! Guess almost becoming a slave put you in the right mindset, huh?"

I'm actually just too emotionally exhausted to care right now. "Speaking of, can you get these things off me now?" I rattle the chains around my wrists and ankles.

"Hmmmm tomorrow. AND you're gonna be walking on all fours for the day!"

"Wha- ALL day?!"

"Of course!" With a snap, they dress me in a set of kneepads and mittens. "Do you know how long I've waited for you to get into enough peril to need me? This is a day to celebrate! No more once-a-month play sessions, you're my pet FULL TIME now! Ah, and my other part-time pets might be in danger soon too, this war is a dream come true!"

"God you're so evil."

"Morality is for people to worry about." My imp cups my cheek and stares me in the eyes. "The only thing for you to focus on is being my sweet, obedient, helpless little plaything... forever~"

Of all the ways I could react to that thought... blushing is probably not the correct one.

#original #my writing #imps #ownership #first half got a little longer than i wanted #but i wasn't really sure what to do with this idea so i went with the imp being confident and totally in control in the face of a strong gu #ending it with “forever” is kinda funny because that's usually the stuff i stay away from #but the fact that the perma stuff only happens if the guy would've been killed/enslaved/other horrible fate makes it okay for me #like it's still bullshit and unfair and maybe cruel but instead of the perma stuff taking them away from their normal life #the perma stuff is taking them away from horrible suffering #like it's not “oh no the kinky shit you're supposed to find fun took away the character's normal life”#instead it's “oh no this awful war took away the character's normal life. good thing kinky shit is here to make it less bad”#the kinky shit isn't at fault. does that make sense? might be more of my weird oversensitive preferences lol

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mggslover · 2 months ago

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Angel

In which Spencer sees his girlfriend fresh out of the shower for the first time, you looked angelic, and he was about to ruin you.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Girlfriend!reader Genre: smut (18+) Content warnings: spencer being horny, reader wears glasses, teasing, fingering, some spanking, p in v sex, facial, soft!dom spencer Word count: 3,8k A/n: this was supposed to be a short, smut no plot fic, but I got a little carried away...

The familiar goodbyes and sorrys were exchanged as you hung up the phone.

What was meant to be a romantic date out of town with your boyfriend had quickly turned into another one of those last-minute cancellations. It wasn’t surprising—Spencer’s work as a profiler came with its own set of unpredictable demands, and you were used to him being pulled away at a moment’s notice. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. You’d been looking forward to spending some time together.

You’d been dating Spencer for about three months, and things had progressed naturally from casual coffee dates to longer dinners and, eventually, a few trips to his place afterwards. As much as you enjoyed those nights, you wished they would last longer. You and Spencer made a habit out of quickies, knowing that at any moment his phone would inevitably buzz with a message or call from his colleague, Garcia. You couldn’t blame him for leaving, serial killers unfortunately didn’t work a nine to five. Spencer hated leaving you as well, making sure he offered you enough apologetic kisses and promises that he’d be back as soon as he could.

He always insisted that you could stay over at his place until he’d be back, but you never felt comfortable enough to do so. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy being at his place—you could already picture yourself curled up on the couch with one of his books, or take advantage of his bed, which was a lot bigger and more comfortable than yours. But it wasn’t quite home yet, at least not without him there.

With a resigned sigh, you decided to make the best out of the situation. It had been a long week, and you could use a night of self-care. As you set your phone down on the bathroom counter, you hit play on a playlist you’d made for such occasions—soft, calming melodies that would help you unwind. You pulled your hair back with a headband, took out your contacts, and started removing the makeup that took you half an hour to do earlier.

The bathroom mirror fogged slightly as the warmth of the shower filled the room. You hummed along with the song in the background, while you moved the cotton pads over your skin in a familiar motion.

As you finished, you carefully stepped out of your dress and turned toward the shower. The steam hit your skin as you slid into the stall, closing your eyes for a moment as the water hit your shoulders.

Without realizing, you spent a good hour in the shower. Once comfortably dressed, you let yourself sink into the plush cushions of your couch. A fuzzy blanket was draped across your just shaved legs, and the TV remote was within arm’s reach. You let out a content sigh, almost feeling as satisfied as you would be when being with Spencer.

—

Spencer’s signature melody of knocks broke your focus on the documentary you were watching. You swiftly moved up from the couch and checked the peephole on your door, just to be sure. A smile spread across your face as you saw Spencer rocking back and forth on his feet, plucking at the bouquet in his hands, straightening out each flower to perfection.

You opened the door with a big smile. “Hi, I wasn’t expecting you. I thought we cancelled tonight.”

He hesitates, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks. “You’re right. I finished the case early, and I’ve been thinking about you all day. I just… wanted to see you.” His words came out more nervously than he intended. “I saw the lights were on, so I assumed you were awake.”

“I wasn’t asleep. Don’t worry,” you answered warmly. You glanced down at the bouquet in his hands. “Are these for me?”

“They are,” he replies, his voice softened as he handed them to you. “You said you liked lilies.”

“I do, thank you. They’re beautiful.” You accept the bouquet, moving to your tiptoes to give him a kiss. Having a boyfriend with an eidetic memory really is perfect.

“I’ll put them in water, come in.”

You moved to the open kitchen, so in awe of his sweet gesture that you were completely unaware of the way Spencer’s breath caught the moment you opened the door, how his pupils darkened when he inhaled your sweet scent and noticed the state you were in. Hair still damp from the shower you must’ve taken, wearing only a shirt, and your face bare besides the glasses you were wearing. Fuck… he didn’t even know you wore glasses.

He couldn’t deny how incredibly cute you looked. Spencer has only seen you during or after dates, and he loved how he could tell that you took the time to get yourself ready. Always wearing an outfit that fits you perfectly and having your makeup done in a way that enhances the features of your face. But it felt so intimate seeing how effortlessly beautiful you looked moving around in the comfort of your own home. You were beautiful in a way that seemed almost unfair, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the most captivating version of you he'd ever seen.

Spencer wasn’t able to take his eyes off of you as you walked to the kitchen, your breasts swaying with every step you took. The outline of your nipples were visible, because of the cold that escaped when you opened the door for him. Your bare legs reflected the warm kitchen light. He felt like he was about to lose his mind as you reached up to grab a vase from the top cabinet, the curve of your ass peeking out from underneath the shirt that you're wearing.

He felt guilty for the warmth that was spreading through him. He shook his head slightly, trying to reset his thoughts, but the temptation was there. Your easy grace, the way your bare feet padded across the floor, the gentle hum of the air between you—it all combined into something too alluring for him to ignore.

You could feel the heat radiating off of him as he moved behind you, placing a careful hand on your hip as he reached out to grab the vase. You turned around with a smile as he placed the vase on the kitchen counter.

“Thanks,” you beamed, and he mumbled a ‘You’re welcome’, though his response came out as more of a soft hum.

Before he could think better of it, he leaned down and kissed you. The kiss was slow, deliberate—his lips meeting yours with a tenderness that made his pulse race. His fingers tingle with the desire to pull you closer, but just before his hands slid around you, you pulled away, making him swallow back a groan.

“Ooh! I was watching this documentary that I think you’ll be really into,” you said, quickly putting the flowers in the vase and tugging him by the hand toward the couch. He followed like a stray pup, too caught up in the way you moved to protest.

“Oh, yeah? What’s it about?” He asked, hoping the conversation would steer him away from the other thoughts tugging at him. You settled on the couch beside him, and he instinctively pulled your legs onto his lap, cupping your feet in his hands to warm them.

“It’s about space. The universe, really. It’s fascinating, but honestly terrifying if you think about it for too long.”

Spencer nodded, though his mind was far away. He was more focused on the way that his fingers traced the soft lines of your calves. He gently started kneading the muscles, placing just the right amount of pressure.

“Would you go to space, if NASA invited you?” You asked, eyes still glued to the TV.

“Only if you’d come with me.”

His response made you turn around to look at him. The sincere and loving expression he gave you warmed your face. He squeezed your legs gently, and, just like that, you noticed the hint of desire hidden in his eyes.

“Come here,” he said in a whisper, patting his thigh. In a second you managed to crawl yourself onto his lap, and he held you steady by your hips.

You reached up to remove your glasses, but before your fingers could touch the frames, his hand found yours, halting the movement.

You noticed the slight squint in his eyes. “I can’t properly kiss you with my glasses on,” you explain.

"Then let me handle the kissing," he murmured, voice dropped low.

Before you could register his words, his lips had found your neck. His hands moved to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing along the line of your jaw, holding you close as his tongue licked a firm stripe up your sensitive skin.

“Oh, god,” you shuddered in a breath.

“Shaking already?” he teased, voice laced with amusement as he grinned against your skin.

“No,” you lied.

“Are you sure about that? Then why are you doing it again?” He comments before squeezing your breast, your nipple caught in between his long fingers.

You jumped at his touch, a moan escaping your lips. You shook your head as you saw his satisfied expression. “You’re such a dirty tease.”

“I haven’t heard any complaints so far,” he smirks, making you roll your eyes.

His breath was warm against your skin as his lips found their way back to the soft curve of your neck. Slowly, with a tenderness that sent a shiver through your body, he placed several more kisses to your skin. Once pleased, he bends his head down to capture your clothed nipple in his mouth, his hand still kneading your other breast.

“Fuck, Spence,” you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself. He took his time, his mouth sucking slowly on your nub, savoring the feel of you beneath him. Tonight, he was in no rush—he wanted to taste every inch of you, show you just how much he loves every detail of your body.

You were writhing in his lap as he flicked his tongue against your nipple. Heat forming between your thighs with every stroke of his tongue. He removed his lips from your breast with a pop, and sat back against the couch. His gaze was locked on the now wet, see-through patch on your shirt. He licked his lips, watching you like you were a piece of art he just created himself.

“Beautiful,” he stated.

The compliment sent a rush of warmth straight to your core, your body responding with a soft shiver. Without thinking, you began to grind yourself against his lap, a surge of excitement rushing through you as you felt the firm bulge beneath his pants. Spencer exhaled a deep, satisfied sigh, his warm hands slipping beneath your shirt as he cupped your breasts, squeezing them gently.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he said, his gaze lingering on you.

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Oh, so that’s what this is all about, huh?”

His expression softened, “Actually, it’s about all of you.” The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, turning you almost shy.

“Can I take this off?” he murmured, his fingers teasing the hem of your shirt. You nodded wordlessly and raised your arms. Spencer pulled the fabric over your head, his eyes tracing the curve of your bare chest. He cursed under his breath, his hands immediately finding you—fingers digging into your skin as he leaned in, nuzzling his face between your tits with a satisfied moan.

A string of giggles and moans spilled from your lips as his curls tickled your skin. His pink lips grazed you gently, pausing to leave sloppy, lingering marks—each one a reminder that you’d carry with you for the following days.

You moved against him, rolling your hips, finding release in the way that your barely covered heat rubbed against the rough material of his pants. Spencer noticed the change in your rhythm, the need in your movements. He guided you with steady hands, his fingers moving to your hips and then sliding lower, finding the curve of your ass, tightening his grip to help you find the pace you craved.

“Can you handle more?” His voice was laced with desire. Without hesitation, you nodded, your body already screaming for more. His long fingers traced your inner thighs, goosebumps forming on your skin, his touch light but electrifying. When his thumb pressed against your covered clit, a jolt of heat shot through you, making you squirm helplessly. You moaned, your body arching toward him.

“You’re always so wet for me, angel.” The word slipped from Spencer's lips. It was the first time he’d called you anything other than your name or a shortened version of it, and somehow, angel felt more fitting than any word he'd ever used. You looked like heaven to him—your soft skin glowing in the light, your eyes sparkling behind the frames of your glasses, and the way you responded to his touch, every small brush of his fingers making your expressions change so delicately.

He slowly tugged the damp fabric of your underwear to the side, savoring the reveal of your glistening pussy. You lifted your hips, giving Spencer the access to slide a finger through your folds, spreading your wetness.

“Feels good,” you breathed out, your voice shaky as his fingers ran back and forth between your lips, each pass teasingly close to your entrance, but never quite slipping inside. The sensation made your hips buck against him. You weren’t used to being teased for this long—Spencer had a way of getting you dripping without even fully touching you. Usually that led straight to sex, which makes his slow touches feel almost torturous.

“Please, Spence,” you moaned.

“Please, what?” he mused, his eyes dark with desire as he watched how your arousal coated his fingers, his gaze never leaving your glistenings folds.

“I need more,” you begged, your voice a whimper.

“You can have more, angel. My fingers are right here,” he hummed.

A soft moan escaped your lips as you shifted, positioning yourself so his fingers were just below your entrance. Spencer’s breath hitched, and his mouth fell open as you sank down onto his fingers, inch by inch, taking him in. Your hand gripped his shoulder tightly for support as you moved, the sensation of fullness making your body tremble.

Spencer was the first to make a sound, his head falling back slightly as you adjusted to him. His moans only spurred you on. You pressed your forehead against his, your breaths shaky as he pumped his fingers in a steady, insistent rhythm.

His other hand moved to your ass, fingers spreading across your cheek as he squeezed, pulling you closer to him. You were grateful he was doing most of the work—your legs were already shaking, straining to keep up with the building pleasure.

Spencer’s fingers curled inside you, pressing deeper, and the angle was perfect—hitting spots you never managed to reach on your own. Spencer groaned at the sight. Your body was tightening around him, your slickness coating his fingers, and he couldn’t help but imagine it being his cock filling you up.

The sounds he made drove you crazy. Each deep groan, every stuttered breath, showed you how much he enjoyed making you feel good. His enjoyment only intensified your own pleasure.

You were so close, your nipples hard against his chest, your breath mixing with his as your hair tumbled over his face, the scent of it intoxicating to him.

Your breathing quickened, sharp and shallow, as the pressure built within you, pooling low in your belly. Your vision blurred, the edges of reality dissolving as you neared the brink of your climax.

“Baby…” you breathed, your voice a desperate whisper, barely more than a plea. You locked your eyes with Spencer, hoping—praying—he could see the need in yours, feel the frantic urgency building inside you.

And then, with a nod and a final twist of his fingers, you broke.

A flood of pleasure crashed through you. You gasped, your whole body seizing as your orgasm hit, sending shockwaves of heat through every inch of you. You cried out, unable to hold back the sounds of your release, your hips bucking against his touch, your hands gripping his wrist to anchor you to the world as it spun in a blur.

He withdrew his fingers from your heat, and the sudden absence left you breathless, a soft sound escaping your lips at the loss. When you blinked your eyes open, Spencer’s warm gaze met yours, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. You smiled back at him, a little dazed, as he brushed your cheek with his untouched hand.

He carefully took your glasses off, placing them on the armrest of the couch. His thumb tenderly wiped away the tears that had escaped your eyes. He then cupped your chin, pulling you toward him, and kissed you deeply, his lips soft and lingering.

“Thank you,” he murmured, as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

“I should be the one thanking you,” you softly laughed.

He shook his head, smiling. “No need for that,” he replied, his voice reassuring.

“But I want to,” you insisted. “Though… I think you’ll find I’m better at showing than telling.” You playfully whispered, as your nails grazed the outline of his dick.

You turned yourself around on his lap, your knees still planted on either side of him, but now with your back facing him. Leaning forward, you braced yourself on the coffee table, your elbows digging into the surface. You arched your back, making Spencer hiss sharply at the sight of your ass displayed before him, your arousal trickling down your thighs. The inviting shake of your hips made him lose his patience, and his fingers fumbled hastily with his belt.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hurriedly pushing his pants and boxers down his thighs. His cock sprang free, hard and eager, the flushed head brushing against the faint line of hair trailing up his abdomen.

He gripped himself firmly, pumping his length a few times before lining himself up with your slick entrance. The weight of his hand settled on your hip as he pressed the tip of his cock against your warmth, teasing you for the briefest moment before you sank down on him.

A sharp cry escaped your lips as he filled you, the new angle making him hit depths you’d never felt before. The stretch was deliciously overwhelming, stealing your breath as your fingers clawed at the table. You shakily tried to lift your hips, but your legs quivered under the strain.

Spencer noticed immediately, his hands finding their place—one on your waist, steadying you, and the other trailing down to your calf. He began guiding you, his strength effortlessly lifting and lowering you along his cock. The room filled with the symphony of your combined moans and the rhythmic slap of meeting skin.

“God, look at you,” he rasped, mesmerized by the way your body took him in. His gaze focused on the bounce of your ass, hypnotized by the way it moved with each thrust. On instinct, he brought his hand down in a firm smack against your cheek.

The sudden impact made you jolt, as you let out a sweet, startled cry. The sound sent a surge of need through him, and he swore he felt himself harden further.

“You liked that, huh?” he mused in curiosity. Without waiting for an answer, he did it again, revelling in your shivering response.

Pulling you against him, Spencer adjusted your position until you were seated in his lap, your back pressed flush to his chest. One arm wrapped around your waist to hold you close, while his other hand rose to cup your breast. His hips snapped into you roughly, each thrust pulling an uncontrollable whimper from your throat.

“You’re doing so good for me, angel,” he praised, his voice hoarse as his fingers pinched and rolled your nipple. The combination made your head loll back against his shoulder, surrendering to his touch. He seized the opportunity to claim your lips in a needy, devouring kiss. Tongues tangled messily, swallowing your shared moans.

As your pleasure mounted, your walls began to flutter around him, drawing a strained groan from his throat.

“Are you close again, pretty girl?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper against your lips.

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to form the word. “Spencer… fuck, I’m so close.”

“Then cum around me,” he encouraged. “I know you want it.”

Your breath hitched. “Will you cum inside of me?”

For a heartbeat, he stilled. “I…” His gaze flickered with hesitation, cheeks flushed. “I want to cum on your face.”

Your pupils blew wide, desire sparking anew at his confession. A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

That was all the encouragement he needed. His fingers dipped between your thighs, circling your clit in rapid, precise motions. The pressure tipped you over the edge, and with a cry of his name, you let go.

Barely able to recover, you slid from his lap onto your knees, settling in front of him. Spencer’s breath hitched at the sight of you—flushed and disheveled, your sweat-slick skin glowing in the low light. Your lips, swollen from his kisses, parted expectantly.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathed, unable to tear his eyes away. You looked angelic… and he was about to ruin you.

It didn’t take long. His cock twitched, thick ropes of cum spilling over your face and dripping down to your chest. His jaw went slack, his chest heaving as he watched you collect some of his release with your thumb and slip it into your mouth. The sight of you sucking on your finger almost unraveled him all over again.

Unable to bring himself to leave your side, he grabbed his sleeve, using it to gently clean you up. Once satisfied, you leaned forward, resting your head on his thigh, basking in the comfortable silence that followed.

His phone buzzed suddenly on the couch, shattering the moment. Spencer groaned, grabbing the device and quickly silencing it with a flick of his finger.

You laughed softly, your voice tinged with amazement. “What was that about?”

Spencer shrugged, tossing the phone aside without a second glance. “I can be late for one day.”

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acid-ixx · 3 months ago

Text

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

otherwise, i can't add anymore to my taglist so taglist requests are closed!

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

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writingsbychlo · 6 months ago

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WITHDRAWAL | theodore nott

summary; theo decides to quit smoking, but doesn't realise that his decision would affect his girlfriend, too.

word count; 3007

notes; just a cute, fluffy little piece based on something that I was tagged in about 2 months ago! unfortunately, I cannot find the original post or tagger, but if it's you, please let me know!!

If there was one thing about Theodore Nott that couldn't be denied, it was that he loved with everything he had.

He loved his friends; he was loyal to a fault and he’d never let them down. He loved his family, he wrote over fifteen letters a week to all his aunties and cousins, and still held onto his mother’s recipe book, even to this day.

And he loved, adored, his girlfriend with everything that he had. He’d do anything for her, crawl across hot coals if she asked, give up his magic and his money and his legacy, just to make her happy. She’d never asked as such of him, still blushed when he pulled out his wallet when they shopped and smiled brighter than the sun when he gave her a handmade card or something he’d cooked. So, to his eyes, it didn’t seem all that much when he decided to give up smoking for her.

She hadn't asked him to, never even pulled a face when he smoked. But Theo was damn sick of trying to blow the smoke away from her when she joined him at the astronomy tower, cuddled up to his chest, because he didn’t want that poison near her. He hated watching her shiver on the colder nights, he hated waking her in the middle of the night when he got up to satiate that itch, and he hated thinking of a future where he left her too soon, running short on time, because he ruined himself.

He chucked his last box into the fireplace one impulsive morning, and thought he might go cold turkey. He’d been so moody by lunchtime that he’d almost bitten Enzo’s head off over the way he pronounced ‘tomato’. That afternoon, he’d ditched his classes and trudged through the snow to the floo connection at the Hog’s Head, and picked up enough nicotine patches from a muggle supply store to knock out a fully grown Hippogriff.

He’d torn the packaging off of one in the grimy restroom at the back of the store and slapped it onto his bicep, and almost collapsed from the relief it gave him. It wasn’t nearly as effective as picking up a packet from the newsagent’s stand he’d passed would’ve been, but as soon as his fingers had twitched to pick up a box, your face had flashed through his mind. Your face, smiling at him, your face that morning telling him how proud you were of him when he’d shared his goals in hopes of support, and it was enough to deter him from the purchase.

You were his strength, once again, as you’d always been.

And truly, you were so proud of Theo. Changing his patches for him every evening, in time with that first one. Reading up on the muggle solutions, and making sure you were fully versed on how to help him. Keeping him busy seemed to help, when he got bored, his eyes started flicking towards the door, and the slight irritability he’d been able to keep a lid on pretty well would begin to flare up. For the most part, he’d been staying at your dorm, in an active attempt to keep away from Mattheo, who wasn’t quite ready to give up his comfortable vice just yet.

Unfortunately, as the days went on, while Theo seemed to be handling it just fine, you were struggling. The irritability grew, even Draco’s breathing was making you want to snap pencils in half in the library, or throw Enzo off the astronomy tower if he scraped his fork on his plate one more time. You were ravenous, and nauseous, all at the same time. You wanted to eat everything but could hardly hold it down. You were dizzy, and fatigued, and your grades were going to start slipping if this continued, because it had been almost a week since you’d been able to concentrate on any thought longer than a minute, never mind a whole class.

And now, you were lying in bed, rubbing at your eyes angrily but unable to sleep as you stared at the ceiling. Theo, for once, was sleeping soundly beside you. Since giving up smoking, his sleep patterns had been getting better, while yours were getting worse by the night. Almost a week, and you’d barely gotten nine hours of sleep put together.

When you shuffled again, pressing yourself a little closer to Theo as you rolled onto your side, he began to surface. The arm over your midriff tightened, pulling you in until your hips were bracketed against his, and he chuckled sleepily into your neck. Burying himself in, he pressed a kiss there, and another, and another. The rough pounding of your heart settled as you clasped Theo’s hand in your own, holding them to your chest as he littered your shoulder with kisses.

At your sigh, he rolled you over, propping himself up on his elbow and yawning. Shaking his hand free from your own, he stroked the back of a finger along your cheek, and leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. As his hand settled on the side of your neck instead, yours slipped up to cup his jaw, and you melted into the tender love he offered you in the darkest hours.

“What’s wrong, tesoro? Why are you awake?”

“Why are you awake?” you rebuffed, fingers lifting to comb through his hair, to push it back out of his eyes as he blinked himself a little more awake.

He shrugged, “This is about the time I’d normally go for a smoke.” He murmured, and your eyes flickered to the clock.

You knew well enough the schedule Theo used to keep while smoking. Your timetable had slowly synched to it over the time you’d been dating. He’d wake up during the night, at some point around two, and disappear for a smoke. He’d take twenty minutes, or thirty if he bumped into Mattheo, and then he’d come back to bed.

You didn’t mind the disturbance. Not when he’d come back slightly chilled from the night air and snuggle in close to you, wrapping himself around you.

“Actually, this is the time you’d normally come back from having a smoke, and give me my midnight kisses.”

“Is that why my girl is so restless tonight? Because I owe her some kisses?” He teased, leaning down until your noses were bumping, and you could taste the mint on his breath. Normally, he tasted like smoke, not toothpaste, and the shock of his warm lips instead of cold ones made you hum.

The languid kisses melted the time away, his hand sliding up your shirt, sitting on your ribs and squeezing softly as he lowered himself down, covering your body with his own. Theo had always been your comfort, and your happy place. Being in his arms made you feel safe, and his kisses made you feel relaxed. As he licked his way into your mouth lazily, you anticipated the hazy blur of relaxation that usually followed when he kissed you.

But, like usual recently, it never came. Instead, when he finally pulled back, and pecked the tip of your nose, he found you frowning, instead of smiling up at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” You huffed, frustrated at yourself, at your confusion and the growing irrational irritation. “It’s not the same.”

“What’s not the same, bella?”

“Your… your kisses.” Your words trailed to a whisper, knowing he wouldn't understand, and the hurt that flickered across his face made your heartbreak.

“They’re not?”

“No. I don’t know why.” His lips curled further at the sides, and the look on his face made you want to cry. It made you hate yourself, aggressively, and if you could tear out your own heart and give it to him just to see him smile again, you would. Just another thing you’d been suffering with lately, an overwhelm of your emotions, worse than any mood swing you got when you were on your period. “It’s not you, Teddy, it’s me. You’re still my happy place, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“You’re not a problem, bella. But we should figure it out. I don’t want to… kiss you wrong, and see that look on your face. What’s different, tell me what’s changed?” His sweet words made tears prickle at your eyes, and you sniffed sadly as you looked at him.

“I love you so much, Theo.”

“I know, tesoro. I love you too.” His thumb smoothed over your cheek, “Tell me.”

“I don’t know!” Your snap made his eyes widen. “You’re just… different. You don’t kiss the same way, you used to get all needy when you came back from a smoke, but you don’t anymore, and you taste different! You taste like mint right now, and it just doesn’t make me feel the same way afterwards.”

Your words were jumbled and hurried, rushed out as you smoked them and his brows furrowed as he tried to decipher what you meant. Second ticked by into silent minutes as Theo’s wonderful mind ticked and whirred, thinking the problem through, and playing with the information. Then, before you could say anything else, something clicked. You could see it in his eyes, when the gears stopped turning and the thoughts stopped flowing because he’d found the answer.

Pulling away from you, he sat up, kicking back the covers and letting in the cold air, before moving across the room and shuffling through his gym kit left in the corner. Pulling out a nicotine packet from the box inside, he shook it out, using his teeth to tear open the packet as he made his way back to the bed. Sitting yourself up, you propped yourself in the pillows as he peeled off the plastic backing, and tried to unstick his fingers from it, holding it by the corners.

“You’ve only had your patch on for nine hours, Teddy, it’s not time to change yet.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head and settling in beside you on the bed, legs folded underneath himself. “This isn’t for me, bella. Take off your shirt.”

Slipping your arm out of your shirt, you pushed it to the side, watching as Theo brushed cotton fibres off of your shoulder, before sealing the patch onto your skin. He made sure it was properly sealed down, flattening it to your skin, before feeding your arm back through the sleeve of your shirt. He smoothed the top back down your torso, pressing a cheeky kiss to your breast over your heart as he did, and sitting back on his legs to wait.

“Give it a second, then tell me how you feel.” He whispered, the moment feeling entirely too fragile as his hand took yours, fingers linked together. He kissed along your knuckles, his eyes locked on your face, waiting. And the moment you felt it hit, you knew he saw it too.

It was like a cool, soothing balm over a raw, aggravated wound. It felt like running cold water on a new burn or healing a painful graze with a quick Episky. “Oh, Merlin…”

“I know, tell me about it.” He mumbled, the smile on his face at victoriously solving the problem melting away as realisation set in. “Cazzo, bella, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have a nicotine addiction, and it’s my fault. All that time you spent with me at the tower, and the smoke on me, and kissing you as soon as I finished smoking. All your moodiness these last few days—”

“Hey!”

“It’s true, baby. It all makes sense.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and squeezed your hand tighter in the other. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I quit because I didn’t want this to happen to you, I didn’t want my problems to poison you, but it’s too late.”

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Kiss me, Teddy.” You demand again, pulling him in, and his mouth collides with yours as he makes a subtle groan of surprise and pleasure.

His hand gripped the headboard behind you, the other skimming down your side. As you leaned back into the pillows, you took him with you, his body falling over your own, slotting between your thighs as our hearts thudded together where his chest pressed to yours. Your hands slid over his shoulders, skimming down his back, and he moaned again as your fingernails scraped across his lower back as you tugged at his shirt.

He sat up, letting you pull it off of him, before his arms were back, caging you in on either side as he fell back down against you. Pulling one of your legs up to sit on his hip, he dragged himself away from your mouth, trailing wet kisses down your jaw, to the pulse point on your neck and back up.

“Merde, bella. What’s gotten into you? Not that I’m complaining.”

“You’re perfect, Theo.” You smiled, leaning up to steal more kisses from his lips that he was happy to reciprocate, “You’re perfect, your kisses are perfect. I knew it was me, not you. I was the problem.”

“A problem I gave you,” He groaned, his hips rolling against your own as you giggled breathlessly.

“Yeah, whatever. Now we’re quitting together. That’s the promise we made, we do everything together, right?”

“Damn right, tesoro.” He growled, teeth nipping at the underside of your jaw, as he began to make his way down your body. Your fingers were loose in his hair, settling back in the pillows, eyes slipping closed as he kissed along the insides of your thighs, teasingly. Finally, your body could relax, no longer tense and buzzing, but the foggy comfort of the night made your muscles ease into the bed, your body feeling heavy, and you sighed in bliss.

Theo mumbled something, and you let your legs fall a little further apart, but your grip on consciousness was falling further and further away as the nicotine coursed through your body, finally letting you ease into sleep you’d missed for days.

“Bella,” Theo said, his voice sharper, and you stirred, working hard to force your eyes open, but they’d only made it halfway. His hair was ruffled, eyes wide and lips swollen, but his smirk melted away from his face into a tender smile as he looked down at you.

“Sorry, what’d you say, baby?” The words slurred out of you, and he chuckled. His fingers unhooked from the sides of your shorts, and he leaned over to kiss your forehead. “M’sorry, I’m so sleepy all of a sudden.”

“S’okay, bella. Never apologise. C’mere, let’s just cuddle.”

Tucking your body into his, you shuffled your hips back into him, and he threw his leg over yours as he held you tight to his body. “You’re hard.”

“It’ll go down, don’t worry.” He snickered, kissing the back of your head. “S’your fault anyway.”

“Sorry…” You whispered, again, sleepily. “I’ll make it up t’you t’morrow.”

“Go to sleep, amore.”

But you’d already drifted off.

It was just as you were closing your History of Magic book, that Theo announced his presence in the common room as he walked in alongside Mattheo. They were loud, and raucous, and thankfully, you were less inclined to bite their heads off for it today.

In fact, alongside Enzo, you’d been able to catch up on all of the History homework you’d been missing out on for the last week or so, getting you back on track for at least one of your subjects.

“Patch change time, bella!” Theo announced, making his way over to you as he untucked his shirt and began to undo the buttons down the front. Tugging the tie out of the way, he crashed down ungracefully onto the couch beside you, Mattheo nudging Draco to move up so he could sit down too.

This had become a regular part of your routine now, and you pushed the edges of his half-unbuttoned shirt aside to reveal the patch sitting on the middle of his left pectoral. Picking at one corner, you peeled it away gently, careful not to tug on his skin as you did, and Theo watched on adoringly in silence as you took care of him. Unwrapping a new patch, you brushed off the spot, before sticking a new patch onto him and smoothing down the bandage.

He patted it himself, before doing a couple of the buttons on his shirt back up for modesty, as though he hadn't already given half of the common room a show, before he leaned in to peck your lips. His fingers fell to the buttons of your shirt, and he began to undo them slowly. “Your turn.”

He undid just enough to reveal your shoulder, without letting anyone else catch a glimpse of anything underneath, and as he leaned down to begin peeling away the old patch, you caught Enzo’s confused expression.

“Why are you wearing a patch?” He asked, and Theo laughed to himself quietly as he changed your old one out.

“Because loverboy here got me addicted too, through kisses and secondary smoke.”

The others burst out laughing, unfettered by your glaring as they made kissy sounds and crude remarks, while Theo buttoned your shirt back up. Your glare turned to him as you caught sight of his smile, and he shrugged, a lopsided smile on his lips. “What can I say, bella? I’m just that good.”

“Oh, shut it,” You smacked his chest, and he took your hand, tugging you forward to cuddle you into his chest as he kissed your temple.

“I happen to think it’s adorable that as a by-product of how you got addicted, that means you were addicted to me.”

“Mhmm.” Your eyes rolled, and he squeezed you even tighter.

“You had me addicted to you without any substances at all, bella. Just you.”

“Alright,” You scoff, “Stop sweet-talking me.”

“Never.”

#theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott/reader #theodore nott x you #theodore nott/you #theo nott #slytherin boys #harry potter #theo nott x reader #theo nott/reader #theo nott x you #theo nott/you #lorenzo zurzolo #lorenzo zurzolo x you

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aegonstradwife · 7 months ago

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exposure therapy | aemond targaryen x reader

summary: anonymous requested; you and aemond were recently married. you're afraid of him, but aemond goes to great lengths to show you he's not that scary.

warnings: excessive use of ellipses, #1 wife lover aemond targaryen, brief mention of childhood trauma, smut. (fingering, face riding, oral.)

a. note:link to the original request.

As Aemond's new wife, it's surprising how little time you spend together. The servants whisper about it around every corner; how you skulk through the halls hoping to avoid him, how nearly every meal you take is apart from each other.

But there's a very good reason for this, one that you've never admitted to anyone.

You are terrified of him.

Even at night, you might share the same bed, but it's big enough that you can sleep soundly without ever once touching him. Although even that was difficult at first; those first few nights you dreaded climbing into bed with him and got nearly no sleep at all.

He is so much bigger, and much stronger, than you. He really could do anything he wanted to you and you would have no chance of fighting him off.

Eventually, however, Aemond's still body beside yours throughout the night, you realized he either wouldn't, or didn't want to, touch you. And finally you were able to get some sleep.

But now, though sleep comes much more easily and your nights are no longer fraught with peril at the thought of him forcing himself upon you, it still doesn't mean you have any desire to be around him.

And you thought he felt much the same. Until tonight.

Aemond is already comfortable on the settee by the window, reading, when you retire to your shared bedchamber for the night.

Hells bent as usual on ignoring him, you busy yourself with removing your shoes in front of the wardrobe.

"Come. Sit with me."

In the quiet of the room, Aemond's sudden, uncharacteristic, voice makes you jump, going very still. His tone is soft; now that you think on it, you've heard Aemond's voice very few times, either before or after you were married.

In your mind, the few times you had heard him speak, you remember him sounding like a complete barbarian. Not this lilting, almost melodic, softness....

Straightening, you nervously smooth the skirts of your dress down over your thighs. Aemond's silhouette is stark against the candles guttering on the windowsill.

You gulp, starting to tiptoe toward him, but stopping at the opposite arm of the settee. "Do I have to?" You ask quietly, and even that takes every ounce of courage in your weary body.

This is probably as close as you've ever been to him when not in bed together at night.

"I won’t bite." Aemond's lips are quirked in a half smirk. He closes the book in his hands and sets it aside, patting the space beside him. "I assure you, I won’t hurt you. Come. Sit."

Though he had indicated the middle cushion, you sweep your skirts under you and take a seat on the one beside it, furthest from Aemond.

Normally you would have loved sitting and reading by candlelight, the cool breeze from the open windows ruffling your hair.

But now you bite your lip, heart hammering hard against your ribcage like a frightened bird.

Aemond can feel the tension radiating off of you. Your shoulders tight as a bow string, the muscles in your jaw taut, hands folded in your lap fidgeting with a loose thread on your gown.

He simple looks at you for a very long moment. Your features are delicate, almost fragile, your frame small and dainty when compared to his. To Aemond, you look very much like a porcelain doll. He has no idea how someone could be so beautiful and yet so…. breakable.

You glance nervously at him, wondering what he could possibly be thinking.

"What?" You ask, though you keep your voice low, not wanting to anger him.

"You're afraid of me," Aemond states bluntly. He leans against the back of the settee, studying you with one intense purple eye. "Why?"

You laugh aloud, unable to stop yourself. Now seems as good a time as any to tell him exactly what you've been thinking since your wedding day.

"Look at you. And look at me. You could do whatever you want to me and I wouldn't be able to stop you. Not to mention...." You shrug. "The stories about you aren't kind...."

Aemond raises an eyebrow at your laughter, that same small, wry smile never leaving his lips. He can't help but wonder if you're mocking him as he leans forward, gaze still locked with yours.

"And what do the stories say about me, little wife?" His voice is low, a dangerous, frightening edge to it.

For seemingly the first time, you look your husband in the eye. One piercing violet eye stares back, the other covered by his customary eyepatch. "They say you're a fearsome warrior, one of the strongest swordsmen alive. And they say.... they say you killed that boy. Rhaenyra's son...."

Aemond’s eye narrows. There is so much uncertainty in that gaze of yours, something about your innocent face makes Aemond feel.... bad. His jaw clenches and he leans back.

"Lucerys Velaryon. Yes, I did kill him. Though I didn't mean to.... I lost control."

"You didn't?" Your eyes narrow as well, suspicious of him. "Then.... what did you mean to do?"

Your husband lets out a long sigh and crosses his arms. "I meant to scare him. I was.... angry. I wanted to teach him a lesson, to frighten and humiliate him. And I did not have such good control over Vhagar as I do now...."

At the mention of his dragon, you perk up - that's one thing you've always been curious about. The Targaryen dragons are so beautiful and powerful; you would love to ride one one day, if given the chance.

"So your dragon, she disobeyed you?"

Aemond is clearly taken aback by your interest in Vhagar. For a moment, it seemed you forgot you were supposed to be scared of him. He tries to hide the hint of surprise flickering across his face.

"Well, yes and no," Aemond says, diplomatic. "Vhagar is a very old and powerful dragon, and she is used to doing what she wants. Sometimes.... it's difficult for any Targaryen to control a dragon, even the strongest of riders."

You are positively fascinated, hearing about Vhagar, leaning in toward Aemond without realizing. "What is it like, riding her? Does it ever get cold, so high up?"

Aemond can smell your perfume as you lean toward him, a mix of jasmine and honey, faint yet sweet. He clears his throat.

"Riding Vhagar is like nothing else," he tells you. "And yes, it does get cold at times, but the feeling of the wind in your hair and the power of the dragon beneath you is.... indescribable."

"Do you think she'd let me ride her?" At this point, you're nearly nose to nose with Aemond, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Or do they only let Targaryens?"

Aemond freezes, gaze still locked with yours, your heads so close together that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips. He is surprised by your question and even more surprised by how badly he wants to fulfill the request.

"They only let Targaryens ride them, yes," he says, voice sounding much huskier than he intends. "But.... I'm sure Vhagar wouldn't mind letting someone else ride her.... if I were to accompany them."

"Would you?" You reach out, hand finding his thigh and giving a thankful squeeze. Realizing what you've done, how close you've become to him, you quickly snatch that hand back as though Aemond is on fire. "I'm so sorry...."

Aemond’s eye widens; for a heartbeat, your touch sent a shock through his entire body.

"It's alright." His voice is rough. “Don’t apologize....” He catches your wrist gently, before you can pull your hand away completely. "It was.... nice."

You tense, wrist caught in his strong embrace. "What are you doing?"

For a long moment, Aemond doesn't respond, simply staring at your slender wrist in his hand. Your skin is so smooth, so soft. He can feel your pulse beating against his palm, fast and fluttering like the wings of a small bird.

"Doing?" He finally asks, looking up at you with a sly smile. "Just.... holding your hand, that’s all."

"Holding my.... oh." All things considered, Aemond is handsome, you suppose. With his long silver hair, that chiseled jaw, the little moue of his lips. "You.... you really aren't all that scary, are you?"

Chuckling softly, Aemond's fingers gently stroke the skin of your wrist. Your words, spoken almost as a question, take him by surprise.

"I'm not trying to scare you," he says, his voice low and slightly amused. "And I don’t want to be scary, to you. Can I be honest with you, little wife?"

You nod, letting him continue to stroke that sensitive bit of skin around your wrist. He is very gentle, which has taken you by surprise.

"The truth is," he mutters, "I don't like it when you're scared of me. I don't like the way you look at me, as if you think I'm going to pounce on you and tear you apart at any moment. That's not what I want."

Slowly, still wary of him, you curl your fingers around his thumb and Aemond's breath hitches. Your hand is small compared to his; Aemond's fingers look massive beside yours.

"Everyone else seems so frightened of you. I thought.... I should be as well. I didn't know, that you hadn't meant to kill that boy. Have you told anyone else that?"

“No,” he says after a moment. “No one else knows. I haven't told anyone.”

He pauses, looking down at your hand in his. His other hand comes to trap your fingers inside of his palms, his thumbs tracing back and forth over your skin. “You’re the first I've shared this with.”

"You should tell others, that way no one will be scared of you."

Aemond lets out a soft chuckle, his gaze still fixed on your fingers intertwined with his own.

“I quite like others being afraid of me,” he admits. The smile on his face fades, just a bit, in the flickering candlelight. “But not you.”

"Not me?" You query, a sweet blush rising high on your cheeks. "Why not me?"

Aemond’s eye is drawn to that color blooming across your cheeks, the innocent flush sending a strange feeling coursing through him. He continues to stroke your wrist in a gentle, almost reverent, way.

"A wife should not be afraid of her husband," he says finally, his voice soft. "She should be worshipped by him....”

Slowly, so as not to startle you, he brings your wrist to his lips and places a gentle kiss there.

You lick your lips, nervous as all seven hells with the way things are going. Not only are you still afraid of Aemond - though growing less so by the moment - you have also never been close like this with anyone else before.

"And why.... why is it so important for other people to be afraid of you?"

Aemond’s lips linger over your skin, the faintest ghost of a smile there. He can feel the way your hand trembles slightly in his, the nervous flutter of your pulse against his fingertips. But he also notices how you don’t draw back, how you sit still and allow him to hold you.

“It's.... payback, almost,” he confesses. “For the torment I suffered as a child. It is better to be feared than loved - no one will ever again treat me the way they did when I was young.”

You are not aware of any torment in Aemond's childhood, though that isn't saying much. Of course the Targaryens keep much of what goes on between them a secret. Even now that you're married, you're hardly privy to all - or even most - of their secrets.

"Is that.... how this happened?" Shaking ever so slightly, you raise a hand to Aemond's face, fingers stroking the strap of his eyepatch.

As your slender fingers brushed against the edge of it, Aemond tenses, every muscle in his body going taut. No one has ever touched him there before, and it's an unfamiliar intimacy.

He closes his eye for a moment, trying to control his reaction, before speaking. “Yes,” he says, his voice thick with emotions he finds difficult to name. “That's how this happened.”

You feel for Aemond; having to grow up that way must have been torture.

Pulling your hand gently from his grasp, you bring both up to hook beneath the rough leather strap. "May I?"

His breathing hitches as your hands tug gently at the straps of his eyepatch. He knows your touch is innocent.... but no one has ever dared to remove it for him before. He nods once, his voice low.

“You may.”

With fierce concentration and a desire not to ruin his perfect hair, you slide the eyepatch up and off, gasping at the gorgeous sapphire glimmering where his eye should be.

"Gods, it's beautiful, Aemond." Letting the patch rest in your lap, you run your fingers lightly over the scar tissue below Aemond's eye. "Who did this to you?"

Aemond's breath hitches again, rougher this time, as he feels the tips of your slender fingers graze the scarred tissue around his eye, the touch stirring something deep within him. The feeling of your touch against the sensitive skin there is almost overwhelming.

He swallows hard, that old pain and anger bubbling up inside of him.

"My.... nephew," he finally says, his voice surprisingly even. "Lucerys Velaryon."

You inhale sharply; all you can think of is that if Aemond had really meant to kill the boy, he would have been well within his right to, after having been mutilated like this.

Grabbing for his hands, you hurry to say something. "Aemond, I-"

But your husband cuts you off. "There is one other reason it's important for others to be afraid of me."

"A-And what is that?" You ask, holding his hands close to your bosom.

"So that I can protect my wife, and my family." That sapphire is positively glowing in the light of the flickering candles. "The more afraid people are of me, the less likely they are to try and harm me, or you, or our family.... once we make one...."

His declaration takes all the air from your lungs, and you find it hard to breathe. "If I had known all of this, I.... I would never have been so frightened of you. I'm sorry, Aemond."

You cast around desperately for something else to say, some other way to apologize.

"Do not apologize."

His voice is gentle, yet firm. Your hands are still holding his against your breast, and he can feel the warmth of your skin even through the layers of your gown, the rapid beat of your heart.

"You didn't know, it is not your fault for being afraid," he soothes you. "But.... now that you know.... may I ask you something else?"

You nod, eager now to answer Aemond's questions and to ask more of your own - you want to learn so much more about him.

Aemond's fingers tighten around yours, the feel of your soft skin against his own sending a strange heat through his veins. He draws you in a little closer, his face now so close to yours that he can feel the warmth of your breath, that same scent of sweet honey and jasmine in your hair.

"You.... have not shied away from my scar, or my missing eye," he says, his voice a low whisper. "You have touched them, caressed them even.... why?"

Why...? You find it odd he even has to ask.

"Because I think they make you beautiful. Is that wrong?"

Your thumbs find his wrists now, pressing in against his pulse points, which are fluttering erratically.

Aemond's breath catches in his throat, the feeling of your dainty thumbs resting against his wrists, feeling the rapid beating of his pulse, setting his skin on fire. Your words, declaring him beautiful, ring in his ears, stirring something deep within his chest.

"Be-Beautiful?" He repeats, his voice a terrible croak. No one.... no one has ever called him beautiful. The word sounds strange in his ears, as if they're not meant for someone like him.

You nod, and after only a momentary hesitation, you bring one hand up again to his scar. This time, brushing the side closest to his hairline, a few strands of long silver hair getting in the way.

"Beautiful, Aemond. You're beautiful. I mean.... I did always think that. Just.... was too afraid of you to tell you. Do you forgive me?"

Aemond's breath hitches once more as your fingers stroke his hair, your soft touch sending a shiver down his spine. No one, no one, has ever touched his scar with such tenderness, such care.

"I.... I forgive you," he whispers, voice raw. "And for what it's worth.... I'm sorry, that I.... that I made you afraid of me. I never wanted that, I swear."

"I know. It wasn't even your fault, really." You roll your eyes, relaxing against the back of the settee. "I was just.... assuming that what everyone else said was true. Which is a terrible thing, really. My parents raised me much better than that."

A particularly chilly gust of wind blows in through the window and you wrap your arms around yourself. "I have to admit, I thought if my shenanigans went on much longer, you'd be forced to.... well, force yourself on me...."

Aemond is silent, as if that thought, the notion of forcing himself on you, is something he refuses to even consider. He turns to look at you, the pale glow of his sapphire eye giving him an otherworldly appearance.

"I.... I would never force you to do anything, little wife, not ever," he says, his voice low and serious. "I believe the first time a man and wife.... are together.... it should be.... enjoyable.... for both of them."

Suddenly, all words are caught in your throat. The thought of your first time with Aemond still makes you nervous, even knowing that he would never want to do anything against your will.

"I thought.... a woman's first time was always painful?" That's what you've always been told. You have never done anything of the sort, but perhaps Aemond knows better.

At your words, Aemond's jaw tightens. His fingers clench into a fist, the thought of you in pain during your first time together sending a wave of anger through him.

"No. No, never. It shouldn't be painful, not unless you don't want it, too," he says, his voice low and urgent. "Your first time should be.... enjoyable. Pleasant. I would never take you simply for my own pleasure. I would make sure you...." he falters.

Flinching slightly away from him at the sight of his hand in a fist, you gasp softly. Have you said something wrong?

Still, you dare to ask, "You would make sure I what?"

In the candlelight, Aemond's eye flashes dangerously and that sapphire blazes.

He takes a very deep breath, forcing himself to relax, to open his hand again. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, "I.... I don't like the idea of hurting you, it.... makes me angry."

He looks down at you again.

"I would make sure that you.... felt pleasure as well. It wouldn't be about me. It's about both of us."

If you had known how protective Aemond was of you, you would have asked him about these things sooner. He is, after all, the only person you can think to ask. If you can't discuss bedroom matters with your husband, who can you discuss them with?

"How does it feel?" You ask him softly, scooting closer to him on the settee. "When you have sex, how does it feel?"

Aemond is taken somewhat off guard by the sudden question, his cheeks going pink at your unexpected candor, but he doesn't back down. He doesn't want to shy away from your questions, not when you're so close to him, peering at him through those wide, innocent eyes.

He takes another deep breath, shifting on the settee so he can face you fully.

"it.... it feels.... good," he begins, his voice a low rumble. "It feels.... full. Warm. Tight. But.... good. More than good, especially when you do it with someone you care about. It feels safe, like nothing can hurt you ever again."

The look on Aemond's face as he speaks is one you've never seen before - something vulnerable and almost childlike staring back at you. You wonder how you could ever have been afraid of him.

"And you? Who was your first time with?"

As your question hangs in the air between the two of you, Aemond goes stock-still. No one has ever asked him that before.

He hesitates for a moment, peering warily at you. "Why.... why do you want to know?" He asks finally, voice cautious.

Now you know you've definitely said something wrong. "I was just curious," you hurry to tell him. "It's wrong of me to pry, I'm sorry...."

Aemond sighs softly, shaking his head. "No, no, don't apologize," he says, his voice a light simper now. He reaches out, taking your hand gently in his.

"It's okay, I just.... wasn't expecting you to ask that." He pauses, and you can see a flicker of something run across his face. "You.... you really want to know?"

"I do," you admit bashfully. "If you feel comfortable telling me?"

Aemond's hand grips yours a little tighter, your words sending a strange, tight feeling through hm. He hasn't thought about that night in a long time, and the memory is still painful enough to make him wince.

"All right," he says, letting out a slow breath. "I.... I'll tell you. Just.... just don't.... don't judge me, all right?"

"I won't judge," you assure him with a shake of your head.

Aemond looks down at your intertwined hands, his fingers tracing a light pattern against your palm. He closes his eye, gathering his thoughts, before lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a barely-there kiss to your knuckles.

"My.... my first time," he begins, and his voice is rough, "was with a whore, in a pleasure house, at the behest of my brother who frequented - and still frequents - them much more than I did."

"I don't think that's anything to be ashamed of," you admit, mulling the idea over. "Most men visit those types of places at some point in their lives.... don't they?"

Aemond pauses for a moment, his eye locking with yours. He looks almost surprised by your response, as if he hadn't thought you would be so blasé about the situation.

"Yes...." he says slowly, "they do. But.... it's not.... it's not the sort of thing a wife would expect to hear, about their husband's past exploits."

You chew your lip thoughtfully, running your fingers around and through the spaces between Aemond's. "I don't mind, as long as...."

You hesitate, wondering if you really want to say this now or leave it for another night. "What I mean to say, Aemond, is that.... now that we understand each other better.... perhaps you can show me what it's like? Sex? And, if you do, I expect there to be no more pleasure houses in your future, is that clear?"

Aemond's gaze darkens as your words register, his heart stuttering in his chest. His fingers twitch against yours, breath catching in his throat.

"You.... you want me to show you...?" He repeats weakly, his eye wide and disbelieving.

You close your fingers tightly around Aemond's now, leaning in toward your husband. "Mm. But as I said, you must promise - no more pleasure houses. After all, you did say you want to worship me, did you not?"

Aemond's head swims with your words, his heart hammering in his chest so hard it's difficult to catch his breath. The way you're looking at him, the sweetness in your voice, the scent of honey and jasmine in your hair.... all of it is almost too much to bear.

He swallows hard, and nods. "No more pleasure houses. I promise," he whispers, his voice hoarse and rough.

His oath sets you at ease, but there's one more thing you must tell him.

"I must admit, Aemond, I'm still scared...."

He looks about to interrupt, but you cut him off. "Oh, not of you. I'm.... terrified of the pain. I've never done well with pain, and I'm so scared it's going to hurt like hell."

Aemond's heart twists at the worry and fear in your voice, his fingers tightening over yours. He hates the thought of you being scared, hates his own inability to take that fear away from you.

"Why do you still think it's going to be painful?" He asks quietly.

Instead of making you feel trapped, his fingers around yours make you feel safe. Aemond is lethal; you can see it in his face, in the hard line of his body. But he wants to use all of that to protect you....

Though what could he possibly do to prevent his own body from hurting you, even though he might not mean to?

"That's all I've ever been told." You gulp. "A woman's first time is always painful. And.... There's always blood."

Aemond's jaw clenches in anger. He doesn't know who planted these false, hurtful notions in your head, but he wants to tear them limb from limb.

He reaches out to you, tilting your head gently up to meet his gaze. "No. No, no, no," he says, his voice low and intense. "It's not supposed to be painful, especially the first time. You've just.... you've been told wrong."

He pauses. "Sometimes there is blood, I won't lie to you about that. But there are ways to minimize the chance of that."

Aemond's fingers start to skirt back and forth under your chin. "How .... How can we stop there being so much blood? I want you to show me."

Heart now beating much faster, Aemond's stomach twists with a mixture of desire and trepidation. He swallows, hard, his eye dark and heavy-lidded as he gazes down at you.

He runs his fingers through your hair, the soft feel of it against his skin maddening. "I can show you," he murmurs, "but.... you have to trust me."

"Of course. I do now." You turn your face toward his hand, palm skimming your cheek as he touches your hair. "I know you'll take care of me."

He takes another deep breath to steady himself, his hand coming to rest against the side of your face, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Good," he whispers, "because I will, always. But there's something.... something I need to know first."

You shiver, Aemond's fingers reverent along your cheek and jaw. "What is it?"

Fingers now trailing down your neck, he pauses, hand coming to rest on your collarbone, your pulse beating fast and hard against his palm.

Aemond leans in close, his voice a rumble in your ear. "You.... you have never even been touched, have you?"

You are very aware of how hard your heart is beating, thumping underneath his fingers. "I haven't.... is that bad?"

Aemond breathes heavily, pulling back to look at you.

"No," he says emphatically, "it's not bad. It's.... it's just...." He trails off for a moment, struggling to find the words. "I need to know.... if you're still.... if you're still intact."

The question makes you blush furiously, looking down at your laps, side by side, so you don't have to look Aemond in the eye. "I.... yes.... isn't that where the blood comes from?"

You don't know much, but you do know that.

He places two fingers gently under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him again.

"Yes," he says, "that's where the blood comes from. But it can break in other ways. For instance, from fingers or.... other objects." His fingers trace along your cheek, obviously trying to soothe your growing discomfort at this conversation.

"But it.... it doesn't have to," he adds after a moment.

You chuckle, reluctantly meeting Aemond's gaze. "Can we try?"

He takes a moment to steady himself, his hand now trailing back down your neck, slowly caressing. "Are you sure? Absolutely sure?"

You nod fervently, gripping onto his wrist. "Positively. Now that I understand you better, I can think of no one else I'd like to teach me such things...."

He leans in, lips brushing your ear again, breath hot against your skin. "Then I will," he murmurs, his voice an uneven, ragged whisper, "I will show you. And I will take my time."

Long have you waited for someone to come along and share this experience with you. When you were initially betrothed to Aemond, you thought all hope was lost - he was so frightening and the thought of sharing a bed with him sent a shiver of panic through you.

But now.... Women have desires just as much as men do, surely... At least you know you do. And Aemond is offering to take care of them for you....

You steady yourself with a hand on Aemond's chest, nails digging into the soft cotton of his tunic. "Please.... I want it."

Aemond's stomach clenches, your soft, pleading voice sending a bolt of white hot desire through him.

"Patience," he murmurs, his sizeable palm laid against the back of your hand on his chest, "I'll take care of you, I promise. I just need you to relax for me, all right?"

"Mm, I'll try...." With another nod, you take a deep breath, shuddering at the feeling of Aemond's big hand covering yours entirely. "Maybe a drink would serve to relax me better...?"

This gives Aemond pause, and he pulls back slightly, his eye raking over your face, taking in the soft blush on your cheeks, the way your lips are parted as you catch your breath.

He gives a single, slow nod. "Yes," he admits, "I think a drink might help."

Without another word, he moves to a small table on the other side of the room, pouring you each a generous glass of sweet wine.

As he does so, you finger the pendant at your throat, a gift from your late mother. The way Aemond looks at you; any woman would be lucky to have a husband who looks at her that way. Like you're precious, like he would do anything to protect you.

Once offered your glass, you take it and swallow a large mouthful, hoping to get drunk as quickly as possible, to make this whole ordeal more bearable.

Aemond watches you closely, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he sees you gulp the wine so quickly. He knows you're trying to get drunk, trying to use the alcohol as a crutch to make this easier.

"There's no need to rush," he says quietly, taking a seat beside you again, his knee bumping yours. He lifts his own glass to his lips, taking a slow, measured drink.

Swallowing another substantial mouthful of wine, you furtively watch the way Aemond's lips purse around the rim of his glass.

You smooth the skirts of your dress down, taking a deep breath. "I just want to be as relaxed as possible for you, Aemond."

He continues to watch you, that striking violet eye taking in every tiny detail - the way your fingers grasp the fabric of your dress, the soft movement of your body underneath the silk.

He takes a deep breath, his eye watching you as he drains the last of the wine from the glass. "I know," he murmurs, his voice a husky rumble, "but there's no need to get completely drunk, my love."

"It can't hurt." You upend the first glass of wine, draining the last dregs, and hold your glass out toward him. "Another?"

Apparently highly amused, Aemond raises a brow, but refuses to pour you another.

"I think that's quite enough. There's no need to be quite so drunk tonight, I promise."

You pout, setting your glass aside, but starting to feel a pleasant warmth wash over you from the first glass all the same.

"How do we start?" You question, leaning in close to him. Aemond smells of chamomile and sweat and.... maybe just a hint of blood? It's the best thing you've ever smelled.

Aemond reaches for you suddenly, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you gently onto his lap so you can straddle him.

The next breath he takes rattles through him as you settle on top of him, his hands gripping your waist, heart beating fast. "We.... we start here," he whispers, his voice a rough murmur.

"Goodness," you breathe, hands curling over his shoulders to steady yourself. "And.... what do we do here?"

You're trying your best to be brave, and the wine is making it easier, but there is still that niggling worry at the back of your mind, chanting blood blood blood.

Aemond feels that slight tremble in your hands as you grab his shoulders, the way you hesitate and swallow nervously as you ask your question. He can practically hear your thoughts racing, paying attention to the fear and trepidation in your words.

He leans in close, hands slipping from your waist to bracket your ribs, pulling you flush against him, your body cradled easily in his lap. "We start like this," he murmurs, his fingers gently tilting your chin up to look at him. "Just like this."

Slowly, fingers gentle but firm on your chin, he's bringing you in for a kiss.

The sound that leaves your mouth at the first dry press of your lips together is embarrassing. You curse. "I'm sorry." You bite your lip hard, searching Aemond's one violet eye for forgiveness. "Can we try again?"

Aemond chuckles good-naturedly, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs tracing slow, gentle patterns over your cheeks.

"You have nothing to apologize for," he whispers, leaning ever closer to you, his breath hot against your lips. "We can try as many times as you like, darling."

With a hand again around his wrist to steady yourself, you don't have far to go, what with Aemond's face so close to yours. You press your lips to his - soft yet firm. Your other hand slides up the outside of his thigh as you open your mouth under his, grateful for his willingness to teach you.

You hear Aemond's breath hitch again as he feels your hand moving up his leg, the touch of your slim, soft fingers against his body sending a shiver down his spine. He groans as you open your mouth, his tongue immediately seeking yours, tangling, tasting, claiming.

He grips your hair in one hand, angling your head back so he can deepen the kiss, his other hand back to gripping your hip, pulling you tighter against him.

You do the same, hands migrating down, loving the feeling of Aemond's slim, strong muscle under your fingers. As you kiss, you surreptitiously move the thin cloth of Aemond's tunic aside so you can touch him skin to skin over his sharp hipbones.

This earns you a keen inhale from your husband, who jerks away from you.

"I'm sorry," you breathe. "Is this okay?"

His mouth has opened in a gasp against yours, eyes squeezing shut.

When they open again, he merely looks at you, taking in the soft, pink flush of your cheeks, the way your pupils are thoroughly dilated, your chest heaving. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. "Yes," he says ruggedly, his voice a scratchy gasp, "I'm sorry, it is. It's okay."

A flood of warmth washes over you, and you grin. You don't know why, but you want to kiss his neck.

Fingers digging hard into his hip, you lean in, nosing his long hair out of the way as your lips meet his neck, sucking and biting. Aemond tastes clean and faintly of rose water.

Aemond's head tips back immediately, giving your lips and teeth free reign over his neck, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh at the unfamiliar sensation. A soft, low moan escapes him as your mouth traces a path along the sensitive skin of his neck.

His body arches against yours. "My love," he gasps, his voice a ragged, breathless plea, "this is maddening."

"Need you to teach me," is your reply, pushing harder against him. "Don't go mad just yet."

He runs his hands down your sides, skimming over the soft, silky material of your dress, his body reacting powerfully to your closeness. "Gods, woman," he gasps, thumbs playing idly along the edge of your ribs, "are you sure you haven't done this before?"

You rest your cheek on Aemond's shoulder, nose brushing along the chiseled line of his jaw. "Positive," you sigh, arms now slung around him. "But I like the way you touch me. It's making me feel all hot and wet.... down there."

At this declaration, Aemond makes a noise you've never heard anyone make before. He nuzzles against your collarbone, pressing slow, hot kisses along the line of your chest just visible over the collar of your dress.

His mouth is starting to curve into a wicked smile. "Do you want me to touch you there, too?"

With a nod, you begin to pull the folds of your dress up over your thighs. "Please. The feeling down there, it's.... very insistent." And Aemond's fingers look perfectly long and warm and rough with calluses.

Aemond swallows hard as he watches the fabric of your dress retreat up over your thighs, the soft, bare skin of your legs suddenly exposed to him. His gaze rakes over you, taking in every detail - the soft, pale flesh, the way the candlelight casts shadows over the curves of your body.

As though trying not to startle you, Aemond runs his knuckles painstakingly slowly up the inside of your thigh. "When we were first betrothed, I knew I had gotten lucky."

That drunken haze still hovering around you, you let your legs slip further apart around him. "Lucky? How so?"

His hand moves further up, touch feather-light against her skin. "Lucky," he murmurs, "because I knew I'd be marrying the most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms."

He lets his hand move higher still, fingers stopping just before they reach the edge of your smallclothes. He pauses, looking intently at you, the question plain on his face.

"I never knew you thought I was beautiful...." You lean more against him, feeling impossibly safe and comfortable in his embrace. "Please. You can."

Hips canting forward, you try to push his hand in toward you.

"The most beautiful," he replies. He can feel your hips moving subtly against his, feel his own desire rising with every move you make.

Those long fingers hook into the edge of your smallclothes, running the backs of his knuckles along the sensitive bit of skin he finds there.

Your eyes flutter shut, the feeling of his gentle fingers finally scooping up under your dress making your stomach flip nervously. "Please." The word is uttered against Aemond's chin, where you've pressed your lips as you wait to feel his hand where you need it most.

As slowly as he an manage, he insinuates those fingers fully inside your smallclothes. He can feel the heat of your skin, the way you squirm in his lap as he moves closer to his destination, his own body reacting strongly to the anticipation.

He leans in, mouth finding yours in a heated, hungry kiss, his fingers finally, finally touching that wet, sensitive flesh between your thighs.

A sharp inhale accompanies the meeting of Aemond's hand to your sex. Everything down there feels so wet already, you suppose you should be embarrassed, but the wine is making it hard to feel so, which you're grateful for.

"Aemond...." Seeking his lips for another kiss, you mutter, "please don't stop."

One long finger sinks into your wet, hot flesh, his entire body shivering at the feeling of you beneath his hands. He lets out a ragged gasp as you kiss him, mouth moving fervently against yours, tongue delving into your mouth, tangling with yours.

With a low, gruff noise, he starts to move his finger inside of you, slow, gentle circles that make your muscles tighten and twitch against his hand. "I won't," he murmurs against your lips, his eyes squeezed shut, "I promise, I won't."

Aemond's finger has slid easily into you, all the way down to the knuckle. "Is it -?" You gasp, glancing down, tugging your skirts out of the way to see better. "It's inside? I thought it would be much more painful...."

You know it might not be the same with his manhood, which is surely a fair bit bigger than one of his fingers, but you're glad things have gone smoothly so far all the same.

Aemond's other hand presses itself solidly against that little bundle of nerves, the one you're familiar with, the one that makes you see stars, and you bite his lower lip a little too hard in response.

"Shit, sorry."

Aemond lets out a low chuckle at your reaction, his lips curving into a smile against your mouth. "No need to apologize, sweet girl," he mutters. "There's a possibility it might hurt more than this when we go further, but I promise I'll be gentle."

He moves his finger in and out of you slowly, his other hand still pressing against you, the pad of his thumb circling that swollen bud, his touch gentle but firm. "How does this feel?"

A pang of fear shoots through you at his declaration that you will likely be in pain later on, but it's soothed by the way Aemond's fingers are gently coaxing themselves inside of you and over your clit.

"It feels perfect, Aemond. I never even knew it could feel this good." Not even when you'd touched yourself in bed at night.

Aemond's eye darkens as he hears your words, the sound of your voice, gutted and breathless, making his stomach clench. "This is just the beginning, sweet girl. There's so much more I can show you."

He slips another finger into you, feeling your body tighten and go taut around him, his own body still reacting powerfully to the sight and feel of you. He leans in to kiss you again, his mouth hungrily claiming yours.

With another finger inside, you start to squirm in his lap, and your hand slips, colliding with something hard inside of Aemond's trousers.

"Aemond," you gasp, "it.... it's hard."

Aemond lets out a strangled noise as your hand brushes against him, his body shuddering, his eye squeezing shut. "Ah, shit, sweetheart," he gasps, his breath ragged, "Don't do that."

He looks at you, his breath coming in quick, rough pants, his eye darkened to a deep, intense violet. "I'm going to be patient with you."

He says this like he's trying to convince himself of it.

"I'm sorry," you gasp again, hands flying to your mouth. "I didn't mean to touch it...."

Gaze flickering to the windows, to the Targaryen flags flying from every turret, you stifle a smile. "But maybe.... maybe you don't have to be so patient...."

Aemond growls at your words, fingers slowing their ministrations over you. "How impatient would you have me be?"

You reach down to take his free hand - the one currently touching your clit in nice, soft circles - in yours, lacing your fingers as you lean into him. "Still gentle, just.... Maybe lead me? Show me how things like this should be done."

Aemond can practically feel his self-restraint slipping at your words, the feeling of your small, soft hand in his making his head spin. He takes a deep breath, trying desperately to maintain control, to keep up the facade of gentility.

He grips your chin with his free hand, lifting your face to meet his eye, his voice low and rough. "Are you sure you're ready for that?" He asks, the question almost pained.

"I am. I'm sure." You wrap your shoulders around him, burying your face against his neck. "Take me to bed and show me, please."

Aemond swallows hard, the feeling of your breath against him sending a shudder through him. Lifting you easily in his arms, he stands silently from the settee.

The loss of Aemond's fingers from inside of you makes you whine, clinging to his broad shoulders as he makes his way to the bed.

He lays you gently down, crawling over you, hand once again trailing up the soft expanse of your thigh.

"Aemond...."

A sweet noise rumbles through him as he positions himself on top of you, body pressing you down against the covers, hips slotting between your legs. His gaze as he looks down on you is fiery, eye raking over your body, hands gripping and kneading the supple flesh of your thighs.

"You drive me mad, do you know that?" He murmurs. He leans down to kiss your neck, his mouth hot and insistent against your skin.

With Aemond on top of you, you reach around to tug the back of his tunic up, skimming your fingers along the warm skin of his lower back.

"Why did you never.... tell me before?" You mutter quietly, nibbling at Aemond's earlobe.

Aemond allows himself a deep moan as you touch him, your fingers roaming over his skin, your mouth on his ear. He rolls his hips against you, the aching hardness of his body weighing you down.

"Gods, I don't know," he gasps, his hands roaming over the soft curves of your body. "Maybe I could tell you were afraid of me. Maybe I was a fool."

"I suppose we both were fools." You curl your tongue around Aemond's ear, teasing.

His hardness is pressing insistently against you through your clothes. Aemond leans his forehead to yours. "I'm going to take your dress off now. Is that alright?"

You've never been naked in front of anyone before, but Aemond is making you feel so safe that you nod hurriedly, sitting up. "Yes, please."

Aemond's eye darkens at your nod, his hands immediately going to the laces of your dress, working them loose until the fabric falls away from your body. He lets his gaze roam over your exposed skin, his fingers tracing the soft planes of your body, reverent and gentle.

"Seven Hells," he mutters, his voice a ragged whisper, "I've never seen anything so perfect."

The wine allows you to feel comfortable enough to stretch out over top of your discarded dress, staring up at him over the swell of your breasts. "Don't you want to touch your perfect wife, Aemond?"

"Of course I do," he mutters. He moves aside only slightly, letting his fingers scrape over one of your hardened nipples. "I want to touch every part of you."

You arch into his touch, his fingertips hard and callused against your sensitive nipple. "Aemond.... Would I be a complete whore if I asked for your fingers back inside of me?"

"No," he mutters easily, a hand running its way down your body, the other holding himself above you. "No, you wouldn't. But I want you to ask for it, my love. I want you to tell me exactly what you want."

Your breathing quickening, the air in the room thick and heavy, you spread your legs around him, unabashed. "i want you to touch me. To touch my stomach, my hips and thighs .... my cunt. Please."

Aemond makes a ragged noise at your request, his body shuddering as you open yourself to him. He trails his hand lower, his fingers grazing over your stomach, trailing over your hips and thighs, before coming to rest between your legs.

He lets that hand rest on your for a moment, feeling your wetness, his violet eye dark and full of lust. "Is this what you wanted, darling?"

"Yes," comes your voice, wrecked, entire body feeling overheated and overwhelmed already. "Gods, Aemond, I.... I'm sorry I didn't ask for this earlier."

You run your hands up Aemond's toned arms, tugging on the short sleeves of his tunic. "M-May I take this off?"

Feeling you tug at his tunic, Aemond nods, loving that ragged and pleading tone in your voice. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, can see the raw, pleading look in your eyes, and he's never been more turned on in his life.

By way of a real answer, he reaches down and hooks his fingers under the hem of his shirt to rip it off over his head. He shakes his hair out majestically, making you giggle.

But after that giggle.... You can do nothing but lay beneath him and stare. His body is perfect, abs cut into his skin above the smooth, narrow line of his hips.

"Goodness ...." You whisper, fingertips prodding at his hardened stomach. "You're.... actually perfect."

"Perfect, really?" He replies, clearly perplexed. "I'd say I'm looking at perfection right now."

You whimper, Aemond's moist lips once more at your neck, his body pressed to yours. "How do you.... get your body to look that way? Maybe you can teach me that too, as well as how to ride a dragon."

Aemond laughs softly, his teeth scraping against you as he kisses down your neck. "It's actually quite simple," he murmurs, his hands roaming over your body, arms caging you in against the bed. "Just a lot of sword practice and fighting."

He pauses, his lips trailing teasingly over the line of your jaw. "I'm going to teach you to ride more than just a dragon, my love."

"I could sword fight." Your voice doesn't sound like it ever has before. "Easy. Train me."

You gasp at his words, nails now digging into his back. "And what else are you going to teach me to ride, husband?"

Aemond lets out a low chuckle at your response, his muscles coiling where your nails dig into his skin. He rolls his hips against you and makes you gasp.

"I can teach you how to ride me," he mutters, his voice a rough, ragged whisper. "Or maybe you'd like a ride on my face."

Your eyes go wide, and you press him away by the shoulder just so you can look him in the eye. "I.... I'm allowed to do that?"

You've never heard of this - using your mouth? Why have you never thought of it before?

"Of course you are," he murmurs, looking bemusedly down on you. "And I would be more than happy to let you."

His hot breath whispers over your skin as he leans to speak into your ear. "You've never heard of it before, have you?"

"I haven't." You tilt your head, fingers tender along Aemond's jaw. "How should I.... How do I do it?"

Aemond's eye closes at the feeling of your fingers, tender on his jaw, your touch ever gentle and caressing. He makes a very small noise and shudders over top of you. "It's easy, darling."

"I just lean back here...." With one swift movement, Aemond rolls and settles himself against the pillows. "You come up here...."

Gentle but insistent hands guide you, pulling you all the way up. "And swing a leg over me."

Still helped along by his strong hands, you throw one knee on the opposite side of Aemond's head, bracketing his ears with your thighs. "Like.... this?"

This position makes you feel as nervous as you have all night, even with the aid of the wine - Aemond can see all of you. Truly all of you, and you can't quite meet his eye because of it.

Aemond's hands tighten on your thighs, his breathing growing ragged. He can sense your nervousness, the way your muscles are tensing up, the way you're avoiding his eye.

He rubs his hands soothingly across your thighs, trying to relax you. "That's it, darling." His voice is soft, comforting. "You look gorgeous."

You bite your lip, carding one hand through Aemond's alluring silver hair. The other you place over his good eye, the hint of a smile on your face as you mutter, "Don't look...."

Aemond smirks, and yanks you suddenly, roughly forward by the backs of your thighs, so that your womanhood is directly above his smirking lips. "As you wish."

He places a single, open-mouthed kiss to your clit and the suction, the wetness, of it all is enough to make you squeal.

There's one poignant moment where Aemond's intensely hot, wet mouth rests over your womanhood. Then, with a jagged moan, he begins to lave over you, lips, tongue, and teeth working in tandem.

His callused palms cradle the backs of your thighs, keeping you in place as his tongue works you over. And when that same tongue points itself deep inside of your core, you can no longer keep your hand over his eye, lest you want to smash your husband's head painfully into the sheets.

Instead, that hand flies to the headboard, holding on for dear life. "Gods, Aemond! I.... I've never felt anything like this, what.... what in the seven hells...."

Aemond redoubles his grip on your thighs, keeping you in place as he works you with his tongue, his mouth and teeth and lips bringing you to new heights of pleasure. He moans roughly, and the sound reverberates through you, making your mouth fall open.

"Just... relax, my love," he mutters against your folds, "I did say I would worship you, did I not?"

You nod, still petting a hand gently through Aemond's hair, coiling your fingers around the strands, feeling how soft it is. Your eyes, however, are trained on the gilded ceiling when you answer.

"Y-You did, but.... this.... I didn't even know this was a thing people did. Is this.... common?"

"No, sweet one," he mutters, his voice thick with desire and - somewhere - a hint of disdain, "it isn't common. Most men see their wives as something to be claimed, conquered. And I...."

"You see them as something to be worshipped," you answer, remembering his words from earlier.

Aemond lets out a low chuckle against you as you knot your fingers in his hair, his tongue continuing to lathe across you. He lifts his head for a moment, his lips and chin glistening, a smirk on his face. "Look at me."

You do, and are rewarded with his fingers climbing the insides of your thighs, splaying themselves over you. "You are the most exquisite creature I've ever laid eyes on."

The sight of his face, so slick with you, his eye dark, his sapphire glinting, his fingers roaming over your thighs, it all makes you shiver, your breathing coming in short, ragged gasps.

"And you," he continues, voice muffled against your folds, "you taste divine."

And without another word, he dives back in, his tongue delving into you once more, his hands gripping your thighs, bringing you lower, closer to him.

All of this - Aemond telling you how beautiful you are, his talented mouth on you, the haze of the wine moving through you - has you tumbling toward the edge quicker than you've ever done so by yourself.

"Aemond.... close!" You give a hard tug to Aemond's hair, warning him.

He closes his eyes as he focuses on nothing more than bringing you further to the edge, the heat of your body and the taste of you driving him wild, pushing him to give you more, more, more.

"Just.... let go," he mutters against you. "I want you to let go for me, my sweet."

You're trembling now, hips riding down against his face of their own accord. "Oh, gods...." You've never done this in front of anyone before. What will Aemond think of the way you climax? Will it be embarrassing? "Aemond...."

There's no longer any time to think it over, though, as one last swipe of his tongue sends you spiraling with a loud cry.

Aemond's heart is pounding hard, watching you cum, his eye wide and alight with desire as he watches your body shudder and shake above him, your cry of pleasure filling the room and, undoubtedly, the hallways around it.

He helps you ride out the wave of pleasure, his tongue slowly bringing you back down, peppering your thighs and hip bones with hot, open-mouthed kisses.

Your eyes fluttering, your chest heaving, Aemond coaxes you through your first climax with him and then maneuvers you down to lay beside him. You feel so boneless, you sure you aren't much help in this endeavor.

"That was...." You don't even have the words to describe what just happened to you.

Aemond watches you closely as you lay beside him, breasts rising and falling heavily, your skin flushed and marked all over with his mouth, one hand trailing lightly over your stomach. The sight of you, well-loved and satisfied, makes his chest burn with desire.

He leans in close to you, curling his body around yours like a protective shield. His mouth trailing over your neck, his voice a quiet whisper. "That was beautiful. And we're only getting started."

You gaze at him out of half-lidded eyes, your body already feeling drained from just one round. "What...." You stifle a yawn behind your hand, trying to hide it. "What's next?"

Aemond laughs at the sight of you yawning, both hands now brushing over your body, his touch gentle. He can see the exhaustion in your eyes, hear the tiredness in your voice.

He leans down and presses a loving kiss to your forehead. "I don't think you're quite ready for more yet, my love. You look like you're barely awake."

Through your tiredness, you whine, "But you promised to show me. What it's like...." You're pressing sleepy kisses to Aemond's jaw, lips sweeping down over his neck.

Aemond's lashes flutter at your tiny kisses, his arms curling strong and protective around you. He makes an odd noise, and you realize you may have had an orgasm, but he never did.

"I can take care of it for you." Searching down below, hands clumsy and heavy with sleep, you feel Aemond grab for your wrist.

"And you will," he mutters, admonishing. "But tonight it's getting late, and you're tired. We have our whole lives together, we need not rush this."

Another yawn overtakes you, and you snuggle down into his warmth. "Tomorrow, then?" You mumble, arms slung lazily around him. "And dragon riding tomorrow, too...."

Aemond chuckles again at your insistence, hands gently rubbing themselves over your body, comforting you. He shifts back on the bed, pulling you into his chest and wrapping his arms around you, holding you as close as possible.

"Of course, my love," he murmurs, his voice a gentle, soothing rumble in your ear. "Tomorrow. And dragon riding, too. But for now, you need to sleep."

Aemond runs the very tips of his fingers up and down your back, just along your spine.

"I really am sorry, Aemond...." You're already half asleep, struggling to stay awake, to get the words out. "D'you really forgive me?"

Aemond sighs.

"Of course I forgive you," he whispers, breath tickling your ear. "It's all in the past now, my love. The only thing that matters is you and me, right here, right now. And dragon riding tomorrow, I promise...."

#aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon smut #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell #smut #aegonstradwife #my writing #request fill #i posted this earlier today and it got flagged bc i included a naughty pic #it wasn't even that naughty but o well #hope you enjoy!

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