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alygator77 · 4 hours ago

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ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony I ch 8 ᰔᩚ

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, some triggers of domestic abuse » 【note, this chapter contains HEAVY TRIGGERS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE. ABUSIVE PAST RELATIONSHIP. MANIPULATION. GASLIGHTING. DISSOCIATION. CHILDHOOD TRAUMA. PTSD. PANIC ATTACK. explicit sexual content, fem rec oral, orgasm.】

ꨄ words: 13.8k

ꨄ a/n. hello my loves, we are back! this is a very, heavy chapter. pls read the triggers before proceeding and read at your own discretion. i actually cried writing this chapter. i'll see you at the bottom ♡ (art by @/hanamin_0123 on X )

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

♬ playlist

series masterlist ꨄ︎ previous chapter ꨄ︎ next chapter → pending

ch 8 // inhale, exhale

Mornings like these make you feel like you’re walking through someone else’s life. Sunlight seeps through the curtains in buttery streaks, and you murmur, stirring slightly under the blankets, the feeling of fingers threading softly through your hair.

Whose fingers? Are you dreaming? Oh well, if it’s a dream, it’s one you’d rather not wake up from. It’s a peaceful morning—domestic, even—and for a moment, you let yourself breathe it in, almost succumbing back to sleep, wondering if this is what normal feels like.

The peace you’re building with Satoru. This life. You let it settle over you like a soft blanket, hoping it might chase away the prickle of unease that had been clinging to your mind since last night.

Ah... but of course. Something is off. And unfortunately, the thought coils into your mind yet again, slithering in before you can stop it—an itch you can’t quite scratch.

It jolts you awake, your eyes fluttering open as the thoughts fester their wake into your mind, but as the fogginess of your heavy eyes begin to focus, the first thing you see is him.

Satoru—propped up on one elbow, looking down at you affectionately as he lays beside you on the bed—fingers brushing lazily through your hair.

“Hey you,” he murmurs quietly. “Good mornin’.”

Your cheeks blush.

Oh. This isn’t a dream. Fuck. Of course. You just remembered that you snuck into his room last night.

Your body moved on its own, and now you’re unsure what to say this morning.

Because Satoru’s smile last night outside the jacuzzi, the one that said—Everything’s fine—you’d seen past it. After all, his smile isn’t just charm; it’s armor. But this time he wasn’t shielding himself; he was shielding you.

And perhaps you would rather convince yourself it is fine. To believe that the life you’re building together isn’t as fragile as it feels—poised to crumble under the weight of the unknown.

Yet, in the stillness of the night, your mind wouldn’t let you rest. No. After saying goodnight to Satoru, returning to your separate beds, most of your night was spent tossing and turning restlessly—thoughts racing in endless circles.

And then, before you knew it, there you were—standing in the hallway, barefoot and hesitant as your fingers brushed lightly against the doorframe of his room. His door was slightly ajar and the faint glow of moonlight spilled out into the dark hallway.

Fuck. What are you doing?

Honestly, you weren’t sure what you needed exactly. Reassurance? Comfort? To hear him say one more time that everything was fine, even if you knew deep down it wasn’t? All you knew was that the weight in your chest felt unbearable, and you didn’t want to be alone with it anymore.

Quietly, you stepped inside, slowly making your way to the edge of his bed. After lowering yourself onto the mattress, you perched there—hands nervously twisting in your lap as you watched him.

He looked so… peaceful. And beautiful. His white lashes rested against his cheekbones, the faintest hint of color blooming there. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing deep and even, the rise and fall of his chest almost hypnotic. The mere sight of his expression sent a wave of longing crashing through you.

Without thinking, your hand moved, brushing lightly against his hair. The soft, silken strands slipped through your fingers, and you smoothed them back from his forehead in a gentle motion.

“Mmm…” he stirred beneath your touch, brow furrowing as a quiet murmur slipped from his lips—something too soft to make out.

You froze, hand stilling against his hair as your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, you thought he might fall back into the rhythm of sleep, but then his lashes fluttered, and his eyes opened, heavy-lidded and hazy with sleep.

“y/n…?” His voice was low, gravelly, and his gaze landed on you, soft and unfocused.

“Oh… hi…” you whispered. A warmth crept into your cheeks as his eyes lingered on you. “Sorry I, uh… didn’t mean to wake you.”

He blinked slowly, a sleepy smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he rubbed at his eyes.

“Hey… no it’s fine. You okay?”

“Yeah… um. I…” You swallowed hard, your gaze darting down to your lap as your hands curled into the fabric of your nightgown. “I just… couldn’t sleep.”

Immediately, his expression softened, the lingering traces of sleep in his gaze giving way to a quiet concern. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow as his other hand reached for yours.

“What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, unable to meet his gaze as the words caught in your throat.

“Nothing,” you hesitate. “I just… couldn’t stop thinking.”

He let out a quiet hum, filled with understanding, before sighing softly. His hand tugged at yours, gently pulling you closer.

“C’mere…”

Before you could protest, you found yourself lying beside him, the warmth of his body seeping into yours as his arm wrapped securely around your waist. He shifted slightly, his chest pressing against your back as the blankets rustled around you both.

You felt his chest rumble against you as he let out a sleepy hum, his hand brushing lightly against your abdomen in a slow, comforting rhythm.

“Better?”

Your breath caught for a moment at the intimacy of it all—the way his face nuzzled against the crook of your neck, his nose brushing lightly against your skin.

“Um… yeah,” you whispered, letting yourself relax into him. “You’re… warm.”

“Mmhm…” his lips curved into the faintest smile as he burrowed closer. “One of my many talents… ‘m like… a human heater,” his words slurred slightly as sleep tugged at the edges of his voice. “Should charge for this, honestly.”

You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself, carrying away the weight of your earlier worries.

“Yeah… right. Is there anything you don’t think you should charge for?”

As he considered your question, his head tilted slightly, breath ghosting across your neck.

“Dunno…” he murmured, halfway between wakefulness and sleep. “Smiles, maybe. Those are free… but only f’you.”

You shifted slightly, turning your head just enough to peer back at him. The corners of his lips tugged up into a slow, lazy grin as one eye cracked open at you.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup,” his grin widened. “See? Free of charge.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, returning his grin.

Ah… all your worries were once again melting away.

As you shifted in the bed to face him, you allowed your eyes to fully meet his.

His legs tangled with yours beneath the blankets, and his hands slid to rest at the small of your back—tracing lazy circles, lulling you into a calm you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

“And you’re thinking too much again,” his nose brushed against yours in a playful nudge. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty little head of yours?”

You held your breath as your fingers curled lightly against the fabric of his shirt, gripping it for some kind of anchor.

“I… I dunno…” you exhaled heavily. “I just… I’m worried, I guess.”

“About Haru?” he asked gently.

You hesitated, your gaze falling as your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. The silence hung between you.

He’s not wrong… but that’s not entirely all of it.

You’re worried about… everything. About him. About this.

About… us.

The weight of your quiet made something shift in him. He didn’t push, didn’t pry. Instead, his hand continued its soothing motion against your back.

“Hey now…” he murmured sleepily. “Nothin’s gonna happen. You’re safe. Haru’s safe. I got this.”

You look up at him through your lashes, and his own gaze was heavy lidded—the striking blue of his eyes softened by a quiet intimacy.

“How… can you be so sure?” you whispered shakily.

“Because ’m me,” he replied simply, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. It was lazy, sleepy, but so undeniably Satoru. “And I don’t lose. Ever. It’s, like… my whole fucking thing.”

You couldn’t help it—the small laugh that escaped you was quiet and soft, muffled against the broad expanse of his chest as he pulled you closer.

“Your confidence is almost as annoying as it is reassuring...”

“See? Multi-talented,” he quipped, and his hand against your back slowed as the sleep threatened to overtake him, but the lazy circles never ceased. “Seriously, though… whatever’s got you tied up in knots, don’t carry it alone. ’m here… always.”

His words settled over, wrapping around the edges of your anxiety. Your cheek nuzzled into the soft fabric of his shirt as you nodded wordlessly—molding your body against his.

“I just… don’t want to bother you.”

“You could never bother me,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple in a fleeting kiss. “You’re kinda like… my favorite person, y’know?”

All the unease that was weighing you down burned away as a warmth curled throughout your body. His breathing began to slow, evening out into a steady rhythm.

Once you felt his hand on your back grow still, you thought he’d drifted off, but then his drowsy voice broke the silence—filled with a quiet conviction.

“I got you princess… always.”

A small, tired smile tugged at your lips.

“Thanks, Satoru…” you whispered as your eyes fluttered closed.

The hum that rumbled from his chest in response was faint, coupled with the way his arm tightened slightly around you, pulling you even closer. And in his warmth, enveloped by the steady cadence of his breathing and the solid presence of him beside you, you felt the faint stirrings of peace. Sleep crept in gently, pulling you under in soft, lulling waves, and this time, you let it.

“Yoo-hoo, sleepyhead. Still waking up?” His voice breaks through your thoughts, teasing, and very much awake.

Your eyes snap to his again, startled, and now, you found him smirking at you, propped up on one elbow. His hair is tousled from sleep, white strands falling messily over his forehead, and his eyes—those piercing, crystalline blues—hold a glint of amusement.

“Oh… um, yeah. g’morning,” you blink, heat rising to your cheeks as the weight of his gaze settles on you.

He rests his head on the pillow beside you, reverently running his hand up your cheek. You hope he doesn’t feel how hot it’s growing under his gaze.

“You’re red.”

Well, fuck.

“And you’re staring…” you murmur quietly.

“Can you blame me?” he replies with a smirk. “You look way too fucking good in my bed.”

Your blush deepens, and you turn your head slightly to break his gaze, though the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“I… just…”

“Was trying to seduce me, huh?”

Your eyes snap back to his, wide with indignation.

“Wha—I told you I couldn’t sleep!”

“Sure, sure,” he scoots closer to you, lips curling into a devious grin. “Buuuut… you were clinging to me a moment ago. Should’ve seen it. Super cute.”

“Tch… I was not clinging,” you protest, pulling the blankets over your body as your cheeks burn hotter.

“Uh-huh,” he hums, unconvinced, growing impossibly smug. “You sure about that? Pretty sure you mumbled my name in your sleep, too.”

Your mouth falls open, words failing you as you sputter, “I—I did not!”

“Oh, you absolutely did,” he replies smoothly, grin stretching into a smirk. “It was quite adorable. Almost melted on the spot.”

Fuck… did you?

Your eyes narrow as he flashes those pearly white teeth at you.

Nah. He’s fucking with you, you know better.

“Yeah right. You’re making that up,” you huff, rolling your eyes.

“Maybe,” he admits, shrugging one shoulder casually. “But you’ll never know, will you?”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, giving him a playful shove. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You snore!”

He scoffs. “I do not snore.”

“You do,” you counter smugly. “Loudly. Like, so damn loud I’m surprised it didn’t wake up Haru.”

His eyebrow rises and a mischievous glint flickers in his gaze. “Ohhhh? Alright, alright. Fine then,” his voice drops low as he murmurs, “you really wanna play that game with me?”

Before you can react, he moves. You yelp as in one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, his hands pinning your wrists gently against the mattress as he hovers over you—grin downright wicked.

“Satoru!” you laugh, squirming beneath him. “Get off me!”

“Nope,” he says smugly, his face dipping closer to yours. “You accused me of snoring. That’s slander. Hate to tell ya, but I can’t let it slide.”

Your laughter fades slightly as you feel his weight press against you.

“Oh yeah?” you ask breathlessly, “And… just what are you gonna do about it, Mr. Perfect?”

Those vivid blue eyes darken, and your breath hitches as he dips his head lower, into the crook of your neck, making your heart flip as you feel his lips press a featherlight kiss behind your ear.

“Hmmm… let’s see… I wonder…” his breath tickles your skin as he trails soft kisses down your throat. “How shall I punish you?”

You blink, absorbing his words as a shiver of warmth spreads through your core.

“P-Punish?!” you stammer breathlessly.

“Mhmm...” as his kisses continue downwards, his hands loosen from your wrists, gliding down your arms reverently. “What did y’think was going to happen?”

His hands gingerly descend down your curves, palms pausing at your hips. You feel his fingers slip briefly underneath the hem of your nightgown, just above your abdomen as his lips fall lower, gentle nips against your skin.

“S-Satoru…” you whine as he hums against your skin, a smirk curling upon his lips.

“C’mon now… you come into my room… crawl into my bed… wearing these thin little pajamas…”

His thumbs rub smooth circles across your abdomen, and you feel yourself beginning to get hot.

“I wasn’t—haaa” the words die on your lips as his hand rises to the curve of your breast, thumb grazing the hardened peak of your nipple through the material of your sleepwear.

“Wasn’t what?” you’re squirming as he pebbles your nipple slowly. “Trying to drive me crazy? Showing up like this… what’s a guy to do?”

His other hand slides higher, slipping beneath the hem of your gown, and with a gentle tug, he pushes the fabric up. His eyes darken as more of your skin is revealed.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his thumb rolling over your bare nipple now, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your core. “Last night… couldn’t see you clearly in the dark, but now…”

His lips follow his hands, closing around your nipple, and the warm, wet heat of his tongue makes your body arch, your fingers gripping the sheets as a soft whimper escapes you.

“Nngh… S-Satoru…”

“Mm… fuck yes, say it again,” he pants, his lips releasing your nipple with a sinful pop. “Say m’ name, baby. Wanna hear how bad you need me.” He switches his attention to your other breast, lavishing it with the same care—licking, sucking, each gentle nip sending another rush of arousal pooling down your thighs.

With a shake of your head, you try to bite back the desperate sound clawing its way up your throat, but as his hand descends lower, gliding down your hip, you feel his fingers brush against your inner thigh and your body betrays you.

A needy whimper slips out as you open your legs eagerly for him, earning you a cocky smirk. It curls upon Satoru’s lips as he nibbles your nipple between his teeth—vivid blue eyes looking up at you through fluttering white lashes.

“Hah. Look at that,” he breathes, flicking the hardened peak with his tongue. “Didn’t even have to ask, and those pretty little legs opened right up for me.”

The pure arrogance in his voice sets your skin on fire.

“Sh-shut up,” you snap weakly, trying your best to glare at him as a flush creeps up your neck. “You just—haaa…”

The words are stolen from you the moment his mouth begins its descent—trailing kisses lower, his tongue swiping down your abdomen in slow, wet circles, agonizingly closer to your dripping pussy.

“Hmm?” His head tilts as his thumb brushes so close to your center that your entire body shudders. You feel his breath between your legs. “Something you want, sweetheart? You gotta use your words.”

Fucking cocky ass.

Your lips part, but you hesitate—pride warring with need, the unbearable ache between your thighs clouding your thoughts.

He clicks his tongue, mockingly disappointed. A pout on those pretty lips—lips you want buried in your cunt.

“Tch. Guess you don’t want it that bad, huh?”

His fingers continue to skate up your thigh, stopping short of where you need him, and your frustration rises—hands twisting into the sheets.

“Satoru—” your hips buck involuntarily, but he tuts softly, pulling his hand away just enough to leave you aching for it.

“Mm-mm.” His voice is smooth, cruel in its amusement. “I told you, princess. Use your words.”

Your jaw tightens, nails biting into the sheets as your body trembles with need.

“You are insufferable and so fucking unfair.”

A low sinful laugh rumbles through his chest as he turns his head to your thigh, trailing gentle kisses slowly up to your pussy.

“Unfair?” he echoes as his nose ghosts dangerously over your soaked panties.

He inhales, eyes momentarily slipping shut as he takes in the sweet scent of you. And Jesus, he groans. Actually groans. Like he’s drunk on you.

Your body jerks, hips shifting impatiently under him, but he doesn’t give in. Not yet.

Instead, he arches a brow, looking up at you with that infuriatingly smug expression as he presses a fleeting kiss to your clothed core, making a violent shudder roll through you as the soft hum of his satisfaction vibrates against your heat.

“You said you wanted to savor me, didn’t you?” His lips drag slowly back up your inner thigh, teasing, taunting.

You’re pouting now, glaring down at him like you want to strangle him and kiss him at the same time, and he just chuckles, shaking his head.

“Well?”

“What, expecting me to beg?”

“Tch… stubborn girl…”

His mouth finds its way back to the soaked fabric, and this time, he presses his tongue against it, mouthing at your cunt through your panties. A desperate cry slips past your lips as your head falls back—pussy dripping. His smirk falters.

Fuck, he wants to bury his face in your cunt.

Now he’s the one struggling. You feel his fingers press into your thigh harder, nails biting into flesh, and as he pulls back, eyeing the dark, damp patch of fabric clinging to you.

"Fuck, baby…" His fingers skim slowly over the outline of your soaked folds—his hardening cock twitching in his sweats at the realization. "God… you’re fucking drenched."

You continue to bite your lip, fighting back the needy whimper that is desperate to slip out. His head tilts, shifting into something darker as he looks up at you with those ocean-blue eyes—dilated, raw and starved. God you could get lost in those eyes.

But then, that smug ass grin returns.

“All this? Just f’me?”

“Satoru…” you whine.

He clicks his tongue, resting his cheek against your thigh as he looks up at you affectionately.

“Fair’s fair, baby. I’m gonna savor you. Now then, my pretty girl… what do you want?”

Asshole. He’s playing you. And you want to resist. You really do. But you’re so fucking wet, so aching, so unbearably needy for him. Another breath shudders out of you, and as your voice breaks, your resolve snaps.

“Satoru… please—”

There’s that word. His grin shoots up, something dark and hungry flashing across his face.

“Oh?” His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties. “Please what baby? Be specific.”

Fucking hell. You’re losing it.

“Jesus, fuck. Touch me,” you gasp, finally breaking. “Fuck, please Satoru—just touch me already. Want you—eep!”

Before you can even breathe, he’s ripping your panties down, shoving your thighs wide open, spreading your needy, dripping cunt out for him to see as he curses under his breath. His restraint snaps and oh, he’s wrecked. A filthy groan slips from his lips as he admires you, laid out for him—his cock twitching violently at the sight.

"Look at this perfect little pussy," he groans, and you mewl as he presses two fingers to your soaked folds, just barely parting them as he spreads your slick between his fingers in awe. “Heh… so fucking wet. Your little cunt is just begging to be filled, isn’t it?”

As he circles the rim of your sex, your body clenches needily around nothing, making another whine escape you as your thighs threaten to snap shut—but he grips them firmly, keeping you spread.

"Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Let me see you. Fuck, look at you," he watches transfixed as his finger presses in—just barely the tip sinking inside before pulling back.

You can feel your slick glistening down your thighs, and you shudder, back arching, voice quaking as he finally sinks his long, thick finger fully inside.

“Ahhh—Satoru!”

A downright dangerous smirk stretches across his lips as he begins to stretch you.

"Mmn… fuck, you feel so tight," your spongey walls grip him as he slowly twists his finger inside, your arousal dripping down his knuckles.

And he’s utterly transfixed, his cock throbbing against the mattress where he lays—watching you take it. He releases a shuddering breath as he shifts, gripping your thighs as he presses you forward, keeping you pinned.

"Greedy fucking hole...” he groans, eyes glued to where you're clenching around him, pumping into your pussy with slow, deep thrusts. “Wanna stuff this hungry little cunt so fucking full..."

The moment he curls his finger just right—dragging against that perfect spot, you cry out.

"Ahhh... ah ahhh... ‘toru... nngh...please… more."

There’s that pretty little word again. His eyes flick up to your face, and he’s relishing in this—you—blushing, panting, watching him with an expression that absolutely wrecks him. Licking his lips, he exhales harshly, leaning forward.

“Good girl, begging so sweet f’me.”

You feel his hot breath fanning against your core, and your thighs tremble as he ghosts those glossy lips over your slick folds—teasing you with the contact you desperately crave.

The moment his pink tongue flicks out, he groans—licking a slow, torturous stripe from your entrance up to your throbbing clit, making your whole-body jerk. A sharp cry rips from your throat as he hums against your cunt.

“Fuck…” he pants, licking and curling his finger in tandem now, “nngh… taste better than I imagined.”

His grip slides lower, kneading your ass before he yanks you closer, burying himself deeper between your thighs. The sudden force makes you yelp, but the sound quickly dissolves into a whimper as his mouth wraps about your clit—curling, flicking, savoring every drop of arousal dripping onto his lips.

“S-Sator… nnngh… fuck.”

You see stars, squirming and trembling around his face as his tongue accompanies his finger— delving deep into your tight hole. His hips rut involuntarily against the bed, cock straining unbearably in his sweats as precum leaks through the fabric.

“Mmm...” he hums against you, a sinful smirk curling as he drags his tongue up your slit again, slow and deliberate. “Fuck yes… wanna drown in your cunt.”

He’s back on you voraciously, low hungry moans mixing with the wet noises of your pussy. You pant, looking down at him and oh, he’s ravenous. His face buries between your legs as those blue eyes flick up through messy white lashes, drinking in the way you writhe for him.

And writhing for him you are. Satoru is loving it—seeing your face flushed a pretty pink, panting, your breasts heaving as you shudder against him.

“Haaa—look at you,” he pulls back, flicking his tongue rapidly over your clit now. “Heh… wanna make you squirm and shake until you're nothing but an incoherent mess, beggin’ for my cock."

You’re squirming now, eyes fluttering shut as your clint tingles from the rising pressure building within your tummy. But as you feel his second finger slip into your cunt, your eyes snap open and a desperate sob breaks from your lips. You were so close.

"Ohmygod—Satoru, please—"

He hums in amusement, lapping at your sweet essence. "Haaa... I dunno… maybe I'll grant you what you want, pretty girl,” he’s panting now, scissoring your cunt fervently between each filthy word. “Stuff your needy little hole with my thick, hard cock until you can't take any more. Bet you’d like that, huh?”

Your voice is barely coherent now, broken between ragged gasps and desperate whimpers. “Yes… yes… wan’ you ‘toru… m’close…”

Desperate to grip onto something, your fingers find purchase on his hair, slipping through the soft white strands as you pull him close, shamelessly grinding yourself on his pretty face, clenching against him as your arousal coats his lips.

“Mmmngh…” Satoru groans against your cunt, eyes rolling back in ecstasy as you use his mouth. His cock throbs eagerly against the mattress as he devours you like a man starved.

Fuck, he's so hard it hurts, aching to bury himself inside your perfect little cunt.

He fully gives in, releasing his fingers to pull you close—wrapping your legs around his shoulders as his tongue plunges deep—fucking into your entrance as he laps up your dripping arousal—nose brushing against your clit as you rock on his face. You’re on the brink of coming undone.

"Haaa... yes, yeahh! J-jus' like... mmnn... that! Oh fuuuck!"

As your fingers tug at his hair, hips rolling wildly, Satoru groans into your heat, reverberating through your core. You look down to see those glassy eyes flutter open, locking onto yours, watching every little tremor of your body as the pleasure wrecks you.

And then you snap.

Your pussy clamps down around his tongue, a sob ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Satoru groans through it, tongue pressing deeper as your walls pulse violently, drenching his eager mouth as he savors every drop of your release.

His cock jerks violently, aching with need as he drinks you down, eyes flickering shut as he hums against your overstimulated clit, prolonging your pleasure until you’re trembling uncontrollably above him.

Finally spent, your grip on his hair loosens, and your hips still as your trembling slows. Satoru gentles his kisses as he eases you down from your high, his hands trailing light, soothing circles on your thighs.

"Mmm, that's it, princess. Came so fucking hard for me..." he murmurs smugly against your sensitive flesh, pressing one last lingering kiss against your swollen clit before pulling back. His lips and chin glisten with your release as he smirks down at you. "You taste fucking incredible..."

As you watch him lick his lips hungrily, you realize he’s still not sated—not even close. Your gaze narrows to the obscene bulge straining against his grey sweats, pooling with precum. He follows your line of sight, eyes dragging down to the tent in his pants before meeting yours again, his smirk deepening.

“See what you do to me?” he pitches forward, and you shudder as his forearms bracket your head, looming over you. “Fuck… want you…” His lips graze your jaw, his voice a low, desperate rasp. “You felt so good around my fingers… can just imagine this greedy little cunt wrapped around my cock.”

But then, suddenly, the bedroom door swings open.

"Mama! The sun is up. Let’s go downstairs and play!"

Oh God.

The air is sucked straight from your lungs as Haru’s tiny voice rings through the room like a gunshot. Both you and Satoru freeze, horror crashing down like a tidal wave.

Thankfully, Satoru reacts first.

With lightning-fast reflexes, he rolls to the side, yanking you with him, shielding your naked body as he drags the sheets up in a last-ditch effort at preserving what’s left of your dignity. Haru stands in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with tiny fists, completely oblivious to the absolute disaster she’s just walked in on.

You slap a hand over your mouth, trying—failing—not to let out a panicked squeak, and Satoru, still rock-hard and reeling from the sheer whiplash of the moment, clears his throat.

“H-Hey, kiddo… uh… what’s up?”

Haru pouts at him, unimpressed. “Where’s Mama? I want Mama.”

“Oh, uh… right.” Satoru laughs, but it’s high and strained, barely holding it together as he tightens his hold around you.

You can feel the mortification radiating off him in waves, and before either of you can scramble for a better excuse, there’s another voice.

“Haru? Where’d you go? Oh—OH MY—”

The nanny—Remi.

She halts in the doorway like she’s just walked into a crime scene, brown eyes going comically round as her hands fly to her mouth. Her sleek dark hair is pulled into a ponytail, her uniform crisp as always, but her composure? Completely shattered. Her face turns a shade of red, one that rivals yours as she sees you and Satoru tangled up in the sheets.

“Oh! Uh—Haru, sweetie—” She clears her throat, trying and failing to sound normal. “Why don’t we head downstairs? Your parents will be down soon!”

Satoru audibly chokes on air, and you feel his body tense beside you. But Haru, ever persistent, pouts.

“But I wanna—”

“I’ll make waffles! Extra syrup! Maybe even some whipped cream—doesn’t that sound fun?” Remi is already halfway out the door, all but dragging Haru with her.

Haru hesitates for a split second, then gasps. “Whipped cream?!”

“Yep! Let’s go!”

And just like that, they’re gone. The door clicks shut, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake. You and Satoru remain frozen, your bodies still tangled beneath the sheets, wide-eyed and horrified.

Your entire soul leaves your body.

“Oh. My. God.” you whisper, hands flying to your face as if you can somehow will yourself out of existence. “I am never showing my face outside this room again.”

Beside you, Satoru exhales deeply, stretching out like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.

“Well,” he grins, tilting his head toward you, “that was fun.”

You gape at him, your mortification reaching new levels. “Are you—are you fucking kidding me?”

He just blinks, completely unbothered. “What?”

Groaning, you curl onto your side, burying your face into a pillow. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Satoru’s chuckle rumbles through his chest as he shifts onto his side, propping his head up with his hand. His other hand reaches over, tugging at the pillow you’re desperately clinging to.

“Oh, c’mon, princess,” he hums, infuriatingly smug. “Worst day of your life? Pretty sure five minutes ago you were having the time of your life.”

Your entire body burns hotter than the sun. “Quiet. Do not start—”

“What? Just saying,” his grin widens as his fingers trace lazy patterns down your arm. “One second you were cuming on my tongue, and the next—”

You slap a hand over his mouth before he can finish that sentence. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

The smirk beneath your palm only deepens, and you shriek, jerking your hand back as his warm tongue flicks out against your skin.

“Satoru!?”

He bursts into laughter, utterly shameless, before effortlessly pulling you into his arms. His grip is warm, steady, and one hand slides up, smoothing down your messy hair as he tucks a stray strand behind your ear.

“You’re always so cute when you’re flustered,” he murmurs, dropping into something softer.

“I am not flustered,” you huff, scowling as you bury you face into his chest, grumbling “I am humiliated.”

A quiet, amused sigh rumbles through him as his fingers begin to trace slow, lazy circles over your hip, featherlight, absentminded. Neither of you move, neither of you rush to untangle from each other—it’s a rare moment of stillness.

“Hey,” he murmurs gently, nudging his nose against your temple. “It’s okay.”

You pout, cheeks still burning, as you peek up at him through your lashes. “How am I ever gonna look Remi in the eye again?”

His lips twitch, amusement flickering behind his bright eyes before he rolls them with exaggerated ease. “Baby, you don’t have to,” he says. “Just stare at her forehead.”

You groan, swatting at his chest as you roll onto your back. “You are so not helpful.”

Satoru laughs, deep and unbothered, before tugging you right back against him. His arms wrap around you easily, pressing you close, his nose nudging against your hair. You feel yourself melting into him as his lips brush a lingering kiss against your temple, soothing the heat burning under your skin.

All you want to do is remain here—tangled up in him, forever. But of course, he reminds you of your reality.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your hair, fingers tracing delicate lines down your spine. “We’re gonna have to go downstairs at some point.”

You let out a quiet whine, curling in on yourself. “No. We absolutely do not.”

He chuckles, nosing at your temple again. “Why don’t you go ahead and clean up, hm? We’ve got a big day ahead of us. Suguru is expecting us.”

You mumble something unintelligible against his collarbone before sighing, reluctantly peeling yourself away from him, the cool air replacing his warmth making you shiver. As you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, reality crashes back down on you.

"You know, I should’ve known this would happen," you grumble, trudging towards to bathroom. "You never lock the damn door. It’s like the whole fucking bathroom fiasco all over again.”

Satoru grins, plopping back onto the bed lazily. "I didn’t see you complaining when I had my face between your—"

A pillow smacks him square in the face before he can finish. He yelps, half laughing as he dodges your second attempt.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle the damage control,” he says smugly.

You pause at the bathroom door, squinting at him in pure suspicion. “…What exactly does ‘damage control’ mean?”

That wicked grin stretches across his lips, slow and self-satisfied, his bright eyes gleaming with mischief. “It means I’ll flash Remi a dazzling smile, crack a joke, and act like nothing happened. Works every time.”

You groan, shaking your head as you shuffle through the doorway. “Great… I am so screwed.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and Satoru smirks, settling back into the pillows with a sigh. He can hear the water running, but it barely registers, his mind still clouded with the remnants of you—your warmth, your scent, the way you had unraveled beneath him just minutes ago.

And then his gaze flickers downward.

Your panties—still damp, tangled in the mess of bedding, glistening with your arousal—catch his eye.

His throat tightens. His cock twitches, still painfully hard, still aching with need.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. But he’s already reaching for them.

The fabric is still warm, still sticky, and the moment he hooks a finger around the waistband, lifting them to his face, your scent floods his senses. A violent shudder rips through his spine. It’s obscene. It’s filthy. And it makes him impossibly harder.

A deep, guttural groan rumbles in his chest as his hips press into the mattress, instinct taking over. Rolling onto his back, his free hand shoves down his sweats just enough to free his aching cock. Precum smears against his abs, and the first tight stroke around the thick base has his head falling back against the pillows, lips parting on a sharp gasp.

“Haaa—baby…” he grunts, pressing your panties to his face as he his hips buck into his fist.

His mind is still clouded with the way you came apart for him—the way you rode his face, rolling your hips, thighs trembling, voice breaking as you cried his name. His jaw clenches, fingers twisting in the damp lace, pressing it harder against his nose, drowning in the sweet, intoxicating scent of you.

God, he’s obsessed.

His breath turns ragged, his wrist flicking faster as heat coils deep in his gut. He pictures you—perched on top of him, sinking down onto his cock, stretching around him, taking him so perfectly. His body reacts on instinct, rutting up into his palm, fucking into his tight grip with reckless abandon.

“Nnngh… oh yes… fuuuck just like that,” he whimpers, thick with need. “Baby… haaa… gonna have you dripping down my cock next time—ahhh, fuck—"

His rhythm stutters, muscles seizing, toes curling as pleasure crashes over him like a tidal wave. His stomach clenches, his breath catches, and then—

A strangled moan tears from his throat as he spills over his fist, thick, sticky ropes of cum painting his stomach. His body trembles, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession as the last waves of his orgasm rip through him. His eyes squeeze shut as he milks himself dry, accentuating each pulse of release with a shuddering whine, muffled against your panties.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room is his ragged breathing, his limbs lax and boneless against the bed.

Then his eyes flick toward the bathroom door.

The water is still running.

A lazy, satisfied smirk tugs at his lips as he reaches for a tissue from the nightstand, cleaning himself up at an unhurried pace, basking in the post-orgasm haze. His muscles are still tingling, pleasure simmering warm and slow in his veins.

And then he sees them—your panties, still resting on the bed beside him.

He hesitates for only a second before smirking, reaching for the nightstand. The drawer slides open, and with a flick of his wrist, he tucks them inside.

His dirty little secret—maybe for later.

Anyways. Right.

Time to handle damage control.

ꨄ

“Oh! Good morning, sweetheart,” Remi chirps, voice light, easy. “I was wondering when you’d come down.”

She sets a fresh cup of coffee at your usual seat, so natural, so routine, that it momentarily soothes the buzzing in your chest. Oh. She’s being nice. And not weird about it at all.

But then—

“Did you sleep well?”

You freeze mid-step while heat creeps up your neck, blooming across your cheeks before you can smother it. Satoru pauses too, his coffee cup halfway to his lips, but unlike you, he just smirks. That infuriating look flashing in his eyes as he watches you with far too much amusement—scrambling into your seat.

“Oh—uh…” your throat bobs as you swallow hard. “Yeah. I did. Thanks.”

Awkward…

As your throat clears, you internally will yourself to sound as normal as possible, while Satoru—little shit that he is—just keeps watching, just keeps smirking, like he’s waiting for the perfect moment to say something that will make you wish for the sweet release of death.

But thankfully, Remi either doesn’t notice or chooses not to comment.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, already moving toward the counter. “Satoru made you a plate.”

Satoru hums, lazily swirling his coffee.

“She worked up an appetite, m’sure…”

Your foot connects with his shin under the table, and he yelps, nearly spilling his coffee while Haru giggles at his suffering.

With a huff, he rubs his leg, muttering “Violence before breakfast. Unbelievable…” His lips drop into a petulant pout. “Tch… I even slaved over the stove this mornin, all for you…”

Your brow lifts, unimpressed, as Remi giggles—setting the dish down in front of you with an easy flourish. The moment you look down at your plate, you immediately know he’s full of shit.

Waffles. Golden brown. Crisp edges. Beside them… flower-shaped eggs? Yeah, right. Satoru doesn’t make flower-shaped anything.

Slowly, your gaze drags back up to meet his, eyes narrowing. He’s grinning at you far too suspiciously.

“You didn’t make these,” you say matter-of-factly.

His smile falters, just for a second, before he dramatically slumps back in his chair, pouting like a scolded child. “Wow. You didn’t even try to believe it… not even for a second.”

You arch a brow. “Did you expect me to believe it? You—making flower shaped eggs?”

“I tried,” he sighs, slouching forward as he cradles his chin in his palm, looking thoroughly betrayed. “But Remi threatened my life.”

“No, I saved you,” she corrects with a small chuckle.

Satoru groans while Remi shakes her head, muttering quietly to you, “Trust me, sweetheart… you wouldn’t have wanted the eggs he made.”

Haru nods enthusiastically, mouth stuffed full. “’toru’s eggs were crunchy.”

Satoru scoffs, scandalized. “Excuse me. They were caramelized.”

“They were burnt,” Remi supplies sweetly.

“They were enhanced,” Satoru insists, crossing his arms.

You stifle a laugh, finally cutting into your waffles. And just like that, your worries melt away. The morning falls into an easy rhythm—the air humming with warmth, filled with the quiet clatter of silverware, Haru’s happy little kicks against the chair legs. It’s simple. It’s comfortable.

Remi moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, topping off Satoru’s coffee without needing to ask, pausing to wipe a stray smudge of syrup from Haru’s cheek with a fond shake of her head. Everything about her is effortless, warm. Kind.

She takes a seat across from you, cradling her tea in both hands—posture relaxed as she blows gently over the rim.

“So,” she muses, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Any plans for today?”

You glance at Satoru before answering, catching the way he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head with an exaggerated groan.

“We’re heading into Gojo Corp for a bit,” you say, slicing another piece of waffle. “Got some things to take care of.”

“Ah, work, huh?” Remi hums, taking a slow sip of tea. “Must be nice, working together like that. I imagine it makes things easier… or harder?” Her eyes flick between you and Satoru, a teasing lilt curling at the edges of her voice. “Do you ever get sick of each other?”

Satoru snorts, setting down his coffee with a smirk. “She wishes she got sick of me.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. “Oh, constantly.”

Remi laughs lightly, shaking her head. “Mmm, I doubt that.”

The conversation drifts easily—small talk about work, about how Haru had insisted on watching the same cartoon three times in a row yesterday. But then, after a comfortable lull, Remi shifts slightly in her seat, her fingers curling gently around the rim of her cup as her voice turns more measured.

“You’re meeting with Suguru Geto today?”

Your head lifts slightly—the shift in her tone catching your attention. Across the table, Satoru’s eyes flick toward her, just barely. So quick, so subtle, you almost miss it.

“Mhm...” you nod, hesitating slightly. “That’s right.”

Remi exhales, shaking her head.

“That’s gotta be tough…” she swirls her tea absentmindedly, watching the liquid move. “The custody case, I mean… he’s got his work cut out for him.”

Your grip tightens slightly around your fork—there’s nothing inherently off about what she’s saying, but still… the reminder sends a ripple of unease through your chest. Maybe it’s the weight of the case itself, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion that comes with constantly thinking about it. You’re not sure.

“He’s exceptional,” Satoru says smoothly, matter-of-factly. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of his mug. “There’s no one else I’d trust more than him with this case.”

Remi hums, nodding, but she doesn’t quite meet your gaze right away. “Of course,” she murmurs, offering a small, reassuring smile. “I just mean—it must be a lot for you to deal with. I hope things go smoothly. It’s good that you have someone like him in your corner.”

The warmth in her voice should be comforting, right? Why aren’t you comforted? You find yourself nodding, but the weight of her words begins to bury you. Satoru eyes flick to you as he catches onto your unease. Tilting his head slightly, he studies Remi before immediately shifting gears.

“Remi,” he says, tapping a finger against his plate. “Could you grab some more syrup? Pretty sure I saw it in the cabinet earlier.”

“Oh! Of course,” she chirps, setting her tea down and rising to her feet as she moves toward the pantry.

The moment her back is turned, Satoru leans slightly toward you, his voice dropping just above a whisper. “Don’t let it get to you,” he murmurs, warmth curling around the shell of your ear. “Remember? I got you… always.”

His fingers ghost over your knee beneath the table, brief but grounding, and as you blink up at him, something in the way he’s looking at you—steady, certain—eases the tightness in your chest.

“Yeah…” you whisper, returning his soft smile while your hand settles over his, offering a reassuring squeeze.

But from the corner of your eye, you catch it—Remi, standing by the counter, fingers lingering over the syrup bottle.

…a pause?

Then, so seamlessly it’s almost unnoticeable, she picks it up and turns back around—expression easy, light, slipping back into place like nothing happened.

"So,” she says cheerfully, placing the syrup in front of Satoru before settling back into her seat. “What time do you think you’ll be back? Just wondering if Haru will need dinner before you get home."

The question is innocent. Logical, even. It makes perfect sense for her to ask. And yet—

Something about it feels… off?

No. Perhaps you’re imagining it. Maybe you’re just on edge. Overthinking things.

After all, Remi is kind.

ꨄ

“Every time I walk in here, I think it can’t possibly get worse,” Suguru mutters, loosening his tie as he sinks into one of the chairs opposite Satoru’s desk. “And yet, you continue to outdo yourself.”

Your gaze sweeps over the office, and you find yourself reluctantly agreeing. The space is massive, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a sprawling, ridiculous view of the Tokyo skyline. It looks professional, should feel professional—but the illusion is broken the second you take in the state of the room.

Satoru’s desk is buried under a chaotic mess of papers, some crumpled, others half-stacked, as if he had started to organize them before giving up halfway. A small dish of candy sits beside the keyboard, its contents long gone, save for the sea of discarded wrappers. Against the far wall, an obnoxiously comfortable-looking leather couch sits, one you know has seen more of Satoru’s midday naps than actual work.

And then, there’s the final touch—Suguru gestures toward the golf club leaning against the bookshelf, his brow arching.

“You don’t even play golf.”

Satoru barely glances up from where he’s lazily spinning in his chair, a smug grin curling his lips.

“It’s for decoration.”

Suguru groans, rolling his eyes as he tries to make room for his documents on the desk. You sigh, already moving to help, straightening the mess with quick, practiced hands.

"Everything in this office is for decoration,” you mutter, stacking papers into an organized pile before flicking your gaze to Satoru. “Including you.”

Satoru is pleased—gasping dramatically as he places a hand over his heart.

“Oh? So you admit I enhance the ambiance?” His smirk is all teeth. “Always knew I was a statement piece. Finally, my wife admits I’m nice to look at.”

You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “Yeah… that’s not what I said.”

Leaning forward, Satoru props his elbows on the desk, vivid blue eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Mmm, no, but it’s what you meant.”

Suguru doesn’t even look up from his folder. “I know what she meant.” Then, flipping a page, he glances at you. “Lemme guess. He makes you do all the work?”

“Yup.”

Suguru clicks his tongue, unimpressed, before turning his unimpressed stare on Satoru. The man, unbothered as ever, leans back in his chair, throwing his hands up in an exaggerated shrug.

“What?” Satoru says, unabashed. “I’ve always loved her work ethic. It’s inspiring, really. Besides, delegation is the mark of true corporate genius. You wouldn’t understand, Suguru.”

Suguru levels him with a flat stare, then tilts his head toward the far end of the office.

“Oh yeah? And tell me, how exactly does a gumball machine contribute to your corporate genius? Or is that also for decoration.”

You follow his gaze toward the bright red gumball machine standing proudly in the corner, positioned beside a sleek espresso maker.

“Oh, that?” Satoru grins like he’s just been waiting for someone to ask. “That’s for morale.”

You scoff, cutting Suguru a knowing look before shaking your head. “I hate that I kind of believe that…” you mutter under your breath.

Suguru exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose before dragging a hand down his face. There’s a tired sort of patience in his movements, like he’s been through this song and dance too many times before.

“Right…” he mutters, shaking his head. “I swear you designed this office specifically to avoid working.”

Satoru’s grin only stretches wider, unabashed. “Exactly.” He props his feet up on the desk, reclining with the ease of a man without a single real responsibility.

Suguru gives him a flat look. Then, with a quiet thud, he slides a thick folder onto the desk.

“Well… not today.”

The energy in the room shifts. Satoru’s gaze flicks to you, the teasing glint in his eyes softening as he drops his feet back to the floor. You straighten slightly in your seat as Suguru clicks his pen, tone all business now.

“Alright. Custody battles always boil down to one thing—what’s in the best interest of the child.” His eyes flick between you and Satoru as he flips through his notes. “The court isn’t concerned with what either parent wants. They’re focused on stability, consistency, and overall well-being for Haru.”

You nod, but there’s a pressure settling in your chest. You already know what’s best for Haru—being here, with you, with Satoru. She barely even knows Naoya. The idea of a judge, a complete stranger, making that decision for her makes your stomach twist.

Suguru’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “First things first,” he says, flipping to another section of his notes. “We need to establish parental involvement. Has Naoya been active in Haru’s life at all?”

“No,” you don’t hesitate.

Suguru doesn’t look surprised, but his gaze lifts slightly, assessing. “Never?”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together.

"He didn’t want to be involved," you say quietly. "I tried… but it was like pulling teeth just to get him to acknowledge her, especially before we separated. It wasn’t until I filed for child support that he started using her as a tool, and he kept delaying the court date, always coming up with some excuse.”

“Oh?” Suguru’s brows lift slightly. “You filed for child support? When was that?”

“Um… about a year ago.” Your fingers fidget in your lap. “Shortly after I left him.”

There’s a pause as Suguru jots something down. His expression remains neutral, but there’s a sharpness to his eyes, a calculating edge as he pieces together the information.

Then, as casually as ever, he asks, “And how did he react? When you left him?”

ꨄ

Dinner was plated, still steaming.

You had made his favorite—teriyaki salmon, perfectly seared, a side of rice, miso soup. You had set the table, poured him a drink. Everything was in its place, arranged to look as normal as possible.

But it wasn’t normal. The packed bags by the door gave everything away.

The apartment was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that made your ears ring. Haru sat on the floor, cross-legged, focused on her blocks. Her little hands moved diligently, stacking each one with careful precision, humming to herself—untouched by the weight pressing down on your chest. When the tower inevitably toppled, the wooden blocks clattered against the floor, breaking the silence for only a moment before fading back into stillness.

Your palms pressed flat against the kitchen counter; fingers splayed against the cool surface as you tried to steady yourself. Any minute now. Any minute now.

Then—

The door creaked open.

Your breath hitched, your body going rigid as Naoya stepped inside. The keys in his hand clinked as he set them on the entry table. Exhaling, he rustled his hair as his gaze swept across the apartment, moving from the dinner waiting on the carefully set table until suddenly, he froze—eyes narrowing as they landed on the bags.

For a second, there was nothing. No words. No movement. Just a long, unnerving silence. And then—

“The fuck is this?”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet—the kind of quiet that had always meant danger. Your stomach curled in on itself, your muscles locking as if bracing for impact. You opened your mouth, trying to summon the words you had rehearsed in your head over and over and over again—but they lodged in your throat.

Instead, all you could manage was—

“I… made your favorite.”

You gestured toward the table—toward the salmon. As if that was the thing that needed explaining. As if that was the thing that mattered. He rolled his eyes, kicking off his shoes before striding toward the bags.

“You know that’s not what I fucking asked.”

Grabbing the zipper of your bag, a scoff ripped from his throat as he yanked it open, revealing its contents. Clothes. Toiletries. Haru’s favorite stuffed Pikachu. The things people pack when they don’t plan on coming back.

“You goin’ somewhere, sweets?”

Every instinct was screaming at you to run, run, run. But your feet stayed planted, rooted to the spot as if the very air had turned thick and unmovable. Your fingers curled against your palms as you forced the words out quietly.

“I… I think we need time apart.”

The moment the words left your lips, Naoya barked out a laugh—loud, sharp, mocking. He actually doubled over, hands on his knees, shaking his head as if you had just told the funniest joke in the world.

“That’s cute,” he mused, catching his breath between laughs, his voice dropping into something almost patronizing. When he straightened, his eyes pinned you in place, something unreadable flickering behind them. Something dangerous.

“And tell me, sweetheart—where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Your breath caught, and he saw it—your hesitation, the way your lips pressed together, how your fingers twitched by your sides. A slow, cruel smirk curled at his lips, dripping in amusement.

“Oh,” he breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “So, you don’t even have a plan?”

Another sharp laugh pushed past his lips—low, cruel, unforgiving. But just as quickly as it came, it vanished. His expression hardened, eyes darkening as his jaw clenched. The shift was so sudden, so jarring, you felt the air leave your lungs.

Holding your breath, your gaze followed him as he began slowly pacing, like he was working himself up. “Jesus fucking Christ…” he muttered, fingers pressing against his temples. His next exhale came out shaky, forced. “You’re so fucking stupid sometimes, you know that?”

“Naoya… please—”

“Stupid BITCH!”

The explosion came out of nowhere.

The sheer force of his voice rattled through your chest, slammed against the walls, reverberated through the floor beneath your feet.

A brief silence followed—Haru’s humming stopped. As you stood there—eyes wide, Naoya glaring at you—in the corner of your eye, you saw your daughter stilling, suddenly silent in the middle of stacking her blocks.

Shit.

Swallowing hard, you forced your voice to steady, lowering it, softening it, as if that would keep things from spiraling further.

“Naoya… let’s just talk, okay? I—”

The next thing you knew, a ceramic plate shattered at your feet.

The impact was violent—shards splintering across the floor, cutting through the quiet like a gunshot. You flinched so hard your entire body jerked back while Haru let out a sharp breath from across the room.

Chest heaving, pulse thundering, your eyes zeroed in on the scattered debris, glinting under the kitchen light—sharp, jagged edges that could have easily torn through skin if you had been just one step closer.

“Fuck… see what you fucking make me do?” he muttered, shaking his head as he paced across the kitchen. “You always push me, always fucking nagging, like some goddamn broken record. I give you everything, and you still bitch like an ungrateful little—”

His voice blurred. You were barely hearing him anymore. Your pulse was too loud, roaring in your head as a ringing sound began to drown him out—drown everything out.

"Shit, baby…"

The shift was instantaneous.

You blinked, refocusing, and suddenly—he was in front of you.

Close. Too close. His fingers curled around your wrist—not harshly, but firmly.

“Look, I…” He exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face before raking it through his hair. When his eyes met yours, something in them was different. Softer. More open, more human.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said, quieter now. “You know I—” He let out a heavy breath, like he was the one suffering. “I love you, baby. So much. You just make me crazy sometimes, you know that?”

The whiplash sent your thoughts into a tailspin. The heat of his palm against your wrist. The gentleness in his voice. Your body screamed at you to pull away, to resist.

But your heart—your stupid, aching heart—

“You don’t have to do this, baby.” Naoya’s thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist, slow, soothing. Tethering. “I get it. Things have been… rough lately. I’ve been stressed, work’s been a fucking nightmare, and I know I take that out on you sometimes.”

You swallowed hard, breath hitching, vision blurring as you blinked back the sting behind your eyes. This is what he did. This was how he made you stay.

He spun words into silk, wove apologies into something tender, something careful.

A beautiful lie.

"I'll fix it," he promised, his lips curling into something almost boyish, like he already knew he'd won. "I'll take better care of you, yeah? You and Haru. We can fix this. Just… stay. Stay right where you belong."

For a second—just a second—your mind whispered the possibility.

Maybe it could be different this time. Maybe he meant it. This is fixable…right? Things could be okay if you just—

No.

This was the cycle. The same fucking cycle that had been spinning over and over and over again.

Rage. Apology. Empty promises. Repeat.

You had seen this moment before. Felt this warmth, heard this regret, let these pretty little words lull you into submission. And every single time—every single time—you had fallen for it.

But not this time.

Naoya’s grip tightened the longer you stayed quiet, making your breathing quicken now—shallow, panicked. His gaze flicked across your face, calculating, searching for an answer he wanted—needed—to hear.

"Baby?" His voice was still soft, but there was something sharp underneath. "You wanna sit down with me?"

You swallowed hard. And then, somehow—somehow—you found your voice.

"I… can’t," you whispered.

For a second, nothing moved. Not the air, not the world, not even him.

His fingers curled tighter around your wrist—just long enough to send ice shooting through your veins—before loosening again.

"You can’t what?"

“I’m leaving Naoya. And I’m taking Haru.”

His lips parted for a moment, but nothing came out, until finally, those wicked lips curled into something cruel—amused.

"C’mon now… you don’t mean that," he said, like it was a joke, like you were saying something ridiculous. "You’re just upset."

His hand lifted, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Too soft. Too gentle. Your skin burned under a touch you once leaned into, once believed in.

"You don’t really wanna do this, baby," his thumb ghosts over your cheek. "I get it. Things have been stressful, I haven’t been at my best, but you’re being ridiculous. You don’t have to go and make a scene."

As his fingers skimmed the curve of your jaw, cradling it like something fragile, you held your breath. It’s the very same caress he’d always use after losing his temper—after breaking something—brushing the tear trailing down your cheek, like he was trying to rewrite reality, trying to pull you back into the script.

"Let’s just sit down and eat, hm?" he coaxed, smooth as silk. "You made my favorite, didn’t you? It smells incredible. We should eat before it gets cold."

He was smiling now, gentle, reassuring—like none of this had happened. Like if you just sat down, everything would go back to normal. Like you wouldn’t still feel the tremble in your hands, the stinging heat of his words.

As you opened your mouth to speak, he pulled you close.

"Don’t do this, baby," he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours for just a moment. His breath was warm against your lips. "Just… be good for me, okay?"

Be good for me.

The words settled over you like oil, thick and suffocating. And suddenly, blinking through your own empty haze, everything became too clear.

The shards of ceramic scattered at your feet. The tiny splinters of glass catching the light. The dining table still set, untouched. Waiting for someone to sit down. As if there wasn’t a shattered plate on the floor.

As if he hadn’t just thrown it. As if he wasn’t capable of so much worse.

Rage. Apology. Empty promises. Repeat.

"I’m leaving," you repeated.

His fingers twitched, then released you altogether. Exhaling through his nose, he shook his head, disappointed—as if you were being unreasonable.

"You’re nothing without me," he muttered.

The words settled like a weight in your stomach, but you remained silent.

His lips curled as his head tilted slightly, scanning you like he was recalibrating, assessing—trying to find a new way to break you down.

"N o t h i n g," he repeated, slower this time, dragging the word out like it was something filthy.

The first tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. A quiet, shaky sob caught in your throat, but you swallowed it back.

Naoya wasn’t finished.

"Look at you," he scoffed, shaking his head. "Pathetic. You wouldn’t last a fucking week without my money. You’re a failure. A desperate little bitch who got knocked up and thought she could trap me with a useless kid."

A sharp breath punched from your lungs, a gasp—small, broken. He could degrade you all he wanted. He had done it before, and he would do it again. But Haru?

Something inside you splintered, something that had been held together by fear and exhaustion and the faintest hope that maybe—maybe he could change.

"Haru is not useless."

The words left your mouth before you even realized you had spoken them, and Naoya stilled—brow arching slightly, as if he hadn’t expected you to speak at all.

Your pulse thrummed; your hands curled into fists at your sides. You could feel the wetness in your lashes, the tremor in your shoulders. But you didn’t stop.

"And… I’d rather be miserable than be stuck with you."

Silence.

For once, Naoya was stunned into stillness. His lips parted, but nothing came out. You had never spoken back like that before. And for a fleeting, reckless moment—you felt something close to power.

But then, his expression twisted. Something ugly. Something furious. And you knew.

Fuck. You had just made a mistake.

"YOU—"

Closing your eyes, the drywall beside your head shook, caving in under his fist while dust and plaster rained onto your shoulder.

The ringing in your ears swallowed everything—your own heartbeat, the distant hum of the light, the sharp inhale you barely managed to take as your body locked up.

For the first time, you thought—really, truly thought—he was going to kill you.

You didn’t dare move.

He was yelling now, screaming in your face, his words pouring out in a torrent of unfiltered venom. But his voice was just noise now. A violent storm battering against you, word after word, crashing like waves, over and over and over.

You couldn’t hear him.

Your mind had detached, floating somewhere far away, just outside your own body. Your vision blurred at the edges; your limbs trembled so violently you thought your knees might give out.

Then—through the haze, you saw him move.

A sharp pivot. Footsteps, heavy, stomping toward the bedroom. The door slammed so hard the walls shook. And then—

Silence.

Your body didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The seconds ticked by, stretching into something unbearable, something suffocating. Your chest was so tight it ached, but your lungs kept shuddering, gasping for air.

Then, like a puppet whose strings had been severed, you crumpled. Your back hit the wall, legs giving out beneath you as you collapsed onto the floor—a sob ripping through you before you could stop it.

It tore out of your chest, raw, unrestrained. It wrecked through your entire body, like something primal, something beyond your control. Your fingers curled against your arms, clutching at your own skin, trying to hold yourself together—trying to keep from unraveling completely.

Choked gasps echoed into the emptiness of the apartment, your sobs reverberating against the walls. You sucked in a shuddering breath—trying, desperate to regain control—

And that’s when you heard it.

A whimper.

Your entire body jerked. Your head snapped up so fast your vision swam. The air in your lungs froze.

Haru.

You turned—where she had been sitting, where her tiny hands had been stacking blocks—

Empty. She’s gone.

Panic surged through your veins, crashing into you like ice. You scrambled onto your feet, nearly stumbling in your haste, your vision tunneling as your breath came fast, sharp—

"Haru?"

Silence.

Dread curled around your ribs, sinking its claws deep. You turned frantically, scanning the apartment, searching, praying.

"Haru?!"

Nothing.

Your heartbeat was deafening as you staggered forward, checking behind the couch, peering around the kitchen island. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t there.

Then—

Another small, muffled whimper.

You spun, pulse hammering against your ribs as you followed the sound, eyes landing on a cupboard. A small, low cabinet beneath the sink. The one that had never really locked properly. The one just big enough to—

Your breath hitched, and dropping to your knees, your fingers shook as you reached for the handle. You pulled the door open, and there she was—curled up inside, her knees drawn to her chest, tiny hands covering her ears, her small body trembling.

Tears streaked her round cheeks, her lower lip wobbled, and when her wide, terrified eyes met yours, something inside you shattered.

She had hidden herself away.

From him.

From you.

A choked sob tore from your throat as you reached for her, arms wrapping around her small frame, pulling her against your chest. She melted into you instantly, her little hands fisting into your shirt, burying her face into your shoulder as soft, hiccupped cries wracked through her tiny body.

You rocked her gently, whispering her name like a prayer, your voice breaking as your lips pressed against the crown of her head.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

Over and over, you murmured it into her hair, against her temple, into the delicate curve of her ear, as if sheer repetition could make it true.

"I'm so sorry, Haru. I'm so, so sorry."

And that was the day you swore—you would never, never fall back into Naoya’s grasp again.

ꨄ

“y/n?”

The sound of your name pulled you back.

The past dissolved like mist burned away by the sun, fading into the recesses of your mind. The dim, suffocating glow of your old apartment vanished, replaced by the cool, sterile overhead lights of Satoru’s office. The warmth of Haru’s small body against yours was gone, replaced by the unyielding leather of the chair beneath you.

You blink, the weight of memory still lingering in your chest.

Across the desk, Suguru was watching you carefully, his brows furrowed slightly, his pen poised between his fingers. Beside him, Satoru had straightened in his seat, his usual playful smirk nowhere in sight. His bright eyes—always so full of mischief—were sharp now. Piercing. Concerned.

Swallowing hard, you realized your hands had curled into fists in your lap. Slowly, deliberately, you forced yourself to breath—loosening your fingers, unclenching one joint at a time.

"Sorry," you murmur hoarsely. "I was just—" exhaling, you shake your head. "I was remembering."

Satoru doesn’t speak, but his gaze lingers, tracking every subtle shift in your expression, every flicker of emotion. He’s perceptive—too perceptive. Suguru, too, holds your stare, though something in his expression softens.

"I asked how he reacted," he prompts, gentler than before.

Wetting your lips, the words tangle in your throat.

"Not well," you finally admit.

Suguru’s pen barely moved, his focus entirely on you.

"Did he put his hands on you?"

As you hesitate, Satoru’s jaw clenches—hands curling into fists under the desk, knuckles going white.

"He didn’t—" you pause, pressing your fingers into your temples. "He threw things. Punched the wall. Screamed in my face until I couldn’t even understand what he was saying anymore."

Silence.

Satoru exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching before he folds his arms tightly across his chest. His lips press into a thin line, tension radiating from every part of him as Suguru sets his pen down.

"That’s important," he says carefully. "If there were witnesses, records of damage, anything like that, it could help.”

"I… didn’t call the police," you murmur. "No reports, no records. Just… me."

Suguru nods, as if he had already expected that answer.

"And the child support case?” he continues, voice even. “Do you still have the documentation for that? Any filings, court dates, official correspondence?"

You stiffen, and something flickers across your face—guilt, unease, something you can’t quite name. Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, catching the slight shift in your posture.

"I…" your fingers curl against the fabric of your blouse. "I never went through with it."

Suguru tilts his head. "You never went through with it?"

You swallow; throat suddenly dry.

"I filed," you admit, barely above a whisper. "I started the process. I needed the financial support… he shut down all our joint credit cards, stopped paying the rent… kept delaying, making excuses, pushing back the court date. And then…"

Your gaze drifts toward Satoru, your expression softening despite yourself. A wry smile tugs at your lips.

"And then I married Satoru."

Satoru reaches out without hesitation, his hand finding yours, fingers curling around it with a reassuring squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your hand—gentle, steady, grounding.

"And you no longer needed the financial support," he murmurs, piecing it together.

You nod. "Yes. So… I stopped responding to his messages."

“Can I see those messages?”

Suguru’s voice pulls your attention back to him—something unreadable flickering across his face.

"Oh… um, sure. Why?"

"Because the way you stopped responding could make a difference," he says evenly, holding out a hand. "We need to see how this will be interpreted in court."

A small knot tightens in your stomach, but you don’t hesitate for long. Pulling away from Satoru’s grasp, you reach into your bag, fingers unsteady as you unlock your phone. Scrolling through the old message thread, you hand it over.

Suguru takes the phone, his expression unreadable as he starts scrolling. The room feels eerily quiet. His brows furrow slightly, his thumb pausing at certain messages, and the longer he reads, the more apparent his concern becomes. His jaw tightens. The pen he had been twirling between his fingers stills completely.

Satoru notices. His easy, lazy demeanor shifts, shoulders straightening, his eyes flicking between Suguru’s face and the phone. Your fingers press into your lap, anxiety twisting in your gut.

“What’s up Suguru?” Satoru says. “I know that face.”

Suguru doesn’t respond immediately. His thumb halts on the screen, and when he finally speaks, his voice is careful.

“y/n… did you ever explicitly tell Naoya you got married?”

Your stomach knots. “Um… no…”

A pause.

“Did you tell him you no longer needed financial support?”

Dread coils around your ribs, squeezing. You already know where this is going.

“No…”

Suguru exhales slowly, setting the phone down on the table before meeting your gaze head-on. His expression is unreadable, but the weight behind it makes your pulse pick up.

“Did you ever tell him that both you and Haru moved in with Satoru?”

You hesitate, glancing at Satoru before answering.

“No… um, he… kept contacting me, but I never picked up his calls. I just… ignored him.”

Suguru leans back slightly, his fingers steepled together as he releases a slow breath through his nose. You can see him choosing his next words carefully, and somehow, his silence feels heavier than anything he could say.

Your pulse hammers against your ribs, unease crawling up your spine. "What?" Your voice comes out shakier than you’d like.

Suguru’s eyes flick between you and Satoru before he finally says it.

“That’s not going to look good on our behalf.”

Your stomach drops. “What do you mean?”

“It paints the picture that you up and left without informing him of Haru’s whereabouts. Legally, he had parental rights—even if he wasn’t actively involved. If the court sees this as you cutting off access to his child, it could be a problem.”

The words hit like a slap.

Nausea rises in your chest as the weight of it settles over you—heavy, suffocating. You had been so focused on escaping, on surviving, that you hadn’t thought of how it would look on paper. You hadn’t considered what it meant legally, hadn’t realized that in the court’s eyes, your silence might be seen as something calculated, something deliberate.

You had unknowingly made this harder.

You just wanted to be free. To disappear from him. To never hear his voice again, never flinch at the sound of his footsteps, never have to wonder which version of him you’d be facing that day.

"Hey.”

Satoru’s voice cuts through the fog in your mind, gentle but firm. You blink, grounding yourself as his warm palm finds yours beneath the table, fingers wrapping around your own.

"You're spiraling," he murmurs, grip reassuring, anchoring you. "Breathe, sweetheart."

Realizing only now how tight your chest has become, you suck in a shuddering breath. Across from you, Suguru watches silently, but he doesn’t interrupt—letting Satoru handle it.

"You didn’t do anything wrong," Satoru continues, voice low and steady. "You didn’t owe that bastard anything. And you did what you thought was best at the time."

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a slow, comforting motion.

"You’re not the one who abandoned Haru," he murmurs, tone firm. "He did."

“Exactly,” Suguru chimes in, measured but sure. “And now we know what he’ll latch onto, how he’ll try to twist things in his favor. And we’ll be prepared for it.”

Satoru gives your hand one last squeeze before finally letting go, leaning back in his chair. He tilts his head at Suguru, lips curling into something sharp.

"Good thing we have a damn good lawyer then, huh?"

Suguru sighs, shaking his head, but there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his lips.

"You mean the best lawyer. Keep up."

Satoru scoffs, stretching lazily as he folds his arms behind his head. "If you're the best, then why does my name bring in the bigger checks?"

"Because people like looking at you, not listening to you."

Satoru gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "Wow. That hurts, Suguru. That hurts."

"Good. Feel it.”

A breath escapes you—something close to a laugh. Small, but real. Satoru catches it immediately. His eyes flick to you, and for a brief moment, the teasing glint softens, just slightly.

Like he’s cataloging it. The way your shoulders have eased, the way a bit of color has returned to your face.

"See, sweetheart? He’s so mean to me," he whines, nudging your arm. "Did you hear that? Just, like, zero respect."

Rolling your eyes, your smile grows—the weight in your chest lifting, if only for a moment.

"You act like I haven’t been carrying you since we were kids," Suguru drawls, flipping a page in his folder.

Satoru straightens immediately. "Excuse me? That is blatant slander."

"Is it?" Suguru quirks an eyebrow. "Who was the one who got you through high school? Barely, might I add.”

"Hey now," Satoru objects, leaning forward. "I was a bright and capable student."

"Sure. When you weren’t slacking off and being a goddamn menace."

You shake your head, amused as their bickering continues—like muscle memory, like second nature. It’s effortless, this constant push and pull between them, a rhythm so ingrained it feels like breathing.

And for a brief moment, you let yourself sink into it, warmth curling in your chest. Like nothing has changed. Like you aren’t in the middle of preparing for a custody battle. Like there isn’t a pit of anxiety still gnawing at your ribs.

Satoru and Suguru make it easy.

Then your phone buzzes against the table where Suguru placed it, face down—a tiny vibration against the polished wood, so quiet it barely cuts through the noise of their conversation.

It’s nothing. Just a text. A notification.

Without much thought, you reach for it while the boys go at it—Satoru gesturing wildly, his voice dramatic, animated. Suguru flipping a page in his folder, unimpressed, already prepared to dismantle whatever ridiculous argument Satoru is making.

Unlocking the screen, your eyes flick to the message.

Naoya: We need to talk. When can I see you? Just… be good for me.

The words register slowly, their meaning sinking in like ink bleeding through paper.

The air turns thin—the office warping at the edges, colors leaching into something muted, distant. Your pulse spikes, hammering wildly in your chest, and your fingers slacken—the phone slipping from your grasp, clattering onto the table.

“Sweetheart?”

Satoru’s voice is muted, and you barely register the scrape of his chair against the floor because all you can see, all you can hear, are his words—echoing in your head.

Just be good for me.

The words crawl over your skin, wrapping tight around your throat. They coil around your ribs, squeezing, constricting, suffocating—

You don’t really want to do this, baby. Let’s just sit down and eat.

The edges of your vision blur, warping, swallowing color and sound. You’re not here. You’re there—the dim apartment, the sickly glow of streetlights bleeding through half-closed blinds, the remnants of shattered ceramic at your feet, a voice too soft, too calm—too dangerous.

Be good for me, okay?

Your body won’t move. Your ribs won’t expand.

“Baby, what is it?”

A different voice. Familiar. Safe.

As you blink, light and color slowly bleed back into your vision, and something warm presses against you—solid, steady. Satoru. His careful grip finds yours, anchoring you, pulling you back, back, back.

His other hand reaches for the phone, and his expression darkens the moment he sees the message—a muscle jumping in his jaw, his fingers clenching before he wordlessly hands the device to Suguru.

Then, he’s turning back to you.

"Hey, sweetheart…" his voice is soft, coaxing, and he cradles your face tenderly. "I need you to breathe for me."

Oh, are you not breathing?

The realization hits all at once. Your lungs are locked. Your breaths are too shallow, too fast, too panicked. The walls are still closing in, the weight still crushing your ribs. Your fingers clutch at Satoru’s sleeve, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

"You’re okay," pulling you in, his arms wrap around you completely. "He’s not here. He can’t touch you. I’ve got you."

The scent of him—clean linen, something crisp and warm—fills your senses. The thump-thump of his heartbeat echoes against your ear, a steady rhythm cutting through the chaos while his thumb brushes slow, deliberate circles against your back.

"Breathe with me."

You inhale, slow and shaky, then exhale.

You’re not there. You’re here.

Satoru feels the moment your body starts to ease. The moment your fingers loosen from their iron grip on his sleeve, the moment your breath finally evens out—but he doesn’t pull away, cradling you in his warmth.

Finally, you find your voice.

“I’m… okay,” you whisper, dragging your head up, meeting Satoru’s concerned gaze. His thumb brushes against your cheek—just once, fleeting, and his eyes search yours, not convinced.

A beat passes. Then, Suguru clears his throat.

"I’ll respond."

His voice is even, but there’s an edge beneath it. Cold. Measured. And you don’t protest. You can’t. Because the thought of speaking—of addressing him—sends another wave of nausea rolling through your gut.

Your body instinctively tenses again, and Satoru doesn’t let go. His fingers continue tracing slow, steady circles along your back as Suguru stares at the phone, jaw tightening just slightly before his fingers move over the screen.

The soft tap-tap-tap of his fingers against the glass is the only sound in the room. Then, a pause.

A slow, deep inhale drags through his nose, his thumb hovering over the screen for a brief second before he presses send. And the silence that follows feels heavy, expectant.

“He’s going to respond,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

Suguru leans back slightly, watching the screen. Waiting.

“He will,” he confirms, voice unreadable. “But that doesn’t matter.” His eyes lift, meeting yours with something unshakable. “Because we’re meeting him tomorrow.”

The words settle like a weight in your chest.

You stiffen. “We are?”

“You don’t have to see him, sweetheart.”

Satoru’s voice is gentle but firm, his fingers tilting your chin up just enough to guide your gaze back to his. There’s something quietly resolute in the way he’s looking at you—something absolute.

“Me and Suguru will go,” his voice is unwavering, a promise wrapped in steel. “You don’t have to do a damn thing. Let us handle him.”

The finality in his tone settles over you like armor.

You inhale—slow, deep. The tension still lingers, an ache sitting heavy in your ribs, but it no longer feels crushing. It no longer feels insurmountable. Because you don’t have to do this alone.

You have them.

a/n. ahhh, i hope you guys liked this chapter. it was very, very tough for me to write. i can't tell you how much i despise naoya—fucking gaslighting asshole, lol. i hope this gave you a glimpse of what y/n actually lived through. this is the reason she has a lot of issues—the difficulty trusting, reluctance to open up. with naoya, y/n had no voice—she was powerless. but satoru brings out the spark in her, rather than diminishing her flame, satoru nurtures it. i feel like i didn't even get to accomplish everything i wanted in this chapter 😅 but oh jeez, i couldn't do another 20k chapter. just know that there's still a lot i'm setting up for. i'm so excited for what's to come 🥹 also, y/n and satoru finally shared some intimacy, hehe. hope it was worth the wait for ya'll 🤭 remember, SLOW BURN. thanks so much for reading, and as always, i would really love to hear your thoughts on this chapter! the support with this fic floors me, every single time. i appreciate each and every one of my readers—THANK YOUUU💕 -aly → you are currently all caught upꨄ

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

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@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

161 notes · View notes

cherryxbooo · 2 days ago

Note

Helloooo hehe 🍒

Could you write a pedri fic where perdito and reader are both in college but he’s the popular kind and reader is quiet and almost invisible.

How at first she doesn’t wanna get involved but slowly warms up to him and start dating and her getting welcomed by his family.

Make it angst to fluff like real angst tho.

Whether you write this or not im grateful 💚

You make sense to me

Summary: Being introverted and choosing the background over the spotlight is already hard enough, let alone when the popular guy suddenly takes an interest in you.

Note: Thank you so much for your request! I decided to switch it up a bit and go from fluff to angst and obviously ending in fluff. Hope you like it! 🫶

Reader x Pedri

Genre: fluff/angst

University is a strange place.

It’s a world where people reinvent themselves, the loud get louder, and the quiet, like me, learn to live in the spaces between.

That’s how I’ve survived my first year at university, blending into the background.

I’m not a recluse, but I keep to myself.

I study, I go to class, I read in the corner of the library, and I go home.

No unnecessary interactions. No unnecessary attention.

That is, until he noticed me.

Pedri.

Everyone in our uni knows who he is. He’s that guy, the one with effortless charm, always surrounded by people.

Popular, not just because he’s good at football, but because he’s him. He moves through life with a kind of ease I can’t even imagine.

And yet, for some reason, he keeps looking at me.

I don’t get it. I don’t know what he sees.

At first, I ignore it. I convince myself I’m imagining things. But then, it happens again.

And again.

Until one day, he does more than just look.

It started off small.

"Hey," a voice says, casual but confident.

My highlighter sits on the page.

A thick streak of neon yellow bleeds over a sentence I was trying to mark, but my brain suddenly forgets how to function because someone is talking to me.

Slowly, very slowly, I turn my head.

He’s already sitting beside me, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

A dark hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a grin that’s just a little too amused.

His presence feels loud, even though he’s not making any actual noise.

My first instinct? Escape.

My second? Stare.

I do both in rapid succession, my eyes flicking toward the exit, then warily back at him, as if assessing how much of a threat he poses.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, and just doesn’t care.

"...Hi?" I say, but it comes out more like a question than a greeting.

His grin widens, like this is completely normal.

Like we talk all the time.

“You’re in my psychology class, right?”

I blink at him. That’s what this is about?

I nod once, not trusting my voice, because I don’t know why he’s here, or what he wants, and I hate not knowing things.

He leans back in his chair, completely at ease.

His dark eyes scan the open book in front of me, then flick back up to my face.

“You’re quiet.”

I exhale slowly through my nose. No shit.

I don’t reply.

I just wait. People like him, people who talk first and think later, usually get bored when they don’t get the response they want.

Any second now, he’ll lose interest. Any second now—

"Like, really quiet," he continues, undeterred.

His chin rests on his palm, elbow propped on the table, as if he’s studying me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a full sentence.”

I resist the urge to sigh. Or groan. Or bang my head against the table.

Instead, I press my lips together and attempt to salvage my poor, over-highlighted page.

"Maybe because I don’t have anything to say."

He chuckles, low and warm, like I’ve just told some inside joke we both share.

Except we don’t.

“I don’t buy that,” he says.

I glance at him again, this time with actual irritation.

"Why do you care?"

His shoulders lift in an easy shrug, like he hasn’t even considered the question before.

“I don’t know. You’re interesting.”

I actually laugh. A small, startled sound that slips out before I can stop it.

Not because he’s right, but because that has to be the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.

"I’m not interesting," I say, shaking my head.

"You just don’t know me well enough to be bored yet."

His smirk deepens. "See? That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile."

I roll my eyes and refocus on my book.

"Congratulations. You’ve unlocked a new achievement."

He leans forward slightly, like I’ve just confirmed something for him. "So you can be sarcastic. Good to know."

I bite back another sigh. He’s not leaving. He’s settling in.

For a moment, I consider my options.

I could:

A) Ignore him until he gets the hint. B) Pack up my stuff and relocate to another part of the library. C) Say something so cold and blunt that he’ll regret ever sitting here.

I’m still debating when he speaks again.

"You always sit here," he muses.

I glance at him. "What?"

"In the library. Right here. This exact table." He tilts his head, thinking.

"You come in, you pull out your books, you highlight the hell out of your pages, and you don’t talk to anyone."

I stare at him, my pulse kicking up a notch.

"Have you been watching me?"

He shrugs, completely unapologetic. "More like... noticing."

"That’s the same thing."

"Not really," he counters, that lazy smirk still in place.

"Watching is weird. Noticing is just, paying attention."

I frown, my grip tightening on my highlighter.

"Why are you paying attention to me?"

He tilts his head, considering. "I don’t know. Maybe I like mysteries."

I scoff. "I’m not a mystery."

"Debatable."

I shake my head and focus very intently on my book.

But the problem is, I can still feel him there, his gaze lingering, his presence impossible to ignore.

And for the first time in forever, I feel seen.

I hate it.

Pedri doesn’t leave me alone after that.

At first, I tell myself it’s a coincidence.

A fluke.

That first conversation in the library? A one-time thing.

A moment of fleeting curiosity on his part.

But then it happens again. And again. And again.

It starts small.

A casual wave when he spots me across campus.

At first, I ignore it, assuming he’s greeting someone behind me.

But when I glance over my shoulder and see no one there, I realize, he’s waving at me.

I don’t wave back.

But that doesn’t stop him.

The next time, he adds a grin to it. The time after that, he calls my name, loud enough that people turn to look.

(Which, obviously, mortifies me.)

Then, there’s class.

He used to sit on the other side of the room.

I know this because I used to specifically sit where I wouldn’t have to be around too many people.

But one day, Pedri is suddenly there, dropping into the seat next to me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like he’s always been there.

I glance at him, suspicious. He just shrugs, pulling out his notebook.

"Better view from here."

I don’t buy that for a second, but I also don’t argue.

And then there are the conversations.

Or, more accurately, the ones he forces me into.

"So, what’s your verdict on our professor? Secretly a vampire, or just really hates sunlight?"

"If you had to survive on only one food for the rest of your life, what would it be? And if you say something boring like ‘salad,’ I might actually cry."

"I bet you secretly have a list of people you’d commit crimes for. I respect it."

Some days, I ignore him completely.

Other days, his persistence wears me down, and I give in with a sigh.

"Pasta," I mumble one afternoon.

He blinks. "Huh?"

"If I had to survive on one food. Pasta."

His entire face lights up like I’ve just gifted him something.

"Yes! Solid answer. Now, important follow-up question: are we talking plain pasta, or are you a sauce person?"

I sigh again, but this time, it’s less annoying. Maybe even a little amused.

Just a little.

And that’s how it starts.

I don’t even realize it’s happening at first.

How, little by little, I stop avoiding him.

How my replies stretch from one-word answers to full sentences.

How my body relaxes when he shows up, instead of tensing like I used to.

How I catch myself looking for him in class before he even arrives.

I try to convince myself that it means nothing.

That it’s just habit. That he’s just there, and I’ve gotten used to it.

But habits don’t make my heart skip when I see him across the quad.

Habits don’t make me bite back a smile when he says something stupid.

Habits don’t make my chest ache in ways I don’t know how to handle.

And somehow—without me fully understanding how or when or why, we become friends.

Or something dangerously close to it.

And it terrifies me.

Because Pedri is warmth, and I am used to distance.

Because he is effortless, and I have spent my whole life trying to be untouchable.

Because the more time I spend with him, the more I feel.

And feelings?

Feelings are dangerous.

Then it started with an invitation,

A casual one. Like it’s no big deal.

"Hey, wanna grab lunch with me?"

I glance up from my book, blinking at Pedri like he just asked me to rob a bank with him.

"What?"

"Lunch," he repeats, standing beside my table with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie.

"You know, that thing people eat in the middle of the day?"

I roll my eyes. "I know what lunch is."

"Great. Then let’s go." He gestures toward the door like this is already decided.

I hesitate. "Why?"

"Because we both have to eat, and food is better with company," he says simply.

"And don’t say you weren’t planning to eat, because that would be tragic."

I chew on my bottom lip, searching for an excuse, any excuse, but nothing comes to mind.

Pedri doesn’t give me time to think too hard about it.

He reaches for my bag, lifting it from the table before I can protest.

"Come on," he says, grinning. "I promise not to bite."

I sigh, knowing I’ve already lost.

"Fine," I mumble. "But if this place is loud and crowded, I’m leaving."

He smirks. "Noted."

The restaurant he takes me to is small and tucked away, a quiet little place that somehow doesn’t feel overwhelming.

It’s warm inside, the air rich with the scent of fresh bread and spices.

There’s soft music playing in the background, and to my relief, no overwhelming crowd.

"See?" Pedri says as we step in. "Not too bad, right?"

I nod slowly. "It’s... nice."

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. "Told you I’d pick a good place."

We find a booth by the window, and for the first time, I feel oddly at ease.

We order our food, and somehow, Pedri keeps me engaged in conversation the entire time.

It’s easy. Effortless.

He talks about everything, his classes, his teammates, a hilarious story about how he once fell asleep in the middle of a Zoom lecture and got called out for it.

I laugh before I can stop myself.

He looks ridiculously proud of this accomplishment.

"You like my suffering," he accuses, eyes gleaming.

"I’m just impressed by your ability to sleep through an entire class," I tease.

Pedri gasps dramatically. "So she can joke. This is a breakthrough moment."

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.

We eat slowly, the conversation flowing without effort.

And it’s nice. Too nice.

Because for the first time in a long time, I feel something dangerously close to happy.

After lunch, Pedri suggests a walk.

I should say no. I should go back to my dorm, back to my safe space.

But instead, I find myself walking beside him, our steps slow and unhurried.

The campus is quieter now, the afternoon sun casting a golden hue over the trees. It feels peaceful.

We eventually find an empty bench near the park and sit down.

I exhale, tilting my head back slightly to feel the breeze on my skin.

Pedri watches me for a moment before speaking.

"You don’t let a lot of people in, do you?"

I glance at him. "That obvious?"

He shrugs. "I just notice things."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Why?" he asks softly.

I chew on the inside of my cheek. I don’t usually talk about this. I don’t talk about myself at all.

But with Pedri, it feels... safe.

"I like peace," I admit finally. "I like being quiet. Being unnoticed. It’s easier."

Pedri stays silent, waiting. Letting me talk.

I take a breath.

"People... they take up space. They expect things. They need things. And I—" I pause, searching for the right words.

"I don’t know how to be what people need. So I just don’t try. So I won't end up getting hurt."

Pedri listens carefully, nodding like he understands.

I look down at my hands.

"I spent so long blending into the background that I guess I forgot how to be anything else."

Pedri exhales softly. When he speaks, his voice is gentle.

"I get that," he says.

I glance at him, surprised.

He leans back against the bench, gazing up at the sky.

"You know, people always assume I like attention just because I’m popular. Because I’m always around people, always talking."

I nod slightly. He’s right. I did assume that.

"But the truth is," he continues, "I don’t care about any of that."

I frown. "Then why—"

"Why you?" He turns his head to look at me. "Why did I notice you?"

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.

Pedri smiles, but it’s softer this time. "Because you’re real."

I blink. "What?"

"Everyone else is so... loud," he says.

"Always trying to be something, trying to impress, trying to fit into whatever image they think they need to be."

He shifts slightly, his knee brushing against mine.

"But you? You’re just you," he murmurs. "And that’s rare."

My heart does something weird in my chest. I don’t like it.

Pedri studies my face for a moment, then sighs.

"Look, I know you like being on your own. I know you don’t trust people easily. And I get that. But..." He hesitates, then turns fully toward me.

"Give me a chance," he says.

I inhale sharply. "Pedri—"

"Just a chance," he insists.

"Let me prove to you that I’m not like everyone else. That I don’t just want something from you."

I bite my lip, staring at the ground.

"You scare me," I whisper.

He blinks. "Me?"

I nod. "Not in a bad way. Just... you make me feel things. And I don’t know how to handle that."

Pedri’s gaze softens, and he reaches out, hesitating for a second before lightly brushing his fingers against mine.

"You don’t have to handle it alone," he says gently.

"Let me in. Just a little."

I look at our hands, barely touching, then back at him.

His expression is so open, so earnest, that something in me cracks just a little.

Maybe just a little wouldn’t be so bad.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

I take a deep breath. Then, slowly, hesitantly, I nod.

Pedri smiles, squeezing my fingers lightly before pulling away, giving me space.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel terrifying.

It happens gradually.

One moment, he’s just there, the way he always is, persistent, warm, impossible to ignore.

The next, he’s everywhere.

And suddenly, Pedri is mine.

Which is strange...

If you would've told me I would end up with the most popular guy of my uni, I would've straight up laughed in your face.

But, here we're... I guess.

It’s funny how quickly I get used to him.

To his presence, his warmth, the way he seamlessly fits into my life like he’s always been there.

And maybe it should scare me.

Maybe I should keep my distance, hold onto the walls I spent so long building.

But with Pedri, distance feels... impossible.

Because he refuses to be anything less than close.

It doesn’t take long for people to notice.

Because Pedri isn’t subtle. At all.

If anything, he seems to take genuine delight in shocking people.

Like the time we’re walking across campus, and he suddenly grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I freeze.

"Pedri—" I start, eyes darting around, but he just squeezes my hand.

"Relax," he murmurs, glancing down at me with a small smile.

"It’s just me."

I exhale slowly. It’s just him.

I tell myself to pull away, but I don’t.

And then I really regret it when I hear a group of students whispering nearby.

"Wait—are they holding hands?"

"No way. Pedri and y/n?"

"How did that even happen?"

I feel my entire face heat up, but Pedri? He doesn’t care at all.

If anything, he likes it.

Because the next day, when we’re sitting together in class, he casually reaches over and plays with my fingers under the desk.

Like it’s a habit.

Like he just wants to touch me.

"Pedri," I hiss quietly, trying to pull my hand away.

He smirks but tightens his grip. "You’re cute when you’re flustered."

I glare at him. "You’re annoying."

"And yet," he hums, "you still let me hold your hand."

Damn it.

Outside of school, it’s even worse.

Because Pedri doesn’t just want to see me in class, he wants to see me all the time.

"Are you free later?" he asks one afternoon.

I glance up from my notes. "Why?"

"Because I wanna see you," he says easily.

I blink. "You see me every day."

He grins. "Yeah, and?"

I sigh but don’t argue. Because, honestly?

I want to see him too.

Some nights, he comes over with zero warning.

Like when I’m sitting on my bed, fully prepared to spend my evening reading, and suddenly—

Knock, knock.

I groan, already knowing who it is.

When I open the door, Pedri is standing there with two cups of hot chocolate and a ridiculously pleased expression.

"You didn’t text me," I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Didn’t think I needed to," he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

I sigh. "What if I was busy?"

He flops onto my bed, looking completely at home. "Then I’d just sit here and wait for you to be un-busy."

I shake my head, but my lips twitch. I hate how much I like this.

One day, we’re supposed to grab lunch, but it starts pouring out of nowhere.

Pedri and I sprint across campus, completely drenched by the time we duck into the nearest café.

I groan, wringing out my hoodie. "Well, this sucks."

Pedri grins, shaking water from his hair like a golden retriever.

"Nah. I kinda like it."

"You like being soaked?" I deadpan.

"No," he chuckles. "I like that it means I get to stay here with you longer."

And damn it, he means it.

I shake my head, trying to ignore the way my heart clenches.

We sit by the window, watching the rain while sharing a plate of fries.

Pedri drapes his hoodie over my shoulders because I’m still shivering, and when I glance at him, he just shrugs.

"What’s mine is yours, princesa."

I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest doesn’t go away.

One night, we’re lying on my bed, facing each other in the soft glow of my bedside lamp.

It’s quiet, comfortable.

Pedri reaches out, tracing lazy patterns on my wrist.

"You ever think about what would’ve happened if I never sat next to you that day?" he murmurs.

I blink. "What?"

"In the library," he says. "If I never sat down. If I never talked to you or approached you. What do you think would’ve happened?"

I think about it for a second. "I guess... nothing."

Pedri frowns slightly.

"You wouldn’t have noticed me," I explain. "And I would’ve kept living my life the way I always have."

His grip on my wrist tightens slightly. "That’s a terrible answer."

I laugh softly. "It’s the truth."

"Well, I hate it," he says.

I tilt my head. "Why?"

Pedri exhales.

"Because I can’t imagine my life without you now," he murmurs. "And I don’t want to."

My breath catches.

He’s staring at me with so much emotion, like I’m the most important thing in his universe.

"I meant what I said," he continues softly.

"I don’t care that you’re quiet. I don’t care that you like being in the background. I don’t care that people think we don’t make sense."

His fingers brush against my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"You make sense to me," he whispers.

I don’t know what to say.

Pedri smiles slightly like he can hear all the things I’m too scared to say.

"You don’t have to say anything," he murmurs.

"Just, promise me you won’t push me away."

I swallow. "Pedri..."

"Please," he breathes. "Just let me love you."

My chest tightens, the weight of his words settling deep inside me.

But instead of answering, I reach for him, fingers threading through his hair as I pull him closer.

His lips meet mine, slow, soft, certain, and in that moment, I know.

I know that Pedri is different.

I know that I’ve already fallen for him.

And for the first time in a long time,

I don’t want to run.

It’s a normal day at school.

Or at least, it should be.

Except nothing is ever normal when you’re dating Pedri.

We’re sitting outside on one of the campus benches, a rare moment of peace in between classes.

I’m trying to eat my lunch, but Pedri, ever the distraction, is making that very difficult.

"You’re not even paying attention to me," he pouts, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"Because I’m eating," I say, taking another bite of my sandwich.

"But I’m right here."

"And?"

"And I require attention."

I roll my eyes, but I can’t hide my smile.

Pedri grins, clearly pleased with himself.

He reaches up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, then lets his fingers trail down my arm before entwining our hands together.

"Better," he hums, like this was the missing piece of his day.

I shake my head but squeeze his hand anyway.

For a moment, it’s quiet, and comfortable, like it always is with him.

And then he drops a bombshell.

"So, I was thinking... you should come to my parents’ house this weekend."

I nearly choke on my drink. "Wait—what?"

"To my parents’ house," he repeats easily as if he’s asking me to grab a coffee, not meet his entire family.

"For dinner. Just something casual."

Casual?

Meeting his parents is casual?!

My brain short-circuits.

"Pedri, I—" I pause, exhaling. "That’s... a big step."

He tilts his head, studying me. "Is it?"

"Yes," I say, nodding vigorously.

"I mean, it’s your family. What if they don’t like me?"

Pedri immediately frowns, turning his entire body towards me.

"First of all, there’s literally no way they won’t like you."

I bite my lip, looking down at my hands. "You don’t know that."

"Yes, I do," he says firmly.

"You’re smart, and kind, and funny, and—" He pauses, squeezing my hand.

"And you make me happy. That’s all they need to know."

I feel my heart clench.

Damn him. Damn him and his words that make me weak.

I hesitate for a few more seconds before exhaling. "Okay... I’ll go."

His face lights up, and suddenly, I know I made the right choice.

"Good," he says smugly.

"Because if you said no, I was gonna beg."

I snort. "I would’ve made you suffer a little first."

"That’s mean."

"That’s justice."

Pedri grins, tugging me closer. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

That weekend, I stood in front of my mirror, stressing out.

What do you wear to meet your boyfriend’s parents?

I don’t want to be too formal and look like I’m trying too hard, but I also don’t want to look like I just threw on the first thing I found.

After way too much debating, I settle on something simple yet cute, just enough effort to look put-together.

And right on cue, my phone buzzes.

Pedri: I’m outside <3

I grab my bag, take a deep breath, and head out.

As soon as I open the door, I see him leaning against his car, arms crossed, a lazy grin spreading across his face the moment he sees me.

"Wow," he whistles, giving me an obvious once-over.

I shift on my feet, suddenly self-conscious. "What?"

"You look—" He pauses, stepping closer. "Beautiful."

My face heats up. "Shut up."

"I’m serious," he murmurs, eyes shining.

"My mom’s gonna love you even more now."

I roll my eyes but smile as he opens the car door for me.

As we drive, I feel the nerves creeping in again.

My hands rest stiffly on my lap, and I stare out the window, chewing on my lip.

Pedri notices immediately.

Without a word, he reaches over and takes my hand, intertwining our fingers.

"Breathe, princesa," he murmurs.

I exhale shakily. "I just don’t want to mess this up."

"You won’t."

"How do you know?"

Pedri lifts our joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles.

"Because you’re you," he says simply.

And just like that, some of the nerves fade.

As soon as we arrive, Pedri barely has time to knock before the door swings open, revealing his mother.

"Hola, cariño!" she exclaims, pulling Pedri into a tight hug, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

He laughs, hugging her back. "Hola, mamá."

Then, her eyes land on me.

And suddenly, I forget how to breathe.

"And this must be y/n, the girl I’ve heard so much about," she says warmly, her gaze kind and curious.

I hesitate for a moment before stepping forward, offering a polite smile. "Hi, it’s really nice to meet you."

To my surprise, her face softens even more before she pulls me into a gentle hug.

"Oh, you’re adorable," she murmurs before pulling away.

"Come in, come in."

As we step inside, I glance at Pedri, who is smirking at me like he knew this would happen.

He leans down, whispering, "Told you she’d love you."

I glare at him, nudging him with my elbow, but the warmth in my chest doesn’t fade.

The house is warm and inviting, decorated with framed pictures of Pedri and his family.

Some are from his childhood, others more recent, like his love for football evident in every corner.

I take a moment to glance at one of the shelves, where several of his trophies and awards sit proudly.

"You’re staring, princesa," Pedri teases, nudging my shoulder.

"It’s just weird seeing your entire life displayed like this," I murmur.

Before he can reply, a deep voice cuts through the room.

"So this is the famous girl?"

I turn to see Fernando, Pedri’s older brother, leaning against the doorway with an amused expression.

"The one and only," Pedri says smugly, throwing an arm around my shoulders.

I shoot him a look but manage a polite smile. "It’s nice to meet you."

Fernando nods, eyeing Pedri. "Well, I have to say, I’m impressed. I thought you were just making her up."

I snort, while Pedri glares. "I hate you."

"Love you too, hermano."

His mother shakes her head, laughing. "Boys, enough. Let’s eat."

Dinner is incredible, and not just the food (which is honestly some of the best I’ve ever had).

Pedri’s mom made a full spread, and every bite tastes like it was cooked with love.

"This is amazing," I say, genuinely in awe.

His mom beams. "Thank you, cariño. Eat as much as you want."

"Careful," Fernando jokes. "She’ll try to adopt you if you say that too many times."

Pedri smirks. "Too late. She’s already mine."

I nearly choke on my drink.

His mother laughs while Fernando groans.

"God, you’re embarrassing."

Pedri shrugs, completely unfazed, squeezing my knee under the table.

Throughout the meal, his parents ask me questions, not in an overwhelming way, but enough to show that they’re genuinely interested in getting to know me.

His dad is quieter but still warm, occasionally chiming in with a question or a story about Pedri as a kid.

"Did he tell you he used to cry when he lost board games?" his dad asks, smirking.

I light up. "No, but I love that."

Pedri groans, slumping in his chair. "Why are we exposing me?"

"Because it’s fun," Fernando says, grinning.

I giggle, and Pedri shoots me a betrayed look.

"You’re supposed to be on my side," he mutters.

"I am," I say sweetly. "Just... not right now."

After dinner, I insist on helping with the dishes.

"Oh, no, cariño, you’re a guest," his mother says, waving me off.

"Please," I say, offering a small smile. "I want to help."

She eyes me for a moment before nodding. "Alright. But only because you asked so nicely."

As we stand by the sink, washing plates, she suddenly speaks up.

"You know," she starts, her tone thoughtful, "I wasn’t a fan of the other girls Pedri has dated."

I blink, glancing at her. "Oh?"

She nods, rinsing a dish.

"They only wanted him for his name and popularity. But you... you seem different."

I swallow. "I just like him for who he is."

She smiles softly. "I know. And that’s why I like you."

Something warm blooms in my chest.

"You’re good for him," she continues.

"He’s always been surrounded by people who want something from him. But with you? I see the way he looks at you, the way he talks about you."

She pauses, drying her hands before turning to face me.

"I can tell you care about him."

I nod, my throat feeling tight. "I do. A lot."

She smiles, patting my hand. "Then that’s all I need to know."

As we drive back, Pedri is grinning like an idiot.

"That went amazing," he says, eyes flickering to me.

"It did," I admit.

"See? You worried for nothing."

I sigh. "Yeah, yeah. You were right."

He gasps dramatically. "Wait, say that again?"

"I will never repeat it."

He laughs, reaching over to squeeze my thigh. "I’m proud of you, princesa."

I glance at him. "Why?"

"Because I know this wasn’t easy for you," he says softly.

"But you did it. And my mom loves you. My dad and Fernando too."

I bite my lip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he murmurs. "But more importantly, I love you."

My heart stops.

Pedri, realizing what he just said, suddenly tenses.

"Wait—" His eyes widen. "I mean—"

I laugh softly. "It’s okay, Pedri."

He swallows. "I just... I love you, okay? And I don’t care if that scares you. I’m not going anywhere."

I look at him, really look at him, and feel something inside me settle.

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I reach over, lacing my fingers with his.

"Drive, Pedri," I whisper.

He exhales, squeezing my hand. "I’ll wait for you, princesa. However long it takes."

And as we head home, I realize—

I don’t think it’ll take very long at all.

It was another boring uni day. A day full of back-to-back classes.

I’m in the library, stacking my books neatly into my arms, already mentally preparing for my next class.

My mind is quiet, calm, focused on anything but him.

Pedri had texted me this morning, telling me he had early practice and would see me later.

"Have a good day, princesa ❤️ Miss you."

I had smiled when I read it.

I shouldn’t have.

I adjust my grip on the books and turn toward the exit. Then I hear it.

Laughter. Loud voices.

At first, I don’t think anything of it. Until I hear my name.

I stop. My heart stutters.

I tell myself it’s nothing, that maybe I misheard, that maybe it’s just some random conversation.

But then a voice cuts through the noise, A voice I know better than anyone else’s.

His voice.

Pedri.

My stomach twists, my fingers tightening around the books as I take a cautious step forward.

The voices are coming from the hallway just ahead, around the corner.

I shouldn’t listen. I shouldn’t. But I do.

"Bro, you’re actually still with her?" one of his friends cackles.

"I swear I thought this was just a bet or some shit."

Pedri laughs.

That’s the first stab.

"Nah, man. No bet."

"Then what the fuck is it?" someone else scoffs. "There’s no way you’re actually into her."

Pedri lets out a low chuckle. "Come on, man. You really think I’d go for a girl like that?"

A girl like that.

"Exactly," another voice chimes in.

"She’s fucking boring, bro. Always sitting in the back, never talking, just reading like she’s in some old-ass novel or something. You could have literally anyone, why waste time on her?"

"It’s not like that," Pedri says easily. "She’s just… convenient."

The air leaves my lungs.

"Convenient?" one of his friends laughs. "What, like a little charity case?"

Pedri doesn’t deny it.

He fucking laughs.

"Nah, it’s just easy, you know?" he shrugs.

"She doesn’t ask for much. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t make a big deal out of shit. I don’t have to try too hard."

"So you’re with her because she’s easy?"

Pedri snickers.

"More like… low maintenance. She’s quiet, doesn’t bother me when I’m busy, doesn’t start drama. It’s just chill. I don’t have to worry about her blowing up my phone or expecting too much."

I feel sick.

"Damn, so you’re basically keeping her around for convenience?"

"I mean, yeah," Pedri mutters. "She’s just... there. It’s not that deep."

The laughter erupts around him.

I think I might throw up.

"Fucking knew it," one of them howls. "You had us thinking you were actually in love with her or some shit."

Pedri laughs harder.

"Come on, man. You really think I’d fall for her?"

My heart shatters.

I can’t listen anymore. I can’t.

The pain is too much, the walls around me caving in, my vision blurring with unshed tears.

I need to get out of here.

I don’t know how long I stand there.

Seconds? Minutes?

Everything is a blur.

Their laughter rings in my ears, mocking me, haunting me.

Tears burn at the back of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

I won’t let them have that power over me. My body moves on its own. One step.

Then another.

Then I’m walking away.

I don’t care where I’m going.

I just need to get the hell out of there.

I don’t go to my next class. I don’t care about my next class. I walk. Fast.

Away from the library, away from the voices, away from the truth clawing at my chest.

I feel numb.

Like my heart has been ripped out of my chest and I’m just walking around with a hollow, empty space inside me.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

I don’t check it. I don’t need to. It’s him. It has to be. I ignore it.

I ignore the ache in my chest, the sting behind my eyes, the lump in my throat that makes it hard to breathe.

I just keep walking.

By the time I finally return to my dorm, the sky is a deep shade of blue, the sun barely peeking over the horizon.

I close the door behind me, my body exhausted, drained.

And then there’s a knock. I hesitate, my pulse spiking.

I already know who it is.

I take a slow, shaky breath, gripping the door handle before pulling it open.

Pedri stands there.

His brows are furrowed, concern laced into every inch of his face.

"What the hell, Y/N?" he asks immediately. "Why haven’t you been answering me all day?"

I stare at him.

He looks so… confused. Like he has no idea what he did.

That makes me angrier.

"Go away, Pedri."

His eyes widen slightly. "What? No. What’s going on? Did something happen?"

I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask your friends?"

He freezes. And I see it.

I see the exact moment realization hits.

His lips part slightly, but no words come out.

"Yeah," I say, voice shaking. "I heard you. I heard everything."

"Princesa—"

"Don’t." I take a step back. "Just don’t."

His jaw clenches. "I didn’t mean it."

I laugh again, but it hurts.

"Right," I nod. "Because saying I’m just some joke? Saying you’re pretending to like me? That just… accidentally came out of your mouth?"

"It’s not like that," he says quickly, stepping forward. "Please, Y/n. Just let me explain."

"Explain what?" I snap. "That I’m just some quiet, boring idiot who actually believed you cared about me?"

He flinches.

"That’s not true," he says, his voice softer now.

"It doesn’t matter," I whisper.

"It does."

"No, Pedri. It really doesn’t."

I exhale shakily, looking away for a moment before meeting his gaze one last time.

"I can’t do this anymore."

His breath catches. "What?"

"We’re done."

I step back, my hands shaking as I close the door in his face.

For a few seconds, I don’t move.

I don’t breathe.

And then I hear it—

A soft, desperate whisper from the other side of the door.

"Please don’t leave me."

Tears stream down my face.

But I don’t open the door.

And I don’t look back.

The days blur together, a mess of sleepless nights and suffocating thoughts.

I barely eat, barely leave my dorm, barely exist outside of my own mind.

Every time I close my eyes, I hear his voice.

Every time I let my thoughts wander, I remember the way his words sliced through me like a blade.

My phone buzzes constantly, but I ignore it.

At first, I let it ring, let the messages pile up, let his name flash across my screen like a cruel reminder of what happened.

But he doesn’t stop.

"Y/n, please." "At least talk to me." "I need to explain." "I miss you."

Every day, every hour, his messages come in, desperate and persistent.

And every time, I stare at them with tears burning in my eyes, fingers hovering over the screen before I lock my phone and shove it under my pillow.

Then, after a few days, I finally block him.

I expect that to be the end of it.

But Pedri doesn’t give up so easily.

It starts with soft knocks on my door, hesitant at first, then firmer when I don’t answer.+

I stay curled up in bed, biting my lip to keep from crying out in frustration.

Then, when I wake up one morning and open my door, I see flowers.

A bouquet of my favorite ones, left neatly against the doorframe.

The first time, I hesitate.

The second time, I stare at them for a long time before stepping over them.

The third time, I pick them up, hold them in my hands for a moment, and then drop them in the trash.

And yet, the next day, there’s another bouquet.

Every single day, without fail, there’s a new one waiting for me. And every time, I feel my resolve cracking a little bit more.

But I’m not ready.

I don’t even know if I ever will be.

One week later, I finally force myself to go back to school.

I can’t hide forever.

I tell myself I’ve had time to heal, that I’ve built up enough strength to walk these halls without feeling like I’m suffocating under the weight of my own emotions.

That I can handle seeing him again.

But the second I step onto campus, my chest tightens, and my heart pounds against my ribcage like it’s trying to escape.

I keep my head down, moving quickly, avoiding eye contact, avoiding him.

But I can feel it. His presence. His eyes.

I know he’s seen me. I don’t look.

I don’t want to see the desperation in his expression, don’t want to acknowledge the way my stomach twists painfully at the thought of him standing somewhere nearby, watching me, waiting.

I force myself through class, focus on my notes, pretend everything is normal even though nothing is normal anymore.

But later, as I leave my last lecture, I barely take two steps before I feel it—

A hand gently grabbing my wrist, pulling me back.

I freeze.

His touch is familiar, careful, like he’s afraid I’ll run.

"Y/n."

His voice is quiet, raw, holding a plea that makes my throat tighten.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second before finally turning around, my expression carefully blank.

Pedri stands there, looking at me like I’m the most important thing in the world and he’s terrified he’s already lost me.

"Please," he says softly, his fingers still around my wrist. "Just let me explain."

I exhale slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. "There’s nothing to explain, Pedri."

"Yes, there is," he insists, stepping closer.

His hold on my wrist loosens, but he doesn’t let go completely, like he’s afraid that if he does, I’ll disappear.

"Just give me five minutes. That’s all I’m asking."

I hesitate, my mind screaming at me to walk away. But something in his eyes, something so painfully real, holds me in place.

I sigh, crossing my arms. "Fine. Five minutes."

He pulls me aside to a quieter part of campus, away from the crowd, away from prying eyes.

I stand stiffly, my arms still crossed, my body tense like I’m ready to run at any second.

"I never meant what I said," he starts immediately. "I swear to you, Y/n. I didn’t mean a single fucking word of it."

I let out a hollow laugh. "Right. You just happened to say all those things for fun? Just to impress your asshole friends?"

"No," he says quickly, shaking his head. "It wasn’t for fun. It was to protect you."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.

"Those guys? They’re not my friends. They never were. But they have a way of making people’s lives hell. I knew that if I admitted how much I cared about you, they’d go after you. Mock you. Make your life miserable. I thought if I played it off, if I made it seem like I didn’t care, they’d lose interest and leave you alone. Trust me Y/n iy happened before and it had gotten really ugly. I didn't want that to happen to the person I love."

I stare at him, my heart pounding in my chest. "You really think that justifies what you said?"

"No," he admits, his voice softer. "It doesn’t. I was an idiot. I should’ve told you. I should’ve trusted you to understand. But I swear to you, Y/n, I would never actually think those things about you."

"Be a fucking man Pedri and instead of doing this shit stand up for the person you supposedly love. You're nothing but a pussy."

I swallow, my emotions warring inside me. I don’t know what to feel.

So I leave. Again.

Later that day,

It all happens too quickly.

One moment, I’m walking across campus, lost in my own thoughts, and the next, there’s chaos.

A crowd gathers around a scene near the student quad. Loud shouts and yells fill the air.

My heart skips a beat as I push through the mass of students, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s going on.

I’m not expecting to see what I do.

There’s Pedri.

His fists are flying, and the guy he’s fighting, the asshole, is holding his jaw, clearly stunned.

But Pedri doesn’t stop. He throws another punch, fury in his eyes. I see the red in his face, the anger, and it’s not just at the guy. It’s everything. The hurt. The frustration.

The last few weeks have been hell for both of us, but in this moment, it’s all coming out.

His fists are like his words, punching through everything that’s built up, everything that’s been left unsaid.

But I can’t watch it anymore. I’ve seen enough violence in my life to know when things are about to spiral.

“Pedri! Stop!” I shout, pushing through the crowd to grab his arm, pulling him back.

He jerks his head towards me, his expression wild, eyes wide with a mix of rage and confusion.

I hold onto his arm tightly, trying to calm him down.

I don’t know why I’m even doing this for him, but it’s like I’m drawn to him, like I can’t just walk away.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, but slowly, the fight drains out of him as he looks into my eyes.

His breath is ragged, and his hands are clenched into tight fists, knuckles covered in blood.

“Are you stupid?” I mutter, my hands trembling slightly as I grab his arm and pull him away from the scene.

The crowd disperses, some murmuring, others filming with their phones.

Pedri doesn't fight me.

He lets me drag him away, and somehow, I find myself leading him into the first-aid room, a small quiet space where the tension in my chest can finally loosen, even if just a little.

I shove him onto the chair and kneel down, rummaging through the first aid kit.

“Why do you do this?” I ask, my voice shaking. I try to stay calm, but my hands are shaking as I pull out the bandages.

I clean his bloody knuckles carefully, avoiding looking at him too much. I can’t let myself soften. Not yet.

He sighs deeply, his voice low, raw. “He was talking shit about you again. That guy, he just won’t leave you alone. I had to make it stop.”

My heart sinks, and I bite my lip hard. I don’t know how to feel. My stomach churns.

Why did he feel the need to fight again? Why did he let it get this far?

“But why do you keep doing this?” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

"I... I don’t understand, Pedri. You say you care, but you keep pushing me away in the worst ways possible."

Pedri doesn’t answer right away. He stares at me for a long moment, his brow furrowed as though he’s considering every word carefully.

I can see the guilt in his eyes, the regret, the desperation. He wants me to understand. He needs me to.

“I—” He hesitates, his voice cracking slightly.

“I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to make you feel like you were a joke. I thought... I thought I was protecting you, Y/n. From people who wouldn’t appreciate you the way I do. Those guys... They’ll never understand how much you mean to me. But they will hurt you if they think you matter to me."

I’m speechless, blinking at him. There’s a part of me that wants to scream, to tell him he’s full of shit, but the truth in his eyes catches me off guard.

He’s being real, and it’s so hard for me to reconcile that with the image of the guy I heard talking shit about me, degrading me, the guy I’ve been blocking out of my life for a week.

“You should’ve told me that before, Pedri.” I swallow hard.

My voice trembles with the weight of everything.

“Instead of... doing that. I don’t understand why you had to hurt me first.”

He doesn’t look away. He looks... guilty.

“I didn’t know how to explain. I didn’t want you to think I was using you as some kind of... shield or something. But I wasn’t. I swear, I wasn’t.”

His eyes soften as he gently reaches for my hand, his touch so careful now, like I might shatter at any second.

I pull away, feeling the heat of his gaze burn into me.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you yet, Pedri,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath.

“You hurt me too much. And... I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel anymore.”

He nods, his lips pressing together in frustration. “I’ll do anything to make it right. I don’t care what it takes.”

I turn away, my heart heavy, my thoughts too tangled to untangle.

It’s not so simple anymore. I don’t know if it ever will be.

I walk away, feeling like a piece of me is being pulled in two different directions.

The days that follow are both long and quiet. The silence between Pedri and me feels deafening, like an invisible wall built higher with every moment.

He’s not giving up on me, though. Not even close.

It’s hard for me to stay distant. Hard for me to ignore him.

But it feels like I have no other choice. Every time I open my phone, I see his name.

Every time I hear a knock on my dorm door, I know it’s him. But I don’t answer. I won’t.

Still, something is different now. I notice his absence more than I expect.

The void he left in my life isn’t easy to fill. His quiet persistence is eating at me, but I won’t let it show. Not yet.

Pedri, however, doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let up.

At first, it’s small gestures. One morning, I find a handwritten note slipped under my door.

Just his name at the bottom, a few simple words.

“I’m sorry. Please give me a chance to prove I’m worth it.”

It’s the first time I’ve seen him so vulnerable. He’s always been confident, cocky even.

But this? This is different. I can feel the weight of his apology in the paper, and I fold it carefully, slipping it into my pocket.

Then, the flowers start.

He leaves them outside my dorm door every evening, sometimes daisies, sometimes sunflowers, always with a small note attached that says the same thing, “I’m sorry. Let me make it right.”

I feel the pull to just let him back in, but I resist. I’m not ready. I’m still broken.

Days go by, and I finally decide to leave my dorm to go to class. I walk through campus, trying to focus on the routine, trying to shut out everything else.

But I can’t. Pedri’s presence is everywhere.

I see him talking to the guys he used to hang out with, but now he’s different. He’s distant. Not laughing. Not joking around.

I can see it in the way he avoids eye contact, the way he doesn’t engage with them anymore.

His posture is closed off, like he’s shutting something down. I don’t know what it means, but something stirs in me.

Maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s hope.

That’s when I notice it, his transformation.

Pedri has made a point to distance himself from the very people who encouraged him to hurt me.

He doesn’t hang out with those friends anymore. The ones who always made fun of me, belittled me, and tried to convince him I wasn’t “good enough.”

The ones who laughed at my expense and pushed him to do the same.

He’s even going out of his way to take different routes on campus, avoiding his old crew altogether.

It’s subtle at first, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. He’s proving to me, in the smallest ways, that he’s changing.

That he’s fighting for something that matters more than his pride.

One day, I’m walking to class when I hear footsteps behind me. A familiar voice calls my name.

“Y/n.”

I don’t turn around, pretending like I didn’t hear him.

He’s been trying to talk to me for days, but every time I shut him down. It’s easier that way.

It’s safer.

But then, he’s right beside me, his presence undeniable.

“Please, just let me explain,” Pedri says, his voice low. There’s a softness in it now, no trace of arrogance. Just sincerity.

I finally stop, reluctantly meeting his eyes. He’s standing there, his expression full of regret, but something else, too, determination.

“I’m listening,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I... I’ve been thinking about everything,” he starts, hesitating, as if searching for the right words.

“I was an idiot, Y/n. I should’ve never listened to them, and I should’ve never pushed you away like I did. I wasn’t protecting you. I was just being selfish. And I never should’ve treated you like you were second best. I was wrong. I’m so sorry.”

His words hit me hard, and I want to yell at him. To tell him that his apology doesn’t fix anything.

But the truth is, he’s right. He was selfish. And I was hurt.

But there’s something about him, something in the way he’s looking at me now, that makes me wonder if he really means it.

“I don’t know, Pedri,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“You say you’re sorry, but it doesn’t undo everything. It doesn’t fix what you said or what you did.”

“I know,” he replies quickly.

“And I’m not asking for you to forgive me right away. I’m asking for a chance to show you that I can do better. That I can be the person you deserve. But I need you to trust me. I need you to let me prove it.”

For a moment, we stand there in silence, my mind racing with all the things I’m still unsure about.

But then I notice it, the genuine effort in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice. He’s not just saying the right things.

He’s living it.

“I’ll prove it to you every day,” he says, his voice firm.

“I’ve already cut ties with the guys who put you down. I don’t need people like that in my life. They can think whatever they want, but you? You matter. You always have. I’ll prove that to you, Y/n. I swear.”

I swallow hard, his words breaking through my walls. I want to stay angry.

I want to stay hurt. But everything in me is telling me that maybe, just maybe, he’s worth another chance.

“I don’t know if I can trust you yet,” I whisper.

“But... I’ll try. Slowly.”

Pedri’s eyes light up, and for the first time in weeks, I see a glimpse of the boy I used to know.

“That’s all I need. Just a chance.”

From that day on, I watch him like a hawk.

Pedri is relentless. He’s not just sending flowers or leaving notes anymore, he’s putting in real effort.

He spends his free time sitting with me in the library, helping me with schoolwork, never pushing for anything more.

Every time I see him talking to his old friends, he’s distant, his back turned, never engaging with the people who once made him feel like he was better than me.

He’s proving to me, with every small action, that he’s serious.

One day, as we sit in the park near campus, he looks at me quietly, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup.

“I know it’s not enough,” he says softly,

“but I hope one day you’ll look at me and see someone who actually cares. Someone who will fight for you, no matter what.”

I look at him then, really look at him, and for the first time in a long while, I believe it.

He’s not perfect. He might have messed up. But he’s doing everything he can to make it right.

“Okay,” I whisper, my heart beating faster. “I’ll let you try.”

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.

A few months later,

the tension between Pedri and me starts to ease. He’s patient, more so than I’ve ever seen him.

And with every day that passes, he seems to be putting more and more effort into proving that he’s not just saying the words.

He’s showing it.

But there’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Pedri hasn’t stopped trying to make things right, and it’s clear he’s not giving up on us.

It’s not just the grand gestures anymore, but the small, thoughtful ones, like leaving me my favorite coffee in the library, or texting me random jokes in the middle of the day to make me smile. (bare minimum fr)

And when I finally start to look at him again, I can see it. There’s real change in him.

And so, when he asks if I’ll go out with him on a date, I don’t say no.

But I don’t expect what happens next.

It’s a Saturday evening, and Pedri messages me earlier in the day, asking me to meet him at 6 PM sharp.

When I arrive at the spot he texted me, the park near campus, I’m greeted with something that takes my breath away.

There, in front of me, is a blanket spread out on the grass. The soft glow of fairy lights surrounds the area, strung between trees, creating a romantic little nook in the middle of the park.

On the blanket, there’s a picnic basket, candles, and even my favorite flowers, lilies, pink and white, arranged in a vase.

It’s not what I expected from him. At all.

Pedri stands beside it all, hands in his pockets, looking nervous as hell.

His eyes light up when he sees me, and for the first time in ages, I see a boy who’s trying harder than anyone ever has to make me feel special.

“Y/n,” he says, his voice shaky but hopeful.

“I know I’ve messed up. But I wanted to show you... that I’m serious about this. About us.”

I stand there for a moment, blinking at the effort he’s put into this.

The last time we were together like this, things were so different.

It feels like we’ve both come a long way.

“Are you serious?” I ask, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

“I’ve never seen you do anything like this before.”

“I know,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“But you deserve something better than what I gave you. You deserve to feel appreciated. And not just with words, but with actions. I know this isn’t enough, but... I hope it’s a start.”

I can’t help but smile, my heart beating a little faster as I walk over to him.

“I think it’s a perfect start, Pedri.”

He grins, relief flooding his features.

“I’m glad. I thought I might’ve messed it up with the flowers and all that.”

“Honestly? It’s the most effort anyone’s ever put into a date for me,”

I admit, my voice soft, but sincere.

Pedri chuckles, and his eyes soften.

“Well, then I guess I’m doing something right.”

We sit down on the blanket, and the evening goes from awkward to comfortable, and then, as the conversation flows, it becomes something even more.

We talk about everything, the past, the mistakes, the ways we’ve grown.

We laugh about stupid stuff, and he even admits to being terrible at making dinner (something I’d suspected from the start, but now it’s confirmed).

He makes a joke about how he can barely toast bread without burning it, and I can’t help but laugh.

“I’ll cook for you sometime,” he says with a playful grin. “And you can judge my terrible cooking skills.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” I tease, nudging him with my elbow. “But sure. I’ll take you up on that.”

We settle into a comfortable silence for a while, just listening to the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

It feels... nice. Simple. And yet, it’s everything I’ve been wanting. I can feel the trust building again, piece by piece.

“Y/n,” he says quietly after a long pause, turning to face me.

“I know I messed up. But I need you to know that I would do anything to make things right. I’ll spend every day proving to you that you’re the one I want, the one I need.”

I look into his eyes, eyes full of sincerity, full of hope, and for the first time in a long while, I believe him.

“Okay,” I whisper, my heart thudding in my chest. “I’ll give you that chance.”

Pedri’s eyes widen, and a grin spreads across his face so fast it takes me by surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say with a playful smile. “But only if you promise to keep the flowers coming.”

He laughs, his face lighting up like I’ve just given him the biggest gift in the world.

“Done. I’ll keep the flowers and the dates coming. Just don’t leave me again, okay?”

I laugh softly, nudging him again. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

“And you’re lucky I’m good at dates,” he grins, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper.

“Otherwise, I’d be in serious trouble.”

“Oh, you’re already in serious trouble,” I tease back, rolling my eyes.

“But I guess I’ll give you another chance. For now.”

Pedri leans back, throwing his arms around me in a mock dramatic fashion.

“I’ll make the most of it, I promise! I’ll win you over... one bad joke at a time.”

I can’t help but laugh as I rest my head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body next to mine.

It’s easy now. It’s natural.

“I’ll hold you to that, Pedri,” I say softly, closing my eyes for a moment.

And for the first time in months, everything feels right again.

The end

#football imagine #pedri x reader #pedri imagine #pedri fluff #pedri gonzalez x reader #pedri x y/n #pedri x you #pedri angst #pedri gonzalez #football x reader #football fanfic #fc barcelona x reader #barcelona x reader #barca x reader

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ittybittyfanblog · 3 hours ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold.

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug.

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works?

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really."

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table—framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly—not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say—until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy.

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter—just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just—vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours.

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit.

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you. Time moves like water carving through rock—gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.) And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?”

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by.

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself.

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill.

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter.

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it.

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons.

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical.

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind.

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session.

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I’ve seen you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I’m not, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I’m doing TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.”

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?”

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from cringe.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her.

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.”

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him.

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams.

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine.

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown.

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood.

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight.

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light.

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival.

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clink of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond.

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.”

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment.

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable.

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unspoken. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her.

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just to feel less alone about your own. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake.

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose.

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization.

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her husband struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you.

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark.

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it.

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict.

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth.

Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door.

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point.

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes.

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences.

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him.

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation.

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home.

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown.

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath.

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation.

He exhales. Then winces.

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it.

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh.

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left.

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago.

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware.

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago.

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil.

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively.

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer.

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting.

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable.

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere.

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists.

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home.

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now, with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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astro-b-o-y-d · 2 days ago

Text

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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