#that neither of them are likely to bring up

[yunalinwrites]

saja boys' sixth member is... a girl ? - first time seeing you in girly clothes | saja boys x reader

series summary: in this story, you are pretending to be a boy. not just any boy--a saja boy. but what will you do when not even your fellow members--the ones you now share a dorm with--can find out you're actually a girl? stay tuned for more!! (heavily based on you're beautiful kdrama + ouran high school host club)

scene summary: after having always seen you a boy, seeing you in your true form has them feeling some type of way… (lots of possessiveness + a teensy weensy bit of suggestiveness) / based on this req

It was a hot summer midnight in the Saja Boys’ dorm and you couldn't sleep. Between the faulty AC and the release of your guys’ new album coming soon, you found yourself restlessly tossing and turning.

At this point, you'd already come clean to the boys about how you're actually a girl, so you figured it wouldn't hurt to start wearing your more feminine pajamas. After all, if you had to constantly be playing the part of a boy during the day, you could at least stay in touch with your feminine side during the night. Although, it didn't occur to you that none of your roommates had actually seen you in your true form…

💪 Abs caught you on your way out of the convenience store. You had a craving for rice balls, so you threw on a cropped tank top and pajama pants and ran to the nearest corner store. It seems like you weren't the only one, though; just before you reached the exit–a bag-ful of goodies in your hand–the doors slid open with a chime.

“Abby?”

In front of you was none other than your pink-haired roommate, also wearing pajama pants and slides. On top of that–though he wasn't matching crop tops with you today–he had on a Saja Boys hoodie that somehow did little to conceal his muscles.

“Y/N?” he said.

“Abby!” you exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, I was on a jog and I got thirsty.” He shoved his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie which--unbeknownst to you–was his “lying tic”. What actually happened is that he noticed you sneaking out late and, in order to make sure you were safe, followed you all the way here.

It was dark out, though, so he hadn't really seen you in the light. Until now, where the store’s flickering fluorescent light was shining on you.

To him, it was a beam from the heavens. You weren't wearing a binder--or a bra for that matter--to conceal your chest, and the crop top put the rest of your figure on display. And even though your face wasn't much different in the same sense, your outfit gave it a completely new context that he couldn't look in the eye without blood rushing to his cheeks… and elsewhere…

“You were on a jog at midnight…?” you questioned.

“Uh--yeah. I, uh… do midnight jogs. Along with my morning jogs. And also… afternoon jogs.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, not-so-subtly flexing with a cross of his arms.

You giggle. “Ah, I see. So that's your secret to a six pack?” With his hands out of his hoodie pocket, you take the opportunity to poke playfully at his abs.

At that, his face turns even pinker than his hair.

“Don't worry, I won't tell anyone,” you promise with a wink, bringing your pointer finger to your mouth in a shushing motion.

He doesn't say anything--which you don't realize is because he's still too occupied with taking you all in–so you take it as your cue to leave. 

“I should probably go now,” you say. “Make sure you stay hydrated on your… midnight jog…”

“Wait–” he objects, grabbing your wrist just as you make it through the sliding doors. He looks you in the eye with a serious gaze, but the words struggle to come out.

For a second, neither of you make a move, blinking at each other in silence. Before either of you can come up with something to say, you’re suddenly distracted by the feeling of something cold hitting your shoulder. Using it as an escape from his heated gaze, you take your eyes off of him. Looking up to the sky, you hold your palm out to the falling water droplets.

Suddenly, you feel your other hand being pulled. Before you know it, you're moving away from the rain and your face is colliding with his warm chest, his scent filling your nostrils.

“You should've told me you were going out,” he murmurs, his chest rumbling beneath your burning cheeks.

Your heart is pounding out of your chest. Given his stature as an athlete, you expect his heartbeat to be slower. But, what you hear and feel beneath your ear seems to be thumping synchronously with yours–maybe even more rapid.

“Everyone was asleep…” you manage to respond, a little muffled as you try not to be obvious about the way you're burying yourself into him.

He, on the other hand, doesn't care about being conspicuous. He hugs you a little tighter. “Tell me next time.”

You bite your cheek, now letting yourself snuggle into him without shame. “Okay,” is all you can get yourself to whisper.

You stay like that for a little longer--which is a little strange to the cashier--but you don't care. Even if you wanted to move, the firm embrace he has around the small of your back wouldn't allow it. Eventually, though, you work up a bit more courage to pull back enough to look up at him and ask something.

“Hey, Abby… what’s in your pocket?” you ask with wide eyes. This whole time, you had been feeling something hard, long, and cylindrical in between the two of you.

“Oh,” he says. He takes an arm off of your back to slide it out. “You know, you should at least check the weather before you go out.”

It's a Saja Boys branded umbrella. What did you think it was?

He slowly lets go of you, grabbing your shopping bag and stepping into the outdoors to open the umbrella. Then, he looks back at you expectantly.

You smile. “Thank you,” you say, catching up with him.

As you begin to walk back in the direction of the dorm, you can't help but form another question: “Can I ask you something?”

He swallows nervously. “What is it?”

“If you knew it was going to rain… why did you go out on your ‘midnight jog’?” you ask.

He just smirks, looking down at you. 

“That's my secret.”

💐 Romance had caught you on your way to the bathroom. You had stayed up watching make-up tutorials all night, which made you miss doing a proper face. You still wore makeup for performances and shoots and such, but it was mostly just contour and eyebrow pomade to make you look more manly. So, you decided to do a little pre-shower look before you went to bed.

It felt a little weird to get dolled up with no destination, but screw it. You even put on a cute little nightgown to match. You never thought you'd describe glitter eyeshadow and tinted lip gloss as “refreshing,” but it really did feel nice to look like a girl again. Who knew you would miss eyeliner and mascara so much?

Sitting at your vanity, you yawned with a stretch, already feeling your falsies come off--now that was something you didn't miss. So, you got up and began to tip-toe towards the bathroom.

You didn't expect anyone else to be up at this hour, so it scared you half to death when you saw a familiar head of pink hair emerge from the shared bathroom.

“Y/N?”

There shouldn't have been anything scary about your roommate in a T-Shirt and sweatpants, but you still had to cup your hand over your mouth to stop a scream from forming. Instinctively, you pull it back when you feel something sticky; the lip gloss formed a kiss mark on your palm. You feel your cheeks burn, suddenly realizing what you look like right now.

“Are you wearing makeup?” Romance asked curiously.

You stare down at your bunny slippers. “Um… yeah…” you admit sheepishly.

The nightgown itself was revealing enough, but somehow covering your face like this made you feel even more exposed. You prayed he wasn't seeing too clearly given that all the lights in the house were off.

Before you can take a step back, he switches on the bathroom light and grabs your wrist. 

“Come to the light so I can see you,” he tells you calmly, the dim glow coming through the doorway illuminating his soft smile.

Reluctantly, you step forward as he pulls you into the bathroom. Taking your chin in his hand and tilting your face side to side, he observes you carefully.

“Pretty,” he comments. He steps back, taking in the sight of all of you. His eyes trace the lace adorning your collarbone. The heat of his stare makes your cheeks flush bright pink--no product needed. “You should wear lip gloss more often.”

You bite your lip again. “Oh, I…” You laugh nervously. “You know I can't.”

“You can do it for our next concept,” he suggested, referring to the softer direction the Saja Boys were going to take for your next album. “Tell the makeup artists.”

“Or,” he began, grabbing your chin and pulling your face impossibly closer to his, brushing his thumb over your lips. “You can borrow some from me.”

He has you pinned against the sink, your back against the counter. You stare up at him through your lashes, fluttering them innocently… until one of them falls off. 

“I-I should probably take this off now…” you stutter.

You quickly turn around to face the mirror, trying not to look at him in your reflection. You try to keep your gaze downward, on the sink as you reach for your makeup wipes. But, as you do, you feel a hand instead of the plastic packaging.

He picks up the package and peels it open, the crinkling sound the only thing breaking the thick silence between you.

“Let me do it,” he instructs gently, grabbing your waist and spinning you around to face him. “Sit on the counter.”

You blink at him, the other eyelash falling off. “Oh… Um… Okay…”

You prop yourself up on the counter and allow him to slot himself between your legs. With the wipe in one hand, he tenderly holds your face in place with the other and begins to remove your makeup.

“Am I being too harsh?” he asks.

“N-no, that's ok…”

You sit in silence, staring at the floor and doing your best to focus on the cooling sensation. Every once in a while you look up, and each time he never fails to lock eyes with you. You hope he can't feel your face getting warmer through the wipe.  

“What I said earlier…” he starts, slowing down over your lips. “You look good in any makeup.”

He tosses the wipe in the nearby wastebasket and returns, placing his palms on either side of you on the counter and leaning towards you. His gaze drops to your lips for a split second, and then back up to your eyes.

“Without it, too.”

He leans even closer, and once again, your faces are inches apart. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, the warmth of his breath. He seems to only be getting closer and closer so you let your eyes drift shut, leaning forward like its second nature, and then–

You feel something fuzzy slip over your head. You open your eyes. Around your neck is a fluffy pink headband with two red plush hearts on it like animal ears. He pushes it up, onto your head, tucking stray hairs behind his ear.

He puts on one of his own–just like yours but with inverted colors–and reaches behind you again.

“Should we do aloe?” he asks, re-emerging with two kinds of sheet masks: one green, and the other pink. “Or rose?”

You take a second to process what just happened. “Um… rose…”

He smiles. “Good choice.”

He rips the top of one of the packages and places it delicately on your face. Then, he does the same for himself, moving away from you to use the mirror.

You watch him beside you. Even through the glistening pink mask, you're desperate to find his eyes. As the two of you wait for the serums to settle into your skin, you don’t realize how hard you’re staring.

“Do I look funny?” he jokes when he catches your gaze.

For a second you take your mind off your pounding heart to laugh. “Y-yeah, a little.”

He chuckles, finding his way back between your legs. After discarding his mask, he slowly peels off yours, inch by inch, as if he’s received a present so precious he wants to cherish its unwrapping.

When he finally sees your face, bare in its truest form, he does all that he can to commit the image to memory. It’s funny, this is probably the part of you that he saw the most–whether it be in recording studios or dance rehearsals or songwriting sessions, you never had so much as a dab of powder on your nose. But somehow, you feel like he’s seeing you for the very first time, and he’s savoring it like it’s the last.

You feel yourself heating up again, so you try to break the silence. “Do… I look funny?” you ask, eyes darting back and forth between his.

He shakes his head with the lightest of laughs.

“You look beautiful.”

🍼 You knew Baby was awake--you could hear him tapping away intensely on his gaming keyboard from your room as you changed into your cami and shorts. He seemed very engrossed in whatever he was playing, shouting heated insults into the mic of his headset as you passed by his room. So, as you were standing in front of the fridge trying to enjoy the cold air wafting over you, it scared you half to death when you felt your tank top strap snap against your back.

You shriek and whip around.

“Hey,” he says casually, hooking the strap under his finger again and letting it smack your collarbone. “What’s up?”

“‘Hey’ yourself,” you mutter, rubbing the spot. “I'm up because someone can't keep it down when he's playing ranked.”

You turn back around to the fridge with a huff, but you notice that the last can of Saja Soda Pop™ is gone. “Hey! How did you–”

“Quick hands.”

You crane your neck to glare at him, but your eyes instinctively drop downwards at the sight of skin. He’s using the hem of his T-Shirt to clean off the top of the can, revealing his lower abdomen. Through his open zip up and beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, you can see the brand name of his boxers.

Trying to ignore the sight, you force your eyes back to his face and lunge towards him, but he’s two steps ahead, and about half a foot above you. He looks down at you with a smug expression as he holds it up, out of your reach. You get on your tippy toes and reach towards it, your chest beginning to press on his.

“Ugh!” You retreat and cross your arms, giving up with a pout. He cracks it open and throws it back without shame. One hand gives you the finger, and in the other, you see his stupid face plastered on the bright pink can: “Baby's Blue Raspberry”.

“Whatever… “ you mumble, attempting not to focus on the way his Adam's apple bobs with every gulp. “Romance's flavor is better anyway. ‘Lychee Love Potion’ outdoes yours by a longshot.”

He finishes drinking with a swallow and a deep exhale, his expression growing uncharacteristically serious. He looks you dead in the eye, unamused, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He keeps that eye contact as, without a word, he holds the can to your lips.

Before you can protest, he tilts it, forcing you to drink as you stare up at him, wide eyed. When the can empties, he pulls it back and uses his thumb to wipe the corner of your lips.

He leaves you dumbfounded as he goes to toss the can in the recycling.

As he makes his way back, you're finally about to stutter something out–until you're interrupted by his scent suddenly overwhelming you.

“Don't dress like this around the house,” he instructs, draping his hoodie around your shoulders. “‘Specially not around Romance.”

Your jaw hangs open as he then takes his phone out of his pant pocket and begins heading out of the kitchen. You watch his back in awe as he types away on it, acting as if nothing happened.

He's already halfway up the stairs by the time you shake yourself out of it and call after him.

“It's hot out, you know…” you protest weakly, contradicting the way you're pulling the hoodie around yourself. You try to put some bite into your voice. “I'm gonna, like, die of a heat stroke and it'll be all your fault.”

He looks down at you again from above the stair railing, wearing that stupid smug face again.

“There's a fan in my room,” he states matter-of-factly, resuming his walk up the stairs.

“When you come return my hoodie,” he starts, “you can wear whatever you want in there.”

❓ Mystery’s always had a strong nose. His sight is constantly dampened by his signature hairstyle, and as a result, his other senses have become strengthened. So, the chemical scent was particularly unpleasant to him--enough so to get out of bed to investigate.

Following the harsh odor through the hallway, he found himself in front of your bedroom door. The main light wasn’t on, but enough of a glow seeped through the cracks of the closed door to indicate you were awake; a lamp, maybe. Wanting to confirm this theory, he raised his knuckle just under the pastel sticky note with your charming handwriting and followed its instructions: “Please knock! - Y/N”

He stepped back, anticipating a greeting. But, even after a few minutes, the only response that would break the silence was the occasional clink of glass from behind the door. 

Now, he knew it was rude to come in. Especially at this hour, when you certainly weren’t expecting anyone, he considered. He also considered that you might not be decent. But, his curiosity got the best of him, and he figured he did technically follow the instructions the note had given him. So, he reached for the door handle.

He was met with the sight of you sitting criss-cross applesauce on your desk chair in an off-the-shouldee T-Shirt and shorts, elbows planted on the table, hands tasked with something he couldn't quite make out; the only lighting was a desk lamp–his theory was correct. What he could make out, though, was the thumping of the bass from your headphones. You hadn't noticed him yet, so he approached you, watching closely over your shoulder.

Your hands were trembling, your dominant one shaking a nail polish brush over the thumb of the other. You had your tongue peeking out and one eye shut, trying your hardest to guide the bristles above your cuticle.

Mystery took a small step back. So, that’s what it was. His one late night curiosity had been solved, and he should’ve been satisfied enough to go back to bed. But, in its place formed another: how long would it take you to notice him?

It looked like you had managed to make a shoddy swipe over your nail bed, which allowed you to start breathing again. Taking that as his window to approach you, he took a slow and quiet step forward. It was only when you went to dip the brush back into the bottle that you caught him out of the corner of your eye. 

Well, it didn't register as him at first. It seems late night delirium, dim lighting, and Mystery’s hairstyle are not a good combination.

“Ah!” 

You knock over the polish bottle as you flinch.

“Shit…” you mutter, frantically setting it right back up. You let out a sigh of relief--you caught it before it was able to spill. 

After returning the brush to the bottle, you move to take your headphones off, but--out of consideration for your wet nails--it isn't easy to do with just your palms. You struggle, the plastic slipping against your sweat, until you feel another set of hands cover yours. They're warm and careful as they move your hands out of the way, and still equally as gentle when they remove your headphones and place them on the desk.

You bit your lip as he stepped away to pick up an ottoman from the opposite corner of the room and set it beside you. The seat is much shorter than yours, but given his usually impressive height, it only lowers him to eye-level with you. Perfectly aligned with the light emanating from your desk lamp, he is no longer whatever apparition or monster you were imagining before; his features are softer than ever as you’re now able to see his smile more closely than ever before.

He also takes advantage of this vicinity. Whatever hairs were messed up by your headphones he strokes back into place. Tucking the strays behind your ear, he reaches over you and grabs a hair clip from the flower-shaped dish on your desk. He takes the bow he picked out in both hands and tilts it back and forth in the light. Smiling in satisfaction, he has to control his excitement as he pins your bangs back.

All you can do is stare at him in awe, your lips parted.

“Mystery…” you whisper.

He waves back at you, as if to say, “That's me.”

“Why are you here? Did I wake you?” you ask worriedly.

He points to the nail polish, and then to his nose.

“Oh… I'm sorry…” You trail off sheepishly. You reach to scratch the back of your neck out of nervousness but quickly retract your hand, remembering the state it's in.

He just shakes his head with a smile. “It's okay.”

He holds his hand out to you. You blink at him in confusion.

“Give me your hand,” he says, softly but aloud nonetheless.

“O-oh,” you stutter, hesitantly doing as he says.

Just like with the bow, he tilts your hand back and forth and smiles to himself. The color you had chosen was a translucent pink; as the bottle advertised, “Your nails but better!™”

Wearing nail polish was nothing out of the ordinary for all of you--so much so that the marketing team had released your own line of “Saja Sparkling Nail Lacquer™” for the “Lovely lion claws™” of “the Pride™” . Right now, in fact, Mystery had on his very own shade of magenta, courtesy of the cosmetics team's nail tech.

He'd seen much more elaborate designs--and much neater designs--done on his own fingertips. So, on paper, he shouldn't be impressed by the shaky brushstrokes of a simple clear pink. But on your hand--on the soft hand he was holding and never wanted to let go–there was something endearing. It wasn't something you’d get at a salon--it was more like the result of a girl's sleepover or hours at a vanity before a date. That image in his mind alone meant more to him than all the years that lady had spent at beauty school.

Though he himself had no such certifications either, he reached for the cap of the nail polish bottle. Bringing your hand closer to him, he began to sweep the brush over each nail.

You watched in awe as, with all ten fingers, he dipped the brush in the liquid and smoothed it over your fingers meticulously, holding your hand close to his face. With every replenishing of the brush, he would back up a bit, but when he resumed painting, you could feel his breath on your knuckles.

You feel it even harder after he finishes, blowing gently on your nails. It probably isn’t doing much to dry them given how hot and humid it’s been lately, but, contrary to the cool air he lets out, it doesn’t fail to make your cheeks burn.

With a third, final exhalation, he retracts his hold. Without realizing it, you leave your hand hanging in the air, right where he’d left it. Your body seemed to know what your mind didn’t have the courage to say: you weren’t ready for him to go yet.

But then, just as quick as his touch had left, it returned as he slid his palm under yours and pushed it so your hands were upright, like a high-five. He couldn’t help but breathe out of his nose a brief chuckle at how your fingertips came up a full joint shorter than his.

You hoped he couldn’t feel the way you were trembling right now–prayed that he wasn’t grossed out by how clammy your hands were getting. But he didn’t seem to care, and you didn’t have any thoughts left to think, when, slowly, he curled his fingers until his hand engulfed yours.

You bit your lip. You could feel his pulse under your touch, calm and steady, and you were sure he could feel yours thumping at twice the pace. But, despite your nervousness, you let yourself copy him, slowly lowering your fingertips until they slotted perfectly in between his knuckles.

On the back of your hand, you saw his beautiful pianist-like fingers resting. His flawless manicure wasn’t even a millimeter overgrown–filed unfathomably symmetrical, cuticles pushed back out of sight, and surface perfectly glossy, the light reflecting without obstruction. Meanwhile, on the back of his hand, he saw that, even with his and your best efforts, there were stray splotches of pigment here and there on your skin. In some places–where the light hit your nail beds wrong–there were unblended brushstrokes.

There was no competition. It was clear which one he preferred.

He squeezed your hand playfully. “Do mine next time.”

✨ “Jinu… Jinu, wake up. You shouldn’t fall asleep on the couch, you old man.”

With his arm over the back of the couch and his knees spread open, he continued to snore–a sound so loud it rendered the TV in front of him inaudible. You sigh, wondering how Derpy and Susie were able to stay snuggled up against him on that throw pillow. Really, with the drool leaking out of the corner of his mouth, it was comical how un-Saja-like this was–save for the lion’s roar that escaped him with every exhale.

You shake his shoulder. “C’mon, Jinu. I don’t want to hear about your back problems in the morning.”

“Hrrrgghh, shhhh… Mmm… Huh… Huh…?”

You watch as he goes from snoring to murmuring to mumbling and then… shrieking.

“Ahh! Intruder! Intruder! Derpy, there’s an intruder!”

Desperately, he yanks on the poor tiger’s blue fur. Derpy wakes up, but doesn’t share the same urgency. He recognizes your scent, so he opens his glowing eyes halfway only to side-glare at Jinu before drifting back to sleep.

“Y/N…?” he finally realizes.

You don’t respond. You just sigh and cross your arms. Unintentionally, you push your breasts up a bit as you do. You don’t notice but, as he continues to register what he’s looking at, he definitely does.

“Wh… what are you wearing…” he trails off.

Quickly, he darts his eyes somewhere else–anywhere else. Your satin button up and shorts set isn’t really by any means indecent, but he feels his cheeks get hotter with guilt for every second he stares. He turns his face away, but let's face it–at any angle, he’s red as an apple. 

“What? Four hundred years and you haven’t seen a PJ set?” you retort. 

You put your hands on your hips and weight on one leg, striking a sassy pose. “You might be, like, a gajillion years old, but you’re not my dad. I’ll wear what I like, especially when it’s hot.”

“R-right,” he agrees, not realizing you were referring to the weather.

“What are you watching, anyway?” you ask, turning around to the screen. “Oh, wait! I know this show. This is a good episode…”

You start going on about characters… or something–he feels bad for not listening, he really does, but he can’t help it. He hasn’t the slightest clue of what you’re talking about; he fell asleep in the first ten minutes of watching. It’s an easy fix; if he really wanted to, he could look at the screen and find enough context clues to put together a response. But then, he’d have to take his eyes off the real show in front of him.

The dim glow of the TV lights you up from behind like you’re an angel greeting him at the gates of heaven–something he thought he’d never see. He follows the glow around the edge of your silhouette, slowing down from the hem of your shorts to your waistband. He’s really not trying to make it pervy, he swears, but he still burns with shame–though, the feeling is somehow different than the sharp purple patterns Gwi-Ma sends through him; it has quite the pleasant side to it.

When his eyes reach the back of your head, he decides that’s the most respectful place he can rest them. It’s not any less of a sight than the rest of you–your hair has grown out a bit ever since your DIY pixie cut, enough so for you to tie the teeniest little ponytail to try and beat the heat. As it sprouts from the colorful little scrunchie, it reminds him of a pointed paintbrush. But in this form, he thinks, you should be a framed painting.

He’s snapped out of his trance when he feels the weight of the couch shift; Derpy crawls off the couch with Susie on his back, meowing a farewell.

“Get a room,” he seems to say.

Frantically, before you’re able to turn around, Jinu grabs the cushion they were on and holds it over his lap.

“Good night, Derpy. Good night, Susie,” you say with a wave. You turn back to the couch, making eye contact with Jinu.

“Sorry. I’m blocking your view, huh?” You apologize nervously, your eyes taking refuge on the empty spot Derpy left. You plop down next to Jinu, his arm still around the back of the couch behind you. But while you keep your eyes on the screen, he keeps his eyes on you.

“Wow… what a beautiful dress,” you comment, pointing at the wedding scene before you. “I wish I could wear something like that…

“Me too,” Jinu whispers, watching the way your eyes light up when you see it, lined by lashes he never realized were so long.

He flinches backwards a bit when you turn to him with a smirk. “I don’t think they make those in your size,” you joke. “Not if you’re eating enough for you and Derpy and Susie,” you say, gesturing to the empty family-sized bag of Saja’s Mild Spicy Shrimp Chips™.

“Th-that’s not what I–” he stutters, hoping you didn’t catch onto his stare. “Ugh, just shut up and watch.”

He feels you vibrate through your touching knees and shoulders as you laugh. “Okay, okay,” you surrender.

The both of you return your gazes to the screen. Jinu has to employ every muscle and nerve in his body to keep his head facing straight ahead and his mind on the plot. But a few minutes later, just as he thinks he’s able to squeeze out that last thought of the flowy satin draping over you, his aforementioned nerves detect an unexpected weight and warmth on his shoulder.

He looks down and finds your cheek smushed up against his shoulder; his ears–their tips now pink–pick up the most hushed of snores drifting from your plush lips. He thanks the stars above that your eyes are shut–putting your soft lashes on full display now–because now you can’t see how he’s blushing even harder than before.

He instinctively lifts the arm resting behind you, but just before it reaches your shoulder to shake you awake, he stops it above your head. It’s as if his muscles have a mind of their own–he tells himself–as his hand slowly lowers to your hair and begins to stroke it gently.

He immediately tenses up when he feels you stir, freaking out briefly until you snuggle closer to his chest. He lets out a deep breath of relief, but takes in a few more; he needs to slow down his pounding heartbeat right now, or else you might wake up, he worries.

When it’s as steady as he can get it, he lets his lungs go on autopilot. But, even so, he’s suddenly very aware of his body. He knows he’s not a lion, and he knows he’s not a tiger or bird. But, tonight, he doesn’t feel like a demon. Somehow, he feels strangely human. And he’s suddenly aware that he’s a man, and you’re a woman. And you are much smaller than him.

He takes his hand off of your head for a moment to pull slightly at the back collar of your shirt. Before the satin slips between his fingers, he’s able to catch the size on the label.

He’s an old man, as you like to tease him, so he’ll probably forget by the time he wakes up. But still, he leans his head on you and lets his eyes drift shut without a worry.

He’ll remember, he promises–and he hopes you can somehow hear that promise telepathically when his head meets yours.

He’ll remember when he buys you that dress.

***

erm idk how to feel cuz i kinda like what i wrote but i also somehow feel like i didnt go in the right direction in terms of whats expected from the prompt?? idk also sorry jinu's and baby's aren't the most developed i just wanted to get this out cuz it was taking so longggg

jinu is my fav but i struggle to write him :(

but anyways im so excited this was my first req ever so ty ty ty anon i luv u guys im gonna try to work on the other req i have asap but plz b patient w me :') dont b afraid to send in more req tho tee hee

masterlist

tags (open ^o^): @hornehlittleweeblet2 @foxta1l @prettylittlelavvy @ch1cky-093 @thoughtsfrom1985 @feelya @doodle-with-rhy @fries11 @katzline @iivantablackii

[written-and-readen]

Warnings: nsfw (18+), penetrative sex, death

Phainon's hand takes yours, fingers interlacing. He pushes it against the sheets as his cock pushes into you, imagining he were taking you in the golden fields of Aedes Elysiae instead of his bed in Okhema.

How beautiful you would look, glowing under the warm light and amidst the sea of wheat. Your moans carry up to the open sky, and neither of you care who hears it. The breeze blows through your hair, and the grass brushes against your skin, making Phainon jealous that, unlike them, he can only touch so much of you with his two hands.

He thinks he could live out eternity there with you, days mundane but spent together. He'll relish your laugh filling the corners of your home while he chases you, eventually capturing you in a hug. You beg him to stop as he tickles your sides, and he relieves your torture with a kiss. He'll wipe every stray crumb from your face, smiling at the heat that warms your cheeks from the graze of his thumb. You turn away to avoid that smug look of his that is aware of how much he affects you. He'll wrap you in his arms every night, fitting your body perfectly against his and being lulled to sleep by you mumbling in your dreams. He swears he always rests better when you're cozied up to him.

"Phainon..." You mewl beneath him, bringing him back to reality. Your hand squeezes his as he stretches your walls, and it makes his cock throb.

"I'm right here," He presses a kiss to your forehead.

Phainon holds on tight to your hand, keeping you close and wishing to anchor you to him. He hopes that maybe this time will be different. That you can be happy together. That you won't be taken away like his hometown. That you won't die in his arms like you have the past 3,355,035 cycles, the hand he once gripped so desperately going cold every time.

[rafeys-angel13]

rafe struggles to comfort you 002

- request a fic - masterlist - part one -

it had been three weeks since you last saw him. rafe messaged you every day, but you never replied. you had made a few new friends at the beach around a week ago. you had met them a few times.

they were pogues, but they were fun and welcoming. you felt safe with them and they were there for you, a lot more than rafe was.

you had woken up bright and early to go to the beach with the pogues. you found a spot and set up for the day. you and kie were laying on the sand while the boys were in the water.

kiara had fallen asleep a few minutes ago so you also close your eyes. the sound of the waves and inaudible chatter.

“so this is where you’ve been, huh?” a familiar, sharp voice cuts through the serene atmosphere. you look up in the direction of the voice and see rafe. he’s stood over you, staring down at you.

“rafe, i don’t want to talk to you…” you sigh and sit up, brushing the hair away from your face. he scoffs and throws his hands up.

“you’re unbelievable…” he sighs. “you haven’t replied to me in three fucking weeks.”

“yes, because i don’t want to talk to you.” you retort back with an eye roll.

“can we go for a walk or something… i wanna talk to you. i don’t care if the feelings not mutual, i can’t go any longer without speaking to you.” he holds his hand out for you.

you sigh reluctantly and take his hand, standing up. you slip your flip flops on and follow him. he starts walking slowly down the beach.

“so you found some new friends, huh?” he squeezes your hand gently as he speaks. “that why you’ve been ignoring me? have i been replaced?” his face shows a soft smile even though his words feel like a dig.

your heart flutters at the small squeeze, seeing his smile brings back the happy memories of your relationship. you love him, you really do— but the time you spent away from him had you second guessing your happiness.

“i don’t know if i’m the right one for you…” you murmur quietly, looking down at the ground.

“what?” his head snaps towards you, his eyes immediately glaze over with sadness and he automatically pulls you towards him— his steps come to a halt.

“i just don’t think im happy in the relationship, rafe…” you sigh, your heart pangs at the sight of his sad expression. he shakes his head and turns to you, taking your face into his big hands.

“no… you’re happy- you are.” his baby blue eyes look straight into yours, as if the more he looked at you, the more he could convince you that the relationship was good for you. “you’re a happy girl, baby…” he rambles, his eyes flickering between each of your eyes.

“i’m sick of just focusing on the highs… the bad outweighs the good and i’m sick of it rafe, i’m done.” you blurt out with a shaky voice, your bottom lip trembling as your eyes glaze over with salty tears.

“what? are those pogues putting words in your mouth? this isn’t like you, sweetheart.” he replies adamantly, his hands dropping from your face and never breaking eye contact with you.

“no. they’re not putting words in my mouth. i can speak for myself and that’s exactly what i’m doing.” you correct him firmly, repressing your tears. you’re not about to cry infront of him again.

“so that’s it? you’re just leaving me?” he throws his hands up and steps back, scoffing.

“i don’t know rafe. i don’t know what to do.” you sigh, rubbing your hands over your face. “i love you… but i can’t live like this.” you shake your head, looking up at him after you pull your hands away from your face.

“i love you… i love you so much. please don’t end it like this.” he steps forward, wrapping his arms around you.

you want to fight it, you want to stay strong and stand your ground. yet your body can’t resist him and you immediately relax into his chest. his head drops down and his cheek rests against the top of your head as your tears flow down your face.

his shirt becomes more and more soaked by your tears. but neither of you care. you’ve missed his arms.

“you can’t push me away when i need you and then expect me to comfort you when you need me…” you tell him, your voice coming out whinier than you intended due to the tears.

“i won’t push you away ever again…” he shakes his head, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead. “i swear on my life, baby” he murmurs, yet his voice is firm.

“i don’t know what to do, rafe…” you sniffle. you want so badly to believe that he can change and treat you better, yet it seems so impossible with a guy like rafe.

“come to my house… just for the night.” he grabs your shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. his eyes search yours, trying to figure out what you’re feeling.

he just wants a straightforward answer and you’re not giving him one.

“i don’t think that’s a good idea rafe.” you shake your head and he huffs, pulling you closer to him.

“please, sweetheart…” he pleads, his voice barely above a whisper. his nose brushes against yours and your heart flutters.

“no. you’re just doing this to try and change me mind. i’m not stupid.” you snap, finally finding the courage to step away from him. “were done rafe… i can’t live like that. it’s miserable.” you sigh, feeling the tears prick in your eyes yet again.

“please… if you need a break, we’ll take a break. but i don’t wanna lose you. you’re too special to me.” his voice trembles as he tries to grab your arm again. you shake your head and pull away from him.

“fine, whatever. just- leave me alone…” you tell him, he reluctantly nods. “i’ll talk to you when im ready…” you add before starting to walk away, back to the spot you were at.

“yeah… i love you, baby…” he croaks out as his hand slips of of yours soft skin. his heart aches as he watches you walk away.

— ·˚ ༘ a/n - sorry for the long wait. i hate this so much omg >:(

[callmebyyourcallsign]

Clear Skies

Pairing: Lt. Robert “Bob” Floyd x Medic! Reader

Tags: slow burn, mutual pining, comfort, bob loves hands

Summary: You’re the new squad medic assigned to the Dagger detachment, a quiet professional trying to keep your head down in a world of loud personalities. Bob Floyd notices you before anyone else does, the way your hands steady when patching them up, the kindness in your eyes when no one’s watching. What begins as stolen glances and quiet conversations turns into something neither of you can ignore.

Word Count: 1,986

It starts with your hands.

You don’t think of yourself as remarkable. You’re just here to do your job, patch up the pilots, keep them flying, keep your head down. But Bob Floyd notices your hands before he notices anything else.

The way they move, precise, gentle, steady even when everyone else on base is loud and frantic. He watches from across the hangar, helmet in his lap, as you kneel beside a rookie who took a fall on the tarmac. You speak in a low voice, calming. Your hands work quick, taping up the sprain, brushing dirt from torn flight suits.

Bob thinks about your hands for hours afterward.

You meet him properly two days later.

Bob comes in with a shallow cut on his temple, a close call on the carrier landing. He’s quiet, like always, except now he’s close enough that you can see the scatter of freckles across his nose, the way his lashes brush his cheeks when he looks down.

“Lieutenant Floyd?” you ask, voice soft.

He looks up. Meets your eyes. And that’s it. That’s the moment.

You clean the cut, fingers gentle, and Bob can’t stop watching your face. The crease of concentration between your brows. The way your lips part like you’re about to say something and think better of it.

“You’re good at this,” he says quietly.

You glance at him, surprised. “At first aid?”

“At… helping people feel better.”

And you don’t know what to say to that. No one notices things like that about you. Not really.

After that, Bob looks for you.

Not in a creepy way. But in the way a man notices kindness when he’s not used to it being aimed at him. He watches you laugh at Phoenix’s jokes, watches you carry your med bag like it weighs nothing. Watches you sit on the steps of the hangar, scribbling notes in a battered little journal during quiet moments.

You start noticing him too.

The way he stays behind to help load gear, even when no one asks. The way he speaks up for the rookies when they get torn down too hard in debriefs. The way his smile, when it finally reaches his eyes, is shy and sweet.

Weeks pass. You and Bob start falling into a quiet rhythm.

You pass him coffee on early mornings. He brings you bottled water when you’re working long in the heat. You patch him up after runs, he walks you to your car at night.

The squad notices.

Payback teases. “Our boy’s got a crush.” Bob flushes scarlet. Stammers something about respect, about professionalism. You just smile and say nothing, heart racing.

Because maybe… maybe you’re starting to feel the same.

-

It happens on a Tuesday.

A malfunction mid-run. A bad reading on final approach. Bob keeps his cool, because of course he does, but when the bird starts failing, he does what he’s trained for, pulls the handle, punches out, rides the wind.

You’re on duty when they bring him in.

You hear the commotion before you see him, boots on linoleum, urgent voices, the sound of a gurney’s wheels squeaking down the corridor.

And then there he is.

Helmet off, suit torn, hair wild from the wind. A scrape on his cheek, a bruise blooming along his jaw. But his eyes, his eyes find yours across the med bay, and they’re clear, steady, familiar.

“Hey,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Hey yourself, Floyd.”

He’s fine. Mostly. Banged up, rattled, but fine.

Still, protocol says 48 hours under observation. Head injury precautions. The doc signs off, but you stay close.

You tell yourself it’s your job. You know better.

That night, the med bay is quiet. The others have gone, the squad checking in and leaving one by one after making sure Bob’s okay. It’s just you and him now.

Bob’s propped up on the bed, still in his undershirt, IV dripping slow and steady. You sit by his side, a cup of vending machine coffee cooling in your hands.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says, voice soft.

You smile. “I want to.”

Bob looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to figure out if he’s dreaming this.

“Scared the hell out of me, you know,” you admit, gaze dropping to the floor.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, quiet, a little shy.

“I know.”

There’s a long pause. The kind that feels like a breath held between two people.

“You always look out for me,” Bob says finally.

You glance up. His eyes are on you, warm and a little dazed from exhaustion, but honest.

“So do you,” you say.

The hours pass slow.

You sit close, trading quiet conversation. About flying. About home. About things that don’t matter and things that matter too much.

At one point, Bob dozes off for a bit, and when he stirs awake, he finds your hand resting near his on the blanket. Almost touching.

“You’re still here,” he murmurs, half in wonder.

“Yeah,” you say. “Still here.”

His fingers twitch like he wants to take your hand, but he hesitates.

And so you do it for him. You slide your fingers over his, gentle, sure.

Bob’s breath hitches, just once.

“Thank you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“For what?”

“For seeing me.”

Morning comes. Bob’s cleared to go back to quarters, but he lingers in the doorway, looking at you like he wants to say something more.

You just smile, heart aching in the best way.

“See you out there, Floyd.”

“Yeah,” he says. “See you.”

And you both walk away knowing something shifted. Something good.

-

Days pass. Then a week. Bob’s back in the air, back in the rhythm, but you can tell something’s shifted.

You see it in the way he looks at you now.

Softer. Longer. Like he’s memorizing you in case he never gets another chance.

And you? You’re just as bad. Every time he walks into a room, your pulse kicks up. Every time he speaks, your heart strains to catch his words like they’re meant just for you.

One afternoon, you’re out on the tarmac after a long debrief. The sun’s low, gold spilling over the jets. Bob stands a few yards away, helmet in hand, squinting into the light.

You should be heading inside, but you can’t move.

Because the breeze ruffles his hair just so. Because the sun turns his lashes to gold. Because the curve of his mouth when he smiles at something Phoenix says makes your chest ache.

And Bob?

He feels your gaze like a touch. Glances over.

For a heartbeat, it’s just the two of you in the world.

That night, you find him in the common room, alone, a dog-eared book open in his lap.

He looks up, startled but glad.

“Hey.”

You sit beside him, close enough that your knees brush.

“Hey.”

You don’t talk about flying or his mission. Not this time. You talk about music. About where you grew up. About the kind of food he misses when he’s on deployment too long.

Bob tells you his grandma used to make muffins so good they’d make you cry.

You tell him your dad used to whistle the same tune every morning, and now you hum it without realizing.

And the whole time, your legs stay touching. His hand stays inches from yours on the couch.

Neither of you moves away.

Later, you lie awake.

Thinking about the way he smiled at you tonight.

Thinking about the quiet kindness in his eyes.

Thinking about how badly you want to reach for him and how scared you are that if you do, you’ll lose what you have now.

Bob’s the same.

Lying in his own bunk, staring at the ceiling, hand resting over his heart like he can calm the ache there.

He thinks about how your laugh sounds like safety. How your eyes crinkle when you grin.

And he wonders if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.

-

It starts small.

The way Fanboy smirks at you across the ready room when Bob’s around. The way Payback nudges Bob when you pass, muttering something that turns his ears pink.

Phoenix gives it away the most, though, just arches a brow and grins knowingly when Bob stammers through a sentence directed at you.

And Bob?

Poor Bob’s flustered as hell.

You’re walking back from the med bay, sweat drying on your skin, sun dipping low on the horizon.

Bob’s beside you, unusually quiet.

You glance at him. His jaw’s tight. His hands fidget with the strap of his helmet.

“Everything okay, Floyd?” you ask, teasing gently.

He stops walking. Just stops.

You turn, confused.

Bob licks his lips, takes a breath like he’s about to eject again.

“I—uh—I wanted to ask you something.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Yeah?”

He shifts his weight. Looks at the ground. Back at you.

“Would you—” His voice cracks a little. He clears his throat. “Would you maybe wanna—go out with me? Just—just us? Dinner, or something?”

You blink.

Then smile so wide it hurts.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months.

“Really?”

“Really.”

His face goes so red it’s almost impressive.

“I—I mean—I’d really like that.”

You laugh, soft and warm, stepping closer so your shoulders almost touch.

“Me too, Bob. Me too.”

And when you both keep walking, your hands brush, just once, and neither of you pulls away.

That night, you lie in bed, heart racing, cheeks sore from smiling.

Bob does too, fingers pressed to his lips like he’s trying to hold in all the joy.

And for the first time in weeks, you both sleep easy.

-

Bob picks you up in his beat-up truck, hair still damp from his shower, shirt slightly wrinkled because he changed outfits three times before settling on it.

He opens your door like it’s instinct. Like it’s what he’s supposed to do.

You can’t stop smiling.

Dinner is simple. A quiet little diner off-base, where the food is greasy and good, and no one cares that he’s in uniform boots and both of you are too nervous to eat much.

Bob’s hands shake a little when he lifts his glass. Yours do too.

He talks about flying. You talk about music. He listens like every word matters. You do the same.

And when you both leave, the sky’s gone dark, clouds heavy, wind soft and warm.

It starts as a drizzle when you’re walking back to his truck. Then faster. Heavier.

You stop under a streetlight, breathless from laughing, hair plastered to your forehead, water trickling down your neck.

Bob looks at you like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Like he’s memorizing this moment.

“Sorry,” he says, breath hitching, “I should’ve—brought an umbrella or—”

“Bob?”

“Yeah?”

You step closer, close enough to feel the heat of him even through the rain.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

His eyes go wide. Then soft.

And then his mouth is on yours, gentle at first, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll break.

But you don’t.

You kiss him back, rain cold on your skin, his hands warm where they find your waist.

It’s clumsy and perfect. The kind of kiss that makes the world blur at the edges. The kind that makes you forget about everything else.

When you pull back, both of you breathless, he presses his forehead to yours, rain dripping from his lashes.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a while,” he admits, voice quiet, like a secret meant just for you.

“Me too,” you whisper.

The rain keeps falling.

But neither of you rush for cover.

You stand there, soaked and smiling, hearts light, letting it wash over you.

Ao3

[niwaart]

Succubus reader <— spectacular. I need more please…

The city pulsed beneath the midnight haze, a restless, breathless thing. Gotham had seen horrors—Joker’s madness, Bane’s strength, Scarecrow’s terror—but this was different. She wasn’t chaos. She was poetry in motion, a predator wrapped in velvet heat and whispered promises. And she never left a trace. Only lips parted in silent gasps and hearts that beat a little too fast in her wake.

She was the succubus in the shadows, the woman no one could catch.

But Batman had made it personal.

“She’s feeding off civilians,” Bruce growled, the glow of the Batcomputer reflecting in his cold eyes. “This city’s barely holding itself together. She doesn’t belong here.”

“You say that like we can actually catch her,” Tim muttered, arms folded. “She’s... fast. And she knows we’re watching.”

Dick leaned against the wall with a lopsided grin. “Fast? Try intoxicating. I ran into her two nights ago in the East End. Thought I had her cornered. Then she—” He cleared his throat, cheeks pink. “Never mind.”

Jason snorted. “She kissed you, didn’t she?”

“Shut up.”

Damian, ever sour and sharp, narrowed his eyes. “She won’t seduce me. I have discipline.”

“Sure, demon spawn,” Jason teased. “Let’s see how long you last.”

She knew they were coming. She always knew.

The moment she stepped into the moonlight, dressed in crimson silk that clung to every line of her wicked grace, they were already there. Eyes from rooftops, from shadows. She could feel them, each heartbeat like a different flavor on her tongue—Bruce’s grim resolve, Dick’s smirking confidence, Tim’s curiosity, Jason’s barely restrained rage, Damian’s fire.

And she craved every one of them.

Dick cornered her near Crime Alley, acrobat’s grace bringing him down just behind her.

“You don’t belong here,” he said. His voice was steady, but his heart stuttered.

She turned, slow and languid, lips curled in amusement. “Neither do you, Nightwing.”

Her eyes glowed like embers. Her hand reached out—not grabbing, not attacking, just brushing his jaw with fingers like silk and sin.

His breath hitched.

She leaned in, her voice a whisper against his neck. “You should smile more, pretty boy.”

Then she was gone. He was left breathless, flushed, and empty-handed. "not again! damn it!"

Jason tracked her through the Narrows, Red Hood’s guns holstered but ready. She stood in a ruined cathedral, framed by shattered glass and silver moonlight.

“End of the road,” he said, voice rough.

She smiled, stepping into his space. “You like chasing monsters, don’t you?”

Jason didn’t move when her hand slid over his chestplate. His body betrayed him. Muscles locked. Heat pooled in his core. Her eyes held his like a vice, voice curling around his mind like smoke.

“I like the broken ones,” she whispered.

His breath caught.

She vanished.

He swore and punched the wall.

Tim used logic, algorithms, heat signatures. He almost had her.

Then she showed up in his safehouse.

“You’re clever,” she said, circling him like a dream, “but tired.”

“I’m not tired,” he snapped, stepping back.

She pressed a hand to his chest. “Liar.”

He blinked—and her lips were inches from his. The warmth of her touch sapped the will from his limbs. Her eyes shimmered with something unearthly, and the part of his mind screaming ‘danger’ was smothered under desire.

He closed his eyes—

—and opened them to an empty room.

She caught Damian off guard. No seduction. Just standing on the rooftop of Wayne Tower, waiting.

“You're not immune,” she said when he drew his blade.

He advanced. “I am focused.”

But when she touched his arm, fire licked up his spine.

“You wear rage like a crown,” she purred. “But you’re still just a boy.”

“I am not—” His voice cracked.

She kissed his cheek with a phantom’s softness. “I’ll let you grow into something lovely.”

He stood frozen as she vanished like mist.

Bruce didn’t come for her. She came to him.

The Batcave was dark, lit only by the blue glow of screens. She walked through it like it was her throne room.

“You’ve been watching me,” she said, voice low.

“I know what you are,” he replied, standing firm. “And I won’t let you win.”

She smiled. “You already did. Every time I touch them... every time their hearts race... you're the one who feels it most. You want me gone because I tempt you.”

Bruce said nothing.

She walked to him, closer than anyone should. He didn’t move.

“You can’t stop desire, Batman,” she whispered. “You only cage it. And cages rust.”

He blinked—and she was gone.

They never caught her.

Every time they came close, she slipped away with a kiss or a whisper. And Gotham, dark and desperate, welcomed her like an old lover.

She wasn’t a villain. Not really.

She was temptation incarnate.

And she wasn’t leaving.

[jakey-channie]

home sweet home

jake sim jaeyun x reader

[masturbation (f). use of a sex toy (f). desperate jake. big dick jake bc why not. pussydrunk jake. they’re both kinda switchy n desperate :3. begging if you squint. a tiny little hint of overstimulation. oral (f). unprotected sex (pls don’t). creampie. cockwarming. aftercare happens off screen. they’re in love your honour.]

a/n: hi hi hi :3 my first enha fic <3 lmk your thoughts :3 this isn’t edited and i wrote it on my phone so there’s probably gonna be typos/mistakes so pls if you spot any lmk

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

you hear the rattling sound of keys a little too late. the front door is pushed open, and so is the bedroom door one second later, after he’s taken his shoes off and thrown the keys into the bowl you keep by the door.

“hi, my baby, i missed—” he freezes in his tracks, “—you.”

he stares at you. you stare at him. neither dares to speak. the buzzing continues, louder than ever, echoing in the silence of the room as you desperately search for the button to switch it off. the blue vibrator you bought impulsively a few months ago because jake was on tour and there was a huge sale on the website.

the vibrator jake knows about, but which he has never seen you use before. you didn’t need it when he was there— he knew exactly how to satisfy you.

and now he’s caught you red-handed. panties hooked in your ankle. the stupid thing won’t turn off. eventually, it stops working. you’ve never felt more embarrassed, although rationally you know it’s completely normal and healthy to masturbate, even if you’re in a relationship.

jake does not look mad in the slightest.

“baby, i— i thought you were at work.”

it’s a lame excuse, but it’s not really an excuse. you really weren’t expecting him to come home so early.

you lower your top to cover your breasts, feeling exposed and vulnerable, but right as you’re about to pull your panties up your legs you feel jake’s hand stopping you. and then, he’s kneeling by the bed.

“don’t,” his lips on your forehead. “wanna see you,” fingers gripping your top, yanking it back up. the cold air hits your nipples, making them harden, and he’s unable to take his eyes off them. “seems like you were having fun, yeah? playing with yourself…”

he’s not embarrassed like you are, you realise. something else. something inviting.

“i’m sorry.”

he shakes his head. “you’ve got nothing to be sorry about. yeah?” nuzzles your cheek with his nose, runs his fingers all over your naked legs. “just caught me by surprise. a really nice surprise,” he bites his lip.

fingers reaching the centre of your thighs, where you’re wet. jake dips one finger in the sweetness coating your skin, looking at you in awe.

“so wet…” he murmurs, watching the way your arousal’s now all over his fingers and makes them all shiny and sticky. “lookin’ so pretty and delicious…”

you let out a desperate sound.

his eyes darken.

his hands reach for the object lying dead on the bed, which was priorly between your legs and bringing you pleasure. he hands it to you, eyes encouraging, waiting for you to take the object.

“go on.”

you blink, shocked, eyes wide and confused. “what?”

“keep going. continue what you were doing.”

he bites his lower lip teasingly as he watches you timidly grab the small clit sucker and place it between your legs to where it previously was. he turns it on.

“but— jakey, i mean… you’re here, so…”

he smiles, but it’s a teasing smile. he has other plans for tonight. fucking you was already in his plans for the night, yes, but now there’s a deeper desire that he can’t ignore.

“i’ll fuck you. i’m gonna give you my tongue, fingers, cock— whatever you want,” he licks his lips, looks at where your toy rests. “but i wanna watch you first. wanna see you making yourself come. please,” he begs, desperate, as if it were the opportunity of a lifetime and he doesn’t want to miss it for the world.

and who are you to deny him?

you hiss the moment the toy kisses your clit. the lube has already dried a bit, and it causes the nicest of frictions against your skin. plus, you’re really turned on, so you think you won’t take a long time to cum. and you can’t really wait for jake to fuck you.

“feels nice?”

he murmurs, fingers grabbing your thigh, lips on your knee as his eyes bore into yours, staring into your soul.

“hmmh,” you hum, cheeks feeling hot given how embarrassed you are. “not as good as when you eat me out, though.”

he smirks.

“gonna do that later. now i really wanna see you cum,” he bites on the inner part of your thigh, not too hard as to leave a mark, but hard enough to make you squeak.

you’re close already, have been for a while even before he came home. you’re desperate and aching for release. your hands searches for his — it finds it. thighs starting to shake, teeth sinking in your lower lip, you fall apart thanks to the toy, head tipping back on the pillow and hand tightly squeezing jake’s.

he doesn’t take his eyes off you, not even for one second, not even when you let the toy fall on the bed, still vibrating, as you try to catch your breath.

“did so good…” jake kisses your knee, brushes your knuckles with his thumb. “so perfect… can’t wait to be inside you…”

“then hurry, baby.”

he bites his lip, eyes staring between your legs where a small pool of both your arousal and sweat is wetting the sheets. jake lets go of your leg, crosses his arms over his chest and takes his t-shirt off. then, he stands up from the floor and unbuckles his belt.

you sit on the bed and take your top off as well whilst jake positions himself between your spread legs. you thinks he’s about to fuck you, but he buries his face between your thighs instead.

“oh.”

he hums, lapping at your cunt. “sweet… taste so good…” you see his eyes rolling in the back of his skull. jake always gets pussy drunk so fast. “wanna be inside you so bad.”

“want to feel you inside of me, jakey, please,” you beg, hand wrapped around his wrist, encouraging him to take off his boxers and finally push inside.

his hair is messy, dishevelled, and his lips are plump and wet with your cum and his spit, cheeks flustered just from tasting you for a few seconds. he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pushes them down his legs, freeing his cock, long and thick and yearning to feel you, with clear pre-cum leaking from his tip.

“y’make me so hard. have no idea what you do to me.”

he pumps himself a couple of times, slowly, before dipping his tip in the sweet wetness smeared all over your bare cunt, kissing your clit deliciously, making you squeak due to how sensitive you still are. you crave him, though. want to feel him stretch you out with his cock. you don’t even need his fingers to prep you from how turned on you are.

“please, jakey. give it to me, baby.”

hearing you beg is the most beautiful symphony. but as much as he’d like to tease you a little bit more, he’s desperate himself. jake aligns himself at your entrance, pushes the tip of his cock inside you, and watches closely as you gasp out from the sudden fullness. he slides right in, welcomed by your wetness.

he’s big and hard and throbbing, and you’ve been thinking about this the whole night.

“thank you, thank you, thank you,” you mumble incoherently as he pushes inside until he’s fully buried in your cunt.

“s-so tight, baby,” he whines, nose scrunching as he hovers over you, balancing his body weight on one elbow as he caresses your forehead with his other thumb.“so fuckin’ tight ‘n’ wet.”

“just f’you, baby. jakey. baby. love.” you ramble on, completely cock drunk already. “fuck me. fuck me, baby, please.”

his head drops in the crook of your neck as he tries his best not to cum in three seconds flat. his fingers get lost in your hair as he plays with it sweetly, twisting one strand around his pointer finger.

eventually, he starts to move, knocking your breath out of your lungs from how big he is, tip kissing your cervix with every thrust. he kisses you on the lips, on the corner of your mouth, on your neck, on every part of you that his lips can reach as he fucks you. you hook your legs around his, pulling him closer until you’re one being, until you can’t distinguish where you end and jake begins.

“so good to me. every time,” he mumbles, “can never get enough of you.”

nails on his back. they’ll probably leave red marks he’ll have to make an excuse for. he doesn’t care right now. not as he pushes inside of you, not as you move your lower half to meet his thrusts, not as you clench around him desperately until he almost can’t move inside of you.

“jakey. baby. gonna— gonna cum.”

you gasp out, pulling his hair gently. he wouldn’t mind it if you were rough with him. his cock is big and hard, entirely coated in your wetness, and his pelvis brushes your clit with each thrust. it’s too much and it’s not enough at the same time. you know your muscles will be sore tomorrow but you honestly don’t care right now.

“me too, baby. sweetie. sweetheart. my princess.”

you both cum with your foreheads pressed on one another, eyes closed shut and noses scrunched up in pleasure as you hold on to each other. he twitches and fills you up and it’s warm inside of you, your releases mixing together beautifully, making a mess of the sheets. you don’t care about that either.

he falls on top of you, spent, and finds your arms welcoming him. he rests his head in the softness of your chest, and it’s your turn to play with jake’s hair now. he intertwines your fingers with his, catching his breath. he begins to soften inside of you and you know what’ll come next. you’ll change the bedsheets, have a nice shower and nightly skin care routine together and then fall asleep in each other’s arms. you smile at the thought.

“jakey?” you call him softly.

“baby.”

“welcome back home.”

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

reblog if you like my works and maybe lmk your thoughts :3

[l8niteth0ts]

hi, i love you work so much!! :)

if possible, would you be able to do a reiner x fem!reader smut fic where he has a scent kink/is obsessed with smelling the reader? no worries if not - i just think reiner would fit that so well. XD

𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃: 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Reiner doesn’t mean to lose control. But when your scent hits him just right, something in him snaps—and all he can think about is filling you, marking you, and keeping you.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 (𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈): Scent kink, breeding kink (couldn't help myself, sorry), vaginal sex, panty sniffing, uhhh I think that's it. 👍😀👍

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2,523

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: Thank you for the request, anon! Sorry it took so long. I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to leave a like, comment, and feel free to reblog! I am grateful for all of you—thank you for reading my work! (I did not proof read, sorry!)

𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒, 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒, 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!

“𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬.”

It starts with something innocent.

You’re lounging on the couch, flipping through your phone, hair still damp from the shower. Reiner walks past to grab a drink from the kitchen, but he slows near the hallway, eyes narrowing slightly as he inhales.

You don’t notice at first, but he lingers longer than usual. His throat bobs as he swallows. His fingers tighten on the bottle of water he just grabbed.

“New shampoo?” He asks, voice low.

You glance up at him, half smiling. “Oh. Yeah. Lavender and honey or something? Smells nice, huh?”

He grunts in agreement, but you catch the flicker in his eyes, like he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t.

Later, when you leave to run errands, you forget that you tossed your laundry into the shared basket but didn’t run it.

When Reiner comes home and sets down his gym bag, he walks past the laundry and stops. There’s something on top—your underwear, soft and still warm with your scent.

His fingers twitch. His breath catches. He doesn’t mean to lean down.

But he does.

And the moment your scent hits his nose—warm, sweet, familiar, you—he groans like he’s in pain. His cock hardens instantly, pressing against his sweats as he closes his eyes and breathes you in again.

He clenches his jaw. “Fuck,” he mutters. “What the hell’s wrong with me?”

He doesn’t know how long he stands there.

His hand is still gripping your panties, tight in his fist like he's trying to ground himself. But it doesn’t work. The fabric is soft, damp, and smells too much like you—and his cock is throbbing against his pants, aching from how fast he’s getting hard.

He growls under his breath. “This is so fucked up.”

But he doesn’t put them down.

He brings them to his face again, shame burning in his chest, but he can’t stop himself. His eyes flutter shut, and he breathes in deep—nose buried in the fabric like a starving man. His hips twitch. He can already feel himself leaking.

That’s when the door opens.

You step inside, arms full of groceries, keys jangling in your grip. You stop in your tracks when you see him standing there, frozen. His back is to you, but when he turns around slowly, your stomach drops.

He’s holding something.

Something familiar.

Your panties.

His jaw tightens, golden eyes wide, wild, filled with panic and hunger. You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he. The silence is thick, charged, until—

“...I can explain,” he breathes, voice rough.

You say his name quietly, almost a whisper. “Reiner.”

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, but then his eyes drag down your body, and his words die on his tongue. He looks feral. Ruined. Desperate. Like he’s two seconds away from dropping to his knees and begging.

“I just—fuck,” he groans, running a hand down his face. “You don’t know what you do to me. You don’t know what it’s like… smelling you all day. Sharing a space with you. Pretending I don’t want to bury my face between your thighs every second.”

You blink. Heat coils in your stomach.

“Then stop pretending,” you say, quietly.

He freezes.

And then he snaps.

Reiner’s on you in two steps, his arms caging you against the door as his lips crash to yours, all teeth and tongue and frustrated, needy heat. One hand rips the grocery bag from your grip and tosses it aside, the other’s already gripping your hip, dragging you closer like he can’t bear to have a single inch between you.

“You smell so fucking good,” he growls against your mouth. “I couldn’t stop myself. Couldn’t stop thinking about it—your scent all over this place, in my bed, on my clothes—fuck.”

He sinks to his knees in front of you, pressing his face to your thighs, his nose brushing against the inside of your leg as he inhales deep. “I need to taste it. Please, I need it now.”

Reiner presses his nose harder against the seam of your leggings, breathing so deeply it makes your thighs tremble.

“God, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked and shaky. “You don’t even understand, do you? How fucking sweet you smell… it’s driving me insane.”

He mouths over the fabric, tongue dragging up your clothed slit, and he moans—moans—like you’ve just fed him something addictive. He’s shaking, his hands digging into your hips, thumbs gripping the fat of your ass like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, looking up at you with half lidded, ruined eyes. He doesn’t even ask before tugging your leggings and panties down to your knees and burying his face in your bare cunt.

Reiner inhales deep—a filthy, guttural sound from the base of his chest—and moans right against your pussy, licking a thick, slow stripe up your folds like he’s worshiping at a fucking altar.

You jolt with a gasp, grabbing onto his broad shoulders for balance, and he groans, eyes fluttering shut.

“This pussy—” another kiss “—smells better than anything I’ve ever had.” He nuzzles into you again, licking messily, the wet sounds echoing in the room. “Could drown in you. Let me.”

His tongue’s everywhere, sliding through your folds, teasing your entrance, circling your clit like he’s trying to memorize every twitch, every moan. Your knees almost buckle, and he chuckles breathlessly against your soaked core.

“You’re shaking already?” He coos, tongue flicking faster. “Pretty girl can’t even take a little tongue? Thought you were gonna let me breed this pussy, baby. Can’t do that if you’re falling apart already.”

The words slam straight into your gut, heat spreading everywhere. You whimper, thighs twitching around his head.

“Reiner—”

But he’s already standing, big hands gripping your hips and spinning you toward the hallway. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He scoops you into his arms and carries you toward the bedroom like you weigh nothing, his cock grinding against your ass the entire way through his sweatpants.

“I can smell you on my pillows,” he growls as he kicks the door open. “Smell you in my sheets. You’ve been in my room, touching my stuff, walking around like you don’t know what it’s doing to me.”

He lays you down on the bed—his bed—and tears your leggings off the rest of the way. His eyes darken when he sees the wet mess between your thighs, and he shoves his sweats down just enough to free his cock—thick, red at the tip, and already dripping precum. It twitches at the sight of you.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna take every inch, aren’t you? Let me fuck this tight pussy till you’re full of me. Till you’re bred so deep you can’t walk straight.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Reiner—”

“I’ll be gentle,” he lies sweetly, crawling over you. His voice is reverent as he nudges the head of his cock between your folds. “You’re so pretty like this, baby. You make me crazy.”

He pushes in slow. You arch your back, gasping at the stretch.

He shudders. “You’re clenching already?” He groans. “So fucking tight. Like your cunt wants to be filled. Like it was made for me.”

He sinks in deeper, inch by thick inch, until his hips are flush against yours. He doesn’t pull out. Just stays there, buried inside you to the hilt, breathing hard against your neck.

“I’m gonna make you mine,” he promises. “I’m gonna fill you up over and over until my cum leaks out every time you move. You want that, don’t you?”

You nod helplessly, clinging to his back. “Y-Yes.”

He starts moving. Deep, harsh, powerful thrusts that make your breath hitch and your thighs shake. Every stroke hits that perfect spot inside you, over and over, until you’re a whimpering mess beneath him.

“You take me so well, baby,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temples. “So wet, so fucking good. You were made to be bred.”

He doesn’t let up. His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your collarbone—claiming every inch with licks and kisses and soft bites. His hands pin your wrists above your head, muscles flexing with each hard thrust.

“You feel that?” He grunts, fucking into you harder. “That’s me getting deeper. Making sure it sticks. Gonna fuck you so full they’ll smell me on you for days.”

You gasp, your orgasm building fast, pressure coiling in your gut.

“Let go, baby,” he growls against your neck. “Come for me. Let me feel you clench while I fuck you full.”

You shatter around him with a cry, cunt spasming around his cock as he lets out a guttural moan and thrusts deep one last time—his hips flush, cock buried as he cums. Hot, thick, endless spurts flood your cunt as he pants against your skin, still moving slightly, like he’s trying to push it all deeper. He growls low in his chest.

“You’re mine,” he breathes. “This pussy, this body, that scent—it’s all mine now.”

He stays buried inside, kissing your jaw softly now, holding you through the aftershocks.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmurs. “Took me so well. Gonna make you all round and pretty with my kid.”

You shiver beneath him, blissed-out, full, marked. But, he doesn’t pull out.

Even after he’s done filling you—after your pussy’s twitching around his cock, leaking hot cum onto the sheets, after his panting slows—he stays buried deep. Holds you down beneath him. Lets out a low, rumbling groan as he feels you clench and flutter, overstimulated but still so needy.

His nose presses to your throat. He inhales deep, greedy, and possessive. “Still so fuckin’ sweet,” he growls, voice barely recognizable. “I can smell it—you’re not done. I thought you were, but no... your body’s beggin’ for more.”

You whimper beneath him, legs shaking. “R-Reiner—”

“Shhh.” He starts to move again, slow at first, grinding his still hard cock inside your messy, overstretched pussy. “You can take it. You will take it. I’m not done breeding you.”

You cry out as he thrusts again—hard. There’s no build-up this time. Just raw, filthy, desperate need. Like he’s trying to fuck his name into your soul. Your legs wrap around his hips instinctively. Your hands claw at his back. You can’t help it, your body wants this. Wants him.

“Fuck,” Reiner growls against your ear, voice ragged. “So fuckin’ wet. I can feel it—hear it. I made you like this, didn’t I?”

He slams into you again, cock driving impossibly deep. His cum leaks out with every thrust, and it only makes him fuck you harder, trying to shove it back in.

“Keep it in,” he pants, thumb pressing just above your clit. “Keep it all in. Want it takin’. Want it stickin’. I’ll fill you over and over until your womb knows it’s mine.”

You sob, hands fisting the sheets as your second orgasm starts building again, faster, sharper, overwhelming.

“That’s it,” he grits out. “Squeeze me, baby. Just like that. So fuckin’ tight, fuckin’ perfect—like you were made to carry my kid.”

You whine, almost incoherent. Reiner suddenly sits back on his knees, dragging your hips up with him and locking your ankles over his shoulders. The angle is deep, brutal, and he watches every inch disappear inside you with wild, glazed over eyes.

“Look at this,” he groans. “Split open on my cock. Drippin’ for me. Leakin’ all down your thighs and beggin’ for more.”

You can’t speak. Your mouth is open, eyes rolled back, body jolting with every thrust as he uses you. And then—he slows. Not to be kind, but to be meaner.

“You close?” he teases. “Gonna cum again for me, sweetheart?”

You nod, gasping. “Y-Yes, please—!”

He stops completely.

You choke on a sob.

Reiner leans over, smirking against your lips, his forehead sticky with sweat. “Then beg.”

You shake in his arms. “P-Please—please, I need to cum, Reiner, please—”

“You gonna keep this load in?” He grits out, grinding his cock inside you again, every word punctuated with a thrust. “Gonna let me fill you up again and walk outta here leaking all over your fuckin’ thighs?”

“Yes!” you cry. “Yes—anything—please!”

That’s all he needs.

He fucks you then. Hard. Fast. Unrelenting. The bed frame bangs. The headboard smashes into the wall. Your cries turn to screams as your orgasm slams into you, your whole body locking up as you pulse wildly around his cock.

Reiner groans like he’s been punched—loud, desperate, and wrecked—and spills into you again, cock throbbing as another thick, hot load shoots deep inside your already stuffed cunt.

Your legs are jelly. Your body feels boneless. The only reason you’re still upright is because Reiner’s holding you, his thick arms wrapped around your waist, one big hand splayed across your belly where his cum is still leaking out of you in lazy drips.

He hasn’t moved for a while.

Just rocks you gently in his lap, forehead pressed to yours, sweat cooling on his skin and breath still catching every now and then like he can’t believe how wrecked he got.

“…You okay?” He finally rasps, voice hoarse, almost nervous.

You nod against him, and he exhales like it’s the first breath he’s let himself take. “I didn’t hurt you, right?” He murmurs, thumb stroking slow, careful circles into your side. “I-I got carried away. Didn’t mean to be so rough, I just—shit, you smelled so good, and I couldn’t-couldn’t stop—”

You hush him, fingers brushing gently through his damp hair. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “I liked it. I wanted it.”

He lets out a shaky, broken sound—half relief, half shame. “Fuck. You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, voice cracking as he kisses your cheek, your temple, your nose. “You smell like heaven. Feel like it too.”

He shifts, lifting you with ease, even though you weakly protest. He carries you toward the bathroom like you weigh nothing at all, mumbling something under his breath about “taking care of you.” You cling to his neck, letting him fuss.

The warm water soothes your sore muscles, and Reiner’s hands are so careful as he cleans you. He presses soft kisses to every bruise and bite mark he left, murmuring praises between each one.

“You took me so well… ‘m sorry for being rough, baby. You’re perfect, you know that? Perfect pussy, perfect scent, perfect fuckin’ everything.”

He holds you after, wrapping you up in one of his shirts, arms still trembling slightly from how badly he needed you. He lays you down gently, then curls up behind you, chest to your back, hand smoothing over your belly again like he’s still not convinced it’s real.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, lips against your neck. “Mine. And I’m never lettin’ go.”

You hum softly, threading your fingers through his. “I know.”

He falls asleep next to you, warm, and too full of love to say it properly—so he holds you tighter instead, and hopes you can feel it in the way his whole body stays wrapped around yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

ⓒ 𝐋𝟖𝐍𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐓𝐡𝟎𝐭𝐬 -- 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊, 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐔𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐈𝐅 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆.

AOT MASTERLIST

OTHER AOT CHARACTERS MASTERLIST

REINER BRAUN MASTERLIST

ʚɞ

[yeonmuse]

CHROME HEARTS ──but I break them still

❪ CHROME HEARTS ❫ nishimura riki & fem!rea 1.8k w.c ⋆♱✮ fluff/angst ༯ university au ꫂ ၴႅၴ synopsis──★˙nainais library !! @k-films

���an᭪ : written w tweets at the end of the chapter, (perm list still open, but only 3 slots open for this series taglist)

an: chrome hearts is nearing its end chat how we feeling?

CHAPTER 20 | the sun, her moon, and her stars

A week, a week had gone by since everything had transpired between you and Mako and you were having a hard time. You’d shut yourself in your room and you hadn’t spoken a word to anyone you just couldn’t bring yourself to face anyone. Niki hadn’t texted no matter how many apologies or check ins you’d sent after your talk with him and you couldn’t blame him knowing you accused him of being ingenuine. You let out a hearty sigh as you lay in bed staring up at the ceiling and a knock at your door steals your gaze.

“Jongseob I already told you I don’t want to come out.’’

“It’s me..’’ your body stiffened upon hearing the voice at the other side of the door, the two of you hadn’t spoken since the day everything had gone down and you weren’t sure where things would lead after finding out everything you had. But now there she stood on the other side of the door and you felt this dreadful cloud looming over you. It did hurt, not talking to her, not running to tell her and the groupchat everything over the course of that week, but you had every right to be upset with her.

“What are you doing here..’’ you respond, hearing the sound of shuffling on the other side.

“Yn i just want to talk…you’ve ignored my texts, you left the groupchat and you haven’t been showing up to classes, i wanted to give your space but I…I can’t not for this long.’’

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you lied to me instead of just telling me the truth.’’ 

“Yn please..please just open the door and let me explain everything.’’ you could hear the hurt in her voice, it made your chest tighten, but you still weren’t sure if you were ready to face her.

“Yn i swear to god if you don’t open this door and talk to her i’ll take it off its hinges again.’’ Jongseob yells on the other side, making you snear at him from the other side of the door as you move to open it.

This was the first time you had been seeing her since that day and it seemed like the both of you had been in the same boat, dark circles and bags under both your eyes, tired expressions worn on each of your faces as if neither of you had slept a wink. You didn’t say a word to her, just walked further back into the room and left the door open for her to enter. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at her but you could hear the sound of the door shutting behind her then a sharp inhale.

“I know that you’re still mad, you have every right to be but I want you to know I truly never meant to hurt you. I was wrong I know but I’ve never.. I've never been in love with someone so close to me before and I got territorial I- I forgot that above all you were my best friend. I let the fact that I was in love blind me and it turned me jealous in the worst way. I never..I never thought that you’d start liking him, I  thought that this was something that would pass, but then you started hanging out with him and bringing him around the others, your tweets about being closer to him scared me and I didn't want you to be taken away. Then everyone started joking about you liking him and I just.” This was the first time you’d seen her this vulnerable since high school, the first time you’d seen her cry since the day she came running to your house when her parents divorced.

“I’m sorry yn I’m really sorry, i even chased him down to apologize, if i could take it back i would I was being immature.” You couldn’t stop the tears falling from your own eyes, your best friend was in front of you crying her eyes out and it was hard to see.

“You dumbass, you could have just told me how you felt.” You scold her in between tears, both of you a complete mess as you stood there crying.

“I.. didn’t….want..to..scare….you…off.” She responds, a hiccup and sniffle between each word. You were sure you both looked ridiculous right now,  trying to talk while you both were in between tears.

“You’re so stupid you could never scare me off. I’ve always known who you are and I may not love you in that way but you’re my best friend, I'll always be your best friend no matter what you tell me.” You respond by wiping your tears and hers.

“You don’t hate me?”

“I could never hate you.” You respond to her, lips poked out into a pout, eyes getting watery all over again.

“Are you guys done crying, can we come in now.” You could hear from the other side of the door

“Aya shut up they’re not supposed to know we’re listening.” You could hear Melody say from the other side as well. You and Mako both share a glance before bursting into a fit of laughter, wrapping your arms around each other as if you missed the comfort.

“Okay we’re coming in.” Chloe spoke softly on the other side before pushing the door open.

“I called them over, everyone’s been worried about you.” Jongseob says as they all step inside and you mouth a thank you to him before wiping your face.

“Hi my angel, how are you feeling?” Chloes the first to envelope you in her arms, followed by the others that flooded in one by one all wrapping you in their arms like they hadn’t seen you in months.

“Better now.. I’ve missed all of you.” You respond with a smile, taking a seat at your usual spot near the window where all of you would usually gather.

“And Niki..?” The room seemed to still at the mention of his name. You still hadn’t heard from him and it was bothering you, maybe that was your fault for not going to classes, maybe then you could see him in person, but you couldn’t fully blame yourself. You shake your head no, and it was enough for them to understand, no words needed to be exchanged.

“I’m sorry baby, I know you were really starting to like him even if you didn’t want to admit it to us I think we could all see it.” Chloe apologizes, reassuringly rubbing your back.

“It’s okay, I can’t blame him if he wouldn’t want to talk to me again after the way I broke down and accused him. I still have the one thing that matters most. I’m sorry for shutting you guys out and leaving, I just. I needed time alone.” 

“We understand, but next time just give us a heads up? We were worried sick, Melody even cried.” At Hunter's revelation Melody's head snaps in his direction.

“I did not cry!?”

“You did, you got snot all over Jongseobs shirt.” Aya expose, you couldn’t help but laugh. You felt so reassured in that moment, nothing else mattered now that you had them with you, you weren’t thinking of niki or what would happen between the two of you when you finally did return to campus, you just stayed content in your momentary happiness. You were so caught up in Niki, the man that to you was like the moon that you had completely forgotten about these moments, the ones that lit up your way before you’d even known him. They were your stars.

CHAPTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

PERM TAGLIST: (entire taglist is updated, to be readded to the permanent taglist please fill out this form) PERM TAGLIST : @sol3chu @addictedtohobi @heartheejake @gweoriz @annybah @iarainha @nishimura-mimura @gweoriz @deaddcrow @bbangbies @kimuranirisi @wonzzziezzzz @dazeymazey11 @stayar1 @neogotmysam @starsmew @taystarr @icatpjs @sunshisthings

SERIES TAGLIST: ( to be added to the series taglist fill out this form ) @sillylule @monniemons @lovenha7 @jul3sml @kikixdia @weepingsweep @amatariki @betda @danlovestay @lisamrrth @hoonberries @seyoungiesleeps @rairaiblog @kiromiix @iheartshopping @starniras @theothernads @wheretheheckis-ssaki @verialuv @yuuuraaa @swimmingthruthecherryskies @maewphoria @wenomakiluvr @zoe1love @luvjichang @htaesan @rikidazed @luhvletters @rikiimuraaa @rikchic

[ash5monster01]

hiii :) can i please get the chicken wings extra hot for two and to dine in, with a side of onion rings and a water. thanks <3

Order #9

Now Serving!

Main Course: Steve Harrington x PlusSize!FemReader

Ingredients: 18+, MDNI, smut, angst, enemies to lovers, plus size reader, body image issues, mentions of anxiety, oral - fem receiving, language, minor dirty talk, reconciliation, fluff.

Meal: Steve smut/angst with plus sized reader, enemies to lovers, and one bed.

Total: $29.24 = 2.9k words

Menu - Masterlist

You knew you should’ve never agreed to this. Yeah, you wanted to see Robin, but was visiting her at college worth the predicament you were in now? Rain soaked through your clothes, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you listened to the hot shower run through the motel wall. Only two hours into your journey, riding with the man you despised most, a storm hit and shut down the highway. Then the only motel nearby had just one room left, a single queen bed in the center, taunting you like some cruel joke. 

You had hated Steve Harrington since High School, you held no sympathy for ego inflated assholes who looked down at everyone around them. Somehow though, he had befriended your best friend, which now put you in situations like this. Finally after what felt like centuries, the water cut off and the bathroom door swung open, leaving a dripping wet Steve and a towel wrapped tightly around his waist in your sight. 

“Showers free,” he grumbles and you hate yourself for the way you swallow hard. Since when has Steve Harrington looked like that? Thick chest hair stuck to his skin with water, heavy and prominent as it dwindles down into the happy trail that disappeared beneath his towel. It should be a sin how good he looks.

“No thanks to you,” you remark, doing your best to keep your eyes away as you start for the bathroom. The truth was Steve needed the shower before you. He was the one who had gotten out of the car to ask the guy at the gas station for the nearest motel and then also got out to book the room. He had been shivering for the last hour, you were cold but not as bad as him. 

Steve just shakes his head at you, already digging through his bag for some pajamas, while you disappear inside the bathroom. The shower feels heavenly against your skin, the searing hot water burning into you. It didn’t matter that the whole bathroom had fogged over from the two of you. It had been a long day already, and somewhat scary when neither of you could see through the windshield from how hard it was pouring. It didn’t even matter that you were here with Steve of all people, this was nice. 

Stepping out of the shower you’re quick to wrap the towel around you before wiping away at the foggy mirror. You take your time brushing your hair and teeth, fixing yourself up, just to avoid being trapped alone with him in the room. Blissfully unaware of the pile of clothes you left on the end of the bed. As soon as you realize you begin searching frantically. You curse yourself for it, knowing you wouldn’t have forgotten them had you not been checking him out. Now it was having to accept the fact you were either walking out of here with a shitty motel towel that barely wraps around you or asking Steve Harrington of all people for help. 

“Steve?” you crack open the door, the cold air from the room seeping into the steamy bathroom. You try not to shiver as you wait for his response. 

“Yes?” he calls back and you’re able to picture his smirk just from the tone of his voice. He had definitely spotted your clothes and was more than likely going to tease you about it. 

“Can you please bring me my clothes?” you ask as sweetly as possible, hoping he wouldn’t make some show out of this interaction. You were stark naked, hidden behind the door, and every part of you prayed he wouldn’t see. You may have disliked Steve but to see his disgust when seeing your size would kill you. 

“Man I don’t know, I’m all nice and tucked into bed. Promise I’ll close my eyes,” he calls back and you instantly wince, slumping against the door as you try to calm your anxiety. It didn’t even matter that he was messing with you, that was normal. It was the crippling fear of being different from other girls that killed you. 

“Please Steve, just— please,” you practically whisper, dizzy with nerves, and somehow he hears you. In the small crack of the door appears his hand, fisting the shorts and sleep shirt. 

“Anything else while I’m up?” he asks, a genuine tone to his voice and you hold the clothes to your chest, thankful he was willing to drop it this one time. 

“I’m okay, thank you,” you tell him and just like that his hand disappears and you click the door closed. You appear only a few minutes later, baggy clothes hanging off your form and wet hair flowing down your back. Steve is tucked into bed, still shirtless with the comforter up to his waist, lazily clicking through channels on the motel TV. 

“Anything good?” you ask, trying to make it feel less awkward when you have to crawl in beside him. He grumbles, glancing over at you while you put away your toiletries and hang your wet clothes over the dresser drawer you’ve pulled out to act as a clothing rack. 

“Just some reruns, news about the storm, and Footloose,” he tells you, leaving the channel with Kevin Bacon playing since it seemed better than any other choice. You nod, clicking off the lights and leaving only his bedside lamp and TV illuminating the room. You pad across the carpet, not making eye contact as you lift the sheets and slide in beside him. Careful to stay away as far as you can. 

“Goodnight,” you mumble, adjusting your head against the pillow and making sure you have your back turned to him. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters back, clicking off the lamp beside him, and you try to fall asleep. The sooner you were unconscious the quicker this awkward sleepover would pass. Yet nothing you do works, every part of your body hyper aware of the one it lays next to. The prospect of an accidental touch keeping you stiff as a board. At this rate, you were certain you wouldn’t get any sleep. Even if the TV was still playing. 

“I’m sorry if I upset you earlier,” his voice makes you jump, not expecting him to say another word, at least until the morning when he claimed you snored or stole all the covers. 

“It’s fine Steve, not a big deal,” you whisper back, determined to try and pretend to sleep again. You hated that the dark made it seem like the wall between you was drawn away, baring you to the other in a more intimate and softer way. 

“Can I ask why? I was just joking like normal but you panicked. I’ve never heard you like that,” he mumbles and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to avoid the inevitable conversation. You hated the idea of sharing your fears with the boy beside you but this was also a window to how Robin saw him. The guy everybody loved so much and the one you had been dying to meet. 

“I’m a bigger girl Steve, clothes can somewhat hide it but that small towel…. I can handle you hating me but I can’t handle you being disgusted by me,” you admit in a whisper, thankful your back was towards him so you couldn’t see his face. 

Steve’s quiet for a while, mulling over your words, and you mentally curse yourself for saying anything at all. You both had targeted some of the weakest parts of each other before and now you’ve just given him your number one. So far all his teasing and sharp comments had never been directed at your weight, but you’d loaded the gun. Ready to get out of the bed and leave the room entirely, what you don’t expect is a large hand sliding over the dip of your waist, your stomach jumping with the fear of him feeling your size. 

“You’re beautiful. You may annoy me but you don’t disgust me. You never have,” he says, squeezing at the flesh of your waist. Surprisingly tears burn at the back of your eyes and you try to blink them away. 

“You don’t have to lie,” you mumble, voice cracking and giving away your emotion. He definitely knows you're crying now and suddenly he is pressed tightly against your back, large arms wrapping you up in a hug. It’s weird to feel so comforted by a person you normally wouldn’t be but you find yourself accepting the embrace anyway. 

You both lay there for a while, neither of you saying a word. Finally your cries calm and it’s then you accept this is the first time you’ve ever been held by a man like this. It almost makes your heart ache at the idea of never getting this feeling again. So you accept the way his strong arms and broad shoulders mold around you, relish in the feeling just in case you never get it again, and allow your body to relax and push back into his. Almost forgetting who it was of all people until suddenly the body behind you stiffens. 

“Everything okay or did you suddenly remember who you are holding?” you try to joke but Steve doesn't laugh, staying as still as possible. 

“No, it’s just your movement…” he trails off like he isn’t sure how to describe it to you. Deciding to finally face him, you roll just slightly and it’s then you feel it. Something long and hard pressed perfectly against the curve of your ass. Realization dawns on you quickly. 

“Oh,” you deadpan, not sure how to respond. The worst part is that you like it, something sick and twisted in you has you clenching your thighs together at the idea. Discovering you of all people turned him on. You may have hated Steve Harrington but you couldn’t have been presented with a better opportunity. Trapped in a motel, far from home, and only one bed. Really it wouldn’t have mattered which guy was here with you. 

“Sorry,” he winces, feeling awful for being in this position after you just cried. Yet you shock him when you roll over to face him, holding him close. 

“Don’t be, I don't mind,” you blush and unable to stop himself he has his lips pressed to your own. It’s weird at first, the two of you unsure how to proceed as your lips move together. Finally after a while you find a rhythm and discover Steve is a great kisser. 

The same time one of his knees wedges between your legs, his tongue dips into your mouth, drawing out a whine you didn’t know you were capable of. You want to feel embarrassed but all of him feels too good to really dwell. The closer he draws in your body, you worry about how he views your size, yet his hungry kisses will away your doubts in a way you’ve never felt before. It should be sickening how easily you become addicted to him but the way his hand slips under your shirt is enough to reason. Long fingers trailing over your flesh, feeling and exploring any part of you it can find. When he grazes the skin underneath your breast, fingers expanding over to collect a handful, your body naturally causes you to grind down onto the leg wedged between yours. 

“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to touch you like this,” he mumbles against your lips, continuing to squeeze and memorizing the feel of you in his hands. His words only make you wetter and you are inebriated by how turned on you are. The part of your brain that tries to conjure a response only falls short and instead a moan leaves your lips when his fingers pinch at one of your nipples. 

As if a switch is flipped, you relax into him, kissing back and allowing him to roll you on your back as he begins to hover over. When he pulls back, your eyes feel heavy as you look back at him, his mussed wet hair and swollen lips. Toned arms and wide hands gripping the hem of the T-shirt that not so long ago he hand delivered to you. You can see the silent question, the hope, and you nod because no words need to be shared. Even if this is just for this moment, a blip in time, and never discussed again. It was too important to the both of you. 

He lifts the shirt slowly, revealing flesh, and curves, and every part of you that you’ve ever been insecure about before. You adjust where needed, making it easier to remove the clothing, and when the fabric gets pulled over your head you realize you’ll never be able to forget the look of adoration on Steve’s face as he stares at your bare form. Feeling daring and confident, you reach for him and the energy between you becomes charged, electric and buzzing with the need for the other. His body is pressed back to yours in a flash, bare skin pressed tightly as he tastes your mouth and sucks at skin you’d never revealed to him before. 

“Are you okay with this?” he asks when his fingers dip into the hem of your shorts, and you nod quickly, more interested in kissing him again. It’s crazy how normally you’d be panicking over him discovering your plump stomach and thick thighs and instead every touch feels too good, good enough it wasn’t worth stopping. Your hips lift as the fabric slips over the curve of your ass, underwear following suit until you are finally naked in front of Steve of all people. If you went back in time to tell yourself this happened, you wouldn't believe it. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he suddenly says and the words make you flush, not expecting them to leave his mouth so genuinely. You want to reply but no words feel good enough to convey how good he just made you feel. It doesn’t matter though, because his lips are back against yours, dragging down your neck, and sucking softly against your breasts. He keeps lowering, pressing wet kisses against the dough of your stomach until suddenly, his head is directly in front of your heat, arms hooking under each of your legs. He doesn’t move, like at any moment you’d flee. 

“Please Steve,” you whine and he doesn’t need anymore confirmation, his tongue delving into your folds and lapping up until it nudges your clit in a soft circle. It’s a sensation you’ve never experienced before and you have to fight to keep your legs from squeezing his head. He continues to taste you, burying his face deeper and deeper, his nose nudging your bud as his tongue pushes into your entrance. You’re not even sure how he’s breathing and unexpectedly he pushes two fingers inside you, lips sucking harshly on your clit, and your fingers tangle into his hair. 

“God, you taste so good,” he mutters, continuing to finger fuck you before pressing a gentle kiss to your swollen bundle of nerves. It’s erotic, paired with Steve’s red lips and dazed expression has you trembling. You can feel the coil in your stomach tighten and you try to fight it. A part of you never wants this to end. 

“Steve,” your voice trembles, a heavy moan following behind and he nods at you, adding another finger and speeding up the process. 

“It’s okay baby, cum for me,” he tells you before adding his mouth back to the sensation. His words shatter something inside you and your orgasm washes over like a wave. Your whole body pulsates as you clench down on his fingers. He grins widely as he continues to pump into you, riding out the orgasm he now holds as an achievement. 

“Oh my,” you say when you return to your body. Your hands cover your eyes and the post orgasm clarity has you flushing with embarrassment over what you’d just done. You can feel Steve crawl back up your form, his smiling lips pressing gentle kisses into your skin, before snuggling into your side. 

“Look at me,” he urges, pulling your hands away and against your better judgment, you do. Your heart practically stops beating when you see how softly he looks at you, how gentle he is despite the fact you hadn’t even gotten him off like he had you. 

“You still think you disgust me?” he asks and you quickly roll your eyes, determined to roll away but he holds you tight. The look of a boy whose dreams had just come true painted across his face.  

“I don’t know, ask me in the morning,” you suggest and he chuckles, snuggling into the bed and trying to memorize the feeling of you against him. The both of you were unsure where to go from here and how it would play out when you left the protection of this motel room. 

“Okay beautiful, let’s get some sleep then,” he agrees, liking that response better than any sort of denial you could have given him. 

“Goodnight Steve,” you mutter and he grins, pressing a soft kiss into your hair and tucking you into his arms, your cheek pressed to the same chest hair you had admired from before. Steve doesn’t ask for more, or push you into finishing him off, instead he holds you like that was exactly what he meant to do. Make you feel your worth. 

“Goodnight.” 

[makixroll]

Plsss write a story about Jo confessing to fem!reader (&team help him organize the date/picnic, etc. you choose lol) ☺️

YOU LIKE HER. — jo ۫ ꣑ৎ

pairing . . . jo x fem!reader

contents . . . fluff , friends to ??? , jo fumbles bad

message . . . this is so cute omg !! Hope u like it anon<3

Jo's feelings for you are so obvious, especially to the teamies. The soft, affectionate stares Jo gives you whenever you're not looking, or the way their quiet member's eyes grow wide and twinkle like stars when you talk to him. Those kind of stares that the teamies could only see when Jo has rice in front of him. And his sketchbooks that are now filled with doodles of you.

But somehow, Jo didn't realize the feelings he has for you, and neither did you. Which was frustrating for the teamies, so after a long time of pinning, they took matters in their own hands.

Kei, their oldest member, approached Jo who quietly sat on the couch, a sketchbook in hand as he doodled probably the hundredth drawing of your face.

"Jo." Kei called out, stealing Jo's attention for a minute.

"Hm?" Jo hummed, staring at Kei confused.

"You like Y/N." Kei stated. He didn't even asked him if he liked you. Instead, he went for the obvious thing and told him about it. It was like Kei was informing Jo about his feelings for you, which was really funny if only you witnessed it in person.

Jo stared at the oldest, eyes wide, the tip of his ears going red by the second.

"W‐what..?"

"You like Y/N." Kei repeated once again, even nodding as he stared at Jo intensely, and he stared back. His face now red like a tomato.

"I... do?" Jo asked, and Kei nodded.

"You do." The oldest answered, still nodding. Still confused and bright red, Jo nodded his head as well.

"Maybe... I do like her.." Jo whispered to himself as he finally realized his feelings for you, by the way his heart beat trippled upon hearing your name slip from the oldest's tongue, yet it was still heard loud and clear by Kei, who's now smiling ear to ear.

"Great! Now let's talk about how will you confess to her." Kei then moved closer to Jo as he took the sketchbook out of his hand, not without glancing at it for a few seconds. And he was right, Jo was actually drawing you for the hundredth time. The oldest could only smile teasingly before he placed down the book on the table.

"H-huh—"

"What are you guys up to?" Maki asked, appearing so suddenly with a canned cola in his grasp.

"Jo finally figured out his feelings for Y/N." Kei answered, then looking back at Jo, it looked like his whole body is on fire with how red he was right now because of the conversation he has.

"About damn time!" Maki exclaimed, following with a chuckle as he placed down his cola, staring intently at the two men in front of him.

"What's the plan?"

"That's what we're going to talk about, right now." The oldest answered.

"Maki, go get the rest." Kei ordered, the youngest member saluted at him before he rushed and started knocking at the other members' rooms.

And so, the teamies devised a solid plan for a date to make Jo confess to you. Harua even made a script for the older man to memorize so he wouldn't mess things up.

The day of the date came. Jo had invited you to a mini picnic with just you and him, and when you asked why, he told you it was because he needed a muse for his drawing, and the members weren't up for it. You laughed and agreed. The tall guy decided to pick you up at your apartment, he was already prepared, thanks to his members who helped him. He has a huge picnic basket to store the blanket as well as the amount of foods Kei and Maki made him bring. Maki even woke up early to prepare them.

Once you two arrived at the place. You helped Jo set up the blanket, which was a favorite color of yours. Jo didn't fail to notice how your eyes sparkled at the sight of your favorite color, and he smiled secretly.

"So, Jo." You called out as you watched him doodle on his sketchbook, but he wasn't too smart to realize that you could see him fumbling with his pencil, not really sketching you.

"Hm?" Jo hummed, clearly nervous as he couldn't look up to you.

"What's the real reason why you asked me here? 'Cause it's clearly not to be your muse." You asked, amused at his action. Jo's pencil dropped as he quickly picked it up and chuckled nervously.

The ever so shy Jo gathered up the courage and looked at your face, his eyes softened upon seeing the half soft and half amused smile on you.

"W-well, actually... I've been in love with you ever— w-wait, no..." Jo mumbled, fumbling through his words. You couldn't help but laugh at him, finding him cute.

"No?" You asked, he shook his head.

"I mean—! Y-you're beauti...ful... and I've been in love— wait... that's not how it goes." Jo didn't realize how hard it was, telling you the memorized confession. When he practiced on Harua, he didn't stutter like this, he never forgot a word, so why now? Why is he fumbling so hard right now?

"Did you seriously memorized a script for this?" You asked, finding it amusing. Jo could only let out a loud sigh, covering his face as he lets out a whine.

You laughed once again, coming closer to him as you removed his hand from his face, a soft smile etched on your face as you stared at him.

"It's okay, Jo. Just tell me your feelings, without the script." You said, softly. Jo nodded before he sat up straight, looking in your eyes once again.

"Y/N, I really, really, really like you. Please, give me a chance!" Jo exclaimed, eyes now shut as he bowed, waiting for you to reply before he'll raise his head. Your hand went its way to his chin as you lifted it up, you went closer, and gave him a small kiss on his cheek.

"I like you too, Jo."

[nickpeppermint]

So i watched it, and this mf doesn't know what he's talking about AT ALL

He whines that Elio doesn't have a unique shape (neither do protagonists of Coco / Inside out / most of Incredibles cast which he praises) and completely ignores all the unique aliens, which INTENTIONALLY CONTRAST to humanoid Elio

He doesn't know the difference between art style, character appearance and silhouette, and he only sees it as a marketability tool

He doesn't bring shape language reasons, characters should be shaped like squares just for funnies i guess

He says that Elio's design is not memorable, and compares him to characters from Up, who is the most generic normal people, who looks this way for relatability sake, they're recognizable only because you've already seen this movie as a kid

If you draw Carl or Russell in a different art style you wouldn't recognize em i swear, while Elio, Mei, Luca have tons of distinct and unique features

You don't need to make character a dodecahedron to make him memorable, the design must correlate to its tone first, Elio rounded cuz he's friendly and inoffensive

If you relate more to Carl than to Elio or Luca or Mei well it's because you're old af, and just hate everything new

"But Pixar used to be about animals and objects n shit, now there are too many humans" first of all, most Pixar movies have big human focus in them, second Elio isn't just about the single human, there are wacky aliens, Luca has sea monsters, Turning Red has big effing red panda, are these not unique and memorable enough creatures?

I can cherry pick a bunch of old characters with Le Bean Mouth, but which is only bad now because a meme said so, and we all must hop on a trend made by a bunch of a-holes who have no idea what they're talking about and spread negativity about the movie they haven't even seen

[bronte-blues]

I found myself feeling sad for Chi Cheng this episode.

Yes, he is a toxic, violent rich boy who has anything he could ever need or want. But he also seemed genuinely so surprised that Suo Wei had sincerely bought him a gift.

He sits so far away from his family, who have stolen the one thing he seems to care about anymore and forced him to bring a person into his life to appease them.

Yes, it he is rude and abrupt with his mom and Yue Yue. But neither of these women want to have a conversation with who Chi Cheng is. He literally wanted to live his whole life alone in a room of snakes rather than be around his family or try to find a long term partner for at least the last 6 years.

He looks so uncomfortable and upset when Yue Yue is obviously trying to seduce him at his mother's behest. This must feel very controlling, not to mention un-sexy (although, maybe sexy for some? no shame if so), to have your mother and girlfriend trying to corner you sexually.

He literally uses the snake as a defense. Because he is smart enough to know she's pretending. And look at her. She is disgusted by something that quite honestly seems like his life line.

Chi Cheng is not a very sympathetic character. He is closed off, morally dubious, and not very nice. But there don't seem to be many people who would accept or acknowledge who he is if he opened up, it seems like being cheated on really broke his moral reasoning (not that it makes any of his more aggressive/non-consenty actions acceptable), and...he doesn't really owe anyone being nice. I am just feeling more and more sad about when he finds out that Suo Wei was just another person using and manipulating him.

[sparrows4bats]

Nest AU

Damian Wayne somehow keeps finding babies and keeping them, like his father before him. It's mostly Talias fault.

The first of Damians' babies arrives one night as he is getting off of a shift at the hospital.

He opens his door, thinking it's the pizza he ordered only to find a sleeping baby in a basket on the doorstep.

In shock and exhausted, Damian brings the newborn inside. The tiny baby wakes up when Damian lifts them from their basket to check for any injuries or obvious health issues.

Damian prepares for them to cry, but the baby just stares up at him, smiling a toothless grin, and Damian can't help smiling back.

"Hello there, I don't suppose you know why you're here, do you?"

The baby gurgles and Damian nods seriously in response.

"I understand. You were asleep, but thank you for your insight."

Once Damian ensures the baby has no outward signs of abuse or neglect, Damian tries to settle them down in the basket again, only for the baby to cry every time Damian tries to let them go.

Damian gives up and carries the baby around his apartment, humming a tune he remembers his mother singing to him when he was a child.

He manages to free one of his hands and look at the basket properly. Under the blankets tucked in a waterproof pocket, Damian finds a letter with his name on it and a birth certificate with him named as the father and the mothers name redacted.

Except there is no possible way he is the biological father. He has not slept with anyone in years because between med school, internships, and part-time vigilantism, he really has not had the time or desire to. And the baby doesn't look like him, even a few days old she, the baby is a she named Amira Wayne apparently, has wide brown eyes and black curls her skin a shade or two darker than his own.

Damian opens the letter with a bit of difficulty.

There are two notes inside, one from Amiras birth mother and one from Talia Al Ghul.

Amiras mother was a League Assassin who felt pregnant and didn't want to have their child raised in its rank but did not wish to leave, so she went to Talia with her problem.

Damians' mother had offered her protection and a solution. Talia had started to mend her relationship with her son and decided that he would make an excellent father and a safe person who was able to protect the baby from any and all threats.

So Amira was given his name and left in Gotham for her new father to find.

Damian sighs at the explanation even if a part of him settles at being seen as safe, especially for someone as vulnerable as a newborn.

Talia writes about how proud of him she is, how he grew up to be better that Talia ever dared hope and that she hopes that he will give Amira the life and childhood neither of them got to experience. That she expect to meet her granddaughter again soon.

Amiras mother only asks him to love her daughter and how she knows of him through his reputation as a hero and a warrior. She ends her letter by saying she hopes Amira brings him joy.

Damian reads them both three times and looks at Amira again. The little girl is now cuddled into his chest, and Damian, who has never considered having children before now, feels himself melt.

"I guess you are staying with me then."

Amira yawns at him and drifts off to sleep, like that's answer enough.

The doorbell rings again with Damians pizza.

It's only after Damian goes to feed himself that he realises tha yes, he is a father now, his heart had set on it in an instant and he has nothing for his new baby to eat. Or diapers. Or a crib.

He can't even leave to go get stuff because he doesn't own a carrier or a carseat yet. Damian begins to panic because Amira needs so much, and he has only just started his residentancy. He wants this baby, but it all feels so impossible all of a sudden. That's doesn't mean he regrets his hasty decision just he really didn't have a game plan, and his mother hadn't provided one when she gave him a baby.

Damian looks at his sleeping daughter and begins to hyperventilate.

Then his window bursts open to reveal Jonathan Kent.

"Damian! Are you okay? Your heartbeat -... Is that a baby?"

Damian looks at his childhood best friend and sighs in relief.

"Jon! Thank God! I need you to buy me diapers, wipes, formula and baby clothes. Now!"

"Wait, but where did you get a baby? Is she yours?"

"She just got dropped off from the League, I'm on her birth cert. No, I'm not her biological parent, but goddammit, she's mine already. Now, can you please go get the stuff!"

Jon has more questions, but Damian is scribbling him a list of stuff to buy and shoving his credit card at him before the Super can ask any.

It's midnight in Gotham, so Jon flees to the opposite coast to find an open baby store. Luckily, a very nice lady explains baby sizes to him and recommends products when Jon gets overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. He never knew babies needed so much stuff, though he does get a cute Superman themed onesie he spots before leaving.

Damian is going to hate it so much.

He flies back to Gotham to find Damian singing to the now crying baby.

The sight stops him dead. The domesticity of it all does something to Jon. Damian, who when he met him, was so hurt and angry and turned out to be so caring, so loving.

His best friend sees him floating there and grabs the bags from his arms, grabbing supplies while he balances the baby.

Damian, thanks every lucky star that he knows basic baby care, like how to make formula correctly from his time as Lizzies Babysitter, though Lizzie was never this young.

Jon is ordered to build the crib while Damian feeds his daughter.

Amira goes right back to sleep once she's fed and changed, and the boys have a moment to breathe.

Damian finally eats his pizza while Jon quizzes him. The super looks kind of shocked that his mother just gave him a baby but less shocked that Damian intends to keep her.

Jon offers to stay the night after he sees how exhausted the young doctor is. His superhearing means that he will wake up with the baby because they both forgot to get a baby monitor.

Damian makes him learn how to make a bottle and change a diaper before he finally falls asleep. Jon would be more insulted if he didn't know that is just how the former Robin worries.

Jon is left watching his Robin sleep with his arm outstretched towards the crib. He takes plenty of photos to show everyone later.

Jon doesn't know how Damian is going to explain this to his family. Not that Batman has much room to judge.

Amira starts crying two hours later, and Damian wakes up to get her only for Jon to kiss his forehead while tucking him back in and whispering that he's got it.

Jon holds Amira in his hands and is terrified of how tiny she is, but the little girl just grabs his finger, and Jon falls a little in love.

Damian wakes up the next time she cries, and they both end up staring at her like weirdos when she falls back asleep after another bottle.

Come morning, both Supersons are tired but content. The domesticity of Damian making them breakfast as they talk and cuddle Amira makes Jon ache.

Because if he's honest with himself, he's been in love with Damian for years. He had never done anything with those feelings before now because he was terrified he would lose Damian. They grew apart years ago, and Jon feels like he has been just about hanging on to his friendship with Damian over the past couple of months between hospital shifts and Jon own heroing.

Damian seemed like he had everything together and had no place in his life for Jon to fit into anymore.

Last night was the first time Jon had felt truly needed in months.

And while he never saw himself with a family, especially after Ultraman, standing here with Damian makes him yearn for it.

Damian calls into work and messages his family about his little suprise. It takes thirty minutes for the bats to invade.

There are questions, accusations, and demands to hold Amira. Bruce is especially insistent that he meets his granddaughter.

Dick arrives last after racing from Bludhaven and steals the baby from the Batman, Damian laughs when she spits up on him. The others call it Karma, even Bruce.

Damian takes his daughter back and goes to change her, conveniently leaving Jon to the wolves.

"Why are you here?" Jason begins.

"Damian needed help, so I came to help."

"He called you? Before us?" Dick asks, hurt.

"No, I heard him panicking." Jon defends before he has to deal with a pouting Nightwing.

"So you just listen to him? Always?" Tim asks, and Jon really doesn't like the way he is looking at him.

Bruce crosses his arms, "Does Damian know?"

Jon swallows. "Yes, I've had his heartbeat memorised for years."

The room somehow gets even more awkward, that is until Damian bring Amira back.

"Jon! Why are the only onesies you bought Superman themed?!"

The bats are all horrified, but Jon thinks Amira looks adorable!

The next few hours are spent getting to know their newest addition, while Bruce tries to convince Damian to move back home only to get firmly rebuffed.

The bats leave after Amira is asleep and Damian falls asleep beside her again.

Jon was going to leave too but couldn't bring himself to do it. He sends photos of Amira in her superthemed colours to his parents instead.

Jon is still there in the morning when crates of gifts and baby supplies arrive from very overexcited aunts and uncles.

Jon is there the next night, too.

Damian forces him to sleep in bed with him after he complains about how short the couch is, and Jon just doesn't really leave after that.

He does a few rescues and shifts at the Watchtower, but he goes home to Damian and Amira afterwards. They don't talk about it, but Jons clothes migrate to the closet, and his toothbrush lives on the sink.

Damian goes back to work after three weeks and Jon stays with Amira most days, he even brings here to Kent Farm when both he and Damian could use a break.

On those days, Jon takes Damian out for dinner or patrol so he can let off steam.

They find a rhythm, and it's everything Jon never knew he wanted, and he finds himself on edge waiting for when it'll eventually end.

Then Amira gets a fever one night. Damian gets worried, and Jon rushs them all to the ER. The nurse asks what their relationship to Amira is, and Jon can't answer because he doesn't know where he fits in this little family he and Damian have created.

"He's her other father. We are working on getting the paperwork through at the moment." Damian says without hesitation, and Jon feels himself settle at words.

Until he starts spiralling because holy shit he's a Dad! He has a kid with Damian!

Amira turns out fine with some meds, and they do get Jons name added as Amiras parent with Oracles help when they bring her back home.

His parents are overjoyed but not surprised by the announcement of being grandparents.

All in all, Jon has never felt happier and more settled, and then, as always, things get a bit more complicated.

Damian gets a call from Talia on a random Tuesday. She doesn't give many details but does say a contact needs an immediate evac and texts him coordinates.

Jon flies them both over after dropping off the baby with Bruce. What they find is a Lazarus Demon worshipping cult that's about to sacrifice a baby.

Naturally, the Supersons put the cultists down and rescue the infant. Only to find out that Talia apparently is giving them yet another child and saving them from a bad situation.

Their second daughter comes home mere months after their first.

Idalia Wayne Kent has blue eyes and wispy red hair on her head and giggles up at her father's.

Juggling two babies is harder than one, but Damian and Jon manage with the help of their family.

Even though Damian regularly has to steal his kids back from an over enthusiastic Bruce.

Their third baby Talia delivers to Damian in person.

"He was going to be raised as an assassin, like you were, and couldn't let that happen again."

Jon takes the bundle carefully while Damian has a moment with his mother. He sighs as he realises they have three kids now.

They name him Richard, and Dick cries when they tell him.

Damian and Jon get a bigger house with farmland around it for their growing family and Damians many pets. Though, they still end up sharing a bed because it makes it easier.

Jon becomes a stay at home dad with Damian taking over whenever Jon goes on a mission.

Though Jon does keep worrying about how fragile his kids are. Damian has to talk him down from wrapping, then in kryptonitian bubble wrap after every scraped knee.

The only issue in their blissful domestic life is that despite living together, co parenting, and cuddling every night, Damian and Jon are still not together romantically, and it's driving everyone around them crazy.

Clark starts dropping hints, Lois plans an intervention, and the Bats place bets. Bruce is still trying to convince Damian to move home so he can see his grand babies more often. He doesn't even mind if Jon comes with them at this point.

Dick finally has enough of the unresolved tension when he finds Jon staring at his brother for the eighth time.

So he does the most logical thing possible and kidnaps his neices and nephew for a weekend and locks the two pining idiots in a containment cell together at the Watchtower.

Both men are extremely angry at him when he releases them, but they look more well rested than they have in weeks.

Damian also has visible bruises on his neck while Jon looks unbearably happy, so at least his plan worked.

Jon and Damian get married after they find their fourth baby.

[mydarlingclaudia]

He waits for you, always yours, especially now.

Death came to him softly, later than he’d expected and gentler than anything he ever deserved, but his last stand was in your shared room in the house you both bought and fixed up together.

It's getting eloped instead of having a big wedding, you don't get a diamond, just a gold wedding band that matches his own, his initials carved into yours and yours into his. Simon never said "I love you" very much, but you saw it in the way he looked at you in the mornings and when you did yard work together.

He wouldn't say you got married young, mostly because you didn't, but thirty is still pretty young when you look at the bigger picture, you got married because he was in town. Your brother had just died, he was too young for it and death wasn't kind to him in the slightest, Simon was there for the funeral since him and your brother had grown up together. It was a stupid idea and one that didn't really make a lot of sense, but he asked you to marry him because he didn't want you to be alone.

It took time, but he still found a way to be comfortable loving you. He began to miss a little more every time he left for a mission, he found more reasons to talk to you when he was home (it was really your house, you were living separately at the time), he got you things and took you out for dinner if you were feeling up for it. And he'd kissed you before, usually just when he'd come home, but the first time he really put some heart into a kiss was on Christmas when you'd gotten him a mug with a stupid joke on it.

After that he began to seek you out more, he'd hug you when you'd do dishes and pull you closer when you sat down to watch TV together, you especially seemed to like it when he'd pull you back into bed when he stayed the night.

Simon bought the house he'd die in when he was thirty-nine and you were thirty-six, he took some of that vacation time he's been accumulating for years to help you paint it and fix the lighting. There's this spot in the kitchen that makes the room look golden when the light hits it right, his team met you for the first time when he invited them over for drinks, he'd never uttered a word about you before then.

Your daughter was born in a blizzard, it was the only baby you'd ever have, but neither you or Simon were particularly picky about that fact. She completely flipped your house upside down, it was one of the best things that had happened to Simon, she'd hang from his biceps and headbutt his gut, Simon told her you were strictly off limits when it came to roughhousing.

He'd wake up to her being sandwiched between the two of you, unable to deny her the very narrow spot in your bed. He'd make breakfast for the three of you and would take her to the playground after you went to work, ice cream was bought almost every day.

After she grew up and you and Simon both retired, not much changed. You still had slow mornings and you'd sit on the porch each day and eat dinner. When she started her own family, she'd bring your grandson over every week and Simon would talk to his son-in-law about the weather and his daughters old play-pen he never got rid of. When one grandkid turned into three, Simon bought a bigger dinner table and would talk about how you stole his heart right out of his chest.

When the grandkids got older and eventually started to spread their wings, you and Simon were slowing down. He thought a lot more, he knew he didn't deserve all of these good things and that there were so many different ways the two of you could have started off, but he can't find it in himself to be upset. He never expected to have a life like this and he's just happy that his grandkids weren't scared of his smile.

He dies three years before you do, and you swear that every morning you can feel a kiss being planted on your shoulder, even that you hear his laugh sometimes.

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (11) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael brings you home and takes care of you. You talk things through, and by the end, you’re both on the same page and closer than before.

Word Count: 3990

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull), Non-sexual nudity

Authors Notes: Just one more part. Part 12 will be the last (until futher notice, Maybe a sequel depending on season 2??? I'm sad ngl LOL. I’ll save the sappy talk in the next authors note.) If any of you watch Animal Kingdom I’m writing an Andrew Cody fic. So keep a look out for that. I have it typed, but Idk what the call it. Idk my writing process is wack. I don’t think, I just do. I don’t plan at all and I just make shit up as I go… but whatever works right? All of this is just for fun hence my user lol okay I’ll go now. Enjoy - Ryn (sorry for errors if you’ve been following along for this long y’all know I don’t proof read whoops)

After the end of Michael’s swift, he walked through the ER, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack, the other intertwined with yours.

He felt the stares immediately—wide eyes from the staff, surprised expressions barely masked. They weren’t entirely sure what they were seeing. Or maybe they were. Maybe they just couldn’t believe it.

Michael caught it too. He met the glances of a few nurses, offered a small, tight-lipped smile, then looked away.

Michael wasn’t embarrassed—he could never be embarrassed of you. That wasn’t it. He just didn’t want everyone in his business. But that line had already been crossed.

Rumor and gossip swirled, but his main focus, his main priority was you. Nothing else matter

Michael, he took you home—his place. He wanted you to stay there; it was easier that way. He had emergency supplies if anything went wrong, and it let him keep a close eye on you.

As the two of you made your way down the hall toward his apartment, neither of you said anything about the arrangement. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer an explanation. He expected you to protest—maybe argue, insist on going to your side of the hall—but you didn’t.

You wanted to. You thought about saying you didn’t want to intrude, that you’d be fine on your own. But the words never made it out. You were in too much pain, too wrung out and exhausted to care. And you already knew what he’d say—something about keeping an eye on you, monitoring for symptoms, making sure you didn’t take a turn.

So you stayed quiet. And followed him in.

“You probably want a shower,” he said softly

You nodded, but your body swayed a little too far to the left.

He caught your arm. “Careful.”

Together, you made your way toward the bathroom. Every movement felt floaty and too heavy at the same time—like your body wasn’t entirely yours. The edges of the room tilted, just slightly, and you blinked hard to stay grounded.

When you enter the bathroom you. “Can you stay?”

Your voice was quiet.

Michael didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You reach for the hem of your shirt, but your hands fumbled, clumsy. Lifting your arms made your vision blur, and you winced, one hand going instinctively to your lump

He stepped forward. “Hey—stop. Let me.”

You didn’t argue.

His hands were gentle as he helped you out of your clothes, moving slowly, methodically. When he eased the shirt over your head, you closed your eyes against the spinning, and he steadied you with one hand at your waist.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, the shirt now crumpled in his hand.

You nodded again, though you weren’t sure. “Just dizzy.”

You kicked off your shoes, the cool floor sending a small shiver up your spine. Your fingers trembled slightly as you fumbled with the button of your jeans, struggling to pull them down past your hips. The fabric caught at your thighs, and you paused, leaning on the sink to keep from swaying too much. 

When you finally slid your jeans down and stepped out of them, you stood there, vulnerable in just your bra and underwear. 

Michael didn’t move closer or look away. His eyes softened, not with desire, but with something quieter: care and respect. He gave you space, knowing you needed it, but stayed close enough that you could reach out if you lost your balance.

“Sit for a moment,” Michael said softly.

You lowered yourself slowly onto the closed toilet seat.

Michael moved toward the tub, turning the cold and hot taps, adjusting until the water flowed warm. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and stepped out briefly. When he returned, he held a thick, fluffy towel and a neatly folded set of clothes. 

“I don’t think I should stand,” you admitted, voice low, your body still heavy with exhaustion.

“Okay,” Michael nodded understandingly. “You don’t have to stand. You can sit.”

Carefully, you got off the toilet and moved to the edge of the tub, the smooth porcelain cool beneath your hands. You dipped your feet into the water, feeling the warmth as it flows around your feet.

Michael goes to sit on the closed toilet seat. 

“I’m gonna…” you said softly, pulling at the strap of your bra to let him know you were about to take it off.

He shifted slightly, turning his body toward the door, giving you the privacy you needed to strip without feeling exposed.

You hesitated for a moment, then began to remove your bra, the fabric slipping softly from your shoulders. Then your underwear followed. You lowered yourself slowly into the tub, 

Curling your knees up toward your chest, you hugged them gently, covering your body feeling safe and cocooned.

“Okay,” you said softly, signaling that he could turn back.

“You sure?” Michael asked quietly, his voice gentle and concerned, wanting to make sure you were comfortable being this vulnerable in front of him.

“Yes,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but steady. “I trust you.”

“Okay I’m turning around” 

Michael turned and stood up. He reached for the shower head, pulling the pin on the faucet to redirect the water. The steady stream shifted from the tub spout to the handheld shower, and he adjusted the flow gently, ready to help you wash.

Michael held the shower head steady, the warm spray falling in a gentle rhythm. He aimed the water over your shoulders and back in careful movements.

“Let me know if the water’s too hot or cold,” he said softly.

You nodded, eyes closing as the warmth soaked into your skin. The sound of water filled the quiet room, calming your breath.

“I’m going to wash your hair first,” he said.

You gave a small nod.

He adjusted the shower head and used his hand to shield your eyes, carefully wetting your hair. His fingers moved gently through it, avoiding the tender lump where your skull was fractured. He worked the shampoo in with care, soft and slow, then rinsed it clean.

When he was done, he reached for a washcloth, soaked it under the water, and handed it to you.

“Here,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “I’ll let you do the rest.”

You took it from him with a quiet “Thanks,” and began washing your arms and chest, slow and steady. 

As you washed yourself, Michael respectfully turned his head, gaze fixed on the tiled wall. He kept holding the shower head steady, adjusting the angle when needed, but never looked your way.

Once you’d finished rinsing, you gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Michael turned off the water. He set the shower head down carefully and reached for the towel he’d left nearby.

“Here,” he said softly, draping the towel over your shoulders. His hands were steady, mindful. “Take your time.”

You nodded, then slowly pushed yourself up to stand. Your legs felt shaky beneath you. Michael offered his arm, and you took it, leaning into his steady presence as you stepped carefully out of the tub. Water dripped from your legs onto the mat below.

As he helped you find your balance, you adjusted the towel at your chest, making sure it stayed in place, then tucked the edge securely.

He reached for the clean white shirt he’d brought and gently held it open for you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded.

You held the towel closed as he slipped the shirt over your head, guiding it gently down your arms. The fabric brushed your skin, soft and clean. Once it was in place, you let the towel fall. The shirt settled over your body—short, but long enough to cover you where it mattered.

Michael turned away without a word, facing the bathroom door again to give you privacy.

You reached for the shorts and stepped into them slowly, pulling them up and adjusting the waistband. 

Reaching for the towel you’d just let fall, you brought it up to your head and began to dry your hair gently. The motion was slow, cautious. Each pat was careful, mindful not to press too hard.

“All set,” you said quietly.

He turned around and asked, “Are you hungry? I can make you something.”

You looked up, a little unsure. “You don’t mind?”

“Course not,” he said with a smile.

“Please.”

The two of you walked into the kitchen. Michael grabbed a pot and started making chicken noodle soup. The soft sound of the spoon stirring and the warm smell of the soup soon filled the room, making everything feel calm and cozy.

He set the pot to simmer on the stove, then turned to gather a few bowls and spoons. The soft clinking of dishes echoed through the quiet kitchen.

You settled onto a stool at his island table.

Michael glanced over and gave you a small, reassuring smile. “It won’t be long.”

You nodded, feeling the calm settle around you, grateful for this simple care.

Michael carried the bowls over to you, setting one down in front of you. You wrapped your hands around the warm bowl, feeling a small comfort in its heat.

He sat down beside you, and for a moment, you both simply savored the quiet. 

The two of you ate quietly at the island, the soft clink of spoons the only sound between you. The soup was exactly what you needed. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until your bowl was nearly empty.

When you finished, you murmured a soft thank you, and Michael just nodded, already rinsing the dishes in the sink.

Afterward, you both headed back toward the bathroom. Michael knelt down and opened the cabinet under the sink, pulling out a fresh toothbrush still in its packaging. He handed it to you with a small smile.

“Figured you might want this.”

“Thanks,” you said, voice low with weariness.

While you brushed your teeth, Michael disappeared down the hall. He moved quietly, setting up his bedroom—thinking ahead to anything you might need.

When he returned, he leaned gently against the doorframe and asked, “You ready to sleep?”

You nodded.

You stepped into his room and paused. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the space. On the nightstand, he’d placed a bottle of water, a few folded towels, and a small plastic basin—just in case. The sheets were pulled back neatly.

You climbed into his bed, sinking. It smelled like him, familiar in a way that made you feel safe.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly.

You heard him moving in the other room, picking up after dinner or maybe putting things away. But by the time he came back to check on you, you were already asleep—curled up beneath the blankets, the soft rise and fall of your breath the only sound in the room.

—

You woke in the middle of the night, disoriented for a moment. The sheets smelled of him. 

Michael

You were in Michael’s bed.

Yet, the space next to you was empty. 

Soft snoring came from somewhere nearby. You rolled over, careful with your head. Your eyes adjusted slowly, picking up the outline of a shape on the floor—a silhouette in the dark room. Quiet and still, except for the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing. Michael, curled up on the floor with a pillow and a blanket.

“Michael…” you whispered.

Nothing.

“Michael.” You say a little louder. 

He stirred with a quiet groan from the floor. “Hmm? Hey—what’s wrong? You okay?” His voice was heavy with sleep, words slurring together in the dark. 

“What are you doing on the floor?”

“​​I didn’t want to jostle you,” he murmured. “You'd sleep better without someone next to you.” he said, still half-asleep, words slurred with drowsiness. 

You listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing. Then your voice came softly, tentative but firm. “Lay with me…”

He exhaled hard, a sound of reluctant surrender, shifting to find a more comfortable position on the floor. “Not a chance.”

Trying not to sound irritated, you pressed on. “Whatever worst-case scenario you’ve built up in that doctor’s brain of yours, it’s not gonna happen.”

“Just go to sleep. You need the rest.” His tone was gentle but firm, and he didn’t move.

Silence stretched out between you, thick and heavy like the dark itself.

“Your back’s going to be sore,” you said quietly, your words a soft concern in the stillness.

“A sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he mumbled, already drifting back toward sleep, his voice fading like a whisper.

“You’re gonna regret it. You’ll never beat those old-man allegations.”

“I’m middle-aged, not old,” he protested weakly.

“Exactly, you’re practically headed to the old folks’ home.”

“Hey.” He scoffed, a dry laugh slipping through despite the quiet.

You giggled softly. 

The room fell silent again.

“Come on, Lay with me…”

“Sweetheart, please just go back to sleep.”

“Michael, Please?” 

He let out a long breath. You heard the blanket rustle as he sat up, then the creak of the mattress as he eased himself into the space beside you—slow, careful, like he was afraid of accidentally hurting you. 

He stayed on top of the covers, his body turned slightly toward you but keeping his distance.

“Happy now?” he murmured. “Now, go back to sleep…”

And somehow, despite everything—your aching head, the nausea,—you did.

A few times throughout the night, the nausea came back, unexpected and relentless. Each time, you stirred, feeling the sickness twist in your stomach. And each time, Michael was there—plastic basin in hand, ready before you even had to ask.

He got up with you, never once complaining or pulling away. He rubbed your back gently, his hand warm against your skin as he whispered softly, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“My chicken noodle soup was that bad, huh?” he joked, knowing you were only throwing up because of your injury.

“Michael…” you groan out a laugh. Your laugh told him everything — that you thought it was funny, but not funny because you were throwing up.

He laughs softly, “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He brushed your hair back from your forehead, his fingers light and soothing. Even in the darkness, his voice was a comfort, steady and reassuring. He leaned in and kissed the spot where your shoulder and neck met, a quiet promise that he’d be there, no matter what.

At some point in the night, Michael had ended up under the covers. Now, the two of you lay curled on your sides, facing the same direction, careful not to jostle your injury. Your head rested on a second, softer pillow he’d propped just right to keep pressure off the side with the fracture. His chest was pressed gently against your back, his body warm and steady behind you.

Michael's arm rested low across your waist, heavy in sleep but comforting. He’d left enough space between your heads to avoid brushing against the sensitive side, but his presence was still close. It wasn’t quite a spoon, more like a careful hover

When you woke, the space beside you was empty. The sheets were still warm, faintly holding the shape of where Michael had been. You blinked against the soft morning light filtering in through the curtains and slowly sat up in bed, careful with your head.

A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open. Michael stepped in, balancing a tray with both hands — toast, scrambled eggs, some cut-up fruit, and a cup of tea that still steamed.

“Breakfast in bed?” you chuckled, memories stirring of quieter mornings months ago when you’d surprised him the same way.

“Like I said, you set the bar pretty high,” he said, quoting himself from that morning with a crooked smile.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your smile gentle and touched with sleep.

He made his way over and climbed into bed beside you with the tray. You shifted slightly to make room, sitting up a little straighter against the pillows he’d fluffed and stacked behind you the night before. He settled in next to you like it was second nature, his thigh pressed warmly against yours, careful not to jostle the arrangement supporting your head.

The tray rested comfortably across your lap, 

“How are you feeling?”

You took a moment before answering, eyes flicking down to the plate in your lap. “Okay,” you said slowly. “Still a little off, but… I don’t feel dizzy. And my stomach isn’t doing somersaults, so that’s a win.”

“Good. That’s good.” He nodded, though the crease between his brows lingered. Then, more gently, “How’s the head?”

“I’ll give you some meds after breakfast,” he said, his voice low, edged with concern. “Something mild, won’t knock you out.”

You nodded slowly, leaning into his touch just a little.

“Okay.”

He let his hand rest there a moment longer, thumb brushing lightly against your temple. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

“I know...and thank you for yesterday at the ER, and last night...for taking care of me"

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said, his voice low.

He just gave you a soft smiled and leaned in and kissed your forehead—slow, steady, like he needed reassurance as much as you did. When he pulled back, there was a softness in his eyes that lingered just a beat longer before he shifted the mood.

Michael exhaled quietly and gave a half-smile, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own. 

“Though I kept it light,” he said, nodding toward the plate. “Hoping it’s not bad enough that you threw it up like the chicken noodle soup a few times last night.”

You groaned through a laugh, nudging his arm. “Stooopp,” you said, drawing the word out as your smile spread. You knew he was joking gently, lovingly and it made you feel lighter somehow.

He grinned and leaned in, his lips brushing your temple in a soft kiss. “Just saying… if you do throw it up, I’ve got the basin nearby. We’re a well-oiled machine at this point.”

You laughed again, more freely this time, “You’re the worst.”

“Nah,” he said, handing you the fork. “Just your personal chef, doctor, and comedian all rolled into one.”

You smiled as you picked at the fruit, choosing a slice of melon first. Michael reached for a piece of toast, took a bite, and chewed beside you in comfortable silence.

Then, you glanced over at him, something soft but serious settling in your expression.

“Can we talk?” you asked quietly.

His chewing slowed. He looked at you—really looked at you—and nodded like he already knew what you meant.

“You sure you wanna do that now?” he asked gently. “We don’t have to… we can wait.”

You shook your head. “No. I think we should.” Your fingers toyed with the edge of the tray. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, setting the toast back down. “Of course. Whatever you wanna do.”

Together, without saying much else, you both reached for the tray. He helped steady it while you shifted slightly, and you slid it carefully onto the nightstand beside you. The plates clinked lightly as they settled.

He turned back to face you, one leg bent slightly on the bed, elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you with quiet patience.

“I thought about what you said—the night of my ceremony, sitting on that park bench, and then the morning after, when you told me I needed to figure out what I really want, what I truly need. You said if I kept pushing people away, I’d only end up hurting people who care. And I realized even myself and… after everything went down in the elevator, I broke up with Aiden that night. I told him I was done. That I needed to be on my own. I’ve been working on myself since then. I still am.”

Your voice faltered slightly, but you held his gaze, feeling the weight of every word between you. It wasn’t easy to say, but it was true. You were trying, really trying, to heal.

“You told me a man won’t make me question whether I’m loved… He won’t make me beg for affection, or make me feel like I’m asking for too much just by wanting to be seen.”

You swallowed hard, vulnerability threading through your voice. “That man… that man is you, Michael. And I want you. I want us.”

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining gently, searching for reassurance. “But I still have so much work to do on myself. I want to be whole before I can really be with someone. I hope you understand.”

Michael’s eyes softened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Hey,” he said quietly, “we don’t have to rush into anything. We’ll take all the time you need.”

A warm relief washed over you, and you exhaled slowly, your heart beating steadier.

“We’ll go slow,” he continued, voice steady and certain. “At whatever pace feels right for you. Because you matter. And this—us—it’s worth waiting for.”

“You’re not worried?” you asked.

“About what?”

You hesitated. “That I’m… 25. Naive. Stupid… I don’t know…

You looked down at your guys hands. 

Michael didn’t speak right away. His, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady.

“The age gap crossed my mind,” he admitted. “You’ve still got so much ahead of you. And I’ve lived through a lot. I worried I might hold you back. That one day you’ll see all of this differently, me differently and regret it.”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just full.

After a moment, Michael’s grip tightened just slightly, as if to anchor both of you.

“But the truth is,” he said softly, “being with you… it’s never felt like a mistake. Not once. I’m here because I want to be—with you—not because I’m trying to relive anything, or because I’m afraid of being alone.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes, searching for the certainty you needed.

“I know you’re young,” he continued, “and that life still has so much to show you. But I don’t want to hold you back. I want to walk beside you, whatever comes next.”

Your heart fluttered, caught between hope and fear.

“Do you really mean that?” you whispered.

Michael smiled gently. “More than anything.”

“Like k said we’ll take it slow. You set the pace—always. No rushing, no pressure. It’s about us, moving at whatever speed feels right for you.”

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

“I just want to be here—with you—however that looks.”

You felt the tension ease, like a weight lifting from your chest.

“Whatever you need, we’ll figure it out together….okay” 

“Okay” you smile. 

Your lips find Michael’s—soft, lingering kisses that make your heart flutter, but you can’t help the giggles that escape between each one.

He pulls back slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his lips as he searches your face, his eyes warm and curious.

“What? What’s so funny sweetheart?” he asks, chuckling softly, his brows lifting in genuine curiosity.

You press your fingers to your mouth, still grinning. “Your beard… It’s tickling my face.”

Michael chuckles, brushing his thumb gently along your cheek. “Oh really?” he teases, leaning in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“It didn’t bother you before,” he says, raising an eyebrow playfully.

You smirk, teasing back, “Because when you first kissed me, tensions were high. I was too distracted by everything else to notice the tickles.”

He laughs quietly, the sound low and easy. “So you’re saying my rugged charm is… too much for you to handle now?”

You laugh again, softer this time, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him a little closer. “I’m saying your rugged charm needs a trim”

His grin widens, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he murmurs, pressing another gentle kiss to your nose. “But no promises.”

No more questions, no more worries—just a shared understanding. Whatever the future holds, you know you’re not alone. You and Michael are on the same page now, ready to take the next step, however slow or steady it may be.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere@beebeechaos@antisocialfiore@delicatetrashtree@xxxkat3xxx@homebytheharbor@woodxtock@letstryagaintomorrow@livingavilaloca@elkitot@annabellee88@hagarsays@emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989@whos6claire@harrysgothicbitch@trustme3-13@qardasngan@silas-aeiou@k3ndallroy@ohmystrawberrycheesecake@ay0nha@404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy@steviebbboi@alliegc28@catmomstyles3@ardentistella@madprincessinabox@circumspectre@the-one-with-the-grey-color@thatchickwiththecamera@violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin@capj-1437@airgoddess@nah2991@interestellarprincess@laurensfilm@peachjellyy@aj3684@sorryimstupidrn@escapingjune@robbyslittlelamb@nicisthename92@littlezee80@lucidanne@spooky-librarian-ghost@the-salty-asian@lonelyheartsm@lovelyjulieee @memoriesat30 @glamorizethechaos @guiltypleassure243 @princessjayll @teapartydreams

Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11)

[tswwwit]

Widower part three! Containing syrup, Idaho, and other interesting facts.

Part One is here, and Part Two is here.

“Welp! With the chores outta the way,” Bill dusts his hands off, turning this way and that as he examines the empty field. He reels on Dipper, eye-smiling in his strange, triangular manner. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Dipper frowns, but doesn’t speak. He’s not dignifying that with a response.

Beside him, Mabel clears her throat, nudging him with an elbow. When he levels his glare at her, she returns it, in a clear ‘don’t piss off the super-powerful demon’ look.

He makes a face right back. What if he wants to piss off the super-powerful demon? Did she think about that? It’s not like they’re in danger. Mostly. The wide-eyed look of frustration he gets in return makes him roll his eyes.

Bill interrupts, clearing the throat he doesn’t have. “As touching as your fleshy blood-related bonding is - super gross, by the way -” He waves towards his terrible demonic base. “How ‘bout checking out the digs? Settle in!”

Mabel grimaces; Dipper merely rubs his temples. 

Cooler things than flipping his concept of magic and physics on the head, great. He totally wanted to have his brain explode, literally - 

Another elbow to the side; Mabel, pointing out the winged eyeballs flying distantly overhead - and honestly? Point. They should probably stick by the guy who can fend off laser-shooting demonic pests.

“Great.” Dipper says, waving Bill forward with a grandness he doesn’t feel. “Lead the way.”

Bill does as requested. with considerable aplomb. He even gives a little mocking bow, tipping his hat, before he brings his two human captives back to his lair. Super cool. Definitely not ominous.

Dipper slinks along in Bill’s path, half-listening to him talk as they wander back into the black halls of the Fearamid. The stone makes almost no sound against his sneakers, while Bill himself makes none at all with his floating bullshit.

“Don’t make that face, kid,” Bill says, rolling his eye at Dipper’s askance look. “You won’t find a more comfy pad to hang out than the ol’ Fearamid! Trust me!”

Dipper grunts instead of a response. It’s a point he would love to refute, except. It is kind of comfy, in a weird way. 

Bill’s lair has demonic air conditioning, or something, so the temperature’s neither too hot nor too cool. The halls are roomy, with no demons in sight for now, and though the non-euclidean construction is strange, it’s not too confusing. Almost like a puzzle he’s already solved.

Which is a good thing, really. Odds are they’re going to see a lot more of the place. 

Bill leads him and his sister on another merry trip through his incomprehensible fortress, heavy bass from the party pounding in the walls, and he talks constantly. The noise is terrible - and the amount of bragging one triangle manages to produce per second is way too high.

Though considering what Dipper’s just seen… the boasts aren’t entirely unwarranted. 

Sure, Bill’s shown off his magic before. He loves a good show, and tries to make his excursions exciting. He’s turned people into statues, blasted a few buildings into dust, mutated animals, controlled the weather -

But those were just advanced versions of typical demon powers. The logical assumption was that he was an extra-potent version of your standard demon grunt, and his bragging pure bluster. 

Turns out all the shit Bill talked? Actually comes with the insane, physics-defying reality manipulating chops to back it up. 

Dipper studies demons, it’s his job, and even he didn’t anticipate… that.

Bill Cipher is a bigger threat than anyone expected. Ever. A king not just in name, but in power. A monster among monsters. An immense, annoying, violent threat.

Dipper has to tell people. Spread the word. Let them what they’re really facing, the danger lurking latent inside this fortress - 

But he’s trapped here, guided along by a madman with delusions of matrimony, with absolutely no one to warn about it. Except Mabel, who already knows.

And hell, who’d believe him if he did get the word out? Dipper barely believes it, and he saw it all firsthand.

He shivers, though the Fearamid isn’t cold. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down and his thoughts to himself. 

The one relief is Mabel. In her continued, alive presence, in having another witness to the insanity - and in how she somehow keeps up with all Bill’s rambling bullshit.

“So, you just sent, like, a billion people flying.” Mabel says, thankfully breaking from the weird fashion tangent they’d been on. “Where did you send everyone?” 

“Eh. Places.” Bill says, with his usual specificity. He turns his eye on Dipper before the interruption can even start to form. “They’re fine, kid. Dropped ‘em off in the nearest big human city. Might not be where they were picked up, but your guys can take it from there!”

Well… That didn’t sound like a lie, so. Everyone’s safe. Probably. And it would be unreasonable for Bill to pick out each and every person and figure out where he figurined them. 

It’s still annoying. But complaining about how Bill released two thousand captives sounds petty even to Dipper, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

As far as deals go, he just pulled possibly the most one-sided one in history - and it wasn’t in Bill’s favor.

His palm still tingles. He rubs it against his jeans rapidly, until it feels hot enough to ignore.

“So…” Mabel continues, hesitant. She taps the tips of her index fingers together, not meeting Bill’s eye. “What about me and Dipper?”

She says it with a hint of hope and a cheerful smile. Dipper sighs again. Optimism. So like his sister - and so misguided.

“C’mon, wasn’t it obvious? You two are sticking with me.” Bill says, resoundingly smug. He slings an arm over Mabel’s shoulders. The other travels a good distance before capturing Dipper, but inevitably drags him in. “Gotta say, it’s been a while since I’ve had mortals hang out in the Fearamid! Kinda nostalgic.”

Yep. No shot they were leaving. Bill already said he was going to help them ‘settle in’, and that means they’re in for the long haul.

After all. He has a ‘wedding’ to plan. 

While Dipper’s unimpressed look doesn’t land, Bill takes in Mabel's wide-eyed stare - and rolls his eye again.

“Don’t gimme that look, Shooting Star! You should be flattered! Being a guest at my place is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Well,” He turns to Dipper and winks, a surprising feat with one eye. “Twice, in some cases.”

Ah, yes. The delusion. Dipper hasn’t come up with a good argument against it yet, so he flips this asshole off. Bill beams at him, brightening up and squeezing his shoulder. 

Mabel tugs nervously at the hem of her sweater, though she keeps up a smile. The knitting pulls out in loops, and she weaves her fingers into them. “So are we, uh.”

“Safe? Ha! Safety’s a delusion to keep mortal minds safe from existential despair!” Bill says cheerfully. “But, eh, no one here’s gonna mess with you if I have anything to say about it. And I do! At length! With extreme violence if needed!” 

“Great.” Dipper says again. He stalks forward, nearly getting away from the arm around his shoulders - until Bill darts over to keep it up, leaving Mabel unmolested. “So we’re captives.”

“Ahem. Guests,” Bill chides, nudging angle against side.  “You and me got a wedding to think of, and your sister’s obviously gonna be your Best Man.” He points double finger-guns at Mabel, who’s already perked up at the prospect. “While you get to be the co-star of the show! An entire constellation, even!”

“I know,” Dipper snaps. “You’ve made your intentions pretty clear.”

Though he’s tempted to shrug Bill’s arm off, he holds back. Breathing in, then out again slowly. 

Less of a cold shoulder. That was their deal. A few annoyances are a fair price for two thousand lives. Dipper figures he can put up with it a little longer. 

That, and the consequences for breaking a deal are, almost universally, painful. He’d rather not find out how theirs works.

Actually getting married, though? That wasn’t part of their agreement, and Bill’s an idiot for not including it in his terms. There’s room to resist. To fight this asshole, in word and in deed.

If Bill thinks he’s gonna get everything he wants? He’s got another thing coming. 

“Jeez, you’re grumpy this time ‘round,” Bill says with a sigh. Patting Dipper’s shoulder, he slows to a stop. “Your sister already got her four hundred winks in - but I think you need a nap.”

“Or a sandwich,” Mabel chimes in, unhelpfully. She leans in, stage whispering into Bill’s side. “He gets really hangry.” 

“Ha! See, now that’s the kinda insight a guy can work with.” Bill points at her with both hands, then gives a double thumbs-up. “Your sister’s pretty decent again, sapling! I approve.”

Mabel, buoyed by the compliment, sticks her tongue out at her underestimating, ungrateful older brother - then blinks. “Wait. Again?”

God, right. She hasn’t heard the whole story yet. 

Dipper waves off her questioning look, with a hint of apology. “Later.” 

When they’re not in earshot of the insane demon. Explaining will be hard enough without Bill adding extra ‘details’.

“So! Since the wedding’s a ways off, you both need a place to crash. And we’re already here!” Bill releases Dipper - finally - and spreads his arms wide. “Ta-da!”

Dipper glances around. They’ve reached the middle of a black stone corridor, same as all the others. One single, human-sized door lies to their right, the dark wood inlaid with gold in triangular patterns - but that stuff’s everywhere. It’s elegant, yet not remarkable.

Strange. Dipper was expecting something… more dramatic? Showy? Something on fire, anyway, not woodwork that wouldn’t be out of place in a fancy manor. What’s so special here?

He tries to focus on their surroundings. To find out what’s really going on, even over the music from- then blinks at the near-silence, and reevaluates. 

Nevermind, he gets it now. From their position in the Fearamid, the party sounds are so distant he can barely hear them. The halls are clean and clear, without clawmarks on the floor or spilled drinks or blood, and come to think of it - they did go up a bunch of staircases. 

Special, then. In that nobody else is up in this section. Wherever Bill’s led them has a distinct vibe of privacy. 

“Now where am I gonna stash you, Shooting Star?” Bill rubs under his eye thoughtfully.. He drifts around Mabel in one full circle, examining her in 360 degrees - then stops right in front of her. “Ha! Y’know, I’ve got just the thing!” 

One solid clap later, a second door appears on the opposite wall, snapping into existence with a sound not unlike ‘poink’. The pale wood surface is plastered with glittery stars, and a pink plaque with cursive script reads, ‘The In-Law’.

“Oooh,” Mabel’s eyes widen, clapping her cheeks in delight. “Fancy.”

Dipper watches as she flings the door open - winces, briefly, from the eye-searing colors inside - then wonders how Bill got it exactly to her taste. 

“But as for you, sapling,” Bill says, eye glinting. He floats over to the ornate door and swings it open, gesturing forward. “You get to stay-”

Dipper gets a glimpse of a wide, dark, richly furnished room - with every surface covered in empty bottles. A brief whiff of stale liquor drifts out before Bill slams it shut, pupil narrowed to a line.

“Actually, y’know what? You two catch up and do sentimental human crap,” Bill says airily. He shoos them away, keeping a firm third arm on the doorknob to hold it closed. “I gotta couple things to take care of.” 

Dipper’s about to protest - why does Mabel get the bespoke room, and him the afterparty disaster pile - but his sister seizes him by the wrist and drags him in

Thankfully, Bill doesn’t follow. He simply waves, eye-smiling, and the door slams shut behind them. Dipper glances back, hoping that wasn’t as ominous as it sounded.

“Wow, Bill really knows how to decorate.” Mabel lets go, looking around her room with wide eyes. She spins in a circle, arms in the air. “Look at this place!” 

The colorful walls, the bed with strings of lights around it, the rainbow theming. All very Mabel - and all very suspicious. This is clearly some kind of trick.

As his sister starts bouncing on the big pink bed, Dipper nudges a pile of plush animals. No blood gushes out, and there’s no screaming, so he shrugs and says, “It’s okay.” 

Mabel stops jumping on the mattress when she catches the look on his face. The smile fades, and she sighs.  

“I guess it’s got its downsides.” She slides down to sit on the edge of the bed, kicking her feet. “Like… how I got here.”

Ah. The whole… statue thing  must have been lingering in her thoughts for her to come out with it so quickly. 

“Yeah.” Shrugging, Dipper stuffs his hands in his pockets. There’s not much else to say.

“How long was I…”

“About a year.” He tries to crack a smile, reassure her that everything’s okay. He thinks it works, too. Because for the first time in a year, things are okay - Or at least way, way better. “It really freaked everyone out.”

Mabel nods, only half-paying attention. She wraps her arms around herself. “I don’t remember it. But it’s like. I kind of feel it, you know? That time’s passed.”

God, Dipper’s an asshole. Here he is, wallowing in self-pity because a super-powerful being has a crush on him, while Mabel’s dealing with all kinds of bullshit. He moves to put a hand on her shoulder -

“But enough about that!” Mabel rocks up her heels, looking up at the ceiling with her hands tucked behind her back - then reels on him, grinning wide. “I wanna know how long you’ve been dating-”

“Never.” Dipper says, before she can finish the sentence. It’s just so wrong. He returns her responding frown, only deeper and more serious. “I only met the guy today.” 

Mabel lets out a low whistle. “Well, when you meet a great guy,” She shrugs, starting to smile. “Gotta move fast!” 

“But not this fast.” Dipper cuts an arm through the air. “Bill’s insane. And he’s totally wrong about me being right for him. I’m not even the same person.” Catching Mabel’s confused look, he sighs. “Okay. It’s later, so. Let me fill you in.”

Explaining takes only a couple minutes. How she got enstatued - a fact she’s aware of and not thrilled about - and his efforts to take revenge. How fighting against demonic forces isn’t that hard, when you know what you’re doing. And really, he only made a little, tiny misstep anyone could have made when he ended up captured.

Then, Bill. Being offered as tribute. The culmination of their current situation, and where everything Dipper knows can be compacted into a few bulletpoints: 

Dead husband, supposed ‘reincarnation’, and Bill being the worst at making marriage proposals, ever. In that he didn’t even bother with one.

Mabel listens to his tale with unusual silence. No interruptions, only nodding and frowning at certain points. Dipper guesses she’s still processing… a lot of things, probably. He’s not feeling on solid ground himself. 

After he’s finished, she asks, “Do you think that’s why Bill invaded Earth?” 

“What?” Dipper blinks. He was expecting… he doesn’t know. Maybe agreement on how evil and bizarre Bill is. Anger at what had happened to her. Not - 

He sighs, again, and rubs at his eyes. “No, I don’t think Bill Cipher conquered the west coast just to date people.”

“Not to date people, Dipper,” Mabel insists. “To find his husband. Duh!”

“The dead one,” Dipper points out. “That guy. Who died.” He frowns. Maybe she’s not aware either… “Look, reincarnation-”

“Isn’t real. Everyone knows that.” Mabel rolls her eyes at his condescension, then beams as she delivers her retort. “But does Bill know that?”

Dipper starts to protest - but pauses. 

That’s the same thought he had earlier. At the time he’d only been thinking about the pile of weird bullshit suddenly heaped on him, not the mystery of Bill Cipher’s motivations.

But. That would explain a lot. Not just his kidnapping and Bill’s bizarre behavior, but the greater scheme. One nobody’s ever found a real answer for. 

“I… don’t think he does.” Dipper admits, after a brief hesitation. “He was really sure I was his husband when he saw me.” Which means rebirth is a thing somewhere. Maybe in his native dimension? 

“‘Cause he’s pretty crazy, yeah.” Mabel agrees, though now she frowns. “But dunno. I kinda get it?” She shrugs, lifting her hands. “Losing someone you care about sucks.”

Yeah. Yeah, it sucks. It’s the worst. 

Losing someone can drive you to desperate lengths, or send you on impossible journeys. Taking risks, inviting trouble. Hoping against hope. Dipper guesses he can’t point fingers, really.

The difference is Bill isn’t capable of caring about someone, ever. The closest emotion would be ‘possessiveness’ or ‘obsession’. Dipper might have argued even that was a stretch, if the paintings weren’t literally on the wall about it.

“Welp!” Mabel claps, bouncing over and sitting back on the bed. “Guess that explains that! One world-conquering mystery, solved.” She holds her hand up for a high five. 

“Nope.” Dipper says. He shakes his head when Mabel starts to pout. “Look, if Bill was looking for someone, he would have mentioned it. He could have threatened the whole world to find his guy, or - or bribed people, or run a contest for best lookalike.” Or even leave his goddamn house once in a while, instead of making ‘collectables’. “It just doesn’t track.”

There’s a thousand things Bill could have done, since he apparently has absurd powers to go with his entirely absurd existence. A thousand spells he could have cast, a billion thaums of magic to throw around. And he spent it sulking on his throne, bothering decent people, and filling a side room with empty bottles. Not the behavior of a being on a mission.

Dipper’s known the guy for less than a day, but he’s certain about one thing. 

Bill Cipher searching for someone? Would be obnoxious, violent and loud. 

“Okay, maybe it’s not the whole story. But he did marry a human one time, right?” Mabel flaps a sweater sleeve, then points at the ceiling, and through it the x-shaped rift over the Fearamid. “I don’t think they have many out there.”

True; there aren’t. And It’s entirely possible Bill’s got a weird thing for humans; he wouldn’t be the first monster with that proclivity. Or the first to kidnap their intended, for that matter. 

“Yeah, fair.” Dipper concedes. He plops down next to her, leaning over to rest his chin in his hands.  “I just don’t see why the human spouse is me.”

“Hey,” Mabel says, in a softer tone. She punches him lightly on the side. “You’re a cool guy, Dipper. You could bag any demon you wanted! I mean, Bill’s totally into you already, and he’s their king.”

Oh god. ‘King’ is only a loose description, demons don’t have a monarchy. But the image it conjures fits right into shitty romance novel tropes, which means - 

She’s got the wrong end of the stick.

“I don’t need a pep talk.” Dipper drags his hands down his face, praying for patience “Did you forget we’re talking about Bill Cipher?”

“Yeah, I guess he’s not the hottest. Big shape made of metal. All angles. Super flat.” Mabel says, counting the flaws on her fingers. She rubs her chin and frowns. “Hey, how’s your honeymoon supposed to work when he has no-”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“What? He doesn’t wear pants, Dipper!” She insists, thumping a fist on her knee. “It’s the kind of thing you notice!”

“I wasn’t thinking of the honeymoon,” Dipper says through gritted teeth. Little sisters should not know what sex is, ever. “I was thinking, ‘How do I get out of this?’”

“Uh…” Mabel pauses, hand lifted - then lets it drop back into her lap. “Hm.”

“Yeah,” Dipper agrees. It’s a pretty tough question. 

This was never going to be easy. They’re dealing with the biggest, most annoying, most powerful jackass on the planet - and he’s a particularly nitpicky flavor of supernatural to boot. They like their agreements in writing.

Without a deal, how does anyone convince a demon to do something?

Well, okay. Dipper’s done that. But only once or twice. Three times, max. 

Manipulating demons is risky business, with coinflip odds at best. The few times he’s pulled it were to get the hell out of dodge, or to get their victims the hell out of dodge, and it was still a close thing. Demons can be stupid, and Dipper was lucky.

Unfortunately, his instincts tell him Bill Cipher’s a much older, smarter beast. He won’t fall for the ‘oh my god, what’s that behind you?’ trick. Though he would probably laugh.

“Hmmmmm,” Mabel continues. Her eyes narrow, and she taps her foot. “Hm, hm, hm, hm, hm.”

Uh oh. Dipper has a bad feeling about this. “What are you doing?”

“So we’re probably not getting out of here anytime soon. Right?”

“No,” Dipper admits, with some chagrin. They could still escape. It’s possible. But he needs time to come up with something, and right now he’s emptyhanded. 

“And Bill’s probably not going to give up on marrying you, either.”

“No.” The word comes out like a tired sigh. Bill’s definitely, absolutely, 100% locked the hell in, with a certainty he’s rarely seen in demons. 

“Then honestly?” Mabel shrugs, lifting her hands and tucking her chin in. “I’d play along.”

Dipper stares at his sister for a long moment. 

She can’t be - oh, no, there’s that stubborn look, with the narrowed eyes and fists on her sides. She is serious.

He clears his throat. “Look, I know you read a lot of bad romance novels, but-”

“No, no, listen! Remember the field? The collection?” Mabel insists, waving at the window and the green view outside. “Dipper, he brought everyone back to life because you complained about it! They all got to go home!” 

Dipper glances out the window at the empty field, then away again. “What does that have to do with-”

“Hey.” She takes him by the shoulders and shakes him. Her gaze is so intent Dipper doesn’t resist, lettering her rock him back and forth. “You wanna stop Bill from taking over the rest of the world?” Shaking harder, Dipper tries not to let his head snap around. “Then think about what happens if you tell him ‘no’!”

“That’s-” 

Insane, Dipper was about to say. Impossible, too. 

Only Bill is insane, impossibly so - and everything Mabel just said was correct.

With any other demon, this would be a stupid, impossible plan. But with a stupid being who’s already has shown he can be argued with… and he did free those people. He can be convinced.

It’s a totally bonkers, off-the-wall idea based mainly on vibes, and she’s still got a goddamn point.

“I know, it’s crazy. But Bill’s crazy, and you’re the only thing that’s ever stopped him,” Mabel says, mirroring his thoughts as she so often does. Her elbow nudges him in the side. “I thought you were the practical one, Dippin’ Dots.”

Shit. He is.

Dipper lets out a long, low, complaining groan, and flops back on the bed. Mabel pats him sympathetically on the arm.

Almost nothing thwarts Bill Cipher. There are too many demons in his thrall to fight, and his magic’s too strong to overcome. Nobody’s made a dent on that shining surface, and no bribe in the world, assault by force, or diplomatic approach has ever convinced him to relinquish bits of his collection. Much less all of it.

Until Dipper came along. 

When you find the right angle of attack, you have to exploit it. You hit the big boss in his glowing weak point, or be defeated. This is the logical thing to do. The reasonable thing to do. 

God, he hates being the practical one sometimes.

“Shit.” Dipper says, with deep feeling. Logic. Reasonability. And yet - He throws an arm over his eyes, and admits, “I don’t know how far I can take this.”

Even if it’s for a greater good. Even if he knew there was a higher purpose behind it and the whole thing was bullshit - Marrying someone like that feels… wrong. Because he’d know it was bullshit.

And Dipper can’t marry a demon at all. The concept’s insane.They’re only abstractly cool as a concept, nowhere near as cool in person, and Mr. King Nightmare Asshole is the single most annoying bastard of them all.

“Hey, maybe it doesn’t go anywhere! Like, maybe you call it off after he’s already sent all his demons back to the other dimension. Or maybe his real husband shows up to shout ‘I object’ at the wedding!” She clenches fists, as if wrapping htem around something, then thrusts forward. “Or maybe you stab him on your wedding night. Right in the eye!”

“What the hell, Mabel?” Dipper sits up, scandalized. Which isn’t fair of him, he knows; it’s not like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. “Since when do you want to kill people?”

“He did turn me into a statue, Dipper,” She says, unimpressed. Along with an eyeroll, for older brothers being so uptight.  “I mean, it’d be one thing if you were actually dating. But since Bill’s being a creep…” She shrugs. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

There’s so much he’s gotta do. 

He breathes in slowly, sitting up. The path is crystal clear in his head, what he needs to do. What he’ll have to do - though hopefully there are fewer landmines than he’s imagining. 

And Mabel must catch the expression on his face, because she turns more serious. 

“Wait, wait. You don’t have to, it was just an idea.” She pats him on the shoulder rapidly, trying to reassure.

“Well, obviously I’m not going to marry the guy. But leading him on?” Dipper rises from the bed. “I think I can do that.”

There’s an invulnerable boss monster, never before defeated, and Dipper has the only chance at the big, glowing weak point. He’d be stupid not to try.

“We could find another way out, though! Tell Bill he can forget it, no triangles allowed.” She stands up after him, matching his determination. Then, after a beat of thought. “Speaking of, I’m gonna make a sign for my door.”

“You should,” He says. Not that Bill will respect it, but. He shrugs, then sterns his shoulders, trying to project a confidence he doesn’t feel. “But if there’s a chance to save the world - then count me in.”

“Okay,” She says, sounding more skeptical than he’d like. Then she nods once, firmly.  “And if Bill really is a creep to you, I’ll punch him right in the eye.”

Dipper can’t help but smile. He has his sister back, and she has his back. Despite everything else going on, this feels pretty great. 

He pulls her in for a hug, and they pat each other’s backs while going ‘bwomp bwomp’. Classic. Man he missed this.

“It’s pretty gross, just so you know.” He says as he pulls away. At her confused look, he adds. “Punching Bill in the eye. It’s like a… warm, slimy stress ball.” Or a huge tapioca pearl, or - ugh, his knuckles still feel gross. Dipper wipes them on his shirt. 

Mabel’s eyes widen, like he’s said something insane. She starts to speak, then stops, looking oddly thoughtful. 

“You know what, Dipper?” She gives him a big thumbs up, and a smile. “I think you got this.”

With the Bill problem temporarily settled - or at least having a *plan* for it, that’s a huge relief - they spend the rest of the evening catching up. Not that Mabel has much to catch up with, having been frozen in stone. But chatting with her in general feels so novel, and fresh after so long without it.

He’s pacing the floor by the bed, trying to plot out the exact steps of convincing their demonic captor to do anything and wishing he had a whiteboard, when he stops. “Mabel?”

A soft snort is his response. Mabel’s fallen asleep. Half leaned on the headboard, one star-shaped plush clasped in her arms. 

Guess being de-statued must have taken a lot out of her. And it’s - Dipper glances out the window - dark already? They must have been talking longer than he thought. 

Well, it’s probably for the best. Mabel’s ‘slept’ for a year, but probably not slept. He hopes that’s normal, for being refleshified. That everyone else is okay, too. She seems fine, muttering in her sleep and rolling onto her side, so… he shrugs. 

Honestly, he’s getting pretty exhausted himself. The day’s stress hasn’t just affected her; Dipper just carries it better. 

And it’s not over yet. Not even a little.

He tosses the blanket with the least horrifying pattern on it over her, and goes to face his fate.

After shutting the door behind him, quietly as he can, Dipper pauses in the hallway. 

Technically he doesn’t have to go to the room Bill brought him to. There’s at least two other directions in this hallway alone, and dozens more turns along the way. He’s not about to make a break for it, not without Mabel, but he could find somewhere else to hole up for the night. Just to stick it to Bill, the bastard.

Deep below his feet, a low quick beat of bass keeps drumming. The party must still be going; how long is it going to last? 

Which means not only are there demons everywhere in the Fearamid. A lot of them are extremely drunk. 

So. Take his chances with a horde of plastered demons, who barely have restraint in the first place - or with the obsessive madman who keeps wanting to wrap extendable arms around him? What a goddamn choice.

With a heavy sigh, he opens the door to ‘his’ room. 

It swings open silently, the dark interior faintly lit on the opposite side by a flickering fireplace. The bottles have vanished, and the scent of recently sprayed air freshener lingers.

No sign of demonic activity, though. It’s eerily quiet. 

Dipper steps in, shutting the door behind him. Guiding himself with a palm flat on the nearby wall, he bumps against a lightswitch and flips it. 

The sudden light takes a second to adjust to. It takes a full three more to absorb the decor.

Wow. Okay. Mabel’s room might have been tailored for her, but those decorations are peanuts compared to the decadence of Dipper’s.

The dark walls, the gold inlay. The tapestries, the trinkets, the furniture made of heavy, expensive-looking wood. Dipper’s seen mansions online that would quaver at the subtle display of old, powerful wealth. Only the couch stands out as being not expensive as hell. It’s a slightly worn, cloth thing in dark blue that looks very soft. Near the feet, there are slight streaks in the carpet from where it looks like it was recently moved.

“Hello?” Dipper calls, checking the living room again. There are other doors, leading to other rooms in the suite, but they’re all closed. “Bill?”

Seconds pass. No response. He waits a little longer, but Bill doesn’t show. Even though he’s had plenty of time to pop up for a jumpscare.

And that’s good, really. Bill would probably give him a too-enthusiastic wave, saying something stupid and presumptuous like, ‘good to see ya!’ or ‘welcome home!’, or - just generally acting like Dipper’s not a stranger. An empty apartment is much more reasonable.

Stomping forward on the carpet, Dipper drops onto the couch with a ‘thump’, and crosses his arms. The soft cushions mold under him like it’s trying to absorb him. Which it better not, he’s already having a bad day. There would be repercussions.

Still… This isn’t the worst place to be trapped, He guesses. For all that it’s decadent, this place feels lived in. Cozy, almost. Unlike most mansions, there’s a sense that people actually went about their day-to-day lives here, once upon a time.

Dipper checks the room again - still empty. Very quiet. Almost too quiet, in a way that makes him fidget and keep glancing at the door. Waiting for someone to come through, almost upset that they don’t.

Funny. Just when Dipper thought he’d never be rid of that asshole, he vanished into thin air. 

But - wait. Bill Cipher, dream demon, Nightmare King. Master of the mind. Technically his powers do let him vanish, into -

He couldn’t be - 

Dipper’s hand flies to the side of his head, pressing the space between his temple and his ear. His gut twists in a rising wave of anxious nausea.

It feels like he’s the only one in his head. But how would he know? This is hardly his area of expertise, and nobody’s been in his brain before except himself. The only voice he can hear is his own, bouncing against the walls in increasing worry, but that’s hardly a sign when the monster could be in there with him and just keeping quiet, waiting to -

Wait a minute. Keeping quiet? 

Dipper does a quick gut check - it hasn’t failed him yet, it better not fail him now - and lets out a deep, shuddering sigh. He slumps down a few inches in his seat, suddenly boneless.

Oh thank fuck. Bill’s not in his mind. No way, no how.

Because if he did get into Dipper’s brain, there’s zero chance in the world - in any world, in the entire universe - that he’d be able to shut up about it.

That leaves Dipper well and truly alone in this demonic penthouse suite. Nice and calm and empty. 

So. Since Bill’s not going to make an appearance, Dipper should take advantage of it. It’s good. really. He doesn’t need his stupid hand held to figure out an apartment. 

The most obvious door is the bedroom. Dark inside, with a fireplace unlit and several doors leading off it. One might be a closet, another might be a bathroom - which is honestly tempting - but since Dipper’s not about to investigate the biggest potential trap just yet, he shuts it and moves on. 

Finding food ends up a little more fraught. The kitchen’s great, spotlessly clean with well-appointed cupboards - but scrounging in the fridge reveals something horrible and alive that Dipper has to kick back into its drawer, before slamming the door shut and holding it closed. He settles for a jar of peanut butter pretzels and makes a mental note to tell that asshole he missed part of the cleanup.

And there is another bathroom, not one off the master bedroom. Smaller and with only a shower, but enough to get himself sorted and wash off the fear-sweat in one of the briefest showers of his life.

Once that’s settled, there’s only one place left to explore. Perhaps the most dangerous place of all, considering the nature of his captor. 

Dipper takes a deep breath, and ventures into the bedroom. 

He stands in the doorway for a moment, then feels around until he switches on the light. Same as the rest of the place; opulent, indulgent, with a bed big enough to get lost in. The too-huge mattress is covered in smooth blue blankets that look soft and appealing, and that gives him the creeps.

All things considered, though. It’s oddly normal, for a bedroom in a nightmare realm. Sure, there’s an ominous tapestry woven with impossible patterns, too many trinkets with Bill himself emblazoned on them, and the fireplace lit up at the same time as the lights - but, like. It’s not riddled with blood or monster bile, and there’s only one portrait of Bill himself on the wall. It almost feels restrained. 

In fact, it’s so restrained that Dipper almost doesn’t notice the photo. 

Not because it’s not obvious. It’s in a frame on the bedside table, right there for anyone to see. He skims right over it at first glance.

Then realizes it’s not a photo of Bill, how weird that is, and does a double-take.

He picks up the photo, blowing dust off the frame. Frowning, he runs his thumb over the glass to wipe away old fingerprints. 

Seeing another picture of Bill’s husband isn’t surprising. There are only a billion of them about.

But it’s weird seeing him older.

In the photo, Bill’s husband rests with his chin in his palm, eyes drifting shut as if near the verge of sleep. He sits slumped at a desk scattered with papers, covered with odd, cryptic notes. He has a few lines on his face, some grey hair, and a pair of big-lensed glasses perched precariously on the tip of the nose. A quick guess places him in… roughly late fifties? Early sixties? 

Still the same guy, though. Age left its mark, but with a gentle touch that leaves the resemblance plain.

Dipper rubs at the bridge of his nose. At least he can count on aging gracefully. If any of that carries over; they’re still totally different people. 

So. Another picture. Weird, definitely. Uncomfortable to look at, in a way he can’t place? Also definitely. 

But Bill Cipher gets one - and only one - credit, and that’s for not being a creep. If he’s got a photo maybe thirty to forty years after those unsettling twink portraits, his weird attachment to his weirder husband lasted way longer than expected.  

Which proves nothing vis-a-vis him not being a total kidnapping psycho, roping normal people into - whatever this is. It’s not - Dipper’s not - what is Bill even up to, anyway? None of this makes sense.

He’s about to slam the damn thing back down on the table when something catches his eye. Hesitating, he tilts the picture for a better look.

It was hard to tell at first glance, but on the second it’s obvious. Behind the husband, not covered by the desk, a black-gold pattern is just visible. 

The carpet. 

Which is a perfect match for the one in this apartment.

But the Fearamid only appeared after Bill invaded. Before that, it was in another dimension, a whole reality away from Earth. There’s no way it could - but if it’s not - and. Wait.

How did Bill’s husband get into the Fearamid before it slammed into northern California? Someone would have seen it if it manifested before in reality. Which reminds him of a question he had earlier, never fully answered: How’d this guy meet Bill in the first place? 

Dipper sets the frame back down, carefully this time. Adjusts it to sit exactly the way he found it, in case Bill notices the difference - then he lets himself fall back on the bed and glares at the ceiling.

So many questions. Too few answers. It seems like that’s just how being around Bill operates. He might never know what’s going on, not truly. Hell, a whole lifetime isn’t enough to figure out that asshole’s secrets.

The thought makes Dipper feel like rolling himself up in these blankets and never coming out again. He tugs a corner of one over his lap in a huff. Then rolls onto the mattress, dragging the expanse of soft blanket around him..

For all the many, many faults of Bill Cipher, he made Dipper some excellent bedding. Mattress firm, but yielding. Blankets, comfy and warm. And Dipper himself is tired, having been put through enough mental and emotional wringers that he’s lost count of them.

He settles into the divot in the mattress, molded to his body like it was meant for him, and falls instantly asleep.

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

He isn’t sure what time he wakes, only that the morning light isn’t coming in through his window, and the rattling of his neighbor’s shitty air conditioner is thankfully absent.

His bed got an upgrade, though. 

Dipper rolls over, kicking his feet against the luxurious sheets. The pillow stays cool against his face as he nuzzles into it, and the blankets are just right. He could easily lie here for another hour or so - and hell, why not? 

Lazy morning is a go, then. He gropes around for his phone, before realizing it made its way under his arm during the night. Weird, he usually keeps it in his pocket or on the table.

Also, it’s really warm. Kind of like his forearm’s resting on a hot water bottle.  Dipper shifts against it, trying to feel for the edges, but the solid smooth screen stretches from his elbow to his wrist. He pats his palm against the surface, fingertips trying to find purchase -  and hears a chuckle.  

“Gah!” Dipper yelps, sitting bolt upright. He tugs the blankets up his chest, heart pounding as he stares at this… asshole. “What the fuck, Bill.”

“Good morning, sapling!” Bill chimes in, lacking both hat and tie but with his eye curved in his usual smile. He rolls onto his side, propping his top angle up with one hand and tracing coy circles on the sheets with the other. “Sleep well? How were your dreams? Tell me all the deets!”

Unwilling to dignify that with a response, Dipper simply glares. As usual, Bill brightens at the sight.

Stupid. His phone got taken when he was captured. He should have realized something was off, or noticed it was way too big, or -

And shit, he can’t believe he fell asleep last night. Like, at all. 

Dropping off that fast, in the fortress of a madman? Without staying up for hours, wracked with worry and insomnia? That’s a rare occasion even without all the bullshit going on, he must have been exhausted.

“Bill. What the hell are you doing in my bed?” He asks, instead of going on a tirade about ‘privacy’ or ‘personal space’. It wouldn’t have any effect. 

“Hey! This ain’t just any part of the Fearamid. It’s the penthouse suite!” Bill sits up, legs crossing. He wags a chiding finger at Dipper’s face. “You’re invading my bed.”

…Shit. Damn it. Dipper makes a face, but doesn’t comment. 

Welp, that explains that. This place was too good to be true, wasn’t it. 

Mabel got a new bedroom to suit her, with total privacy -  while Dipper got an invite to the ‘best’ accommodations available. And because from Bill’s perspective it’s a favor, he can’t even call it a dick move. Or at least, not an intentional one.

“It was the only bedroom,” Dipper points out. It’s stupid to be embarrassed, so he decides to be annoyed instead. “Or were you going to make your fiance sleep on the couch?”

“Fiance,” Bill says, with an odd, dreamy tone in his voice. His pupil widens as he stares off into the distance. “Now that’s a fun word.”

Fuck. Dipper slaps himself on the forehead. Why did he say that. Now he’s reinforced the damn delusion. 

Which… technically he’s supposed to be doing, right. To lead Bill on. In theory, encouraging him, leading him deeper and deeper into an inevitable trap, might even save the world.

That’s the goal. The shining endpoint, the final part of the game. Dipper can see the possibilities in his mind’s eye, distant but - again, in theory - reachable.

Problem is, he can also see how the process is going to suck.

With a groan, Dipper rolls out from under the sheets and stomps towards the bathroom. Bill stays frozen in glimmering delight for a second, then snaps to attention and drifts after him. 

“Hey, hey, don’t go! You're welcome in between my sheets anytime, kid! It's a real highlight of the day!”

“Yeah.” Dipper mumbles, “You would like that.” With the obsession and everything.

“Where you headed?” Bill’s voice comes from behind and to the left, a way-too-chatty shoulder devil. “A lazy morning lounging with your fiance would rule and you know it!” He adds, relishing the word he’s rediscovered.

“Nope.” Dipper states, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. He pulls open the bathroom door a bare fraction, trying to shimmy his way in without letting this guy follow. “Too busy.”

“Busy with what?” Bill’s arm wiggles in after him, and refuses to budge when Dipper tries to shut the door on it. God, shapeshifting is really annoying. “Stop running, idiot! Lemme in!” For crying out loud, why can’t this stupid demon take a hint - 

He opens the door just enough to glare and state, “I have to pee,” before slamming it shut again.  

Bill’s arm gets flattened between the door and the frame, waves once or twice, then slithers back out in a desultory manner. Dipper waits a full thirty seconds, listening for knocking or whining outside. When none comes, he finally lets himself relax. 

Good. A little privacy. Better yet, he’s learned Bill won’t barge in just anywhere. Or at least, not anywhere, anytime. 

Unfortunately, he can’t live in the bathroom. For one, he needs to eat and stuff, and for another he’s gotta check on Mabel and make sure she’s okay. Not to mention plan their escape, manipulate a monster and save the planet. There’s a lot on his list that can’t get done in the shower.

He pulls on his t-shirt after, distantly wondering if Bill can summon new clothes or something. This one’s seen a lot of wear over the last week - then pauses, cocking his head to one side. 

There’s… whistling? A distant tune. Accompanied by clattering and a horrific bang, then laughter.  

Great. Bill’s up to something. And there’s no way of knowing what unless…

Right. Dipper tugs his shirt the rest of the way down and sterns his shoulders. 

There’s a plan in place. He’s got half a dozen key debate points, five theoretical ways to manipulate a demon, and three different conversational flowcharts cross-linked for possible insane tangents. He’s about as prepared as any one man can be, so. Might as well face the literal music. 

And besides. He’s supposed to encourage the delusion, right? Bill’s… ‘Husband’ would probably want to find out what he was doing in the kitchen. 

Which is… Cooking. Apparently. 

“Heya,” Bill says, cheerfully waving with a third arm. The other flips something in a pan on the stovetop. “Thought I’d have to drag you out here! Way to spoil my fun, kid.”

His eye rolls back into its socket, and he sticks his tongue out. Dipper doesn’t flinch. He just shuts his own eyes, and tries to focus. 

Weird. Everything’s going to be weird. He has to adjust to the weird, bring it in as part of his viewpoint, and let it roll off his back. 

“What are you up to, Cipher.” Dipper asks, flat. He stays back from the table, and very far back from the flames on the stove and any extant knives. 

“Breakfast.” Bill turns around, gesturing with an empty plate in Dipper’s direction. “Duh.”

That sounds… normal. Too normal. 

Dipper narrows his eyes. “Because that’s not ominous at all.”

“Flatterer,” Bill says, smiling again. He drifts in, moving pans and dishes and food around with multiple arms, too fast for Dipper to track. “Ease up, sapling. You act like I’ve never had a human around my place before!”

The table’s set now. The food steams slightly, the dishes are way too fancy for the tiny kitchen table, and it’s… clearly an invitation to sit.

Dipper pulls the chair out. He steps in, sits down, and scoots in before Bill can get any funny ideas about pushing it for him. A good instinct, too; he’s pretty sure Bill almost darted in to do just that before he lost the chance.

That settled, he eyes the plate in front of him. The terrible, demonic concoction looks like… French toast. With powdered sugar. And slices of something identical to strawberry that might be a horrible trick. It smells sweet and buttery and - he makes a face as his traitorous stomach grows. 

“Eat up, sapling! Use your logic,” Bill adds, while Dipper’s still struggling between his stomach and not accepting demonic gifts - “If I was gonna poison ya, I’d’ve done it before ditching my statue collection.” 

Okay, that is a point. But - 

“It could be revenge poisoning,” Dipper argues. He waves the fork in Bill’s direction before spearing it down into his breakfast. “I’d never suspect it after winning the statue argument.”

“Nah, easier to not need revenge in the first place.” Bill shakes slightly from side to side, like his whole shape is his head. “And you suspected it anyway! Pretty poor plan if you ask me.”

“Mmh,” Dipper mumbles, not quite agreeing, not quite arguing around his mouthful. He shuts his eyes, making a soft sound. Damn it, it’s good french toast. Who knew Bill knew how to cook?

Bill beams, leaning back in the air and watching Dipper chew, then swallow. “You like it, sapling?” At the responding nod, his eye narrows in sadistic delight. “Good! Enjoy the last moments before your skin starts melting off.”

Dipper freezes in place, fork halfway to his mouth. Glancing down, then up again at Bill.

Then he stuffs more toast in his mouth, swallows again, and says, ”Your jokes suck.”

“HA! I totally had you for a second!” Bill prods the air in Dipper’s direction with his own fork. “That look on your face! All, ‘oh no! What does skin melting feel like? Is it happening right now?’” 

Dipper refuses to acknowledge that with a comment. It’d only encourage him. 

Besides, he has better things to do. Eat, for one. And for another, watch the most terrible demon in the universe have breakfast. 

Seeing Bill switch eye and mouth is hardly pleasant to watch, but also… kind of intriguing? What kind of biology situation does he have going on? Is there one? Can he see while he’s eating? Is this a subtle weakness? Dipper has so many questions. 

Not that he has much time to ask them. His breakfast companion’s taking up plenty of talking space. 

The topics Bill goes on about are both bizarre and somehow mundane; demonic gossip, gory stories, bad jokes. A distinct lack of threats or maiming. Their so-called ‘engagement’ doesn’t come up, other than Bill eyeing Dipper in a strange way. When Dipper responds, he always seems delighted, even when it’s needling him about some totally pedantic point. 

It’s strange, and disconcerting, and deeply, deeply weird. But overall? Not that bad. Or at least considerably better than Dipper thought conversation with this creature would go. Nobody’s even exploded yet. 

Dipper fiddles with another bite of french toast, gone slightly soggy from syrup. 

While it’s nice to pretend that this is normal - like having a meal with a horrible demon-conquerer is no big deal, happens every day - he can’t just sit here forever. He has a goal, and can’t put it off. No matter how daunting it seems. 

“Look,” He says, once there’s a gap long enough to break into the topic. “We need to talk.”

“Oooh, ominous.” Bill says, floating up out of the chair he wasn’t really sitting in to hover over the table. “I like it. Go on!”

“It’s about…  our wedding.” Dipper starts awkwardly, cringing back an inch as Bill visibly brightens. “There’s something I want you to do first. It’s, uh.” He swallows. “Important?”

Shit, this is going badly already. That’s not what he was supposed to say! It didn’t come out right, he should have practiced this, damn it.

Dipper mentally fumbles for his debate points. Where was he going to start again? And why aren’t there any index cards in this stupid apartment, he could have written this down. Maybe he can recover if Bill says -

“You got it, kid.” Bill’s eye glimmers and he floats closer, knocking over the syrup bottle in the process. “Anything you want.”

Dipper stares. 

Shit. That wasn’t in his flowcharts. 

He prods at the last third of the french toast, ducking his head. God, Bill sounds eerily sincere. Like if he asked for a pony to ride in on, he’d get it. One that breathes fire and has a mane made of knives? Even better! Like Bill would hand over whatever he wished in an instant, or faster if he asked.

Wait, is this good? Or very very bad? Dipper isn’t sure. Only now he’s glad he didn’t have notes, because he’d have had to toss all of them already. 

It’d be one thing if he was asking about, like. Changing the color scheme for the wedding. He’s certain he’d get it, possibly in the most over-the-top manner possible. Some minor detail before they dive into whatever hellish commitment Bill has in mind would be simple. 

But what he wants - truly wants - is another matter entirely.

This idea felt like it might work yesterday, when he was at the stage of exhaustion where maniac energy took over. But now he’s facing with how patently insane it is. How it might not work at all. 

But that sincere-sounding statement. The freed people, the empty field, and the way Bill’s looking at him right now, like - 

Shit, if Mabel was actually onto something, she’ll never let him forget it. 

Dipper sets down his fork with a deliberate clicking sound. He takes a deep breath, and plants his palms on the table. 

Here goes nothing. 

“Could you… not take over the planet.” He says, finally. “It kinda sucks.”

Bill blinks, several times. He looks away, then back again. 

“Ah,” He says, finally. Also, not quite meeting Dipper’s eye, with a look of… not guilt exactly. But like someone with their hand in the cookie jar, about to explain how he just had to grab the baked goods. For reasons!

“Okay, okay. I get it. Worried about your fellow mortals, huh?” Bill continues. He reaches out as if to pinch Dipper’s cheek, a gesture barely dodged by quick thinking. “Easy, sapling, they’re mostly fine! We can lower the casualty count by-”

“Not just that. The whole thing sucks.” Dipper interrupts. He scoots his chair back an inch as Bill floats closer. “Seriously.”

“Hm,” Bill taps under his eye as he hums. “Well, relationships do gotta have a little compromise. And you are pretty cute…” The sentence trails off as his eye roves over Dipper again. “Hmmmmmmm.”

Dipper frowns, and waits for the inevitable assholery. 

Bill’s not truly willing to give anything up. Sure he looks like he’s thinking about it, with the little tune and the rubbing under his eye - but the display is a show, and a condescending one at that.

The suspicion is proven right moments later as Bill pats his shoulder, eye-smiling again. 

“But since you so insist, and because I’m such a generous, handsome, and amazing partner - you can have Idaho back.” Bill spreads his arms wide. “See? Compromise!”

Oh, for - c’mon, really? 

Dipper scowls and drums his fingers on the table, trying to think.

He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. But Bill deliberately misinterpreting a pretty obvious statement - that’s just annoying. Like he was gonna fall for that show, or accept a tiny pittance. He’s young, not stupid.

Dealing with demons, right. The mistake was leaving any wiggle room at all.

“You’re only offering that because it’s boring. I meant the whole world, Bill.” He says, firmer this time. He meets that single, strange eye, glares, and sets his shoulders. “Get your stupid demons off my planet.” 

After a beat of silence, Bill groans. “Ugh.” Then, louder and longer, running his hands down his front, eye rolling back until only the white shows. “Uuuughhhhhh.”

He goes on. For a while. Longer than he should, really - Dipper taps his fork on the table a few times, then just throws it at this jerk so he’ll shut up. It bounces off his surface with a ‘ting’.

“Jeez, pretty broad interpretation of ‘anything’! And pretty bold to call it your planet.” Bill rubs over his eye, like the very idea is giving him an angle ache. “And they call me arrogant! Do you have any idea how long it took the ol’ minions to make this much of an impact?”

“Around twenty years.” The first incursion was tiny, really. The next, a little bigger. It didn’t truly ramp up until about ten years ago - but by then the damage was very thoroughly done. 

“Exactly!” Bill drops with a thump to stand on the table, fists on his sides. “That time investment’s nothing to sneeze at, sapling. You’re barely older than my conquest yourself!”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not budging.” Dipper leans back in his seat, folding his arms. “You can either get the planet, or this stupid wedding. Not both.”

For the second time, Bill groans at an inhuman length, with inhuman annoyingness. The butter knife bouncing off him barely gets his attention. 

“Okay, but listen,” He says, tapping his index fingers together. 

“Hm.” Dipper narrows his eyes, and prepares himself to hear more absolute bullshit. 

“Technically speaking, I only took over Oregon.” Bill says, like he’s laying the winning card on the table. He rests a hand on his front, eye shut in smug triumph. “Everything outside of that was henchman work.” 

Dipper presses his face into his palms. Yep. Bullshit. 

On the one hand, this is arguably going better than anyone could have imagined. Bill hasn’t rejected it outright. He’s arguing, but not denying. The request hasn’t been tossed off the table to rot. 

On the other hand, Bill’s not giving up without a fight, and he’s old, and powerful, and stubborn as hell. Wresting any concessions from him is going to be like pulling teeth. 

“They did it on your orders.” He points out, once his bullshit meter has recovered. 

“What orders? I don’t have to tell ‘em how to rampage and ravage, they do that themselves!” Bill waves him off. “Look, your stupid planet got off easy. If you were really facing me in full world-consuming terms, there’d barely be one to stand on! Or maybe not at all!”

Dipper grimaces. The worst thing about that statement is it’s not wrong. 

Bill loves to brag, to show off, to talk himself up - but on this point at least, he’s not exaggerating. The amount of energy he commands and the precision he wields it with is literally unmatched on Earth. If he had brought all that to bear. Turned his horrible eye upon the planet with real intent…

Nothing would stand in his way.

A cold trickle trails down his spine. He grips the edge of the table, trying not to grit his teeth. 

Nothing, that is. Except Dipper. 

Who almost forgot the monster - the threat - he was dealing with. 

“I don’t care about the details.” He smacks the table before Bill can add another bullshit comment. “You know what I want. Stop trying to twist the subject.”

For a split second, Bill’s eye narrows. Then it returns to its jovial smile, rolling slightly as if Dipper’s being a petulant child. Like this is all nothing and stupid. 

“Sure, we can talk about cleaning up a few states, but the whole thing? Pffft. So tedious! Who wants to pluck up every individual imp outta their lairs? Not me!”

Oh. So it’s too boring, is it. Bill could clean up the entire coast and more, he’s powerful enough, but he won’t because it kind of sucks? Because he’d have to put in some effort for once? 

And yeah, he would think that, wouldn’t he. Because he only cares about himself. He only thinks about what he wants, takes what he wants, and what anyone else wants doesn’t matter. 

“Someone has to-” Dipper insists, louder now to talk over Bill’s obnoxious voice.

“Someone, shmumone.” In a contest of volume, Bill wins every time. He even laughs, setting fists on his sides. “What do you care, anyway? Most of these idiots mean nothing to y-”

“Billions of lives isn’t nothing! It’s a whole planet! My planet!” At some point Dipper stood up from his seat, and now he slams his palms on the table, sending the dishes rattling. “You can’t just wipe them all out.”

What’s strange about his outburst is that Bill actually draws back. Floating off the table now, blinking at Dipper rapidly with his pupil narrowed. Like he didn’t expect the anger, or like he caught a glancing blow. 

Fuck him, though. Dipper doesn’t give a shit. Heat is building in his chest, not just from the carelessness. Not just the callousness. But from how goddamn frustratingly, awfully stupid his - 

“And - seriously, that’s your excuse? Really?” He says, disgusted. “That the biggest bad this side of the multiverse can’t get some lowlifes to obey him?”

“Easy, easy, sapling! No need to get fussy.” Bill pats the air in a calming motion, seemingly unaware it’s causing the exact opposite reaction. “I said it’d be annoying, not impossible. And that’s not even counting that I haven’t agreed yet. I took over fair and square!”

Yet. He said - That’s an opening, Dipper lunges to follow up.

“No, you didn’t. Like you said, the minions did most of the work.” He points directly at Bill’s eye, slightly disappointed when he doesn’t budge. “Can you pull your troops out or not?”

“‘Troops’ is a strong word, y’know? Demons and orders go together like oil and water, kid! Who’s to say-”

“You should say!” For fuck’s sake, Dipper doesn’t add. The avoidance, the shrugging off, how Bill’s totally not taking responsibility -  He glares. “I already knew you couldn’t control yourself. Not controlling other demons is just pathetic.”

“Don’t talk to me about ‘control’. You don’t know what control is.” Oh, now he’s hit a nerve; Bill’s radiating heat, eye narrowed. His fists ball at his sides. “I’ve mastered control in ways you’d never believe! Your eyes’d pop right outta your skull!”

“Then your stupid conquest would look a lot less pathetic. You didn’t even get the whole continent? Really?” Dipper snaps. “All your power, all this time, and you’ve spent it on is frivolous bullshit. What the hell happened to you.”

“You wouldn’t say this crab if you knew what was good for you,” Bill hisses, low and furious. The quick return jab in Dipper’s direction has him cringing at his own flinch. “Sounds like someone forgot who he’s messing with! Oh, wait, you did! ‘cause you forgot everything!” Bill stomps hard, sending dishes clattering; a glass tumbles off and shatters on the floor. “You forgot me!”

“Good. I’d rather not know you at all.” Dipper snaps. Bill’s surface dims - weakness - and he rises to chase it. To hit this miserable asshole right where it hurts. “Maybe I’d rather die than put up with you.”

Sudden heat blasts through the air, hot as a furnace, as Bill’s surface turns a bright, furious red. Dipper flinches away, holding onto the table so he doesn’t fall.

…Okay. Turns out there’s a difference between making Bill angry, and making him angry. 

Smoke rises from the table where Bill’s standing, little flames spluttering up besides his feet. The sclera of his eye has switched to black, the slit pupil and limbs solid gold, and the furious glare he levels in Dipper’s direction might literally melt another guy. The heat in the air already has him sweating. With the ambient magic, it feels like he’s breathing in soup. 

Dipper eases back towards his seat, not wanting to make any sudden moves, and braces himself for impact. Or possibly, obliteration. 

But surprisingly, Bill shuts his eye tight. He vibrates for a moment, then flickers briefly back to yellow. Then red again, in a strange strobing light.

“Fine. Who cares. I don’t need you.” Bill says, voice deep and strange. He folds his arms as his surface shifts in kaleidoscopic patterns. “I’ll find a human husband who’s not you! A better one! One with all the bells and whistles, the fleshy aspects in vogue these days, and the right attitude to boot! No more arguing. No more bitchiness. And way better fashion sense.” With that said, he sets triumphant fists on his sides, as if presenting the winning card. “How ‘bout THAT?” 

Oh, he wouldn’t dare. Dipper seethes, ignoring the heat as he leans in to yell at Bill for saying such a stupid, awful -

Then he pauses, and shuts his own eyes for a moment. 

No, that’s bullshit. Bill only said it to get under his skin, like an asshole. He knows better than to take the bait. 

And there’s evidence otherwise. If he thinks that’s going to get a rise out of Dipper, he’s got another thing coming. 

“You won’t.” Dipper says simply, and sits down. Folding his arms over his chest for good measure, and glaring.

“Don’t test me, fleshbag!” Bill stomps a foot on the table, the lines between his red bricks glowing yellow with heat. “I’m Bill goddamn Cipher, and I’ll do whatever I want.”

Dipper snorts. Yeah, he always does - Which is why his stupid threat is as empty as his soul. 

“Then you would have done it already.” He says, and leaves it at that. 

Bill raises a finger as if to protest - then drops it, fuming again, as whatever retort he’d plotted fails. He taps a foot on the table as he tries to think of a response.

Dipper knew it. Again, his instincts were right on point.

Bill didn’t need to wait for Dipper to come along. With his power, he could have found a hundred willing mortals anywhere. Or picked one off the street, for that matter; messed up their minds, altered their bodies, changed their face to this face - and he’d have a perfect replica within the hour. 

Exactly what he claims he wanted, and precisely what he didn’t do.

“Don’t bullshit me, Bill. You don’t want anyone else,” Dipper says, calmer than he should be, certain that it’s right. He leans over the table, glaring. “Like, yeah. You could find or make another mortal, but that’s boring. You want the argument. You wanna win it. You want me to do this of my own free will, because you actually want this bullshit to be-”

Realization smacks Dipper in the forebrain before he can finish his sentence, and he shuts his mouth with a click. 

Bill watches him silently. Fists still balled at his sides, surface flickering between red and yellow and white. Burning holes in the table, but not moving; like he’s waiting for Dipper to either pounce or flee, and either way he’s got a followup.

Slowly, Dipper sits back down in his seat, thoughts racing a mile a minute. Great, he’s gotta do a full review of his flowcharts. And most of his priors.

So Mabel was right. Deep down under that impenetrable exoskeleton, somewhere in the shriveled black soul - Bill cared about his mortal husband, in his own alien way.

Because he wants this, desperately, to be real.

A replacement would never work. If it could, he’d have tried it already. But Bill knows lies, inside and out, and fooling him is no easy endeavor. Buying or making someone would only remind him they weren't who he was looking for - and exactly how much that sucks. 

They stare at each other over lukewarm syrup, shattered ceramic, and toeless scorchmarks seared into varnished wood.

Tapping his foot on the table, Bill glares, but doesn’t speak. The furious red still flashes on his surface, but it’s mostly gold again. And he’s not shouting anymore. Is he angry? Definitely. Plotting revenge? Possibly. But violence is, quite literally, not on the table, as he visibly wrangles his anger under control. 

Dipper ducks his head to poke at his breakfast in silence. Bill starts pacing back and forth, making the remaining plates and glassware clink. 

Looks like neither of them want to start up again. Dipper especially isn’t sure what to say. How could he say anything. How does anyone follow up on the most insane revelation of the last quarter-century? Asking about it is tempting, but he knows he’d never get an honest response.

That, and they only just stopped shouting at each other. Bringing that up would definitely kick things off.

This was almost a half-decent morning, too. Despite the kidnapping, and the company, and… well, everything about this awful situation.

But the worst part. The absolute worst part, of the entire situation Dipper’s wound up in, is that now he… kinda gets where Bill’s coming from. 

It’s all about that jerk bastard’s face. His stupid, awful doppelganger.

Dipper rubs at his eyes, but it doesn’t help. Not when he can see Bill’s train of thought, clear as day. He could plot it out on a pinboard with only one piece of string. 

Just like Mabel said: Losing someone you care about sucks. But seeing them again? In the flesh? When you never thought you’d get the chance, that they were gone forever? It totally rules. 

There’s a huge, bright burst of excitement. Sheer relief that they’re there. Feeling nearly weightless, as grief gets shucked off like a heavy coat and left behind. Anyone could get suckered in by the rush.

Hell, what if the person Bill revived hadn’t actually been Mabel, just a girl who looked exactly like her? Would Dipper have believed they were different? Or would he convince himself that it couldn’t be a coincidence, she’d only forgotten who she was? That he could fix it?

And as loath as he is to admit it, Dipper looks exactly like Bill’s goddamn dead husband. 

Thus proving he has the absolute worst luck in the universe. 

Of course Bill thinks what he thinks. Who wouldn’t? The thought’s too tempting. The evidence, compromising. It might even be the sanest conclusion he’s ever come to. 

There are many, many things Bill Cipher’s done wrong - but Dipper can’t blame him for wanting to hope.

He glances up from his plate, then back down again as Bill’s eye nearly meets his. Both of them avoiding the brief contact.

…Unlike the theoretical Mabel scenario, though, Dipper’s pretty sure he’d listen to reason. And he sure as hell wouldn’t kidnap anyone, much less make her sign, like, adoptive sibling papers or whatever. There are a million billion reasons to kick this demon’s ass. 

But he has to live with this guy for… who knows how long. They can’t be at each other’s throats all the time. Making progress on world-saving will be hard enough without ending up flesh-based salsa.

Silence still hovers in the kitchen, tense and weird. The quiet is starting to put Dipper’s teeth on edge, almost more than a threat would. 

The sheer level of awkward they have going on might kill an empathic entity. So why doesn’t Bill say something? Doesn’t he love the sound of his own voice? …Does Dipper have to -

Damn it. 

“Thank you. For breakfast.” He says, long, long after it made sense to do so. The food’s cold, but he doesn’t dare ask for it to be warmed up. “It’s pretty good.”

Bill slowly turns toward him. He blinks twice. 

Then he glows gold again, spreading his arms wide like the earlier conversation never even happened. 

“No duh it is! I know you, sapling, better than anyone!” He floats closer, hands clasped and held next to his eye. “And you’re usually less whiny once you’re fed.”

Dipper pokes at his toast with his recovered fork. Thankfully it didn’t land on the floor, or get melted under Bill’s feet. “...I still don’t like the conquering.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Bill heaves a long, tired sigh, eye rolling in a dramatic arc. “Always stubborn! Jeez, you’re even worse than last time.”

Last time? But that would mean - Dipper blinks.  “Wait, what?”

“You don’t like the invasion, and I don’t like giving up what I’ve rightfully conquered. Oldest dilemma in the book! Only one solution there, sapling,” Bill steeples his fingers, gazing over them at Dipper. “We’ll have to… negotiate.” 

He adds weight to the final word, like it’s somehow significant. 

Dipper, not about to look a gift triangle in the mouth, simply nods once. 

“Great!” Bill claps his hands together, rubbing them in ominous anticipation. “Plenty of time to get things sorted, then. Wedding planning’s gonna take a couple weeks at least! We’ll fit your stupid ‘protect the planet’ crap in the contract somewhere.”

“Sorry, contract?” Dipper sits up straighter. Nobody mentioned signing shit.

“Uh, hello? Bill Cipher here! You didn’t think ‘marriage’ was just gonna be rings and a kiss, didja?” He laughs, amused at Dipper ‘forgetting’ what was apparently obvious. “We gotta make a deal to seal the deal, duh.”

“Right,” Dipper says, after a moment. “I knew that.” 

He’s kind of hitting himself for not thinking of it sooner. Deals get complex if they’re long-term things - and what’s longer term than ‘til death do they part? Another addition to the long, long list of reasons this will be a pain in the ass. 

And no chance he’ll get everything he wants out of it. Not with the resistance Bill just put up. Even though Dipper knows better, the disappointment stings.

Guess the planet hasn’t seen the last of Bill Cipher. Maybe it never will. 

But honestly, what was he thinking? That Bill would fold before his demands like wet tissue paper? That he’d win back the world in one fell swoop? Bringing the Nightmare King to the negotiating table at all is a triumph worth celebrating. 

…friggin’ Idaho, though. Dipper can do way better than that. 

“Between your stubborn ass and the main event, we got a lot of discussion ahead, kid.” Bill clasps his hands together, holding them by his eye. “Lucky for you, I got a few ideas already!”

With that said, he goes on. And on. And on. About freakin’ wedding planning. 

About how finding contractors is already being a pain in the angles, a smattering about the decorations. Along with the guest list, and which interdimensional beings are disinvited forever, for reasons. 

Dipper only half pays attention, nodding at the appropriate points. Now that they’re not arguing, he can actually finish his food. 

So, he’s stuck here. Living with Bill Cipher. Listening to him bitch about finding the appropriate tailor for getting hitched to a human. Not exactly where he thought he’d be at this point in his life, or ever. But he thinks he can work with it.

Arguing with this creature about the world is going to be a struggle. It never won’t be. But it’s one he’ll survive, since Bill’s sort-of cooperating. 

Let Bill shoulder the wedding stuff. He’s the only one enthusiastic about it anyway. Dipper has his  own to work on - and with any luck, they’ll mean he’s far, far away before any of Bill’s come to fruition. 

Now that the mood has lightened, Dipper even finds himself perking up a bit. Saving parts of the world is better than none of it. Plus the food’s pretty good. And best of all, his sister’s alive and staying right next door, a goal he’d never thought he’d achieve - and she’s ready to help him through the worst of this. Even Bill Cipher standing right in front of him can’t ruin-

Dipper pauses with his fork in mid-air. A chunk of french toast, soaked with syrup, lies directly in his view of Bill. 

He looks up at the top point - no hat - scans down to the toeless feet. The toast on his fork hovers right below where the tie usually is, and slightly above the bottom side where Bill’s legs are. A drop of syrup slowly drips onto the plate.

“Bill.” He says, quick and clipped. “Question.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Are you naked?” Dipper asks, then leans forward, pointing his fork-toast at this asshole accusingly.  “Have you been naked this entire time?”

“Maybe! Who’s asking?” Bill’s eye-smile somehow looks incredibly smug. “And for that matter, what’s the definition of ‘naked’ and ‘this entire time’? See-”

“Go put some clothes on.” Dipper states. Seeing Bill not moving, he reluctantly adds, “Please.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got my own stuff to do anyway.” Bill floats up and off the table, drifting towards the doorway - then pauses, pointing both thumbs at himself. “Enjoy the sight, kid! I know you love to see me leave, but you really love to watch me go!” 

And he drifts out of the room, shimmying his bottom side like - Dipper’s going to pretend he never saw that.

At least he’s gone. For the moment. Leaving Dipper to chew on his french toast and a bunch of new information. 

One especially intriguing secret sticks in his head. Forget the demons for a second; Bill’s going to do the heavy lifting on that end. Forget the single bed issue, or the dire problem of upcoming matrimony.

The last guy argued with Bill about the world too. 

Dipper didn’t expect that. 

He’d kind of assumed anyone involved with Bill would be after what he could do for them. Power, money, fame. Those are all common human aphrodisiacs. With Bill, there’s also taking over countries, revenge on their enemies, and gleeful, gory slaughter. 

But Bill said it himself, didn’t he? His dead husband was against conquering the world. That it was something they argued about, almost as bad as the nearly-deadly conversation minutes before.

Which… makes sense, doesn’t it. This is the first time Bill Cipher’s ever invaded this planet. 

If his human husband had been into that, and helped him, it definitely would have happened when he was alive. Another mark on the ‘truth’ column for ‘not-evil husband’.

Hell, as far as Dipper can tell, Bill only started his conquest sometime after the guy passed away, when nobody was around to stop him. Which is also when he started moping around his Fearamid and spending too much time on collectables. 

…If Dead Husband wasn’t into the conquering, Dipper doubts he would approve of the statue ‘collection’. And if he wasn’t into the ‘collection’, he’d be against the more showy forms of violence. Did they have anything in common? 

Like, Dipper kinda gets why a human would marry a demon, even with the rest. Power’s still a thing. Money, too. Bill’s got knowledge in spades, an oddball sort of an indulgent streak, and despite being yelled at he never lashed out. Weird, definitely, but Dipper’s seen worse in ‘normal’ relationships.

… but what does Bill get out of this?

Dipper turns his hand over, staring at his palm. It doesn’t look or feel any different than before; Bill high-fiving it stung for an instant, but that was it. The ‘deal’, such as it was, was done, marking him magically in a strange, invisible way.

So he’s supposed to stop giving that creature the ‘cold shoulder’, whatever that means. Behave in a way more befitting a fiance, he supposes.

But despite their argument. The shouting, the swearing, the defiance he showed -

His palm hasn’t hurt even once.