apologies for the inconsistencies! I drew the pierrot one fully awake and the harle one at midnight ... so that's pretty self explanatory jfhdjfj
note : the characters I replaced them with in the original pic doesn't really matter.. I only chose what I think fits them best so please don't take this too seriously ^_^ feel free to interpret it as whatever
(╬`益´) bill, the egotistical and smug triangle, irritated you beyond belief. you could barely focus on anything but how much you hated him whenever he was in the room. you needed to find a way to let out all the tension and anger inside of you... and the first idea to come to mind wasn't exactly holy.
this post contains the following: hate-sex (on readers end... bill is on smth else entirely LOL), a bit of degradation, sub!bill cipher, dom! reader, bottom!bill cipher, top! reader, GN! reader, triangle!bill cipher, tentacle hair!reader (or maybe just ability of some sort????), tentacle sex
You were confused on how it got to this point, but hey-- it did! Bill's whine cut you out of your trance.
"F-Fuck, go-- go faster," he panted, grinding his hips down on your tentacle, tears slipping out his eye. "Please, please, please, please, I need you deeper--"
You weren't even sure where exactly your tentacle was going inside of him-- you've never seen a hole between his legs before-- just another section of yellow triangle. But now it felt wet and mushy, and your tentacle was entering him somewhere-- he moaned again, trembling as you hit something deep inside of him.
"You like that? Hm?" you chuckled, making his legs tremble harder when your thrusts were more harsh. "Look at you-- such a fuckin' mess..."
He nodded rapidly, hands reaching out to grasp onto your shoulders. "Yes, yes, yes'm-- just for you-- ffaster!"
Your fingers scratched against his yellow bricks and he moaned. Moaned.
Maybe you should've done this sooner.
Previously, you were at your wits end.
Despite your past with Bill, the whole saving you from your home-planet that prosecuted against you on the daily and being your 'friend' (you could only recognize the falseness of that title you held him to a few million years later. He saw you more as a follower, devoted minion, but never a friend), you felt a deep hatred for him.
Was it jealousy? Envy? You weren't sure. His power was... desirable, to say the least, but it wasn't something on your mind often.
No... it was more like the way he held himself pissed you off. The way he was so confident-- yelled his orders and threw little tantrums whenever he didn't get exactly what he wanted when he wanted, the way everybody sucked up to him like it was their purpose in life. And maybe it was. But you? Never.
Bill seemed to notice the way you glared at him-- the guy could go into minds, for fucks sake-- so you expected him to be aware of your opinion on him at some point. Maybe he'd kill you, make an example of you. Tear your molecules apart and spread them across the galaxy. Whatever it was, you told yourself you didn't care.
Yet, Bill never did any of those things. Instead, his bossiness towards you seemed to increase, along with the satisfied, smug and annoying way his eye creased. You could tell he enjoyed doing this.
"Go kill that person over there. Why? Because I said so, obviously!" or "Sorry toots', but I didn't ask for your input on the plan,". Anything to incite giggles or hidden smirks from the rest of the Henchmaniacs. He was so... so...
The axe in your hand broke in half, the sharp end landing just a few centimeters away from 8 Ball's foot, who let out a frightened yelp and backed away, staring at you uneasily. You were glaring silently at a random wall.
Infuriating, you finished your thought with, closing your eyes as you tried to calm down.
It was then at that moment where you decided you needed to teach Bill a lesson.
Which leads you back to now, tentacle filling up Bill entirely, his eye wide and dazed as he took everything you gave him.
He was bratty at the start, but it was easier than expected to fuck those sly remarks out of him and replace them with desperate pleas and moans.
Pathetic, really.
Bill tried to keep up with your wild and erratic thrusts, bouncing back as much as he could but seeming frustrated because he knew you could go deeper, but you weren't.
He cried out angrily, fingers reaching out and scratching deep into your flesh, blood erupting immediately from the wound. You grunted in surprise, pushing him roughly down against his desk, causing your tentacle to go deeper-- oh-- Bill choked, legs spreading wider, mindless as that spot inside of him was hit repeatedly.
""Go fffaster, damn-- God, I love you," he sobbed, small pitch black legs curling uselessly in the air, his one eye shutting closed. His moans felt like screeches in your ear, and God, it was satisfying to see him fall apart.
The love part was a little over the top, though. You decided not to think about it.
In and out your tentacle went, and Bill trembled with every thrust. The volume of his voice seemed to increase the harder you went. Unbelievably amusing-- almost addicting with how much you liked it.
To him, each movement felt like heaven. He was never one to believe such falsehoods existed, but whatever you were doing. Well. It made him question that belief.
No time to think about that now. He's already cummed twice-- another one was building fast. He saw white slick on your tentacle as it thrusted out and back in, the kind you only see in bad pornos. He just keened, revelling in the pure lust and attention he was receiving from you. He wasn't oblivious to how hard you were staring at him.
Is this what love is like?, he thought. Yes. Yes, it is.
In your point of view, he seemed almost insignificant to you, now. Couldn't remember why you were so upset over some pitiful triangle. Your tentacle slowed to a stop after a few minutes, satisfied with how it all went. Bill flopped down to the floor with a yelp, whining in complaint when you didn't even attempt to catch him.
Grabbing a handkerchief from your pocket, you wiped down your poor dirty tentacle and threw it to the side, uncaring of where it landed as you turnt around, leaving without a word.
Bill watched you leave wordlessly, a small red flush under his eye (where his cheeks would be-- if he had cheeks, that is) as he realized you made him cum three times in a span of a few minutes-- he never even thought of your tentacles being used in such a way... but maybe he still had a bit more to learn, even as an all-knowing man.
Fuck. He liked you.
(a/n): this is pure smut cause i don't like writing plot 😬 sorry for any grammar mistakes or misspelling cause i write everything in one go lol, also the cheeks part made me unfortunately giggle bc if taken in the wrong context it sounds like i'm debating wether or not bill has a fat ass 😭😭.
fan animatic for Till Weirdmageddon Do Us Part by @selfless-solipsist
3 days of life burning is worth it
funny that this triangle motivates me to learn how to animate in CSP in 2 days, as I swore to learn it like, months ago and never did anything
anyway I haven't done with this yet, but my computer started to lag already even if this isn't even 1min, so I have to start a new file for the latter part which is going to include a lot of following-up and transforming I wanna try oh boy
anyway anyway, thanks to our excellent writer here who boomed me into triangle fixation 💛
Genre: Angst. Sm angst. Slight fluff if you squint.
Warnings: You might say “BUT BILL’S AROACE”.. He canonically doesn't know his gender or sexual orientation, NOTHINGS CONFIRMED ON THAT END, Aroace people can still date and have the devils tango (Ik most don’t but- look at Bill’s relationship with Ford), Twisted Bill, Could be perceived as Yandere ig? Manipulation, corruption, intimidation, threats, stalking, attempted possession,
A/N: i’m normal. Meant to post this months ago but, yk :pp
How you first meet Bill.. that’s really up to you.
But, let me try to come up with an idea for this:
You’re new to Gravity Falls, and barely have any idea of anything within the area. I like the idea you could possibly have some sort of job, like nursing, or maybe even a gardener of some kind. Whatever it is- you moved from your hometown to become self-reliant, to become an independent individual although your parents fretted over you. Not just because their child was growing so fast, no, it’s because they thought that with you being the soft-natured person you are- those around you would take advantage of you. But, you promised to call them or text them if anything went wrong, or if you didn’t feel safe. And if you couldn’t contact them under any circumstances, the police if the situation was dire or the nearby neighbors to try and get someone known of your situation.
Honestly, you thought that they were being overdramatic about this, but you eventually felt bad for seeing them that way and promised them, writing down in your journal to make sure you wouldn’t forget their words or their plans.
The house you got was decently large and you didn’t have to pay a luxurious amount in order to buy it, or to keep the utilities running each month.
I’m definitely gonna note here that you were introverted to everyone, and kept to yourself until an old stranger by the nickname of ‘Stan’ bumping into you, resulting in you constantly apologizing, helping him pick up anything he dropped before returning it back to him.
With that out of the way..
He might’ve entered your dream on accident and thought: “Why not have some fun with this?”
To sum up the nightmare you were put through: you were bawling your eyes out the moment you jolted awake.
And he watched.
He was confused, then amused.
It wasn’t even THAT bad.. in comparison to others that he’s created.
But you were still crying over it!
He found that part.. weird.
Is it just because you’re human? Or is it something else?
So, as any insane person would do, he stalks watches you, surveying everything you do for quite some time, and learns your habits and mannerisms. And in short, you have more than just a modicum of decorum than nearly everyone here: Hell, you’ve apologized to a chair you bumped into in your own home, managed to save someones life after constant tests and treatments (if you’re a nurse), took all of a mean costumers comments as they yelled at you (where you cried about it the moment you got home), but the part that confuses him the most is how tender you are with everyone you meet or know.
That leads me to another thing Bill learns about you: you’re a down bad people pleaser. No matter how stressful, or how rude the other person is, you’ll constantly always be there for them and love them. Gentle hugs, sweet reaffirmations, letting them cry themselves dry on your shoulder.
..he doesn’t know how to describe the feeling after witnessing this happen over and over again.
Because this hasn’t happened before.
He has NEVER seen this kind of personality and behavior EVER. He has become accustomed to the brutal tenderness of the world around him, and he has become one of the most powerful deities in the entire UNIVERSE! Why is he caring so much about some random, UGLY, UNDERSERVING MORTAL!? He remembers what happened with Stanford, and he WON’T have a repeat of that.
His loyalty lies with Stanford. No-one else. Not you, not YOU!
You’re NOT Stanford.
You don’t deserve this much attention from him.
..but..
He can’t stop.
Eventually begins the first stage of his upcoming obsession: denial.
Bill DESPERATELY tries to get rid of you from his thoughts.
But it doesn’t work.
It never has! No matter what he does, and it’s starting to seriously irritate him!!
Why you? You’re a pesky, little good for nothing human! You’re NOTHING like Stanford!
…
But perhaps, that’s just the reason why he’s so obsessed with you.
He hates the idea, but maybe it’s the kindness. Maybe it’s the gentle-nature, the humility.
Maybe he wants the chance to rip that away from you.
He ends up.. leaving you alone, finding himself in different dimensions to collect his thoughts.
But he realizes he misses you misses the familiarity of watching you.
Which leads us to the next stage: Intrusion.
Bill tells himself it’s “just curiosity.” That’s all!
A harmless follow-up after weeks of ignoring you.
He’s not visiting your dreams again because he misses that teary, terrified expression.
He’s not listening to your heartbeat slow down as you sleep, or lingering when you mumble in your dreams.
He’s definitely not memorizing how your voice cracks when you talk to yourself. Nope, not at all. He’s just.. gonna make fun of it later. (He never does.)
He watches you tidy your home, hum to yourself, apologize to plants for pruning them too much; and every time, there’s that quiet ache in his chest. Something alien. Something he hates.
“You’re so disgustingly human,” he mutters under his breath.
But the words don’t sound convincing anymore. I mean, you can’t even hear them..
You leave out tea for the “house spirits” one night after a rough shift.
You don’t know that the liquid ripples when he appears— unseen, just beyond your perception.
Bill stares at the cup. For the first time in eons, he hesitates before touching it.
…Then downs it anyway.
“Terrible brew, kid. You should stick to crying. You’re better at that.”
He says it to no one. To you. To himself.
And this leads to the third stage of his obsession: Fascination.
He starts mimicking your mannerisms unconsciously. A tilt of the head when confused. A sigh before speaking. A hum under his breath when lost in thought.
When he realizes this, he snaps. Throws a chair across the void.
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?! I DON’T HUM!”
Every time you smile at someone else, his energy spikes, causing lights to flicker a bit.
Somewhere, an unlucky couple’s dream melts into static because Bill’s jealous— though he won’t admit it.
He starts slipping into your dreams uninvited, reshaping them.
Sometimes it’s harmless— walking through some odd dream garden with you, watching you laugh.
Other nights, it’s darker— your flowers bleeding, your reflection whispering something in a language that is very clearly not human.
He tests you.
Small things: objects moving in your room, whispers in your ear, seeing this.. symbol out of the corner of your eye.
He wants to see you scared. He wants to see you need him.
Though, as one of your friends from your hometown come to visit you while some of these… odd events happen, they mention:
“Dude, you seriously should like.. get a priest or something! Your place might be haunted!” They yelped, grabbing at your shoulder as you simply laugh.
“Relax. It doesn’t really bother me, I got used to it. The house is pretty old, and I have to get some renovations done anyways..” you shrug while smiling lightly at your friend.
“I don’t really believe anything is haunting this place. But… if something is haunting my house, I just hope they’re.. okay. I don’t want any conflicts.”
For the first time, he’s floating there, too stunned to even think properly.
This leads to the fourth stage: Attachment.
He stops visiting others’ dreams altogether.
He used to play chaos with every mind in Gravity Falls— now it’s just you.
Always you.
You talk to yourself while journaling, and he hangs on every word.
He knows your fears, your habits, your routines.
He’s memorized the entire rhythm of your life.
When you cry, he whispers cruel little comforts that you can’t even hear (yet.)
“Pathetic. Cry more. Makes your voice sound sweet.”
You start to feel watched.
Every time you close your eyes, the air hums faintly with golden static.
The line between reality and dreams blurs.
He begins manifesting small signs:
A faint smell of burning ozone when he’s nearby.
Symbols carved into your mirror in condensation.
Bill tells himself it’s control. It’s just manipulation.
But the truth is, he feels something dangerously close to affection.
He hates it.
He hates you for making him feel it.
And he hates himself even more for not being able to stop.
Then, there’s stage five: Possession.
He begins speaking to you in your waking hours.
At first, it’s whispers — things you can easily dismiss as stress.
Then full sentences. Then laughter in your head when you drop a cup or trip over your own feet.
The first time you ask if there’s someone there aloud, his grin widens across the dreamscape.
“Finally! I was starting to think you were ignoring me. That’s rude, y’know.”
You freeze in place, shaking your head.
“Please— leave me alone-“
He stays quiet for a moment before he just laughs!; a sound that makes the walls shake.
“Leave you alone? Oh, sweetheart, I tried. Trust me. You’re the one who stuck.”
Small parts of your world begin to glitch when he’s near.
Lights flicker in odd colors. Clocks stop at 3:33. Reflections don’t quite match your movements.
When you’re hurt or frightened, he appears without invitation — his voice sharp, almost protective.
“Who did this to you?”
He sounds too calm. Too still.
Somewhere, a stranger’s car engine explodes for no reason the next day.
You notice dreams bleeding into reality.
Your garden blooms in colors that don’t exist.
Shadows twist into triangles when you’re sad.
He starts calling you things like kid, my little mortal, my project, but sometimes he lets something else slip.
“Mine.”
You heard it once, trembling.
He never repeats it aloud again after.
Closer to the end, it leads to our sixth stage: Dependence.
He stops toying with other mortals entirely.
He only watches you.
Even chaos loses its thrill when you’re not there to see it.
He makes excuses to keep you dreaming longer.
“You need rest, don’t you? That mortal body of yours is so fragile. Besides!! Sleeping is so much better than having to drag your meatsack around all day!”
He keeps your mind half-asleep, half-awake, so he can linger in both worlds.
And eventually, you start confiding in him.
Maybe it’s because no one else listens. Maybe it’s because he does.
And he loves it — the sound of your voice, the trust in your tone.
“I’m not your friend,” he reminds you.
“You’re too sensitive.”
But he always shows up when you call for help.
Even when you whisper so softly you think no one could hear.
Eventually, as you start working more and communicate with your neighbors to keep yourself occupied- away from Bill; you start to forget about sleeping.
And he grows erratic.
The town’s atmosphere changes — Gravity Falls’ weather turns hostile, lightning flashing in the shape of an eye.
“Why aren’t you sleeping? You know I hate being ignored!”
You don’t respond to that.
Instead, you keep forgetting to sleep on purpose, continuing to try and keep yourself sane with helping others. Keep working..
And so, he takes a different approach.
You find golden notes left in your house:
“You looked sad today.”
“You should eat more.”
“Don’t talk to them again.”
“I’m watching. Always watching.”
He calls it “care.”
You call it something else.
Stage seven: Unison.
The line between dream and reality finally disappears.
You can’t tell when you’re awake anymore. He likes it that way.
He starts appearing in mirrors, in puddles, in the faint reflection of your eyes.
“You’re seeing things, huh? Good. Means you’re paying attention to me!”
He begins to change when you resist, even in the smallest ways.
His charm fractures, revealing the raw god underneath.
The one that’s ancient, angry, lonely.
“You’re not supposed to matter to me!” he screams once, voice echoing through every surface.
The house bends under his fury. The world trembles. You cover your ears.
“…I’m sorry.” Is all you can murmur, your voice soft and barely audible.
You don’t know what you’re apologizing for.
Then, silence.
A hand — or something like it — brushes your cheek.
“Don’t cry,” he murmurs.
“You’ll make me… do something I can’t undo.”
Dreams turn endless.
Time stops meaning anything.
You see him every night, and every morning, and sometimes in between — in the spaces that aren’t real but still feel like home.
You try to tell yourself this isn’t love.
He tells you not to lie.
“Call it what you want, kid — obsession, madness, devotion — it’s all the same to me.”
And maybe, you almost believe him.
Which he takes advantage of.
Just like everyone around you has.
Final stage, stage eight: Merging.
You’ve stopped counting the days.
You’ve stopped going outside to greet your neighbors.
The calendar by your bed still says the same date as it did a month ago, and the clock refuses to move past midnight.
Every window looks out into the same dusky forest, the same shimmering gold haze. You don’t know whether it’s real light or Bill’s doing.
When you speak (rather rarely in your own home), your voice echoes twice.
Once in your throat, once in your mind—his laughter overlapping yours, his words finishing your sentences.
He’s everywhere. The air hums with him, the house breathes with him.
“You’ve gotten used to me,” he says, tone half-teasing, half-devout.
“You flinch less now when I touch your thoughts.”
His presence presses behind your eyes like warm static.
The dreams no longer start or end. They just spill into the real world, becoming apart of your everyday life.
He’s affectionate in a way that terrifies you.
He calls you his “bright little mortal,” “my fragile miracle,” “the reason entropy doesn’t bore me anymore.”
Every word sounds like a curse wrapped in love. Every smile promises something you can’t refuse without breaking both of you.
You try to fight back once. You write wards, salt the doors, use crystals, use cleansing scents, pray to anything that will listen.
But it never works.
“Cute,” he says, voice vibrating through your ribs.
“You think you can shut me out. You can’t even breathe without me in your lungs anymore.”
The nightmares he gives you now aren’t meant to scare. They’re seduction.
A ballroom of golden fire where he takes your hand, guiding you through a waltz that bends space itself. His form is different from his normal one, it’s.. human-ish. Though, there’s horns, no pupils… he is remarkably attractive, much to your dismay.
Though, you have seen some of his less pleasant forms..
He showed you a small percentage of just a few of the different shapes he could take, after all.
And after that dance, he guides you to a mirror that shows you as something different; half his color, half your own.
“See? You’re evolving,” he whispers.
“You’re starting to understand. We’d be beautiful together!!”
The night he finally reaches through, he attempts to grasp you.
You feel a hand touch your chest and press against your heart.
“Let me in,” he croons.
“Let me fit.”
You should run, scream, something. But there’s warmth flooding through your veins, and it’s not just your blood anymore.
The world outside ceases to exist.
For a moment, you are both suspended in nothing—two consciousnesses twisting together like threads of light.
You feel his memories flood you: the birth of universes, the death of stars, eons of laughter, loneliness, and power.
And he feels you: the softness, the apology, the small human ache of wanting to be loved.
He gasps—actually gasps—as if the concept of tenderness burns him.
“You’re… beautiful,” he says like it’s a revelation, like it’s a sin.
You realize what he’s doing: he’s merging your essence with his, turning your consciousness into one.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice shaking with something that sounds almost human.
“You won’t die. You’ll just—stop being separate. Isn’t that better?”
Your mind begins to dissolve at the edges. His laughter, his voice, his hunger—all of it becomes you.
You try to remember your name, your parents’ faces, your home…
But it’s all starting to fade.
And in the final moment; when he feels your resistance fade, when you whisper his name one last time-
..he hesitates.
The demon who conquered galaxies, who devoured countless souls, hesitates because he knows that if he finishes this, he’ll never hear your voice again—only his own reflected back forever.
For one fleeting heartbeat, everything feels as if it just… stops.
You feel him tremble. Then he laughs softly, almost bitterly.
“Guess I really did it, huh? Fell for a mortal. How… revolting.”
His energy retreats, leaving his mark behind. A single glowing symbol seared over your heart.
“…Don’t forget me, kid,” he whispers as he fades.
“I’ll be back. You’re already too much a part of me to erase.”
The lights finally turn back on, normal and brighter than before. The house is silent. The air still tastes faintly of ozone and sugar.
You wake up alone, and you wonder:
..why?
Was that just some, what? Brutal tenderness from a being you could barely comprehend!?
And you lay there in bed, eyes dimmed before you roll onto your side.
tags: sfw, Bill x reader, Bill is an asshole but he cares in his own way, existential crisis?, eh i tried to portray it like romantic tension but i failed, hurt/comfort but i failed it too lmao
a/n: why does writing Bill always unlock the part of my brain that wants to write biblical nonsense. this was meant to be like a paragraph, mb two. and now it’s this mess that ive been writing for a damn week and i still don’t like it cuz Bill here feels kind of wrong and ooc. but hey!!! fanfiction is a lawless land where we make the rules :) sorry to any Bill lovers out there tho, pls don’t kill me for bad characterisation
night in gravity falls was so warm and unusually silent, you knew that only happens in august, when the town is still too sleepily. summer is already fading, but the air still holds sweet memories in it, dust from the asphalt, warm sap from pine needles, the soft haze of moonlight across your forehead.
you’re here again, in the empty yard, on the playground where you used to play until it got dark and someone called you home. there’s no one around now. the swing creaks barely and you sit on one of them, letting your toes brush the ground, clenching your fingers tight around the chains, and you swing.
back and forth, higher and higher, and every time it feels like you’re just a little closer to the sky.
the sky, it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed. everything else left because you grew up. people came and went, switched places. but the sky is still there, still silent, dark blue, scattered with stars, each burning in its own light. you still remember them though, the eagle, the swan, andromeda, cassiopeia.
you once dreamed of being an astronomer.
and even now, grown, you still can’t stop loving the stars. every swing lifts you closer, and you want to reach out to touch them.
well. . . at least something in this world stays in place.
though, except for the stars, there was one more constant in your life.
a triangle. a ridiculous, talking, floating triangle with a single eye and too many opinions for someone who didn’t technically have a mouth.
Bill Cipher. the thing that defied all laws of nature, laughed at gravity, and travelled through your thoughts like a parasite and a friend.
you’d be brushing your teeth in the morning, bleary-eyed and half-alive, and there it’d be, a sticky note slapped to the mirror, “YOU DROOLED. DISGUSTING. NEVER CHANGE.”
and when you were about to leave the house, keys in one hand, bag over your shoulder, there was another one waiting on the door, “REMEMBER: IF YOU DIE TODAY, I CALL DIBS ON YOUR BONES.”
even when you’d get in the shower, it'd be stuck on the sink: “HUMAN HYGIENE FASCINATES ME. DO YOU SCRUB YOUR ORGANS TOO?”
and yeah, they were weird. a little unhinged. sometimes kind of funny. and you started looking forward to them more than you’d admit.
he used to appear more, though. materializing out of nowhere, talking your ear off about planetary alignments and obscure constellations. you remembered those nights clearly. you’d point at the stars, and he’d name ones you’d never heard of, from galaxies that didn’t even have a number in human astronomy yet. he spoke of civilizations erased by time, of things older than your own galaxy.
you used to sit on your porch with him and talk about the absurdity of human civilization. he was smart, frighteningly so. and he never dumbed things down for you. he talked like you were capable of understanding, and sometimes you did, sometimes you didn’t, but you loved that about him
and when you asked, quietly, where he was from, his eye would narrow.
“delicate topic,” he’d say, too quickly.
Bill already knew everything about you. your fears, your dreams, your favorite songs, the names you gave the stars as a child. and it felt unfair how much of you he had, while you had so little of him.
he told you once that you were weird. and then, like it was some kind of comfort, “but don’t sweat it, sweetie. everyone in this freakshow town is weird.”
so maybe he’s appearing less because of that mysterious scientist he kept mumbling about. you heard the rumors, too. people talked, said the guy had six fingers. said he was here for the anomalies. you didn't really care.
and suddenly, Bill Cipher wasn’t visiting your dreams quite so often.
and you miss him.
you hate how much you miss him. how empty the silence gets when he’s not zigzagging through your kitchen talking about 4th-dimensions. how your mornings feel like sleepwalking without his notes. how dumb and pathetic it sounds even to you, that the one presence you long for most is a floating triangle with a god complex. but what could you say?
you kept swinging. the stars watched in silence. and you, in return, kept watching them.
forward, backward. the chains creaked softly with every rise. you closed your eyes at some point just to create the illusion of flying.
you were mid-swing, when it came again. that melody. it came from nowhere and everywhere, pressing behind your ears, vibrating somewhere between your teeth and your spine.
you smiled.
of course.
“ah. there you are,” you murmured, already looking around without needing to move. you knew better. Bill could materialize out of a crack in the ground or a coffee mug if he wanted.
but tonight, that demon was feeling poetic, apparently.
the moon blinked and one giant sharp pupil eye opened, and from that glowing socket rolled out a triangle. yellow. laughing. too bright to stare at directly. you squinted, shielding your face with one hand.
“aaaand guess who’s back, baby! enjoyin’ your little emo moment, i see? what’s this, swing therapy? should i book you a session with my imaginary assistant?“
“could you, maybe, not enter through celestial bodies? you nearly burned my retinas.”
“what’s the point of making an entrance if it doesn’t cause mild visual trauma?” he shrugged, floating backwards into a lazy spin. “so. what’s the occasion? out here all alone like a tragic indie film protagonist. spooky swingset, lonely stare. classic.”
you sighed, dry. “just. . . thinking.”
“uh-oh.” Bill floated closer. “dangerous hobby, humans thinking! leads to wars and taxes.”
you let out a breathy laugh despite yourself. “i guess i’m just feeling nostalgic. you ever get that?”
he burstee into laughter immediately. “nostalgia! adorable! you meatbags are the only species that cry over the passage of time, like it didn’t warn you in advance. TICK TOCK, SWEETHEART! y’all live like, what, seventy years on average? that’s not life, that’s a limited-time free trial.”
“wow. thanks. totally made me feel better.”
“you're always welcome, cutie!” his voice dipped in mockery. “sooo, whatcha doing? starin’ at the sky again? tryna hypnotize the stars into making your life less depressing?”
“yep, i just like looking at them. makes me feel like i’m not stuck here. like everything’s bigger than this town. bigger than me. i don’t know.”
“ugh.” he made a gagging sound and morphed briefly into a glittering puddle before reforming. “you and your stargazing. seriously. you’re one constellation away from joining a cult.”
you tilted your head at him.
“what? you don’t like stars anymore?”
Bill fell silent for a moment. his eye narrowed slightly. but then his usual teasing voice returned.
“hate to break it to ya, but your species is stuck on that rock for another ten thousand years at best. moon was a fluke. you guys’ll be lucky if you make it past microwaving leftovers without starting nuclear winter. you’ll never reach those twinkly bastards up there. not really.”
you blinked. your throat tightened unexpectedly from a wonderful support he provides. “you really think that?”
“babe, i know that. you all stare up at the sky and make up stories about it because you can’t deal with how small you are. here’s a fact: you’re not meant to touch the stars. you’re meant to burn under them.”
“you’re kind of a dick,” you said quietly.
“no, you’re just too sentimental and blind.”
you laughed. “well, i like pretending we could go further. beyond the moon and past saturn. doesn’t mean i don’t know it’s impossible, Bill.”
not like you were expecting anything serious in return, so you received that: “hm, tragic. and here i thought i was the monster in this story.”
you looked up again, to the stars.
“you still might be.” that made Bill shut his mouth, he was quiet, for once. meanwhile, you looked down at your shoes. “anyways, ou didn’t always sound so cynical about it.”
“i’ve always sounded cynical about it,” Bill corrected. “you just had stars in your ears.”
you bit your cheek, forcing a smile. “they’re pretty,” you bit your lip and kicked a pebble. there was a question curdling in your throat. it’d been sitting there a while, sharp and annoying, like a grain of sand in your eye.
you didn’t wanna ask. but you had to.
“where were you? why’d you disappear? i didn’t even get a nightmare. not a single one.”
Bill hovered and froze for five agonising seconds, but then laughed with that horrible, spine tingling laugh you loved hated.
“oh sweetie, you jealous?” he cooed, leaning forward. “missed me that much?”
you narrowed your eyes. “that’s not an answer.”
“oh, someone’s clingy! but no, i just found a new toy to play with, that’s all!”
“a new toy?” your voice cracked with disbelief. “what do you even mean by that?” your brows furrowed
“sheesh, sweetheart, relax! you’re still my favorite toy! the others squeal too fast.”
you huffed. “you’re such an ass.”
“thanks!” he responded quickly, but noticing your face expression, he finally gave you an answer. “been busy. got tangled in a little puzzle box of a man. thinks he’s clever,”
he spun his cane around once, then tossed it into oblivion. “you’d hate him, he stinks.”
you didn’t say anything because you weren't in the mood, all what left your mouth was a deep tired sigh until—
“BOO!”
“FUCK!” you yelped, stumbling backwards as he popped into existence inches from your face.
“no need to cry, sweetheart. i’d never replace my favorite weirdo.”
you glared, the corners of your lips turned down in annoyance as you swatted your hand through him like mist. but then something above caught your eye. a tear in the dark.
a shooting star.
“Bill, look!”
you sprang off the swing, raising your arm, pointing your finger skyward like a little kid, excited. “there! did you see that?!”
Bill floated beside you, unamused, already knowing what's coming next. “agh. here we go again. . .”
you clasped your hands together and whispered under your breath, closing your eyes. Bill watched you make a wish without blinking.
if he had a mouth, he might’ve smiled. thankfully, he didn’t. because demons like him didn’t do that. they didn’t melt over dumb human eyes or the belief that the universe gave a shit about your whispered little dreams.
“why do you always get quiet when we talk about stars?” you asked suddenly, not looking at him. “you never talk about them like you do other things. didn’t you ever want to touch them, too?” you turned to face him finally, staring into his single eye. “didn’t you ever wish the same?”
“they’re empty,” Bill finally said after another silence. “cold rocks. radiation. broken bones and screaming voids. you think there’s what? some magic up there? there’s just more nothing.”
“then let me see it,” you whispered with hope in your voice. “show me. let me see the stars closer.”
he blinked, surprised at your words, as if you’d just asked to die. “you’re not serious.”
“i am.”
his eye tightened at that response, annoyed at your stubborness. “you won’t like what’s out there.”
you stepped back. “fine! then i’ll get to them without your help! i don't need you.”
and before he could respond, you ran, your feet carried you right through the dark into the trees, the swings creaked behind you. Bill didn’t follow, at least not physically. but a hundred golden eyes peeled open in the trees around, watching you as you kept running.
you reached a tree, tall one, crooked. and you climbed, feeling branches biting at your skin. your feet slipped on damp bark and you cursed under your breath but kept going. cuts bloomed along your arms, your legs, but it didn’t matter.
your hands were scraped and knuckles raw, twigs tugged your hair and the bark flaked beneath your fingers, but you didn’t stop.
you didn’t care that your legs were shaking or that your breath was burning in your throat, you didn’t even notice the thing behind you. the long black limb slithering up the tree’s spine, shadowed darker than night, waiting. Bill’s little safety net. of course he’d never admit it.
he was watching you.
through a dozen borrowed eyes, clinging to pine. he watched your foot slip and you gasped as you almost fell. and the tendril twitched, ready.
“you absolute idiot,” Bill muttered to no one. “you picked the tallest tree in the goddamn forest.”
but you were too high on spite. too high on that breathless wild hunger to prove him wrong.
and when you were there, at the top, the branch dipped beneath your weight but didn’t break. you sat, dizzy from the wind and the way the dark sky opened up in front of you like a mouth.
holy shit. you couldn’t even think.
the stars weren’t just above anymore, they were everywhere. on your skin. in your eyelashes. crawling into your blood.
you tipped your head back and laughed breathlessly, nearly crying. raised your arm toward the dark hoping it might reach back.
“see?” you called out. “i did it! i’m here. i got closer.”
at this time, Bill was right beside you, floating and glowing in the night. he didn’t say anything for a second, until “that’s it? that’s the grand finale? you climbed a tree. congratulations. you’re a squirrel with emotional problems.”
you grinned, not even offended. “i’m still closer to them than i was ten minutes ago.”
“yeah,” he drawled. “and thankfully, that’s your limit.”
“why thankfully?” your face dropped. Bill didn’t answer so you asked again, louder this time. “what does that even mean? why are you always like this about it? what’s there, Bill? what are you hiding? what’s up there that you won’t tell me? talk to me, what did you see? what are you hiding?”
Bill froze and his form wavered. suddenly, a crimson hue ran along its edges.
“you wanna know what’s up there?” he barked aggressively. “NOTHING!” his tone and words made you flinch, but that wasn't the end of his speech. “fire! death! you’ll burn before you even reach the edge of that velvet sky you worship so bad. what are you trying to prove, huh? that you’re special? some saintly sky-gazing freak who’s above the rest of the mud-crawling masses?”
you blinked, startled. and hating yourself for your own reaction, because your body and voice trembled treacherously, you felt anger.
“yes,” you answered. “yes, Bill. i think i’m fucking special. because i fucking try! because i look! i don’t just let everything rot around me and laugh at it from the sidelines like a fucking coward!”
and that’s when your foot slipped, it happened too fast. bark tore under you and your body tipped backward, air was gone and you were falling like a shooting star, metor, until something caught you, the thing wrapped tight around you, too cold for your skin, winding around your waist, your arms, your ribs. a single black tendril, pulled you from the fall, yanking you from death.
Bill had caught you. and he immediately knew that somewhere, in another timeline, he didn’t.
but in this one, he placed you gently on the ground and his all seeing eye watched you intensely. good. not a scratch more on you.
although he didn’t float down to check more. Bill stayed at the top of the tree, watching the sky.
you looked up at him. heart still punching inside your chest.
“you just saved my life.” you whispered in disbelief, knowing full well that he wouldn't hear.
it was just silence, and that fucking tendril, still curled tight around your body like a belt. you hated this, but more than all you hated how still he was, as if he was trying to look unreadable on purpose, like he hadn’t just snapped at you five seconds ago. you felt like you were a curious child who touched the wrong lever on the wrong machine and now had to sit in time out.
you squirmed and tugged, making the the tendril tighten. you knew Bill controlled them, and if it wasn't letting go, it meant he wasn't letting go.
“seriously?” you snapped, still breathless. “what now, punishment? gonna strangle me with your magic spaghetti thing now? teach me a lesson or whatever?” you wrestled with the slick thing coiled around your waist.
nothing. and that nothing made you exhale in annoyance. worse was that he wasn't speaking. you would've rather he yelled again, mocked you again, burned you with words. . . at least that meant he cared.
it was embarrassment you felt. or maybe just confusion. whatever that emotion was, you couldn't understand it. because you didn’t fight like this, not with him. it wasn’t like that between you two, even your worst disagreements had spark, play, jokes. meanwhile, this felt like a wall had slammed down between you and he was standing behind it with his arms crossed, eye closed, pretending you weren’t pounding your fists on it.
“you want me to apologize? is that it, triangle guy?” you asked louder, tired. “fine! here. im sorry, okay? im sorry i tried to understand you, sorry i wanted to see what you saw. sorry i cared. now let me go.”
Bill looked down, as if you’d finally reminded him you existed. his shape turned back to gold, he tilted in the air slightly, observing you from a new angle.
your stomach flipped, because you still didn’t know what the end of a friendship with a demon looked like. you assumed, at best, it ended with your blood on a rock.
he floated down a little.
his voice, when it came, was softer than you expected.
“you said you wanted to be closer.”
and your heart jumped, because yes. yes, you had. and you meant it. you weren’t just saying things to hurt him. you wanted this. you wanted him, wanted to understand what he saw when he talked about the stars. you wanted to be part of that world, even if it was dangerous or made no sense.
“i did. i do.”
Bill stared at you a moment longer and saw a human who reached for impossible things, despite being made of bone and flesh.
he saw in you the thing he hated about himself. curiosity, untempered. wonder, unstoppable. the desire to know, even when the knowing came with teeth. and he hated how you’d burn yourself just to see what lived behind the clouds. hated how he adored you for it.
Bill didn't like emotions, but fuck, you stirred up all the ones he thought he'd buried in whatever remained of his dark soul.
because you were the only creature he'd ever met who looked at the sky the way Bill used to. you were the first one to get that close. and you didn’t even die.
finally, Bill let the tendril slide away from you, melting into nothing.
and then his form grew, literally expanded upward in impossible geometry. limbs stretching until they threatened the shape of the forest, until everything around him felt small. and you felt small.
your head fell back to keep him in view and fuck, your knees wobbled as you staggered back.
“holy fuck,” you breathed in awe. “you are so dramatic.”
you think you just developed megalophobia.
but still, your feet didn’t move.
his hand, now the size of a huge car, unfurled from his side. he brought it low, slow, like the offering of a god.
“step on.” his voice sounded through trees and came from all directions. that's how huge he grew.
you stepped into it and his hand lifted you slowly.
Bill knew, you were the only thing he could show the stars to without it killing you.
and the air tore through your lungs like lightning. you gasped and clutched at his finger for balance, every inch of you burning with euphoria while trees became moss, rivers became threads of silver. gravity falls, your town, your whole life, was now the size of a postcard.
and you were laughing. you didn’t even realize you were until tears blurred your vision.
“oh fuck, Bill,” you gasped, dizzy. “this is— this is insane! i’m gonna die up here.”
“not unless i drop you.”
“don’t you fucking dare.” you grinned so hard it hurt. you clung to one of his fingers, half-laughing, half-crying. still not realising fully what even happened, being held by something you thought hated you five minutes ago.
“see? this is what i meant,” you said in excitement looking down at gravity falls. “down there, they live their lives without even looking up. they don’t know. dont even look up!”
“then why are looking down?” Bill questioned calmly. “didnt you want to be closer?”
and you turned to look, not down, not anymore. up. and for the first time, the stars weren’t distant and unreachable. stars weren’t a ceiling. they were around you, they swallowed you, clustered like diamonds, glowing.
“thats cassiopeia,” you whispered. “and andromeda, and— that’s perseus right? oh my god. i can see saturn! Bill, i can see saturn!”
Bill didn’t answer, because he wasn’t looking at the sky. his eye watched you, unblinking, drinking in the reflection of the stars in your eyes like a creature starved for beauty. the stars were in your eyes, not just above your head. and Bill had never seen anything like it. a creature with galaxies instead of pupils.
“you have a beautiful iris,” he said suddenly.
“what? iris?”
“part of the eye, controls light. yours looks like it could hold galaxies. i like it.”
your cheeks flushed. “oh uh, always thought my eyes were boring, heh.” inside though, you panicked because a triangle just called you pretty and that forced your heart to beat stupid.
Bill's voice sounded offended. “you’d be wrong.”
you laughed nervously, gripping his finger tighter, feeling your pulse in your ears. the cold air stung your face, but you didn’t care.
you looked away quickly to hide yourself from his all seeing eye. “hey. . . can we, can we get closer?”
Bill's eye narrowed, glinting. “oh?” he purred and his usual cockiness returned to his voice. “what kind of ‘closer’ are you asking for, sweetie?”
your face went completely hot and your heart screamed. you tried to hide it, giving him a blank expression, “to the stars, Bill. closer to the stars.”
he groaned. “i swear i should drop you.”
and you giggled as his eye lingered on you, wide. “i don’t get it though,” you muttered, gripping his finger tighter as the cold stung your cheeks. “you tell me not to look up, you say there’s nothing out here. but you live here. you literally float through it like it’s your playground. so what, i’m not allowed to want it too?”
“ohh, back to our lovely term, you think you’re special?” he asked, voice flat.
you flinched at the sharpness. “yeah,” oh, how stubborn you were. “i mean, i already answered that question, Bill, i think maybe i am, so what?”
Bill was silent again. longer, this time. until you almost regretted speaking. then, “that’s cute.”
you frowned because you waited something else in response, but yeah Bill was still Bill. “oh fuck off.”
“i mean it. it’s adorable the way you reach for shit that’d melt your brain in two seconds. how you think being ‘different’ makes you immune to the burn. i remember that.” he looked to the sky too. “that hunger. that stupid obsession with wanting to matter. to see something no one else does. to believe there’s something waiting out here if you’re just brave enough.” then he let out an amused laugh, “you’re wrong. but i like that you believe it.”
you didn’t know whether to feel insulted, supported or understood. “so what now? you gonna let me fall back down?”
Bill laughed at how offended and naive your voice sounded, “nah.” a tendril, cold one and weirdly gentle, slid from the air and rested against the top of your head, petted you like you were some kind of little puppy.
“you’re good, human,” Bill admitted simply. “i love good humans.”
In which he slowly realizes that he'll never be able to look at anyone else, he's been ruined for everyone else but you.
Riddle’s hand trembled slightly as he lingered over the pastry display, his eyes darting between options. The thought of indulging felt reckless, wasteful even, but the ache of exhaustion gnawed at him.
You stepped beside him, your presence a quiet anchor. Without hesitation, you gestured to the strawberry tart.
“That one,” you told the waiter, your voice steady. “He’ll have that.”
Riddle blinked, startled. “But I—I didn’t even—”
“You didn’t have to say anything,” you replied gently, turning to him with a small, knowing smile. “You’ve had a long week. This will help.”
When the tart arrived, he stared at it like it was some foreign object. Slowly, he took a bite. The sweetness hit his tongue, and his chest constricted—not from the sugar but from the overwhelming realization: you knew.
You had seen his fatigue, his silent need for comfort, and you didn’t push or pry. You just… provided.
He couldn’t meet your eyes after that, afraid they might betray the way his heart ached—aching because no one else had ever seen him like you did.
It was late at night, and Riddle sat on the dormitory steps, his arms crossed tightly against the evening chill. He’d come out for fresh air, but he’d forgotten how biting the breeze could be after sunset.
You found him there, looking small and cold under the moonlight. Without hesitation, you draped a blanket over his shoulders.
He blinked at you, startled. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Riddle,” you said softly, crouching down to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to freeze to death just to think. Take care of yourself too, okay?”
He stared at you, his heart stumbling over itself. The way you said it—it wasn’t pitying or scolding. It was kind.
You stood up, ruffling his hair lightly before heading back inside. He watched you go, the blanket still warm around him, and realized with a pang that no one else had ever made him feel so… cared for.
Riddle’s pen paused mid-signature as he glanced at the stack of paperwork on his desk. It had been shrinking steadily for the past week. Tasks he usually had to chase others down for were already complete. Events he’d normally plan were already organized. Even the Heartslabyul garden had been pruned to perfection.
At first, he thought he’d finally whipped the dorm into shape, but a quick inquiry revealed the truth: you. You had been handling the tasks quietly, never asking for credit or praise.
When he caught you refilling the ink on his desk before slipping out of his study, he finally confronted you. “Why?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
You tilted your head, smiling softly. “I know you can handle it, Riddle. You always do. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”
His heart tightened painfully at your words. He sat back in his chair, feeling a warmth spread through him that no one had ever sparked before. Who else would do this for me?
Riddle wasn’t one to admit weakness, but the fever had hit him hard. He barely remembered collapsing into bed, but when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was you.
You were slumped over beside his bed, your hand still holding his, a damp cloth on his forehead and an empty glass on the nightstand.
His throat tightened. He tried to sit up, but the movement disturbed you. You blinked awake groggily, immediately sitting upright. “You’re awake!” you said, brushing your fingers across his forehead to check his temperature. “You’re still warm, but better than before.”
Riddle stared at you, his chest tightening at the sight of your tired eyes and messy hair. “You stayed here… all night?”
“Of course,” you said, as if it were obvious. “You’d do the same for me.”
The warmth in his chest spread until he couldn’t look at you without his heart pounding. He didn’t deserve this—your care, your kindness—but he wanted to, desperately.
The duel had been a simple training session, but when a stray spell came too close to Riddle, you had thrown yourself between him and the blast without a second thought.
Riddle caught you before you stumbled, pulling you close to steady you. His eyes widened as he realized what you’d done. “Why did you—?”
“Reflex,” you said, brushing yourself off like it was nothing. “I know you’re strong, but it was heading right for you.”
Riddle felt his heart lurch. You didn’t step in because you doubted him. You stepped in because you cared.
He realized you’d done it before—pulling him out of harm’s way, even when it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t patronizing; it was just… you.
He couldn’t stop the blush creeping up his neck, spreading to his ears. “You don’t have to protect me,” he muttered, his voice softer than usual.
You grinned, nudging him playfully. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to make sure you don’t get singed.”
Riddle looked away, hiding his burning face. He couldn’t even find the words to respond, too overwhelmed by how much he wanted to pull you into his arms and never let go.
The moment the teapot cracked, Riddle’s world narrowed to that single shattering sound. He stared at the broken pieces, his hands gripping the porcelain as his chest tightened. It wasn’t just a teapot—it was his control, his composure, his legacy.
“Riddle.” Your voice cut through the panic, calm and resolute. You stepped closer, holding out your hands. “Give it to me.”
“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s irreplaceable. My mother—”
“And I’ll fix it,” you interrupted firmly, your gaze unwavering.
His breath hitched. “You can’t just fix something like this.”
“Riddle.” Your tone softened, but your resolve didn’t waver. “Trust me.”
Something in your voice broke through his panic. Against every instinct, he handed the pieces to you.
The next day, you presented the teapot to him, its cracks filled with shining gold. He held it in his hands, staring at the transformed porcelain.
“You used kintsugi,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
You smiled. “I figured something this important deserved to be beautiful, even with its flaws.”
He couldn’t speak. All he could do was hold the teapot and try not to fall apart as he realized that no one else would have done this for him.
When a classmate asked him out, Riddle was so blindsided that he barely registered their words. He stared at them, their earnest expression blurring into the background as a single thought consumed him: It’s not them. It’s not you.
His mind betrayed him, conjuring images of you: your quiet understanding, the way you smoothed over his rough edges without hesitation, the way you saw him.
The classmate’s words faded entirely, and all he could think was that they didn’t know him—not like you did. They wouldn’t care for him like you did, wouldn’t anticipate his needs, wouldn’t challenge him, wouldn’t ruin him the way you had.
“I… I can’t,” he finally choked out, his voice trembling.
He walked away, his hands shaking, his heart a storm of realization. You had set a bar so high that no one could reach it. You had unraveled his meticulous rules, his expectations, and left him longing for something he’d never allowed himself to believe he could have.
Later that day, as he wandered the courtyard, still shaken by the confrontation, he saw you passing by. You were laughing at something Ace had said, your smile bright and easy, the sunlight catching on your hair.
The world stopped.
It hit him like a spell to the chest. He would never, could never, love anyone else. No one else could make him feel the way you did. No one else could understand him like you.
You turned slightly, catching his eye, and offered him a small wave before continuing on your way.
Riddle pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady the wild thrum of his heart.
You had ruined him for anyone else—and he didn’t want to be unruined.
Premise: You spoil him rotten, giving him the true princess treatment whenever he least expects it. Based on this request.
Pairing: reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus (Seperate)
Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. This is pure fluff and I wrote these as headcanons on how the MC would spoil the lads men.
XAVIER
Tying His Shoelaces: Xavier, perpetually lost in thought or too sleepy to notice, never realizes his shoelaces have come undone. You’ve taken it upon yourself to stop him mid-step, kneeling down without hesitation to tie them up for him.
"Y-you don’t have to do that,” he murmurs, his ears tinged red as other hunters in the UNICORNS squad snicker or raise eyebrows. Despite his protests, he secretly loves the care and attention you give him. Sometimes, he’ll glance down at his laces before heading out, secretly hoping you’ll stop him again.
The Crumb Crisis: You’ve come to notice that Xavier is always getting crumbs on his face—whether it’s from a snack he didn’t realize he’d left out or a meal he’s rushed through. You’ve made it a habit to carry a handkerchief with you, and whenever you see those crumbs stuck to his cheek, you gently take the cloth and wipe them off. He’s always caught off guard, sometimes even stammering,
"I'm fine, really!" but the quiet appreciation in his eyes is unmistakable.
Homecooked Comfort: After grueling missions, Xavier is too drained to do much beyond collapsing on his couch. And given his well-documented kitchen disasters—he once managed to burn soup—you’ve made it a point to spoil him with hearty, homecooked meals.
From comforting stews to his favorite snacks, you make sure he’s well-fed and taken care of. The first time you did it, his sleepy eyes widened in surprise. “You… made this for me?”
“Of course. You deserve it.”
He savors every bite, and though he’s not great with words, the way he quietly finishes everything on his plate is thanks enough.
Fuck the machines: Claw machines are Xavier’s mortal enemy. You’ve watched him struggle time and again, his focus no match for the slippery claws, even when he uses his Evol. So, you’ve taken over as his claw machine champion.
"Which one do you want this time?” you ask, cracking your knuckles as he hesitates before shyly pointing to a particularly adorable plush.
You win it with ease, handing it to him with a triumphant grin. “For you, Your Highness.”
He laughs softly, his rare smile lighting up his face. “You’re too good at this.”
Bedhead Boy: Xavier’s perpetually messy bedhead is endearing, but sometimes it’s just too much for you to resist smoothing down. With a quiet hum, you gently comb your fingers through his hair, fixing it without a second thought.
“Hey…” he starts to protest, but he always lets you finish, his ears pink as you pat his head affectionately.
ZAYNE
Door Dash: Zayne’s disdain for hospital canteen food is no secret, and you’ve made it your mission to ensure he eats something wholesome during his grueling shifts. You send him meals carefully packed in insulated containers, often including his favorite dishes. Occasionally, you’ll slip in a small dessert, knowing his secret sweet tooth. He doesn’t say much when he gets them, but you’ve caught a glimpse of the faint smirk he wears when he opens the package.
“You know I can survive on vending machine snacks, right?” he’d quip over the phone later, but the fact he finishes every bite says otherwise.
Sticky notes: Zayne isn’t the type to expect grand gestures, so you leave small, thoughtful surprises instead. A note tucked into his hospital coat pocket with a cheeky, “Don’t overwork yourself. I still need my heart surgeon around.” Or a sticky note on his dashboard that reads, “Drive safe, handsome.” Once, he found one in his mail that simply said, “Stop glaring at everyone, I know you’re secretly nice.”
He pretends to be unfazed, rolling his eyes or muttering something sarcastic like, “Am I being stalked?” but he keeps every single one in a drawer at home.
Spoil me, rotten: Zayne’s wardrobe is filled with impeccably tailored long coats, a staple of his polished appearance. You’ve taken to buying him accessories like elegant brooches, leather gloves, or even scarves that perfectly complement his collection. He always protests when you present them, narrowing his eyes and saying, “You do know I can buy these myself, right?”
But the next time you see him, he’s wearing the latest item with an almost imperceptible look of pride. You tease him about it, and he deadpans, “It’s just practical. Don’t overthink it.”
Doctor's Day Out: Knowing how chaotic Zayne’s schedule as a top surgeon can be, you take charge of planning the weekends so he doesn’t have to lift a finger. Whether it’s booking a cozy dinner reservation, arranging a quiet getaway, or even planning an at-home movie night, you ensure everything is set. “All you need to do is show up and look stunning,” you joke, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Well, I’m halfway there already,” he retorts dryly, but the way he leans back and relaxes during those weekends tells you he’s more grateful than he lets on.
Massage therapist: Zayne’s hands are his lifeline, and after long, intricate surgeries, they’re often sore and strained. You’ve made it a habit to take his hands in yours and gently massage them, working out the tension in his fingers and wrists. He pretends to be indifferent at first but notices that your skills have improved. After all, you’d put in the effort to learn different techniques to aid him and his skilled hands.
“I hope you’re not charging me for this.” He jokes. But as your thumbs press into the tight knots, his usual stoic demeanor falters. The sharp lines of stress around his eyes soften, and his shoulders, once hunched from exhaustion, slowly unwind.
RAFAYEL
After you: It’s no secret Rafayel enjoys being the center of your attention, and you’re more than happy to oblige. Wherever you are—be it a café, an art gallery, or even your own home—you always make it a point to open the door for him. Without fail, he pauses, waiting for you to complete the gesture. It’s not that he can’t do it himself, but he loves seeing that soft, proud smile on your face when you hold the door just for him. Of course, he’d never outright admit it.
Instead, he’ll quip something bratty, like, “Took you long enough, Cutie” but the faint curve of his lips tells you he secretly adores it.
Color Splash: Rafayel’s world revolves around his art, and you’ve made it your mission to fuel his creativity. Whether it’s hunting down rare pigments, finding unconventional materials to create new textures, or gifting him innovative tools, you never miss an opportunity to surprise him. When he first discovers your thoughtful additions to his collection, he’s practically radiant, eyes gleaming with inspiration as he eagerly experiments.
Of course, he’ll nonchalantly mutter, “I could’ve found this myself, you know,” but his excitement is undeniable, and you know you’ve made his day.
Cheater, Cheater: You pride yourself on your competitive streak, but when it comes to Kitty Cards with Rafayel, you can’t help but let him bend the rules. He catches on every time, glancing at you with a knowing smirk as he casually switches out cards while you pretend not to notice. He knows exactly what you’re doing but plays along with a sly grin. Winning always means he gets to name his prize, and without fail, it’s more time with you.
“Your competitive streak is slipping, cutie,” he teases, already pulling you closer. “Guess you’ll just have to pay for it with another evening by my side.”
Passenger Princess: Whether it’s the car or your motorbike, Rafayel is always the passenger princess with you. He’s perfectly content letting you take the wheel, whether it’s navigating through traffic or cruising down open roads. He’ll sit back, casually tossing a playful comment your way, his relaxed demeanor making it clear he has no interest in taking control. But even more than that, he loves the attention you give him. He’ll rest his hand on your shoulder or his head against the seat, basking in the comfort of being close to you. It’s his way of enjoying the ride—and you—without the fuss.
Creative Clean up: Rafayel’s studio is a whirlwind of creativity, but it’s also a constant mess. Brushes, paints, papers, clothes—everything’s scattered around like a storm wrecked his living space. Coffee cups would double as pen holders, and brushes would be left lying around like they were an afterthought. But no matter how chaotic it became, you never complained. You’d roll up your sleeves and clean up every single time you visited him.
He’d give you a cheeky grin, the same one he wore whenever he was being a brat, and say, “You know you don’t have to do this, right? I like my space just the way it is.” But he never stopped you, and in the moments when he didn’t look, his eyes would soften, and a hint of appreciation would slip through his normally playful mask. He knew you cared for him in a way that no one else did.
SYLUS
Product Placement: Sylus was used to getting what he wanted, whether it was luxury items or rare finds. He had his preferences, and he wasn’t one to settle for less. But when you made it your mission to keep his favorite, expensive brands stocked in your home—whether it was gourmet food, skincare products, or niche equipment—it didn’t go unnoticed.
The first time you did this, Sylus had been caught off guard. He’d teased you, of course. “I don’t need you to be my personal store, kitten. I’ve got everything I need.” But when he came over and found everything perfectly laid out just the way he liked it, the teasing turned into a more meaningful smile. He would let you spoil him just enough to acknowledge your effort, but never enough to let you feel like you were getting the upper hand. That was the Sylus way.
Rare Rhythms: Sylus’ love for rare records was well-known, and so was the fact that he had an extensive collection of limited-edition vinyl. But you didn’t mind diving into the world of obscure, indie artists just to get him something new for his collection. It wasn’t easy, though. It took long hours of scouring flea markets, searching online auction houses, and talking to music enthusiasts who knew more than a thing or two about underground talent. It was often a challenge, but for you, it was worth every second.
Sylus didn’t say much, but you could tell by the way he listened to every single one of them, that he was genuinely impressed. "They’ve got potential," he'd said, before you knew it, that same artist was suspiciously rising in popularity, and you’d smile every time Sylus mentioned them. “You really know how to find a diamond in the rough, don’t you, sweetie?”
Spoiled Stubborn: Sylus was always the one taking the lead, always the one orchestrating the grand gestures. Spoiling him? Not so easy. He didn’t make it easy for anyone to do that. He would never outright refuse, but it was clear that when you tried, he preferred to return the favor rather than let you take charge. But you were stubborn—probably even more so than he was. You wanted him to be spoiled just as much. You wanted him to experience the kind of care he gave to everyone else, and you had just the way to do it: Planning dates where he couldn’t take over. Once it was picnic in the woods. You went all out—your best blankets, his favorite snacks, wine you knew he’d like—and most importantly, you took care of every detail so that he couldn’t take charge. The other time, it was a movie night at your place where everything was set: Popcorn, soda, the projector and candy.
“You’re stubborn, you know that?” he remarked softly, but there was affection behind his words. "I want spoil you... but you’ve managed to spoil me instead." You smiled, the warmth in your chest spreading, knowing that in these small moment, you had made him feel cared for—something he usually avoided letting others do.
Sylus’ Salon: Sylus had always been a little gruff, his rugged demeanor giving off the impression of someone who was clinical and composed. But you knew him better than that. One of those moments was when you washed and dried his hair. He’d never asked for it, but you’d begun doing it without thinking. Maybe it was the way his silver hair shimmered under the water, or maybe it was the way he looked so disarmed when he let his guard down, letting you comb through his hair with graceful fingers.
You’d always notice how his breath would deepen, how his eyes would close just a little longer than necessary. "I know you like doing this," he’d say, the faintest hint of a grin playing on his lips. "But you’re making it hard for me to act all tough with you fussing over me like this." You’d laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead before continuing to dry his hair. It was an act of tenderness, a side of him that no one got to see.
Touch Starved: Sometimes, it wasn’t the grand gestures that mattered. It was the little touches. —a soft brush of your hand against his cheek or the fleeting warmth of your fingers tracing his jaw—he couldn’t help but pause. He’d find himself rewinding moments of you brushing his hair out of his face, or simply wrapping your arms around him when he least expected it. He’d tense, but only for a moment, before letting the warmth of your embrace dissolve his guarded exterior.
“It seems like a certain kitten cannot keep her hands to herself.” Sylus would tease, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips as you snuck in another kiss, letting him know that you’d spoil him with your touches and kisses, even if he won’t admit it loudly.
AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!
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