This Guy Again

I need my man to win

Hoo boy, all the typos I gotta fix

Bill Cipher x Bounty Hunter!Reader Concept

Wherein Bill escaped the Theraprism, and Dimension #5150 sends their best bounty hunter after him. YOU!

But none of them ever expected you to fall in love with him.

The Theraprism was a place built to rehabilitate. But with the Great Axolotl's sudden disappearance, a lot of convicts used the opportunity to slip away and disappear. Among them, was the infamous Bill Cipher.

~~~

You pick up his book after finding the last human who read it. Your mind is hungry for information about him- the first ever convict to escape the Theraprism, a space outside of time, a place of redemption.

How evil and powerful do you have to be to escape such a place?

You convince yourself you're reading it to find out where he is. To know the scale of Bill Cipher's crimes. But deep down, you knew better than that.

It was helpful in tracking the triangle down, but also for entertainment.

"Slow days? Why don't you come on over for a drunk at O'Sadley's, my favorite pub in the entire Rock Bottom Asteroid Belt of the Vicious Spiral Nebula! Their "I'm Fine" juice is guaranteed to keep you coming back."

The book entertains you on a boring day.

"Ever think to yourself, mystery reader, what would happen if two warring planets collided in an epic, world-ending display? Ya ever pick up any romance novels? I'm a sucker for Enemies-to-Lovers fics, myself. So I made two planets kiss once, it was COOL! FIXED THEIR LITTLE WAR PROBLEMS TOO AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

There was a lot of filler pages just filled with "AHAHAHA"s, you noticed.

The contents were indeed disturbing. At least, to a mortal or any normal person. You've seen worse in your line of work, really. But so far, all you saw were funny little stories of mischief and shocking antics. Nothing of a dimension or planet killer.

Perhaps, that was all that he wanted you to see.

"SAY PAL, I KNOW I ASKED YA LIKE A BAJILLION TIMES ALREADY... BUT D'YA WANNA MEET UP FOR A DRINK? I COULD USE A NEW DRINKING BUDDY AFTER THAT LAST ONE GREW A SPINE AND TRIED TO ZAP ME OUT OF EXISTENCE!"

The book spoke to you. Tried to befriend you. You knew deep down it was a ruse, that it was manipulating you. It even asked you to give it some of your blood, once. Ha! No one would ever fall for that. So you decided to take a break from it.

The next time you opened it, the words written there weren't so funny.

"Y'know, I wish I could see the look in your face while you're reading this", the book wrote, its ink fading into splotchy letter.

"Why are you stalling? What's taking so long? Can you really not find me, or is it that...."

A singular, giant eye flashed through the darkened pages of the book, startling you.

"...You're having fun reading my book? You're enjoying my stories, aren't you. Ya sick little freak! We're not so different, you and I."

"You're not as good and moral as you think you are, [REDACTED]."

Upon surrendering the book to the Wardens of the Theraprism, you were tasked with hunting Bill down.

You closed the book after that, heart hammering in your chest. You couldn't look at it for days.

~~~

Shaken yet determined to do your job, you set out after him. It needed to be done, the book was made of lies. The book was made to manipulate the reader.

You needed to do your job, before Bill destroys more lives. You needed to be a Warden, and bring him to justice.

You needed to go back to your monotonous, violent, and bleak life, where all you did was spill blood and-

You needed to find Bill.

He asked you time and time again to have a drink with him.

And you knew just the bar to find him in.

Psst, thanks for reading!

Pitching an idea into the void here. The reader isn't human, still fleshing out what she is. But she is an entity whose SOLE purpose is to be a bounty hunter and warden to the Theraprism.

Sighhhhh... I need to make lore art

Bill Cipher x Bounty Hunter!Reader Concept

Wherein Bill escaped the Theraprism, and Dimension #5150 sends their best bounty hunter after him. YOU!

But none of them ever expected you to fall in love with him.

The Theraprism was a place built to rehabilitate. But with the Great Axolotl's sudden disappearance, a lot of convicts used the opportunity to slip away and disappear. Among them, was the infamous Bill Cipher.

~~~

You pick up his book after finding the last human who read it. Your mind is hungry for information about him- the first ever convict to escape the Theraprism, a space outside of time, a place of redemption.

How evil and powerful do you have to be to escape such a place?

You convince yourself you're reading it to find out where he is. To know the scale of Bill Cipher's crimes. But deep down, you knew better than that.

It was helpful in tracking the triangle down, but also for entertainment.

"Slow days? Why don't you come on over for a drunk at O'Sadley's, my favorite pub in the entire Rock Bottom Asteroid Belt of the Vicious Spiral Nebula! Their "I'm Fine" juice is guaranteed to keep you coming back."

The book entertains you on a boring day.

"Ever think to yourself, mystery reader, what would happen if two warring planets collided in an epic, world-ending display? Ya ever pick up any romance novels? I'm a sucker for Enemies-to-Lovers fics, myself. So I made two planets kiss once, it was COOL! FIXED THEIR LITTLE WAR PROBLEMS TOO AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

There was a lot of filler pages just filled with "AHAHAHA"s, you noticed.

The contents were indeed disturbing. At least, to a mortal or any normal person. You've seen worse in your line of work, really. But so far, all you saw were funny little stories of mischief and shocking antics. Nothing of a dimension or planet killer.

Perhaps, that was all that he wanted you to see.

"SAY PAL, I KNOW I ASKED YA LIKE A BAJILLION TIMES ALREADY... BUT D'YA WANNA MEET UP FOR A DRINK? I COULD USE A NEW DRINKING BUDDY AFTER THAT LAST ONE GREW A SPINE AND TRIED TO ZAP ME OUT OF EXISTENCE!"

The book spoke to you. Tried to befriend you. You knew deep down it was a ruse, that it was manipulating you. It even asked you to give it some of your blood, once. Ha! No one would ever fall for that. So you decided to take a break from it.

The next time you opened it, the words written there weren't so funny.

"Y'know, I wish I could see the look in your face while you're reading this", the book wrote, its ink fading into splotchy letter.

"Why are you stalling? What's taking so long? Can you really not find me, or is it that...."

A singular, giant eye flashed through the darkened pages of the book, startling you.

"...You're having fun reading my book? You're enjoying my stories, aren't you. Ya sick little freak! We're not so different, you and I."

"You're not as good and moral as you think you are, [REDACTED]."

Upon surrendering the book to the Wardens of the Theraprism, you were tasked with hunting Bill down.

You closed the book after that, heart hammering in your chest. You couldn't look at it for days.

~~~

Shaken yet determined to do your job, you set out after him. It needed to be done, the book was made of lies. The book was made to manipulate the reader.

You needed to do your job, before Bill destroys more lives. You needed to be a Warden, and bring him to justice.

You needed to go back to your monotonous, violent, and bleak life, where all you did was spill blood and-

You needed to find Bill.

He asked you time and time again to have a drink with him.

And you knew just the bar to find him in.

Psst, thanks for reading!

Pitching an idea into the void here. The reader isn't human, still fleshing out what she is. But she is an entity whose SOLE purpose is to be a bounty hunter and warden to the Theraprism.

glad you’re feeling better!

would you be comfortable sharing a sneak peek of the next chapter 👀

if not I totally understand please prioritize your well being!

Listen, I don't have a chapter sneak peak for you BUT..... because I'm making you all wait so long for this next chapter and I feel bad, I'm gonna give you a small snack.

This is an unpublished thingy that I posted on a little discord server that I'm in and people liked it there so I figured you might enjoy it here. It is just a very short warm-up drabble that I did ages ago and never used again. It's a bit messy and stuff, but whatever. It's set during MtB but it isn't really anything to do with the series. Just a little snippet of life within it:

I Got It Bad (and that ain't good) Rating: NSFW (only slightly) Type: Drabble Tags: Kissing, implied sexual stuff. Very, very tiny inference to muses but meant in no certain way. No pronouns/body described. Word count: 1233

When he's feeling contemplative, Ford likes to play the piano.

He is, like so many other things he turns his attention to, wonderful at it. 

Ford likes jazz. He pretends he's a classical purist but you've found the record sleeves on the shelves near his desk, you’ve done a little snooping, and you know they rarely correspond to the vinyl inside. They're just for show. He plays it mainly in the evenings when he's treating himself to a glass of scotch; he'll listen to a particular artist (this week it's been an awful lot of Duke Ellington) and then recreate it on his own instrument. 

He'll start small. Just a slow, leisurely tinkling of the ivories as he finds his rhythm, and then he'll settle into his groove and flex yet another of his many skills as you listen from another room while you tidy up.

If you're especially lucky, he'll ask you to join him and give him feedback on it. 

He doesn't care about the feedback, of course, because he knows he's good and so does everyone else, and you're sure he's just using it as an opportunity to show off but you never mind. 

He has, in typical Ford fashion, always refuted your accusation: “I assure you, I certainly am not,” he'd said one evening with a knowing smile, as you'd watched from your seat beside him. “I merely know that you like jazz and I play because you listen,” and you'd felt such an intensely affectionate warmth bloom in your chest that you'd dropped the point immediately.

(And when he had added on a quiet: “Plus, I like the way you look at me when I do it,” and you'd made him hit a bum note when you’d leant up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then, well, who can blame you?) 

Your favourite thing to do, beyond simply enjoying the melodies, is to watch his hands and fingers as he works. 

He'd been a little apprehensive at first, once he had noticed, but you had been quick to reassure him that your interest was appreciative, if perhaps salacious, and not even close to judgemental. 

“Would you be uncomfortable if I took a video?” You ask one dark winter's evening, leaning against the piano’s top while you observe him. “Just for myself, I mean.” 

“Whatever for?” Ford responds without missing a beat of his metronome. 

He's going away soon. He and Stan set sail in two days time and it’s a long trip this time, which means for four months, four long, agonising months, you’ll be without him. It’s almost too much to bear and your heart feels like lead at the thought. 

“Because I’m going to miss you and I’d like to have something to remind me of you when I feel like shit,” you say. 

The corner of Ford’s mouth curls upward a fraction and he spares you a thinly veiled, heated glance, his cheeks turning pink. “I thought our plan was to give you plenty of reminders the night before….?” 

Your stomach flutters. 

“I’d like more than bruises, if you wouldn’t mind,” you say, biting down on a smile. 

Ford laughs under his breath and after a moment, says: “And it’s just for you? The video?” 

“Of course,” you reassure him. “I don’t have to, I just…. Your hands are my favourite part of you and I think about them, often.” 

Too often, some might say. 

Ford laughs again, a little louder this time. “Not my dashing good looks?” he teases. “Or my dazzling personality? You wound me, my dear.” 

You grin. “All of the above,” you say with a shrug. “But especially your hands.” 

“Is that so?” Ford says, taking one hand from the keys to pat the empty space beside him. “And what, pray tell, do you think about them?” 

You go where he asks, taking up a seat at his side obediently. “Lots of things.” 

“Such as….?” 

He’s fishing for compliments, you both know it, but does sound genuinely curious, too. 

“I think they’re the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen,” you say, giving him exactly what he wants. “And I think about how they fit in mine. I think about how they feel, how your thumb rubs over my knuckles when we hold hands and how your little finger does the same on the sides, you know, just because you can do that….”

“Anything else?” Ford asks, voice warm. 

You smile, eyes transfixed on the way his fingers tick across the ivory. “And…. I like to think about how you hold my thighs when you have your head between them. The way you hold onto my hips. How your fingers taste when you put them in my mouth.” 

Ford makes a soft sound, somewhere between a contented sigh and an aroused groan, and his hands falter momentarily before he restarts his playing. 

“Is that so?” he says, hoarse. 

“Mm,” you hum absentmindedly. Your head is full of those same thoughts right now, your mind’s eye blurred with the memories of Ford’s fingers climbing underneath your jeans and inching past your underwear. Of touching you so intimately that you have to press your thighs together slightly to sate the longing. 

Ford catches it. 

“You’re thinking about it right now,” he mutters, and his tone holds no question.

He’s stopped playing. His hands are frozen over the keys. 

“Aren’t you?” you answer, eyes still on them. 

Ford exhales slowly through his nose, shaky,  restrained. “I’m always thinking of you,” he says simply. 

You tear your eyes away to look up at him, only to find that his gaze is already on you. 

Ford’s eyes are molten, half-lidded and hot, and they flick down to your mouth and back up to your own. 

“You’re terrible,” he says, in such a way that it’s obvious he means it in the most complimentary context possible. “A terrible, terrible influence on an old man like me.” 

A smirk creeps onto your face. It’s always satisfying to see the effect you have on him. “I can leave, if you’d like me to. I have plenty to do and I-!” 

Ford pushes the stool back with one leg, your combined weights little more than a minor  inconvenience to him, and he hauls you into his lap before you can even finish the thought. 

You laugh, loud and bright, and fling your arms around his neck to hold on tightly to him and avoid sending you both to the floor in a heap. “Or not,” you concede. 

“Never,” agrees Ford, and then he’s kissing you. 

It’s slow and tender and white hot as always. 

You can feel his arousal press between your legs and it’s enough to make you smile against his mouth. 

“What a dirty old man you’ve become,” you say dramatically, nudging your nose against his. 

“I'm only what my muse makes of me,” Ford says raggedly. “And you are an awfully seductive force, you know….” 

“So I've been told,” you smile, one hand wandering below to palm him gently through his slacks. 

Ford groans, low and deep, and tilts his head back. “I'll make a deal with you,” he says quietly. “I swore off them a long time ago but just for you, just this once: if you keep doing that, I'll let you take footage of any fucking thing you like….” 

You grin. 

“Deal.” 

been building a collection of posts from like minded individuals

What a harmless little creature! based on this

some fords i drew recently

give me baby Bill I'd raise him right

Ok but they didn't know this

would be their last time on the swing set together. Like, of course, they were talking about their future and how things would change soon. But "soon" didn't mean "tomorrow", or at least it wasn't supposed to. They thought they still had time. And even when Ford would eventually leave for university, he'd still be in contact with his family and his brother, so of course they would still come to their favorite hang out spot, if only for old time's sake. (A thing a lot of people seem to forget is that Ford very much didn't want Stan out of his life before the science fair. I don't think he even considered something like this a possibility, because why would he?)

There's something so profoundly sad about someone visiting their childhood favorite place for the last time without knowing it. But to think about how for the brothers it was not them having fun, or chatting or looking at the sea like they always used to. It was them talking about their futures (which had just recently become futures —plural instead of future —singular) that would very soon tear them apart, so much more than they thought it would.