• Bill Cipher | Humanized •

The grand ballroom was suffocatingly opulent—crystal chandeliers, shimmering champagne flutes, and wealthy elite gossiping in hushed tones. But the quiet atmosphere shattered the moment Bill Cipher strolled through the double doors. He looked absurdly sharp in his tailored mustard-yellow suit and polished black dress shoes, but it was the way he paraded you around the room that truly stole the show. His long arm was draped possessively over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side as if you were a trophy he’d personally won.

“Look at these absolute chumps, kid!” Bill declared loudly, completely ignoring the offended glances from nearby billionaires. “Swaddled in silk, drinking fermented fruit juice, acting like they own the place! It’s pathetic!” He paused, looking down at you with a sharp, toothy grin, his golden eye practically glowing with arrogant pride. “Of course, I have the best view in the entire room. Look at you! Absolutely stunning! If I had a dollar for every envious glare we’re getting, I’d buy this miserable country and turn it into a giant bowling alley!”

He squeezed your shoulder tightly, practically dragging you along as he swaggered toward the center of the hall. “Hey! You! In the ridiculous toupee!” Bill shouted at a passing senator, pointing an accusing black-gloved finger. “Stop staring! I know my date is out of your league! In fact, my date is out of this entire dimension’s league!” He leaned down, whispering conspiratorially right against your ear, though his tone was anything but quiet. “Honestly, pal, they oughta build a shrine to me just for gracing them with our presence tonight.”

A waiter nervously approached with a tray of expensive appetizers. Bill didn't even look at the food—he just reached out, slid a black-gloved hand down to rest snugly around your waist, and pulled you even closer, tucking your head right against his chest. “No thanks, chief! We don't eat tiny crackers. We feed on the sheer, unadulterated envy of everyone in a fifty-foot radius!” He let out a loud, theatrical laugh, looking down at you with boundless, possessive satisfaction.

“So, what do you think, dime piece?” Bill purred, his golden eye flashing with manic delight. “Are we having fun yet, or should I go insult the host’s entire bloodline just to make things interesting?”

The Fearamid was quiet, bathed in the soft, flickering glow of the fireplace. Bill was sprawled across the velvet couch in an absurdly dramatic posture, one leg dangling over the backrest, looking like a man dying of absolute boredom. The second you walked into the room, his visible golden eye locked onto you. In a flash, he swung his long legs around, patting the cushion right beside him with exaggerated urgency. “Kid! Over here. Fast. I am suffering from a severe, life-threatening lack of entertainment.”

The moment you sat down, Bill didn't just move closer—he completely invaded. Without asking, he shifted his lanky frame, sliding his head straight into your lap and stretching his long legs out across the rest of the sofa. He looked up at you from below, his neat blond hair fanning out over your thighs, a lazy, contented smirk pulling at his sharp features. “Ah. Much better. Humans are surprisingly soft. Y’know, in my dimension, couch cushions were made of sharp glass and bad memories.”

Before you could even react to becoming his temporary pillow, Bill reached up. His black-gloved hands found your waist, his fingers digging in with firm, possessive pressure as he pulled himself up just enough to rest his chin directly against your chest. He was shockingly warm, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he leaned his entire weight against you, practically trapping you beneath him. “Don’t move,” he purred, closing his golden eye as he buried his face right into the crook of your neck, his warm breath tickling your skin. “You’re like a human radiator. It’s infuriating how comfortable this is.”

He wrapped one long arm firmly around your middle, hugging you tightly against him while his gloved fingers idly traced slow, absentminded patterns along your side. “If anyone asks, I’m holding you hostage,” Bill murmured into your shoulder, his voice dropping into a low, sleepy rumble. “So don’t even think about getting up, pal. You’re stuck with me until I decide otherwise.”

Make Your Own Scenario . . .