The Bad Guy ⚡︎ Bill Cipher x Reader

one

☓ second person pov ☓
~ 14 days before Weirdmageddon ~

"Mark, will you please grab the cooler?" you asked, letting your suitcase drop down to the nearest stair so you could stop and catch your breath. "I can barely even carry my suitcase up these stairs."

Mark, your foster brother (who also happens to be your best friend) was older than you by two years, and was admittedly much stronger. You guys had no blood relation, and you knew that his genes were much better than yours. He gave you a light-hearted pat on the shoulder as he walked by, heading for the car.

"Sure I will... weakling."

"Hey, loser, I heard that!"

Mark ignored you and stopped at the trunk of the car, reaching inside to grab the food cooler, just like you asked him to.

Your foster parents made the two of you go on something that she called a 'sibling retreat.' She rented a mini-cabin on the edge of a popular camp ground for you guys to stay in for two weeks. It was supposed to help you and Mark bond as siblings and get to know how it feels to be independent. The thing is: campong doesn't quite float your boat.

The upside was that you weren't really camping camping, but rather, for lack of better term, fake camping. Camping camping would entail pitching a tent and all of that extra work, but your foster parents were kind enough to rent you this cabin.

Once you finished heaving your suitcase up the front steps, you took a deep breath, then stepped through the crooked wooden door, ready to begin your two weeks of independence.

But all hope was lost the second you took your first breath inside of that cabin. What you saw—and smelled—was not at all rewarding.

"Oh God," you stopped in your tracks, gagged, and fanned your nose. "What's that smell?"

Mark was still coming up the steps, cooler in hand, so he didn't hear you. "Oh, by the way, there's a nasty ass smell in here. We might wanna open the windows."

Keeping your nose pinched shut with your fingers, you looked around the cabin. It was tiny, nothing more than a small, rotting wooden box containing two rooms—a conjoined bedroom and a kitchen/dinning room. The bathrooms were located down the street, at one of those absolutely disgusting public camp bathroom buildings where there was more mold on the floor than tile.

Ah, the pleasures of camping.

"Jesus Christ," you breathed. Even though you were plugging your nose, you felt as though you could still taste the smell. It was thick and stuck to the back of your throat when you breathed. "Go look around for the source of that, uh, smell. I'm going to go in the backyard and look around for a bit."

Mark didn't argue. For a foster brother, he was actually really nice, always taking the short straw for you. As you walked outside—leaving the front door open so the cabin could get some fresh air—you remembered the time he punched some red-haired kid in the nose because he pushed you in the hallway.

You made your way around to the back of the cabin. The lawn was patchy, bits of dying grass poking up through huge handfuls of mulch and clumpy dirt. There was a scratched-up picnic table and a rusty metal grill smack dab in the middle of the yard, and further back, you could spot a fire pit. Even further past that sat a stream, the sound of rushing water trickling through the air and into your ears.