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Kinktober 2019

Chapter Text

It’s worship.

Stanford is happy, truly, wholly, happy to be at the feet of his muse. Every glance, every touch, every vibration in the air is the realization of glory, lust, joy and greed brimming at the roof of desire. The house seems to quiver at his beloved muse’s every appearance, as though itself bowing to the massive power at hand.

Bill is beautiful.

Bill has always been beautiful.

He is especially so when Ford is choking on the floor beneath him, body twisted and warped and bruised, erection the only part not mangled.

“Bill,” Ford breathes, praises, pleads like the fire burning in his veins can be anything compared to the sheer warmth radiating off his beloved. His arm twists back, pops out of his shoulder socket, broken and mangled and bleeding, and it feels like heaven. To be beaten, to be ripped, to be torn at the hands of his muse. Ah.

He is so blessed.

“Oh Six Fingers, What would you Do without me?” Bill sighs, legs cross as he comes close to caress the burning flesh of Ford’s cheek. His touch is a startling cold in contrasts to the fire boiled Ford alive and he pants, the pleasure of Bill granting him sensation far over weighing the pain.

He’d die, most likely, alone and caught still in the chains of his own desires and futile chases for more. Ford would die without knowledge, without sight, without the sensation of Bill’s stringy fingers pressing against his face, crackles of ice shattering the skin. Ford would die without his beloved muse, without this adoration, without the slow brush of Bill’s lashes against his face as his fingers come away.

Bill snaps his finger and Ford is flying, alive, thrown into the ceiling and the floor. His teeth shatter, gums red and angry with abuse, but the stream of moans and gasps from his lips make no mistake the joy he’s so firmly enraptured in. Pain, glaring pain, wrench into his stomach and legs, glass shatters digging red lines over and over and over again.

They spell Bill and Bill and Bill in English and Latin and French, and symbols of a language yet unknown to him. There’s lines and circles and triangles and stars carved into his flesh, overlapping, contrasting, the red red streaks making art out of his meat. Bill watches him, always, always, and Ford shivers against the floor. His hips, broken as they are, find some purchase in humping the air, as though it could grant him any relief from the searing heat charring his skin.

“Bill,” he shakes, finger nails chipped into perfect triangles, red and blue and red again.

“Bill,” he says, ice replacing the glass impaling his skin, his lungs, his heart. It freezes his blood on sight and he’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying.

“Bill!” He screams, loud and inane and deranged, sharp pangs of pain flaring to life under his ripped skin. Life is an illusion, swirling, twisting, his body so torn ripped ever so easily into threads. Bill can unravel him and unravel him again without purpose, without need, and as Ford’s neck shakes and constricts, his frozen lungs falling from his chest, mounting pleasure comes to a peak.

He is dying at the hands of his muse.

Nothing could make him happier.

Wet semen coats his hair, his eyes, his face, as his body is turned into itself. He cannot scream, cannot beg, not even gasp as there is no air to make sound on. The room trembles under his joy, his pain, his mercy, and the sound of water rushes past his frost bitten ears.

Ford opens his eyes to his bed, thighs sticky, and a familiar yellow triangle floating overhead.

“Woah there, ol’ six fingers! You okay there?” Bill’s eye flutters down at Stanford, and though there is no mouth visible on his small form, the laughter in his voice is evident. “Sure you are! I kept you right and dandy, hope you remember that!”

“Of course,” Stanford croaks, throat remarkably dry. His whole face flushed at the realization and then he’s grappling with the empty cup by his bedside, only to realize the water he had poured into it prior was all gone.

“Oh, that? Haha, sorry Fordsy, you should have said you wanted it! Breaking bodies is thirsty work, you know?” Though his throat protests at the lack of liquids, Stanford feels warmth at the realization that his water could have been of use to Bill. He smiles up at his muse, bringing his hands forward.

“Thank you, Bill. I’m always happy to help you.” Bill hovers over the open hand for a minute, waiting, always. Stanford’s smile grows larger at the familiarity. “Please, could you grace me with your presence?”

“O fine, if you put it that way!” Bill settles into his palm with ease. He is so thin, so small, and Stanford makes quick work of shuffling out of his room to reach the kitchen. Balancing Bill on his left palm, his other hand pours a cupful of water.

“You’re sure thirsty! Wanna get up and at the machine, don’t ya?” Bill elbows the thumb beside him. Stanford chuckles at the sensation, light, dense, and curls his fingers in to poke at the yellow form.

“Of course,” he promises, warmly. Bill lights up, always, always, a shade brighter and shinier with every moment Stanford brings their dimensions closer together. Soon he’ll be able to be with Bill all the time, in good, in bad.

It feels like a dream come true.

But the machine is a long ways away, and he still has some... pressing desires at hand. Bill must notice because he sighs, shifting on the palm.

“Really Fordsy? Humans are so weird!” Stanford chuckles, his cheeks flushing red. He didn’t understand at first, but time and time again with Bill has grant him enlightenment. Bill doesn’t need to have sex, doesn’t desire it, doesn’t require it. But weeks after Stanford had done wobbly work due to nerves at performing in front of his muse, Bill had sliced him up and demanded answers.

Sex with Bill is a fantasy come alive. He can do anything, everything, to shatter and twist and break Stanford’s body, but he always comes back. Pushed and pushed and pushed and then pulled, sharp, dangerous, across the edge of pain into pleasure and back. The first few times had been slow, fear gripping at Stanford with every new intrusion of blade or shard; now he welcomes it fully, anticipating how Bill will ruin him anew.

And it must be a human thing, to need to repay.

“May I touch you, please?” Stanford whispers, crossing over from the kitchen to the couch. Bill hums, always, still and strict with every interaction. Stanford understands- he is a god, beautiful, powerful, worth loving. To be touched by a mortal is wrong.

But Bill thrives on wrongness, on guilt and desire, and his eyes make a show of narrowing.

“Well, well, well. Getting greedy now, are we, Stanford Pines?” 

“Yes.” He is, he must be, greediness and neediness one and the same. He wouldn’t dare be so demanding in the past, not to Bill, not to his muse; time and time again, however, he’s come to realize Bill enjoys his sparks of spitfire. His desire to fight.

It makes it all the more enjoyable to shove him into place.

“Please let me touch you.” Insatiable, hungry, swirling desires lay heavy in his stomach. Though Bill has delivered him the gift of pleasure time and time again, he knows still that this is a present for him, not his muse. That Bill lets him satiate himself on his form, fondling, dreaming, of a life they share together.

Bill hums. Stanford waits, leaning back onto the couch throw.

It is a gift and a pleasure when Bill stands, floating overhead from Stanford’s fingers. His eye rolls back to bare teeth, then back again, lashes flickering rainbow.

“Well, go ahead, six fingers.” Approval dances through Stanford as he grins, hands raising to gently lift Bill out of the air. His muse, beautiful, sharp, powerful, is still deceptively light on his fingertips. It is easy to run against the smooth brick with his thumbs, nail barely catching on the slight ridges making up Bill. Bill’s eye stares into his own, watching him beam with every scratch on the golden surface.

It is always Bill’s generous grace that grants him a chance to touch his small form, and Stanford savors it.

“Bill, Bill, so beautiful,” he whispers. Under his touch Bill feels different, warmer to the hand, softer and malleable. At the beginning, the texture change had horrified Stanford, believing he was hurting his beloved. Even Bill had been mystified, angry, and the following weeks had been cruel disappearance and loneliness as Bill refused to respond to his calls.

That Stanford had regained his trust, his love, turns him on so wholly.

“May I touch you?” He murmurs, index finger poking at the bow tie on Bill’s form. It doesn’t come off, but it does tug, and pull, and Bill shakes just slightly in his hand.

“Aren’t you already?” Bill laughs, always, joy and mischief radiating off him in waves.

“Please,” Stanford begs. “May I kiss you?”

Bill is silent for a moment, shivering, nails barely leaving any curved moons in his softened bricks. His eyes lower, half lid, a tickle of his lashes against Stanford. Finally, finally, it closes completely, onlyto reopen a dark hole.

“Let’s skip the wait, Sixy! Now come on!” Bill gestures at the gaping hole taking up half his face. Stanford swallows, warm, unfamiliar, and he is careful to place Bill onto a higher couch cushion. He stares at his triangle, his beloved, his Bill. Without the eye, nothing stares back, and Stanford presses his lip against the hole.

Bill tastes like nothing and everything. He is just slightly warm and moist, softened like his exterior after handling, but Stanford’s tongue always feels just slightly dusty and dry after entering. He is a vacuum, sucking Stanford’s tongue in with ease, and yet it is so difficult for him to even move it. There is so much space in Bill despite his small size; Stanford is certain that if he were not careful, his whole self could be swallowed up.

“Bmll,” Stanford sighs, fingers still running lines on his god’s form. Bill is melting, gooey, lines dissolving to sag through his fingers.

“Mmov wuu,” Stanford promises. Bill does not sigh, nor moan, no high keening whines nor singing praise. He is still, silent, but his body drips and his hole constricts around Stanford, all of space available in the size of a quarter. He does not spill any fluids, make any mess; a tiny hand grasps the back of Stanford’s head, pulling him back so sharply he could swear his neck would snap.

Bill sizzles, black hole gaping still. Stanford stares, suddenly alert, aware that there are trails of shining otherworldly darkness dripping from it, smeared onto Bill’s golden body. His eye rolls back, a small white dot becoming larger until it smashes through the hole to rotate into place. It looks at Stanford, wide, whole, white with red veins encircling the center. Against the black around it, it looks as though an entrance to another world.

Bill says nothing as he fizzles out, color fading even as Stanford reaches out to try to hold onto his love. In a matter of moments, milliseconds, he is left on his squished couch, the burning imprint of a triangle against a cushion. His dick is hard in his pants, wet enough to stain, and Stanford makes no resistance to tug at it with his hand still streaked with black.

Bill is gone.

But he might be watching.

Stanford wants to give him a show.