Archive of Our Own

Tired couldn't begin to describe what Bill had felt since arriving on Earth. It'd been less than a week since he landed face-first back in Gravity Falls, stumbling through the forest like a newborn giraffe to, of course, the horrendous shack that haunted his dreams for millennia.

The Axolotl has a peculiar sense of humor. Enough time in the theraprism taught Cipher that much. But this was downright cruel, to not just give Bill this gangly body, but to plop him smack-dab back in his enemy's backyard? The universe couldn't write a better joke. And Shooting Star had just the thing to cure Bill’s seemingly ever-changing body, offering him ‘Mabel Juice’. And what kind of chaotic being would Bill be if he didn't indulge another?

He blames the exhaustion on a slow adjustment to his temporal form. Everything dragged at an agonizing pace, from the work Stanley forced him to do around the mystery shit-shack to 'earn his keep' to how long it took to walk into town. Everything was slow. So sue him if he wanted a little something to speed up his day.

The glass of bright pink liquid was filled with inedible junk, hard as Bill tried to chew through a plastic unicorn head. Shooting Star left the pitcher for him to finish, needing to pack up for a weekend trip with Pine Tree and Corduroy. Left to his own devices, Bill downed the pitcher of sparkles and kittens and the possible poison, hoping it’d solve his problems.

Despite the new-found speed Bill needed to make it through the day, he can’t ignore the annoying side effects. Like glitter between his teeth and the lingering sour taste in the back of his mouth, and his rabbiting heart. Worse yet, he can’t shake the nagging feeling of his gut twisting with pressure. It feels like his entire body kicked into high gear, including the junk inside this stupid meat sack. 

Disdain drips onto his features as he mindlessly takes wads of cash from customers, irritated with his twitching hands, the noise of tourists, and the pulsing between—

Look—

It’s not like Bill is completely unaware of human bodily functions. It’s just so unpleasant to think about. All that chewing and swallowing and slurping and consuming and not to mention expelling—Ax above, he doesn’t even want to entertain the thought. 

He’s too busy answering tourist questions, and by answering he means pointing every person and their mother to the outdated guidebooks collecting dust by the gift shop entrance. He barely knows what’s going on, how the hell can he answer their brainless questions? 

Soon enough, the gift shop is empty again, leaving Bill to keep stocking up the shop with their newest items. He’s not sure where the shipment of ceramic mugs came from, but judging from the pungent smell of paint, they can’t be safe. Not his problem. 

He slides cup after cup onto the empty shelves, desperately trying to focus on the scent invading his nose instead of the slow ache between his legs. It demands his attention, as much as Bill tries ignoring, clenching, flexing, to will it away. A swooping feeling turns in his stomach, and with all his energy focused on this stupid body, Bill doesn’t notice the full shelf. The next mug he tries to place falls from his fingers, shattering at his feet. 

“Fuck!” 

The gift shop goes quiet. 

Bill slowly turns his head, eye blown wide at the shocked mother and son behind him. “Uh,” he swallows, “excuse me.” 

Instead of grabbing a broom or picking up the shards, Bill dashes to the only person he thinks can help him. If anyone’s got a cure for his stupid body, it’s Sixer.

The first discovery in months, and it’s interrupted. Even that feels like too loose of a word to describe what fresh hell just barged into his study. 

When Ford hears the elevator doors open, he immediately answers, “I am not interested in going to Greasy’s with you Stanley. For God’s sake eat a vegetable for once this week.” He grumbles as he details the latest discoveries he and his nephew stumbled upon during a morning hike. 

“Guess again, smart guy.” 

Ford’s upper lip twitches with annoyance. “Shouldn’t you be working?” His tone immediately changes from exasperated care to something far less welcoming. 

“Well I wouldn’t be down here if I didn’t need to be.”

“I don’t have anything for you, Cipher.”

“Ah, but I think you do.” 

Ford rolls his eyes and sets his pen down, expecting the lanky man to already be sauntering his way. 

He’s surprised to see Bill leaning against the wall by the elevator, knees close together and posture rigid. “What on Earth are you doing?” Ford tuts at Bill like a child, who’s golden eye rolls with irritation. 

“I…” Bill looks to the floor. His shyness is unnatural, almost unnerving. What could be ailing the interdimensional being so much he can’t even make eye contact?

“Are you hurt?” Ford gets to his feet, tilting his head as he gets a bit closer to examine the taller man. 

“That’s putting it lightly,” Bill huffs. “I can’t even walk without these stupid limbs trembling.” He growls at his buckled knees. Ford’s curious face curls into something serious. 

“Try,” he says and takes a step back from the shaking figure. 

Bill’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. I need to see your symptoms if you want my help.” 

Slowly, Bill’s legs unglue, his left foot extending like it’s his first time walking. Ford watches, trying to keep his gaze below the knee, but he can’t help crawling up Bill’s trembling calves and thighs as he tries to take a second step, and makes what the scientist could only describe as a squeak. The former demon turns into himself, arms wrapped around his stomach to hide his tensed thighs. 

“See!?” He strains. “I can’t walk—”

“Why?”

Bill whips his head up. “What do you mean, why? Don’t you see how my fucking legs are shaking?!” He hisses, clutching his lower stomach. 

Ford hums and steps a bit closer. “Straighten up.” 

Bill listens. An embarrassed blush crosses his face. 

“Arms apart.” Ford says clinically, but this time, Bill doesn’t listen. “Bill—”

“Absolutely n—” Bill’s eye goes wide, and he doubles over himself again with a groan. “Fuuuck.”

“For Pete’s sake…” Ford rolls his eyes. He stews in quiet annoyance as Bill groans. Something he tries to ignore curls in Ford’s belly like a snake. The rich, dark beast that used to control his every move slithers in his abdomen, eating up the sight of his former lo—friend. 

“Tell me what you’re feeling.” He says instead. 

Bill’s breath trembles. “There’s this pressure,” he swallows, “Like I’ll explode if I move.” 

Ford can’t stop the grimace crossing over his face. “Where?” He clears his throat, trying to keep his voice level in hopes that it’ll ground Bill slightly. Instead, his knees bend further. 

“Here.” He chokes out. 

“Bill, you need to be specif—”

The trembling form puddles to his knees in front of Ford. For the first time in a minute, Bill lifts his head up. Between his frizzy curls, Ford swears that glowing gold eye is glazed over. He locks his face into impartial observance while his stomach unwinds with an old hunger. 

“Here,” Bill gasps. It isn’t until his shaking, tattooed hands press to his own crotch that Ford finally looks down. 

If Ford wasn’t half offline at the moment, he’d snatch his journal and sketch the rare sight before him. His thirty-year-old self would cackle at the impossibility of the all powerful demon trapped and confused by the complexities and simplicities of the human body. Under the dim fluorescent lights, Ford notices the droplets of sweat on Bill’s brow, his closed mouth chewing back the frustration apparent in his tensed shoulders. 

“What the fuck are you looking at, IQ? Can you help me or not?” 

The grating snap pulls Ford back, reminded that even brought to his knees, Bill will bite back. His frustrated features quickly twist in pain, and he grabs his mound tightly.

“Seems the only thing hurting you is yourself.” Ford doesn’t mean to, but he snorts. 

He had no intention in taking in the shivering man he found on the front porch. While standing a half foot taller than him, Bill was found all but cowering at their front door, naked and furious as a stray cat. After uncurling Bill’s dark, trembling fingers to open a letter, Ford realized that leaving his enemy to the wolves wasn’t an option. Of course, the cosmos asked different of him: to offer the ‘reformed’ demon a space for possible redemption, if the prisoner was willing to work for it. 

He had no intention of hurting Bill during his short stay on Earth. Watching him explore his towering, lanky form was amusing enough. As the days pass, it seems Bill’s capable of doing that all on his own. There’s nothing wrong with indulging in it, right? It’s not like Ford’s actively punishing or harming Bill. Just… giving him some freedom, like any good scientist would do with a new specimen. Set it loose and observe its behavior. It isn’t often he has the delight to observe something of cosmic proportion twisted into a confused, pained thing. 

“Fuck you.” Bill spits. 

Ford chuckles this time, no need in hiding it now. “Do you want my help or not, Cipher?” 

“Well you’re doing a great ol’ job of helping!” The shaking man howls sarcastically. “Fucking tell me, Sixer! I know that stupid look; tell me what I don’t know.” 

In their initial arrangement, Ford never had the upper hand. Never did he experience true power, only illusions and mirages. Bill peacocked constantly, showing off to coax Ford’s younger self into naive admiration. 

To him, it was a courtship, like an animal displaying their prowess to lure another in. To Bill—Ford now knows—it was just a game, like a master amusing their dog to train it into submission. 

Watching Bill, sniveling like a stray at his feet, Ford swears he tastes it now, a golden drop of power slipping down his throat, sweet like honey. It fuels his confidence and, if he dares to look within, stokes his malicious fire. 

“I think you already know, Bill,” he says calmly, like he’s back in a lecture hall, talking to bumbling undergraduate students. “It’s biological.” Feeling cocky, he gets down to Bill’s level, lip curling with delight. “Tell me, Cipher. Tell me what your body is telling you.” 

Bill shakes angrily, jaw working its way to snap his head off. Every other part of his body twitches with a need to submit. Whether that submission is to his body or to Ford, the scientist can’t figure out. 

“I feel…” Bill’s eyelid flutters closed. He sucks in a breath, hands covering his pelvis shamefully. “Tight…” he exhales heavily. “Heavy. Like th-there’s something that’ll burst in me.” He swallows.

“Good,” Ford hums. “Where, tell me where.”

“H-here,” Bill’s grip tightens. “Inside. It hurts. But—”

“But?” This, he wasn’t expecting. Sure, holding long enough would hurt, Ford can tell Bill that right now if he wants, but something else inside wants to watch Bill figure it out, watch him fumble and fuck his way up to the correct answer, just like he did under Bill’s delighted, maniacal gaze a lifetime ago. 

“It—” Bill swallows. “I can’t—I don’t—” 

Ford blinks. “Wha—”

“I don’t know what the hell is happening, Brainiac,” he sneers, chewing up Ford’s question like a tough piece of meat. “Fucking help me. Is that what you want to hear? Hm?” He whips his head up, scarred features twisted with frustration. 

Instead of slapping the sneer off his face, Ford calmly says, “Show me.” 

The demon blinks. 

“Show me where it hurts.” To emphasize his point, Ford shifts closer. 

Bill rolls his eye. “I already told you—”

“Move your hands Bill,” Ford nods to his covered crotch. “Let me see.” 

The twisting fire in Ford’s gut lights up when he’s obeyed. He can’t help but whisper out, “good,” when those long, jean-clad legs part. Spread thighs quietly invite Ford in. At Bill’s center there’s already a damp spot forming in front. Upon seeing it, Ford looks up at Bill, but his gaze isn’t returned. 

“Happy?” he grumbles.

“I think you know what’s happening Bill—”

“But I don’t want it to.” He quickly snaps back. “Make it stop. I don’t—I can’t—” Bill swallows down the fear-filled confession, but it’s already been heard. 

Being human is embarrassing. It’s one of the fundamental things about the experience, something Ford’s realized again and again over a lifetime. He can only imagine all of that learning thrust upon him in a few days time. 

“I see.” He looks between them again. “May I?” He reaches out, fingers grazing over Bill’s inner thigh. It trembles under his touch. 

With a heavy sigh, Bill nods, trying to hide in his mountains of dark curls. 

Carefully, Ford inches his hand up, careful to ignore Bill’s crotch. A tense silence wraps around them. Under it, Ford’s heart pounds in his chest, unsure of the cause. It’s just for research, to watch Bill discover himself, learn his body. The only correct, scientific thing to do would be to document it, after all. 

He pulls down the zipper of Bill’s baggy jeans, and the taller man shakily lifts up to let them fall to his thighs. They stare at the space between them. Bill looks away, failing to hide his reddening cheeks. Ford stares at his bare, warm thighs, squeezing fruitlessly to stop Bill’s cunt from ah… expelling. Judging from the darkening spot on his underwear, it hasn’t helped much. 

“Are you just gonna stare or do something?” Bill gripes.

“Quiet.” Ford grumbles and shifts closer, both hands sliding up to hold onto Bill’s thighs. The dark tattooed flesh is hot under his fingers. Muscles twitch fretfully. “You need to relax.”

“Absolutely not.” The demon growls between gritted teeth. “And what—let you document me pissing?” His glare burns into Ford.

“You’re hurting yourself.” He tries to sound sincere, but it isn’t. Patronization weaves between his syllables. He inches higher, ignoring the heat rushing through him at Bill’s proposition.

“It’s a whole lot better than letting you—”

“Oh I see,” a teasing lilt seeps into Ford’s voice. “You’re embarrassed, aren’t you?” He asks innocently, as if it isn’t as plain as a clear sky. 

Seems Bill has yet to master his facial expressions. Everything bleeds onto his features, even the tremble of his lip covered by his hand.

Ford’s thumbs slip under Bill’s t-shirt, pressing lightly on his soft lower belly. There’s a smattering of curly hair trailing up to his navel. 

“Stop talking like that.” Bill growls without any real bite. 

“Like what?” Ford smiles, adoring how Bill’s eyelid flutters for just a moment when he squeezes just a bit. “You came for my help, clearly not needing it,” he runs his fingers over and under the elastic band of Bill’s underwear. “May I take these off?” 

“Yeah,” the demon pants.

Ford continues talking as he pulls down the wet fabric. “Why did you come here, Cipher?” He looks up, but Bill’s face is tucked between his shaking hand and dark curls. 

“Did you want me to see?” Ford gives one final tug, revealing Bill’s wet cunt. 

“Fuck…” a muffled groan comes from above. 

“Did you want me to watch as you made a mess of yourself?” Ford asks with a little bite behind his words. He squeezes Bill’s stomach between his hands, careful not to hurt him. 

“Haaa—fuck!” Bill squeaks. Ford watches with fascination, as warm liquid dribbles from Bill’s cunt. 

Without thinking, Ford’s squeezing again and watching more piss drip down Bill’s thighs. It’s impossible to look away. Bill’s brown skin becomes wet and red with strain. He trembles in Ford’s hands, completely at the mercy of the man he tried to kill. It’s only right that Ford returns the favor.

“N-no more questions, huh, Specs?” Bill pants, and when Ford looks up, he sees just the hint of a smile peeking through his unruly curls. And that just won’t do. 

“You need to relax Bill. This isn’t good for your body.” Ford instructs. “And if you can't,” he releases Bill’s hips. The other man sags a bit, still on shaky knees. “Then I’ll just have to make you.” 

Without another word, Ford presses his hand to Bill’s stomach, marveling at the uninhibited sob that rips from his throat. Piss flows easily out of his cunt, noisily soaking through his underwear and jeans. 

“There we go,” Ford coos mockingly. “That’s it, just let go.”

Bill cries, covering his mortified face. His body starts to shake, forcing the flow to stop until it’s a slow drip from his puffy lips. “Ngh—Ford—please, please,” he whimpers into his palms. And what a shame to stifle such a sweet sound.

“Yes, Bill?” Ford rubs circles in Bill’s quivering abdomen. “I can’t hear you very well, could you look at me?” He asks. 

Slowly, Bill lowers his shaking hands.

What a strikingly pitiful sight to behold. Bill’s scarred, tear stricken face is hot with humiliation. Dark curls stick to his cheek. Ford resists the urge to fix them. Instead, he smiles innocently and asks, “Now, what were you saying?” 

Bill growls. “Stop looking at me like that. Like I’m—”

“Pathetic?” Ford smirks.

“Fuck y—ahhh! Fuck! Fuck, Ford!” Bill sprays onto the floor, soaking his clothes. Shaking fingers clutch Ford's shoulders. He sucks in air, drowning in humiliation. 

“Watch.” Ford says calmly. Bill groans in distress and tucks his face into the crook of his neck, attempting to muffle his whimper. This close, Ford has the urge to tuck a hand into the curve of Bill’s back, pull him into his lap and explore the rest of his tattooed body. Instead he plants a firm hand on Bill’s shoulder, pushing him back up slightly. 

“Come on, sit up for me.” 

“W-why?” Bill hiccups into his neck. His wet lips graze over his skin, panting breaths tickle his ear. Ford keeps his hands steady. He craves to push the demon into the floor and force the rest out of him. 

Instead, he takes Bill by the jaw, pushing back so he’s somewhat upright. The watery gaze he’s met with feels deep enough to drown in. Something small and tucked deep between Ford’s ribs longs to dry Bill’s eyes. “I want you to watch and tell me how you feel.” 

“What so you can write it in your—ohhh mmm Fordsy…” This time, instead of sobbing, Bill moans. “Feels—”

“Yes?” Ford lowers his hand to Bill’s mound, rubbing slowly over his warm skin.

“Feels good,” Bill sighs. More warm liquid dribbles out, no force required. 

“Does it?” Ford encourages. “Does it feel good, soiling  yourself for me, muse?” 

The old name gets a whine from the man above him, and he nods, getting lost in the relaxing feeling. The sour liquid spills out of him in waves, near endless, given how long he’s ignored his need. 

“That’s it, my muse, make a mess for me.” Ford marvels quietly, watching the God he once worshiped brought to his knees. “Is this arousing you?” He hears himself saying before he can catch his nasty words. It lands on Bill with a shiver. An agreeable moan spills from his lips. 

“Disgusting. Getting off on humiliating yourself.” Ford scoffs, acting like his own cock isn’t throbbing in his pants. 

“Answer me,” he commands, this time pressing on Bill’s quivering lower belly until he whines. Power spills into his thoughts like one too many drinks, altering his motives, his voice, his movements. Finding his strength again, Ford holds those bony trembling hips steady, one hand on Bill’s arched lower back and the other pressing down on his stomach. The stream continues, less forceful, but constant.

“Ah ah—s’good. S’good Fordsy oh fuuuck…” Bill gurgles, head tossed back as he leaks onto the floor. Ford can’t figure out where to look, at Bill’s pleasure-filled face or the dripping between his legs. The noise is difficult to ignore, even with Bill crying up to high heaven. 

After what feels like eons, the flow tapers off. What once was a hot flowing stream is just a few drops, adding to the puddle below him. Ford swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. He can’t look away, watching the golden liquid soak into Bill’s jeans, dripping down his trembling thighs. It’s filthy. It’s mesmerizing. And still, above Ford, he hears his former partner whine indignantly, like a fretful animal. 

“Fordsy…” 

The mewl gets his attention, and he’s greeted by the loveliest sight: his muse, blushing and crying, trembling with shame, shrinking in his hands. Delicate , Ford thinks for a moment. 

“Yes, my muse?”

Hot trembling fingers encircle Ford’s wrist. “I need—please. I need more.” 

Without the words, Bill shows, drawing those twitching six fingers down to the dripping lips of his cunt. Between the hair and soft flesh, Ford notices that sensitive pearl protruding out, pulsing with each of Bill’s heaving breaths. 

“Bill…” The hesitation in his voice contrasts with the quickness of his hand. He strokes Bill’s clit in slow circles, drinking in every surprised sound and twitching movement from the other man. “So responsive…” he murmurs, picking up the pace. 

“Ah ah ah—” Bill’s whines force Ford to look back up, eager to take in the sight of the trembling man. His tears continue to flow like his voice, a constant thing that surrounds Ford with indescribable pleasure. He curls his fingers in, slipping into Bill’s twitching hole with surprising ease.

“Oh fuck—fuck F-ford!” The demon’s voice is soaked in a sob, wet like his eyes, his cunt, his clothing. Ford can only watch his muse drown in pleasure. 

“Look at you,” he sighs wistfully. He pushes deeper into Bill, finding that sensitive spongy surface within so he can stroke Bill into insanity. “I never thought—” he gasps, unable to get the words out, fascinated by his muse. Even in such a simple form, Bill still has a way of mesmerizing Ford. “You’re so sensitive,” he says in place of a terrifying word that hides in the back of his throat. “Is this—” he has to ask, it’s impossible not to. Ford’s too curious, too eager to not ask: “Is this your first time?”

He watches Bill rut his hips forward in sporadic little thrusts like he can’t will his body to grind properly into Ford’s palm. He pants heavily, quiet ‘ah ah ahs’ tumbling out with his breath. Ford barely sees it, but Bill nods. 

“Say it,” he groans, “I want to hear you say it.”

“Mmmh—yes—” Bill gasps like he’s breaking the surface. “N-never done this be—fuck yes! Right there, Fordsy! Another! Oh fuck, I need more!” He demands through gritted teeth. He watches as Ford’s fingers are swallowed up into his tight hole. 

“Nicely, Bill.” Ford steels his tone, getting a petulant whine from the man bouncing on his fingers. “Ask nicely or—”

“Please, please please, Fordsy!” Bill pouts, “Stuff my dripping cunt with another one of your thick freak fingers! Give it to me good!” 

Ford stops.

A nasty grin curls onto Bill’s lips. “Is that what you w—”

There aren’t many things inherited through the Pines bloodline. Even the name was mixed up upon immigrating to the States. The only thing passed down besides a knack for getting on lady luck’s good side, is rage. It ran through their veins, thick and boiling in their blood. Some let it control their muscles, feed their heart, invigorate their lungs. Some channeled it into their throat, let it sit under their tongue and spring out to attack any weapon rising against them. 

Some bottled it, tucked it away deep into the twisting length of their intestines to be digested and forgotten. But like anything inedible, it found a way to come back up. 

Ford tried. He tried to push this rage out through his hands, thrown into a boxing ring with nothing on his side but his brother’s support and an ancestral right yet to be tamed. When it wouldn’t bend to his will, like his projects, his writing, his words, his future, he decided to push it down once and for all. The only thing rage had gotten him into was false hope.

Until Bill.

Ford’s still unsure of how the demon freed it from the knots of his gut, but all the anger he tried to ignore came up and out through every pore, every joint, forcing his hands and his mind into fury, a fury that carried him through thirty years and an endless universe. 

And while Ford thought his anger was long tamed and tucked safely away through months of care and dedication to his projects and to his family, it took less than a week for Bill to yank it out and set it ablaze. 

It wasn’t hard to find—not like it was way back when Sixer kept his mind open like a backdoor Bill could waltz right into. Memories and feelings sprouted up like weeds back then. They teemed through the deep crevasses of Ford’s vast mind, and rooted down, down, down, to his most somatic needs. All Bill had to do was dig through the muck that was Ford’s ego, his memories, his secrets, his hopes, his failures, his shame…until he hit it.

After taking IQ’s meat sack for a spin, Bill was certain that deep down, something was powering the burly, hairy (and at times, sweaty) beast of a man. And it turned out to be richer than oil and endless as air. Anger so potent it stretched on through blood. 

As he’s slammed back into the floor head-first, Bill feels that familiar fury in all six digits wrapped tightly around his throat. It makes him a bit nostalgic.

It’s familiar this way, using Ford’s anger to divert Bill off the dangerous path of submission. Pleasure’s dangerous, scratches the mind like a dog with fleas, and makes his body do terrible, treasonous things to his reputation. This, however, Bill can handle. Nothing like a ticket on the ol’ pain train.

It gets a lovely rise out of the old man, and stokes the embers of an old fire that Bill can warm right up to. But there’s something different this time. Behind the usual power is glee, tugging at the corner of Ford’s lip and putting a terrifying glint in his eyes. 

Bill grimaces as his back gets soaked in his own mess. Ford—the bastard—grins.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Bill squeezes his wrist, gasping for breath as he smiles back. Ford pulls Bill’s pants off the rest of the way, tossing them aside so he can settle between his splayed-out legs. His free hand grips Bill’s thigh, spreading him open. 

“Look at you,” he spits. Bill bites his lip to hold back a whimper. “Practically drooling for it.”

Without a way to vocalize his need, Bill opens his legs wider, putting his cunt on display. The older man scoffs, looking unimpressed, and it just riles Bill up more. He pushes his hips skyward with a little whine. Ford returns with nothing but an icy stare. 

“Absolutely wretched.” He grumbles, looking down at Bill’s fluttering hole like a misshapen specimen. “Did you think it would end up like this?” His grip releases, and after getting a few breaths in, Bill replies.

“Oh, Sixer I almost thought youuuu—” Three fingers jam their way into Bill’s cunt, finding his g-spot with ease and pushing . Each hit gets a moan out of Bill, shoving out every witty reply and snide comment to make room for Ford. His legs open more at the idea, hoping Ford’ll take the invitation to take up space inside him. 

No—he didn’t think it’d end up like this. But he’s glad it did, laying in his piss while his ex shows him pleasures beyond his comprehension. Though there’s a hand back around his throat, Bill still whines and moans for more. 

“Just look at you,” disdain drips through Ford’s words. “A mighty god crying in his own urine.” He leans in closer, so much so that Bill shuts his eyes tight. Ford’s gaze is unbearable like a microscope capable of judgment. As his fingers carve out a space of pleasure, his words carve out one for shame.

“Do you know what you are, Cipher?” Ford growls, “Pathetic.” The insult lands on Bill’s scarred cheek. His lips stretch into a grin, and he sucks in a breath to hiss out:

“There’s my ol’ Fordsy.” 

Ford stops. 

Bill can’t help the delight spreading across his features. “Look at ya’,” he gasps, “knew the same man was under all that—”

“Shut up.” Ford growls. His fingers plunge deeper into Bill’s fluttering cunt. The hand around Bill’s throat tightens, squeezing a giggle from the demon’s gritted teeth. “You don’t know me—”

“Yes—” Bill coughs out. He pushes against Ford’s hand so he can speak a little louder, getting his words under the man’s skin. “Y-yes I do,” he swallows the moan trapped in his throat. “I know those memories, Fordsy—” Three skilled fingers push another moan from Bill’s throat. Still, between his whining, he hisses out, “you can’t hide from me.”

The frustrated look on Ford’s face makes him grin delightedly. But it doesn’t last long. His thick fingers spread out against Bill’s sensitive walls, making him cry out in shock. Ford chuckles.

“Neither can you, Cipher.” He curls up into Bill’s sweet spot, coaxing out the most alien sounds from his throat. “Not anymore.”

Bill ruts down onto Ford’s palm without a second thought, head tilted back as he chases his high. “F-fuck Ford—”

“Yes, Bill?” 

God he hates when he talks like that. Like he actually cares or something. Bill can’t see it from behind his sweaty curls, but he knows there’s a satisfied grin spread across Ford’s stupidly handsome face. 

“I can’t quite hear you, is there something you need?” Before Bill can conjure a syllable, Ford releases his grip on his throat. The demon gulps down air greedily, lungs burning with the stretch. Another harsh thrust pushes his breath out. 

“F-fordsy!” 

“Is this it?” Ford asks without a bite in his words. The sweetness is sickening. He thrusts his fingers in again. Bill whimpers. “Use your words, Cipher.” 

“M-more.” Bill swallows down the venom under his tongue, desperate to burn the scientist again. The twisting fire in his gut demands his attention, demands to be sated, and so, Bill says ‘please’. 

Ford thrusts in shallowly. “Again.” 

“Please.” 

Another. “Again, Bill,” Ford says, with a gentle encouragement that makes Bill ache. 

“Pl-please…please.” 

Ford plunges in deeper. “Once more for me, muse.”

Bill swallows thickly. Something foreign and sour scratches at his insides, makes his blood boil and his heart seize up. Ford’s words pour over his mind like honey, damaging the circuits and gunking it up with a sticky sweetness. 

“Pl-please, Fordsy. Please fuck me—”

Without missing a beat, Ford starts thrusting into Bill’s wet hole at a quick pace, enough to get his head tossed back onto the hard concrete. “Fuck right there, right there.” Bill groans, grabbing mindlessly at Ford’s sweater to pull him closer. 

“You open up so easily,” Ford marvels above him. Bill screws his eyes shut and shakes his head, but the words won’t get out. And the bastard keeps going, cramming praise into Bill’s soupy mind. 

“Such lovely noises…” the scientist coos, words laced with a tooth-aching sugar that makes Bill groan. 

“Sh—” he snarls, frustrated that he can only moan when he wants to speak. “Sh-shut up, Sixer—”

“Why?” Ford’s hand speeds up. “Are you afraid it’s true? That you can be—”

“N-no—” Bill cries. His stupid body betrays him, letting out noises like an animal in heat, face melting into pure pleasure. “F-ford, pl-please,” he hiccups between the tears starting to cascade down his cheeks, pooling into his ears. “Please—”

“You’re being so good for me, my muse,” Ford encourages. Bill tosses his head to the side, trying to get away from the gentle voice taking him apart piece by piece. The old pet name surges through him, lighting up a fire through his loins. His cunt clenches around Ford’s fingers, desperate for more, just a little more to send him over the edge. 

“F-ford! Ngk—” 

“Who knew such a powerful thing could become so… helpless.” Ford chuckles. Bill can’t bear to look at his gloating ex any longer, but he hears it. He hears that cocky smile, reveling in his agony. Such sweet, sweet, agony.

“Please,” Bill hiccups, unsure of what he’s begging for. He’s flailing through pleasure without a guide, helpless against the waves crashing over him, threatening to take him under. He needs it—something. It snarls and growls in his gut, making his cunt spasm helplessly around Ford’s skilled fingers. “Please, Ford,” he whimpers again, “help me.”

Without so much as a breath, Ford, for once in his life, listens to Bill without question. Six more fingers trace up Bill’s trembling inner thigh, slipping through the slick piss still soaking his rear. Bill feels that little plea on his lips still, quiet like a prayer.

“I know,” Ford hushes him, fingers hovering over Bill’s throbbing cunt. “I know what you need, my muse.” 

Two fingers encircle Bill’s enlarged clit, stroking up and down in time with his thrusting fingers. His touch rips through Bill like lightning, coursing through his veins with a never ending, unstoppable fire. 

“Ford—hah—ah fuck, fuck!” He can’t stop himself anymore, can’t pretend that Ford’s tenderness doesn’t bring him to his lowest point and his highest pleasures. “Right there, right there,” Bill cries in earnest, tears spilling down his face as he pushes back into that skilled hand. 

“Tell me, Bill,” Ford’s breath tickles Bill’s neck, lips grazing over his hot skin. “Tell me how it feels.”

The only thing that escapes Bill’s throat is a watery hiccup. He chokes on his words, trying to explain this impossible pleasure through sound. He grips onto Ford’s biceps with trembling fingers, nails digging into the soft fabric to anchor himself to something. 

Care and composure fly out the window as Bill chases after whatever delicious feeling Ford gives him, desperate to devour. He cries up to the sky in hopes he’ll be answered by something greater than him. 

“That’s it, my muse,” Ford answers softly. Bill swears his lips press to his temple. “Let go for me.”

“F-ford—” he claws at the older man’s shoulder’s whining when he can’t pull him closer. “Please, please, please,” he whines helplessly, and for some reason—one Bill is too scared to examine—Ford listens, moving into the space made by Bill’s outstretched legs. He hikes one up to Ford’s trimmed waist, pulling him in closer so they lay in filth together. 

“Fuck—” Ford hisses in his ear. “You’re absolutely soaked, Bill—”

“Uh uh uh—F-ford—” Bill says mindlessly, uncaring of how his mess seeps into their clothes, making him slide on the floor as he pushes back into Ford. His fingers find their way into Ford’s hair tugging him close so his mouth finally latches onto his neck. 

Ford kisses hungrily, using more teeth than tongue as he claims his territory. The thought alone makes Bill keen, tugging Ford closer by his hair. It pulls a groan from his scientist, who moves his hands faster over Bill’s sensitive clit.

“F-ford, Ford w-wait—” Bill whimpers. The flame licking in his gut twists and turns, fit to explode. It feels so similar, making him panic. He tugs on Ford’s hair trying to get his attention. 

“Fordsy—”

“It’s alright,” The older man presses a soft kiss to Bill’s skin before pulling himself back up to gaze down at him. There’s a frightening fondness in his eyes. Bill’s heart leaps into his throat as their gazes lock. He grips onto Ford’s arm, feeling his muscles flex as he works his thick fingers over Bill’s puffy cunt. 

“Cum for me, my muse.” Ford says like a shameful prayer. 

Bill sobs, tear-filled eye shutting tight. 

“It’s okay,” a gentle whisper pierces his ear. “I’ve got you, baby.”

“Fuuuu—” Bill knocks his head on the wet concrete, vision going white as he finally spills over the edge. All the while, he can’t hear himself, but he feels it: a wail bursting through his throat and stretching out his mouth. The only thing repeating in his ear is Ford, quietly calling him baby . 

Ford stares at the ignored work on his desk, trying to figure out where his head was before he was completely derailed. And the actor of his demise is still curled up into his shoulder, keeping both of them sitting in the now cold mess Bill foolishly decided to make. 

Out of the haze of pleasure, Ford stares at them in shame. His pants are soaked through, strained by his aching cock. He can’t bear to look at the slumbering demon, who’s gentle features soften with every breath he takes. He’s wrapped around Ford’s arm just like old times, coiling up and around a younger version of himself like a needy snake, eager to see its owner. Watching Bill sleep stirs up a long fought fear, remembering that this beautiful thing was the same one that tried to kill him—and might still try. 

He sighs and rolls his shoulder, jostling the other man awake. 

“Hm?”

“You need to get up.”

“Mmm not gonna happen—”

“Yes it is.” Ford clips and pulls his arm out from Bill’s tight grasp. As he gets up to adjust himself, Bill lands in his own piss with a groan. 

“Fuck—” 

Ford trains his face into stoicness, refusing to help the lanky man as he struggles to get up from his shameful mess. The only thing that crosses his face is a grimace. 

Bill glares at him. “Some charmer you are.”  He huffs and fixes himself up as best he can. “You got any clothes down here?”

“No.” Ford stalks over to his desk, hoping his work would clear his head.

“I’ll make sure to bring some down next—”

“Go upstairs, Bill.”

“Like this?” 

“Yes,” he speaks over his shoulder. “Get cleaned up. I’m sure if you need any more relief you can handle yourself, yes?”

“But—” 

“Cipher, my work is ruined because of you—” Ford snaps, though he knows it isn’t true. There isn’t a schedule to follow or a force he’s beholden to anymore. “You can’t distract me with your—”

“Me? Oh, so this is my fault, is it, Sixer?” Bill sneers. “Like you aren’t frothing at the mouth for a second round—” 

“Get out, Cipher!” Ford barks back at him, features filled with fury. “Let me remind you that here, now , you have no power.” He growls out. The way Bill backs away licks lovingly at his wounded ego. “Now get out.” He turns back to his work, picking up a pencil to tune out Bill’s half-assed protest. 

Without words to keep him, Ford decides to keep sketching his new specimen as he listens to Bill trudge back to the elevator. It isn’t until the old metal doors clamor shut that he finally turns back around with a heavy breath.

“Fuck…” He scrubs a hand over his face, but the evidence of his mistakes is still in front of him, reflecting the flickering fluorescent lights. 

Ford means to grab a towel and clean it up. He means to scrub the floor with bleach and obliterate any trace of surrendering to his worst pleasures and his worst enemy. That’s what he tells himself when he lays down to bed that night, wiping his mind clean of the memory. 

Still, as he dreams, he repeats his actions, falling to his knees in the mess of his muse, head bent to his chest as he paints the floor with his seed. Between slumbering breaths, Ford’s lips twitch, whispering the same thing he cried out in the secrecy of his study: 

Baby. Baby. Baby.