Archive of Our Own

Fuck.

Again and again and again, he makes another mistake.

Ford lets out a gruesome groan—another one swallowed by the silence of the late night. 

He no longer knows if it’s been hours, days, or even weeks that he’s been working on one little formula. He’s completely worn down. Nothing makes sense anymore. The portal is nearly finished—he can almost taste the moment it powers on, tearing open a path to connect realities and possibilities.

All because of him… and his muse. 

Oh, how he misses him, he hasn't been around a lot since he started working on this part of the portal.

But apparently, even with his guidance, Ford can’t get anything right—or at least, that’s how it feels.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t appeared lately. Maybe Bill sees no progress in his work and has simply lost interest in seeing him fail. Ford dreads the thought for the hundred time this night and in the search of trying to find a form of comfort; he bites his lips almost to break skin, to almost taste metal and make it somehow of grounding for him. Maybe the pain is a form of distraction from his muse.

Oh fuck…

Just the thought of his muse makes his skin crawl, Bill will be so disappointed the next time he visits and finds the problem still unsolved. 

That’s why Ford is pushing himself so hard, nights without sleep, thoughts racing, hands trembling. All because he prefers the rare praise of his muse over the disappointed look he gives him whenever he's let down that makes Ford feel so small.

He takes a shaky breath and returns to his work that is scattered on the desk, scribbling more numbers, more equations,slowly, but with a stubborn decision, trying to make sense of the confusion in his head.

And as he writes, his mind flickers with everything that’s gone wrong lately.

Since the last time Bill visited him in the mind scape, the world has tilted off balance.

For example, he and Fiddleford had a fight—about something so stupid he can’t even remember it now. So, he’s left to work alone until one of them gives in and apologizes. Obviously he is not going to give on.

His coffee kettle gave out, robbing him of his only font of energy.

A stupid rat keeps sneaking into the lab, stealing his pencils.

And god, he’s so pent-up, so deprived, he can’t even think straight. He’s barely eaten, keeps putting it off and to top it all his body is starting to shut down randomly.

To proof his point his grip weakens. His hand trembles. Even holding a pencil is starting to feel like a burden. His body is not obeying him anymore.

His eyes are drooping. Still, he keeps writing… until a sudden spasm nearly knocks over the inkwell across the papers on his desk.

Cursing under his breath, Ford sighs, sets everything down and cleans his mess with an old shirt, and pushes himself away from the desk.

He stumbles to his feet like he was drunk.

“I need some rest,” he mutters. “Maybe an hour… just enough to recharge.”

He drags himself down the hall, nearly sleepwalking toward his room. But when he opens the door, his heart skips.

There, in the casting pale light across the room, is the familiar unmistakable three-pointed figure on the tapestry.

It glows faintly, unnaturally. The light seems a little too unnatural for the reflection of the moonlight.

Guilt twists in his stomach.

“I hope I don’t see him again until I’ve made some progress,” he whispers, then pauses.

“Or… else.”

He doesn’t know what comes after or else—but he’s sure it isn’t good.

He collapses onto the couch, face-down, letting out a sigh of reluctant pleasure as exhaustion takes him.

And as his breathing slows, the tapestry behind him pulses ever so slightly—its glow intensifying, just a bit more than what the moon alone should allow.

……………

He barely got five seconds of peace.

As he felt reality shiver around him—distorted, melting at the edges—before gravity stopped behaving as it should. The air grew sharp and sterile, tinged with a strange scent: antiseptic... and cosmic tea.

The Mindscape.

He was so dead.

“Fuck…” Ford groaned, already exhausted from what was going to happen.

A low, familiar chuckle echoed through the air—unmistakable.

“Oh, come on, Fordsy,” came the almost glitch-smooth voice, amused and dripping with that characteristic mock affection. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

With a shaky breath, Ford forced his mouth to respond and murmured, defeated, “Of course I am, my muse, I always do.”

And he is telling the truth he is always happy to talk to his muse even when he knows the consequences of the complaint he is going to receive.

His voice was thin, nearly brittle… like someone who had long accepted whatever fate awaited him.

“Then why…” Bill cooed, gently lifting Ford’s chin between two fingers, “aren’t you looking me in the eye?”

His touch was maddeningly soft—so calm, so slow—that Ford flinched slightly, squirming under the weight of it. He is so touch starved that he almost got a sound of his chest, because of the comfort it brings him.

There was no warmth to Bill’s skin, only a pressure that felt mystical.

There was a theatrical hurt in his tone, but Ford knew better. It was just another layer to the performance of what he actually is thinking, finally after months he is starting to take notice more of it.

“Look at me, Stanford.”

As commanded, Ford opened his eyes—slowly, reluctantly—and found himself kneeling in what he can call a floor, staring almost face-to-face with the entity that had haunted his mind for weeks.

Bill stood above him, towering and bright, his triangular form almost glowing, there was no clear light source, yet he radiated- a being not made of matter but of something else. His only eye reflecting Ford pathetic face. Making him feel observed in all vulnerable ways.

Ford, even in his fear, couldn’t help but be awed and flushed for being the center of his muse attention.

“That’s better, smart guy,” Bill purred, his hand still resting lightly under Ford’s chin in a way that felt undeserved. “How have you been? Sorry for leaving you all alone—I was off doing some business...”

The touch in his skin vanished slowly. Bill drifted upward slightly, casually adjusting the black bowtie he wore, waiting for Ford’s answer.

“Well…” Ford swallowed and had to restrain himself from chewing his tongue, searching for some kind of comfort. “Thank you for your concern, my muse. I’ve... I’ve been fine.”

A lie. A weak one.

“But…”

Bill’s single eye flicked back to him, sharp and immediate. Ford still couldn’t meet it, from the shame of failure, that have been in him for days.

“But?” Bill repeated, voice playful but tightening at the edges. “Don’t leave me in suspense, IQ. Spill it out.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry…” Ford stammered, breath quickening. “I am having problems with the portal… it doesn’t make sense. I’ve done equations over a hundred times and I still can’t make it work. I’m… I’m a total idiot. I’m so sorry, my muse. I’ve failed you—again and again and again.”

His voice broke. Ford reached for his pants and legs, gripping it tightly in trembling fists as if grounding himself, as if pulling reality back to him through pain. He had work so much and is so stressed that he breaks out in front of Bill, his body and mind ignoring his wishes as he almost choke on guilt.

“I’m just a human,” he whispered, then louder. “I’ve made so many mistakes. I’m ashamed,ashamed that I couldn’t solve something so simple. Just an equation. Just numbers. How could I mess this up?”

He let out a small laugh of disbelief

His hands clenched harder, breath shallow, eyes screwed shut as he spiraled deeper into the panic. He started to ramble—about his inadequacy, about being unworthy, about how Bill should have never chosen someone as limited as him. A storm of guilt and desperation pouring out unchecked. He almost is having a panic attack in front of his muse, what a pathetic little creature he is.

And above him, Bill watched almost judging. 

His glowing eye narrowed, unreadable, deciding the fate of his human.

On one side, he’s not making any progress, and on the other, it’s so fun to watch him in distress, so maybe it’s not that bad that Ford is a useless piece of shit.

He hovered like a divine force, still and suspended, a celestial judge weighing the worth of one fragile, trembling man.

The human mind—so noisy. So messy. So... deliciously breakable.

But Bill wasn’t having it anymore. He was bored of Ford rambling, he’d been like this for five minutes, and it had stopped being funny.

Stanford in the process got his hands in his hair, clutched it tighter with each second, his teeth pressing into his lower lip, eyes lowered, waiting, aching…for whatever verdict his muse would deliver.

“You little dumb human,” Bill said at last, voice dripping with amusement. “I think you deserve a punishment.”

Or maybe bill needed some entertainment, but who knows.

Ford got out of his trance, he stopped biting his lips, parting them in a silent gasp of dread.

“But you know...” Bill’s tone softened—unnervingly so. “I’m merciful. I can feel your regret. I can see your devotion. Oh devotion can be a good thing Fordsy” he is almost purring as he said that, and Ford, he is so weak to praise. Begin called good about something after so much time making himself little, is making him feel all fussy in the inside, all because of some words of Bill.

Bill floated down slightly, reaching for Ford’s hands tangled in his own hair. Slowly, deliberately, Bill replaced them with his own. His fingers gliding gently through the human’s tangled mess. His touch was calculated, intimate. Almost too much after nothing.

As he spoke, Ford melted beneath it, he let out a shaky breath, overwhelmed and utterly lost in the sensation.

“So I’ll take that into account,” Bill murmured. “And I’ll forgive you—this time. But next time?”

A cruel smile curled in his voice.

“I’m not going to be this gentle.”

Ford blinked, stunned. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know if Bill was in a generous mood or playing another unfathomable game—but either way, he wouldn't be ungrateful, he couldn’t.

“My beautiful muse…” he whispered, taking one of Bill’s hands with reverence and pressing a trembling kiss to his fingers. “Thank you. You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve your words—but I promise, I’ll make it work. I’ll prove myself to you.”

Bill chuckled softly, covering his face with his free hand—eye gleaming in amusement, almost dramatic.

“Silly little pet…” he murmured. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

With a sudden, practiced motion, he gripped Ford’s hair again—not painfully, but firm enough to tilt his head back and force eye contact.

“Stanford” he said, the name falling from his lips like a sacred word, “there’s no other human like you. No one else can help me build this vision.”

His voice dropped to a near-whisper, almost intimate.

“Don’t beat yourself up like that,” Bill cooed, his voice deceptively gentle. “You’re a good man. You’re so good for me, right? My favorite human in all of this meat planet, remember that, hum?”

His fingers tightened suddenly in Ford’s hair, yanking his head back just enough to make him gasp in surprise.

“And if you are wondering, only I get to hurt you, only I decide what you deserve, right?” he whispered, the words like silk wrapped around glass. “Not even you. So stop tearing at your hair and lips like some pathetic thing. Only I can do that”

His grip pulsed tighter, possessive, dangerous.

“Okay?”

Ford’s breath hitched—his eyes fluttering, his lips trembling between pain and something far more complicated that he didn’t know how to describe.
He nodded slowly, almost reverently, because in that moment he believed Bill completely, fervently.

Bill was right. Of course he was.

And Ford… felt lighter.

Like the weight of doubt had been peeled off his skin.

He didn’t have to think anymore.

His muse had everything under control.

Then Bill gave a sharp tug, not enough to harm but not gentle, but just enough to remind him exactly who held control and prove his point.

And Ford, oh, as weak as he is, he does something that he didn’t do before in front of Bill.

He moans.

Loud,

Really fucking loud.

Their eyes locked.

For a moment, neither moved—caught in the weight of what had just happened. Disbelief flickered between them, like static in the air.

Ford was the first to break the moment.

His face flushed deep red as he stumbled over his words, trying—and failing—to explain himself.

“I-I didn’t mean—That wasn’t—It’s not what you think—”

But he knew better.

And worse…he knew Bill knew. He is sure Bill is reading his mind without doing it.

That sound hadn’t been from pain.

It had been something else. Something instinctive. So human. Something that shouldn’t have escaped, especially not in front of his muse. Not after suppressing it for so long, after restricting his mind and body for months to avoid this kind of situation.

Bill is for sure amused. Delighted. Flattered.

“Oh, Sixer” he said through a chuckle, tilting his head and rolling his single eye. “I knew you were weird, but not thaaaat kind of weird.”

He floated closer, expression gleaming with wicked glee.

“You could’ve told me sooner that you can be so easily undone by a little praise and a hint of pain.”

Bill’s seems to almost glow with mischief, even as his grip on Ford’s hair softened.

“This is fascinating… Humans really are something else.”

Ford couldn’t bring himself to respond. He just stood there, frozen—eyes locked on Bill’s with a burning flush of shame.

“Cat got your tongue, Fordsy?”
He laughed as he continued to analyze him.

“Do you want me to grip your hair again? Would you keep making those kinds of pathetic noises if I did?”

Bill teased, looking at him with exaggerated innocence. “I’m deeply offended you never told me you were into that sort of thing.”

“I’m only human, my muse,” Ford muttered, his voice low and tight. “I have flaws. I… I’m sorry you had to witness that. It’s not… well, I—”

The words died in his throat.

He was still stuttering, heat creeping up his neck, painfully aware of himself—of his body, of the slip, of everything he had tried so hard to keep buried. That soft flicker of desire he’d spent months denying, containing, dissecting like a problem to be solved.

And yet it had surfaced. Effortlessly. Betrayingly.

In front of him.

His gaze dropped, unable to hold Bill’s any longer, as if eye contact alone might expose him further, might confirm everything he was so desperately trying to downplay.

“No need to apologize, smart guy.”

Bill's voice dropped to a near whisper as he reached forward, his gloved hand brushing Ford’s cheek.

“I actually enjoyed your reaction.”

Bill had always been fascinated by Ford’s reactions—so visceral, so unfiltered. But that sound… that quiet, broken moan Ford let slip?

It was unlike anything.

It hit Bill like static through the circuits of reality. And for a split second, he felt something he’d never felt before.

Not affection. Not empathy.

But a thrill. Dark and sharp. The kind of thrill one might get watching someone burn alive—mesmerized by the agony, the beauty, the act itself.

That sound was something so…

Human.

And Bill… he craved to hear more of that.

Ford blinked, breath catching. “What did you say?”

Bill didn’t answer directly. Instead, he brought his fingers to Ford’s lips, watching with a kind of smug curiosity. Waiting to see where his devotion will go.

“Nothing, nothing,” he said, deflecting smoothly. But the gleam in his eye said otherwise.

There was a pause. A quiet, charged pause.

And then—oh, Ford—sweet, desperate Ford.

He closed his eyes, uncertain but compelled, and let the tip of his tongue brush against Bill’s fingers—slowly, reverently—as if tasting something sacred. As if this would prove his worth, or earn back the dignity he’d just surrendered to his muse.

Bill raised his eyebrow—delighted and more than anything, proud.

Proud of himself for shaping the brilliant mind of Stanford Pines into something so beautifully malleable. For twisting genius into worship. For planting himself so deeply into Ford’s psyche that now—he had him almost praying at his feet.

His stupid, brilliant little human.

So loyal. So breakable.

Bill leaned in closer, his expression smooth and slow.

“You know, Fordsy…” he said casually, his voice laced with mock concern. “If you’d told me sooner, I could’ve found someone to help you get all that tension out of your system.”

He made a vulgar gesture with his free hand and laughed, completely unbothered.

“Maybe that’s why you’ve been making so many mistakes,” he added, as if he had just solved a mystery.

“From what I’ve seen, you haven’t touched yourself in at least two months, and obviously I know you haven’t gotten any action either.”

Ford let out a sharp gasp of surprise. He hadn’t realized his muse could see him even in those private moments.

“What? I need to know if you’re presentable enough to stand in front of me, or if you’re cumming in your free time.”

“Don’t say that… please,” he said, even with Bill’s fingers still in his mouth.

“What? Now you’re embarrassed?” Bill scoffed lightly. “I don’t understand you sometimes, but anyway—”

He cleared his throat, feigning composure.

“I’ll help you.”

“Come on, tell me—what’s your type? Girls? Boys? Dark hair? Light eyes?” The cockiness was unmistakable in his voice. “You’ve been so good to me. Maybe it’s time you got a reward. You tell me, and I’ll find you something. You’ve earned it… for your devotion. I’ll be generous.”

Bill withdrew his hand from Ford’s mouth, slow and deliberate, a glint of amusement in his eye.

With an almost lazy motion, he dragged the damp fingers across Ford’s lips—smearing the lingering warmth, painting the bite-marked skin with a sheen that caught the strange light of the Mindscape.

Ford wasn’t listening anymore. He stood there, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth slightly parted.

He looked so… lost, debating what to say, until he said the first thing that came in his mind. Bill was making it so hard to think straight.

“No” he murmured, breath shallow, chest rising in shaky rhythm.

“What was that? I didn’t quite catch it, Sixer, talk louder” Bill asked, his usual tone flickering—just slightly.

“I said... no,” Ford repeated, firmer now, though his voice still trembled. “I… Bill, I don’t like people that way. I—”

He hesitated. The words felt like stepping off a cliff. One wrong move, and everything could fall apart.

Bill’s eye twitched—sharp, unsettling—a flash of something unreadable passing through that glowing gaze. He almost looks offended but he was trying to mask it.

“You’re not grateful for my gift?” he said, voice curling like smoke in the air. “I could do anything to keep my favorite human happy. Try me.”

Ford’s eyes lifted, swallowing hard. He was on thin ice, he know it, but he needs to speak, to tell him that he … oh, he felt like he was already halfway buried—so why not say it?

He took a breath. Then, rushed, desperate:

“It’s hard for me to feel that way toward humans, my muse. Only you can make me feel anything. I don’t need anyone else—just the thought of you is enough to make me ache.”

And that was the truth.

He had never needed someone like this before.

Not like Bill.

The ache of his absence was unbearable—like withdrawal.

His praise didn’t just fill a void; it made Ford ache to be the best he can be, to be good.

And when Bill did touch him—those rare, burning moments—it wasn’t like anothers touch. It was fire, searing through nerves, crawling under skin.

He wanted more. Craved it.

Ford didn’t just fall.

He plunged, headfirst, into a hunger he couldn’t name.

He’d been damned the moment he laid eyes on him. When he first held his hand.

And he couldn’t deny it any more.

He reached out, taking Bill’s fingers again, gently, hopefully—as if they could anchor him to the moment.

There was a pause.

And Bill …

For a moment—just a moment—Bill looked caught off guard. His form glitch faintly, the glow in his eye dimming just a shade. A blush might’ve ghosted across the edge of his cheek, if he had cheeks to show it.

But then clarity came to him.

He remembered himself.

He was in control of this human even if he said some stupid things.

The glow in his eye returned, sharper now—focused, knowing. The soft glitch of surprise smoothed itself over like it had never existed. And in its place, something else took root:

A slow, curling grin—not literal, of course, but something you could feel radiating off him. Bigger. Hungrier. More dangerous.

“You have to be kidding me,” Bill howled, his eye glowing brighter with amusement. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

His breath hitched. Eyes squeezed shut. Head bowed low in submission.

He couldn’t bear to look up.

And above him, Bill began to laugh.

Loud. Unhinged. Hysterical.

The kind of laughter that felt like it could split the sky open—laughter not out of joy, but because he’d just witnessed the most entertaining absurdity imaginable. Oh how he like absurdity.

The laugh was interrupted when he saw it—Ford, trembling, head lowered as he shakes it, so he can get the message across, fingers clenched in the fabric of his own pants like he was trying to put himself together with it. He’d made a fool of himself, completely, utterly exposed—like some tragic joke at the feet of his muse.

“You are something else, Stanford Pines,” he finally said, voice dipped in disbelief and something strangely close to admiration. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that—telling me that kind of crap and meaning it.”

Bill have to give him that, he said the best thing he could, and Bill's possessive side was so content about it.

His eye narrowed, the smile in his voice sharp.

“And not just guts… taste. Twisted, wild, absolutely unhinged taste, you are one of a kind”

Ford had tried desperately—to feel normal about his attraction. Trying to be what humans are supposed to be. Trying, and failing, to bury these feelings where they couldn’t reach him… especially the ones tied to Bill.

It’s not right to love, to admire, and above all to feel desire for another species. Humans belong with humans—it’s as simple as that. And Bill… is something else entirely. Something closer to divinity. For Ford his emotions are a sin, this is almost a sacrilege.

He knew he was strange. That was a fact he’d lived with all his life—his six fingers, his mind that worked faster than most, his goals that set him apart. He’d always been different.

And maybe that’s why he’d discovered Bill. Why Bill had chosen him. Because he wasn’t like the others. Because something in him had always leaned toward the unnatural.

Even if he was ashamed of it, ashamed of himself, the truth clung to him like static.

It wasn’t just admiration anymore.

Maybe it was the isolation.

Maybe it was years of solitude, of never being touched the way he needed, of instinct being starved and silenced.

But whatever it was… it had rooted itself deep.

And now he was here, with the start of an erection trapped in his pants, quiet desire in the bottom of his guts, breathing uneven, eyes squeezed shut like if he couldn’t see it, maybe it wouldn’t be real.

Trying not to feel the way his body betrayed him, trying not to feel something for Bill's evolving presence.

And Bill, oh, Bill, now he can read him like a book, he knew exactly what effect he had on Ford.

And he’d use it to his advantage. Of course he would. To make him stay, to keep him close, to have him forever, helpless and trembling beneath his will. He would conquer the world, just as he now held Ford—right in the palm of his hand as he do it.

Not by fear.

Not by force.

But by want and pure devotion.

He was never going to let him go.

So, to make him stay—to cement that beautiful addiction—Bill… oh, Bill… was going to make something special.

Something that would wrap around his mind, sink deep beneath his skin, leave no space for anything else. Something only he could give him.

So Ford would never want anything like him again. So he could never leave.

He wouldn’t have to conquer the world alone.

No… he would make something just for him to make him stay.

For his little human.

A reward for his honesty… his reverence.

Ford was still lost in the silence that followed, his body tight with uncertainty. But then—something shifted.

He felt it.

Something in front of him was changing. Warping the air. Bending the space. He could feel it on his skin, the weight of presence—like static and gravity all at once.

And though his eyes stayed shut, he knew… whatever stood before him now wasn’t what had been there before.

He wasn’t ready to look what had changed.

Then—he heard it

Smoother now. Not robotic—almost human—but still laced with that unmistakable glitching undertone.

“Oh, Fordsyyyy…”

The words dripped like honey.

“I have a surprise for you, open your eyes.”

And Ford—who had kept his eyes shut for far too long—finally opened them, hesitantly.

The first thing he saw was a pair of shoes. Polished black leather. Simple, elegant.

Above them: tailored black dress pants, falling over impossibly long legs that seemed to stretch endlessly upward. The figure before him looked… fancy, was the first word Ford could grasp—somewhere between aristocrat and illusion.

As he slowly raised his gaze, he took in a black silk-like dress shirt, fitted across a lean torso. The sleeves were casually rolled up, revealing skin the color of soft bronze—shimmering faintly with constellations, tiny stars that moved slowly beneath the surface, like galaxies trapped in flesh.

And the hands—those hands.

Long fingers, tapering into blackened tips. Nails sharp, polished, beautiful in a way that was inhuman.

Then finally—oh —his eyes reached that face.

And it was, without a doubt, the most handsome man Ford had ever seen.

Then the creature above him parted his lips—and licked them, slow and deliberate, like he was starving.

That tongue—almost black, shimmering with faint golden symbols—was nothing close to human.

So divine.

So inhuman.

And so devastatingly, freakishly hot.

A cheeky, knowing smile curled on lips that seemed too perfect. Sharp, near-vampiric teeth just barely peeked through. Pointed ears framed a face that was angular and cruelly elegant. Long yellow eyes stared down at him, lashes thick and dramatic—too precise to be real.

And the hair—sleek, impossibly smooth, drawn back into a low ponytail that glinted like molten gold in the light.

Ford didn’t breathe. He couldn’t.

Because this wasn’t just any man, it was without doubt, his muse, the object of his desire and admiration.

This was a god wearing a suit of beauty—just for him.

Ford was a bloody mess on the ground—gasping, shaking, barely able to form words through the haze of shock.

And Bill? Oh, he was enjoying every second of it.

“What?” Bill cooed, tilting his head as a wicked smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Do you like it? or you want me in my normal form, freak?”

He batted his long lashes with mock innocence.

“It’s been ages since I took this form. Forgot how weird it is having two eyes—seriously, how do you people keep track of all this visual input?”

Ford, still speechless, stared like a man drowning in beauty and terror.

“Oh, and look, Fordsy!” Bill added with a laugh. “I’ve even got blood and all those annoying little nerves you humans fuss about.”

To prove it, he dragged one of his sharp black nails across his neck—not deep, just enough to draw a slow metallic line.

Blood welled up on his neck, silver color so different from Ford.

Bill stared at Ford, then hummed softly, almost thoughtfully, at the sensation.

“Fascinating.”

Shit … oh … fucking shit

He almost came just from the sight.

So pathetic of him but… oh god, he is so weak.

That neck—split open so casually beneath a sharpened nail, liquid sliding down beautiful skin like ink on paper. Ford had never seen anything so…

So perfect…

So inhuman…

So tempting…

His breath hitched, his body tense with something primal, overwhelming.

This wasn’t about desire.

Not really.

This was about need and purpose.

People get off.

That 's just a fact.

They get off thinking about others.

About hands, mouths, voices, skin.

Most humans want connection. Warmth. Someone to hold them when the world gets too loud.

But Ford?had never wanted that.Never needed that.

He didn’t want comfort.

He wanted to serve.

He wanted to give until he had nothing left.

He wanted to be useful—to be the one who almost held divinity in his bare hands, even if just for a second. Even if it broke him.

Ford had never been the type to crave human touch.

Not emotionally. Not physically. Not in any way.

But the idea of touching Bill?

Of placing his hands on something not meant for him—It consumed him.

He wanted to press his fingers to the blood trailing down Bill’s neck.

He wanted to smear it, taste it, understand it.

And on top of it all, Stanford understood that he desired nothing more than to feel this suit of flesh tremble—even just a little—and know he was the cause.

The thought alone made Ford ache.

And Ford had never wanted anything more.

Making his muse lose composure, unravel under his hands—

If Bill knew what he was thinking, Ford might as well be one foot in the grave.

Because how dare he?

How dare he want something like that—

To touch his muse like that.

To desire him in a way no worshipper should.

It was blasphemy.

And it made him burn.

But… as he looked closer, he could almost feel the cockiness radiating off Bill, and knew… he was also burning with something else.

Bill stood tall above him, gaze dripping with amusement and superiority, like a god admiring the weakness of something he already owned.

His golden eyes shimmered with delight, lashes casting delicate shadows across sharp cheekbones, while a smear of blood still clung to his neck like a badge of power.

Every inch of him was too much.

The power Bill held over him was overwhelming—it consumed him.

And Bill knew he had everything Ford could ever want.

Bill , oh he was aware, that Ford… gets off on knowledge. On devotion. On pressure. On being seen by something so far beyond human it made him feel real.

He didn’t want love.

He wanted to be needed.

He wanted to earn the right to worship.

To be the thing that helped a god come undone.

And Bill will give him just a taste of that.

“Oh, Fordsy, oh Fordsy… don’t give me that look,” Bill cooed, voice dipped in fake sympathy. “Getting all guilty on me while looking at me like that…”

He licked his lips—slow, as deliberate—eyes tracked his every movement.

“With that… hungry gaze. How brave of you” he laughed, cruel and sweet.

Ford said nothing.

Words wouldn’t save him now.

He was already fully hard—pathetic, animalistic, undone.

His body betrayed him completely, trembling under the weight of something far beyond shame.

So he stayed frozen, hands gripping the fabric of his pants like restraint could still mean something.

He looked at Bill with unflinching intensity, silently offering up his fate.

If Bill chose to punish him for his boldness—so be it.

Bill held his destiny in his hands.

And Ford didn’t care. Not even a little. If he have the opportunity to see this form of his muse.

“Again with the silence…” Bill sighed, pausing as if wounded.

“You are making me tired, Sixer. I’m so good to you, and you give me the cold shoulder?”

Silence again

Bill takes a slow sigh

But…

The only reply he earned was a moan—Ford’s second that night, that’s a record.

This one airy, broken, almost painful.

Bill had stepped on his groin.

Not with violence, but with that elegance and force—just enough pressure to push Ford toward madness.

“Well that’s a better response…”

Ford looked up at him, glassy-eyed, pleading, as Bill moved his foot—cruelly, really slowly—from side to side. Making him get a taste of the hell himself.

“You are making me so disappointed in you,” Bill murmured, pressing his shoe down harder against Ford’s groin.

This time, Ford had to bite his tongue just to choke back the sound clawing its way up his throat.

“You’re nothing but primate—letting instinct take the reins.”

Ford tried to grab Bill’s leg, desperate to ease the pressure—

But with a lazy flick of his fingers, Bill summoned glowing blue chains that snapped around Ford’s wrists, yanking them down and pinning him to the ground.

“Fuck” He gasped, the cold bite of magic searing against his skin, binding him tight.

No escape. No relief.

Bill laughed—sharp and amused, golden eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Oh, how fun,” he purred, tilting his head. “watching you squirm like a worm at my feet. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

He leaned in slightly, voice lowering to a silky whisper.

Ford can only make his head nod in defeat.

“So for now—until you learn your manners—you’ll just have to get comfortable in those.”

Then he stepped forward again, placing the point of his polished shoe back between Ford’s legs with almost lazy precision—pressing, dragging, teasing.

Not too hard.

Not enough to injure.

Just enough to send Ford reeling.

The pressure was maddening, it wasn’t enough.

Ford’s breath hitched violently in his throat.

His hips jerked forward instinctively, as if chasing that cruel, perfect friction.

He felt everything—every fiber of fabric straining, every glimpse of pleasure thudding between his thighs.

He was so sensitive after months of nothing, so much restraint—only to be undone by something as simple as a foot.

He could barely think—the only thing anchoring him to reality was the sharp, cold feeling of the chains.

It was humiliating.

His breath came in short, ragged bursts.

That single point of contact—Bill’s shoe, polished and sharp—is pressing right against him.

It was unbearable. He wants to get free, to rut in Bill leg like he was an animal, to cum.

The leather was cold through his clothes, cruel in its elegance.

Every time Bill shifted his weight, it created the faintest grind—

Another moan, this one more desperate, almost whimpering.

He could feel the outline of the sole, the slight rise of the heel, pressing perfectly into the ache between his legs.

And worse… the humiliation of it.

On his knees, chained, reduced to panting under muse foot—

Ford was dizzy.

Every second felt heavier than the last—like gravity itself was turning against him.

The restraint in his voice had shattered; there was no control left.

His mouth stayed open, breath coming in ragged bursts, and his eyes—half-lidded, unfocused—never left Bill.

He wasn’t even really seeing anymore.

His muscles tensed each time the shoe moved—just a slight twist, a nudge, like Bill was adjusting it for comfort, or perhaps experimenting.

And he was experimenting…

The way Bill watched him—head tilted, lips parted in something like intrigue—he wasn’t just playing anymore.

He was studying.

Curious.

Bill pressed down a little harder, just enough to draw another low, desperate sound from Ford’s throat. Ford’s head fell back, his mouth parted in silent, shattered plead.

His hands clenched into fists, trembling against the chains.

His thighs quivered from restraint and need, and a faint sheen of sweat clung to his temples.

And Bill watched.

“Oho…” Bill murmured, eyes alight.

“There it is…You are breaking”

Ford’s hips trembled, helplessly drawn toward the pressure, like instinct was overriding shame.

He could barely breathe. His pulse roared in his ears.

The shoe dictated his rhythm, his ruin.

And Ford… Ford was falling.

Fast.

“Ah… my muse…” he gasped, voice breaking apart.

“Feels goo… thank—ah… mm—”

His voice dissolved into the air as Bill pressed harder, now with malice, watching him fall apart.

And then, as the human teetered on the edge, panting, hips twitching helplessly—

Bill had a thought.

He tilted his head, almost fascinated for his thought of mind.

What would happen if he just kept going?

What if he pushed Ford further? Let him fall, let him drown in gentle, maddening pleasure—close, but never quite.

What if he kept him there, trembling on the edge, with no release at all?

He would fall apart and be pleading for mercy.

He twisted his foot slightly—slowly, rhythmically.

Back and forth.

The grind of leather against cloth.

Ford let out a sound—low, strangled, almost reverent.

A broken prayer.

His body was chasing it now. Chasing sensation, chasing permission, chasing anything that would bring him closer to collapse. He was moving now with the shoe, almost riding it.

“You feel that, Sixer?” Bill whispered, voice dipped in something dangerous. “That’s not me. That’s you.”

He leaned in, not touching, just close enough to feel Ford’s breath hitch again, in front of his face.

“All that need, all that filth, all that trembling mess under my foot? That’s your pathetic truth, isn’t it?”

Ford didn’t answer, his brain was static. His dignity was ash.

The only thing left was the pulsing heat of want, the agonizing desire of being beneath him.

And just as Ford was about to break—hips stuttering, spine curving forward with a whimper like trying to reach something—

Bill stepped back.

Withdrew his foot entirely.

The absence hit harder than any pressure.

Ford nearly collapsed with the loss.

Ford gasped, trembling, as Bill simply watched—watched what he had done to him.

Ford’s unfocused gaze locked onto him, glassy and reverent, like Bill was the only thing left in the world.

Bill crouched down and gently patted his hair.

Ford’s eyes fluttered closed, the touch flooding him with some relief.

“Wouldn’t it be funny,” Bill whispered, voice thick with mockery, “if … I pushed you to the edge all night… but never let you fall, again and again?”

He leaned in closer. “Would you cry for me then, Fordsy? After I make you almost come in your pants for hours?” Ford looked almost scared for that, he cannot take that anymore “Don’t give me that face… thought you wanted to be touched by me,Sixer.”

Ford could only let out a pitiful sound—half-breath, half-whimper. Almost begging.

“I’ve got an opportunity for you, since I am in a good mood” Bill drawled, fingers curling around Ford’s jaw.

“You can try to make me feel good, be useful for me—and maybe get something in return…

Or you can suffer through this, hour after hour.”

To make his point clear, he grabbed Ford’s neck with sudden force—just enough to keep him still, not enough to hurt, but to get him close, almost giving him what he desires the most.

Ford’s breath hitched, Bill’s grin inches from his face. The human could taste it—his breath, his essence, his promise.

God, how he craved it.

“Please…” Ford gasped, desire spilling out like water from a broken vessel.

“Please let me serve you, my muse. Let me kiss you. Please…”

He was so needy, for something, for Bill touch.

And without warning, the chains vanished.

Gone.

Bill leaned back, eyes glittering.

“Come on Stanford,” he grinned. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

Ford didn’t need to be told twice.

Like a starved animal, he lunged—tackling Bill to the ground.

Bill only laughed, one hand still gripping his neck as Ford’s hands roamed wildly, frantically—finally exploring what he’d been denied for so long. And oh…

He kissed him.

No—he tried to devoured him.

Their mouths crashed together in chaos. Teeth clashed. Lips tore. Ford had never kissed anyone in his life—and Bill, surprisingly, had never let anyone close enough to have that privilege either. Yet here he was, giving it to Ford. Not a care in the world, they don’t care about that, just the wet of his mouths, and even if there is some hesitation it is perfect for them to explore each other this way.

Bill bit down hard, dragging a sound from Ford’s throat that made him gasp, mouth falling open—

And that’s when Bill’s tongue slipped inside. Long, unnatural, tasting, claiming.

He savored the heat of Ford’s mouth, the desperation on his tongue, the sacred filth of it all.

Ford gripped at Bill’s shirt with white-knuckled hands, dragging him closer, trying to pull him even closer.

They kissed like they were trying to consume each other—devour, dissolve, disappear into one another.

Like he could get to the core of his muse if he just kissed him enough.

Ford fought to take control, straddling Bill with trembling urgency, trying to pin him down—trying to make him yield.

Bill responded with a hiss, his fingernails digging into Ford’s throat—like a threat- but he didn’t push him away, even when Fords crimson liquid started to drop from it and he got more insistent.

Not yet.

His lips curled into a grin against Ford’s mouth, even as he bit down hard on his lower lip—hard enough to taste copper.

Ford moaned, the pain only fueling him further.

“Freak” bill though.

Bill’s other hand fingers were tangled in Ford’s hair like he might fall without them, and Ford—Ford was forcing his hands to Bill’s hips, pushing, grounding, trying to make him one with the floor.

And Ford, Ford decide he will be bolder tonight.

He shoved his tongue past Bill’s teeth, almost trying to reach his throat, clashing with Bill's longer one.

It wrapped around his like a snake—coiling, testing—and for a second, Ford thought he might pass out from the rush of it.Slick, hot, monstrous.

He whimpers into the kiss, chest heaving, his body grinding against Bill’s without control.

He pressed in like he wanted to fuse them together, melt the barrier between muse and follower, reduce them both to pure sensation, to make his devotion seen with all of his existence.

Their mouths were a battlefield—bruises blooming, breath stolen, every second more desperate than the last. Fords blood and saliva mixing with Bill’s.

And for just a moment, Bill twitched.

Not much.

Barely a flinch.

But enough.

Enough to know that something in him had sparked—some small, dangerous flicker of uncontrolled response.

His grip on Ford’s neck tightened. Not out of dominance, but out of some kind of need.

Ford felt it.

Felt that shift.

And it made him press in harder, groaning into Bill’s mouth like a man in hunger.

He bit Bill’s lower lip back, hard, reckless.

And this time, Bill growled, he granted him a sincere reaction.

Something hot and electric surged in the space between them—

A charged silence, thick with want.

“Ah—B—!” Ford tried to warn, the words muffled inside the demon’s mouth before they were swallowed.

He could only continue to moan against Bill’s mouth, the sound breaking helplessly as…

He… came.

Untouched.

With Bill’s growl echoing in his mind, his hands gripping him, and his body too far gone to fight it.

As they finally pulled apart—Ford gasping for air, chest heaving—, with stained pants and the only thing connecting him with Bill was a thin string of blood and spit, glistening between their lips.

Bill smirked, his voice a little shaky from the chaos of the kiss.

“For your information,” he said, his breath uneven, “you kiss like you want to devour me—but nothing you take was without my permission.”

Ford only hummed in response, too dazed to speak—his lips still parted, wanting more.

Bill’s eyes flicked down, amused.

Blood had soaked into Ford’s collar, staining his blue shirt with a deep, sticky red.

“Messy,” he muttered.

Then, without warning, Bill leaned in and began to lick his neck—slow, unhurried strokes from the base up to just below his jaw, as if he were savoring something sweet.

Ford flinched slightly at the touch, trying to pull away—not because he didn’t want it, but because he was starving for Bill’s mouth again. He tried to lean in, to steal another kiss.

But Bill pinned him with a look.

“Let me clean this for you,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost tender—but dangerous. “Get yourself together”

Ford was trembling, overstimulated beyond reason.

He had just come, and yet Bill kept going—touching, teasing, pushing—

And oh God, it was too much. It was all too much.

Bill’s tongue traced up the side of Ford’s throat, leaving a hot, wet path up to the curve beneath his ear.

Ford’s knees buckled.

His body betrayed him, shivering as Bill’s mouth ghosted closer.

And then—Bill’s tongue slipped behind his ear, into the sensitive hollow at the back of it.

Ford shuddered.

His breath hitched. His whole body trembled like he’d been struck by lightning. That spot—God, that spot—

He couldn’t even think.

“You know,” Bill whispered, his breath brushing hot against Ford’s skin, “if I bit you right here… it’d be enough to kill you.”

And of course, that only made Ford shiver more.

Of course it did.

Bill grinned wider, teeth gleaming.

“Oh, IQ,” he cooed. “You’re so eas-.”

Ford didn’t respond—not with words.

Instead, he grabbed Bill’s shirt and pulled him in again, desperate, clumsy, starved.

Whatever Bill was about to say got swallowed whole by Ford’s kiss.

Their mouths met like a spark hitting dry kindling—instant fire.

This time, there was no hesitation. No testing the waters, not any more.

Ford kissed him like he couldn’t get deep enough, like he wanted to disappear into him.

His hands roamed—shaky, urgent—over Bill’s back, his sides, the edges of that inhuman frame, trying to learn him by touch, to create a memory of the feeling of something sacred finally in his hands.

Bill responded with equal hunger, lips curling in delight against Ford’s.

He let himself be kissed—taken—for a few precious seconds, before his hands slid into Ford’s hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose his throat again.

Ford gasped, eyes fluttering half-closed.

Bill didn’t go for his mouth this time.

He kissed along Ford’s jaw, biting lightly, tracing lines of heat down his neck with teeth and tongue.

Ford’s breath stuttered.

“I think you’ve got… something for my neck,” he managed, voice uneven as Bill licked at the skin again.

“Yeah?” Bill replied, almost irritated. “Got a problem with that?”

“N-No—no, I just—I—ah—”

He gave another experimental lick to his neck , making Ford weak.

“That’s what I thought.”

Ford’s hands slipped beneath Bill’s shirt, hot fingertips grazing cold skin that wasn’t entirely human, electric, unreal.

He chased the feeling anyway, like he might find something magical beneath it.

He wanted to feel everything Bill is.

And Bill—Bill was letting him.

They parted again with enough distance to watch each other in the eyes.

“You got anything more than kissing in you, Fordsy?” Bill asked, voice dripping with arrogance.

“Don’t get me wrong—you came from a kiss. That’s impressive in a pathetic kind of way. But I didn’t feel a damn thing.”

He knows, that he is not truthful, but he cannot admit that, so he just …smile, lazy and cruel. Putting a control mask.

“Honestly? Kicking you might be more entertaining.”

Ford froze—stung by the truth in Bill’s words.

Because he had come from just a kiss.

Because Bill hadn’t felt anything apparently.

Because he wanted—needed—to make him feel it.

To make Bill fall apart like he had.

To give him the kind of pleasure that twisted the spine, made his resolve tremble.

And somewhere deep in his fractured, desperate mind…

He wanted to make Bill beg, because it felt so good.

The thought was madness.He knew that.Bill didn’t beg. Bill didn’t lower himself like that.But… what if?

His eyes sharpened.

“Would you let me, my muse?” he asked, voice low—pleading but dangerous.

“Would you let me touch you… in any way , make you weak from touch itself?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

His hands slid lower, fingers tracing along Bill’s thighs—those sleek, inhuman muscles under deceptively soft skin.

Ford swallowed, hard.

Bill didn’t look at him.His expression went flat, almost bored.

“Sure,” he said, flicking his lashes. “Bend me in half if you want. Do whatever. I doubt you’ll make me feel anything. I don’t even know if this body can feel that, if I am being sincere. So go ahead, Fordsy. Try your best”

He smiled like it meant nothing. 

“I’m all yours.”

Dismissive. Mocking.So sure of himself.So unaware of what those words matter to him.

Ford shiver with the words.

He saw the flicker in Bill’s posture.

The faint crease in his brow.

And something deep in Ford’s gaze shifted.

Darker.

He wanted to see him fall.

If Bill was giving him permission—if he was daring him—then Ford would take it.

Bill was still staring off, seemingly distracted.

He was wondering if the body he crafted so perfectly could even want the way humans did.

Wondering if it could go that far.

He had built this form to mimic pleasure, but he’d never tested its limits.

Not like this.

And he hadn’t yet realized:

Ford was about to find out for him.

As Bill drifted in thought, Ford moved.

With unexpected elegance and quiet strength, he lifted Bill’s legs—one motion, smooth and deliberate—until Bill’s back and head were the only parts touching the floor. His thighs rested firmly on Ford’s shoulders.

Actually bending him in half.

“Ah—wow,” Bill breathed, a laugh breaking through. “You really made my heart skip there, Fordsy. Hah!”

There was genuine surprise in his voice.

He hadn’t expected that kind of power—not from him.

Guess hauling metal through forests and wrestling with unnatural creatures in the forest pays off, he thought.

Even he, a supernatural being, had just been manhandled.

And oh… it makes him all fuzzy inside.

Ford didn’t respond.

He didn’t even look up.

He simply lowered his head and began to kiss along Bill’s legs—slow, purposeful.

Soft lips, warm breath, trailing down in reverent lines.

Then a bite.

A soft one, but enough to sting.

Bill’s breath hitched.

Ford continued—alternating between kisses and sharp, teasing bites along the inside of his thighs. His grip on Bill’s legs tightened with each motion, fingers digging in like he had no intention of letting him go. If he were a human, he for sure will have bruises all over his legs in the form of 6 fingers.

What a fun thought.

Without a word, Bill conjured a small pillow under his head—for comfort, yes, but also because he wanted to watch the show.

This—this wasn’t the weak, trembling version of Ford he enjoyed breaking apart.

No.

This was different.

There was confidence in his touch. Hunger in the way he moved.

Focus and a goal.

Bill wasn’t sure he liked it.

Which meant, of course, that he did… fuck if it was making him almost jump in anticipation.

Having Stanford Pines down there, close to his groin, eyes full of want, breath hot against skin he barely registered as his own—

It made Bill’s mind confused about his own want.

Ford paused briefly, fighting with his glasses as they slipped down his nose.

Before he could push them up, Bill reached out—gentle, precise—and plucked them off his face.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he said, laying them on the ground beside them.

“Thank you,” Ford murmured—his voice lower now, rougher.

His mouth was hovering—so close, too close—to Bill’s groin.

And for once, Bill didn’t have a smart remark ready.

He swallowed.

Curiosity crackled through him.

What would it be like?

To be touched like he never let himself be. Like something able to feel, instinctive, primal desire.

To let go.

To surrender.

Ford was ready to show him all.

He leaned in—mouth brushing against the groin of Bill.

And Bill went perfectly still.

Huh, he thought.

That feels… funny?

Like every nerve in his body had suddenly redirected its focus—centered on that one part of him.

It was too much.

And not enough.

He didn’t know if he wanted it to continue or stop.

Ford leaned in again, licking over the fabric of Bill’s dress pants—wetting it with slow, deliberate passes of his tongue. Almost kissing it with admiration.

The heat of it soaked through.

It reminded Bill—somehow—of the awkward, shameful accident Ford had recently in his pants.

This is what it feels like? he thought distantly. Good for you, Fordsy.

But the warmth of Ford’s mouth was making things worse—worse in a way that made his lower body throb with rising confusion.

The humidity, the wetness—Bill wrinkled his nose. It felt kind of gross.

Or was that just him?

He didn’t know what he was feeling.

He hated that.

Ford pulled his mouth away, only to reach up with one hand—strong and sure—and press it against Bill’s groin.

The other arm was still holding him effortlessly in place.

Bill blinked.

He’s strong.

Strong enough to keep him suspended in the air with one arm like it was nothing.

And then—without warning—that hand started to move.

Just a soft, slow pressure.

Rhythmic. Measured.

And… it actually felt good.

Bill’s eyelids fluttered, his breath catching as the sensation simmered, building slowly.

He stared down, watching as Ford touched him—watching his own body begin to respond, traitorous and somehow a little bit human.

A small bulge started to grow beneath the pressure, dull and unfamiliar.

It felt personal.

Too personal.

Like the control was slipping out of his hands, inch by inch.

“Hey, Fordy…” he said, voice unsure now, pitched a little higher. “Why don’t you do something more? I’m starting to get bored.”

Ford looked up.

That same hard stare.

Focused. Serious. Unshaken.

He didn’t even blink.

“Are you going to stop me, my muse?” he asked, voice like stone.

Bill hesitated—just long enough for the power to shift completely.

“No, but—”

“Good,” Ford cut him off.

Just like that.

The audacity, Bill thought, stunned.

This dumb little human just interrupted me.

How dare he—

And then Stanford Pines did something that made Bill forget what indignation even was.He unfastened Bill’s dress pants.

Opened them slowly.

Deliberately.

And for the first time in a very, very long time—

Bill Cipher forgot he didn't need to breathe.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

Ford only smiled, calm and focused, as if this moment was entirely his to enjoy.

“You’re not wearing any underwear?” he asked, voice low, almost teasing, as he reached beneath the opened fabric.

Bill’s breath hitched

Ford exposed him—his body betraying him, with an already hard on from the build up alone.So pathetic of him

Ford thought that it was unlike his, Bill cock is oh god… slimmer, longer, strange in its elegance, with a little curvature at the base.

Dark at the tip, fading into the almost gold of his unnatural skin like ink spreading in water.

And on top of all, twitching, almost begging to be held.

Ford stared, utterly captivated.

Bill, for the first time, felt something close to shame.

“Why would I need it?” he shot back, but even he heard the nervous quiver in his voice.

Ford was studying him, calmly, reverently—and god, it felt too raw. Too exposed.

Ford only smiled again.

“That’s actually a good thing, you know.”

Bill opened his mouth to respond, to say something cutting—

“Why’s tha—”

But he didn’t finish.

Ford’s arms moved, gripping Bill’s thighs with the kind of certainty that made his whole body tense.

Firm. Focused. Unrelenting.

Bill knew he had a thing for Fords neck.

But now?

Apparently, he isn't the only one obsessed , as it seems Ford had a thing for gripping his thighs too.

“What are you—?”

And then—heat.

Wet, overwhelming, and immediate.

Ford lowered his head.

Took him in.

Bill’s entire body arched.

His hands flew to his mouth, gripping it , to make him shut, to make him feel some anchor ,desperation hit him like a truck, his eyes squeezed shut.

He couldn’t watch.

It was too much.

As Bill slowly unraveled before him, Ford felt his confidence slipping away. It wasn't that he didn't know what he wanted to do—he'd imagined enough scenarios in the privacy of his own mind, thank you very much. But putting it into practice was different. The taste of Bill in his mouth was another thing; he didn't know how to proceed.

This was Bill.

His muse. His obsession. The being who always seemed untouchable.

So Ford hesitated, testing the waters instead of rushing forward, keeping his head still. He allowed himself a moment simply to watch and taste the essence of his muse.

And Bill?

Bill was like ice cold.

His breathing turned rough, uneven. His chest heaved with each shallow inhale.

His form seemed to flicker at the edges, static dancing through the air around him. The usual arrogance in his expression had softened into something Ford rarely got to see. His breathing had become uneven, each breath catching slightly before leaving him again. Tiny tremors traveled through him, subtle enough that most people would have missed them.

Ford didn't.

He noticed every one.

And the realization sent a rush of warmth through his body.

Ford just knew he was struggling to maintain the effortless composure he wore like a second skin.For the first time since this began, Ford allowed himself to believe he had the upper handl.

And somehow, that was far more intoxicating than anything Ford had imagined, it made him a little confident. 

He began to move—slowly, carefully. Rhythmic, exploratory, learning from the other's body. 

And when his mouth adjusted just right—

When his tongue dragged across just the bottom of the tip— sliding on the frenulum

Bill shuddered violently.

Ford looked up, watching the mighty, immortal entity above him reduced to shaking, breathless silence.

He kept moving with intention, watching every reaction as if it were something worth understanding. He needed to understand what made Bill curl his toes from the sensation.

Bill was trying so hard to stay quiet—to hold back, to smother every reaction clawing desperately its way up his throat.

And all Stanford could see… was the effort.The restraint.The crack forming. 

And in that moment, Ford knew:

 He was winning

So he adjusted his grip—steady hands anchoring the trembling thighs—and began to move his head.

Not clumsy, not frantic.

Deliberate.

All of it was calculated—precise, like he was solving an equation with his mouth.

Every angle, every movement, every pause… part of a formula designed to break the demon resolve.

He let his head rise and fall with a slow, purposeful rhythm.

Testing.

Every inch, every shift of pressure, was measured not just to please, but to undo.

Bill's breath can be heard even with his hands on his mouth.

His mouth moved deeper, then back again, tongue dragging along sensitive skin, just to feel the way Bill’s thighs twitched under his grip.

He set a pace—not fast, but steady. Sensual.

Enough to drive someone like Bill—so used to being in control—completely mad.

Ford was in control of his pleasure, and Bill was crumbling trying not to make himself seem so… so pathetic and needy.

Ford was choosing every motion,

Using his mouth like a slow-burning match,

Wearing Bill down, breath by breath.

His hair shifted with each movement, brushing against Bill’s skin in feather light passes, making him feel every inch of it.

Heat and wet and pressure, again and again—

Until all Ford could hear was Bill’s breath getting shallower, sharper, less composed.

“oh- ohh” he heard Bill exclaim as he dragged his teeth along his shaft.

Ford was working toward something bigger.

Something impossible.

He was so close to make the Bill Cipher—come undone.

Ford could feel it in the way Bill shivered more violently now, his body twitching with too many signals—desperate fingers trying to grip his shoulders, trying to catch him, to gain back control that was slipping fast.

“Sixer—”

The name came out cracked, breathless.

“I—stop. Something’s—something’s wrong—”

His voice trembled like his body, shaken loose in Ford’s hold.

But Ford didn’t stop. He couldn't stop. He was so close to win this.

“Sixer—ah, fuck, I said stop!”

Bill was shaking now, squirming in his arms like a cornered thing, unable to escape the strength holding him down. 

Desperation had crept into his voice. His hands clawed at Ford’s arms-still no use. 

And then—

The last resort.

Pleading.

Bill Cipher never says please.

Never

But this time…

“Oh-for fuck's sak,—Ford, please. Please stop. I don’t like this, I’ll—I’ll punish you for your disobedience, you little sh—”

His voice broke off and for the first time he was Begging.

“Pleas-“ he begged at the same time as he screams at him for his insolence.

Ford’s stomach twisted.

Guilt clawed up his throat, thick and choking for not obeying his muse.

But so did another truth:

He was almost there.

He made him beg.

So near to bringing a god to his knees.

To make him fall.

Even if it meant being destroyed after.

Even if Bill never forgave him.

Even if it never happened again.

The fall would be worth it.

“Sixer—just,stop! I said stop! Plea-”

Bill’s voice cracked harder now—no venom left, just panic.

He bucked in Ford’s grip, but the human was locked around him, too strong, too focused.

“let me go , For-“

Stanford was dragging his head in a hard, determined rhythm, pushing deeper with every pass—hitting the back of his throat again and again.

And still…

No flinch.

No gag.

No hesitation.

Bill’s eyes widened in realization as he tries to wiggle out of it.

He doesn’t have a reflex…?

He watched, stunned, as Ford kept going—relentless, unbothered, completely obsessed with what he was doing.

He’s human. He shouldn’t be able to— 

But he was.

And that made it worse the dedication for Bill.What kind of creature ignores his body like that? Why isn't he stopping if he's almost choking on it? Why does he continue to torture him like that?

Bill’s thoughts spiraled, as the heat became unbearable.

What kind of man lets himself be broken open, just to serve like this?

Oh this is feeling so much worse

Oh-oh…

Something is wrong

Bill threw his head back, watching the Mindscape tremble and distort in time with Ford's movements. It was too much. Far too much. 

His body is feeling really weird

No, no, no...  he is going to die?

“Stop—stop! Something’s—something’s happening!”

Bill’s voice cracked—high, sharp, unrecognizable in its desperation.

“Stop! I—something’s coming—I can’t—!”

Bill shakes uncontrollably as he tries to escape Ford grip on his now abused thighs.

But Ford…

Ford was all instinct and silence.

Focused like a man in trance.

He had a single purpose.

Make Bill come in his throat.

Bill didn’t know anymore if he was being worshipped…

 …or consumed by something far more dangerous like the soul and essence of Stanford Pines.

He is at his mercy.

He couldn’t escape.

He couldn’t breathe.

He was feeling everything in Ford's mouth and when he gets his tongue doing that thing on his top …

Ah...fuck it feels so fucking.. is too much

He continued to tremble, his eyes squeezed shut as pain and pleasure blurred together. He felt dangerously close to blacking out.

And for the first time in what might’ve been centuries—not since Euclidia—

Bill Cipher was afraid.

His body—this shell he’d crafted with arrogance and detachment—It was betraying him.

He hadn’t built it for this form.For touch.For pleasure.For the breaking. 

All that this human is making him feel.

He cannot keep it to himself anymore

Ford's eyes looking at him hungrily even with his dick in his mouth is making all so hard to keep his composure.

“Oh Please, just stop," he thought.

And so—against every part of himself—

Bill made a sound.

A choked, trembling moan.

Pathetic. Guttural and loud, shaking at the edges.

Ford shuddered at the sound, almost stopping. 

Bill let go.

All that power, all that posturing—washed away in one awful, humiliating loud sound.

It tore from his throat like a sob, shameful and wet, helpless.

He moaned again now more loud—pitifully—his voice dissolving into something broken.

And when it came—when he finally released—it was overwhelming. Violent. Shameful.

“Please—please let me go, is too much Ford. Please, stop—”

And then a sob...

Bill thought he looked pathetic. Pitiful, even, as another pleading whimper slipped past his lips. 

That make his eyes almost spill liquid at the same time he opens his mouth .

His voice shook like glass rattling in a storm.

He was crying.

Tears gathered in his eye before he could stop them, spilling down his cheeks in warm, humiliating trails. His entire body trembled under the intensity of it, every nerve raw and oversensitive.

The pleasure was overwhelming, building faster than he could process it, leaving him breathless and unsteady. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it only made everything sharper—the heat, the pressure, the unbearable rush spreading through him.

Another tear slipped free.

It felt too good.

Far too good.

"It feels—ah—" Another soft moan slipped from his lips."P-please, Ford..." 

Ford saw it.

All of it.

The tremors. The stuttering breath. The mental collapse.

Bill Cipher—god, tyrant, eternal mind—was moaning and pleading like a broken thing.

Even if he didn’t want to.

Even if he hated it.

But Ford loved it.

He loved how good Bill looked, crying out his name in pleasure—how he trembled in his hands, how he involuntarily shakes his body at the same time he swallow around his sensitive member,how he tried to hold back those pitiful sounds as he almost comes.

But Bill—

Bill can take it anymore, so much and without his control is making him mad .

"Stop, it hurts..F-Ford is to-o much "

He let's another loud sound and grab his hair as an anchor point making the pony tail a mess.

Ford ignore his words 

And continue to go at the same pace and even faster.

He is ignoring me

How dare he, not obeying a dream demon.

Bastard 

Bill is so pissed for his disobedience...

Bill wasn’t going to take it anymore.

"Stop."

His voice, sharp and trembling, cracked through the haze.

"I said—STOP!!"

And with that—

The chains snapped back into existence with a thunderclap of blue light.

Ford control yanked away, breath stolen from his lungs and his arms bound, unable to move.

His hands no longer on Bill.

Chained.

Powerless.

And yet…

Bill.

Still trembling.

Still gasping.

He whimpered—high and broken—and then—

He came.

Untouched.

On top of his lap, with his legs open, dick trembling.

Bill let out the most lascivious moan of the night as he continued to release.

Right there, standing, panting, bound in the aftermath of something he didn’t understand. 

His hands flew to his face, hiding the flush, the horror, the raw vulnerability of it all.

His body shuddered—violently—as the last of pleasure tore through him in waves he hadn’t asked for.

To Stanford, he looked beautiful—undone and trembling, his breathing uneven as he struggled to recover. It was a sight Stanford knew he would remember for the rest of his life

 Ford—

God, Ford—

Chained and breathless, erection pulsing, eyes wide with awe and fear.

Because when Bill finally lowered his hands…

When he looked at him—

His expression was dark.

Eyes wild,a little wet.Not with lust, but fury.

He was silent for one long, terrible second.

And then—

"Oh, fuck," Ford whispered.

Bill’s face was changing—slowly, painfully, like a storm gathering behind his golden eyes. The pleasure that had overtaken him only moments ago—the way his lips had parted; the helpless sounds he’d made—was vanishing.

In its place came something darker, pure rage, yes… but also desperation can be seen. The kind that burned through the air like static, making Ford’s skin prickle.

And Ford's chest tightened as he tried to breathe through the thick, oppressive silence between them. He knew this wasn’t over. He knew he’d done something no one should ever do, something that defied every rule of this twisted bond they shared. And now he had to survive it. Somehow.

His hands were chained , but his mind no , he realized that he had seen everything. Every single crack in Bill Cipher’s mask. The way the all-powerful, all-knowing demon had trembled under his touch. The way he had pleaded for mercy. It wasn’t just lust, it wasn’t just need—it was surrender. And not the kind Bill allowed, not the kind he pretended to give when he was praising him. This had been real. Raw. Bill Cipher—the self-proclaimed king of control—had given it up to him. To Ford.

And that thought—it shook him. Terrified him. Thrilled him.

Because Bill loved control more than anything. It was the air he breathed, the core of his being. Every word he spoke, every smile, every touch was designed to remind the world that he was untouchable. That he decided how everything went, and no one—not gods, not mortals—could take that power away.

Yet here they were.

And Ford, with nothing but his own desperate hands and devotion, shatter that power, had dragged him down. Had made him beg. Had forced sounds from him that should never have existed in Bill Cipher’s mouth. And for one impossible moment, the demon hadn’t been the untouchable dream demon. He hadn’t been a god.

But the storm in those golden eyes told Ford the truth: that moment was over. The bliss had burned away, leaving only raw, ragged nerves and the weight of humiliation heavy in the air. Bill had surrendered—and he hated it. He hated Ford for taking it. He hated himself for letting it happen.

Bill Cipher doesn’t cry.

Bill Cipher doesn’t falter.

Bill Cipher doesn’t lose.

Yet somehow… somehow, Ford had made him do all three, even if he doesn’t hold the reins, he got the momentary power all because Bill gave him the opportunity.

How dare he not stop when he told him to? How dare he laugh in his face? How dare he feel proud of making Bill cry out in pleasure?

 But now—now the demon burned with one thought, sharp and venomous:

He was going to take that power back, the one he surrendered to his human.

He was going to break Ford.

Remind him exactly what he was.

A pet. A toy. A trembling little human who forgot his place.

The Mindscape began to flicker, light stuttering like broken static. The air warped and hissed as reality trembled under Bill’s mood.

Ford swallowed hard, his throat tight as he watched Bill lower his head. The demon’s face was hidden now, hair slipping free from its perfect ponytail, wild strands falling forward to mask his expression. And that…

oh fuck…

That was worse than the fury Ford expected. This silence. This stillness. The calm before the storm, when you can’t see where the lightning will strike.

“You…”

Bill’s voice rolled through the space like thunder, reverberating inside Ford’s chest until it rattled his bones. It wasn’t just sound—it was a vibration, a distortion of reality itself, making the fabric of the Mindscape groan and split.

“Dumb human!” Bill roared, his tone a jagged blade. “You low, defective scrap of life. You inferior flesh bastard!”

The words slammed into Ford, heavy and hot, each one cutting deeper than the last.

Yeah. Bill was furious. Ford didn’t need a degree to figure that out.

“I came here in a good mood,” Bill spat, his voice crackling like lightning through dry wood. “I came to visit my stupid little pet. I give you the opportunity of a lifetime—and what do I get? Huh? What the fuck do I get, Stanford Pines?!”

The Mindscape shattered and reformed around them with every syllable, glitching like broken code. Bill’s fists clenched, his entire form flickering, raw power bleeding into the air like heat off asphalt.

 “I came here in a good mood,” Bill growled, his voice dipping into something low and lethal. “Disobedience. A fucking insult. I offer you my hand, and you drag me down by the foot like a parasite. I should rip you apart piece by piece for what you did. Do you know how mad I am right now?!”

And then Bill looked up.

Ford’s breath hitched.

The golden eyes had merged into a violent, molten red, burning with wrath. And down his sharp, elegant cheeks… faint wet streaks. The marks of what had happened before. Of what Ford had done to him that got him this mad.

The contrast struck like a punch to the gut. Terrifying. Thrilling. A deity undone, now remade in rage. Ford felt like a dead man standing, yet he is burning for it. He burns at the sight of this demon—furious, trembling, and still marked by pleasure he’d stolen in his body.

“What are you?” Bill hissed, his voice shaking with barely restrained violence. “Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

His hand snapped out, seizing Ford’s collar, his trembling fingers tight with rage.

“How dare you—how fucking dare you—take control from me.A ancient thing. A god. With your filthy mortal hands!”

Ford’s heart slammed against his ribs, fear clawing at him—but he couldn’t break now. Couldn’t show weakness. He had to make Bill believe what he’d done wasn’t rebellion… wasn’t theft… but desire to make him feel good.

“What do you say for yourself,Stanford Pines?!” The voice echoed across the Mindscape like a sentence being passed, reality splitting with the sound of it.

Slowly, Ford forced himself to breathe. He steadied the tremor in his hands, lifted his gaze, and dared to meet that blazing red eye. And then, deliberately, he broke his chains, with brute force, shattering ,Bill's composure a little with them, he covered Bill’s trembling hand on his collar with his own. The move caught Bill off guard—not because of the touch, but because of the audacity.

“My beautiful muse,” Ford said, voice low but unshaking, reverent and defiant all at once. “If you’ll let me speak… everything I did, I did because you allowed it. As you said before you could erase me with a flick of your fingers in this space. I only breathe because of you.”

His gaze didn’t waver, even as static burned the air around them. “It’s not your fault you felt something under my touch. I only wanted to give you a fragment of what you make me feel every time you’re near me. My devotion… it has no other shape but this. Making you feel good—Bill, that’s all I’m for, I was made for you and only.”

The demon’s eye twitched, a dangerous glitch, fury briefly disrupted by something he refused to name.

“And if you must know,” Ford added, his voice growing bolder, “I’d do it again. A thousand times. Even if it costs me everything—just to make you feel that way again.”

And before Bill could react, Ford moved.

His hand slid down, wrapping around Bill's dick, deliberate and firm. He gave the slightest, knowing stroke—and Bill’s breath caught with oversensitive sensations. His eyes fluttered half-closed, and a low, broken sound slipped past his lips—a reluctant, involuntary moan that no amount of fury could stop.

Ford’s gaze burned, his tone sharpened to a sinful whisper. “Don’t lie to yourself, my muse. You did feel good.” His thumb pressed lightly against the tip, earning another strangled, reluctant sound from the demon.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Ford continued, tone soft, reverent, and yet bold enough to burn. “Because this—” his grip tightened ever so slightly, deliberate, worshipful “—this is your power. You can take anything you want from me. Every part of me exists for you to use. That’s what I’m here for. That’s what I am, please let me be useful.”

And in that charged moment, Ford wasn’t asking for mercy. He was offering worship; he was begging for it.

And daring Bill Cipher to admit how badly he wanted more.

Something flickered in Bill’s eyes,a dangerous predatory light. A thought slid into place, smooth and undeniable, sparking across his mind like static fire.

Ford was right.

Bill could end this. End him. Snuff out every atom of Stanford Pines without breaking a sweat, without losing a wink of sleep over it. He could scatter him into nothingness, end this entire little game with a snap of his fingers.

But he hadn’t.

And the truth, hot and filthy, clawed its way up from somewhere deep and ugly inside him:

He hadn’t stopped Ford because it had felt good.

So good.

Not the kind of good Bill understood. Not victory. Not domination. Not pain.

This was different. This was molten, writhing, obscene pleasure, so sharp and consuming that his mind had gone white with it. Something primal, something entirely new.

And Ford—stupid, opportunist Ford—was doing it again.

One hand wrapped around his base, the other circling the head of his cock with the palm of it with slow, deliberate cruelty, dragging over hypersensitive nerves that shouldn’t even exist. His palm worked a merciless rhythm, hot, damp, worshipful, grinding Bill down past where he thought he could go.

Bill’s hips twitched violently, his body betraying him, chasing more without permission. His breath came uneven, his jaw tight, a soft noise breaking loose before he could bite it back.

He had just come.

His body should’ve been without want, sated, untouchable again. And yet—oh, fuck—Ford was wringing more out of him, making him squirm in place for the overwhelming sensation.

“s-stop, is too much-“ he bitted his lip, trying to ground himself as Ford always does.

It was not working.

It was torture. Maddening torture.

But God, it felt divine.

A wave of heat burned through him, curling low and heavy, spreading in ways he couldn’t chart, couldn’t stop. Pleasure like this had never been part of his existence. He hadn’t been born for weakness. Hadn’t planned for this kind of surrender.

And yet… it felt so good it frightened him. Good in a way power alone never did. Good in a way no victory, no conquest, no cosmic high had ever reached. This was primal. Hungry. Alive.

And the worst part?

He wanted more.

Bill's eyes fluttered, a glitch in his perfect facade.

Images flashed sharp and filthy through his head: Ford on his knees again, mouth stretched around him, eyes wet and devoted; Ford’s voice breaking on praise; the sound of himself begging—begging—for more.

Bill broke in another soft sound.

He wanted to feel that again. Wanted to drown in it. Wanted to see how far this mortal could take him, how much of him could come undone if he just let him.

Maybe this was why humans were still dragging their pathetic little species across this planet. This act, this heat, this filthy instinct—they’d built a whole world around it because nothing else came close.

Bill had thought he was above all that. Beyond flesh. Beyond want. Beyond sex.

But now? With Ford’s palm pressing just right, stroking him like he’d been made to do it, with his own body trembling on the edge of something raw and consuming again.

Fuck being above it. This was glorious.

And the sight of Ford himself—panting, pupils blown wide, chest heaving, visibly hard just from touching him—oh, that was power. That was worship. The kind Bill had never tasted before, deeper and dirtier than fear or obedience could ever be.

Control? Bill still owned him completely. He knew it. Ford would burn the world just to make him feel this again. That was the truth, and it made Bill grin slow and dangerous through the haze of pleasure.

So what if Ford had made him tremble? So what if he’d begged?

He wasn’t ashamed. He wasn’t weak.

He was going to take everything this human had to give. Every kiss, every stroke, every filthy offering. He was going to drag it out of him until Ford couldn’t stand, until his voice cracked from worshiping his name.

Bill’s lips curled, breath coming harsh and uneven, as a low growl slipped from his throat.

Yes. He’d let his little pet show him everything. Every depraved trick, every ounce of devotion.

Bill let himself sink into the feeling for a little longer, letting Ford’s hands keep working him open, relentless and worshipful. Every stroke made him twitch, his breath uneven, his body betraying how sensitive he was. It wasn’t anger that burned in him anymore—it was something else entirely, something filthy and addictive, a hunger he hadn’t known he could have.

“God, IQ…” Bill breathed out, a low, rough sound breaking his words. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” His lips curled, but it wasn’t a threat anymore—it was a grin, dangerous and full of dark amusement.

He let out a shuddering breath, hips jerking forward into Ford’s touch despite himself. A sharp, guttural moan slipped past his lips, low and drawn-out, making Ford’s hands tremble just from hearing it.

Bill chuckled, lazy and smug even while his body twitched with overstimulation. “You know what, Fordsy? You were right before…” His voice was husky now, dripping with heat instead of venom. “…you’re mine. Mine to control… mine to take apart…” He leaned in, lips brushing Ford’s ear as he whispered, “but you’re also mine to use.”

He tilted Ford’s chin up with two fingers, licking across his lips in a slow, deliberate stroke that made Ford shudder hard, heat pooling low in his stomach.

“I like this,” Bill admitted, his grin spreading wickedly, breath hot against Ford’s mouth. “I like what you’re doing to me. I like it a lot.” His voice dipped, smooth and teasing. “But you’re the human expert here, Sixer. I don’t know all the tricks yet…” He glanced down at himself, then back up with a glint of challenge in his eye. “…so tell me. What else can you do to make your god fall apart, huh?”

Ford let out a shaky gasp, heat flooding his face. The idea of continuing—of making Bill feel even better—made his entire body tense with need and fear all at once.

“Well… there is one thing…” he admitted, hesitant, voice trembling as his hands shifted slightly on Bill’s hips. His mouth went dry, but the words spilled out anyway, reckless and devoted. “Some men… they can get off from… behind, without touching the front, you know. It is just to know how to touch the right spot.”

Bill raised a sharp brow, his grin widening, leaning back just enough to watch Ford squirm under his gaze. “Ohhh…” he drawled, the word low and drawn-out, curiosity burning in his tone. “Does that feel good?You can pull it off?"

Ford swallowed hard, gathering every ounce of courage he had left. “If you… if you let me, I can try. I can show you.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. Then Bill’s grin turned slow, dangerous, but not cruel—anticipation laced in every line of it.

“Show me, Fordsy,” he murmured, leaning in close, voice a velvet threat that made Ford’s pulse stutter. “Show me everything you’ve got.”