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geniusboyy · 3 months ago

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Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 29

Testaments

WARNING: Explicit Content Ahead

In the quiet hours of the night, Ford moved like a shadow through the house. His arm was in a make-shift sling now, stiff and awkward against his side, but he paid it little mind. Fiddleford’s door was shut, and Ford hesitated as he passed it, listening for any sign of stirring.

But none came.

He moved again, slowly, meticulously, each spot where the floorboards creaked committed to memory. He quietly turned into the kitchen, illuminated only by the light of the waxing moon. He listened for another moment, glancing over his shoulder for good measure, then crossed into the stairway.

The lab was bathed in the pale glow of standby lights, machines blinking softly in the corners. Ford slid between two hulking pieces of equipment, their surfaces cool and smooth as his shoulder brushed past. He moved toward the far corner, where a small, half-empty storage room sat largely forgotten.

This room was a relic of earlier days—of experiments half-started and abandoned. Shelves sagged under the weight of unused supplies, their labels faded, their edges coated in a thin layer of dust. Ford methodically cleared the space, his movements mechanical, yet slow, careful to not pull the stitches freshly woven into his skin, but by the time the room was cleared, the faint ache in his arm had turned into a sharp, rhythmic throb. But he ignored it.

He laid a rug in the center of the floor, smoothing its fibers with his good hand before turning to the equipment he’d prepared earlier. Beside him, a black, viscous solution sat on the floor in a glass beaker—an experimental dye compound he’d created for better imagining. The glass stirring rod already dipped and sitting in the fluid clinked at the edge as he lifted it.

He was crouched low, his knees creaking softly as he settled onto his haunches. He grabbed the rod steady in his good hand, pulling it out of the solution. The black substance stuck to the glass, clinging to the bulbous end of the rod, thick and opaque.

He pressed the loaded tip into the fibers of the rug, applying just enough pressure to mark it. Slowly, deliberately, he began to turn on his heel, his body pivoting in a deliberate rotation. As he spun, the circle formed around him, standing out starkly against the worn fabric. When it was complete, he paused, staring at the closed shape, its perfection sending a strange thrill through him. He set the rod down and picked up a smaller instrument—one of Fiddleford’s precision brushes, used for fine soldering work.

He knelt at the edge of the circle, the journal open at his feet, its pages illuminated by the soft glow of a flashlight. The glyphs in his journal stared back at him, their forms jagged yet balanced, like fractals carved by the universe itself. Ford traced one with his eyes, his fingers hovering above the page for just a moment, before dipping the brush into the dye and pressing it into the rug.

One by one, he copied them, painting each one equidistant from the last. When the glyphs were done, he connected each point to all the others with a steady hand, the black lines converging into the intricate geometry of a pentadecagram.

Ford sat back on his heels, his chest rising and falling with quiet exertion. The symbols sprawled before him felt alive, its black lines stark against the rough texture of the rug. He glanced once more at the journal, then back at his creation, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

Ford moved to the walls next. He dipped the slender glass rod into the beaker, the black substance clinging to its tip in heavy droplets. The weight of it felt significant in his hand, almost ceremonial, as though the tool itself understood the gravity of what it was being used for.

Starting at one corner, he pressed the rod against the wall, dragging it steadily to the other side, leaving a stark, unbroken black line in its wake. It was sharp, its edges clean despite the uneven texture of the wall. Ford’s hand never wavered, his focus honed to a single point.

At the end of the first line, he angled upward, the rod gliding smoothly as he drew the second stroke. He connected the line to another angle, forming the sharp peak of a triangle, before dragging the line back down to meet the opposite end of the first.

At the center of the triangle, Ford pressed the rod into the wall, drawing an oblong shape, its curves just brushing the three sides that enclosed it. He worked with the meticulous care of an artist restoring a masterpiece, each line deliberate, each curve intentional. Finally, he made a single stroke down the center of the oblong shape, bisecting it cleanly.

He repeated the process on the next wall, then the next, the dark symbols spreading like veins across the room. The same shapes, the same precision, until they surround him from all three walls and the back of the door, the black lines stark against the grainy surface.

Ford returned to the circle at the center of the rug, the flashlight’s beam casting a harsh light over the journal in front of him. He sank down cross-legged, his injured arm resting awkwardly against his side, the sling feeling more like a restraint than a support.

The journal lay open on the floor, the glyphs staring up at him—begging to be spoken. Ford’s eyes roved over the pages as he silently translated the markings. He knew them by heart, had etched them into his memory long before this night—but he studied anyway.

He squeezed his eyes shut and the words rose in his throat like smoke, dense and acrid, clinging to his vocal cords as he began to recite them. His voice was low at first, barely a mumble, but it carried a weight that seemed to ripple through the air.

The first syllables came easily, the rhythm familiar, almost instinctive. But as he continued, his body began to tremble. His shoulders twitched with each syllable, his breath catching on the edges of the words as they poured from his mouth. And then it hit hard, midway through the incantation.

Ford’s head jerked, his throat constricting suddenly. His jaw had locked, leaving his mouth open, the chant stuck in his throat. His head trembled, his face turning red as he choked on it. A wave of sensation crashed through him, racing down his spine and radiating outward, static crackling through his veins, pushing against every nerve.

The pressure built, and he forced himself to breathe—a sharp, desperate gasp, before driving the words out. His voice strained, the syllables dragging across his throat like barbed wire. His eyelids trembled as they rolled back entirely.

The final syllable left his lips like an exhale, and with it, Ford’s body went limp, his head hitting the wall behind him with a dull thud.

The transition was violent and disorienting—one moment, he was falling backward, his body slamming toward the unforgiving wall of the storage room; the next, he was face-down in cold, shifting sand, the tide creeping insistently over his prone form. The chill of the water bit at his skin, its weight rising swiftly from his ankles to his chin, until it spilled into his mouth—the sharp taste of brine jarring him to full awareness. He coughed and spluttered, pushing himself up on trembling arms.

The world around him was new yet familiar. The sky above stretched endlessly, veiled in a stark overcast that blurred into the mist-laden horizon, where sea and sky seemed to dissolve into one another. The low, rhythmic roar of waves filled his ears as he pulled himself to a seated position. His clothes were soaked and clinging to him, heavy with water. The wind teased through his hair, plastering errant strands against his forehead. He reached up, brushing them aside before his hand instinctively moved to his arm.

The sling was gone, and with it, the dull, ceaseless throb that had shadowed every movement. Yet, when he peeled back the waterlogged fabric of his sleeve, the stitches remained—dark and jagged against his skin. Even here, in this place that seemed untouched by time or consequence, the wound lingered—a quiet, undeniable testament to the price he had paid to return.

Shaking the sand from his hands, Ford glanced down and spotted his glasses, half-buried near where the tide had receded. He plucked them from the grit and wiped them on the edge of his shirt, only to find his efforts futile as droplets smeared the lenses. With a sigh, he slipped them on, squinting to adjust to the hazy clarity they offered. That’s when he saw him.

Bill sat a few yards away in the shallows, his legs folded beneath him as the tide swirled gently around him. His head was bowed, long white hair hanging wet and dark over his face. His hands hovered before him, his fingers splayed as though he were discovering them for the first time. He turned them over slowly, studying the lines of his palms with an almost unnerving focus.

“Bill.” Ford’s voice cracked, hoarse from the salt, but urgent as he staggered to his feet. The cool water splashing around his ankles as he stepped through it.

At the sound of his name, Bill’s head jerked up. His eyes locked on Ford, wide and searching for a split second, as though he weren’t sure what he was seeing. Relief flared briefly in Ford’s chest—But then something shifted. Recognition dawned in Bill’s expression, and with it, a searing intensity that hardened his features. His brows drew together sharply, and his mouth set in a thin, furious line.

“You,” Bill spat, his voice low and venomous as he stood, moving toward Ford. The sharpness in his tone sliced through the ambient lull of the tide. The water surged around his feet, churning with the force of his movements.

Ford barely had time to react before Bill shoved him—hard. The impact sent him stumbling backward, his heels digging into the wet sand as he fought for balance.

“Stupid,” Bill snarled, striking Ford’s chest with the flat of his palm.

“Bill—” Ford tried, his words falling uselessly.

“Stubborn,” Bill hit him again, the force stronger this time.

“Bill, I—”

“Asshole!” Bill shoved him with both hands now, the strength behind it was enough to send Ford stumbling again. “I told you to turn back!”

Ford gritted his teeth as he caught his balance, but Bill didn’t relent. Ford surged forward, his feet digging into the soft ground beneath the tide when his hands caught Bill’s, halting his next strike. The grip was firm but steady, holding Bill in place as he strained against him.

“I know,” Ford’s voice rose over the ocean’s din, commanding but tempered. He tightened his hold when Bill jerked, trying to wrench free. “I know, I’m sorry,” he said, softer this time, though urgency bled into every word.

Bill froze for a moment, his breathing shallow and fast, silken strands of hair plastered to his cheeks by the sea spray. Water streamed down his arms, dripping from his fingers where Ford held them.

Ford inhaled deeply. “I should’ve listened,” he admitted, his voice quiet but firm. “I didn’t know that would happen.”

But Bill wouldn’t be steadied. He yanked his wrists free with a sharp breath, stepping back as though Ford’s touch had burned him.

“I was alone,” Bill hissed. The water surged, licking at Ford’s shins now, as though echoing the blow. The statement landed hard, exactly where Ford had feared it would.

“I—I had no body.” Bill went on, his hands twitching at his sides before one shot up to clutch his temple, nails raking into his skin as though desperate to dislodge something unseen. “But it was still so…cold.” He broke off, his breath stuttering in his chest, and for a moment, he stood completely still, as if the weight of the words was too much to bear.

Bill’s breaths came in uneven, staccato bursts, “I’d almost forgotten what that place was like,” he said, his voice going brittle.

Ford stepped forward, cautious but insistent, his voice calm despite the ache building in him. “What place?” he asked, “Where did you go?”

Bill turned sharply, his face twisting with resentment—or maybe grief. “The same place I’ve always been,” he said. His eyes narrowed on Ford’s. “For billions of years.”

The tide continued to rise and fall between them, a steady rhythm that seemed to mock the chaos roiling in Bill’s voice. “Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

“Bill, it hasn’t even been a full day,” Ford said gently, reaching for him and finding his shoulders, firm but careful.

But Bill turned out of Ford’s grasp, slapping his hands away. “Time has no meaning there,” he spat, “An instant, an eternity—it’s all the same,”

He huffed, running a hand through his hair, slicking it back from where it clung to his skin. The gesture betrayed his unraveling composure.

“And now—” His voice cracked again, rough and biting as the rising tide seemed to press harder against their legs. “Now I can feel it. I can really feel it, and it’s—” He stopped, his words catching as though they’d lodged in his throat.

Ford took a careful step closer, his hand halfway extended. “Bill…”

Bill pointed his finger as if he were unsheathing a blade, the gesture almost shaking with restrained fury, stopping Ford in his tracks. “You did this to me,” he snapped, his lip curling as he spoke. “You’ve infected me with this… condition.”

Bill let out a harsh exhale, turning abruptly, his bare feet splashing against the shallow tide as he strode toward the shore. Ford followed at a careful distance.

“These chemicals,” Bill muttered, his voice sharp and uneven. “Bursting and mixing in my head all the time—” His hands flew up, erratic and frantic, slicing through the air before they landed on his temples, pressing in, as if he could silence the cacophony inside. “I can’t shut it off!”

Ford quickened his pace, closing the gap between them. “Bill,” he said, his tone low and steady, a deliberate contrast to the storm raging in front of him. “Listen to me. It’s okay. It’s not going to happen again—I promise.”

But the words, spoken so carefully, only seemed to ignite something in Bill. His body jerked, and he spun around, his fists trembling as they rose to strike again, his teeth bared in frustration, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep!”

Ford didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, catching Bill’s wrists again, his grip firm. The tension in Bill’s body burned, sharp and thrumming beneath Ford’s fingers. But Ford didn’t waver.

“Bill,” he said, his voice a steady anchor against the chaos.

At first, Bill struggled, jerking against the hold, but Ford held his ground, and slowly, the tension began to unravel. Bill’s shoulders sank, his breaths evening out, though his wrists still trembled in Ford’s hands.

For a long moment, they simply stood there, their breathing the only sound between the crash of waves.

“I didn’t think you were coming back.”

“Of course I came back,” Ford’s thumbs loosened slightly, “We’re partners.”

Bill shook his head, “None of the others…” He stopped himself for a moment, “By now, they’d all—”

“Hey,” Ford interrupted, his tone soft but commanding. He released Bill’s wrists, his hands moving to grasp his shoulders instead. “I don’t care about before,” Ford said, his gaze holding Bill’s. “And neither should you.”

Ford swept a few loose strands of hair from Bill’s face, smoothing them back, his fingers lingering for a moment at the nape of his neck. “No matter what, I’ll find you,” Ford said, “Every time.

Bill stared at him, his eye searching, desperate, like he was trying to find cracks in Ford’s resolve. “What if—”

“Every time,” Ford repeated, his voice firmer, leaving no room for doubt. His thumb brushed along the edge of Bill’s cheekbone, a steadying gesture, before he leaned in. Slowly, deliberately, he tipped Bill’s face upward, and their lips met.

Ford’s fingers slid into Bill’s hair, holding him steady. The motion wasn’t urgent, but it wasn’t careful, either. Bill let out a faint, almost inaudible sound, his hand sliding down from Ford’s chest to trace the lines of his body. His fingertips brushed the slope of Ford’s arm, following the fabric of his shirt until—

Bill froze. Beneath his palm, uneven ridges met his touch. He pulled back sharply, his attention darted to Ford’s arm. His fingers curled around Ford’s wrist, yanking his sleeve up to reveal the jagged line of sutures carved into his skin. His lips parted, the question forming before he even realized it.

“What happened?”

Ford’s expression flickered, just for a moment—a brief flash of something impenetrable—before it was gone, replaced by a small, wry smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Collateral damage,” he said simply, his voice low but unshaken. His hand moved deliberately to Bill’s face, fingers brushing his cheek. “I’m okay. There were… more important matters to deal with.”

Bill’s gaze lingered on the wound, his mouth curling slightly in frustration. “You’re too reckless.”

Ford’s thumb brushed over Bill’s lower lip, his eyes drawn to the small, subtle motion. “And I’d do it again,” Ford replied, his tone softer now, “A hundred times over if it meant getting back to you.”

Bill started to speak, but Ford was faster. He tilted Bill’s head, leaning forward. His lips grazed the curve of Bill’s neck, soft yet possessive, leaving a whisper of heat where they lingered.

The sound that escaped Bill was somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, rough and involuntary, like he was fighting against it and failing. He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into the touch, the pretense of indifference unraveling by degrees, his body betraying him in the subtle forward tilt of his shoulders.

Ford’s lips moved higher, brushing just under Bill’s jaw, the warmth of his breath coaxing goosebumps across his damp skin. One of his hands trailed down the length of Bill’s neck, his fingertips barely skimming the water-slicked curve.

The fabric clinging to Bill’s shoulders was soaked and heavy, but Ford eased it aside with deliberate slowness. The shirt peeled away, revealing the pale expanse of skin beneath, smooth and silken to the touch. Bill let out a huff, low and pacified, tilting his head just slightly, exposing more of his neck to Ford’s attention.

“Being away from you…” Ford’s voice, gentle and husky, was barely more than a whisper against Bill’s ear, but it cut through the air with an aching clarity. Bill’s spine arched ever so slightly—a reaction Ford savored. “It’s its own kind of agony, my muse.”

His lips pressed against the dip at the side of Bill’s face, lingering for a moment before grazing to the side, tracing the sharp line until his teeth caught the tender edge of Bill’s earlobe. The reaction was instant, electric—Bill let out a light gasp as Ford’s hands begin sliding lower, tracing the delicate curves of Bill’s chest.

“I am tormented by this, you know,” Ford continued, his fingers roaming over Bill’s bare skin, interrupted only by the occasional hitch of his breath. “You should have never allowed it.”

Ford’s hands continued their descent. His palms brushed the curve of Bill’s waist, his fingertips grazing the soft planes of his body that tightened under his touch.

Ford’s fingertips ghosted down Bill’s spine, light and deliberate, sending a wave of shivers through him. “The others,” Ford rasped. “Did they ever… touch you like this?”

“No,” Bill replied quickly, the words catching his breath on the way out, “…only you.”

Ford’s fingers curled into the fabric still tucked into Bill’s waistband, slowly pulling it loose. “Did they ever… need you—“ He pressed Bill closer to him, their bodies aligning as his hands worked to remove the shirt, exposing the skin he’d been aching to touch. “…the way I do?”

Bill’s body trembled as he chewed on his bottom lip, trying to steady himself. “No,” he answered, the word quiet but certain. His breath broke into a soft gasp as the last of the fabric was pulled free from his body, discarded carelessly to the side.

Ford sank down slowly, his lips trailing down Bill’s body, He followed the natural contours, the gentle slope of his chest, the subtle dip of his stomach, the sharp jut of his hips. Each kiss lingered longer than the one before, savoring every inch, every gasp Bill gave in response—until Ford settled, kneeling in front of him.

Ford pulled Bill’s hips forward, his lips parting, mouthing the outline of Bill’s hardening cock through the fabric of his pants, tasting the heat of him through the layer. They locked eyes as Bill’s fingers threaded through Ford’s hair, tugging him in closer, and Ford leaned into the sensation, letting the pull guide him. Bill did it again, a slow stroke, and Ford’s eyes darkened, a low groan escaping him.

For a while, that was their rhythm—Ford’s tongue tracing, his lips pressing against the building heat, moaning gently over the soaked fabric while Bill’s fingers stroked through his hair.

“Such a wrathful god…” Ford’s voice was raw as his hands found the edges of Bill’s waistband, eager to prove his devotion.

Bill tilted his hips forward, desperately trying to remain some level of composure, his only response another brush of his hand over Ford’s head.

Ford moved with a liturgical deliberation, his fingertips hooked around the waistband, his eyes tracing up the length of Bill’s body—filled with longing. “Mercy.” he whispered, carefully pulling downward, a gentle, steady drag against damp skin—and Bill unfurled for him, a soft, yielding moan escaping his lips at the release of pressure, his fingers curling against Ford's scalp.

Ford did not avert his gaze—his eyes locked on Bill's face, watching as each sensation washed over him, how every touch echoed in his expression. He raised his own fingers to his mouth—an unhurried ritual. His lips parted, the tip of his tongue grazing the pads as he pressed a bead of spit against his fingertips, anointing them, before wrapping all six around Bill's cock, feeling the pulse of him beneath his grip.

His lips brushed against the tip, a whisper of a touch, while slick fingers moved at a torturous pace. Bill's breath quickened, each exhalation a sharp, shallow gasp. His head tilted back, his hips rolling forward in time with Ford's hand.

Ford emitted a low groan, a primal sound that vibrated through Bill. “Watch me, my muse,” he whispered, his lips parting around the tip. He bobbed his head, each descent taking Bill deeper into the hot, wet haven of his mouth, his cheeks hollowing with the suction. His face went flushed when their gazes met again.

Bill's jaw hung slack, his mouth open, his eyes glazed and unfocused. A gentle moan escaped him, a testament to Ford's efforts. He gritted his teeth, his hands finding a better hold on Ford's hair, anchoring himself as he bucked his hips forward, a sudden, sharp movement that sent him deeper into Ford's mouth.

Ford gagged, a harsh, choking sound, but he didn't waver. If anything, it only spurred him on. He pulled back, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path from the base to the tip, earning another shudder, another few strokes of fingers through his hair. He teased with his tongue, the tip circling the sensitive underside, tracing the veins, exploring every inch of him.

He pressed a kiss against the head, a thick web of saliva sticking to his lips. His eyes flicked upwards, meeting Bill's once more, and in that gaze, Bill saw his own desire reflected back at him, amplified, magnified. It was a dizzying rush, to be the sole focus of this sort of unwavering attention.

Ford's hands moved to Bill's hips, his fingers digging into the flesh there, holding him steady, controlling the pace. “Forgive me, my muse” he breathed, “I’m only a man.” His mouth sank down onto Bill again, his head moving with a steady, relentless rhythm. Each descent making Bill groan, each ascent leaving him gasping.

Ford's hands moved. His long fingers splayed wide, his grip encompassing almost the entirety of Bill's slender frame, groping him, his fingertips pressing into the firm muscle of his ass. Ford groaned, a deep, guttural sound that resonated through Bill, as he took him deeper still, the tip of his length hitting the back of his throat.

The sound of Ford's slight choking, the way his throat constricted around Bill, sent jolts of pleasure coursing through him, a perverse thrill that only heightened his arousal. Each constriction was a testament to Ford's dedication, his willingness to push himself to the brink to please his muse.

"Fuck, you’re good at that," he breathed, his fingers carding through Ford’s hair—a gentle, soothing touch that belied the storm of sensation raging within him.

Ford's grip on his ass tightened, using his hold to guide Bill's movements, quickening the pace. Bill's head fell back, his eyes fluttering closed as he gave himself over to the feeling of Ford's mouth on him, the sound of his choked groans, the firm grip his large hands had on his body.

Ford, with a sudden and deliberate motion, pulled his head back, his lips releasing Bill with a wet sound. His fingers pushed against Bill's hips, guiding him with a firmness that brooked no argument—turning him, maneuvering him until he was facing away.

With a gentle but insistent pressure, Ford leaned back against the cool sand, pulling Bill down with him. Bill yielded, his body pliant and willing, allowing Ford to guide him until he straddled Ford's face, his knees sinking into the sand on either side of his head—his body open and vulnerable.

Ford wasted no time. His hands spread Bill further, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of his ass, exposing him, baring him to his gaze, to his touch, to his mouth. A low sound left him as he leaned in, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path over him—a hot, wet caress that made his legs tremble.

Bill's back arched, a sharp, sudden movement, a silent cry of ecstasy. He pressed his weight back against Ford's face, a wanton, needy gesture, seeking more of that exquisite sensation. Ford obliged, his tongue working in earnest now, lapping at him, circling him.

Ford's hands held Bill steady as he feasted on him, teasing in a way that had Bill’s body shaking with the intensity of it. Bill's hands found their way to his own cock, wrapping around himself, stroking in time with the movements of Ford's tongue.

"No," Ford muttered, the words vibrating against Bill's skin. He reached around, his fingers gripping Bill's wrist, pulling his hand away gently but firmly. “Let me.” He replaced it with his own, his long fingers encircling Bill again, stroking him with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

His tongue pressed against Bill's entrance, a hot, wet, insistent pressure, seeking entry. Bill yielded to him, his body opening, allowing Ford to slip inside, to taste him, to know him in this most intimate way.

“Fuck,” Bill groaned, a deep, guttural sound that resonated through his chest, a sound of surrender, of capitulation. His hands found their way to Ford's thighs, his fingers digging into them, holding on tight as Ford's tongue delved deeper, his mouth working with his hand.

Bill's head fell forward. He was lost, adrift in a sea of sensation, Ford his only anchor, his only lifeline. And Ford, steadfast and unyielding, guided him through it, his touch sure and confident, his mouth hot and hungry, filled with a fierce, unwavering devotion. "Fuck," Bill repeated, “Don’t stop, Six—”

Ford, ever attuned to Bill’s needs, increased the pace, his hand stroking faster. He was relentless, his every touch, his every movement designed to drive Bill higher, to push him closer to the edge.

Bill, driven by a hunger that matched Ford's own, reached out, his hand finding the throbbing bulge before him, gently caressing it over the soaked fabric of Ford's pants. Ford moaned against him, the sound a low vibration that sent shivers coursing through him, drawing him back, pressing him more firmly against Ford's tongue, which, in turn, made Ford’s cock twitch under his hand—a feedback loop of desire, each sensation amplifying the next.

With a sudden, urgent motion, Bill pulled open the front of Ford's pants, releasing him. The sight of it sent a surge of hunger through Bill, a ravenous need that demanded satisfaction. His hand gripped Ford at the base, his mouth descending on him, taking him deep into his throat.

A sharp groan escaped Ford as Bill began to work him over, his spit and pre-cum soaked hand squeezing around Bill's cock. The sound, the feel, the taste of Bill, it was all too much, too intense.

Ford shifted his head, his teeth finding the soft flesh of Bill's ass, biting down, a sharp, sudden pain that sent a jolt of pleasure coursing through him, his back arching further. Ford’s free hand smacked the other side, a sharp, stinging slap that left a reddened imprint on the flesh. “You taste so fucking good.” Ford growled, kissing the mark he’d left before spreading him open again, spitting on his quivering hole, watching it flex every time his hand slid and twisted over Bill’s cock.

Ford, consumed by that desperate, insatiable hunger, grasped Bill’s hips with both hands, using his hold to press Bill more firmly against his face. He wanted more of him, all of him—his taste, his scent, his heat.

The waves crashed more frequently now, but the only thing Ford could hear were the sounds of them—the slick, wet noises of their mouths and hands, the sharp slaps of flesh, the ragged moans of their shared pleasure.

The tide crept in, the cool water starting at Ford's heels before sweeping across his back, mirroring the swell of their desire. Ford could no longer contain the moans escaping him—the sensation of Bill's mouth, the taste of him, the essence dripping down his chin. He pulled his head back, breathless. "Sit up," he said, his voice a hushed command.

Bill's body moved with a fluid grace, his muscles taut as he pushed himself up. Ford’s hands guided him forward, shifting him, his body poised and ready as Ford slid out from underneath him. Rising to his knees, Ford wrapped his arm around Bill's waist, pulling him back into his lap. Bill gasped, a soft, sensual sound as Ford pressed against him—back to chest, ass to hips, thighs to thighs.

Bill's head rested against Ford's shoulder, his eyes closed, his breath coming in soft, shallow gasps as Ford guided himself, pressing the hot, pulsing head of his cock against Bill's soaking entrance. He ground against him in a slow, teasing motion.

His mouth found Bill's ear, his teeth nipping at the edge. He chewed on it, a gentle, insistent pressure, his breath hot and heavy against Bill's skin. "Have I earned it, my muse?" he murmured.

Bill's body trembled, his hips rolling, pressing back against Ford, seeking more of that exquisite sensation, more of that friction. “Stop playing coy, Sixer, you’re driving me crazy,” He growled, his body taut as a bowstring.

Ford felt Bill yielding, opening for him. With a slow, steady pressure, he accepted the invitation, drawn into the sensation of him—hot and tight and slick. It drew a groan from deep within Ford’s chest. He moved in a languid rhythm, feeling Bill's body stretching, accommodating him, drawing him in, holding him tight—Bill's breath hitched, a sharp, sudden inhale, his body trembling as Ford filled him, connecting them to one another.

"Like this, my muse?" Ford murmured, "Is this how you want me?" He punctuated each word with a slow, deliberate thrust.

“Yes, Ford.” Bill moaned. “Just like that.”

Ford's fingertips danced up and down Bill's body, tracing the lines on either side of his abdomen as if they were roads on a map—one only he could read. Bill's back was arched, his shoulders firm against Ford's chest, their bodies moving in a rhythm as old as the tides that swept around them.

The waves slightly rolled in higher now, each flow surging faster, reaching further, washing against their joined bodies with a quiet urgency. The tide pulled back, only to return again, each wave more insistent than the last. Unpredictable, yet inevitable—as they were.

Ford’s mouth explored Bill's neck, tasting every inch of skin he could reach, his hands roaming over Bill's body, paying homage to each curve, each dip, every crest and slope, marveling at the movement of muscle beneath skin—the topography of his greatest desire. Ford inhaled him, the small beads of sweat along Bill’s hairline pooling against his tongue as he dragged it across his skin, shuddering at the taste.

Bill was there, lost in the moment, his eyes fluttering, his mouth hanging open as little gasps escaped with each thrust. Ford watched him, taking in every feature, every small expression that flitted across his face. "Let me hear it, my muse," he whispered, his hands running over Bill's nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. "Tell me how good I am at serving you."

Bill's gasps grew louder, his eyes rolling back as he surrendered to Ford. “Fuck, Sixer…” he whined, his head falling onto Ford's shoulder, his body yielding.

Ford's voice was a low rumble of encouragement, "That's it,” His hand slid lower, his fingers wrapping around Bill's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. His other arm braced Bill's chest, holding him steady, holding him close, “Tell me.”

Bill's voice was a plea, a demand, a desperate cry. "Harder,"

Ford did as he was told, his hips moving with a renewed vigor, the water splashing at the motion each time it swelled.

He looked down over Bill's shoulder, watching the point where their bodies joined, where he disappeared into him, where they became one—and the sight sent a surge of lust through him.

"Show me how good I am, my muse," he breathed with a trembling voice, his hand working Bill's cock faster, his voice a litany of devotion, his eyes locked onto the sight beneath him.

Bill's hand reached back, his fingers threading through Ford's damp hair. "Oh, Ford..." he whined, his voice a plaintive cry. Ford watched his face, the sight of his flushed skin, the way his chest heaved with each breath, each thrust.

"Show me, my sun," Ford whispered, his mouth pressing against Bill's neck, his teeth nipping at his flesh.

Bill's moans grew louder, his body trembling as he grabbed onto Ford's wrists, his grip tight, his need urgent. "Show me, my stars..." Ford begged.

“…F-Ford,"

"I adore you..."

“Oh—Stanford,”

"I need you."

Ford felt it, the moment Bill tightened around him, when his cock twitched in his hand. That was all it took. In that same moment, he buried himself deep inside, pushing Bill over the edge—and Bill dragged Ford down with him.

Their foreheads pressed together, their grips on one another tightening, desperate cries mingling between them. Ford stroked Bill through it, feeling his release, the evidence of his satisfaction, burst from him—the motion of Ford’s hand flinging white streaks over Bill’s body. His own hips rocked in powerful arcs, matching the tempo of Bill’s convulsions—grinding into him, filling him, completing him.

Ford's fingers curled into Bill's soaked skin, holding him as much as he was depending on him, crashing their open mouths together as the climax flowed through their bodies, moaning against each other’s tongues.

The tides surged, its waves pouring over them, swallowing their bodies as their hands maintained their hold on each other, their mouths close, breathing together. The saltwater swept across their bodies, carrying away the remnants of their desperation—cleansing them, as if the sea itself sought the testaments of their passion.

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#gay people can never just say i love you #they gotta perform a summoning ritual #then bang over a baptism metaphor #while declaring their undying affections #like shut up #also #ford munch pines over here #no table manners this guy #stanford pines #billford #bill cipher #gravity falls #covenants and other provisions #ford pines #billford fanfic #my writing #fiddleford mcgucket

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