This usually works better when it's calculated. There's a correct length for it to be, and a precise amount of pressure to apply, and while of course adjustments need to be made based on initial feedback, the whole thing is most impressive when it's tightly controlled.
But he doesn't have that right now. He doesn't think to let up at the precisely correct moment. He doesn't think to not make a quiet, rough sound low in his throat, pulled out of him by the hand in his hair and the hands clinging to him and the melting sighs. He doesn't carefully time the way he bites Bill's lower lip so he can draw it out just so; it's a touch faster and a little harder than the average magazine-reading suburban housewife would enjoy. He's kissing more urgently than is appropriate in most cases, pushing harder than you would in a casual fling. Causal-fling kisses don't start turning fierce halfway through. They're not this passionate.
Bill doesn't care how long we're doing this for; Bill does not have to breathe.
Ford pulls a not-at-all-protesting "HH-" out of Bill when he bites him, and the increased emotion and energy gets a pull from Bill like quicksand, trying to draw Ford deeper rather than fighting him.
They break. Bill goes back into aimless giggling at nothing, leaning all his (admittedly tiny) weight on Ford. He apparently hears himself and reins it in, stabilizes his floating, but he really got knocked for a loop there.
He'll have his breathing back under control in a minute. Whew, that -- that created a feedback loop he hasn't expected. With him pushing and Bill pulling, he had just wanted to keep going, as long as he could. Not being able to get enough air while kissing as hard as you want to is a real downside of human anatomy.
Ford clears his throat, not to make a point but to try to clear some of the thickness out of it. He's got to school his voice back to normal -- or at least close enough to actually speak. His systems are all still elevated, though, and Bill sticking close doesn't help the hammering in his chest or the tremble-y feeling in his arms.
"Is that enough data?" This is like halfway to a flirt. This is only not a full flirt because Ford is trying to pull himself together through adrenaline and alcohol.
Right, that. Bill is still clinging to Ford. The portal is glowing behind them, lighting Ford's face in pale blue. The air feels like ozone and static. He lets go of Ford's hair, reluctantly, but turns it into a petting motion. Nooooot quite ready to separate yet. His other hand goes to touch under his own eye, where Ford bit him.
He doesn't have the words he wants, here. There are a lot of different emotions happening, and Bill doesn't know how to name or express any of them.
Ford's never seen Bill like this. He can't help a chuckle -- did it really do this much of a number on him?
He leans in, but doesn't start a kiss -- just bringing his forehead in closer, bringing their eyes closer. He reaches up and runs his own thumb under Bill's eye. The look on Ford's face loses its amusement after a moment or so of gazing -- it just turns kind of intense. He's focused, interested. Definitely not quite ready to separate. They have so little time.
"Well, that's a relief," Ford murmurs. "It's good to know you can't account for everything."
He's still kind of continuing that slow forward movement, keeping faces intimately close. It's like a hair away from nuzzling, and only isn't because Bill's surface is very hard and Ford's glasses are in the way.
He kind of wants to do it again, and if the way his eyes keep dropping to Bill's lower eyelid are anything to go by, Ford's seriously considering it. He could just lean over and do it. Do that thing Bill liked enough to remember in a post-kiss daze. There's nothing stopping him. What if he did?
His eyes fall half-closed as he's coaxed forward. Yes -- yes, all right, he knows what that means. Ford pulls Bill's lower lip into his mouth, then back out between his teeth, slow and deliberate. It's only a small bit of contact, but it's heated. His teeth are very close to the part of Bill that's least invulnerable, but he's inflicting deliberate pleasure, not injury. It feels more intimate than a lip-bite should.
It doesn't even hurt that much, but the intensity of how they're looking at each other, the buildup, the fact that it's Ford, the fact that it's now...
Bill closes the distance again for a brief but very heated kiss. He had a faint hope before this that kissing Ford would make the desire better somehow, that he would dislike kissing him, get little enough out of it that he could call the need fulfilled and let the complication die. Instead it's made it much worse, somehow. Feeling what it's like to be touched and bitten and kissed by him has made the tense urgency in Bill even more acute. He has some idea of what's going on, although he can't say he's ever felt it himself, and he knows the solution has to be mined out of Ford. Bill wants to crack open his ribs and pull out the cure for this toxin building up in Bill's veins, and if it was as simple as that he'd have done it already.
"FORD," he starts, his voice low and slightly desperate, "I WANT-..."
That sound and that tone cut right through Ford, clawing their way inside him and sinking in hooks low in his stomach. A clear-headed Stanford Pines might think oh, fuck, and try to cool off a little, because that feeling he had was definitely inappropriate. But there are a lot of chemicals swirling around his system right now, and he hears I want-, and staying back is impossible. Before Ford can say anything in reply, he's moved in for a kiss he can't help. This one's hot and a little loose and entirely uncalculated.
"What," he whispers, almost before the kiss breaks, keeping his mouth so close it's nearly still touching Bill's. "What is it?"
Now, Ford knows what people are usually asking for when they say I want-- in a tone like that and cut themselves off. He's familiar with the entire request being too forward, or someone being too awkward, or a setting being too public for the whole thing to get out. But it's Bill, and -- does Bill Cipher even fuck? He might not. He might be talking about something else, like taking this somewhere with a severed head that never stops screaming, or Ford's blood, or something. Who knows how much common ground Bill actually has with him when it comes to this sort of thing.
(Ford Pines's romantic self-sabotage instinct is still going strong.)
YOUR TONGUE CAN SHOW OFF BETTER THAN THAT. God, don't say that, he'll get shirty and insecure about his kissing and miss the point.
Bill's arm snakes out abruptly so he can neck the rest of his champagne. Okay. Go. Say something. Go. It's embarrassing, just bite the bullet. Go. Ford is so close to him, he's all Bill can see. The countdown to the end of the world, again, continues behind them.
Why are words so hard? Bill is good at words.
He makes a sound like a venting hot air balloon instead and kisses Ford again, frustrated and hungry.
Bill goes back to clinging when they finish, frustrated that this wasn't enough of a clue, his mind fuzzy from kissing and alcohol. He pulls Ford back by his hair, just a bare fraction of an inch, and holds up a finger - honesty please.
"DO YOU STILL HAVE DREAMS ABOUT ME? YOU KNOW THE KIND I MEAN."
This could easily be uncomfortable or mocking, but the swollen black mirror of Bill's pupil looks clouded with hunger and it's all sincerity under only a little bit of an alcohol slur.
Oh god damn it, oh that's the honesty thing he just agreed to. Oh, shit, he's gonna have to--to answer, here, if he wants to keep this arrangement going. The embarrassment doesn't dispel the haze, though -- the look in Bill's eye, the hand in his hair, the fact that his face is still so close to Bill's, all of those keep Ford in the moment enough to answer.
Giving Bill a straight answer there had been difficult. He'd had to pull it out of himself. It had been a risk -- it's an admission that would be very easy to make fun of.
Seeing a flicker in response, the feeling he gets when he's told good, both help significantly. He doesn't have the wherewithal to really process how much he likes hearing good while Bill's face is so close and Bill's hand is in his hair. This is for the best. That way lies madness.
But then Bill makes that other request, and Ford's eyes widen. "What, n-now?" he stammers, caught by surprise by the speed Bill's moving at. Once that surprise fades, other questions begin to bubble up -- does Bill just want to see them? Does he want to watch? How much of this is Ford exposing very personal fantasies he never intended to allow into the light of day? "Those are -- they're very personal, Bill."
Go to the mindscape. Definitely have mind sex. Right now.
"We only started kissing without mistletoe influence ten minutes ago," he says, more startled than anything. That's fast even by horny-alien-in-bar standards. "For someone who's capable of waiting for millennia, you're moving very fast."
Bill knows he's right and feels a little weird about it so he goes on offensive and rolls his eye up to heaven.
"I'VE BEEN TRYING TO GET IN YOUR STUPID ... TACTICAL PANTS FOR FIFTEEN YEARS. I'VE TAKEN YOU OUT TO DATES MULTIPLE TIMES! IF YOU DON'T WANT TO JUST SAY YA DON'T WANT TO, BUT THIS ISN'T NEW FOR ME. IT'S OLD! OLD LIKE YOU!"
"DIDJA EVER NOTICE THAT BOTH TIMES I CAPTURED YOU WE HAD DRINKS TOGETHER? ONE TIME I SANG YOU A SONG, AND ANOTHER TIME I OFFERED TO PLAY DUNGEONS AND MORE DUNGEONS WHICH I DON'T EVEN LIKE?"
That last part wouldn't have come out if not for the chemical help.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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But he doesn't have that right now. He doesn't think to let up at the precisely correct moment. He doesn't think to not make a quiet, rough sound low in his throat, pulled out of him by the hand in his hair and the hands clinging to him and the melting sighs. He doesn't carefully time the way he bites Bill's lower lip so he can draw it out just so; it's a touch faster and a little harder than the average magazine-reading suburban housewife would enjoy. He's kissing more urgently than is appropriate in most cases, pushing harder than you would in a casual fling. Causal-fling kisses don't start turning fierce halfway through. They're not this passionate.
When he stops for air, he's very short of breath.
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Ford pulls a not-at-all-protesting "HH-" out of Bill when he bites him, and the increased emotion and energy gets a pull from Bill like quicksand, trying to draw Ford deeper rather than fighting him.
They break. Bill goes back into aimless giggling at nothing, leaning all his (admittedly tiny) weight on Ford. He apparently hears himself and reins it in, stabilizes his floating, but he really got knocked for a loop there.
"EHEHEH. HEH. OKAY. I'M OKAY. WHOO! OH, WOW FORDSY."
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Ford clears his throat, not to make a point but to try to clear some of the thickness out of it. He's got to school his voice back to normal -- or at least close enough to actually speak. His systems are all still elevated, though, and Bill sticking close doesn't help the hammering in his chest or the tremble-y feeling in his arms.
"Is that enough data?" This is like halfway to a flirt. This is only not a full flirt because Ford is trying to pull himself together through adrenaline and alcohol.
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Right, that. Bill is still clinging to Ford. The portal is glowing behind them, lighting Ford's face in pale blue. The air feels like ozone and static. He lets go of Ford's hair, reluctantly, but turns it into a petting motion. Nooooot quite ready to separate yet. His other hand goes to touch under his own eye, where Ford bit him.
He doesn't have the words he wants, here. There are a lot of different emotions happening, and Bill doesn't know how to name or express any of them.
"HAH..."
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He leans in, but doesn't start a kiss -- just bringing his forehead in closer, bringing their eyes closer. He reaches up and runs his own thumb under Bill's eye. The look on Ford's face loses its amusement after a moment or so of gazing -- it just turns kind of intense. He's focused, interested. Definitely not quite ready to separate. They have so little time.
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"I LIKED THAT."
The bite, he means, but, well, he liked all of it.
"YOU NEVER DISAPPOINT ME, FORD. I ALWAYS THINK I KNOW YOU, AND I GET IT MOSTLY RIGHT, BUT YOU STILL SURPRISE ME. ALL THE TIME."
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He's still kind of continuing that slow forward movement, keeping faces intimately close. It's like a hair away from nuzzling, and only isn't because Bill's surface is very hard and Ford's glasses are in the way.
He kind of wants to do it again, and if the way his eyes keep dropping to Bill's lower eyelid are anything to go by, Ford's seriously considering it. He could just lean over and do it. Do that thing Bill liked enough to remember in a post-kiss daze. There's nothing stopping him. What if he did?
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It doesn't even hurt that much, but the intensity of how they're looking at each other, the buildup, the fact that it's Ford, the fact that it's now...
Bill closes the distance again for a brief but very heated kiss. He had a faint hope before this that kissing Ford would make the desire better somehow, that he would dislike kissing him, get little enough out of it that he could call the need fulfilled and let the complication die. Instead it's made it much worse, somehow. Feeling what it's like to be touched and bitten and kissed by him has made the tense urgency in Bill even more acute. He has some idea of what's going on, although he can't say he's ever felt it himself, and he knows the solution has to be mined out of Ford. Bill wants to crack open his ribs and pull out the cure for this toxin building up in Bill's veins, and if it was as simple as that he'd have done it already.
"FORD," he starts, his voice low and slightly desperate, "I WANT-..."
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"What," he whispers, almost before the kiss breaks, keeping his mouth so close it's nearly still touching Bill's. "What is it?"
Now, Ford knows what people are usually asking for when they say I want-- in a tone like that and cut themselves off. He's familiar with the entire request being too forward, or someone being too awkward, or a setting being too public for the whole thing to get out. But it's Bill, and -- does Bill Cipher even fuck? He might not. He might be talking about something else, like taking this somewhere with a severed head that never stops screaming, or Ford's blood, or something. Who knows how much common ground Bill actually has with him when it comes to this sort of thing.
(Ford Pines's romantic self-sabotage instinct is still going strong.)
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Bill's arm snakes out abruptly so he can neck the rest of his champagne. Okay. Go. Say something. Go. It's embarrassing, just bite the bullet. Go. Ford is so close to him, he's all Bill can see. The countdown to the end of the world, again, continues behind them.
Why are words so hard? Bill is good at words.
He makes a sound like a venting hot air balloon instead and kisses Ford again, frustrated and hungry.
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The kiss is returned -- and it's very nice to be kissed like this, don't get him wrong -- but the way Ford moves betrays that he's been puzzled.
What is Bill asking for? What does he want from Ford that he isn't getting?
Ford has talked himself out of getting it.
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Bill goes back to clinging when they finish, frustrated that this wasn't enough of a clue, his mind fuzzy from kissing and alcohol. He pulls Ford back by his hair, just a bare fraction of an inch, and holds up a finger - honesty please.
"DO YOU STILL HAVE DREAMS ABOUT ME? YOU KNOW THE KIND I MEAN."
This could easily be uncomfortable or mocking, but the swollen black mirror of Bill's pupil looks clouded with hunger and it's all sincerity under only a little bit of an alcohol slur.
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"Yes," he whispers, quiet and hoarse.
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A second of a beat, just to gather his thoughts; his light shivers.
"COME UP TO THE DREAMSCAPE WITH ME. SHOW ME."
He lets go of Ford's hair. Be nice. "PLEASE."
Bill meant that to come out brusque but it ended up way too pleading. Years of unresolved tension will do that.
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Seeing a flicker in response, the feeling he gets when he's told good, both help significantly. He doesn't have the wherewithal to really process how much he likes hearing good while Bill's face is so close and Bill's hand is in his hair. This is for the best. That way lies madness.
But then Bill makes that other request, and Ford's eyes widen. "What, n-now?" he stammers, caught by surprise by the speed Bill's moving at. Once that surprise fades, other questions begin to bubble up -- does Bill just want to see them? Does he want to watch? How much of this is Ford exposing very personal fantasies he never intended to allow into the light of day? "Those are -- they're very personal, Bill."
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"I DON'T HAVE TO SEE THEM, I WAS HOPING WE COULD... MAKE A NEW ONE."
Like the other Ford and Bill? Yes? Except not like them, they're awful.
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"You want to..."
Go to the mindscape. Definitely have mind sex. Right now.
"We only started kissing without mistletoe influence ten minutes ago," he says, more startled than anything. That's fast even by horny-alien-in-bar standards. "For someone who's capable of waiting for millennia, you're moving very fast."
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"I'VE BEEN TRYING TO GET IN YOUR STUPID ... TACTICAL PANTS FOR FIFTEEN YEARS. I'VE TAKEN YOU OUT TO DATES MULTIPLE TIMES! IF YOU DON'T WANT TO JUST SAY YA DON'T WANT TO, BUT THIS ISN'T NEW FOR ME. IT'S OLD! OLD LIKE YOU!"
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This is new. This is very new information for Ford Pines.
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That last part wouldn't have come out if not for the chemical help.
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And oh no, Bill just offered to play DD&MD to get close to him?
Are you a fake geek girl, Bill Cipher"And how was I supposed to know you didn't actually want to play?"
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"I DO WANT TO! I WANT TO SPEND TIME WITH YOU."
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But he rallies.
"But I didn't know those were dates, Bill. You might have been on a date, but I was looking for a way to escape!"
consent issues warning probably
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whoops did i lose this one? 8/
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