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Traitor's Punishment

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The rebels are dead, all but one.

Bill is sitting in his throne room, watching through a bubble as the last of the rebels is dragged through the corridors of his castle. The poor, wretched creature is refusing to accept that it's over, spitting and cursing and struggling against his wardens, but it's no use; soon, he is taken to a small cell in the dungeons, stripped of his clothes and chained to the wall. He is left alone, to waste his remaining strength and spirit.

Well, to waste the former at least. Bill knows it will take forever for his captive to run out of the latter, which pleases him. It means Bill can keep breaking him forever too, grind him to dust over and over again.

That's the least Stanford Pines deserves.


Bill doesn't have to open or close doors to get into places, but he does so now with Ford's cell, sensing how Ford's heartbeat picks up in speed over the clicking of the locks as they open up on their own. The slam of the door is loud and makes the whole room shake a little, and if Bill's eye was a little less sharp, he would have missed the slightest tremor going through Ford's body.

It's good to be a god.

He lets his eye rove over Ford's shackled figure, smiling inside when Ford looks away from him. Ford has been on the run from him for ten years and that has been enough for his body to change quite a bit. It's much harder now, full of scars and tattoos that he didn't have before, although he is missing the one he did; seeing that his own image is gone from Ford's skin makes the smile inside Bill fade, but he ignores that for now. He can save the small punishments for later.

Bill lets himself drift close to Ford, reaching out to run his hands up and down along the muscular arms that have been pulled taut above the man's head. He lets his fingers drop lower after a while, the tips ghosting over Ford's heaving ribs before they move over to his chest, tracing his pulse.

"Good ol' Sixer," Bill says. His voice is soft with fondness. "A rebellion! Did you really think that was going to get you anywhere?"

He doesn't really care about an answer, and Ford can't give him one either. Bill has no time for Ford's rants about justice and saving the world, so a little earlier, Bill had sent a minion over to make the most pleasurable adjustment to his former pupil: Ford's mouth has been sewn shut. His lips are bleeding around the yellow and black thread, and when Bill extends a third hand to brush the backs of his fingers against the threading, Ford can't hold back a flinch. Pain is always a good look on Ford; a delighted shiver runs through Bill.

He shivers a little more when he realizes that this is the first time that he and Ford are truly in the same space together. Ford is right there in his reach, his to touch, his to claim; he's doing the former right now, feeling up Ford's chest and his sewn mouth, his blood. He pulls the hand that has touched Ford's mouth away, swapping his eye into a mouth for a moment so he can lap at his fingers, taste the scarlet substance tainting them.

"You know, I've got to give it to you. Your ragtag group of heroes really gave me some trouble!" He pulls his fingers out of his mouth one at the time, wet pop following each exit. His eye rolls back into its place just in time to see a flinch fade away from Ford's body, which makes him frown inside over having missed it. On the outside, he remains cheerful.

"And you, IQ!" He slides even closer to Ford through the air, lifting the hands that have been resting on Ford's chest up to cup his face. "That weapon of yours could have done me some real damage, you know. If you only had been less of a failure, you could have killed me."

He reaches out with the third hand again to press a fingertip as deep between the man's threaded lips as he can, so he can feel the wetness of his mouth.

"I should kill you for that alone."

He hopes for another flinch, for a flash of fright in those dark eyes; he gets nothing. All Ford does is grind his teeth together as Bill keeps trying to push his finger into his mouth, stretching the threading on his lips. It makes him ache, how much Ford tries not to care.

It also fills him with rage. How dare this insignificant worm not cower before him!

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't, Sixer," he demands. "Give me one good reason why I should spare your miserable life!"

Ford should be pleading for his mercy now. Nothing of the sort happens, which makes Bill want to scream at him, rip his mouth open and tear answers out of him. Vision blurring into red, Bill pulls away, backs off; he clasps his hands together behind his back, starting to float around the cell to calm himself down.

Bill may be seeing crimson, but he knows his cool is unbroken on the surface, his circling merely implying that he's in deep thought. He hates the nagging feeling that he is just lying to himself, that in reality Ford's smarts have caught up with his brain power and he can see right through Bill.

As if.

Bill snaps his fingers and Ford is transported to the middle of the room, still naked and chained but hanging from the roof instead of being bound to the wall. Bill goes to him, circling him now rather than the emptiness of the cell. Ford keeps his eyes on him, trying not to move around in his chains too much; does he think Bill will leave him alone if he stays as still as possible? Bill decides to put an end to silly thoughts like that, reaching out to rest his hands on Ford's shoulders again, massaging the firm flesh as he pushes his body close to Ford's, so their body heat melds together.

He gets his first little victory of the night when Ford groans deep in his throat, his whole body stiffening.

So, Bill's closeness is having an effect on the stoic, indifferent Ford after all? Bill's eye curves in a smile as he slides his hands down to Ford's chest, locating one fragile bud of a nipple and giving it a light pinch. As Ford's breathing starts to become loud, hard puffs of air escaping his nostrils, Bill pushes more hands out from his sides, letting them stretch out and reach for different parts of Ford, one clasping Ford from his jaw, one grabbing his other nipple and a handful of flesh surrounding it, two diving down for his thighs, two reaching down to squeeze his firm ass.

"I've missed you," he says, pawing at Ford's body from all over. He can feel how Ford's jaws are working against each other, tense and agitated, and it makes Bill's own body tighten up. He grabs both of Ford's nipples and tugs at them hard, listening with glee as Ford cries out within his shut mouth.

He pushes his feet between Ford's warm, thick thighs, nudging them apart. He lets several tentacles drop out of his sides, the bottom one included, wrapping them around Ford's body and sliding them between his legs, rubbing one down into Ford's snug ass crack and curling the other around the roots of his cock and sac. He squeezes with all tentacles, making Ford's breath hitch in his nostrils; Bill extends one more pair of hands out and wraps them both around Ford's cock, stroking the shaft with one hand and the head with another.

"I would have let you rule with me, you know. Be my right hand man."

He jerks on that long, thick, familiar length, pressing a fingertip tight against the slit on the tip and rubbing down hard, which makes Ford's whole body twitch in his embrace. He keeps rubbing one tentacle up and down along Ford's ass crack, letting the tendril grow wet with warm, blue fluid, slicking Ford up as well. It's when he curls the tip of the tentacle against the small, puckered hole between Ford's buttocks that Ford finally lashes out, thrashing against the chains as he tries to pull away from Bill.

Bill is ready for him, using one pair of hands to spread Ford's legs even wider as he wraps another pair of arms around Ford's waist, yanking the man's still compact body against his surface. He uses a third pair of hands to grab Ford's ass cheeks and pull them apart, keeping him open and exposed as he brings his tentacle back to Ford's entrance, starting to slide the tip inside him.

"I would have given you everything you ever wanted." As his tentacle squirms deeper into Ford's tight ass, Bill pumps Ford's pulsing shaft with two hands, spreading the steadily trickling pre-come down along his length. "Everything your little brain could have possibly imagined, Fordsy!"

He pulls back a bit with his tentacle and thrusts it forward again, surging even further within Ford.

"And you threw it all away!"

Ford groans in the back of his throat again, and does nothing more; there are no attempts to form words behind his sewn mouth, no attempts to plead, to apologize. Bill seethes, wrapping several hands around Ford's throat and squeezing until Ford's air is cut off, until tears start gathering up into those proud, stubborn eyes.


He slams hard inside Ford, making his old disciple's body rock in the chains as he fucks him, making sure to strike his prostate with every thrust. He doesn't let go of Ford's throat until it starts to turn angry black and blue beneath his hands, until Ford's eyes start rolling to the back of his head; he doesn't want Ford to miss one moment of this, one moment of Bill. He loosens his grip on the sturdy neck, settling for gripping Ford's jaw again as he rakes the fingers of the now free hands over Ford's chest and stomach, digging into the firm flesh with claws and tugging at handfuls of body hair. He lets his eye swap into a mouth again, lets his mouth find Ford's shoulder, lets his teeth bite down.

The bite does it for Ford; his cock jerks hard and fast in Bill's grip as he comes, staining Bill's black hands with the white spurts of semen as he howls behind his sewn lips. Bill keeps stroking him through his orgasm, his body rocking along with Ford's as Ford thrusts into his hand, the noise behind his stitched mouth sounding a lot like a chant.

Bill clings onto Ford with hands and tentacles both as he taps Ford's jaw, makes the thread on his lips disappear.

"Bill," Ford whispers, voice as raw as the puncture wounds on his mouth, "Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill-"

It's too much for Bill; he comes.


"Bill," Ford says when Bill is about to leave.

Ford is still in chains, but the chains are attached to the wall again and they are loose enough to allow Ford to lie down on the floor, curled up into an exhausted, trembling ball. His back is turned towards Bill when he could be facing him, reaching out with his hand, looking at him with longing.

They'll get there, eventually. Bill will make sure of that. But until that, there is nothing Ford can say or do for him; Bill leaves the cell without looking back.