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Chapter Text

Fiddleford held the end of the leash taut between his fingers, a delighted smirk tugging at his mouth as he reeled Stanley closer on his knees. When their bodies nearly touched, he planted a steady palm against Stan’s chest, halting him just as their cocks brushed, the faintest graze sparking a punched-out noise from Stan’s throat.

“You’re going to fuck me,” Fiddleford whispered, his breath hot against Stan’s ear. A low hum followed, almost soothing, as he released the leash long enough to stroke down Stan’s trembling arms, grounding him while anticipation made him shake.

Then Fiddleford curled the leather tight again and gave it a measured tug—not too harsh, not too gentle. Stan choked, hips snapping forward involuntarily, their shared precum smearing warm between them. His gaze dropped, caught on the sight of their cocks sliding together, unable to look away.

Fiddleford’s jaw tightened. He caught Stan’s face in one hand and forced his chin up until their eyes locked. What he saw there—half-lidded submission, pupils blown wide and shining like stars—made his smirk deepen. Stan panted softly, lips parted, caught in the gravity of it.

“C’mon now.” Fiddleford leaned back onto the bed, spreading his legs wide in invitation. “I opened myself up for you. You know what to do, don’t you, Stan?”

“Y-yeah,” Stan muttered, his face burning crimson as he shifted, fumbling to line himself up under the weight of Fiddleford’s hand and the leash still tugging him close.

He pressed in slowly, every inch a battle between need and hesitation. Fiddleford rolled his eyes in fond exasperation—then snapped the leash taut again. Stan gasped, hips jolting forward, bottoming out with a strangled yelp that broke into a moan as his whole body trembled against him.

Stan trembled against him, chest heaving, eyes still locked on Fiddleford’s like he couldn’t look anywhere else.

“That’s it,” Fiddleford murmured, voice rich with satisfaction. His fingers tightened on the leash, keeping Stan close, keeping him his. “You feel that? Doesn’t that feel good?”

Stan let out a broken sound, half a whimper, half a moan. His movements were uncertain, stuttering, as though every thrust was something he had to relearn.

Fiddleford tilted his head back with a soft laugh, tugging the leash just enough to make Stan stumble forward onto him. “Don’t make me drag it out of you, sweetheart. I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

The words lit something in Stan’s eyes. He obeyed, hips shifting with more intent, though the flush staining his face gave away just how overwhelmed he was.

“That’s better,” Fiddleford praised, moaning with each thrust, running a hand down the side of Stan’s neck before gripping his jaw again, forcing him to hold his gaze. “Good boy. You don’t even know how pretty you look when you give in, do you?”

Stan whimpered, the leash tightening again as Fiddleford gave it another sharp tug, controlling his rhythm. Fiddleford’s smirk widened at the way Stan’s body responded instantly, desperate to please, every sound spilling from him only stoking the fire higher.

“Keep going,” Fiddleford whispered, his voice both tender and commanding. “Don’t stop until I tell you.”

Fiddleford’s smirk faltered into a shiver as a low moan slipped out of him, unrestrained and sweet. His head tipped back against the pillows, mouth falling open as the sounds tumbled from his throat, raw and unpolished.

The effect on Stan was immediate. Each noise lit him up like a fuse, stoking something fierce behind his red face. His hips, once hesitant, began to find a rhythm—slow at first, then sharper, rougher, urged forward by every moan he pulled from Fiddleford’s lips.

“Yeah—just like that,” Fiddleford breathed, leash still tight in his hand, though his voice wavered between command and need.

Stan’s eyes narrowed, focus sharpening as he picked up pace. The flush of submission still clung to him, but with every thrust his body moved more desperately, almost greedily, chasing the sound of Fiddleford’s moans as if they were the only thing that mattered.

For a heartbeat, he wasn’t obeying—he was driving. His grip on Fiddleford’s hips tightened, his thrusts edging past obedient into hungry, ragged insistence.

Fiddleford’s eyes snapped open at once, the shift in power clear as day. His moans cut off into a sharp laugh, low and warning. With a sudden yank, he pulled the leash so hard Stan’s head jerked back, forcing his gaze up.

“Careful now,” Fiddleford drawled, his voice dropping into something dark, commanding. He tightened his thighs around Stan’s hips, holding him still for a beat. “Getting carried away, are you? Thought you’d forgotten who’s in charge here.”

Stan froze, eyes wide, chest heaving. His dominance slipped away just as quickly as it had sparked.

Fiddleford tugged the leash again, less harsh this time but still firm, dragging Stan’s face closer until their foreheads nearly touched. His smirk returned, sharp and satisfied. “There you are. My good boy. Don’t you ever forget—you fuck me because I let you.”

Stan swallowed hard, trembling under the weight of his words, and let the leash guide him back into the rhythm Fiddleford demanded.

Stan was close—too close. His rhythm had gone ragged, every thrust punctuated with high, helpless whines that gave him away completely.

“You don’t cum until I do,” Fiddleford warned, voice sharp despite the shivers running through him.

Stan’s hand darted down between them in desperation, trying to stroke Fiddleford to the edge.

“No.” Fiddleford slapped his hand away with a growl, grip tightening on the leash. “That would be too easy for you, wouldn’t it? You’re gonna make me cum just by fucking me. That’s all you get.”

Stan whimpered, face burning, but obeyed. He bucked harder, faster, hips stuttering with effort, eyes locked on Fiddleford’s flushed face. Each of Fiddleford’s moans only spurred him on, driving him deeper, chasing that sound like it was the only thing that mattered.

Fiddleford’s breath hitched; his back arched off the bed as his moans broke into a raw, keening cry. His thighs clenched tight around Stan’s hips, body trembling as he came, shuddering with every pulse.

“Cum,” he gasped, voice cracking but still sharp with command as he yanked the leash taut.

The word ripped through Stan like lightning. With a strangled groan, he finally let go, spilling into Fiddleford in thick, hot ropes as his whole body shook violently. He collapsed forward, forehead pressed to Fiddleford’s shoulder, breath coming in desperate, uneven bursts.

Fiddleford gave the leash one last tug, keeping Stan’s face close as a satisfied smirk curved his lips. “Good boy,” he murmured, voice still rough with the aftershocks. 

Stan slumped against him, boneless and shaking, his breath still coming in sharp little gasps. For a moment the leash dangled loosely between them, forgotten.

Fiddleford softened, loosening his grip and sliding his fingers through Stan’s damp hair. He pressed a kiss against his temple, slow and grounding.

“You did so good for me,” he murmured, voice low and steady now, a contrast to the sharp edge from before. “My good boy. Breathe with me.”

Stan let out a shuddering sigh, melting into the touch, his trembling finally easing under Fiddleford’s steady hands.

“Easy now,” Fiddleford whispered, stroking down his back in slow circles. “I’ve got you.”

Stan nodded weakly against his shoulder, and for the first time all night, he let himself fully relax, safe in Fiddleford’s hold.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure?” Ford asked for the fifth time, sitting shyly on the edge of the bed, thumbs fidgeting in her lap. Nakedness made her cheeks burn, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to meet Fiddleford’s eyes.

Fiddleford lay sprawled at her side, gaze fixed not on Ford’s body, but on the nervous dance of her fingers. “Darling, for the millionth time—yes,” she whined, exasperated but good-natured, her smile softening the words. “If you really don’t want to, that’s okay. But it’s up to you.”

Ford glanced away, twisting a lock of her bouncy hair around her finger, then sighed and gave a small, assured nod. “Okay.”

Propping herself up on her elbows, Fiddleford caught the way Ford’s eyes flicked down to her breasts, watching them shift with the movement. The corner of her mouth curled into a self-satisfied smirk.

She reached out slowly, brushing tentative fingers against Ford’s. When Ford didn’t pull away, Fiddleford carefully laced their hands together, squeezing gently as her thighs pressed together for a fleeting moment of relief. Ford noticed the subtle flex of muscle and, despite her nerves, found herself smiling back.

Fiddleford lifted their joined hands to her lips, kissing each knuckle one by one, soft and reverent. Then, without breaking eye contact, she drew two of Ford’s fingers into her mouth, suckling lightly, her tongue curling around them.

Ford let out a startled squeak, her free hand half-raised like she didn’t know where to put it. The sound only made Fiddleford hum with delight, slipping a third finger past her lips as she reached out with her other hand to capture Ford’s flailing one, anchoring her.

Ford’s lips parted as a shiver ran through her, caught between embarrassment and fascination, her wide eyes fixed on the sight of her fingers disappearing into Fiddleford’s mouth.

Fiddleford’s mouth stretched to take in a fourth finger, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked slowly, deliberately. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment before she opened them again, catching Ford’s wide, uncertain stare. She hummed around the fingers, the sound vibrating faintly against Ford’s skin.

Ford gasped softly, frozen in place, every nerve alive. Her other hand hovered awkwardly in the air until Fiddleford reached for it, curling her warm fingers around Ford’s wrist.

“Don’t hide from me,” Fiddleford murmured, her words muffled by the fingers still resting in her mouth. She pulled Ford’s hand gently but firmly downward, dragging it across her stomach, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Ford’s eyes went wide, lips parting, as she realized where Fiddleford was guiding her. Her breath hitched, and for a moment she almost pulled back. But Fiddleford’s grip was steady, coaxing, her smirk softened into something tender.

“Just like this,” she whispered, easing Ford’s trembling hand lower. “You’re doing perfect, darling.”

Ford’s fingers slipped past Fiddleford’s opening, finding warmth and yielding softness that made her breath catch. She moved carefully, gently thrusting her fingers in and out, uncertain but earnest. Beside her, Fiddleford moaned around the other hand still in her mouth, bobbing her head with hungry rhythm as if to encourage her further.

“Ah—this is really doing something for you, then?” Ford asked, her voice awkward, almost shy, as she curled her fingers experimentally.

The sound Fiddleford made in return was anything but uncertain—an eager, throaty moan that vibrated right down to Ford’s bones. The sheer enthusiasm of it startled her, a punched-out little noise escaping her chest before she could stop it. Heat rushed across her cheeks, her thighs squeezing together instinctively as her body betrayed just how much the reaction affected her.

Ford bit her lip, her gaze flicking back and forth between Fiddleford’s parted lips and the wet sheen of arousal glistening at her cunt. The indecision made her cheeks burn; she didn’t quite know where to let her eyes rest, and the frustration showed in her nervous fidgeting.

Fiddleford caught it immediately, her smirk softening into something sly and knowing. She shifted her body, sliding a thigh firmly between Ford’s legs. The sudden pressure made Ford gasp, her body moving instinctively, rocking down against her without thought.

The dual sensation—her own grinding need paired with the movements of her hand inside Fiddleford—drew a startled sound from her throat. Her head tipped forward, hair falling in her face, as she tried to process the flood of heat overtaking her.

Fiddleford only moaned louder, tilting her head back, utterly delighted by how quickly Ford melted into the new rhythm.

Ford’s breath hitched as she ground down helplessly, trying to hold herself together. But when she finally dared a glance upward, her eyes locked on Fiddleford’s mouth—her fingers still between those swollen lips, slick with spit, her girlfriend’s gaze half-lidded and hazy with want.

The sight undid her completely. Heat rushed through her all at once, overwhelming, and a startled cry escaped her as orgasm crashed down. Her body jerked in quick, unsteady movements, hips trembling against Fiddleford’s thigh as she came far too quickly, far too intensely.

Her sudden spasms dragged her hand inside Fiddleford in a rougher rhythm, and the effect was immediate. Fiddleford moaned around the fingers in her mouth, voice muffled but rich with pleasure, and arched against Ford, her body shivering as she tumbled into her own climax.

They shook together, breathless and desperate, their sounds tangling in the air. Ford could only cling tighter, her face buried against Fiddleford’s shoulder as if she could hide her embarrassment there, even as her body refused to stop trembling.

When the storm finally ebbed, Ford pulled her damp fingers free with a shaky little gasp, shame already burning across her cheeks. “S-sorry,” she stammered, her voice small, uncertain. “That was… I didn’t mean to—so fast—”

Fiddleford’s laugh was soft, breathless, utterly fond. She reached up, cupping Ford’s face and brushing a kiss against her temple. “Darlin’, don’t you dare apologize,” she murmured, voice still husky from Ford’s fingers. “You were perfect. Better than perfect.”

Ford blinked up at her, wide-eyed and trembling, and felt herself relax, just a little, under that steady warmth.

Ford lay slumped against Fiddleford’s chest, her face hidden, cheeks still burning with embarrassment. She started to draw her hand back to her lap, as if ashamed to let it linger.

But Fiddleford caught her wrist, gentle but firm, and guided Ford’s hand back against her own body, right over her steady heartbeat. “Don’t you pull away,” she whispered, kissing the crown of Ford’s head. “These hands… they’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Ford let out a shaky laugh, not quite believing her, but Fiddleford squeezed her hand tight, like she meant every word. She lifted Ford’s fingers to her lips, kissing each one tenderly, her smile soft and certain.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” Fiddleford murmured against her skin. “Strong, clever hands… and all mine.”

Ford blinked, her throat tight, and finally managed to curl closer, curling into Fiddleford’s warmth. “You really think so?” she asked in a small voice.

“I know so,” Fiddleford said, brushing her thumb over Ford’s knuckles. 

Chapter Text

“It’s okay,” you whispered, though your trembling gave you away, your pulse hammering beneath her hovering mouth. Her razor-sharp teeth gleamed in the low light as they inched closer to your jugular.

Her breath came hot and uneven against your neck, every exhale laced with strain. “You sure?” she slurred, voice thick with hunger, her body sluggish as she wrestled her bloodlust into submission.

Your chest rose and fell in a shudder, a gasp spilling free. Slowly, deliberately, your hand slid into her hair, tangling in the soft strands. With a desperate tug, you guided her mouth to your pulse point.

Fiddleford groaned low in her throat as her lips parted against your skin. Then, with a trembling restraint that nearly broke her, she sank her teeth into you. The sting bloomed sharp, then dulled into a deep, aching pull as she began to drink.

You slumped back into the pillows, surrendering, every nerve lit with fire as she sucked at your neck with a careful rhythm. She pulled back only to lap at the wounds she’d made, her tongue soothing, her sighs and soft moans vibrating against your skin.

Before this, she had murmured assurances: that her bite would not turn you, that true turning required venom born of starvation and desperation she would never allow herself to reach. For now, she wanted nothing more than your warmth, your taste, your trust.

Your eyes fluttered shut, head tilting back as your thighs shifted restlessly, heat pooling low while she drank her fill. Her moan against your throat made your breath catch, pleasure and pain entwining until you could hardly tell the difference.

She noticed the restless shift of your thighs, the way your body betrayed what you were trying to hold back. With a knowing smirk, she pulled her mouth from your neck, crimson smeared faintly at the corner of her lips.

The loss made you whine, tilting your head toward her with wide, dazed eyes. She had barely taken anything—surely she couldn’t be finished already?

“Go ahead,” she giggled, her voice husky with amusement as she tilted her head toward your groin. The implication had your face heating, words tripping over your tongue before you gave a trembling nod.

Her grin widened, satisfied, and she lowered her mouth to your throat once more. With a hum of delight, she sank her teeth into a fresh spot, piercing your skin with that sharp sting before settling into the deep, steady pull of drinking.

You gasped, your back arching sharply off the bed, one hand flying down between your thighs. Your fingers circled your clit desperately, the wet sound of your arousal mixing with the quiet, greedy sucks at your neck.

Every nerve lit up at once, blood rushing in more ways than one. Her moans vibrated into your skin as she drank, and the dual sensations blurred together—the ache of her bite, the building ecstasy under your hand.

The edges of your vision began to blur, lightheadedness tugging at you, but it only heightened everything. Her teeth in your throat, the slick glide of your fingers, the hot wave cresting in your belly—it was overwhelming, intoxicating, impossible to stop.

And still, she held you firmly in place, reminding you with every drag of her lips against your wound that you were utterly hers to unravel.

“Fidds, please,” you moaned, your voice breaking as you pushed two fingers inside yourself, thrusting them in and out with desperate speed. “More.”

Her answering groan vibrated against your throat, and then she sucked down hard, pulling at you with a hunger that sent you spiraling. The pressure of her bite, the ache of her mouth on your skin, and the frantic pace of your fingers all crashed together until you came with a ragged shout, body arching tight against her.

For a long moment you were lost in the blur—her lips latched at your neck, your own body trembling violently under the force of release. Then, slowly, she pulled back, lips parting from your skin with a soft, wet sound. She breathed heavily, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing crimson over pale skin.

You could barely catch your breath, your chest heaving as you blinked up at her. The sight of her—wild-eyed, flushed, your blood painting her mouth—sent a shiver down your spine. Grinning through the haze, you tugged her down and kissed her hard, whining softly as the copper tang of your own blood met your tongue.

Her sigh against your lips was warm and satisfied, her fingers cupping your jaw to hold you close, as if to say you belonged to her just as surely as she’d just claimed you.

“Should clean the wound,” Fiddleford mumbled, though the hunger had finally left her eyes, replaced by a flicker of worry. She dragged her thumb across her stained lips, as if only just realizing how messy she was.

You looked at her with soft fondness, warmth stirring beneath the haze of your afterglow. “Later,” you whispered, voice hoarse but sure. Shifting down the bed, you nestled yourself between her thighs, pressing your palms gently to her knees until they parted for you.

Her breath hitched, uncertainty written plain on her face, but she didn’t stop you. Your breath ghosted over her heat, warm and deliberate, while your gaze trailed upward—past the heaving of her chest, lingering on her bloody mouth.

The sight of her like that—still trembling from hunger, crimson staining her lips, worry and want tangled together—made your pulse thrum all over again. You licked your lips, smirking faintly. 

Fiddleford let out a ragged little laugh, half whine, half moan, her hands twitching against the sheets. Her bloody mouth curved into a shaky grin. “Darlin’… you’ll be the death of me.”

Leaning forward, you pressed a slow kiss just above her mound before parting her folds with your tongue. The taste of her flooded your mouth, hot and slick, and you hummed low in your throat as you latched onto her clit.

Fiddleford let out a startled gasp, her head tipping back against the pillows, one trembling hand flying to grip your hair. “Ah—sweetheart—” she stammered, her bloody mouth falling open, breathless and desperate.

You worked her steadily, tongue circling her clit before dragging down to thrust into her, your nose brushing against the sensitive nub with every movement. Her thighs quivered around your head, threatening to snap shut, but you held her steady with your hands pressing her open.

Her moans came quicker, higher, broken into little sobs as she rocked against your mouth. “So good—oh, fuck—don’t stop,” she begged, pulling at your hair, her body arching as you sucked her clit hard.

When you slid two fingers into her dripping heat and curled them just right, she cried out sharply, back bowing as pleasure ripped through her. Her orgasm crashed over her in waves, thighs shaking violently against your shoulders as you kept her pinned in place, drinking down every drop of her release until she finally collapsed back onto the bed, panting and trembling.

You kissed her inner thigh softly, nuzzling against her slick skin before lifting your head. She looked wrecked—bloody mouth, flushed cheeks, chest heaving—and yet her eyes shone as they found yours.

“Lord above,” she whispered hoarsely, a shaky laugh bubbling out as she dragged you up for a kiss.

The two of you collapsed into a tangle of limbs and sweat, chests rising and falling as the room settled back into silence. Fiddleford’s arm curled lazily around your waist, pulling you in until your cheek rested over her heart. Her breathing was uneven, but steadying, and you could feel the aftershocks still twitching through her body.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. You only listened to the beat of her heart, still quick, and let the warmth of her body lull you. She stroked absently at your hair, the edge of a satisfied smile curving her lips despite the faint smear of red still staining them.

Eventually, though, her hand stilled. She shifted, tilting her head to peer down at the mark on your neck. A little furrow formed between her brows, worry creeping back in.

“Darlin’, I should’ve done this sooner,” she murmured, easing you back so she could sit up. She fussed with the sheets for a moment, then pressed her thumb gently near the bite, wincing at the sight. “You let me get carried away. Can’t have you bleedin’ all over and thinkin’ it’s fine.”

You laughed softly, catching her hand. “I’m okay. Really.”

But she shook her head, determined, leaning in to kiss your temple before reaching for a cloth at the bedside. Her voice was gentle, but firm: “Hush now. Let me take care of you. I bit you—so I’ll be the one to make it right.”

As she dabbed carefully at the wound, her mouth still stained with your blood, there was such tenderness in her touch that it almost made your chest ache.

She pressed one last kiss over the cleaned bite, her lips lingering. “There,” she whispered, settling back down with you in her arms. “Safe and sound.”

Chapter Text

The mindscape was full of infinite possibilities, bending to the will of its owner. That’s what Bill had whispered to him that night over drinks and chess, his impossible angles catching the false light and refracting it in ways that made Ford’s head spin. Ford had swallowed hard, trying to quiet his thoughts before Bill could hear them—before the demon could see too much.

Those infinite possibilities were exactly why Ford now found himself kneeling on a cushion in a false bedroom his mind had conjured for comfort. The air shimmered faintly with static, humming at the edges of his perception. He breathed unevenly, gaze flicking upward through half-lidded eyes to where Bill hovered above him, all angles and bricks and unreadable amusement.

A faint golden glow pulsed from Bill’s form, casting distorted shadows across the room. With a low hum of approval, Bill snapped his fingers. The sound cracked through the stillness like lightning, and Ford’s breath hitched as the floor beneath him rippled.

From the shifting ground, black tendrils began to rise—smooth, gleaming, their movements liquid and deliberate. They swayed like smoke, curling and uncurling, drawn to him by thought and fear alike. Ford froze, heart hammering in his chest, every breath short and sharp.

Bill chuckled, the sound sharp and echoing unnaturally. “Y’know, Sixer, for someone with a brain like yours, your thoughts sure are loud,” he mocked, tilting his glowing form as if examining Ford from every angle. 

Ford swallowed hard, trying to steady himself as the tendrils slithered closer, brushing against the edges of his consciousness rather than his skin.

Bill floated lower, his grin widening. “Relax, Fordsy. The more you fight it, the more this place fights you.”

The words sank deep, threading through the false air around him. Ford clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look up at his muse, determined not to flinch—though the pulse in his throat gave him away.

Bill’s laughter was soft, knowing, and far too close.

The tendrils crept closer, their movements slow and deliberate, brushing lightly against the air around him. One traced the outline of his arm, another hovered near his face as though studying him. When they finally touched him, the sensation wasn’t cold or threatening—just a faint static hum, like an echo of his own pulse.

Ford’s breath steadied. He didn’t fight them this time. The resistance that had knotted itself in his chest began to unravel, replaced by a strange calm. His mindscape was reacting to his thoughts, responding not to fear but to focus.

The tendrils coiled gently around his wrists, guiding them downward—not restraining, only anchoring. The static that filled the air grew softer, a steady vibration rather than an alarm.

Bill hovered above, golden light rippling faintly through his form. His eye was tilted upwards in Bill’s own version of a smirk, but there was something else beneath it now—something observant, almost patient.

“That’s it,” Bill murmured. “See? When you stop trying to force the shape of things, they start to understand what you want.”

Ford lifted his gaze, wonder flickering through his expression despite himself. The mindscape shimmered around them, the false bedroom dissolving into endless light and motion—his own thoughts laid bare, organized and alive.

Bill tilted his head, the angles of his form warping slightly. “Not bad, Sixer.”

“Now tell me,” Bill murmured, lowering a hand to Ford’s chin. His touch buzzed faintly, static humming against Ford’s skin. Ford leaned into it, eyes drifting shut.

“Do you want more?”

The words hung heavy in the air. Ford swallowed, breath unsteady, and nodded. When Bill’s fingers pressed lightly into his cheek, he found his voice. “Yes, my muse.”

Bill’s grin sharpened, his glow flickering brighter. “Good boy, Fordsy,” he said with a low chuckle, pulling his hand back.

The tendrils crept down Ford’s thighs and spread them gently, coaxing him open with slow, deliberate pressure. A shiver ran through him, breath hitching as another curled upward and brushed along his exposed cock. The touch was feather-light at first, grazing the sensitive skin until his gasp broke the silence.

It tightened then, enveloping him fully, the surface slick and pulsing with a faint static hum. The sensation was strange and overwhelming, the tendril stroking him with steady precision, almost like a makeshift sheath. His body arched against it before he could stop himself, the hum vibrating through him in waves.

Above, Bill’s golden glow flickered brighter, his single eye fixed on every twitch and shudder. 

The tentacle kept fucking him in a steady rhythm, sliding tight and relentless along his cock until his whole body shuddered. Bound by the coils that pinned his arms behind his back, he had nowhere to run from the sensation; every thrust drew another ragged moan, another twitch of his hips that only made the grip tighten around him.

He writhed in place, overwhelmed by pleasure that came in thick, consuming waves. His laughter slipped out between gasps, a breathless, broken sound that tumbled into moans. Heat burned in his chest, filling his lungs until he could only pant for air, his gaze locked on the golden figure watching over him. His muse. The grin above him never wavered, sharp and knowing, drinking in every stutter, every helpless sound.

When his lips parted on another cry, the tendrils responded. One slid forward with deliberate patience, nudging against his mouth as if waiting for permission. His body betrayed him before his mind could catch up—his lips opened wider, and the slick length pressed between them.

The taste hit him instantly: ozone, copper, the faint tang of smoke. He groaned around it, the vibration traveling back through his throat, muffled and hungry. The tendril pushed deeper, filling his mouth as his moan broke into a choked hum. Saliva slicked his lips, spilling down his chin, and still he clung to the rhythm, taking it as if it belonged there.

Pleasure knotted low in his belly, every nerve sparking, his body surrendering to the rhythm of the tendrils that bound, stroked, and filled him. And through it all, he never looked away from the one who had brought him here, eyes dazed but steady, offering himself up with every breath.

With a low hum, Bill lowered his hand between his own legs, fingers tracing over his bricks before sliding lower, teasing at the space beneath. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, stroking until the surface seemed to shift under his touch. Ford’s eyes widened as the skin gave way, reshaping itself until a slick, glistening vulva emerged where there had been nothing moments before.

The sight made him whine around the tendril filling his mouth, the sound muffled but raw with want. He squirmed against the bindings at his wrists, desperate to reach, to please, even as he was held down and forced to watch. His eyes burned with hunger, drinking in every movement of his muse’s hand, the wet gleam catching the golden glow above them.

The tentacle still stroked his cock, milking him with steady precision, but it wasn’t enough. His whole body strained forward, aching to bury himself against the one above him, to give back some fraction of the tormenting pleasure being heaped onto him. The helplessness only made his moans rougher, more frantic.

Another tendril slid down his back, this one thicker, coated in an otherworldly slick that clung like oil. It pressed against the curve of his ass, probing at his rim with deliberate patience. Ford tensed instinctively, his body seizing against the intrusion—but only for a moment. He forced himself to breathe through it, to relax, to open. The pressure eased slightly, then pushed in again, coaxing him wider, stretching him with slow, steady insistence.

The tendril pressed deeper, stretching him open with a careful, steady rhythm that left his whole body trembling. Each inch was a new blaze of sensation, sharp at first, then melting into something richer, deeper, almost unbearable in its intensity. Ford’s cry broke muffled around the tendril filling his mouth, the sound vibrating through his throat and into the slick length that pulsed there in answer.

Bill’s glow flared, his laughter curling low and approving. “Atta boy, Sixer,” he drawled, fingers still working between his legs as he teased his newly formed entrance. 

The words hit like a spark, and Ford groaned around the tendril choking his throat, his hips jerking helplessly as the one inside him slid deeper. The stretch burned, but the burn melted into a fullness that made his chest shudder with every ragged inhale. His cock throbbed in the slick sheath around it, caught between the merciless strokes of one tendril and the inexorable push of another breaching him from behind.

When the thick length finally bottomed out inside him, Ford’s whole body arched. He gasped around the fullness in his throat, eyes fluttering, muscles straining against the coils at his wrists. The sensation was so complete it nearly split him apart, every nerve alive with static, pleasure, and pressure that blurred together until he could barely think.

Bill leaned closer, his glowing form bending, a mocking tenderness in his single eye. “Look at you,” he purred, his voice humming straight into Ford’s bones. “All strung up like a pretty puppet. My puppet.”

Ford’s response was incoherent, a broken hum swallowed around the tendril in his mouth, but his body betrayed the truth. He pushed back against the one filling his ass, grinding forward into the sheath stroking his cock, desperate for more friction, more of everything. Every movement sent shocks through him, building, burning, until he was shaking with need.

Bill’s fingers sank deeper into his own slick folds, curling with an obscene squelch that Ford could hear even through the static haze of the mindscape. His eye narrowed, heat flaring through the glow that radiated off him. “You want it, don’t you?” he coaxed, circling his clit with a slow, taunting touch as Ford writhed beneath him. “You want to cum? Oh, but you don’t get to cum before I do.”

The words twisted like a hook inside Ford, pulling another desperate, guttural moan from him. His eyes locked on Bill’s hand, on the slick shine of his fingers moving with deliberate grace. His throat worked greedily around the tendril filling it, swallowing every thrust, as if answering Bill’s challenge without hesitation.

The rhythm grew merciless: the tendril in his ass driving harder, deeper, stretching him with relentless force; the one around his cock stroking faster, every squeeze dragging him closer to the edge; the one in his throat pushing deeper until his vision blurred with tears. Ford’s mind was unraveling, every thread of thought giving way to raw sensation.

And through it all, Bill watched him, glowing brighter, laughing low and wicked as his own pleasure mounted under his fingers. “That’s it, Fordsy,” he hissed, voice crackling like static. “Take it. All of it. Show me how good you can be.”

Ford trembled against the bindings as every tendril worked him open, filled him, used him until his body was one raw nerve, strung tight and desperate. His vision blurred, tears shining at the corners of his eyes, not from pain but from the sheer overwhelming force of sensation. He was close—so close—but he held himself there, teetering on the edge, waiting, because his gaze was locked on Bill.

And Bill was unraveling.

The glow around his body flared hotter, flickering erratic, shadows stuttering across the mindscape. His teeth stretched wide in a grin that shook with strain, his fingers plunging faster between his slick folds, circling his clit with almost brutal insistence. Every thrust of his hand made the golden aura ripple outward, sparking across the false sky like lightning.

“Ah—fuck—” Bill’s voice cracked, sharp edges fraying into a shuddering growl. “You watching, Sixer? Watching your muse fall apart for you?”

Ford’s answering moan was muffled around the tendril in his throat, desperate, pleading, but his eyes never wavered. He watched the slick glisten of Bill’s fingers, the way his hips jerked helplessly against his own hand, the way his form bent and cracked with the strain of pleasure too big for his body to hold.

Bill’s whole body arched, light flaring blinding-bright as his cry tore through the air, raw and triumphant. The glow rippled out in violent waves, shaking the tendrils that bound Ford, sparking static against his skin. Slick poured over Bill’s fingers, dripping golden and wet, as he writhed in his own grip, undone and glorious. His laugh rang sharp and broken, cracked into a moan as the climax wracked through him, leaving his form trembling, dimming faintly in the aftermath.

The sight of Bill coming apart—his muse, his impossible, terrible muse—shattered what little control he had left. His whole body convulsed as the tendrils drove into him, one last merciless push, and he cried out around the length filling his throat, a muffled, desperate wail as release tore through him. His cock pulsed in the slick sheath, spilling hot and messy, every spasm wringing more from him until he sagged, spent and shaking, into the bindings.

The mindscape pulsed with their releases, golden light bleeding into the shadows, static softening into a low hum. Ford’s chest heaved, his mouth still stuffed full, drool and tears streaking down his face, but his gaze stayed fixed on Bill—dazed, reverent, utterly undone.

And Bill, still glowing faintly, leaned close, his voice ragged but wicked with satisfaction. “Good boy, Fordsy. I knew I was right about you.”

Bill’s grin sharpened as Ford swayed, weak and trembling on the cushion. The tendrils had fully melted back into the floor, leaving nothing but the faint static hum of a world still resonating with their shared climax. Bill leaned down, his voice low, smooth, and merciless in Ford’s ear.

“Fun’s over, Sixer,” he whispered, fingers giving Ford’s chin a sharp little tilt before letting go. “Now get back to work.”

The words cracked like a whip through the mindscape, and in the next instant, the room shattered around him—golden light dissolving into fragments, static exploding into silence.

Ford woke with a violent gasp, his body arching off the mattress. His sheets clung damp to his skin, twisted around his legs, his chest slick with sweat. His throat was raw, aching as if he had been filled, his wrists sore where nothing had bound them. He panted, wide-eyed in the dim light of his cabin bedroom, the hum of the real world pressing in around him like it hadn’t been there at all a moment ago.

The smell of old books, dust, and saltwater replaced the ozone and smoke of the mindscape. The silence was deafening compared to Bill’s laughter.

Ford pushed a trembling hand through his sweat-matted hair, heart racing, his cock still twitching from the ghost of release. He tried to slow his breathing, tried to remind himself he was here, alone, safe. But his gaze drifted to the desk piled with unfinished notes, chalk-smeared equations, half-solved riddles—and the whisper of Bill’s command lingered like static at the base of his skull.

And, despite the ache in his body, despite the shame crawling under his skin, Ford swung his legs out of bed and reached for his journal.

Chapter Text

The room smelled faintly of salt and smoke, a trace of the ocean that always seemed to follow Stan wherever she went. Her back hit the mattress with a low, startled laugh that almost covered the breath that caught in her throat. The light from the bedside lamp carved her in gold—every line of muscle and motion sharp and alive.

“You think you can keep me begging forever, huh?” she rasped, that old smirk trying to stay put even as her chest rose too fast.

You leaned over her, hands braced on either side of her head. “That’s the idea,” you murmured. The way her eyes flicked up to meet yours—half challenge, half surrender—made your pulse stumble.

Stan’s hands found your shoulders, nails tracing light crescents into your skin. “You’re gonna kill me,” she breathed, but there was laughter under it. You could feel her fighting to keep her usual bravado, to pretend she wasn’t trembling, and it made you smile against her neck.

“Not yet,” you said, letting the words ghost over her ear. “Not until I decide you’ve earned it.”

Her laugh cracked halfway through, turning into a sound that was closer to a plea. She dragged her hands down your arms, trying to pull you closer, but you held your ground, savoring the power in the space between her want and your patience. 

When you finally rolled your clit against hers, her entire body went taut beneath you. Her head fell back, a strangled noise leaving her throat, and you caught her face between your palms, forcing her to look at you.

“There you are,” you whispered. “Stay with me.”

Stan’s eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide. Her lips parted around a breath that might have been your name. The sound made you ache.

You leaned in, kissing the corner of her mouth, then the pulse at her throat. Each touch and every breath another test of how long she could stay right there.

By the time you eased back, her voice was hoarse, the smirk long gone. “You… you really like watchin’ me lose it, huh?”

You smiled, brushing her hair from her face. “Only because you always do it so beautifully.”

“Pfft, yeah right,” she snorted, though the sound came out shaky. Her gaze flicked away, that telltale nervous edge cutting through the grin.

The challenge in her tone made your lips curve. You tilted her chin back toward you and kissed her—slow, deliberate—until her eyes had no choice but to find yours again.

Stan’s breath hitched, a tiny, unguarded sound escaping her that made you laugh softly against her mouth. “Uh oh,” she whispered, the smirk returning—but weaker this time.

“I’ll show you,” you murmured, brushing your thumb along her jaw before pressing a tender kiss to her cheek. “Exactly how beautiful you are.”

She let out a tiny “eep” when you drew back, the sound escaping before she could swallow it. Her face flushed deep red as she propped herself up on her elbows, watching you with wide, uncertain eyes.

“You don’t have to—y’know—do all that, babe,” she stammered, voice quick and thin around the edges.

“I won’t,” you said gently, your gaze steady on hers as you adjusted the strap, the leather whispering against your skin. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

Her throat bobbed with a swallow, and she looked everywhere but at you. “No, it’s—uh—” she huffed, color rising higher. The flush climbed all the way to her ears as you crossed the room, slow and unhurried, the weight of the strap swaying from your hips like a promise.

“Nah, it’s fine,” she muttered, softer now, her confidence flickering but real. Her hand reached for you, fingers curling around yours before she lifted them to her lips. She pressed a kiss into your palm, voice low and certain when she added, “I trust you.”

You climbed over her, kissing her softly. The bottle of lube was cold between your fingers, but your hands were steady as you drizzled just a little onto her entrance. Stan gasped, hips jerking up on instinct, and you hushed her with another kiss, slow and deep.

"Easy," you murmured against her mouth, circling your thumb gently before slicking the toy yourself. "Just breathe for me."

You watched her face like it was sacred—the way her lashes fluttered, how she bit down on her lip like she could hold the feeling in if she tried hard enough. Then you slowly pushed in. Just enough to make her moan low in her throat and arch up like she was trying to take more.

You paused there. “Okay?”  

Stan nodded fast, eyes still closed. “Yeah… yeah—I’m good.” Her voice wavered at the edges but held firm under yours.

So beautiful when she trusted this far.

You settled fully into the rhythm, giving her a moment to adjust—her breath shuddering between parted lips, fingers digging into your thighs. Then you pulled back slowly, just to glide forward again, deeper this time.

Stan gasped, soft and sharp, a little noise that tangled with your name. Her eyes flew open, wide and glassy with feeling, staring up at you like you were the only thing holding her to the earth.

You set an unforgiving rhythm, each glide pulling another broken sound from her throat. Stan’s breath came in hitches and gasps, her hips rising to meet yours like she couldn’t help it, like she was chasing something only you could give.

Her nails scraped down your back, voice fraying at the edges. “Oh god—oh fuck—please,” she whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as her body tensed beneath you.

You felt it—the shift in her breathing, the way her thighs trembled—and just as she started to crest, you pulled out completely.

Stan let out a thin whine deep in her chest, hips jerking up on instinct. “N-no—you asshole,” she choked out between ragged breaths, voice cracking with need and disbelief.

Her eyes snapped open: wide, wet at the corners—not from pain but pure want—and already glistening with unshed tears of frustration. She reached for you weakly. “Don’t… don’t leave me hangin’ like that…”

You hovered just above her entrance again and smiled against the shell of her ear: “Not yet. Not until I hear you admit you’re beautiful.”

You stayed just there—the tip grazing her where she ached most. Stan writhed beneath you, thighs trembling, breath coming in short little puffs.

You sank into her again with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips and she gasped like you’d rewired her soul. Each thrust built on the last, steady and unrelenting, pulling moans from deep in her chest that she couldn’t swallow back no matter how hard she tried. Stan’s breath turned ragged, frantic—her body tensing under yours like a bowstring pulled too tight.

You watched her closely—the flutter of her lashes, the way her lips parted around silent pleas—the flush spreading across her chest and neck like wildfire. She was right there, trembling on the edge again- so close that when you dipped your thumb down to circle her clit, she whimpered—a high, broken sound—and bucked against you instinctively.

“Shhh,” you soothed against her ear. “I’ve got you.”

"C’mon," she breathed out fast through clenched teeth. "Don't stop—not now—please—I’m right there"  

“Say it,” you murmured, voice low and sweet against her ear. “Tell me you’re beautiful.”

She let out a shaky huff—half laugh, all nerves. “C’mon… not this again…”

You pulled back an inch more. Out of reach.

Her body tensed like it knew what was coming. “No—wait!” she cried as the emptiness hit her full force.

You kissed her neck softly. “Then say it.”

“I—I’m…” She choked on the words like they were too big to speak aloud.

“That’s it,” you urged, tracing her cheek with your palm. “You can do it.”

Stan’s chest rose fast under yours, eyes squeezing shut as if bracing for impact. Her fingers curled weakly into your arms.

“I’m… I’m fine, okay?” she tried—one last flicker of defiance—but it came out wobbly, thin.

You stayed still above her—not pushing in, not giving relief—just holding that quiet space between them both heavy with need and something deeper: truth waiting to be spoken.

A tiny whimper slipped from her lips when she realized you wouldn’t move until she did.

“Please,” she breathed at last—the word soft and raw—as if giving up had never felt so much like surrendering into safety instead of defeat. “I’m—I’m…beautiful?”

You smiled against her forehead before finally sliding home again—one smooth glide that made every muscle in her body seize up tight—and whispered, “Yes, you are. Good girl.”

You pushed back in with a smooth, sure glide, and began to move with purpose. The rhythm built fast, your hips driving forward while your thumb found that sweet spot above, circling just right. Each thrust drew another breathy moan from Stan, high and trembling in her throat.

The strap pressed against your clit with every roll of your hips, sending sparks up your spine, and you couldn’t help the soft whimper that escaped as you watched it disappear into her again and again.

"Say it," you panted against her neck, voice shaky with need. "Say it like you mean it."

She laughed, a dazed, drunken sound, but there was warmth under it now. Her hands gripped your waist tighter as she arched up to meet you.

“I’m… beautiful,” she murmured, voice thick with lust and affection. The smirk still there but softer now, melting at the edges.

You keened at the words and drove into her hard a few more times until she shattered beneath you.

Stan cried out, a sobbing moan muffled against your shoulder, as her body clenched tight around the toy. You stayed steady through it all— grinding deep, riding out every pulse of her release until she twitched and whined from overstimulation.

Only then did you let yourself go.

One long grind against the strap sent you crashing after her, a quiet cry escaping as pleasure washed over you in waves.

You pulled out as gently as you could. She whimpered at the loss—but didn’t let go far; fingers curled weakly around yours as if even now she needed contact.

The strap landed somewhere unseen across the room.

You collapsed on top of her, an exhausted starfish draping over warm skin, as those big hands came up instinctively to cradle you close.

“Thank you,” whispered into sweat-damp hair. “You’re so beautiful, Stan.”

Her smile brushed against your neck before spreading wide into a contented sigh. “So are you,” she whispered back.

Chapter Text

“I don’t think you should stay at the shack tonight,” Stan had grumbled earlier that day, thumbs twisting together nervously. His eyes flicked toward the window, catching a sliver of silver moonlight cutting through the trees, as if the world outside agreed with his unease.

“And why’s that?” Fiddleford asked gently, pausing mid-stir as the soup simmered on the stove, steam curling like ghostly fingers in the warm kitchen air. He reached out and took Stan’s hands in his own, fingers curling around them with a careful firmness.

Stan’s face heated immediately. He glanced down, twisting his thumbs faster, feeling absurdly exposed under Fiddleford’s calm, steady gaze. He swallowed, throat tight. “Full moon tonight… I’m… going into rut.”

Fiddleford blinked, and then a slow, wide grin spread across his face. He couldn’t hide the delight, that sharp little spark in his eyes that made Stan’s stomach flip.

“And I have to leave because…?” Fiddleford teased, tilting Stan’s chin up with a finger beneath his jaw, forcing eye contact.

“Uh… I just told you why,” Stan muttered, voice trembling slightly, utterly confused by the mischievous, almost predatory look Fiddleford was giving him.

Fiddleford leaned in close, brushing his lips over Stan’s earlobe in a gentle bite. Stan jerked, heart hammering, and a shiver ran down his spine.

“I wanna see what you’re like,” Fiddleford whispered, his breath hot and teasing against Stan’s skin. “When you go into rut.”

Stan blinked, dumbstruck. His hands, larger than Fiddleford’s, instinctively went to rest on Fiddleford’s hips, feeling the soft press of cloth and warmth beneath his fingers.

“You sure?” Stan asked, voice lower now, roughened with a mix of apprehension and anticipation. “It’s a full moon too… don’t forget. I’ll be in full werewolf brain.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Fiddleford said, a low chuckle ruffling the air between them. He wiggled free from Stan’s grasp, returning to the stove as if nothing had happened, stirring the soup in slow, deliberate circles. The scent of garlic and herbs hung thick and cozy around the kitchen.

Stan remained frozen behind him, cheeks burning, ears warm. He watched Fiddleford’s every movement—the tilt of his shoulder, the mischievous curl of his smile, the way he stirred without glancing back. Excitement and a little fear twisted together in his chest, and his tailbone tingled with the odd, thrilling awareness of just how close they were.

The steam rose, curling between them like a barrier, yet it did nothing to dull the tension—the pull, the magnetic thrum of something neither entirely safe nor entirely sane. Stan swallowed hard, taking in the scent of Fiddleford’s earthy cologne mixed with the earthy aroma of the stew, and realized he’d been holding his breath.

Fiddleford finally glanced over his shoulder, eyes sparkling, and winked. Stan’s heart skipped another beat, and the blush creeping across his face deepened. 

-

Transformation was always the worst part of a full moon. Despite Fiddleford’s protests, Stan insisted on locking himself in a separate room while it happened. Every pop of his bones, every groan of pain as his body twisted and stretched, was a private torment—something he didn’t want Fiddleford to witness.

Even now, as the first tendrils of fur sprouted along his arms and chest, Stan could feel the familiar ache in his spine and ribs, the way his muscles seemed to tear and rebuild themselves. His form still remained more man than wolf, the main changes being thicker body hair, a sleek tail flicking behind him, and his ears elongating into pointed, sensitive wolf ears.

His mind, mercifully, stayed mostly sane. Rational thoughts were intact, even as an unrelenting hunger tugged at the edges of his focus, and the instinctive desire of rut whispered a constant, warm craving that gnawed at him from inside.

At last, the pain subsided into a deep, vibrating ache in his muscles. Stan shook himself off, feeling the strange new weight and length of his tail, flexing his fingers to get used to the claws at their tips. Hesitantly, he reached for the door and stepped out.

Fiddleford was waiting. He didn’t just stand there—he practically bounced on his heels, eyes wide with excitement and curiosity. Somehow, he never looked afraid, never hesitated, even as Stan’s form now carried a predatory edge. It fascinated and comforted Stan in equal measure, a tether of warmth in the midst of the storm of his instincts.

“You alright?” Fiddleford asked, concern threading through the usual gleam of mischief in his eyes, just as Stan’s shoulder popped harshly with another adjustment.

Stan hummed, nodding, not trusting the rough, guttural timbre of his own voice. His senses were acutely heightened now—the scent of the room, the faint rustle of the wind through the trees, and most dangerously, Fiddleford. His heart skipped as that familiar scent hit him like a wave: warm, sweet, irresistible. The pull of instinct and desire tugged at him, urgent and insistent, and Stan had to force his focus elsewhere to keep from lunging.

Fiddleford seemed to notice none of this, or perhaps he enjoyed it. He tilted his head, grinning slightly, and the motion sent Stan’s ears flicking back in reflex. Every nerve screamed, every instinct coiled, and still—Fiddleford just stood there, calm and steady, watching him with unshakable trust.

Stan swallowed hard, flexing his claws at his sides, tail flicking in a nervous rhythm. “I—I’m… okay,” he managed finally, though even the words felt foreign in his sharpened senses. Fiddleford’s laughter, low and warm, floated toward him, and for a brief moment, the ache and the hunger melted into something softer.

“Do you need me to get you anything?” Fiddleford asked gently, reaching up to cup Stan’s cheek. Stan froze, every nerve screaming, every instinct pulling him toward Fiddleford in a way that made his body tense as if ready to spring. The urge to throw Fiddleford to the ground and claim him was nearly overwhelming.

Stan’s breaths grew ragged, shallow, and hot as Fiddleford’s fingers lingered against his skin. The faint, knowing smirk curling at Fiddleford’s lips told Stan everything he needed to know—Fiddleford knew exactly the effect he had.

“Gimme a minute,” Stan managed, voice strained. He forced himself to step back mentally, to reel in the wildfire thrumming through his body. Instantly, Fiddleford pulled his hand away, giving him space, though his gaze remained soft, fond, almost indulgent.

With a careful hand, Fiddleford guided Stan toward the living room. Stan followed, ears flicking and tail twitching nervously, like a well-trained—if restless—puppy. Fiddleford hummed quietly to himself as he reheated some soup, the scent of herbs and broth filling the air. He placed a steaming bowl in front of Stan, encouraging him to sit.

“I’m not hungry,” Stan said, though the words felt hollow, even to his own ears. Every instinct in his body screamed at him in conflicting ways—hunger, desire, the need for restraint.

“Don’t lie to me now,” Fiddleford said with a mock scowl, digging into his own bowl. “You’re gonna need all the strength you can get when I’m done with you tonight.”

Stan’s gaze flicked up through his lashes. Fiddleford’s words, combined with the playful threat in his eyes, sent a jolt of heat rushing through him. His veins throbbed, his senses screaming with awareness of Fiddleford—the scent of his skin, the warmth of his presence, the subtle tilt of his smile.

Forcing himself to focus, Stan picked up his spoon, letting the warmth of the soup steady him. Later, he reasoned, he could allow himself to dwell on desire. For now, he ate, each bite a small act of self-control, even as his body hummed with anticipation, and Fiddleford watched him with that knowing, teasing grin that made it nearly impossible to concentrate.

They finished eating in silence, the warmth of the soup doing little to calm the fire simmering between them. Fiddleford stacked the bowls at the sink, scrubbing absentmindedly, while Stan lingered nearby, ears flicking, tail twitching with instinctive tension.

Without thinking, Stan came over and pressed close, leaning into Fiddleford’s back. Fiddleford stiffened for a moment, then let out a low, soft keening sound, his body reacting despite the calm in his tone.

“Fidds,” Stan panted, pressing his forehead briefly against Fiddleford’s shoulder, “you gotta be sure about this.”

“I’m sure,” Fiddleford whispered, tilting his head, the heat in his voice betraying the teasing edge to his words. He moved slightly, brushing his ass against Stan’s cock.

Stan exhaled, trying to steady himself, feeling the wild pulse of his instincts against the steady warmth of Fiddleford’s presence. 

Fiddleford twisted fast—playful despite the warning growl rising from Stan's chest—and pushed.

The impact was like a match to gunpowder: Stan lunged, his animalistic drive taking control. He seized Fiddleford by the back of his shirt and shoved him onto the counter. Breathlessly, Fiddleford braced himself, gazing up at Stan with a defiant glint in his eye, his scent thick and irresistible.

Fidds shimmied his hips in a little tease, knowing what it would do to him. The sound that left Stan was low, guttural — not quite a growl, but close.

He froze, breath shuddering as he stared down at the man pinned beneath his hands. His claws dug slightly into the worn wood of the counter beside Fiddleford’s shoulders, careful not to touch skin, though every nerve screamed at him to move. His pulse thundered. His chest rose and fell in fast, uneven breaths.

Fiddleford looked alive — eyes bright, face flushed, a crooked smile tugging at his lips like he was playing with fire and enjoying every second of it.

Stan squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” he rasped, voice roughened beyond recognition. His tail lashed once behind him — a restless twitch betraying how close he was to losing control.

Fiddleford, damn him, just laughed softly. The sound broke through the haze like a spark of something human and grounding.

“I trust you,” he said simply.

Stan felt the words settle deep, heavy, a hand on the back of his neck pulling him back from the edge. He opened his eyes again — slow, cautious — and found Fiddleford still there, steady and sure beneath him.

He forced a breath, then another, each one dragging his instincts back under control. Stan leaned forward just enough that their foreheads brushed, his breath hot against Fiddleford’s lips. “You sure make it hard to think straight,” he murmured.

Fiddleford chuckled, softer this time, and reached up to brush his thumb against the side of Stan’s jaw — a simple touch, tender and deliberate. “Then don’t think,” he whispered. 

Stan growled — a deep, guttural sound that rattled through the walls. Instinct surged hot and uncontrollable through his veins, a flood of wild power that demanded release. His claws flashed out before he could think, shredding through Fiddleford’s pants as if the very fabric were suffocating him. He tore at his own clothes next, desperate to breathe, to move, to stop feeling caged in his own skin.

The air filled with the sound of tearing fabric and heavy breaths. Fiddleford froze for only a heartbeat — then relaxed forward on the counter, calm as ever, even in the face of something raw and untamed.

“Easy, Stanley,” he said softly. “It’s alright.”

Stan’s chest heaved, shoulders trembling with the strain of holding back the beast just beneath his skin. The wildness in his eyes flickered — fear, confusion, exhaustion. Fiddleford reached out, brushing a hand along Stan’s arm, steadying him.

That single touch was enough to pull him back from the edge. The growl faded into a ragged exhale, his claws retracting slightly as his shaking hands came to rest against the counter for balance.

“Breathe,” Fiddleford murmured. “There you go.”

Stan closed his eyes, drawing in a breath that finally felt his own.

Stan’s breath came in short, harsh bursts, the air hot against his teeth as he leaned close. “Gonna knot you,” he growled, voice rough and low — not cruel, but wild, edged with something ancient and unrestrained. His tail lashed behind him, every muscle thrumming with barely checked power. “Gonna fill you up.”

Fiddleford’s grin widened, wicked and fearless. He opens his legs further, feet braced, gaze bright with challenge.  “Prove it.”

He rocked forward once, a rough grunt escaping him at the contact of his cock on Fiddleford’s ass—the heat, the friction driving him deeper into rut. His hips twitched instinctively.

Fiddleford fumbled behind him for just a second before producing a bottle of lube from where it had been tucked near the edge of the counter. He dangled it just within Stan’s line of sight.

Stan stilled. Eyes flicked to it—then to Fidds—and something in his chest cracked open between instinct and awareness. With trembling fingers, he snatched it.

The cap clicked open awkwardly, his hands shaking, but he managed to pour slick over Fiddleford’s entrance first. A slow drizzle down that warm cleft until wet glistened in moonlight spilled from outside. Then over himself—one thick coat slicking his shaft.

His breath steadied only slightly as he spread both hands across firm cheeks, pushing them wide apart.

Fiddleford was already loosened up, hole dark and glistening faintly beneath oil-slick skin. It twitched reflexively before slowly opening again around nothing but promise now hanging thick in silence broken only by ragged breathing.

Stan surged forward, burying himself in one deep thrust that made Fiddleford cry out—sharp and bright—as his teeth sank into the meat of Fiddleford’s shoulder, not breaking skin but holding on like anchor to shore.

His hips snapped hard and fast, chasing the primal rhythm of his rut, each drive pushing them both further into sensation. The counter shuddered beneath them. Stan’s tail lashed then stilled as it began to thump in rapid time against his thigh, a telltale sign of what was building.

Fiddleford gasped beneath him, broken moans spilling between clenched teeth. He braced himself on shaking arms as Stan took what he needed and still didn’t pull away. Instead, he pushed back slightly with each thrust, meeting him just enough to deepen it.

“Stan…” he panted as heat coiled tighter low in his belly.

But Stan only growled into his neck—a sound muffled by sweat-slick skin—and fucked harder into him like he could crawl inside and live there.

The rhythm broke when it happened—Stan’s knot caught suddenly at Fiddleford’s rim and popped inside with a deep, slick snap 

He yelped—a raw, high sound like a call torn from instinct—his entire body seizing for half a second before he started thrusting again, frantic and jerky. His hips rolled in short, desperate grinds against Fiddleford’s ass even though he was fully seated now; the knot swelling rapidly inside him forced him to stay locked in deep.

“F-Fidds—!” Stan gasped between breaths, voice cracking with something between pain and euphoria. He couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to, his cock throbbed where it was buried, and each involuntary twitch sent ripples through both of them.

Fiddleford arched sharply as the pressure built—a hot coil snapping tight around Stan’s base—and moaned into the wood of the counter. “There you go. Good puppy,” he panted breathlessly, voice laced with sweat-soaked praise. “Feels so good. Good boy.”

Stan whined low in his throat—not embarrassment but surrender—as his tail wagged behind him.

And then Fiddleford came hard—from nothing more than that thick stretch and pulse inside him—the first wave hitting silent before escaping as a shuddering cry into his arm braced on the counter. His hole clenched around Stan involuntarily and milked at that swollen ridge trapped deep within.

Stan pulled out gently when his knot deflated, Fiddleford whimpering at the loss and Stan rumbled his approval: a low hum in his chest that sent a shudder through Fiddleford. Laying eyes on his mate, laid down and pliant beneath him, made that possessive, wolfish core within him purr and the thought of cuddling in their own den sent a wave of contentment flooding through him.

Stan moved quickly and gathered Fiddleford easily into his arms. He carried him to the bedroom with care, an instinct lingering now that the wildness of rut had been sated. Fiddleford went easily, soft and boneless, as Stan settled onto the bed with an unceremonious flop, pulling Fiddleford close.

Stan rolled onto his back, cradling Fiddleford against him, still breathing heavy and deep from exertion. One arm wrapped him close, and as his heart rate slowed, his tail curled contentedly around them both.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford’s lips were soft and deliberate as they brushed over each of Ford’s knuckles — one, then the next, then the next — until all six had been tended to with the same quiet reverence. The gesture was simple, but it undid him completely. Ford’s breath caught in his throat, shoulders twitching as he tried to steady himself, the sound that escaped him somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

She smiled against his skin, the corners of her mouth curving with a warmth that could have melted glass. “You’re blushin’ again,” she murmured, her drawl low and teasing, voice humming softly against his hand.

Ford tried to reply, but the words tangled in his chest. His pulse beat hard beneath the places she’d kissed, warmth blooming up his arm and into his face. “Am not,” he managed, though the heat crawling over his cheeks betrayed him completely.

Her laugh was quiet, honey-sweet. She pressed another kiss to the base of his thumb, then looked up at him with eyes that sparkled with amusement. “Sure you ain’t,” she said, and the gentle humor in her tone made something twist pleasantly in his stomach.

That was enough to break him. A helpless giggle bubbled out of him, high and breathless, and he brought his free hand up to hide his face. “You’re insufferable,” he said from behind his fingers, voice muffled and flustered.

“Maybe,” she said, and leaned in to kiss the edge of his palm, her smile softening. “But who can blame me when you’re so cute.”

Her laughter rang out, bright and bubbling, as his fingers found the soft skin at her hips. “Ford—!” she squealed between giggles, twisting in mock protest before tumbling forward onto his chest. Her hair fell around them like a curtain of gold and sunlight, and before he could say another word, she caught his mouth in a kiss — quick, sweet, and dizzying.

“You are,” she murmured against his lips, her breath warm as she trailed soft kisses along the sharp line of his jaw. “My cute boy.”

The words hit him like a live wire. Ford’s whole body seemed to short-circuit at once — the heat that flooded through him left his thoughts in disarray. He let out a small, unguarded whine, hands grasping weakly at her waist.

It always amazed him, the ease with which she could undo him — how effortlessly she seemed to find the threads that held him together and pluck at them until he came apart. One glance, one touch, one whisper, and he was hers entirely. His brilliant, analytical mind — the same one that could take apart the universe and reassemble it — faltered completely beneath her gentleness.

“Fiddleford…” he managed, voice trembling somewhere between awe and plea.

She only smiled, the kind that made his chest ache, and brushed her thumb across his cheek. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Just let me love you a little.”

She smiled softly at his silence, watching him with a patience that felt almost maternal in its warmth. Her thumb brushed the edge of his jaw again, slow and steady, until his eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into the touch like a cat seeking more.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” she asked quietly, her voice low, soothing. Her fingers wandered down from his neck to his chest, tracing lazy lines through the light dusting of hair there, following the rhythm of his uneven breathing.

Ford made a face, puffing his cheeks out and glancing away like a boy caught doing something foolish. His lips twisted, as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t bring himself to form the words. He swallowed instead, jaw tightening, embarrassment tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Fiddleford hummed softly, a sound full of knowing. She shifted her weight just enough for the lamplight to catch her bare skin — a quiet movement, deliberate in its grace. The light slid across her shoulders and down the soft curve of her breasts, the slow swing of them drawing his eyes before he could think to resist.

His breath hitched; his resolve crumbled a little more. For all his intellect, all his precision and calculation, he was so easy to read like this — simple in the sweetest way, undone by warmth and the quiet gravity of her body.

She smiled at that — a lazy, tender thing —and tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Somethin’ wrong, sugar?”

Ford exhaled slowly, a long, shaky sigh that seemed to steady something inside him. The nerves fluttering beneath his skin began to settle as he looked up at her — at the quiet patience in her eyes, the way the lamplight haloed her hair.

His hands rose from her hips almost hesitantly, fingers tracing a path upward until his palms came to rest against her breasts. The warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips made his pulse stumble, and he drew in a breath, reverent and trembling.

Fiddleford let out a soft, pleased sound — not quite a moan. Her eyes fluttered shut, shoulders relaxing as she leaned into his touch, the rhythm of her breathing syncing with his.

Ford’s fingers trembled as he thumbed her nipples, the scientist in him desperate to stay composed. He watched the smallest shifts in her expression as though they were data points: the flutter of her lashes, the parting of her lips, the way her breath caught and deepened under his touch. It was maddening — to try and study what he couldn’t help but feel.

Her next breath came as a quiet, pleased sound, one that seemed to hum through his chest. Then, with a small, knowing smile, she caught his wrists and gently pushed them back toward the sheets. “Always overthinkin’,” she teased, her voice a slow drawl that wrapped around him like smoke. She moved to straddle him with easy confidence.

Ford’s breath hitched again, a helpless sound escaping him before he could stop it. The world seemed to narrow to just the space between them — her warmth hovering just out of reach, her gaze steady and tender.

“You want me?” she asked quietly, the question carrying both playfulness and care.

He swallowed hard, the air trembling between them. His fingers clutched the sheets as though they might anchor him. When he finally found his voice, it came out small, almost broken with sincerity. “Yes,” he said, surrendering himself to her.

She licked her thumb slowly, keeping eye contact the whole time before pressing it gently against his rim. He keened, a whimper escaping before he could stop it, his cock twitching heavily against his thigh.

His breath came quicker now. He risked a glance downward and saw her own cock beginning to swell, length unfurling in slow, proud increments—the tip already darkening with arousal. A flush surged through him; the sight made him lightheaded, dizzy with want.

Without a word, she reached for the lube—cool bottle slick in her fingers—and drizzled a line down two of them. The first push inside was slow: one finger easing into him with careful precision. He moaned low in his throat as she curled it just right.

Then two fingers—it stretched better this time—he writhed beneath her hold but didn’t pull away.

“Look at you,” she murmured, voice husky as she watched him unravel under nothing more than gentle pressure and touch. “So tight.”

He couldn’t answer with the pleasure coiling too tight around every nerve ending. His hips gave an involuntary roll downward onto her hand while hers stayed steadily hard above him.

She worked him open with patient circles and soft scissoring until he was loose enough that every brush of knuckle sent sparks up his spine—and still he moaned softly into the quiet room as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes from sheer sensation.

His cock strained now: flushed red against trembling thigh muscle—and Fiddleford wasn't far behind either; glistening precum beading at her head.

She guided herself to his entrance slowly, the thick head of her cock pressing just against his rim. She paused there, took a slow breath, and locked eyes with him—steady, darkened with want.

“Give me what you need,” she said softly. “What I want.”

He blinked up at her, confused for a heartbeat—then understanding flashed behind his gaze. Heat flooded his face in an instant. His throat worked silently as he looked away, shame and longing tangled in the tightness around his eyes.

“C’mon,” she coaxed, running a fingertip down the length of his cock in that slow way that made him shiver. “It’s okay. I want to hear it.”

He whined low in his chest—a sound so small and fragile—and mumbled something against clenched teeth.

She huffed fondly through her nose but didn’t push yet. Instead, she stroked both thighs gently with open palms. She pressed forward slightly, the barest pressure of her cock breaching heat for just one second before pulling back again.

And he cracked.

"Mommy," he whispered—raw and barely audible—and then clamped both hands over his face like he could disappear from saying it out loud.

But Fiddleford gasped instead—a soft moan escaping before she could catch it. Her hands faltered on their grip at the sheets and her hips jerked forward without thought. 

Suddenly she was sinking into him all at once—one long slide that pulled them both deeper than they’d been before—not all the way yet but far enough to make Ford arch off the bed with a broken cry.

Fiddleford panted above him now, forehead dropped toward sweat-damp collarbone as every muscle trembled not from effort but emotion too thick to contain  

“You feel so good…” she breathed unevenly—"so perfect for mommy."

He moaned, his arms reaching weakly upward toward where hers braced on either side of him, fingers trembling along her arms.

She started thrusting into him, the full length of her cock dragging against that tight heat with every snap of her hips. Her breasts swayed with the motion, heavy and bouncing in time with each powerful drive forward.

Ford stared up at her his breath coming in short gasps. A thin line of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he watched her move above him. “Mommy,” he panted between moans—voice cracked and desperate—and said it again like a prayer: “Mommy—harder, please!” 

Fiddleford’s eyes fluttered shut at the sound—her rhythm stuttering for half a beat before surging faster.

“That’s right,” she growled through gritted teeth—"say it again for me."

He arched off the bed when she hit his prostate over and over, stars bursting behind his eyelids as precum beaded freely from his tip onto trembling stomach muscles clenched too tight to hold still anymore. “Please,” He whined. “Mommy, please.” 

She leaned forward slightly, one hand braced near his head, the other reaching down to stroke him once, twice—

"Come for me," she whispered hoarsely—"let Mommy see you." With one last sobbing cry muffled into open air, Ford sprayed cum across both of their stomachs, moaning and withering as he did.

Her hips stuttered, before she surged forward with a low, guttural moan and buried herself to the base inside him. Her cock pulsed as she came, thick and deep, flooding him in hot waves that made her shudder from tailbone to throat. She stayed locked in place for long seconds, breathing ragged against his neck, her body trembling with the force of it.

When she finally pulled out slowly, the sound was slick and soft between them. She reached for a towel nearby and wiped them both down gently: careful fingers cleaning where they’d joined before tossing it aside.

Then she collapsed beside him—not on top but close—and opened her arms like an invitation.

He turned into her instantly—a shiver running through him despite the warmth still humming under his skin—and Fiddleford wrapped around him. “Such a good boy for mommy,” she whispered against his jaw, pressing a soft kiss there. 

He giggled—a high, drowsy sound—and nuzzled closer without thinking about how silly he looked. “I love you,” Ford murmured into the crook of her shoulder.

She sighed contently and kissed his cheek, running a hand through his hair. “I love you too.”