At first, Bill couldn't believe it.

Their first day back in Gravity Falls had been less of a triumphant return from the battlefields- guns raised, trumpets blaring- and more of a-. Well, calling it a 'honeymoon' was probably a stretch. Maybe a stretch. Technically a stretch. But, by all accounts, Bill couldn't help feeling he'd hit the nail on the head.

When they came home, Dipper was fucking different.

Not to say he hadn't been different the entire night they'd spent together, just after John's escape. Softer. More playful. Sweet, in a way that should've annoyed Bill. Damn well should've, but didn't. Which only made him worry.

They'd never been charming attributes before.

They'd only made him sick back then.

Now, though...

Now, they drove him fucking mad with warmth. Starting at his cheeks, riding down his legs, and flooding his human pelvis seamlessly. Dipper had woken Bill the morning after with deep, simple kisses. Starting at his mouth, riding down slowly, so when he finally ducked his head under the sheets, Cipher was already at half mast.

And, he liked it. He liked the affection. He liked the look Dipper had given him then; his expression of admiration, of want, of hope. Hope in what? Bill wasn't sure he cared to know. But, damn it. He wasn't supposed to know.

This hadn't been part of the plan.

Oh, the unfortunate remodeling of his schemes. Before all this, he'd stupidly ridden the waves, day by day, waiting for his powers to remanifest within him. Didn't that make him froth at the mouth now. Didn't that drive him insane. Each night in his cell of a meatsuit, he'd tallied up the days, thinking- believing- his strength would be spoon-fed back to him. Not realizing he'd only gotten weaker; sleepier; hungrier; tired. Because-.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

The blue rings around his eyes weren't so much footnotes, as defining features. They were goddamn holes. They were goddamn leaks in his boat. And, he'd have to sink in it. Bill fucking Cipher would have to sink in the goddamn ruins of his own master plan.

His knuckles turned white, clutching the corners of Dipper's desk like an iron stress ball. His nails dug in and left permanent indents along either side, to which he couldn't so much as feel smug. Instead, he became restless, knocking his head back with a groan, rubbing the crust from his eye and near-baring his teeth when he heard the elevator doors ding.

His partner entered, and already Bill could feel the creeping sensation of what he hoped wasn't the goddamn side effects of harboring a goddamn body.

Feelings.

Having a human body meant developing-.

Fucking-.

Bill pinched the bridge of his nose.

A warmth through his chest, followed by a spike of ravaged agitation. His eye began to twitch.

Dipper exitted the elevator, bomber jacket slung over shoulder, head craning to one side, then the other, trying to ease the small tension of his neck. He nursed away his fatigue with a store-bought can of coffee, fueling the subdued jitter of his gaze. Though, were it anyone's business, Dipper would attest to sleeping a hell of a lot better, despite getting... less sleep recently. The can in his hand tipped up towards his lips, allowing himself a coy smirk against the pop tab of his beverage, and an eye-full of his blond lover.

Who, for the very first time, looked drunk on exhaustion, despite getting more head than he knew what to do with- it usually made him a flaming ball of smuggery.

Sex was a wonderful passtime- something Bill's body hadn't subdued its cravings for, or determined an exact limit for how often he could want it- but merely a distraction.

Skin. Sweat. Kisses. All melted together in mixed drinks to numb the looming sensation of time.

For once in his life, Bill felt time. Draining away with every passing breath, every second he sat there, every molecule of his (once) temporary form, glueing to his person, and strapping him in place.

A very vulnerable, very human part of his brain was hyper-aware of the psychological effects this could have, as well. Bodies were package deals after all, if you didn't know how to work the system right; really wiggle yourself through all those little loopholes. It wasn't nearly enough to say Bill was just locked in.

It didn't take a genius to tell this body was remodeling his very psyche to cater its needs. A need to sleep. A need to eat. A need to feel. A lightbulb (too late, of course) had come to him the morning after their little dinner party fiasco. And he'd felt weirdly-.

Attached.

It'd punched him in the gut, because 'no shit'. It was suddenly a 'no shit' type of thing.

There wasn't a damn characteristic humans were better known for.

Might explain why Bill dragged it out as long as he did. Might even explain how he found the motivation to make up excuses for taking the long trip to Cali, and the long trip back.

When he'd decidedly put the knife back in their hotel's kitchen drawer, with Dipper fast asleep, tangled up in Bill's dress shirt that didn't quite fit his slim shoulders. He'd grumbled, but put the knife away that night.

It'd just be a hassle coming up with an alibi. And, he was wearing Bill's favorite button up. They were a ways off from Gravity Falls; killing the driver didn't really go in his favor. For a moment, he'd felt oddly satisfied in his justification as to why not murder an obstacle he'd planned on bagging since day one.

Bill realised then, in paling shock, that none of that would've stopped him before. Lightbulb, flickering.

Oh, fuck.

He had to fix this.

Now.

"'Morning." Dipper came forth with a light stumble in his gait, acting as though he weren't intensely excited about making his short walk from the elevator to Bill. It was still a game, after all; to appear not the least bit love-struck, lest he come off like a puppy. Still, his sight glazed over; it was hardly a reach, being that Dipper was- for the time being- making subconscious heart eyes.

Everything was still fresh. Here came the newly polished infatuation of obsession, which he'd sadly missed out on back in highschool- his more naive years- but still able to conjure the sensation of seeing his object of affection, and near-collapsing from close proximity, as though stumbling upon Pandora's box.

Pleasing to the eye, though treacherous in content.

"Unfortunately." Bill eased his fingers out of their clenched bends, forcing a coolness about his gaze, despite his mind's whirling devastation; he couldn't control what flew in- like a damn cow caught in a tornado. Still, he leaned back in Dipper's chair, and felt a tickle of self-satisfaction. That would never change. Bill's smugness would never be lost to this-. This humanity. "Blub's really got us shaking our asses for him if he wants us bright eyed and bushy tailed by eight."

"Eight-thirty." Dipper corrected.

"Eight-fifteen, sleeping beauty." Bill paused, waging his own presence.

Feelings: In check.

For now.

Good.

Just barely good.

Okay.

Still.

Good.

"Whatever. You snore."

"It's a wonder you still managed to oversleep."

"It's a wonder I slept at all."

"What can I say?" Bill swivelled in his ('his' being Dipper's, of course) chair, picking theatrically at curved nails. The same smile, tucked about his lips, with the same stretch of his brow. Still, a cautiousness between the spaces of his teeth; the white of his eye.

Bill was a method-actor, after all. Pretend-flirting was only ever real flirting for him; he couldn't risk his body triggering high doses of oxytocin, lest he-.

'Feel.'

Shit.

"I'm a pro at this whole sleeping thing; I could snooze circles around you."

"Of course you'd call it a 'sleeping thing'. God, you're weird."

"I'm quirky, sweetheart. It's one of my many alluring features."

"Yeah, okay." Dipper rolled his eyes, lips upturned in a smile he was hopelessly weak for. Setting his quarter-empty can aside, he pressed an elbow on the desk; not leaning in like he wanted to, but playing it coyly. A kiss'd be too easy here, and he had already gotten his fill the morning of. Dipper road a hand through brown curls. "You sure it's not just a side effect?"

Bill's chest clenched-.

Fucking stop.

"Depends; are you calling me your drug?"

"Jesus christ. I'm not answering that."

"You just did."

"Are you always this annoying in the mornings?" Bill opened his mouth to reply, cocky from every angle. Before he could so much as omit his first syllable, Dipper was cringing away at the bare opportunity he'd just given his shitty partner to speak."Okay, wait- no, it's too early. The caffeine hasn't hit my bloodstream yet."

"Should I reschedule?" Bill asked, leaning in with a hand just short of flicking the other's chin. He allowed himself his age-old full-face grin, despite the acidic paranoia consuming his brain.

This was a bad idea.

Feeding into things was bad.

A part of him could never resist, though. A part of him could never refuse.

This.

That didn't mean Bill wouldn't press his teeth uncomfortably close together, or smile with a hair comically out of place, or felt something unfortunately human winning inside his brain, though he couldn't- for the life of him- pin what it was. Which only gave an inkling to how soon he needed to get his shit together.

The answer should've been N O W.

But- for some odd reason- wasn't.

Dipper smiled. Bill's jaw creaked.

"I'll pen you in." Dipper replied, lifting himself from his bent posture. He reached for the can within arm's length, rotating it slightly, feeling the smooth roll of its contents, before downing a particularly satisfying mouth full.

"What time?" Bill teased.

Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea.

"You free after work?" Dipper- the smug little minx- set his beverage aside, looking as though he'd never felt a rush quite like this. Truth be told, he hadn't. Ever. It only encouraged his bold persona, knotting his guts into a bow. A sharp pinch of the stomach- the soft billow of heat- each sensation pushing against the other in perfect harmony, creating within him something akin to a riot.

He loved it.

"Never; I'm a busy guy, doing busy things, love."

What should've been- was supposed to be- an outright rejection, had transformed into a fucking tease on its way out. Bill would've kicked himself, if it weren't for a strangely honest, strangely new voice in his head, telling him there wasn't a damn thing he regretted about the statement's intent.

Come to think of it, it'd been pretty loud from the get-go. It sat comfortably in Bill's brain, with a space all its own; didn't quite fit its location. Didn't quite fit the spot.

Damn if the voice hadn't gone about remodelling things for some extra legroom.

"Busy with what?" Because, of course Dipper took it like a tease, and of course he loved the chase. Of fucking course. "Don't tell me you've been doing office work behind my back. My heart couldn't take it."

Bill didn't swoon.

He didn't.

His nails were just digging really, reeeally deep into his palms, and he was presently calculating how much denchers would cost if his teeth shattered under the daunting pressure of his clenched jaw.

"Shocked? I don't see why. I'm a man of many talents." And he got it out perfectly, without so much as a cocked brow from the other, because- hell if anyone said otherwise- Bill would always be a fantastic liar.

One of his many talents.

"Is one of those talents snoring?"

"It's not snoring, dear. I'm sleep-singing."

Dipper, ever the good sport- or rather, the bias, lovesick moron- snorted at his partner. Took his drink and drained its contents, practiced as ever. He rode a hand over his lips, still smiling- beaming in a way that wasn't normal for their relationship.

Wasn't normal at all, actually.

If Dipper knew better, he might understand the buzzing of his brain only led to ruin; that tickle against his lips, the sting of his thighs, the warmth over slim chests- was flooding his system. Made him hazy and high. Made him lick his lips. Made him kiss the blond, and cup his cheeks, and open himself all the way. All the way, like double-doors in spring; a harlot.

If this weren't his first love, Dipper would surely have known his sudden change in persona was very, very dangerous.

He was drunk on oxytocin.

"How many times has it been now?" A pause; a wave of the hand. "That I've said I hate you, I mean."

"Number-wise: Two-hundred and ten. Genuinely: Zero." Dipper huffed, housing a crooked grin that was charming in every way it shouldn't be, with eyes soft on the intake. He reflected a strange Mabel-ism about his features, that only existed on a romantic scale; happiness in a thing's presence; not its works. Which was a huge advantage for Bill.

A terrible trap.

"I can fix that." Dipper assured. Not trying, of course. Only standing there, hands behind himself, leaning his lower back against his desk.

"I'd like to see you try, darling." Bill eased without thought- the fact that a dream demon could 'without thought' anything was a bad fucking sign. Not that Bill noticed; his remodelling mind had already come up with six reasons to stop mashing his teeth, pinching his palms, and twitching his eye. He smirked. "The day you say that to me is the day I say it back."

"Promise?"

"Cross my bloody, black heart." With a wink of his one eye- a flick of the tongue- Bill did just so. Even then, Dipper viewed him unimpressed.

"You're an idiot." He laughed, straightening his stance. "You're an idiot, and I hate you."

"Two-hundred and eleven." Bill sing-sang with a wag of his index. Nursing his own destruction for mere moments before- like suctions to the brain- he silently caught himself. The muscles that made up his grin tightened, forcing his shoulders in, and his hands to ball.

It really shouldn't be this hard.

"Like you can tell." Dipper snorted.

"I can." Bill assured, a tinge of irritation in his tone. His partner crossed his arms at him.

"Alright, then. What's my tell?"

"Your heart-eyes, dearie. Get off the dreamy shit, would ya?"

Dipper's eyes rolled for the millionth time, a grin tugging at his lips, framed by the soft glow of a rising sun-.

Bill's fingers drew blood across his palms, feeling a headache flood his brain against the pressure of his teeth. It really shouldn't be this hard, he told himself. His hand moved to the deep hole of his suit's pant pocket, searching for the bulk of a cigarette pack. By ways the day had started, and how it was currently going, it hardly fazed him to find he'd forgotten to grab his supplies. The man tsked sharply, sliding his fist out empty-handed.

"You left them on the nightstand."

"Mm-hm." Bill nodded once.

"Your cigarettes, I mean."

"Darling, what else could you have been talking about?"

"Your lighter." Dipper responded, with added motions that had him reaching into his own bomber jacket, fishing, before drawing out said lighter, as well as Bill's cigarettes. "Thought you might want these back." He slid them across the desk for the blond man to grab. Bill didn't take them right away, however. Instead, stared at them, arms crossed, before raising a brow towards the other with an almost suspicious look on his face. Though, suspicious of nothing in particular. Simply puzzled by the brunette's thoughtful courtesy.

Knowing his partner had gone out of his way like this felt... different. Bill puckered his lips, swishing them either way across his face before inevitably reaching for the box.

"Aren't you daddy's little helper today." Dipper visibly cringed, nose cringling even against Bill's playful tone.

"Ugh, Christ, Bill. Don't. Just- don't." He squinted his eyes, looking anywhere but his lover, currently popping open his package of cancer seeds, rolled up nice and neat. "I never needed to know what that sounded like." Bill shrugged his shoulders with a sudden bonelessness about him.

"Freudian slip." He justified, which was in no way justifying. Dipper choked.

"Jesus, stop. Please."

"Please what?" Bill purred. The brunette rolled his head back, groaning, swearing and rubbing his eye with the ball of his palm.

"Pleeeease stop being gross, or I'm not coming home with you." Dipper threatened; an empty threat, of course. Still, one Bill couldn't bear testing.

"You drive a hard bargain." He assures. His partner smiled back, different and unusually free.

"Aren't I worth it?"

Those same words rang through Bill's ears hours after being spoken, with Dipper now only a footprint behind him, waiting for Bill to dig out the apartment key from his tight pocket. It'd been work at some point, Bill told himself. It'd been work just moments before. And then lunch, and more work, and a kiss here and there, and the slow draw of the earth's microscopic sun across the sky. Afterwards, headed for his car- their ride- to be whisked away to Bill's apartment.

It was still so early though, Dipper had observed. And, they had so much time left before concluding an entire day with sex. How about- he'd suggested- stopping by the park? Just to look around? Stretch their legs, get a good walk in? Why cut to the chase? Why not enjoy the day, while it's still here? Bill, for all the warnings flaring from his still-intact common sense, couldn't find a single reason not to. So they did. And, it'd been amazingly bland, and boring, and ordinary.

And, so very- strangely- pleasant.

Dipper liked to talk. Not motor-mouth. Rather, rabbit-holing that went farther and farther, down and down again, but never exactly reaching a particular point to begin with. It was a chaos of knowledge, and similar to swirls of cognitive thought Bill'd grown accustomed to in his original body. Pleasant. Honest to god, pleasant.

Bill kept up, of course. Dipper's mouth only moved as fast as he could process, and never a thought crossing him that could possibly trip the other up. He was smart, after all. Sharp as sharp, bright as bright; not a single word wasted on him.

The sky grew crimson, and the park fled scarce of citizens. Bill tried steering Dipper in the direction of his car with obvious intent, hand low on his back, waist pulled taut against his hip bone, only for the other to shrug out of his grip.

'I'm hungry.' Dipper'd remarked, a bit frantic on the uptake. Near-anxious- desperate.

'There's peanut butter crackers at my place, sweetheart.' Bill had replied.

Dipper crossed his arms.

In the drive thru, Bill couldn't help but wonder if he'd taken extra-long deciding what to order on purpose.

Now, placed where he was in front of his apartment door, rummaging through his pocket for his ever-illusive key, Bill felt embarrassingly oblivious to it all.

Did that count as a date?

Would humans count it as dating?

Bill wouldn't. Or rather, he hadn't thought to. And, Dipper would only be stupid to get his hopes up like that. Still, it was drastically out of character, yes? He never would've suggested this before. But, damn it all, hadn't Dipper acted the least bit giddy throughout the whole ordeal? A bit domestic?

Bill snagged his keys, drawing them out.

"After you, gorgeous."

"I hate you, dear." Dipper snarked, squeezing past him into the apartment.

"Two hundred and thirteen." Bill counted off.

"Twelve." His partner corrected.

"Just making sure you're keeping track." A pat of the butt, and they were both successfully herded inside.

The room was just as they'd left it the morning of, with Bill's tie from the night before slung over his- for lack of a better (less flattering) word- small kitchen table; an alienated seat, a set of ten scratch marks- divided into fives- riding down maple wood, and a single salt-shaker Dipper had tipped over in the heated rush of feeling completely, absolutely whole.

Bill moved to grab his abandoned ligature; a deep crimson bow his partner had been undeniably fond of the night before, with even, supple tugs to undo the confident knot around his neck. By which Dipper had let the cloth fall to the blond's shoulders, and- rather than remove it all together- let the red strings compliment his lover's gold complexion, as though bestowing it upon him. He'd held either strap by the brute of his knuckles- palms blistering, back craned in an unnaturally sensual arch, head jerking like rubber, gasps like a dying man- and let Bill inside endlessly. It had almost been a leash, a horse's rein, the way the tie had strapped taut against the back of his neck, with Dipper clinging for dear life.

He reminisced these things, winding the red string between his fingers in listless anticipation, before feeling his lover's chest against his back. Thin, hot arms wove the front of his torso, followed by the snug cuddle of Dipper's face between his shoulder blades.

"I love you in red." He commented. Bill chuckled.

"I prefer yellow."

"I can't stand yellow." Was the smaller's quick response. Again, Bill chuckled.

"Agree to disagree." The arms around his torso tightened, sensing the light buzz of a laugh against his back. Dipper's hands, positioned sweetly around him, slid up and down in slow, patient motions. He kissed whatever skin was currently available from his vantage point. Which, considering the slight height difference, was merely the flesh of Bill's ear.

"Get the stuff? Please?" He asked. Honeyed, breathy and small, with soft promises in his tone that could've commanded a battalion. And Bill, ever the glutton, was no stronger. Still, his head tilted back with a curious glance.

"Why've you been such an angel recently?" The breath Dipper let out in response was proof enough to his weak spot for sweet-talking. Because, only a walking contradiction as himself could crave both the backhanded burn of 'slut', as well as Bill's follow-up of 'baby.' His arms loosened, clingy as he was, to drop around the blond's forearms; the brush of his knuckles, the palms of his hands.

"I like when you call me that." Dipper offered, interlacing their fingers. Here, he took a deep breath of whatever it was that made Bill smell so terribly addicting. Here, he bit the back of his white dress shirt collar, getting a taste of smeared sweat. Here, he raised their conjoined palms to his mouth, releasing his hand to place Bill's middle finger between his lips, simply to feel the warmth of it within some part of his body. Dipper pushed the digit out just as quickly, beaming like a darling virgin who hadn't just invited his lover's finger to press possessively on the same tongue he's spilled all over.

"Get the stuff." He repeated, a bit cheekily this time. Even in a sudden daze, as well as the striking burn between his thighs, Bill found it in himself to smirk.

"As you wish, Buttercup." He snarked with a bow, pocketing his red tie.

A short walk down his apartment's hallway had him buzzing with flaming anticipation. The rapid tone of voice- still avid. Still perverse- within him, warning his slow, creeping decent into lustful want, was but a dull nothing against the hot pound of his pulse. He entered his bedroom, rummaging through his nightstand with delicate tilts of his fingers, before coming across the bottle of lube he'd been hunting for.

There was a sharpness about Bill's gaze. A spike in his blood pressure. The undeniable self-satisfaction when he returned, bottle in hand, to find Dipper already undressed for him, aside from his tightly laced high tops and tube socks, sitting prettily on his couch. Knees touching, hands placed modestly over his lap; only then, did he look nervous. The smaller bit his lip once, flushing pink with a smile, a tucked strand behind his ear, and a rigid line up his back. He took a breath, instantly releasing the tension.

Mostly.

"Hey." Dipper's arm draped itself over the couch's back, allowing him to turn and face his lover; hips twisted with his milky cheeks rested cutely over his right ankle- he often sat funny when excited. Bill couldn't fight the devilish grin slicing his lips in two.

"Well, don't you look different." He made his way over to the brunette with slow, casual sways of his hips, eyeing Dipper with something just short of predatorial. And Dipper, ever eager to please, couldn't help but lick his lips (arguably with an extra flick for intended emphasis) when noticing the very subtle incline between Bill's legs. He sat a bit straighter.

"I didn't feel like untying them." Dipper's voice resonated between his ears, though sounding far off against the sensory of his own mind. Bill came up to the back of the couch, towering over the brunette, so his lover was nose-to-tip with the stick in his slacks. "I felt lazy..." Dipper's watering mouth somehow hushed out, even as his head tilted forward of its own accord. He gripped the belt of Bill's pants- not undoing it. Rather, leveraging himself with the firm material- in eager want.

Dipper leaned in, hot, tempted, faint, to levy open-mouth kisses along the stiffening cock of his partner. He buried himself instantly, looking near-trained in his position, with his nose poking the metal of Bill's belt, and his tongue working helplessly to massage the fat meat beneath it. And, wasn't it such a wet mouth? Weren't his lips perfectly hot? Soft? Pretty and pink, with the satisfying image of his own drool polishing them? Dipper acted completely, totally happy to stay pressed into the clothed bulge of Bill's crotch.

The scene was short-lived though, as Bill's hand- automatically roaming fingers through Dipper's loose curls- slid down his face to lay refuge at the boy's chin. Four fingers pressed into his left cheek, thumb rubbing sinfully across his moist lips, the blond swivelled Dipper's features up to stare at him, already slack jawed and glazed over in the best possible way. Dipper shifted in his seat, erection embarrassingly prominent between his gentle thighs, feeling the sharp grip of his chin and cheeks; an involuntary whine. A flutter of his lashes. He bit his lip once more, to which Bill thumbed the flesh out from in between.

"Are you feeling helpful today?" Bill asked. Dipper became light-headed, just hearing his partner's weirdly endearing tone; once again- just as their last time together- like talking to an inferior. It set his skin on fire, forcing him to rub his cheek more firmly into the palm gripping him. He nodded quickly, with a soft mutter between his pretty little breaths.

'Yes, yes, yes.'

"Good." Bill rewarded Dipper with a jerk of the hand, forcing his head to snap side to side like some warped practice of comradery. Still, Dipper preened, smiling at his possessive hold. This was Bill, after all, and Bill was great, and he helped Dipper, and he could trust the man to use him like this; in the shameful ways he secretly wanted to be.

"Bring me a drink then, angel. You know which cabinet." And, didn't that nickname sting Bill's tongue just a little? Wasn't it like salt and ice to slim skin? Still, his partner was hopelessly weak to it. He'd been on a sweet-streak this past week, after all. Perhaps that John crap had done a serious number on his psyche. Perhaps it'd reformed something stubborn and evil within the smaller; that wanted to be irreversibly nasty and snakish, with a forked tongue and devil's eyes.

Not the complete destruction of evil within, but the soothing uplift of that soft, passionate need to serve on his hands and knees.

Bill removed his hand from under Dipper's chin, letting the smaller slip away in slow, hesitant motions, almost regrettably when the warmth against his cheek dissolved.

"Yeah." He breathed with a slight shudder. "Yeah, okay. Totally." He nodded his head once, rising from his position on the couch to walk behind Bill's slim island, into the kitchen. A twitch between his legs, noting the subtle sway of Dipper's pretty hips; his cute ass, and those nice legs. He was in a category all of his own, stretching on his tippy-toes to reach the booze cabinet. A beautifully taut belly, groin pressed teasingly against ceramic tiling, with dainty nails reaching for the cupboard's handle.

Bill seated himself then, admiring the hasteful way Dipper got his drink set up. Only grabbing the bottle of whiskey and a glass- a few ice cubes- before padding his way back to the blond. He handed Bill the empty glass like an offering, acting taim and admirational. And, yes. Bill was charmed in a way that only tickled his fantasy of being ruler one day. Having all these nice things before him, and the chaos of the outside world, combined into one. Seeing Dipper like this- senseless, loyal, patient- made his guts stir.

It'd always been an appealing idea, Bill reminded himself, seeing Dipper kneel before his throne.

Dipper guided the glass in Bill's hand towards the neck of his whiskey. He poured a quarter ways, eyeing the sharp clink of cubes in his partner's glass.

"Thanks." Bill offered without a bone of gratefulness, tilting his head back for a drawn out sip. He pet the cushion at his side, prompting Dipper to sit just as fast, with mocha eyes blown to the size of planets. Here he was, shuddering, shaking with both hands placed to his right, arms propping him up when he leaned into Bill, but never touched.

Not touching, but wanting to, Dipper realised.

"Can I...?" He began, suddenly shy. For all intents and purposes, Bill was fully clothed, and Dipper felt weirdly embarrassed about the shoes still on his feet; a stark contrast to the rest of him, which was undeniably naked. He fidgeted in his seat, feeling the couch's cheap fabric draw up against his balls, before letting out a stifled gasp. Dipper's head tilted to the side, weirdly drugged and mellow and soft, to allow himself the renewal of his bold demeanor. His hand placed against the curve of Bill's drink, tilting it from the blond's lips. "I wanna touch you."

Bill looked at him- seemingly indifferent, but with a glint of mischief he could never hide away- before shrugging his shoulders peacefully.

"Knock yourself out, darling." And, if his knees leaned out just a bit farther to make room for the brunette clambering onto his lap, well, that was his own business. Dipper wasn't so green that he'd hold off on those roaming fingers of his; they'd done this many times now, since John's exposure. Many, many times. With insatiable, stoking fingers that felt almost useless if they weren't wrapped around something hot; pulsing.

Dipper didn't just scoot into Bill's lap, either. No. He crawled. Like a delicate toyger, with a pop of his waist, and a more than satisfying shift from his milky ass. Something predator. Animalistic. Subdued and trained, so whenever Bill offered the empty space of his lap, Dipper would always be quick to accept. The brunette swung one of his spotless legs over the man's hips, and settled himself atop the long road of Bill's cock, trapped in the stiff of his pant leg. Bill groined against his glass, but nothing more.

As he tilted his head back, avid on another drink, Dipper willed himself to nuzzle into the space provided. Nose in neck, hands captured between chests, he opened his mouth to levy wet kisses on every bit of skin. Dipper's tongue felt weighty somehow, suckling and lapping at the blond's neck. Feeling his pulse under skin, the buzz of electricity, the shockwaves of arousal. He tangled his hand through Bill's perfectly styled hair, ravishing the sensation. Whatever it was Dipper wanted, it hardly held a match to the unforgettable pleasure of Bill's skin between his teeth. He nibbled sweetly, like a teething little baby, on the naked exposure of flesh before him, wanting nothing more than to soak every inch in love marks.

Bill chucked once more, his back firmly eased into the couch cushion with little else for want. He rolled his drink in hand, savoring this simple moment, before taking it upon himself to palm the wonderfully pert ass on his lap. He liked how the muscle melted in his hand; looked thick and round, even when squeezed, or propped in mid air, or slapped red, or fucked into. It was treated as bare commodity, as something he could throw away without second thought, and fetch again once he found use for it. Which was severely toxic, and terrible, and nasty- Exactly why he liked the thought. Because, even Dipper acted as though he were no more important than the whiskey of his glass. Just something to unwind with. A tool. An object.

This warped mentality would not go without consequences.

Dipper moaned into Bill's neck, feeling when the blond's fingers wandered over his tight hole. He'd jolt at the dryness- shiver- before inevitably spreading his legs, and arching his back just a little more. The converse on his feet looked so very cute on him, Bill decided. And his tube socks were adorable. Like this, Dipper was naked, ass prodded, face hidden in the bend of Bill's throat, with an erection bobbing between them, angry red. He looked perfectly trained here. Perfectly owned.

"God, you're so hot." Dipper moaned against Bill's neck, jerking in the empty space between their hips; his prick felt cold and slick without an ounce of friction to sate it. Bill snickered at his partner's comment, in part because he hadn't really done anything to the smaller yet, and still Dipper was hard, pleased, and praising all around. He rubbed the skin of Dipper's ass like a reward- for being easy to manage. For being simple and shameless- before slapping down with a cracked pop. His jerking chest- Dipper's initial hiss, followed by a forgiving moan in Bill's hands, once again, rubbing him softly- was an otherworldly sight.

Bill pinched the reddening skin, to which the other groined with a wiggle of his hips.

"You're so fucking hot." Dipper pulled from Bill's neck to layer a sloppy kiss against the other's closed mouth. It tasted like whiskey. It tasted like Bill's own skin. It tasted like years of lube, and cum, and crying, whining brunettes on his bedsheets. Dipper pulled back, hardly phased in the way Bill hadn't opened for him. The blond took a swig of his drink, savoring the sharp tang, and the lovely view of his lover, still propped on his lap, trailing ravaged kisses down his clothed chest.

"God, your fingers-." Dipper bit into the cloth of Bill's shirt, three buttons from the bottom, prompting the blond to release his ass in favor of brown curls. His whine in disapproval- the loss of sweet, dry prodding- only pitched at Bill's fist, clutched firmly in his hair, leaning his head back like a dog by the leash.

"Don't I look good in this suit?" He asked, dragging the brunette's hair back like a bow and arrow. Dipper gasped at the sensation, feeling nothing but the burn of his scalp, and the pulsing blood behind his ears, and the hot sting of tan fingers. He moaned blissfully, his face breaking out in a lazy, loose smile, soon consumed by his overwhelming need to draw his lower lip in between his teeth.

"Mmm... Mmm-hmm." Dipper willed with fluttering lashes, eyes upturned and dazed. His hands planted themselves on Bill's thighs as leverage for his body to rock back and forth, back and forth, in mid air. His cock was absolutely drooling with neglect now, balls aching with a need he couldn't quite pin. Not with that heavy hand that demanded all his attention.

"So good. You're so perfect."

"I know, I know." God, if only Bill'd gotten a written statement, he'd have a field day with Dipper's mouth in more ways than one. He worshipped his lover, of course. Bill was obviously worshippable. And, Dipper was only stupid for thinking he could hide his infatuation. It hardly surprised him. Bill tightened his hold, to which the other shifted on his knees, legs wide on the couch, his ass higher than his head, and his head closer to Bill's cock. It was a pretty sight. One that only gave him ideas.

"A mouth like yours isn't meant for biting, is it? Aren't you too sweet for that?" Dipper's face flushed red, neck muscles limp against the strain of his scalp. He tried to nod- he really did- but the odd angle Bill'd craned him up at had his blood circulation pittering out. He managed a woeful 'uh uh.' And Bill, satisfied by his boneless response, was quick about replacing his hand under Dipper's chin. His head fit so perfectly there, loopy and light, there wasn't so much as a motion in protest when Bill brought him to eye level.

"What's a mouth like yours good for?" The manipulative, scheming tone in his voice was lost on deaf ears. Dipper's eyes slid closed, goofy smile running a tongue over itself before replying exactly how he knew Bill wanted.

"You." Dipper whispered, trying for a kiss. Bill held his head in place, pressing a thumb against his cheek tightly. Dipper's smile grew playful. "Whatever you want. Whenever. It's-." He paused with a shiver. "Yeah. Just- Whenever."

"Like now?" Bill tested. Dipper nodded effortlessly. That got a chuckle out of him. "What about tomorrow? At work?" He rubbed a harsh thumb against the brunette's chin. "What if I want you on your knees then?"

"Yeah. That's- That's a really good idea."

"What ever happened to 'No Office Stuff,' sweetheart?" Dipper just shook his head at that; shook like he didn't even know what Bill was talking about. Like it was complete insanity, even considering it. He tried for another kiss, only for the blond to grip unforgivingly tight onto his jaw.

"I guess that's a conversation for another day." Bill released Dipper's chin, which instantly thunked against his chest. A moment of pause, which Bill used to sneak in another sip of his drink, and for Dipper to recollect himself. He felt light in his lap. He felt highly impressionable, in a literal and figurative way. Like every handprint on his skin might tattoo itself. It was an ownership, after all.

Dipper owed him everything.

The release of his chin meant back to work, though. Once his brain caught up to his own body, Dipper was already renewing his journey; down and down and down that clothed chest of his. Not biting like before. Licking buttons, and kissing strands, and mewling at Bill's hand, finally resettled against his hole. This time, with the cold glide of lube.

And perhaps some spit, but that was more about Bill's own satisfaction.

He placed two fingers against Dipper's pink ring, loving the flexed muscle for what it was. Bill pushed easily against the top of his entrance, letting his fingers glide down the tight door, over its entrance, and down to stimulate the other edge. He worked listlessly, seemingly more engaged by the whiskey in his mouth, to rub the hole like a pet. Dipper, having made his way to Bill's pant zipped- ass in the air, legs spread over his lap, face essentially muffled by the clothed bulge bumping his lips- couldn't help but rest his head on the man's thigh. Flex, clench the cloth of Bill's slacks, and sigh a bit too high.

"Feels good." He rubbed his face into Bill's trapped cock, mouthing at it eagerly. He snaked a hand behind himself to help the strange, heated sensation fester, even as his pretty dick begged for even a morsel of attention. "Yeah, right there. Please, please. Yeah." Bill nudged his hand out of the way, feeling weirdly territorial about Dipper touching his own body. Even as pretty a sight, he loved being Dipper's only option of pleasure.

"You like playing with yourself there?" The comment came as such a shock that the brunette outright keened, returning his hands to the lock of Bill's belt. Quick work of the faux leather, before his zipper was undone, boxers pulled down, and his leaking cock sprung out to smack Dipper across the lips. Bill hissed, feeling his hot tip bob through cold apartment space. The view he got though, looking down- Dipper's nose buried in his crotch, lips to his balls, half his face obscured by the dick plastered over him- was completely worth the slight inconvenience.

Dipper hardly wasted his breath, confirming the others' suggestion. Simply hummed against the blond's balls, nuzzling farther into his crotch- a forestry of curly blond hairs- before opening his mouth to give access. Bill cursed with a shudder, accidentally spilling a portion of his drink down the smaller's back. Which, really, had been a huge plus.

The golden slit of whiskey down porselene skin was- for lack of a better word- the most maddening thing he'd seen in a long time. Bill's index shoved into the first knuckle, and his chest leaned in to lick a stripe up Dipper's arched back. Whatever holy noise his lover made from between his lap was completely, absolutely muffled. Still, he rocked in his position, with thighs that trembled so violently they might as well have been rubber duplicates.

"God, you're too easy." Bill teased, even as his chin rested along Dipper's tailbone, giving him just enough access to bite harshly into his right cheek. (Arguably his favorite side. He was weirdly sensitive in comparison to his left one.) Just a nip. A hard, brutal nip. But, a nip nonetheless. Dipper stuttered in his enthusiastic suckling. He jerked away, then towards; body confused by its own instructions to avoid pain, and chase pleasure.

Bill's finger eased all the way in, forcing Dipper- seemingly possessed, with a bubbling moan that rattled his chest- to rise from his posture between Bill's legs, instead to lap lazily at the head. It was such an innocent little thing, too. It was soft and wanting, but slow in an irritating way. Bill felt it, the way Dipper swirled his tongue, kissed the tip, and felt its slick tip pulse against his puckered lips- glide across the skin. Pat his drawn cheeks- like handling fine china.

Flattering. Really, honestly flattering. But, frustrating, all the same.

He shoved his middle finger in without a second thought, forcing Dipper to gasp; his hole to clench. The rigid, flexing line of his back reminded Bill of this one simple fact; the honest tightness, and the greenery of his partner, and the sloppy wet kisses to his tip, were all meant to explore. Dipper hissed in pain then, the subtle burn hurting in a way that had him rutting against Bill's fingers after processing.

"Fuck, yes- no. Ah." The fingers within him curled with a 'come here' motion. He whined, balling his fists into Bill's dress shirt like a lifeline, face scrunched up in real, genuine confusion. Because god, it felt amazing. But god, it hurt. And god, the position was perfect. But god, it made his back ache. God, was it all fantastic. God, was it hard work.

"Your mouth, sweetheart." Hesitant bliss, and yearning need spiked at Dipper's perked ears, which received, processed, and complied effortlessly. His lips went around Bill's tip this time, steadying the length with both hands in an effort to angle every inch down his throat. Whatever fit. He tested a swirl around the large head, groaning sinfully at the thick beads of precum he couldn't get enough of.

Dipper loved that his fingers just barely closed around Bill's length. He loved the heat under his fingers; in his mouth. He loved the slight groin Bill hid behind his glass, essentially empty aside from the three ice cubes he'd chilled them with. And, he loved-.

He loved everything right now.

Absolutely everything.

Dipper bobbed his head whorishly, lips moving against each upstroke of his fists. His mouth was sloppy, slick with saliva, and drooling down the full length along his knuckles, trickling over Bill's balls. Who, at the moment, was three fingers deep, searching for a prostate he had a mental map drawn out for. The bare press of his fingers over a sensitive bundle of cells had Dipper gagging on the four inches past his lips. A bubble of spit down the corner of his mouth, which he fought to lick away despite the cock currently demanding his attention.

"You sound good like that, darling." Bill's head tilted back, admiring it all. Dipper's features shadowed by a head of curls, back curved in half, with a full four fingers inside him now, which he took like a champ. And, perhaps the joke had been that Dipper sounded good gagging. Or, perhaps it'd been he sounded good gagged. The praise was a backhanded something, either way. Dipper didn't care. He hardly knew what to make of anything outside of the cock in his mouth, the fingers against his prostate, his own dick, literally crying precum.

He couldn't care less.

Bill thrusted into the brunette's mouth, forcing another two inches down his throat. Pressure built behind his eyes, when Dipper's throat convulsed like he might puke, or asphyxiate. His head moved to dislodge the intrusion, only for Bill's hand, now free of the empty glass, to press him down a few inches more.

"Relax, relax. Just a little more." He didn't grab Dipper's hair this time. Instead, pet it softly. Rubbed at those unruly curls, and scratched his scalp peaceful.

Something to unwind with. He was something to unwind with.

Dipper fought for half a second- throat tight, jaw aching, eyes watering- before everything inside eased to the touch of Bill's fingers. His throat gave way to every last inch, like Bill's word commanded his own anatomy. Thick, slow, with wet squelches along either corner of his mouth, Bill fed him the girthy length of his dick to the hilt. Hissed at the bend of Dipper's throat; the involuntary gulps. Even against his own whining, gagged self, Dipper couldn't find it in him to stop this. The occupied space of his lungs felt-.

There wasn't a word for it, but now, he only wished there were more for him to swallow.

"Jesus-. God, you actually did it." Bill marvelled, squeezing his eye shut so he wouldn't absolutely, totally blow his load all at once. He gazed down at the brunette pressed into his lap, and found a foggy, lost look in his eyes. Dipper needed to breathe. Like, really bad, needed to breathe. Bill begged to stretch this moment as long as he could before having to abandon this feeling, and so waited instead for Dipper to make the first move, for when he definitely couldn't take it anymore.

And waited.

A few extra seconds, but no more than an uncomfortable shift of Dipper's rear.

Which is when Bill realised Dipper planned on staying there until he wanted him off. That hand of his was still petting the soft curls of his hair, after all. And, those watery doe eyes of his only blinked away tears, hazy as he was, with nothing short of reverence. Even as Dipper's vision grew spotty and blurred, he kept refuse around Bill's cock.

He owed him everything.

Bill mused, for the fucking hell of it, killing Dipper like this. The idea had been so wonderfully absurd, he couldn't help but laugh. That'd be the ultimate spit in the eye for Sixer, and mortification for Shooting Star, and damn enraging for Fez. It'd be the perfect payback, really.

Bill carded a hand through brown curls, feeling the loose swivel of Dipper's head; his neck. Loose and limp, and almost unconscious, by the looks of it. A few slow, sleepy blinks, followed by the electrifying flex of his throat, trying to swallow every last drop of precum.

That'd be hilarious.

He tucked the idea away for later.

His fingers found refuge in the brush of Dipper's roots, lifting his heavy head from the long, slick intrusion. Again, his lover looked absolutely lost. Blissfully, peacefully lost. He gasped once the length was successfully extracted, blinking away tear after tear, and pressing his dripping chin against the hem of Bill's shirt. He kissed each button up, before claiming his blond lover in one soft, drained kiss.

"Fuck me." Dipper pleaded, losing himself all over again. "Fuck me, pleeease."

Bill removed his fingers slowly, making Dipper's head roll.

"You should be naked, too." He reminded, reprimanding. Even in his dazed, drunken state of empty headspace, he still found it in him to undo the tie around Bill's neck. "I wanna see you again. I wanna see more." He slid the bowtie from his neck; a silken black piece of fabric.

Bill caught his wandering hand, biting along the palm.

"Greedy." He laughed, tugging the tie from between Dipper's fingers. "I'm Mr. Experiment here, aren't I?" His hands came up to cup Dipper's face, fabric pressed cooly against his right cheek. "And I say you should be seeing less." With that, the tie distributed itself to either of Bill's hands, so when he leaned forward, fingers crawling to the back of Dipper's head, he was successfully blindfolded.

Dipper shivered then, in something between anticipation and mild fear. His body was suddenly off kilter. The cold air hitting his loosened hole was a bit unpleasant as well, and it was only normal he felt weird about being the only naked one. Still, the hot cock bumping against his entrance was incentive enough not to cause a fuss. He wiggled in place, feeling Bill's hands suddenly on him.

"How do you feel, baby?" Bill took his own cock, slapping Dipper's sensitive hole to emphasize his impatience. A jolt from the other; Dipper's hot hands rubbing down his own thighs, wanting so badly to wrap a fist around his neglected cock, but restraining himself against the promise to be made whole. He nodded sharply, before releasing the motion didn't make much sense.

"Really light. I wanna-. Babe, I wanna-." Dipper sighed, rubbing back on Bill's thick length. "Please." He started to sink down against it, only for the head to catch the ring of his entrance- stretch, slick, and stimulate- to slide along it, not in. Dipper mewled.

"I know, sweetheart. I know you want it." Bill's hand went into his suit jacket, pulling out his red bowtie; the one Dipper'd been so fond of. "I'm getting to that part, I swear." He licked a strip up Dipper's neck and felt the flex of his thighs. A second ribbon, crimson red, was laced around Dipper's pale neck. Tight, amazingly tight, to make room for a very pretty bow around his throat. Again, Dipper mewled, especially when Bill slipped a single finger under the little decoration, and guided him with a yanking motion.

Bill angled his dick to underneath and, with a pull of his hand, had Dipper successfully sliding on.

"That's it, darling. That's it." His head knocked back, feeling the very real clench of Dipper's insides. His partner needed not a second of prompting before he was at it, bouncing his hips in delicate pacing with either hand placed over Bill's shoulders. The bow around his neck looked so perfect there, and an odd satisfaction came over Bill when he confirmed, without a doubt, how good Dipper looked in one. And the converse, and the tube socks, and the hot, crying prick between his thighs.

Bill's hips twitched, thrusting into Dipper with slow, maddening drags that completely counteracted his partner's quick pace. Bill gripped his bow tie (read: collar) tightly, forcing the other to still; to take the errotic motions of someone trying hard not to blow his load. Dipper cried out. Bill laughed.

He felt every painfully sensual draw up. Every inch of skin engulfed. Every inch released. The thick, pulsing insanity of being taken apart, and feeling every second of it. Dipper fucked himself two inches before the grip on his throat worsened, and he could do no more than whine.

He felt a hand on his own length. It led up, less like a stroke, more like brush, and had him going absolutely insane.

"Bill, please, it hurts- I need- ah, I need-." The hand brushing his dick rubbed playful, though never wrapping.

"You'll live." Was Bill's response. And, he would live. He'd have an orgasm unlike any other in about three seconds if Bill kept up the nice work. Angry red, with that pretty little bend about it, dripping precum down his own length, over his balls, to his entrance, which was currently being fucked at the torturous speed only Bill knew. He regretted, for a moment, not tying the bow around Dipper's cock instead. It would've been a beautiful sight, after all.

Once again, something to save off for another day.

True to his own calculations, Dipper came with a tremor through his whole body, head tilted in a voice-less shriek, eyes rolled back, and hands placed on either of Bill's shoulders, having avoided touching his dick even once. The view in of itself was drug-inducing, but what really got Bill was the way he'd shot off, with ejaculation not only painting his taut belly button, but the base of his chest, the inner walls of his own thighs; the pitiful drool of cum lazily spurting down his cock, over his balls, further lubricating Bill's dick, had the man doing mad.

Bill's grip on the bowtie strengthened, yanking Dipper to the side of him, off his cock once his climax was mostly over, so he now laid on his back. Dipper winced at the sudden impact, though remaining still when his partner readjusted his legs; knees up, bent perfectly in two, and spread on display.

"Bill?" Came a confused voice. He didn't respond. Simply got up from his seated position on the couch; leaned over Dipper, and positioned his tip just above him. Two- three strokes, and he was cumming over the blindfold, the bow tie, the bridge of Dipper's nose, his cheek, his chin-.

If Bill hadn't just cum, he would've, from the sight of Dipper licking his lips to catch dripping release.

The room's heat bubbled away in soft, panting breaths from either of the parties; Bill, covered in sweat. Dipper, in cum. A particularly satisfied sigh from the latter had the room feeling one hundred times wider. He hesitated, fidgety as he was, before inevitably peeking out from behind his blindfold.

"... Any chance I can bribe you into forgetting that last part?" Dipper asked awkwardly, though with the tingle of a grin placed across his lips.

"You're gonna have to be more specific, love." Bill plopped back in his seat, rolling an arm over his forehead.

"The- me- ya' know." He waited for Bill's response. When none came, Dipper sighed. "Nevermind; it was all embarrassing."

"And great." Bill protested. His partner let out a snort.

"It was great, yeah." Dipper blinked once, looking all the more exhausted. "I wanna try more stuff like that; Like- you doing stuff, if that makes sense. Or, does that-? That probably doesn't make sense."

"It makes sense." Bill stretched, feeling the tight burn of his worn out muscles.

"Does it?" Dipper asked.

"No."

"You suck." Bill tilted his head, giving him a lazy look.

"I'm not even gonna make that joke, because I know you know it'd be too soon."

Dipper laughed with that satisfied, fucked-out gaze of his pointed right at Bill, and it did something amazingly terrible to him and his dissolving triangular ego. He felt like collecting the brunette up; dusting him off, before holding him in a way that was by no means necessary. Still, when Dipper sat up, popped his aching back, and drew Bill in for a very close, very warm afterglow, he suddenly couldn't remember why he'd resisted before.

A soft kiss on the lips; the cradling of Bill's cheek against his palm. The lazy way Dipper nosed his way into the space between collar bone and throat was only charming, even in the dissolved shadow of flames. The brunette's fingers played with the lapels of Bill's suit, still intact, and nuzzled into this weirdly domestic moment.

Bill wasn't sure what to make of it.

"We should probably take a shower now."

"You should probably take a shower now." Bill snarked, motioning towards every inch of skin covered in ejaculation. Dipper stayed planted in his spot for only a moment more, trying with all his might to absorb every ounce of Bill's strangely hot skin, before relenting. He sighed, pulling away.

"You really, really suck."

"That's flattering, coming from you." Dipper knocked him against his shoulder before sitting up.

"I'm using up your hot water, asshole."

"Use up my shampoo and conditioner while you're at it; you need a good scrubbing." His point was punctuated by a slap of the brunette's cheek as he walked by, who, in return, flipped him off from behind.

And, the heavy, burdened feeling in his chest worsened when he watched Dipper open the door to his bathroom and disappear. Suddenly, he was overcome with pain, and an odd longing, and this sense of missing someone already. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Even in his current position, loving and relishing the previous moments, Bill felt fucking cheated out of physical contact. Which he usually didn't need. Which he usually didn't want. And, it was so, so addicting, Bill almost contemplated-.

If he considered postponing his master plans in favor of cuddles for even a goddamn second, it was only the weak, pointless human in him talking.

Still, he felt at a loss. The distance between him and his original self had already become a bit hard to reconnect. There was a space- a wide space- he needed to refill with some kind of energy; energy that'd been lost in the original ritual. He needed a tie. Some kind of re-bonding to who he once was. Not this icky, gooey bullshit. It was bad for him. Doing this was bad for him.

But, how was he supposed to get out of it? Where was this energy he'd been banking on? Where was the motivation in his master plan, when he couldn't so much as sew his own damn body back together? He hissed at his own intrusive thoughts; his self-doubt. It was already taking hold. The transformation was already beginning-.

Except, the universe had always pitied Bill.

He felt the light buzzing of his phone, still pocketed within his pants. Sliding it out half-heartedly, he checked his screen for an escape from his own daunting deadline. When he did, his heart stopped. Started again, with a new beat to it.

A text.

One unopened inbox, from an unknown caller.

He smirked.