When the full moon rises, yellow with three sides, come to me.
Stanford Pines was not a romantic man, by any means. Romance was subjective, Ford had learnt this late in life. For Ford, what entailed romance were actions. He'd done enough talking, and very little could move him emotionally.
But touch, Ford responded tremendously to touch. His body hungry and overly sensitive – a side effect of disregarding his physical needs.
To be touched… a craving Ford wished he could satisfy. Wished a certain someone would satisfy but such inappropriate thoughts were best left as that– thoughts.
The moon, monstrous and surreal with its three sides, wan and golden.
Hands. Black hands, feminine and soft. They touch him in sync, to a melody Ford can't hear, but can only imagine.
As if on cue to the inaudible music–
the darkness is now touchable and yearns for touch, Ford's touch. It draws near to his skin as he reaches out, as if blooming towards the sun called Stanford Pines. The dark yearning for light, just another Romeo and Juliet narrative.
Turn out your light.
The voice is wispy, and he does as commanded; imagines the light dying, uniting with the dark. The dark takes his brightness whole, inside itself, opening wide to let it enter and disappear into its sultry void.
The hands touch him again to a rhythm: face, shoulders, and torso. Repetitively; teleporting from each individual spot to the next. They settle at his neck now, slipping and slide alongside his entire silhouette– he's somehow wet, but not damp. Logic doesn't apply here.
He's had enough of objectivity; time to let go.
The dark becomes daring, casting aside its previously demonstrated modesty to encircle him; it's possessive and starved. He sees, finally, that where the dark meets his flesh, it merges into it, leaving it looking charred and desecrated. Was it marking him?
The slumbering eyes open in the dark, and he's surrounded. Uncountable eyes, all belonging to one creature. This is hallowed ground, he tells himself. He wants to be on his knees, but not yet.
Not yet.
The eyes narrow, waiting for something. A set of black hands guide his own hands towards his body, encouraging him to…? Touch himself?
They take control, showing him what to do, and he understands. But comprehension did not imply co-operation.
He lays his hands on himself, at his stomach, doing nothing.
The dark becomes impatient, he can hear it sigh in annoyance. A few eyes roll themselves. The ominous hands take his own again, this time, becoming one in holy matrimony.
His now blackened hands move towards his crotch and he can only watch in fascination. His hands were no longer his- no sensation present in them any longer, but feeling still remained at his crotch, intensified beyond human capacity. All he needed was a light touch to send pleasure dashing throughout his neglected body.
You've come to me, now do you want to come for me?
He doesn't care if the words don't sound like his Muse. Fantasies didn't always have to remain in character – that defeated the purpose of a fantasy.
Come a little closer, Stanford.
He steps forward.
Closer.
Another step.
He feels lips take his mouth; it's curious and quietly passionate. His haunted hands slither across his sensitive areas. But he doesn't feel anything.
All sensations have disappeared and he can't seem to focus on them, to get them to return.
The moon is in his view now, again. But it's no longer the moon. An eye sits in the middle, half-lidded and wanting.
"Your fantasies of me are pretty tame huh? Not even a little hand action? You skipped right past that!"
"Bill?"
"Let me show you how it's done." Bill's brightness singes the dark. It wails with each drip off him. "But first, turn out your light, Stanford."
He does.