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raccoonspooky · 10 months

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Miss Piggy.

Billy Lenz x Female Reader. Rated E, 6k words.

Y/N device is not used in this fic. Second person, Billy pov.

(Femdom, dubious consent, Billy being gross. Character exploration. Full list of tags & description on ao3)

Miss Piggy is cruel.

Miss Piggy cuffed Billy to a table and spread him open like a frog to be dissected.

Stripped him naked. Secured his wrists and ankles to something out of sight. Attached to his thighs is another contraption, something with a metal bar that keeps him from closing his legs.

He’s sure that he must look like a sight. Billy would love to see Miss Piggy tied up like this. Trussed up like a Christmas ham. It’s unfair that Billy is in your position. He’s supposed to get you, not the other way around! Hasn’t anyone told you the rules? You've already been given your role. You're the whore. You're supposed to stumble over yourself running away while screaming and begging for something to save you! You're not supposed to conk him over the head with something. You don’t play fair!

It’s unfair to keep him like this. He should kill you for this. He wants to kill you for this. The only thing keeping Billy coherent is daydreaming of killing you. You’d scream and cry like aaall the other little sluts. You're not special. Miss Piggy might be clever, she might’ve won this round but she’d die like all the rest. You’ll die like all the rest. He can’t wait to see you in pieces, broken and useless in a heap. He’ll bleed you like the pig you are and you’ll feel stupid for ever thinking you were anything better than a dumb slut.

Miss Piggy treats him like meat. She treats him like a thing.

With his legs spread and secured and his arms forced still above his head, she could slice him from sternum to groin like a bullfrog in middle school science class. All of his squishy insides would spill out to stain Mrs. Piggy's hands and ruin her table. She's never done this before. Maybe she'd want to make a mess.

The phantom sensation of the cool press of a sharp knife appears at his throat. The bite of metal is ticklish, he wants to tuck his chin but he can barely move his jaw. He can do nothing as the knife begins to slice through his body without resistance. It glides like sharp scissors against crinkly wrapping paper. It makes him want to sneeze. He wants to wriggle and dance the discomfort away, but he can’t move. Miss Piggy has him tied tight. He wants to mimic the sound of sharp scissors but Miss Piggy stuck something in his mouth and he can barely move his tongue. If he contorts his wrist inward, he can just barely touch his restraints with his middle finger but he can't touch them otherwise.

His guts feel like eels, they slip and slide over each other and he wants to dig his fingers into the mess. He wants to tie them in knots, he wants to know what it's like to have nothing inside of himself. No bones. Just empty skin with his entrails strewn around himself like a red, juicy bird’s nest. All wet and dripping, he'd be nothing but a loose bag of flesh. Like the way Virgin Mary’s covered in her red robe as she stands in the middle of her halo that flutters outward, tinged with red and pink. Billy’s always thought Virgin Mary in the paintings always looked like a gaping cunt. Lying slut. She wasn’t a virgin. Whoever fucked baby Jesus into her wasn’t God. She let some dirty, nasty person violate her whore cunt that she promised to someone else and she lied to the world because that’s what whores do.

Now the world dresses up in red and green and people make up more lies in honor of the biggest lie ever told by god’s favorite whore. Little baby Jesus was brought into the world, doomed from the start because of his slut mother and now Billy has to endure the awful awful holiday songs that loop themselves over and over in his head. It's a holly jolly nothing Billy’s never even seen a partridge in a pear tree!

The twinkling lights that everyone else seems to enjoy hurt his head. Too many of them cause blade-like streaks of visual distortion to start slicing his thoughts apart. Too many smells. Too many sounds. Cinnamon is too itchy, pine is too sneezy. Eggnog smells rotten like death. Bells. Singing. Commercial jingles screaming at you to BUY BUY BUY. Too many smiling little sluts spoiled rotten by their daddies. Sit on a fat old man’s lap and you’ll get all the lipsticks and panties that a slut could ever want!

He wants to belt out a Ho Ho Ho like Santa but all he can do is let his lungs expand with the sound that’s coming alive only to suffocate, stillborn before he can let it escape. He curls his toes and shifts his shoulders but nothing he does helps the noise find a way out. Santa is stuck inside of him and he wants the chubby old pervert out.

Billy wants to open his mouth like a baby bird. He wants to squawk and squawk but the only noise he can emit is weak, wet garbling that makes his jaw ache. The gag in his mouth is secured too tightly for him to speak. He can’t open his mouth any wider and drool spills helplessly from his lips. It runs down his chin to collect in the divot between his collarbones and his bottom lip is cold and wet like a puppy dog’s nose. Is he a puppy dog right now? Is he to be neutered here on this table?

Is Miss Piggy going to chop his balls off?

He almost wishes she would.

Billy’s balls ache. On second thought, they’ve gone past ache to downright pain. He doesn’t know how long he’s been trussed up on this table but ever since he can remember he’s been here with a thing attached to his cock. A thing that sucks and pumps with a mechanical chugging whirr that accompanies the pattern. It's tighter than his fist, tighter than any cunt he’s ever forced his way inside of. With each agonizing upward suck and downward pump, Billy’s thigh muscles twitch uselessly as he endures round after round of endless sensation. Sometimes the machine will slow, and he’ll find a millisecond of clarity only for it to whirr back up again, sucking and pumping faster and faster until Billy is wheezing through his gag. He feels like he’s being milked but Miss Piggy clearly doesn’t know how to use the machine because no matter how close he gets, he can’t fucking cum.

He needs to. He needs to so fucking bad. He’ll show you, Miss Piggy. He’ll show you what a good dairy cow he can be. If you’d just let him FUCKING cum then you wouldn’t need be so mean to him would you? Is this why you’re torturing him? You want a big load for your slut mouth? Are you gonna drink it, Miss Piggy? Are you going to play with it on your tongue? It’ll be thick like his cock… thick and gooey… Sticky gloppy slop for Miss Piggy’s hungry gullet. Miss Piggy wants a mouthful, doesn’t she? He bets you do. Miss Piggy is nothing but a hungry slut after all.

Clever slut, unfortunately. Clever piggy who managed to stick him on this table and attach a torture machine to his cock.

Mean. Awful. NASTY. Fucking SLUT.

He can’t see. Maybe he isn’t Billy anymore. Maybe he is a cow. Some prized stud being milked for his oh so fancy load. Maybe Miss Piggy wants a baby? Stupid skank, she could’ve gotten one if she just spread her fucking legs like a good slut. She didn’t need to strap him to this awful table. He would’ve fucked her good. He would’ve fucked her dead.

Sound clogs in his throat and the cow moo that he wants to perform is stuck in the too tight walls of his esophagus. He needs to let the noise out into the pasture but he can’t and now the cow is angry and braying, it’s a bull with big horns and it's stuck in Billy’s windpipe. He can't breathe, not even through his nose. Sudden panic makes him release a keening whine. The machine’s movement is shallow, the toy teases the first inch of his cock, up and down, up and down, over and over until he’s grunting and trying to thrash away from it. He's been teased past the point of sensitivity. It stings. He wants more. He wants to fuck the awful fucking thing in the way he wants to. None of this is fair and he fucking hates you for this. Billy manages to whip his head to the side, causing his muzzle’s buckle to slam loudly against the metal table. It's a good solid noise and the metal scrape of the buckle against the table is almost enough to keep him from forgetting how to breathe.

Desperate to feel something besides the never-ending tease, Billy would bite his tongue off if not for the gag preventing him from doing it. Beef tongue is a delicacy in some places. Porky Miss Piggy probably loves it. She probably loves a tough mouthful of muscle. She probably loves big, beefy cows. Big studs with abs and body hair and chiseled jaws. Miss Piggy would never look twice at someone like him. You’d never want someone shorter than you. Someone scrawny and with hair that's impossible to tame one way or another. You’re not a nice girl. You wouldn’t look past something like that. You don’t want him. You’d never want him. No one looks at him. No one sees him. Especially not girls. Nice girls don’t exist anyhow. He’d know if one existed.

You don’t want him. So WHY are you keeping him? Why are you doing this to him? It’s unfair. It's pointless.

It's MEAN.

Struggling and thrashing as much as he's able to causes more slobber collect in his mouth. While unable to spit or sputter, all he can do is uselessly drool onto himself. The machine is too uniform. Too tight. Too loud. Feels good but it’s too much. Feels awful but it’s not awful enough. The machine could rip his cock clean off and at this point, he might want it to. He wants to cum more than he wants to kill you and the thought makes him want to vomit. His throat tastes acidic, his shoulders ache. His ass has gone numb and a broken whimper creeps past his gag to get tangled up in the netting of his muzzle.

“Awww, does Billy need a break?”

For a moment your taunt sounds like his own voice and Billy’s stomach flips. He can’t remember the last time he's heard his name from anyone’s lips besides his own. In the near distance, footsteps come closer and closer. The sort of shoes you’re wearing clack against the floor. Soon, you’re close enough that he curls his fingers into fists as if to prepare to deck you right in the face even though he can't move his arms. Pretty piggy wouldn’t be so pretty with her face swollen and her nose bloody. He wants to cave your teeth in. He wants you to beg him to stop.

He wants your begging to turn weak and squelchy until you’re not speaking anymore.

He wants to beg you to let him go.

He wants to demand that you let him fucking cum.

Maybe he spoke his demand out loud because the machine stops abruptly and the vacuum suction loosens. It pops off of his prick and the immediate lack of stimuli feels like a slap to the face. It leaves him gasping and his dick throbs angrily, upset with its newfound freedom. Stupid thing. It wants back in. His balls hurt, they're heavy and pulled tight, the end of the sucking thing has been mashing into them for hours now and he feels as if his balls have been battered black and blue. Despite this, he jolts his hips upward with a whine, as he mindlessly seeks out the machine of his nightmares. Billy flexes his cock, making it bob in the air. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his fucking life and awful, awful Miss Piggy won’t do a thing about it.

Without warning, fingers are suddenly stroking through his sweaty hair. Miss Piggy pets him like a kitty cat. He’s not a kitty cat. He’s not yours to touch either. Your other hand settles on the side of his face, right where the muzzle covers his cheek and your thumb traces his jaw slowly. You coo at him, annoying and sharp. The insert wound is precise, its an icepick to the brain that nails in a heavy reminder of how much he hates you.

Completely overwhelmed and caught off guard, a deep growl begins to swell in his lungs to claw its way up past his lips. He coughs, choking on it and his dry throat convulses in protest. Unphased, you pet him through his coughing fit, offering false tones of sympathy as he struggles to breathe.

“Does Billy need some water?” You ask gently, still running your fingers through his hair.

Hearing his name is abrasive as sandpaper. He doesn’t like the way it sounds. It reminds him that he’s Billy. Sometimes he’s Billy, sometimes he forgets what he is. It’s not fair for you to remind him. His name isn't yours. It’s his. It's the only thing he has. He frantically shakes his head from side to side as best he can, trying to shake the sound of his name out of his ears.

“No?” You chuckle, sounding far away even though you’re uncomfortably close. “You don’t need anything at all? I guess I should leave then."

“No.” is spit from behind his gag and it comes out clearer than he thought possible. He tries again and again, further distorting the word with manic excitement in hearing himself speak. He repeats the word no until he doesn’t even know what he’s disagreeing with anymore.

When he inevitably quiets to take in a gasping haggard breath, you lift his head by pulling on his hair. His muzzle is loosened and you slide it from behind his ears to settle around his neck like a collar. The leather saturates in his drool and Billy thoughtlessly thrashes, fighting you even though he doesn’t know what he’s fighting against. He wants to be released from all the tight things that keep him from moving but your touch feels like a live wire. It's burning hot and he imagines his skin bubbling up pus-filled blisters. You’re branding him with your touch and pigs shouldn’t be allowed to do something like that.

He’s not cattle. He’s Billy. You’re not a rancher with a hot iron. You’re not even a person. You’re a stupid little whore who thinks she’s caught herself a stray to domesticate. You’re just the same as a shitty little girl whose parents condemned a hamster to die by giving it to her for Christmas. She’ll kill the thing in a few weeks. She’ll dress it up like a princess, feed it food that it shouldn’t eat, and then she’ll get bored of it and end up letting her pet kitty cat eat it as a snack. Maybe it’ll escape her chubby little fingers, but the stupid little thing is doomed nonetheless. It might as well get a few bites in. It might as well do its best to punish the mean little bitch and make fat tears roll down her stupid piggy face.

As soon as the gag is removed from his mouth, Billy snaps his teeth hard and takes a big bite of the air. The proceeding rattle in his skull has a deranged laugh tickling past his sore throat. The first chortle stretches and elongates into loud, heaving noises that grow deeper and closer to animal grunts. Just as he prepares to let out the loudest scream he’d ever attempted, you dig your thumb into the spongy meat of his cockhead, causing his scream to mangle itself into a groan.

His outrage falls apart and it flits weakly back into himself like broken tinsel pulled off a tree. The bullshit has the nerve to look pretty even as it becomes trash on the ground. You trail a fingertip down his overheated shaft and Billy forgets that he was previously trying to destroy your ear drums. Impulse takes over and he attempts bucking against your touch, trying to fuck himself against the barely there press of your fingertip.

Billy's molars sink into his cheek, but trying to shut himself up is useless. It’s never been something he figured out how to do. He’s not in control of the noises that want to come out of him. He’s only the vessel. He’s not to be blamed for the mewling moan that dances excitedly into the room when you wrap your fingers around his stiff prick. That wasn’t his noise. Billy didn’t do it. If anything his cock is at fault. Stupid, stupid thing.

Stupid Miss Piggy’s somehow convinced his dick that a loose fist is all he needs to feel better. His eyes feel as if they’re going to roll back into his head and Billy shivers, overstimulated and under stimulated at the same time. The relief that he doesn’t want makes him wish he could peel his skin off. He wants it coiled up into tightly wound ribbons because you like pretty things like that. Maybe you’d clap your hands together and squeal like a piggy pig in excitement as you gush over the mess you’ve made of him.

You’ve ruined him. Used him like a cheap slut and none of it is fair.

You’re supposed to be dead. You’re not supposed to be doing this.

Wrong. Wrong. WRONG.

Billy barks out the acid that’s coagulated in his throat. He spits aimlessly in random directions and your claws subsequently sink into the meat of his cock which causes him to yelp in shock. With his senses all twisted up and tied together, the pain feels dangerously close to good.

“Touch it.” Billy croaks a strange tinny voice, sounding similar to an old radio broadcaster. “Right on the money there ma’am. Hole in one!" He clicks his tongue a few times, "Touch it. Touch it. Tt-TOUCH IT!” The borrowed voice clips into another’s abruptly. The sportscaster fades into the loudmouthed news anchor that’s always complaining and bitching about some prowler out and about, someone called the moaner who goes around butchering pretty girls after tormenting them on the phone for weeks.

Your phone number displays itself digit by digit in his mind. Yes yes. You. He knows you. Miss mouthy cunt bitch. Miss Piggy’s got a big mouth. Miss Piggy is a tease. He'd hate you less if you learned how to suck cock rather than play at pretending you're something that you're not. He told you to put your pussy on the phone. He remembers that. At least he thinks he does.

It’s hard to think while he’s busy demanding for you to touch him in as many voices and accents as he can possibly recite.

The demands wind down down into a series of hiccups, he mimics the watery voice of some other whore. “It hurts. Please.” He whimpers high-pitched and feminine before belting out a pained wail. “It fucking HURTS.” His fingers twitch and he does his best to rotate his wrist in a way that his joints refuse to go, causing his wrist to pop and crack unnaturally. It hurts but he wants OUT. He wants to fucking cum. He wants to kill you in a thousand ways for this. You deserve it. You deserve something awful awful.

The loose grip around his dick lifts away and he mumbles the same plea from before. Mimicking the crying girl. This time, it comes out just a smidgen closer to his own inflection and tone. His voice no longer sounds so feminine. The whine he gives isn’t all the way a mimicry.

Footsteps. Footsteps. You stand at the head of the table, and Billy tries to tilt his chin up, he squints even though it's impossible to see through the blindfold. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, swallowing dryly he chews on his it and decides that his tongue is now a wad of mashed potatoes.

You’re going to make his dick fall off. You’re going to polish it and keep it above your fireplace. You’re going to use it to hang coats off of. He’s so fucking hard that he’ll probably stay like this forever. You’ll be dead. An unrecognizable pulpy puddle of broken bones and hair and the only thing left of him will be his dick standing up proud above your fireplace. You’ve doomed him just as you might as well have scrawled your fate in golden ink over the ending of one of those old fairy tales thats supposed to scare children into behaving.

It’s your fault. All your fault. Stupid, stupid PIG.

His blindfold is removed quickly enough that it pulls on a few strands of his hair and he grunts in surprise, grumbling wordlessly about the pinch. Billy blinks against the harsh overhead lighting with an accompanying hiss as the sudden assault of brightness burns his retinas. The ceiling light behind you frames your head like a halo, and looking at you hurts. Everything is too much, he can barely crinkle his eyes open and one of the only things he can register is the cruel smile on your lips.

He feels exposed. He wants to find somewhere cold and dark. He’s not meant to be here. You’ve done something wrong and you’ve stolen him from wherever he was supposed to be. The room feels too big and Billy chirps his discomfort out with cat like yowling. He wants to bash his head against the table but he can’t fucking MOVE.

Disinterested, you don’t react to his tantrum. You’ve gotten good at that. Billy’s short-term memory has always been shoddily stuck together with spit and dried cum, but he remembers bits and pieces about you. Sort of. It’s been a long time since you’ve been afraid of him as you should be.

You walk away from his field of view, your shoes clack their way into the distance and you return a few minutes later with a tray that you set gently on a nearby table. A faucet begins to run and the water reminds him of bashing cymbals and storm sirens. A crunched up slice of a memory trickles back into his consciousness and he’s wordless as he recalls something going in him. You stuck something in him! You shot water into him with a nozzle! You did! Pervert! Disgusting! You don’t DO that to people. Something is WRONG with you.

You’re a bad bad boy Billy! You’ve done bad bad things!

"Filthy Billy!" A memory whispers, "Billy, I know what you DID."

“We’re not cleaning you again.” You answer his increasing panic without being asked. The snap of latex gloves bites through the air and Billy’s lungs feel small like a bird’s. He's breathing too hard for the tiny amount of air that’s in his little bird body.

“I like it when you’re quiet. You can be cute when you shut the fuck up.” Your words are poison. They strike him individually with stinging tails.

As you re-approach the table, Billy feels as if his eyes are shaking in his skull. They're going to pop right out and deflate like old balloons. He doesn’t know what it’s like to feel scared, but right now he feels like a mouse caught in a glue trap. He feels small. His bones are hollow and brittle. The incoming waves of dread are almost enough to convince his cock to calm down. Almost. It flags down, curved toward his hip but it's still heavy with blood. Billy wonders if he could maybe flop it from side to side well enough to get himself off. Probably not, but he could try.

Already, he forgets what he’s worried about and he plays with his dick with the limited movement that he has, staring with empty eyes up at the ceiling. The light above him looks like a titty. It’s got a light pull and he thinks that the house is a slut for having pierced nipples. Of course you'd live in a slutty house. He’s never seen pierced tits before. He’s seen a lot of tits. But not decorated ones.

Your approach is ignored as Billy giggles over his mental dialogue, a chair scrapes against the floor and it isn’t until your glove-covered hand sets on his thigh that he falls back down into his body. He was off somewhere else, testing the way that the word titty felt in his mouth. The harsh T was a spitty sound. Makes sense for what the word meant, but then Miss Piggy rudely stole his attention. He looks down his nose, glaring while scrunching his lips up into a pout.

Ignoring him or just disinterested in his frustration, you pump something clear from a bottle into your other hand and Billy doesn’t have a moment to consider what it is before you hold his thigh once again and he’s reminded of the awful bar that spreads his legs. He twists, trying to invert his knees as if that would somehow stop you from pressing your slimy fingertips against his twitching hole.

“Pervert!” Billy screeches, using a stern old woman’s voice. It’s familiar and it makes him want to break something. It's a voice that reminds him of the true definition of hate. Perfecting her voice makes his eyes bug and goosebumps erupt over his skin. You tease the rim of his ass with a finger and Billy shudders. The sheer wrongness of the situation has his dick perking up to attention and Billy grumbles in annoyance at his traitor of a prick.

He’s always liked things he shouldn't. Dirty things. Naughty things.

Violent things.

But this was too far, wasn’t it? An affirmative, almost excited hum answers his question. It is wrong. It's definitely wrong. Billy wonders where the sound came from because he didn’t make it. No. You did. His stupid dick did. Something did and it wasn’t him. No. No. No.

“I get it now.” You laugh, “The only time you learn how to shut the fuck up is when you’re wanting something in your ass. Is that it Billy? You want me to fuck you you there?”

“No.” He finds his own voice and it's completely flat. Devoid of emotion. Devoid of tone. It sounds like a recording and he barely registers that he spoke. Straining his neck, he does his best to look only at the ceiling and the light above him.

“I don’t think I believe that.” You continue as you prod at his cock with your other hand. Stupid thing is stabbing into the air proudly, back at attention and Billy sucks in a breath through his teeth, stubbornly saying nothing. He’s not here. He’s not. This isn’t right. He’s somewhere else. He’s on the TV. He’s on the phone. He’s a recording of a disembodied voice and he’s anywhere but here.

Wordless chitters and vocalizations twist and tangle in his mind, they filter from his lips in broken pieces that end up sounding guttural and ragged. Your touch leaves him only for a moment and then you wrap a gloved hand tightly around his shaft. The gooey stuff on your glove is cold, but your upward stroke forces his eyes shut. The moan he gives is needy, and he hates the sobering reality of it. The mental clarity that he weakly tries to stitch himself to is quickly stolen and he doesn’t have time to light up the neon vacancy sign in his head before sick curiosity comes and settles itself into the groove of which coherence left.

Distracted by your hand on his cock, he barely reacts to your fingertip pressing into him. His lips and tongue test the shape of a word that he’s not sure he’s ever spoken earnestly before. It comes out in clipped bursts that barely sound like a word at all. He hopes that you can't decipher anything of what he’s saying because they mean nothing. The word please ends up translating into a harsh “Ghgh…” sounding noise but the tone is pleading nonetheless.

Slowly, you ease more of your finger inside of him and his brain feels as if he’s plugged too many strings of lights into the same outlet. His body feels like a tightly compressed implosion of bursting sparks that skitter onto the carpet in search of something flammable to consume. Hate and discomfort mutate themselves into consuming want and a greedy desire for more. You give him exactly that by stretching him open on another finger.

Billy’s always been greedy. Nothing is ever enough. Never enough hurt. Never enough shame. Never enough hate. He’s always cold. He’s never happy with staying in one place for too long. The only thing that pulls him from place to place is the need for more blood on his hands. He can never get enough of anything because it's impossible to get his fill of something that feels so fucking good. Nothing else gets him hard. The only release that feels right comes with destroying something nice. Breaking something pretty. Addicted to pleasure, he seeks it out through terror. He’s addicted to want and right now he feels the closest he’s ever been to full.

“Good boy,” You whisper, and the praise lifts to wrap tightly around his throat. He’s short of breath but the dizzying discomfort feels so good. Maybe dying feels good too. Maybe he’s doing all the little whores a favor by doing what he does to them. Lucky sluts. They didn’t even need to beg for it. He hunts them down like vermin, like rats and Billy didn’t even brag about getting rid of them! He’s not LIKE you. He doesn’t feel the need to gloat. He doesn’t feel the need to tease or draw things out so that they’ll fold into a neat little box in just the way you want. He likes a fucking mess. He likes the way that fear feels when it smells like iron and it squelches wetly between his fingers.

The auditory squelch of your hand pumping his cock feels makes him want to spit the noise back at you, he blows a raspberry with his lips only for his mouth to fall slack when you change the angle of your fingers in his ass. You brush up against somewhere that has bubbling pleasure spitting from his cock and drooling from his mouth. He wants to rock back against your fingers, wants to ride your touch like a whore. Useless noises float into the room, and Billy finally relaxes fully, releasing his white-knuckled fist and the tension in his shoulders.

His eyes are open but he can’t see. He’s not even sure if he’s still breathing. He’s drowning in everything you’re giving to him and suffocating never felt so good. His head is a mess of static and chopped-up beginnings of words and memories. The only thing anchoring him to his body is the sound your fist makes as you pump him up and down, almost as mechanical as the machine but the pressure is everything he needs. You’re taking this from him, and therefore he's not wrong for being helpless. You’re the one who’s being a pervert. You’re the one who’s doing something wrong.

“You’re doing such a good job, such a good little whore aren’t you Billy?”

He doesn’t hear your words but they brush up against him ticklishly, like a cat rubbing up against his legs. Your tone is comforting and he wants to rub his face against your words to better understand them.

“You’ve been fighting so hard… isn’t it easier to be a good slut for me? I like you better like this. Cum dumb and quiet.”

Billy grunts affirmatively without listening to you at all and you giggle in response. He doesn’t hate the sound of it. The bubbling laughter is soft and chewy like popcorn. His senses have given up trying to differentiate themselves from each other. Thought and feeling, touch and sound are all the same. His body's been replaced and all he has left is needy cock and a slutty fuck hole. He’s just the same as all the dead piggies who he left in similar states. Unmoving heaps. Messy puddles of what used to be a person. He’s just like them. Dead. Ruined. Used just like them. This is what he’s good for. Feels good to stop fighting. He doesn’t need to stumble around near blind and confused while he hunts down something new to terrorize. He's not starving now. He doesn't have anywhere to go. He's not lost in his head and unsure where he is. Maybe he doesn’t need to drag himself from place to place in the cold. He can stay here. He’s dead anyway. He’ll stay here and and let stupid Miss Piggy touch his cock until he's a rotted husk.

“Fuck drunk slut.” You hum, clearly giddy with the state you’ve put him in. Drool spills from the corner of his mouth to puddle onto the table and Billy bubbles spit between his lips once realizing the mess that he’s making.

“So loud all the time, who knew that stretching your ass would get you to shut up. Maybe I should find something bigger than my fingers? Maybe Billy needs a plug. Do you want more baby?”

Maybe you meant to call him by his name, but the word baby makes him groan. He’s never liked babies. Crying, stupid things. It's an insult to call someone a baby but he feels like one right now. Helpless and barely in control of himself. The word doesn't make him something that he's not. He likes the way that the two syllables settle heavily over his body, pinning him down like an insect. No one’s ever called him baby before. He repeats the word, playing with the feel of it on his tongue. It’s is all smooth edges, it’s cold when he says it but warm in his thoughts. He repeats it in your voice and your resulting laugh doesn't sting.

Like this, he's not able to get lost between notes of sound. He’s not able to forget where he is. Each thrust of your fingers comes with a punch of pleasure that has him whimpering for more. The word please isn't swallowed, he openly begs because please is the only word he can perfect right now.

He’s not even aware of the fact that he’s coming until he feels bubbling hot spunk dribble from his slit. The rise and fall of his orgasm blends into the general wave of pleasure that he’s been asphyxiating on. No relief or finality comes even after his balls are drained and his cum is beginning to cool on his stomach. The weak notes of an overstimulated complaint manage past his lips as you stroke his softening cock firmly as if to make sure that you’ve milked him for all he was worth.

The retreat of your fingers feels strange, but he can’t do anything but whine about it. Billy’s head feels as if it’s full of concrete. There’s no room for thoughts. His limbs are heavy, he couldn’t struggle even if he wanted to. His head flops limply to his side and his cheek settles in a puddle of cold drool. Feels nice. Billy forgets to fight as you secure his muzzle back into place. You leave out the gag this time.

Good boys, behaved ones get presents right? Was this a reward?

Billy’s only ever gotten coal, but earning something feels okay. He looks at you with surprisingly wet eyes and the expression on your face is unreadable. He’s never been good at understanding people but he’d be proud if he was you. He always feels the best after standing amongst the mess of a fresh kill, the twisting delirium always simmers low once he can see and feel what he’d done. He can't always pinpoint where he is or what he’s doing, but touch and smell were things he could depend on. It's easiest to focus when there's no noise to be distracted by and there's no impulse left to wildly drag him from place to place.

Maybe he isn't himself right now. Maybe you’re on the table. Not him. That would make more sense anyway. Maybe he’s you. Maybe you’re him? Maybe Billy is somewhere else entirely and you’ve already done away with his remains.

Feels good to finally die. Feels good to remember what quiet sounds like.

Your fingers find their place in his hair and Billy shudders, eyes closing as he relaxes against your touch. He doesn’t need to be Billy right now and you don’t need to be Miss Piggy. You’re you and he’s whatever he is.

Feels good to understand something for once.

Thanks so much for reading! This is my comeback piece after a few months of writers block lol. Comments keep me inspired, I need your thoughts on the FUCKNASTY that went down here.

Also! Here's my masterlist with my other slasher x reader works.