Billdip Shorts! (Requests are welcomed)

Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile

(Back after a few years, and better than ever, I hope you all like...please don't shot me...I'm sorry for being gone for so long...)

His skin is smooth and tan—collar popped and tie loose. Blood-stained hands were hidden by black gloves and boots smudged with mud and blood splattered. His hair fell from the slick back gel from the sweat and blood. No matter how many times he runs his black-gloved-fingers through his hair, some ends fall forward into his dark blue eyes.

Bill brought the cigarette up to his lips. He sucks the toxins into his lungs. The smoke drips from his lips as he breathes out. His breath is hot in the frozen air, the smoke drifting freely in the wind before fading into the wind.

He tucks the gun into his belt: safety trigger off. "Clean this up, " he orders, giving the body a hardy kick.

He starts walking back into the crowd before he's called. "Boss?"

"What?"

"Bag or Bridge?" He snickers. Not for long when Bill swiftly takes out his gun and shoots a bullet into his head, taking another deep breath of smoke.

"Any more jokes?" he asked, tapping the end of his cigarette. He crushed the cig under his boot. They shook their heads no.

Bill stalks his way into the rocky streets of New York. The streets are paved with gold lamps, a warm gleam leading the way down the streets. He pulls on his black trench-coat and slides on his black fedora. He stuffs his hand into his pockets. He walks among the horse-drawn carriages and drunks and drug dealers as if he's normal.

He hums a song to himself. A fun little ditty at his favourite little pub down on 5th Street where the liquor is good and people warm, very welcoming. He turns his left hand off out of his pocket, turning his wrist over, he looks at his gold and red leather-strapped watch.

Six o'clock, he smiles to himself—more of a smirk as he pushed open the door to his favourite little pub on 5th Street where a smooth black wood upright piano sits off to the side from the small stage and to the far right from the bar.

The room is filled with the smell of liquor and smoke from cigarettes soon to be crushed into the ashtray. His cheeks are warm for the atmosphere: welcoming and warm.

"Don't know where,
don't know when
but I know we'll meet again,
some sunny day—"

The talented fingers glide over the keys. The voice is soft and sweet like an angel; far too sweet for a man. But the man it belonged to could almost be mistaken for a young lady if he wore a dress and didn't say a word. Gentle song of a Tenner singing away his heart as his fingers charm the keys.

Bill sat closet to the piano, as close as he could with a nearly packed pub. Close enough to see those warm brown eyes.

"So please say hello, "

Bill so desperately desired to kill those lips—needs it like the air he breathes. Hold his small body flush against his chest and hear him sung like a songbird. He wants to dance with him in the bright, warm sun on a summer afternoon as the radio plays.

The people of the pub clap once the last cord is played then return to their drinks. The boy has a bashful smile, his cheeks rosy red from the heat.

"You played my request, " he hummed. "What a swell little ditty, Pinetree." He slow claps as Mason walks up to him.

He pulls back a strain of his brown, curly hair and tucks it behind his ear. "Bill, you came, " he said with a shy smile.

"Can I offer you a drink?" He slides over a small glass of scotch on ice.

He eyes the glass with curious eyes—dangerously sweet eyes that want to dip into sin. "But Bill, I'm not old enough, " Mason whispers close to Bill's ear.

Bill smirks. He pulls off his black leather gloves, placing a bony finger to his lips. "I won't tell if you don't." He cups the young man's ear, thumb stroking his cheek.

I could kiss him. Bill thought to himself.

People start to stare; murmur and whisper over a glass of beer and whisky.

Mason pulls away, scoffing to himself. "Bill, people are starting." He sat down anyway. He shyly took the glass. His eyes shift back and forth to make sure no one is watching, it is not drunk enough to care before taking a sip.

"Let them watch, " he whispers. His finger tilts Mason's chin up to meet Bill's eyes. "You should only be watching me."

"Faggots, " a woman spits at them.

"Homos, " a man hissed before downing a beer.

His Pinetree turns away, just taking a swig of his scotch. Bill's eyes didn't shift to her, his eyes on Mason. He pulled out his gun and shot her glass. The woman screamed as the glass shattered.

"Bill!" Mason yells. He stands up and turns in shock.

"Everybody out!" he orders, giving another warning shot up into the ceiling. His Pinetree was about to get up and go with the crowd until Bill snatched his wrist. "Not you, " he growled.

Luckily, that little pub on 5th Street belongs to him. Used for drug dealings and making some extra cash on the side. The bartender locks up and closes the blinds before leaving.

Bill yanked Mason to the end of the bar. He lifts his Pinetree up onto the ledge and pins him down. Bill crawls on top of him, looking down at the young man that kaid underneath him without a struggle.

"Look at me, " Bill whispered.

Mason didn't move his eyes. A deep frown dips at the ends of his face. "Bill, this is wrong."

"I know it is, " he whispers. "But I don't want to stop—I won't stop, " he said.

Dipper's hand drifts Bill's—their fingers intertwining. "It's too horrible—" Bill kisses him. Cups his cheeks, pulling his head up to lock lips to shut him up. Though, he isn't pulling away.

Bill pulls back, pinning Mason down. "Wait, what is this?" Bill asked, brushing back the hair on Mason's head, revealing a birthmark on his forehead. A dipper.

Mason's face goes red. "Don't look, " he said, covering his face.

"No no no no, " Bill said with a smile. He pulls Mason's hands away from his face and looks at birthmark. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" He laughs.

"I get teased about it, " he said. "They call me Dipper—I didn't want you to know," he said. "Everyone calls me that, but I like when you didn't know."

"I like Pinetree more," Bill said, making Dipper smile. Bill lifts up Dipper's legs over his shoulders, smirking down at Dipper.

"Bill—please, " Dipper begs, pushing Bill back. His face is red with embarrassment. "We're in public."

"Not really, " Bill said, looking around. "I believe we are free to do as we wish." Slowly, Bill slides the zipper of Dipper's pants down. His hand's cup waist and kisses the bulge of his underwear.

"Bill, please, we're in a public place of work." His back arches, nails digging into the edge of island.

"Smile for me, darlin', " Bill said with devilish grin.

(I'm back bitchs. Look out for my new short story collection coming out. Or maybe I'll continue this one, I don't know. Maybe something new. It's good to be back ;)  )