Chapter Text
The thick, humid air of the Fearamid pulses around Ford in a nauseating dance where he kneels, knees aching, heels bent at odd angles, wrists bound tight above his lap. It feels like the atmosphere itself is alive and moving, just as uncomfortable and cruel as its creator who, of course, floats just nearby.
Well, floating is generous. He’s sitting on a chair, the one that’s alive with lolling tongues and stitched skin and eyes that look glassy with pain and unawareness, and staring down at Ford, monologuing about something or other.
Ford hasn’t been listening for the past few minutes once he realized Bill was not going to stop talking, and he really thinks he’s saved himself some momentary pain. He’s already feeling nauseous and angry and pissed off and scared to boot, if he wants to be completely honest, but he thinks he’s holding everything together remarkably well considering the situation.
He could be curled up on the floor weeping. He has instead chosen to stay where he kneels and scowl. Suffice to say, if looks could kill, Bill would be dead ten times over.
When Bill’s eye next flicks over from his dramatically clenched fist, he looks mockingly sympathetic, putting Ford immediately on guard as he’s regarded. Whatever he had been talking about doesn’t matter, not that Ford even knows what it could have been about. There’s a migraine batting around inside his skull like a bouncy ball in a small empty room, and anything Bill is saying isn’t very interesting. Especially while he’s looking like he’s gloating, which he definitely does.
“Y’know, Fordsy, you’re like an old, well-loved senior dog,” he starts with, which already has Ford grinding his teeth in obvious irritation. “You shouldn’t be so stressed anymore! You should be living in COMFORT and a GLAMOROUSLY powerful position.” With a tug to the glowing blue chain wrapped around his hands, Ford is pulled to his feet.
He stumbles, legs pricking with pins and needles as they’re abruptly forced to move, blood flow seeping back into the limbs. It makes it a little hard to stagger upright, feet set wide apart, but he manages on his own. Once upright and steady, he sends Bill a look that the demon visibly preens underneath.
“You should relax,” Bill purrs, and gathers his attention with a gesture towards the chair he’s sitting on. The exact skin chair he’s sitting on. “Take a seat! The floor can’t be good for those knees of yours, OR that attitude!”
“I am not sitting on that thing while it’s alive,” Ford says seriously, watching the couch watch him back, though not actually see him. Its own mouth doesn’t even seem to be working, too heavy or too swollen as its tongue hangs out from its mouth, dried out and incapable of slithering back inside. It’s terribly disconcerting, especially the grunting noises it’s making, making Ford rather grateful it can’t talk, honestly.
“Hey, that’s pretty RUDE! Couches have feelings too you smarmy brat,” Bill chides, the name-calling absolutely pre-school. Ford is rather sure the demon doesn’t actually care. He’s just sniffed out an opportunity to shame and demean Ford and has taken it with glee.
“I don’t think it even knows where it—”
With a rough yank, much more aggressive than is needed really, Ford is sent off-balance and staggering by the heavy weight around his wrists. A noise of garbled surprise escapes him, arms bellowing with pain as they’re jerked aggressively. It does the job, shutting down Ford’s snarky comment and gaining his wary attention, slowly looking up.
Bill only has to raise half of his preened brow for Ford to reluctantly, like chewing glass, offer, “sorry.” He adds on, once Bill’s expression eases back from the edge of danger, “can you please change the couch into something less… alive?”
“That’s more like it,” Bill hums, and, certainly as a way of reward for Ford’s great manners, obligingly snaps his black fingers. Like it was never alive, the couch, newly made with fabric and no longer skin, becomes smooth and plush, and that itch of something staring into him is abruptly cut off.
Ford honestly wouldn’t be surprised if the couch was still alive in a way, just without any external signs. Despite his wariness over this thought, he can’t deny how much more inviting it looks with no eyes or tongues or human flesh in plain sight. It does have Bill perched on the middle, though, which is enough reason to not sit there. Not that he gets a choice.
“THERE, the couch is no longer full of PERSONALITY and LIFE. You wanna come sit down now, spoilsport?” Bill says dramatically, jingling the blue chains in hand in a subtle threat.
Ford, at risk of being dragged over, walks over willingly as though that gives him any more pride. He takes it slow, eyeing Bill and then eyeing the couch with a healthy dose of suspicion, but Bill remains terrifyingly still, simply observing him approach like a skittish cat. When he slows down a little in mild worry that the couch will jerk back to life, Bill coos wordlessly at him, which is threatening all by itself.
With a quiet seething sigh through teeth, Ford turns himself around and takes a slow seat in an honestly quite comfortable chair right beside Bill. He sinks into the plush cushions, and it takes his weight very nicely. He fights not to spread out and relax.
“You listen better than I thought you would!” Bill chirps, the compliment backhanded and loud where he’s practically hollering into Ford’s ear from beside him.
Ford scowls again. “Is this some sort of ploy to get me on your side?” He asks suspiciously, leaning away and side-eyeing the demon as Bill blatantly inspects him from all sides. Observing him like a homeowner would do with a home full of design possibilities.
“Nooo. What makes you think THAT? Can’t a well-meaning triangle just want to help his stupid little guy?” Bill waves him off, blinking back up to meet his stone-set gaze. Cheekily, with Ford’s scowl not abating, he coos, “careful, there. Don’t leave your face like that for too long! It just might stay that way.”
Unable to tell if Bill is subtly threatening him or just being mischievous, Ford’s face falls apart a little, unsure whether to continue frowning or try for something else. The stress of it leaves him with a light sideways quirk to his lips, hands clutched into fists in his lap.
He’s exhausted, and Bill’s mind games and double-edged words and terrifying powers are all proving to be extra grating today. Ford huffs to himself, refraining from pressing against the sore, aching spot above his eye where his migraine has nestled, though he’s sure his haunted look gives him away well enough.
“You’re real tense, you know that?” Bill muses, not backing off when Ford jerks his head around, cursing himself for taking his eyes off of the demon. He hasn’t moved, but he does look oddly coy. “I can help with that,” he continues, as though Ford asked.
He reaches out, claw tips glinting, and Ford immediately leans away defensively, eying Bill’s reaching hands and clawed fingertips with fair wariness.
“Awe, c’maaahn. I’m just a little guy, a little dude. What damage could I do to that huge brain of yours?” Bill cajoles, his voice going high-pitched and crooning, trying to coax Ford into obviously making another awful decision.
When Ford does nothing but harden his gaze, refusing to give in, Bill’s coaxing softness predictably falls away to annoyance. It’s not a surprise to watch his kindness melt away in real time, replaced by an expression Ford braces upon seeing, expecting pain.
“Fine,” Bill huffs, snapping his fingers again.
A much larger manacle shackles itself around the vulnerable column of Ford’s neck, its long chain shooting out behind Ford’s back to attach itself to a wall behind the couch. It pulls itself taut, ensuring Ford has zero wiggle room as his back is pressed tight to the backrest of the couch.
It’s both immensely comfortable and uncomfortable, with the couch being plush and gentle, at stark contrast with the bruising force pressed against his trachea. His bound hands lift instinctively to grip at the blue manacle, trying to pry it from his throat, but it’s solid and real beneath his fingers, much like the shackles around his aching wrists.
“Much better!” Bill chirps, back to being chipper. His weight leaves the couch beside Ford, gathering his jerky attention as he looks over. He just catches the tail-end of Bill disappearing behind him, his presence hard to miss as it takes up position directly behind him — close enough to have the hairs on the back of Ford’s neck pricking. “NOW! It’s been a hot minute since I’ve done this, but I’m sure it’ll be fine! Won’t be a big deal even if it’s NOT fine, either, which is the best part! SO! Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride!”
Extremely worrying. It probably wasn’t meant to be comforting in the slightest and, well, Bill achieved it.
“Hang– hang on, what the hell are you doing?” Ford tries to demand, his voice reedy from the pressure against the front of his throat. He twitches with surprise as Bill’s fingers, spread out wide and slightly arched, take surprising places all around the top of his head, nestling between hair strands to press firmly against his scalp.
Despite bracing for anything painful, nothing of the sort happens. Bill doesn’t slice off a bunch of skin, nor does he make any inclination of whatever the hell has gotten his attention this time. His fingers just gently situate themselves, bleeding warmth into Ford’s already-heated brain.
“Let’s ease some RELAXATION into this JOINT!” Bill declares, completely ignoring Ford’s shaky demand.
Opening his mouth to try again and get an answer he knows he won’t receive, he’s stopped. Sensation shoves its way into his brain, a small electrical shock traversing Bill’s fingers and exploring its way into Ford’s brain and skin and bone.
He jerks at the odd sensation, yelping even though it didn’t entirely hurt, just mostly startled him. He waits for a second for anything else, but there’s no secondary shock, but Bill’s fingers don’t leave, either. With no answer, he tries to twist himself around, neck aching as it’s pulled at in his quest, which is abruptly stopped by Bill pressing a third hand against his shoulder in subtle warning.
“I don’t THINK I’d recommend moving around a whole lot for this,” Bill tells him in a way that hints he won’t stop Ford again if he does start wriggling. “I might just hit something I shouldn’t! And we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”
Ford blinks, still halfway twisted around in his attempt to get his eyes on Bill. Slowly, admitting defeat, Ford turns back around to face the opposite wall, letting his back press firmly against the couch once more.
“Good,” Bill says approvingly, and readjusts his fingers. He plants them firmly in different spots this time, though not very far from their initial position. To Ford’s bewilderment, the same shock happens again, a little bit stronger, and yet with nowhere near enough force to have Ford jerking through agony.
He lets a beat pass before he asks, “what are you doing?” with no small amount of alarm.
“Lightwork, no reaction,” Bill mocks in turn, though his tone is more on the thinking side of things, which doesn’t bode well for Ford. “This is UNSUITABLE! We must go deeper,” he declares, much to Ford’s growing horror and alarm.
“Hold the fuck on—” Ford stammers, having no idea what that means and not wanting to. Anything that has to do with Bill’s fingers pressing deeper into places that they shouldn’t isn’t something he wants to experience, especially with the position he’s in right now. Bill could kill him for all he knows.
Despite his reservations, Bill carries onwards as though he’s the only one with opinions in this relationship.
The following sensation is impossible to describe in completely accurate detail. It’s cold and warm and hot and thick, like an undeniable pressure that Ford feels pressing down on him, into the folds of his brain, through thick bone and wet meat. The pressure itself feels much like the migraine housed inside his brain, except without noticeable pain. Just cold and hot discomfort, and the sinking sensation of probing fingers pressing into him.
There’s no wound, no pain like any wound is being made, Bill’s fingers just sink. Slow and with obvious effort, like pressing through mud. They delve into his frontal lobe and his superior and frontal gyrus, and they just keep going.
The white hot sensation of something should be coming through as pain he thinks. Realistically, this should be hurting badly enough to have him screaming, but there’s only this awful pressure that’s making it feel like his eyes are about to pop out, and that white hot cold feeling, like he’s being bathed in liquid nitrogen.
For a moment, as Bill’s fingers press ever deeper, Ford is left unseeing. His mouth drops open at the liquid splash of fingers morphing through his brain matter, easy as you please. Like pushing through putty.
On the plus side, Ford can’t feel his migraine anymore. He’s not sure if his body is just trying to focus on Bill’s fingers pushing into him, or if the pressure he’s feeling is drowning out the pain, but that is nice. It was getting to a pretty unmanageable point before this.
“Almost got it,” Bill hums, his voice sloshing around in Ford’s ears like he’s not actually there or talking. It’s terribly disorienting.
Ford tries to say something in return, finding his tongue loose and useless, and Bill giggles.
“Whoopsie! Yeah, lemme just shift over this way–” Bill says, like it’s not concerning the placement of his fingers had taken away Ford’s ability to speak. They shift a little over, then continue going.
Ford, despite being able to talk now, has no idea what the hell to say, and so he says nothing.
Whatever Bill is looking for is deep in his brain. His fingers just seem to keep going, stretching endlessly and surprisingly carefully, treading the minefield of Ford’s brain with an odd slowness. Ford chalks this up to Bill simply not being able to go as fast as he wants due to whatever reason his fingers sink so slowly.
With a deep humming noise, his fingers shift again, hitting another part of Ford’s brain. This one cuts off his olfactory and then, with another simple shift, his hearing. It comes back on with a popping noise like a recalibrating TV with another easy shift and push, adjusting. And then, finally, he seems to find what he wants.
Bill’s fingers, all eight of them, plant along something Ford can’t quite name. He just knows they seem to be placed all along some branch of nerves on both sides of his brain, little fingertips nestling deep into his brain, humming satisfaction.
“How’s that feeling?” Bill asks, wriggling his fingers a little, as though still not entirely sure where he even wants them to be, making Ford’s head wriggle in turn.
“You— you-” Ford says, finding it inexplicably hard to string anything together. He has to focus far more than he should, putting each word together like he’s piecing together a puzzle. The worst part is he’s not even sure if the pieces match. “You… get your. Your fingers out of me.”
“You haven’t even experienced the best part! Don’t be so hasty!” Bill chirps in a flippant response, which is nothing but worrying. “There’s a METHOD to my MADNESS, don’t get weird on me now.”
Ford would love to snark something back, but Bill chooses that time to do the exact thing he apparently had started this whole thing for. His fingers pulse. That same pulsing of electricity that he tried to transmit into Ford’s brain from his scalp, except it’s so much more when it’s directly inside his skull. The pulse is very small, but it feels like a lot.
It zaps pleasure through his brain. Pure pleasure. Mind-numbingly a lot for the short time it lasts, then disappears with a coolness. Ford’s body jerks, mouth dropping open to pant, eyes wide and pupils swallowing all colour like a black hole, fingers digging into the couch below his body.
Whatever Bill’s fingers are planted on, it’s directly linked to his reward system. It feels like a reward, too, leaving him hot and needy as the pulse disappears. His body, which had been so tense, sags a little more into the couch, breathing through the reediness of his own throat.
“See?” Bill says smugly, feeling the tension roll from his shoulders. “Not so tense now. If you had just TRUSTED me, this could have happened so much sooner.”
Another pulse into his brain, upped by .1, but even that small change is catastrophic. Ford’s body trembles, his brain lighting up, neural pathways fritzing with mind-numbing electricity he had no idea could feel so good.
Bill is certainly right, Ford isn’t nearly as tense as he previously was, slumped against the couch backrest. His head is kept high by the shackle under his jaw, feeling boneless with Bill’s fingers planted firmly in his brain like an invasive species of plant.
With every ebb of electricity, leaving him craving more, Bill ups it by another .1, keeping him on the edge of his seat as his body gradually becomes more and more affected by the touches. It feels like his damn brain is oozing out of his ears, mouth welling with spit as he forgets to swallow.
Bill slowly cranks up the voltage bit by agonizing bit, which is both as good as it is painful, but Ford continuously finds himself craving more and more and more. It’d be embarrassing to want something so much, to fall apart so easily, if it didn’t feel so good and his brain was properly working. He stood no chance against this.
As it is, his thoughts are all floating around like they’re inside a bowl of tupperware, unimportant in comparison to the pleasure he’s feeling, carefully stowed away until he feels prepared to face them again.
He tries to slur something, maybe a malformed attempt at Bill’s name with all the consonants and vowels out of place. His tongue, despite not being affected, to his knowledge, by Bill’s touch, does not seem to want to work, only to produce enough spit for him to choke on. He’s left to instead feebly and weakly moan in response to the alighting pleasure, squirming despite the hand on his shoulder holding him as still as it can.
He knows it’s not a good idea to squirm, but he’s past the point of really caring, desperate for more. A terrifying sensation, and one that momentarily brings him back to himself, only to sink right back under as Bill allows a finger to crook fondly against the nerves in his brain connected to his reward system.
With the stirring pleasure in his brain, it’s only a matter of time before the rest of his body responds, which it gradually does. He already feels like a livewire of sensations, like he’s been edged for hours despite his cock just barely starting to harden, interested in the pleasure, though slow in waking up from the non-constant stimulation.
Obviously, the low voltage and pulses are to be safe, to dip a toe into the pool of something new and intriguing, but Ford is greedy. And since when was Bill ever concerned about safety?
Ford, needy and unable to properly articulate his wants, reaches up with both bound hands, shackles jingling as he waves them near Bill’s hands above his head. It’s the best he can do, sticky-slow like he’s wading through syrup.
Somehow, Bill understands what he wants, and, despite not being able to see Bill’s eye curve into a snarling grin, Ford swears he can feel it. The demon generously obliges to his non-verbal request, perhaps going a little too fast.
Bill cranks it, and Ford swears he sees god on the next agonizing pulse of electricity. Or something close to it. He yelps like a kicked dog, hips jerking upwards and drawing previously distracted attention downwards. Bill’s eye, previously focused intently on Ford’s face, jerks downwards, finding the tent in the man’s pants and his little rolling hips, looking for some kind of pressure other than the teasing brush of his boxers rubbing against the leaking head of his cock.
It’s kind of pathetic, but Ford can’t even bring himself to care, feeling himself spinning down and around on this downward spiral, and doing nothing to stop it.
“It looks like that feels real nice,” Bill purrs, his voice breaking through the thick fog that had enveloped Ford’s brain. His eyes, wet and dewy with unshed tears, open up wide, peering ahead despite not being able to see Bill. He tries to nod his head, but Bill hushes him, cooing, “ah, ah, ah. What did I say about moving? I might hurt you.”
“‘S- ‘s good,” Ford manages, fighting against his own brain and tongue to make a concrete sentence. He’s not even entirely sure if he managed a full sentence, but Bill hums a pleased note like he understands, so he must've.
“Good! I just want you to feel good, y’know? You just make it so darn hard sometimes! And, well, you know me. Temper ‘n all, amiright?” Bill sighs, sprinkling much smaller and yet near-constant pulses into Ford’s brain, bringing Ford right to that unattainable edge before it all stops.
His shifting hips collapse back into the couch, panting raggedly with the collar pressing hard into his throat, but stopping isn’t even in his vocabulary right now.
“But that’s alright, ‘cuz I’ve got you right under my fingers this time, don’t I?” Bill coos, snorting when Ford blinks rapidly to try and make perfect sense of Bill’s words. Hopefully he remembers some of what the demon said when he’s more capable of rational thought.
“I definitely do,” Bill confirms to himself, sounding self-assured as he does so. “Now! Let’s see here–”
Ford spasms a little as Bill’s fingers shift inside his brain, pressing through his jello-like brain-matter to explore a little further than he probably should. They both feel Bill’s pinky finger brush lightly against the metal plate Ford has screwed into his cranium. It must really hurt Bill, as the demon hisses a pained sound at the contact, jerking his fingers in a rough way that takes Ford’s head with them. His fingers rip through meat and bone and neural pathways and nerves.
He must hit something, as a second later, once his fingers are back in place, Ford registers the sensation of something cold and wet leaking from his nose. Through movements that feel slow and sticky, he reaches up and presses against the liquid. Retracting, he finds his fingertips coated with blood.
Well, that’s a pretty obvious sign that what Bill is doing is dangerous, that Ford is probably gaining some brain damage or something equally as bad from letting Bill play around his brain like it’s a jungle-gym.
Analyzing his fingers, there’s no drop in his belly despite knowing there probably should be. Just foggy, distant interest. Like he’s observing an injury in someone he doesn’t quite care about.
“Well! That’s a whole other reason to add to my MANY list of reasons why this pesky plate in your brain has GOT to go!” Bill huffs, recollecting himself quickly from the painful jumpscare. “Just ignore the blood! Means what I’m doing is working.”
With his fingers back in place, Bill wastes no time returning to the previous voltage, sending warm and surprising and good little pulses of electricity into Ford’s touch-starved brain. He’d nuzzle into it if he could, but for distant fear of bleeding more, he tries his best to keep the movements to his lower-half.
His one-track mind is quickly put back on track as the pleasure starts back up, bringing him back into the current moment and away from any icky thoughts about the blood now coating his fingertips. Now Ford can only think about Bill’s fingers and his own needy cock, straining through layers of fabric and leaking dramatically.
Slowly, Bill starts carefully drawing his fingers out, and then pressing back in. Over and over again, slow-going and yet lovely. He pulses electricity the whole time, sweetening the movements, and Ford cannot breathe. He’s drenched with sweat, and, at one point, swears he’s hallucinating, seeing black spots and white beings and colours he never even knew existed.
It probably has something to do with the fingers planted in his brain, shifting subtly into different parts with every unrestrained toss of Ford’s head. Treading a dangerous line, but nothing awful has happened yet.
His hips roll consistently into nothing, chasing pleasure he’s getting primarily from his head and a little from the damp rub of his briefs and pants, acting like a poor mutt in heat as he ruts against air.
“Good boy,” Bill tries, in that tone of voice he takes when he’s trying to prove a hypothesis.
Ford does not disappoint. He hiccups wetly, hips stuttering for a heart-dropping moment, head falling back a little more into the couch despite not needing to, and Bill’s fingers fall with him. He doesn’t really want Ford to become a vegetable. As entertaining as it would be.
As his pleasure crests, gradually getting closer and closer to that peak, the sounds falling uninhibited from Ford’s mouth grow more common, and more desperate. It could certainly be considered music.
“With how well this has worked, I should just keep my fingers all comfy here,” Bill hums conversationally, thumb caressing along that forebrain bundle, almost lovingly. “You wouldn’t even be able to say no like this! I’d just keep you nice and relaxed, without worry, like you deserve! Easy for the taking, with not a SINGLE thing you’ll have to worry about.”
Despite hearing everything like it’s coming in through water-clogged ears, Ford’s distorted brain thinks that sounds okay. Ford moans in response, thick, lined with spit, and raspy, but pleasure-filled. His eyes fall shut with a whimper, letting his body float in this pleasure.
“It’ll probably get a bit annoying, honestly, if I had to keep my hands here ALL of the time, but I’m SURE I could figure something out. If it’s pleasure that dumbs you down and makes you all soft, I could definitely figure something out,” Bill continues, following through with some more pulses. The voltage is higher, almost painful, and yet pleasure blooms through like grass under ice.
Ford’s orgasm hits him with surprise. He creams his pants, hips rolling up one last time, back arching as one last, long, pulse of electrical stimulation tears through him. Like the buzz of pleasurable hornets, home inside his body.
He trembles through the aftershocks, hips twitching with every little pulse, cock softening. His pants are soaked, newly uncomfortable as the pleasure dies down, and Bill’s fingers lift from his brain.
The demon pulls them out perhaps a little too roughly, leaving behind no crater or trace of penetration, and wipes off the residual slickness over Ford’s tear-stained cheek. Plasma or spinal fluid or something equally as gross, Ford’s delirious brain suggests, which could be true.
Already, with Bill’s fingers no longer making themselves comfortable inside his brain, he can feel himself clearing up. Slowly, the fog abates, and Ford manages to scrape up some exhausted horror at the fact that just happened and he got off to it. He was not expecting brain-fucking today, and yet here he is.
“That migraine gone?” Bill chirps, popping into his line of sight with glistening fingers he wipes off on himself. “Your sad snivelling was making ME sad, and that’s saying something!”
“So obviously the next step was to put your fingers in my brain,” Ford mumbles back, reaching up with bound hands to wipe off the rest of the drying blood from his upper lip, having not gotten to do that. “Makes sense to me.”
“Kittens using his claws,” Bill sneers, sounding pleased. “I’ll write that up as a SUCCESS!”
Despite just curing Ford of his ailment, Bill gets right back into torturing him because, and Ford quotes, “getting answers to urgent questions waits for no man.”