Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.”

Chapter Text

Ford stands at the mouth of the hole that leads into the cave system down below. A view into the innards of this planet. The sight of it is a little nerve wracking — especially considering what it leads down to — but recent scouts from his drones had mapped out the cave pretty well.

Why is he going into a deep dark cave?

Simple.

There’s an important material at the very end that he needs for his diving gear which he’ll be using on a separate planet to get another material for his blaster which has been broken for a good week now. Thank god for spare guns and secret knives.

It should be pretty easy. And in and out job. There’s just one part of the cave system that he’s feeling a bit of trepidation about. Near the end; there’s a large opening that leads to a very very tight squeeze. One that he’ll barely be able to squeeze through. However, with no other opening, and with such a rare material so close by, Ford doesn’t have much of a choice.

He’s already stripped off as much gear as he can afford, keeping the important bits on, just to make himself a bit slimmer. It won’t do much, but at least it’ll lessen the likelihood he gets stuck. And if he does, hopefully the people he’s working for who want a share of the material will send scouts.

Preferably before he dehydrates completely.

With his gear hidden in a nearby bush, his headlamp fastened to his head, straps tightened and nerves relatively calmed, he throws a rope down the steep side. This is the only steep part, at least. Everything else is just treacherous in how uneven the ground is and how narrow that one stretch is.

He reaches ground quickly, then, as he starts navigating the path his drones scouted through the maze-like, cavernous halls, it gets much darker. His flicks on his headlamp, breathing heavier than he’d like to be, leaving his rope behind to hopefully stay. He’s got other means to get out if it doesn’t, but he’d prefer to climb out.

Every step takes him deeper into the belly of the beast, the narrow cave walls seeming to thrum around him. Like he really is inside a living, breathing planet. The weight above him is crushing. Just the mere thought that thousands of pounds of rock is above him is enough to have his lungs voiding breath.

He shakes off the disorienting sensation the best he can, trying to focus, but it never truly goes away.

In record time (perhaps an hour) he makes it to the part he had been dreading. The narrow maze-like pathways he had been navigating for that hour opens into a large ovoid opening that, despite its immense size, does not reach the surface. Ford has to swing his head this way and that to find the opening, scanning the rock walls and corners of the opening and— there.

Tucked into a corner is his way forward. It’s so small he’s barely able to tell that it is the entrance, but he can see the slight blot of darkness where the hole opens up.

Ford scales the uneven ground, kicking rocks along as he slides his way over. It doesn’t get any bigger once he’s up close and personal with the opening, looking like a right delight to crawl his way through.

Well, here goes nothing. Not much choice, he reminds himself, and drops to his hands and knees. He begins breaching the entrance, bit by bit, shuffle by shuffle, his belt and gear catching on the opening and its serrated edges. It gives him a minor scare every time he gets snagged.

His head disappears inside the opening, his torso, his hips, his legs, his feet, until he’s completely swallowed by the smallest cave path he’s ever taken.

There’s only forward to go, and forward he does. On and on he inches his way across the uneven, deathly cold ground that hasn’t seen the sun in probably ever. It’s tedious, and exhausting. He can’t move his head too far up or risk hitting it on the ceiling, nor can he let it hang too far down or he risks scraping his chin on the ground.

His neck aches with the uncomfortable angle he has to hold it at, his body scraped at by hard corners. He’s not making very much progress, he can tell. But every tiny shift of effort is another bit closer to his exit.

And then his subsequent return through this exact tunnel. He dreads the thought of coming back through.

His chest refuses to expand properly, limiting the amount of oxygen he’s able to draw in. The mere fact he can’t breathe properly is nearly enough to have him try and shuffle his way out backwards, but he simply calms himself, then persists. He’s made it this far.

He keeps his right hand in front of his face, armed with the watch-like device that lets him see how much further he has to go. It’s a little disheartening. Every minute a single meter passes.

He has 109 meters to go.

Breathing turns into grunts and pants, aching continuing to worsen as he pushes himself further, refusing to stop. At this rate he’s going to get out of here in two Karglon 8b6t days — the planet he’s currently inside.

Eventually, muscles straining, he does have to take a break. He stops grunting and shifting and stops moving entirely, allowing his perspiring head to drop to his hand, acting as a little rest stop for his face. His ears ring from how quiet it is without the scraping of his gear and the grunting of his lungs to break the silence.

He tries to slow his breathing, trying not to let the dead silence get to him, or how heavy it all feels. Despite the rock walls not moving any closer, Ford still can’t breathe like he’s being squeezed.

Break over, Ford continues. Slow, inching, shuffling movements. Inching his body along bit by bit like he’s some sort of inchworm, using his steel-toe boots to help push himself along. His toes slip on loose rocks and any loud sounds of crumbling rocks has his heart internally jumping.

Once he’s just a little over halfway through and has made it to the point where he has to take regular breaks, something happens. The oddest sensation. Wind. Pushing in on him from ahead, warm and fresh and smelling like rainfall.

It makes him pause when he feels the cooling sensation running along sweat-soaked skin, brows knitting together.

That’s not possible. There’s no opening where he’s heading, and his drones didn’t pick up on any cracks or small openings that could lead to the surface. Ford himself studied the numerous branching paths and his destination with a hysterical sort of focus, refusing to let any detail go unnoticed. In none of his checks did he see any sort of opening — crack or tiny hole or large canyon or otherwise.

Ford carefully starts inching forward again, newly curious about where the wind flow is coming from. He ends up making it just a little further before the wind abruptly stops. He stops too, confused, then presses himself as low to the cave floor as he can as a large billowing gust of wind attacks him. Loud and roaring, picking up small rocks and propelling them into his face and eyelids.

On the wind he swears, hidden within the howling, that he hears distant, familiar laughter. It’s impossible to confirm, and could damn well be his own fears making him hear things that aren’t there.

The wind dies down. Back to a stillness that feels like everything is holding its breath in wait.

When Ford manages to open his eyes, breathing heavily through his mouth, wondering what the FUCK is going on, the cave itself creaks. Deep and rumbling, like the slow croak of an ill-oiled door hinge. Ford feels it in his damn bones, like something big waking up after eons of hibernating.

Combining with the noise, the cave itself starts moving. It doesn’t move like it’s falling apart due to an earthquake, however, instead moving like shifting limbs. Like jagged and sharp tree roots jutting through the ground due to tectonic plates.

Ahead, Ford’s head-lamp reveals just what he had been fearing. The cave is moving. Closing. Jaggedly, like teeth gnashing together, slotting against each other violently. Ford tries to start inching himself backwards, but his gear gets caught quickly and he’s even slower like this.

Behind him, the uproarious gnashing of the same cave teeth closes in on him. On either side, he’s effectively trapped. He feels a sharp edge slice through the skin of his shin, a little too deep, and the jutting rock catches both feet in a tight wedge. He pulls, shifting, but his large boots find themselves stuck within hard, serrated rock.

Underneath him, the rock rises. Above, the rock presses sharply right between two spine knobs, pinning him like a moth.

This, Ford can at least tell you, isn’t normal. Not in the slightest. Not even for an alien planet. Ford was warned of earthquakes on Klargon, but not that they’d be like this. Not like the cave walls would move as though alive, pressing into his skin with sharp edges, refusing to allow him enough room to escape.

Above his head, a sharp edge slams against his head-lamp, striking the bulb and smashing it, sending him into claustrophobic, squeezing darkness. He’s stuck in blackness, pinned down his spine, the pain worsened when he tries to wriggle himself out.

Ford wheezes for breath, blunting his nails as he tries to claw his way out of the tight squeeze. It’s for nothing, of course, as he’s quite compactly held, even his head stuck within a tiny pocket. He can’t even see where he is, what the terrain around him looks like, if there’s anything living he has to fight.

For a moment, Ford freely panics, kicking and squirming in animal instinct despite the way the rocks press in on him a little tighter in chastisement. It squeezes tighter and tighter until Ford has to fall still or risk being killed.

The cave, curiously, also stops squeezing. Lessening to a firm hold, though without the pressing concern of being squeezed to death.

Well, any doubts about this being a normal earthquake have been confirmed. Whatever it is, it’s alive.

Ford licks his dry lips, tasting a thin layer of duster from the collapsing movement of the rocks. The wind returns, curling and coiling through the slightest gaps between the sharp rock edges. It cools his sweating skin and, on its breath, carries a voice.

“Fancy meeting you here!” The voice says, familiar even though Ford really wishes it wasn’t. “Did you just want a bit of a claustrophobic ADRENALINE RUSH or WHAT?”

Ford’s mood both, terribly, sweetens and sours. Sweetens because it’s just Bill who’s the cause of the cave moving, and sours because it’s Bill. God knows what he even wants, apparently bad enough to trap Ford in a cave system, so far from sunlight he may as well commit to the dark.

“Bill,” Ford says with palpable aggression, scowling into the dark in random spots in the hopes that Bill will be able to see or feel it.

“JEEZ, not the happiest cave squirmer, are you?” Bill asks, his voice whispery thin and distant, yet close enough it feels like he’s buzzing around Ford’s head; a fly threatening to crawl in through his ear and eat his brain up. “I was just curious what you were doing! It’s not every day I get to possess a PLANET to check in on you, you know! Good on you for choosing a small one. Best I could’ve done with something larger was MAYBE some real earthquakes.” there’s a light shudder of the planet and when Bill’s voice rings out again he’s noticeably quieter. “You’re very warm, by the way.”

“You’re the planet?” Ford asks as calmly as he can manage, wanting to refrain from immediately commanding Bill to let him go. Bill has never taken commands well, especially from Ford. He has to tread carefully.

He’s still not even sure if Bill is planning on killing him, despite obviously having the power. It’s a mystery why he trapped Ford in the cave, either, considering no bounty hunter in their right mind would crawl down. God, there’s probably at least two up on the surface by now. They better not have gotten to his things.

In response to his question, he gets a low rumbling sound from all over, the planet itself shifting and breathing. It’s all the answer he needs, really. Ford gasps quietly with fear as little rocks fall from the ceiling, getting lost in his hair. “Stop that!”

Bill, to his credit, does immediately stop.

“Not a fan of the shaking, are ya?” He asks, his voice like hot, acrid breath curling at the shells of Ford’s ears. No matter what he does to paw away the sensation, it persists. “Fair enough! You are quite outta your element, aren’t ya, wise guy? Wriggling through a CAVE SYSTEM? What’s up with that?”

“As if I’d tell you,” Ford grunts, attempting to squirm his way out of the situation. The sharp parts of the rocks are cruel, carving small slices into his skin when he moves, though the pain is hardly a deterrent. What is a deterrent is Bill moving the walls in closer, pressing snug around his waist and sharply into his legs and spine. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just in the neighbourhood,” Bill replies pleasantly, offering up information a little too easily to be trustworthy. “Noticed your wreck of a ship nearby and thought I’d drop by to say hi! Wasn’t expecting you in a cave, though. I like the change of scenery, even if I can’t really SEE.”

“Bill, I really don’t have time for this,” Ford says, falling still again with panting breaths, desperately trying to keep himself calm. He can’t tell if it’s the snugness or Bill’s presence or the weight of numerous tons of rock above him or what, but he’s panicking a little. He can’t see and Bill’s presence is certainly a danger.

He could not be in a worse situation.

“Well, you’re gonna MAKE time for it,” Bill tells him, likely just to be difficult. There’s nothing really to do here, and, unless Bill wants to kill him, there’s no reason for the demon to hold him hostage. “I don’t think there’s anywhere else you wanna be, either. Unless you wanna spill WHY you’re here?”

Ford remains resolutely silent.

Bill laughs. The planet laughs with him, dislodging more rocks. Ford feels his blood pressure rising when he hears what sounds like a collapsed entrance somewhere far behind him. Bill better fix that when he’s done with whatever he has planned here.

“What do you want, then?” Ford asks bitingly. It’s what Bill wants him to ask, evident by his pleasured purring sound that Ford feels resonating inside his damn head.

“You ever fuck a planet, Einstein?” Bill asks curiously and bluntly. “Or been fucked by a planet, I guess! Either or, really! I don’t think you can go wrong with EITHER.”

“What, you trapped me down here to let me experience the true thrill of planet-fucking?” Ford asks with a note of hysterical incredulity he’s not proud of.

“You get to cross this off your bucket list when we’re done,” Bill cajoles, his voice getting a little louder with obvious excitement. “And you get bragging rights. What’s NOT to love?”

“I don’t think I’d ever brag about—” Ford begins to say, eyes rolling, when a rather blunt mound of rock rises out of the ground beneath him, pressing right into his crotch firmly. It pinpoints his dick with a terrifying amount of accuracy, the pressure pulling a sharp gasp of surprise from the man. “Bill,” he hisses, hips shifting to try and escape the touch, but his body is effectively trapped.

Got it. He doesn’t get a choice.

“Speak for YOURSELF, I’m bragging about this the first chance I GET,” Bill purrs, something self-satisfactory in his voice that has Ford’s skin prickling.

“Bill, I haven’t even agreed,” Ford hisses, fingers scrabbling, swallowing a lump inside his throat. Every little movement of his causes the slightest trace amounts of pleasure to shine through. He falls still with much self-control, only for the blunt surface to rub at him instead. A curious undulating movement that makes it feel like Ford is frotting against something alive, despite how cold it is. His body warmth is quickly changing that.

“You don’t hafta,” Bill says back, and Ford can just see how the demon is probably shrugging those stupid little black shoulders of his. Fuck, what he wouldn’t give to sink his teeth into that flesh. He shakes off that thought as soon as it arrives, but it’s obvious the slightest amount of stimulation to his touch-starved cock is already reducing him to something worse than he is.

He supposes this is why he hasn’t sought out any sort of company to get rid of any lingering stress in his being. He’d think of Bill, and losing his mind in such a way is something he can’t afford.

Plus, he’s gotta kill the imp. He can’t waste time on escorts.

Ford raises his hips feebly, feels rocks press into his body in response, pressing hard shapes into his soft flesh to squish him back into the ground. Into that rolling rock. There’s nowhere to arch away into, Bill making sure of that.

Then, in the darkness, something else.

A soft, feathery touch up the back of his ankle, like a feather duster brushing along his skin. It takes him a second to realize there’s something else touching him in the darkness, something he can’t do anything about. Not even if it’s hostile.

Curiously, the soft touch feels as though it’s tickling against soft skin despite the layers of his pants definitely still hugging him. Maybe not for much longer, but the touch still shouldn’t be that clear.

The creature that the softness is attached to presses in from behind and above him, feeling something hulking at the same time it feels like a cleaning item slowly brushing up his leg. He swears he feels hot breaths against his neck. He tries not to panic but if the way he freezes is any indication, he’s not calm.

Then there’s something atop of him. Great, big brushing claws sliding against his nape and spine, impossible touches considering the narrowness of the cave, but it feels so real. Ford can feel every slight line in the claws, every bit of texture. What else could be there?

“Bi— Bill,” Ford gasps, not yet in pleasure but in a sort of panicked, gooey haze, trying to move and finding nowhere to go as this hulking weight settles in above him. It’s feathery and feels animalistic as it hunches just above him, practically groping at him with these soft touches. Logically, there can be nothing there. But physically, and with no eyes to prove himself wrong or right, it’s hard not to believe he’s being hunched over by a creature neither he nor Bill noticed until now. Big enough to cover his body, yet small enough to squirm through cracks. “Is that—?”

Deep claws prick him around the waist, and even though it feels like he’s pinned down and can’t move, it also feels like his hips are picked up. He gasps, clawing at the ground as he’s lifted up, eyes going fully wide as though he can see.

“Probably nothing!” Bill chirps, brushing off Ford’s honestly quite fair concerns. “Maybe you’re the one losing it after all!”

Ford deduces Bill knows what’s happening then, either able to see what’s touching Ford or in control of it all entirely.

As though in confirmation, there’s a flurry of touches that land all over Ford’s body, overwhelming in their number and intensity, refusing to let him arch in any direction other than into something’s touch. Something wet and velvety, most likely a tongue but ridged and thick licks along the nape of his neck. He swears he feels the splatter of lukewarm spit slipping down his neck, onto his hands and soaking into his turtleneck.

Ford feels a little like a kitten getting a bath, though the ridgedness of the tongue sloping over and above him is not cruel, and instead has the languidity of something that wants. His shirt is caught and rucked up by this great tongue, and great clawed hands knead at his clothed thighs.

Despite not yet being touched anywhere erogenous, Ford still feels sparks of inane pleasure crackling from the spots where creatures press. He’s already panting heavily, head spinning and leaving him with a sick sense of vertigo, trying desperately to place forms and weights and appearances to the various creatures poised above him. There’s no way it’s just one. There’s too many variations. Too many claw tips and hands and long, lithe, furry appendages on his body. The only thing they have in common is that they all seem to be predators, with their sharp touches and appendages made to strangle or maim.

Ford has never wished he could see as much as he does right now, even if there’s still doubt in his body that any of this is even real.

His body aches though, for touch, and that’s as real as it gets.

Teeth nibble at the curve of his back, where his shirt had been rucked up, and, as though following suit, Ford has mouths on him. Coming from nothing and everything, with teeth and circular suckers, teasingly gentle, threatening to get violent.

“The mind really is a crazy thing, isn’t it?” Bill practically purrs, watching Ford fall to tongues and wings and muscled thighs and clawing hands and tails and tentacles. All over him, sucking marks into his skin, clawing gouges along the ridges of his spine, bending him into a slight arch to have him prettily bent out of shape. “Making something out of nothing when it’s practically BLIND. How much of this do you think you can handle?”

Ford doesn’t know, and it becomes even more unclear when he swears he feels the tearing of his pants, and the rush of warm, gasping breath washing over his nether regions. He shudders, hole puckering, dick hardening between his legs, getting to full mast gradually with all of the touches.

Ford presses his head into the long tongue loosely coiled around the front of his throat, feeling the forked, thick tip laving across his ruddy cheek. It’s not hurting him, despite having many chances to do so, and Ford still doesn’t think anything else can be down here with him. There’s probably no harm in subconsciously seeking out more touch. More affection. Even if it’s animal in nature.

One of those large, large hands splays across the back of his neck, warm and rough, like scales brushing his nape. It presses his front down until he’s pressed flat and firm to the ground, his hips hiked upwards, sweater pushed until it’s pooling under his arms and across his nape. The bareness of his torso allows what feels like a large mouth to gingerly surround his belly and spine, teeth digging into his flesh.

It’s insane, it can’t be happening, and yet, without his eyes to confirm or deny, Ford is left to the whims of his overactive imagination.

There’s drool all over his back, pooling into the divots of his spine, something hulking and huge with a paw pressing him down by his neck. He’s not used like a chew toy, just gingerly held as a tongue squirms between teeth and glides across and around his upper half.

He claws at the ground, helpless, and feels his wrists come together, bound by something with suction cups and velvety skin, twining through his fingers and down his arms. The new appendages drip with salty water, lukewarm, and Ford can practically feel the liquid sizzle as it lands on his feverish flesh.

His mouth is open, dropped wide to allow him to gasp in and out, his nose not feeling like it’s big enough for the gulps he wants to make. Unable to see anything, Ford has no chance to fight back against whatever takes advantage of his open mouth, slipping inside. Something long and wide, stretching his lips around it as it nudges right into the back of his mouth.

Ford gags on it in surprise, eyes going even wider despite not revealing anything, teeth sinking into the same velvety flesh around his wrists. It tastes a little salty. Brine-like.

He can’t tilt his head back, stuck with his neck pinned, and it leaves the tentacle-like appendage to flood his mouth with warmth. Tinging his mouth with pleasant numbness. It takes Ford far too long to realize the warmth is liquid being flooded into his mouth and not just some odd sensation that his brain is making up.

By the time he starts freaking out, the mysterious contents are already taking effect and the appendage in his mouth has slipped away.

He’s warming up, feeling the sensation of liquid heat pool in his chest and belly with heavy weight; slithering into his extremities. The same warmth that’s being trickled down his throat. It’s addicting in the way a bad vice is, and, despite not making him particularly hazy, it does seem to be amping everything up to 200.

The touches spark with little blooms of pleasure now, making every bit of creature-on-skin contact feel like Ford is sucking on a battery. The noises seem to get louder, harder to ignore, and the heaviness of everything around him, which was once suffocating, is now pleasant. Like a safe cave he found for the night.

Ford feels a constant litany of embarrassing noises escaping him, sharp-pitched and overwhelmed as everything is cranked up to far past what he can handle. He’s feeling too many things at once. Too many things on him.

The slick slide of the tentacle around his wrist sucking circular hickies into his skin with the suckers, the maw that’s nibbling at each vertebrae sticking through his skin, the paw and its claws on his nape, the hands on his waist, the other tentacles he can feel currently winding around his legs.

Ford thinks he would be panicking if it weren’t for the liquid warming him up from the inside out, still spreading. Still warm.

The only thing he’s doing is drooling.

There’s something soft and reminiscent of another tongue draping over his fluttering entrance, dolling out generous amounts of, what Ford hopes is, saliva. It laps over his hole, over and over, applying a bit of pressure with each pass until its tip manages to push past his rim and inside. Ford thinks he sees light. Nothing but sparkling, static light, but for a moment that darkness abates, and Ford thinks he sees something golden and holy.

Then it’s gone, and he’s back in that humid, suffocating darkness, wriggling futilely under many arms and wings as he’s pressed into. He’s stretched open around something that feels real, something that all at once feels like it’s too much and that he’s going to break, but then leaves him with cloying hunger when the tongue pulls back.

There’s no need to worry, as the appendage thrusts back in with an extra inch behind it. His insides are slicked up quickly around something he hadn’t been prepared for, each delicious dragging movement wrenching a small noise from Ford’s mouth, so quickly debased. He’d be embarrassed if he had the brains for it.

“B— Bill!” Ford yelps, voice crackling down the jagged, claustrophobic space. “Bill, it’s— it’s too— nngh!”

“Too much?” Bill asks knowingly, and for a moment there’s a soft tenderness there, claws dragging through Ford’s sweat-slick curls, plastered to his forehead, mindful of their talon-like ends. Then they grip, and Ford feels his cheeks get scraped up as his face is ground into the cave floor. Only pleasure sparks from the rough handling. Ford feels broken. “I think you can TAKE IT, don’t you? No need to be humble around me, Fordsy! Surely some bad hallucinations aren’t the things that take you out, are they?”

Ford tries to scrape up some indignation, some pride, to find some confidence that he can handle this. But as his prostate feels like it’s touched all over, prodded through the flesh of his belly, and that tongue draws out of him with slick noises just to corkscrew deeper into him, he really isn’t sure about that.

He can’t think, can only feel. His own tongue lolls out of his mouth, dripping warm spit, feeling the coolness of the rock beneath his face do nothing to cool him down.

“Bill,” Ford gasps, unable to quite care about how he sounds like some overwhelmed, two-bit whore. “Fuck— what–” A bludgeoning, club-like surface presses up against his rear as the tongue pulls out, against his sloppy, dripping hole, left loose from the gigantic tongue. He tenses, then relaxes immediately without thought.

At the same time that the club-like dick presses in, so do the teeth still gingerly curled around him, so do the teeth nibbling at his hips like they’re cobbing him. Ford yells at the stretch. It’s bigger than the must-be tongue, rounder and blunter, wider.

It spreads him open, punches into him before he can gather himself, before he can force himself into relaxing after he instinctively tensed up once more. It burns, hurting through that glancing pleasure, though not enough to be any kind of deterrent. It just tingles in the back of his throat, leaving him wanting more.

As soon as the cock seats itself inside of his soft walls, nudging against his prostate, it starts up a fast, punishing, jack-hammering pace. Plowing inside of him hard enough to have scaly hips hitting up against him, those hands on his waist hauling him back into it.

Ford bites at his tongue, but he can’t stop the terrible whimpering noises he’s making. Nor the punched-out, soft breaths of someone who’s getting fucked within an inch of their life.

Claws scrape down his chest, something wraps around his neck, around nipples and over sinewy, rippling muscles of his scarred back. The mouth has released him, replaced by feathers and talons and beaks. He’s burning with pain-turned-pleasure, feeling opened up and raw.

“For someone who gets no action, you’re opening up pretty nicely, IQ,” Bill hums from somewhere, sounding mildly impressed. It’s impossible to not feel some kind of smug about that. “Bet you use your fingers more often than not, huh? Those things are pretty MEATY. I wouldn’t be surprised if you used them so often you were used to things being inside of you. You open yourself up before coming down here? Is that why you’re so nice and easy?”

“I— I didn’t–! I don’t—” Ford gasps out, grunting through tainted syllables as his prostate is nailed over and over again. His hips are held close to whatever scaly thing is pressed against him from behind, holding him firm to grind the head of that cock against that bundle of nerves in a way that has Ford’s eyes twitching into the back of his skull.

“Oh, you definitely did. You do,” Bill purrs to his protest, like Ford didn’t just disagree. It almost sounds like he’s right there, his voice close enough that Ford can almost imagine it’s Bill himself who’s touching him. With these talons the size of Ford’s forearm, and a weapon-like cock meant to spear him. “You know what it means when a guy like you only uses his fingers to get some much-needed RELIEF? Means you’re not too busy for any action, you just can’t GET any!”

A matter of perspective, simply. Ford just— he’s focused. He has a—

His hips are dropped closer to the ground, changing the angle, just as that cock pushes into him and Ford’s thought process is gracefully shattered. Like book pages lost to a strong gale.

He twitches a little, buries his face into the side of his bound arms, close to sobbing. The pleasure he’s feeling is gradually taking the forefront of his mind, so far away and yet so close with everything that’s going on.

If only he had some kind of stimulation for his own dick.

As though tuned into his wants, something soft opens up in the ground below him, wet with nectar, flowering from the hard cave ground. The grip on his hips relinquishes, and Ford falls back to the ground, his cock getting swallowed in velvet-soft flower petals and a squishy, wet center. Warm nectar spills out over the sides, over Ford’s cock, slicking it up with warmth and oil-like heat.

Ford starts helplessly fucking into that willing, pliable, soft opening as soon as his body feels it, unable to really fuck it on his own with the massive hips behind him setting the pace. It makes it deliciously frustrating, especially when he’s shoved back and forth, going along for the ride.

“Drink up, buttercup! This is the only thing CLOSE to fucking a living thing that you’ll get!” Bill pauses meaningfully and then adds, “I mean, you could always go for something DEAD, but I never thought that was quite your style.”

Trying to ignore Bill’s incessant yammering and not doing a good job of it, Ford focuses on trying to get stimulation on his dick, not even bothering to wonder what it could be. If it could be. It just feels good. That’s all that matters.

Obviously, Bill doesn’t stop talking.

“MHM, I can just picture it,” Bill hums, weight bearing down on Ford from above, his waist grasped in one large, calloused hand. Sharp claws curve around the softness of his belly and the muscle of his back. “Working yourself open with those thick, useless fingers of your, using your spit to ease up the way. Not too much though! I know you like that STRETCH. Muffling noises into your arm, face buried into your sheets as you give into your desires for just one night. I bet you think of me, don’t you?”

Ford makes an offended noise, gasping, “I would not—”

Bill doesn’t let him get anything out, his prostate bullied by the thick knob inside of him. His head is pounding, chest heaving as his lungs attempt to fully expand. There’s some many things all over him he can’t even begin to figure out where he starts and the creatures end.

“You would and you have,” Bill says with no lilt in his voice, as serious as he can be. “Don’t try and DENY it, Fordsy. WHO ELSE would you think about fucking you into the sheets? Stretching your mind thin and far past what it can handle?”

This isn’t— this is-

“You’ve never experienced sex with me anywhere else, and you’ll never get it ANYWHERE else. Face it, kid, you like having sex with me! You can’t get ENOUGH of it! Could get ANYONE in the galaxy and you can’t help but think of ME.”

Ford can’t think. He can’t even tell if what Bill is saying is true, or if he’s somehow placing memories into Ford’s head to prove his point. It doesn’t sound right, but it feels right.

He feels like the planet is spinning, fast enough that he can feel it, and he’s feeling nauseous to boot. The pleasure still rises as he fucks into the soft plant below his hips, as he’s fucked into fucking the plant, chasing his orgasm so that he can rest and properly think.

“I bet when you’re like that, whining into your ARM, spreading your fingers desperately to relieve that needy ache, thinking about me, that you think no one will ever know. But guess what, Fordsy?”

It feels like Bill is inside his head, speaking into his ear canal from within his skull. He swears he feels Bill’s sharp claws tracing the opening of his ear, whispering, “I know.”

With his words, Ford is shoved hard into the ground by the thing behind him, grinding into his prostate cruelly as that cock inside him jerks. The thing growls, reverberating through the cave as it comes inside him. He’s filled with warmth, stuffed just like a sweet pastry in a bakery, made full of cream.

The sensation is as disgusting as it feels good, slick wetness shooting deep into his body, burning up his veins. His neurons are plucked, are rubbed between fingertips, his face wet with tears.

Ford follows the things orgasm, sobbing through it all, disgusting and heaving, wriggling and writhing and squirming as light bursts behind his eyes. He sees static and snow, feels himself tumbling right off a cliff and into a sea. Knowing he’ll drown, knowing nothing will save him.

It’s embarrassing that being shamed is what made him orgasm, but Bill’s supposed hand is stroking his hair and cheeks again, and that soft touch compared to the gouges in his backside are like a reward for being good.

The flower drinks his spend down, milking him through it much like a throat, and Ford sags with a sobbed gasp of overstimulation as the pulses die down. As his orgasm ebbs, so do all the touches.

His cock is released right when it starts getting to be too much, instead left to rest against a curve of cold rock. His hips are then let go, the club-like cock pulling out with a wet splash down his taint, his wrists untwined. Whatever was gnawing at his shoulders leaves him with a wet lick down the back of his body, and Ford is left shivering in the aftershocks.

He feels cold and alone and yet feverish all at once.

The cave is still holding him firmly, almost hugging him, his dreary brain suggests, so that hasn’t changed. Whatever numerous presences were around him have disappeared, however. If they were ever even there.

Ford sighs into the ground, eyes teary and wet as he blinks into blinding blackness. His glasses fell off during that whole situation, even though he already can’t see, the lack of tiny weight leaves him feeling vulnerable.

“Well, guess what, kid?” Bill asks, his voice back, thank god. Ford would surely have started to panic about his situation had the demon not made himself known.

“What, Bill?” Ford manages, wincing at the radio-crackle of his voice.

“You can now, very proudly, brag that you fucked a planet!”

“Are we sure the planet didn’t fuck me?” Ford asks, feeling sore and wet in his rear, horrifically loose. “I certainly feel fucked.”

“You can still brag about that,” Bill waves off, “just don’t say anything but that YOU fucked a planet!”

“You know, the point of bragging is to actually live to be able to brag,” Ford points out, trying to weed out if Bill is planning on killing him or not. He stretches out his aching arm, reaching to find his lost glasses.

“Hmm. Well, I GUESS it wouldn’t be bragging if you died right here, would it?” Bill hums back, acting as though he’s actually thinking it over and he hadn’t come here with the sole intention of letting Ford either live or die.

“So you’ll let me live because you like our cat and mouse chase?” Ford asks, fingers bumping against his glasses which he gingerly places back on his face.

“I do like roleplaying as a cat,” Bill hums, sounding further convinced, which isn’t what Ford meant, but alright. “Alright, IQ! I’ll point those closing-in bounty hunters towards a DIFFERENT cave, how about that? Can’t get your stuff back though, kid. Should’ve hidden it BETTER.”

Honestly? More mercy than Ford was expecting.

“I’ll leave as soon as I can,” Ford says back, releasing a heavy breath as the cave begins slowly returning to its original narrow size. He refrains from thanking Bill, but this just leaves a small pause where a sentence belongs.

“Sure,” Bill snorts, then slaps Ford with a disembodied hand on his rear, where his pants have definitely been ripped. “Now, get outta here! G’wan! Get! SHOO!”

“Are you White Fang-ing me?” Ford ponders, though Bill’s presence disappears immediately after. Ford feels it in how the planet no longer seems to hum and sing, going devastatingly silent. That’s his cue.

Still aching terribly, Ford forces himself to crawl onwards. His biggest concern now is getting back to his ship without being seen naked. Whatever Bill did to him was real enough that his clothes had been shredded.

That’s very annoying.

Chapter Text

Bill has been particularly invasive and annoying lately.

He’s always been extremely open about what he wants, about what he wants from Ford. At least, he’s open in a sexual sense, and it seems that right now what he wants is sure to cause Ford copious amounts of embarrassment.

It’s been a slow-burning sort of problem. Just a magazine at first.

Ford finds him reading it in the early morning, his small triangular figure taking up Stanley’s armchair with zero shame. Walking in, Ford assumed it was a newspaper when he first saw it, thinking nothing of the oddity that is seeing Bill reading something. Even if said newspaper looked too thin and plastic and there were splotches of colour where there was only supposed to be inky paper.

Bill notices him immediately, waving him over with an eager hand, eye wide with excitement. It’s a little infectious, even if it was rather early in the morning.

Entertaining him, Ford walks over, peering over the side of the armchair with curiously searching eyes, nursing a scalding mug of coffee. He immediately regrets looking.

Bill is looking at a magazine, not a newspaper. And… and it’s a rather… lewd-looking magazine. Full of men in rather skimpy clothes and contorted in numerous suggestive positions. Posing lasciviously, with happy trails and copious amounts of body hair and very familiar body types and age ranges. It’s extremely hard not to see them as himself, which just has to be on purpose.

Ford feels his face flush brilliantly as soon as he realizes what he’s looking at, realizing Bill had been flipping through the brusque pages as easily as you would with Monday’s newspaper.

“Where in the world did you get that?” Ford stammers, pulling away as soon as he regains control over himself. He stumbles a wonky foot away, eyes wide and face awash in mortification. Bill smirks gleefully, eye curved in a rather knowing way that Ford hates.

“Oh, y’know. Around,” Bill replies simply, not even having the courtesy to close the magazine. He seems to shift it around to give Ford a better view, which is the last thing he wants. Ford averts his eyes slightly, trying to ignore the bright colours of lingerie the men are clad with, but his eyes are continuously drawn in. “Whaddya think?”

He feels cowardly as he puts space between him and Bill. A demon who’s not exactly a threat right now, but is watching Ford much like a tiger eyes a sickly gazelle, lagging behind its herd.

“About that?” Ford manages, strangled, sounding the exact opposite of put-together.

“Uh-huh! Gimme a peek into that mess of a brain, Fordsy. Any sort of strong feelings I should know about?”

Ford clears his throat. Looks away. He’s red.

“Put that somewhere the kids won’t find it,” Ford instructs, forcing his legs to work. He turns around, escaping the situation with the grace of a bird with a broken wing trying to glide.

“Oh, so Fez can see it?” Bill calls back, an obvious ploy to get Ford to turn back around.

Ford forces himself to keep walking, a maelstrom of thoughts taking him apart on the inside.

Later, he finds that same magazine laid out on the foot of his bed. Bill isn’t there, but the magazine is. Ford finds it in his hands before he can stop himself, and then immediately regrets trying to look through it.

He lands on the page of a man who looks extremely similar to him, because of course it does. He’s dressed in nearly nothing, a large bulge in between spread legs leaving nothing to the imagination, covered in a beautiful navy blue. There are straps and laces and frills and muscles straining against the pretty, feminine fabric and God.

Ford slams the magazine closed, surely creasing some pages in his haste, unable to get over how he’s reacting to something so objectively harmless. He still ends up throwing it in the trash. Burns it. Then the fire spreads to the trashcan itself, which said smoke sets off a fire alarm from, which gathers everyone’s attention as Ford stomps it out.

All he can do is hope the blush on his face can be taken for exertion from stomping the fire out when Bill and his family show up, the demon watching him with an irritating knowledge that Ford wishes he couldn’t feel burrowing into his skin. He doesn’t find another magazine at least.

What happens next might be worse, though.

Bill has the gall to come right up to him, four feet tall and grinning, and hanging in his black hands is the skimpiest lingerie Ford has seen to date. What the fuck is that even supposed to cover?

He asks as much, through the creased pain of his own face. As though looking at the outfit is making him take damage.

“I think it’s just supposed to DECORATE you,” Bill hums, glancing at the lingerie and then to Ford. The way his eye roves over his body makes it obvious he’s imagining Ford dressed up in the clothing item. The hunger that springs to life in his eye is worrying.

“Well— put it back where you found it!” Ford snaps, wishing he could bat away the lewd rolling of Bill’s eye over his person. But that would mean he’s obviously affected by it, and he doesn’t need Bill knowing that.

“I’d go to JAIL if I waltzed back in there with this baby. I got it for FREE and I ain’t paying a single CENT MORE.”

“Oh, of course you stole it,” Ford grumbles, sliding a sweaty hand down his face, then immediately regretting it as his face is left wet. “Fine. I don’t care what you do with it. Just keep it away from me.”

He turns around and escapes from the situation again. He should probably be braver, but he can’t bring himself to do so when there’s something as threatening as a clothing item to greet him if he turns around.

“I got it FOR you!” Bill calls at his retreating figure, though the laughter tainting his words has Ford flushing a colour that’s mostly shame. And not the good kind. Bill can certainly be persistent when it counts. And apparently bullying Ford is a good enough cause for the demon.

Bill does not, in fact, get rid of the lingerie. He just ensures Ford’s entire week is filled with beautiful flashes of crimson red, satin and dappled with flecks of darker maroon. Ford can’t stop imagining it on himself.

He’s not really sure what Bill’s goal is — to haunt him with the thought and sight of such elegant, precious fabric. It’s working to take over his brain, though, worsened by the fact every which way he turns Bill is there with a magazine, or a clear container of liquid, a knowing grin, or some kind of innuendo that has Ford lighting up red no matter where he is.

It’s hard not to believe Bill is doing this to terrorize him, seeing him as a one-trick pony who he can make burn like a falling star with the slightest glance and single honeyed word.

Whatever the reason, Ford is reaching his fucking limit.

Said limit is reached when, after walking into his room after a long day, he finds that lingerie there. Just sitting so innocently on the end of his bed. Laid out politely and cleanly, with nary a strap out of place. Ford can cleanly imagine where he would fit into the outfit.

God.

Of course Bill would put it there. On the edge of the bed, right where Ford found the magazine earlier in the week. It’s like something taken straight out of the magazine, placed all pretty and neat on the bed, begging for a brusque man to fill its nooks and crannies. Ford fears it would rip if he even attempted to wear it.

He shakes this thought away as soon as he can, viewing the slip up as a failure; as him slowly giving in.

He’s fed up with this; of Bill making fun of him. He’s not meant for pretty things like this, and they both know it. It’s just a matter of getting Bill to stop this cruel joke he’s playing.

Ford grabs the lingerie in one tight fist, feels it burning in his grip, not meant to be touched by such calloused and rough hands, and marches out of his room to find Bill.

The triangle isn’t hard to find. He wasn’t even attempting to hide.

He’s even grinning when Ford grabs him by his stupid little bowtie and hauls them face-to-face.

“You alright, Six? You’re almost as red as that lil’ present I left for ya,” Bill purrs, eyelid lowering in a way that has Ford really wishing he could strangle the demon. He settles for shaking him a little too aggressively, of which Bill allows. He’s obviously too pleased with himself to care about being manhandled, which he usually hates.

“I’m done with this— this joke, Bill,” Ford snarls, and for once the red in his face is mostly of anger. “I’m done feeling like a joke. Stop this nonsense with the— the-”

“Lingerie,” Bill pipes up helpfully. He’s roughly shaken for his trouble.

“Stop the nonsense with the lingerie, Cipher. I’m not some show pony for you anymore, and you should not be treating me as such. I want you to stop making fun of me.”

Ford drops the demon as roughly as he thinks he can get away with, and finds himself minorly satisfied when Bill seems a little taken off guard. Ford just needs him to stop his teasing, then they go back to the peace of whatever kind of relationship dynamic the two of them have fallen into.

“Hang on, hang on,” Bill says quickly before Ford can turn away, which stops him despite his anger. He’s floating when Ford turns back around, a little wobbly, still getting used to having this particular aspect of his power back, but maintaining a height around Ford’s own.

“Bill,” Ford says warningly when the demon grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, holding him still. His hands don’t waver or loosen.

“Fordsy, you think I’m making fun of you?” Bill continues onwards, looking slightly befuddled when Ford manages to meet his giant eye.

“Bill, there is no other reason you’d want to see me in something so— so skimpy. Let me go,” Ford sighs back, upset that he needs to explain himself. Bill does not, in fact, let him go.

“Sixer,” Bill starts off with, which is already a bad sign. His hand lands on Ford’s face, turning him to meet Bill’s eye which is much closer than before. Ford leans back slightly to try to maintain a good distance between them, and fails. “I want to see you in it! The idea of YOU in something RED and LACEY and LINGERIE? Bark! Arf arf arf! Bow WOW! PLEASE sign me up for three more seasons of THAT!”

Ford can’t help his little smile at Bill’s antics, brows furrowing a little together in thought. He would pass it off as Bill being imprudent. Bill jokes around, and sometimes those jokes are of poor taste. This is something right up his alley.

But there’s something in his eye that has Ford pausing. He looks meaningfully — well, as meaningful as Bill can appear. The way he drops his eyelid into a husky half-mast position, tracing patterns into his chest through the layers of his shirt is also decently convincing.

“You think I was doing all that JUST to make you turn red? That was a plus, don’t get me wrong, but I really do want to see THIS old man’s body mass straining in that LINGERIE like BEEF packed too TIGHTLY. It’d be something out of my greatest WET NIGHTMARE.”

Ford stares at this triangular creature with nothing short of shock in his eyes. He distantly registers his mouth is slightly agape. Before he can respond, Bill lets him go, slipping away to plop back down on the floor, watching Ford with a glint in his pupil.

“So, y’know! Think about it! Or don’t. WHATEVER! The lingerie will be waiting for you no matter what you do.”

And then Bill walks off, whistling a merry tune as he goes.

Ford stands there for a good long moment after that. Wondering why that anger that he had been feeling so violently up until now has just disappeared. It’s been replaced by something simmering. Warm and steamy, like a pot seconds away from boiling over.

He has no idea how to view that interaction. Did it go well? Badly? He has no idea. He’s certainly not sure if that went in his favour.

He eventually musters the courage to wander back to his room, still holding the lingerie in a hand that’s no longer tightly clenched. His fingers rub gingerly into the fabric, feeling how soft and comfortable it is.

When the image of himself in it inevitably shows up in his mind, he’s much slower to beat it back from whence it came. Still. He puts the lingerie so far back into his closet only someone who is snooping would find.

And then he just tries to forget about it.

Obviously, he can’t.

Bill doesn’t bother him again. He’s acting completely normal, like he hadn’t just been harassing Ford for a full week with lingerie. The magazine is gone, the flirty looks are, well, let’s be real. The flirty looks and insane flirtatious comments don’t stop, but they’re no longer centered around squeezing Ford’s massive body into petite clothing.

Ford is left alone to stew in his own thoughts, and even though he knows that’s what Bill wants and he knows what’s going on, he can’t help it. Every day the thoughts get a little bit stronger, like the call of a distant siren getting closer and louder and harder to ignore each day.

He’s not sure what causes him to reach his limit. It just kind of happens with no deciding factor.

One day he’s fine-ish, struggling but able to ignore the coiling curiosity in his chest, and then the next day he can’t sleep or focus on anything else but Bill’s words and the possibility of seeing himself in something he doesn’t think is meant for him.

He decides, rather suddenly, that he’s going to go to Bill with the lingerie on. It’s not too late, he’ll be awake.

Ford makes it quick as he strips himself of his clothes. He rummages for the lingerie, slips it on with shaking hands, trying not to look at himself as he tries to pull the straps over his muscles and furry body and pudgy belly, having grown since he’s returned home. To safety. There’s padding for boobs that he doesn’t have, and yet the spots are rather filled out with the amount of chest he has.

His soft cock is pressed tight to his groin with the underwear bit, covering nothing and leaving an obscene bulge that would only get worse if he got hard while wearing it. Ford carefully figures out the straps, stands and stares at himself in a rather small mirror hung on the wall. He can’t really see much like this, but he looks.

It feels so odd.

Soft and almost-comfortable. The straps aren’t his favourite where they band across his soft skin, but he can handle the mild discomfort. He tugs at the lace, fixes the cupping over his pectorals, flushing a little at how much they do look like breasts.

Bill got him the lingerie a few sizes too small, that much is obvious. Just large enough to fit him, but small enough that excess skin spills out over the various straps and lacy parts. There’s hair where there probably shouldn’t be, too. Even if Bill was looking at photos of men in lingerie. Maybe he should shave?

No, no. That’s more trouble than it’s worth. He doesn’t want to put that much work into something just for Bill to be joking, which is unlikely, but always a possibility.

He very carefully moves onto the red lace garters, figuring they should go around his thighs considering the size. The straps squeeze at the meat of his thighs, creating riveting bands on his skin.

There doesn’t seem to be anything else once he finishes with that, so he considers himself done.

He doesn’t look back into the mirror. It feels good to pull his clothes back on, warmer and more comfortable. Something he’s more used to.

It takes him another few minutes to even gather enough confidence to leave his room to find Bill, the amount of anxiety within him rivalling the amount he feels on a day-to-day basis. What if’s galore floods his mind.

What if someone can tell what he’s wearing, what if he breaks the straps, what if Bill was joking, what if this is going to ruin everything for him?

He finds it slightly comical that all the what if’s are negative.

He’d turn back, but if he doesn’t do this, he’ll never stop thinking about it. Never. He needs to know if Bill was lying. It seems especially cruel for Bill to do, especially if he’s trying to “redeem” himself, but Ford supposes old habits always die hard.

It’s not too hard to find Bill. He’s close by, actually, watching TV. It sounds like some kind of show with a game show host. He looks devastatingly bored when Ford walks in, but his entire demeanour lightens as soon as he sees who’s arrived. Said expression then grows into suspicion when he sees how nervous Ford is holding himself. Hands fiddling with each other, usually wide feet pressed together, back hunched.

“Hey, hotstuff,” Bill greets him with a raised part of his one brow, making Ford jump slightly. “YOU don’t definitely look suspicious! Need somebody to help you bury a body? You KNOW I’m your guy. Just get me a shovel and EXACTLY fifty cigars.”

“I- uh, Bill,” Ford manages, clearing his throat when his nerves poke through and clog up his words. “I want— I want to give it a try.”

Bill immediately seems to realize what he’s talking about. Ford sees his curiosity give way to smug surety, smirking at his nervous display as he leans back against Stanley’s couch. “Sorry, what was that, doll? You’re not making much SENSE. I need some kinda explanation,” the demon says simply, which has Ford biting at his tongue, refraining from cursing the triangle out. He wants this. He just has to jump through a few hurdles before Bill will let him have it.

“You know what I’m here for,” Ford replies, frowning a little. He hates how it feels like he’s pouting, trying to suck his lips back a little, to look more manly to make up for what he’s wearing under his clothes.

It doesn’t feel like it helps, not with the way Bill is looking at him, like he knows.

Bill sucks a hiss in through unseen teeth, pretending to look pitying as he says, “yeah, no. No idea! I think you’re just gonna have to come right out and say it. Use your WORDS, Fordsy.”

It takes Ford a moment of sucking at his teeth, but, with his eyes slightly averted, he manages something. “I would like to try wearing the… the lingerie. For you,” he mutters, clutching his arms, covered by his warm sweater. His brows immediately start to furrow, catastrophizing within seconds. “Unless this was some sort of joke—”

“Well, I sure am glad to see you’ve come around,” Bill cuts him off, uninterested in listening to Ford hypothesize about the situation. He looks eager, sitting up a bit in Stanley’s creaking armchair, no taller than Ford, but taking up so much more space with just his presence. “I’ve been DYING to see you all plump and served up like a turkey for harvest! Where’d you put the stuff? Let’s get you INTO IT.”

“I’m—” Ford squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m wearing it.”

There’s a brief pause that Ford cracks his eyes open during, finding Bill staring at him with a newly blank expression. Terrifyingly blank. Then he carefully rises up from the couch, floating, and it takes everything inside Ford to not step away as the demon approaches.

“Let’s get a look at you,” Bill hums, sounding a little excited.

A snaking hand with grasping fingertips goes for his turtleneck collar, pulling it down, down, down. Ford turns his head to the side, looking away as warm air washes over his slowly exposed skin. Down to his collarbones his turtleneck is tugged, and Bill makes a semi-loud, appreciative wolf-whistling noise.

“Oho, good girl, Fordsy!” Bill exclaims, the praising words very nearly going right over Ford’s head in order to bask in the slight approval. In a twining mess of confusing emotions, Ford’s first reaction is hesitant disgust. Secondarily, something sweeter. Tentative, testing. Wanting more of the same word to be uttered — to figure out if that small bloom of warmth is positive or negative.

His eyes rip wide despite himself, pulling away from Bill’s loosely coiled arms, burning with horror and embarrassment. “Don’t- don’t call me that!” He exclaims, affronted. It feels a little like he’s putting on a show, not entirely sure how he’s feeling and just reacting in such a way because he’s being defensive.

He’s honestly prepared to end all of this just so he doesn’t have to deal with why that bit of specific praise is making him burn with something not entirely unpleasant.

“Okay, okay, won’t do it again!” Bill concedes through laughter, not taking Ford’s mortification seriously. In fact, he seems to be reveling in it.

It’s the least convincing assurance Ford has ever witnessed. He frowns, uneasy, but Bill doesn’t bother trying to comfort him any further. He just grabs onto the fabric of Ford’s turtleneck, dragging him back to the slightly longer couch that sits nearby.

Ford, despite his reservations, allows Bill to push him back onto the cushions. He feels said reservations melting away with Bill’s hands on him, especially when they lock lips. Bill’s lips are much sweeter to listen to talk than his grating voice, managing to convince Ford to lean back onto the throw pillows, grasping at Bill’s hard angles as the demon perches on his chest.

Bills wastes no time in sprouting some extra arms to help him eagerly being pulling off Ford’s stifling outwear. He’s almost ravenous — excited — in how he nearly rips off Ford’s clothing, close to ripping the fabric at a couple points.

Soon, Ford’s body is exposed. Well, more exposed. Somehow he feels even more lewd dressed up in such an outfit instead of being fully naked, where his curves are accented and plumper parts of his body spill out through tightly banded straps and lacey bits. It’s a miracle nothing has broken.

Bill ghosts his hands down Ford’s front, giving a cheeky squeeze to Ford’s right pec, grinning at his sharp inhale. He very quickly turns his attention to the little present straining against lace; Ford’s cock, already getting hard. And the garters, which Bill tucks a finger behind and pulls just to have snap back on Ford’s skin.

Juddering with the slight sting, a thin red line blooms to life across his skin, aggravated and red. Ford squirms a little with his nervous energy, but a light pinch to the inner bit of his thigh has him pausing. He can’t help his little fidgeting, though, and Bill doesn’t punish him for those movements.

“You really put it ALL on!” Bill comments, sounding hungry and pleased. He wriggles his fingers into the space between tight straps, finding very little wriggle room. “I gotta say, I was expecting this to take you at LEAST another month before you even tried TOUCHING the thing again! Consider me pleasantly surprised!”

“You— you just assumed I would eventually wear it?” Ford asks, gaining breathier notes as Bill’s sharper claws cleave soft skin in two. Shallow, but possessive and stinging all the same.

“Yep!” Bill chirps, and smashes their faces together once more. Bill kisses like he’s still learning how: with all teeth and zero regard for his partner’s comfort. He’s hungry and mean, and it almost reminds Ford of the way Bill fights, too. Or like he’s trying to encapsulate the movements of the Kung-fu movie he caught the demon watching.

Ford would assume this is Bill’s first time kissing anyone, except he’s shared many kisses with the exact same demon, and he’s come to the conclusion that this is just how Bill is. Rough and bruising and demanding, almost distracting enough to take away from his hands that are greedily grabbing handfuls of Ford’s luscious chest area.

“Anyone ever tell ya you look like you’re PREGNANT with the size of these babies?” Bill says through messy kissing. “I’m half expecting them to start leaking MILK. Think if I squeeze ‘em enough they’ll do just that?”

Ford is suddenly no longer sure he wants to do this. Bill’s objectifying, female-based talk is killing him, and he can’t even tell if it’s in a good way!

“You said you wouldn’t-”

“I didn’t! I’m just COMMENTING on how big your very manly chest is!” Bill points out, like that absolves him of guilt. “If I called you a GOOD GIRL again — which you are — THAT would be me going back on my word!”

“Bill- I’m not a-” Ford tries to protest into a smearing, mashing, toothy kiss. His words are garbled and slurred, muffled by Bill’s lips on his own.

It’s disgusting, and filthy, and Ford can practically taste Bill’s spit entering his mouth, coating his tongue. He grunts, biting at the demon’s lip in irritation and welcoming the taste of static that spills into his mouth. It numbs his lips and his throat, makes him wonder if his tongue is still attached, but he can’t find it in himself to care when Bill just continues to kiss his numb, slacking mouth.

“Sorry, what was that, doll? Were you just agreeing that you ARE in fact the perfect female archetype?” Bill pulls back, slurping up the string of connected spit like spaghetti to sneer at the man.

“I said— I said I’m not a girl,” Ford heaves, his fingers twitching on Bill’s sides, feeling his own body betraying him as his dick continues to harden in its lacy pouch.

“Coulda’ fooled me,” Bill shrugs. He leans back down, captures Ford’s neck in a full bite, a hand worming downwards to palm at Ford’s half-hard cock. "Look! You're all pink and pretty down here, too!"

Ford yelps as teeth enclose on his neck drawing blood and then licking up most of the blood. The rest is allowed to seep into the similarly crimson colour of the lingerie. His thighs try to close, but it does nothing against such a persistent appendage. Not that he really wants to. He just manages to trap the hand even closer to where he’s most sensitive.

The resulting pleasure is rough and dry, and Bill uses the lacey edges to press down on the side of Ford’s swollen cock, pressing little indents into the flesh of his drooling organ. He rubs at the head of Ford’s cock, encouraging it to thicken gradually to its full size, which, admittedly, is not very large.

"Look!" He chirps, fingers teasing at the pink skin of Ford's flushed cock, twisting through slick. "You're all pink and girly down here, too! All soft and puffy, and SOAKED!" Bill busies his fingers with rubbing the soft tips at the head of Ford’s cock, right against his glans, in quick succession. It’s reminiscent of someone rubbing fast and furious at a clit.

Ford whines a little at the thought and the words, blinking rapidly as if it would help clear up his fogging mind, feeling Bill smirk into the skin of his red neck, burning brilliantly with humiliation and arousal.

“Oh yeah? You like that? D’ya like it when I rub your clit, little girl?” Bill purrs as he rubs at the oversensitive glans of Ford’s poor cock with the pad of his thumb. His mouth pulls away from Ford’s neck, relinquishing the lockjaw bite of his teeth to better view Ford’s predictable expression he can’t help.

His blush, that had been at a light simmer, comes into full force as soon as he registers Bill’s words. He feels his eyes blow wide, pupils almost completely eating up the amber of his irises. His face says panic, the heaving of his chest almost worrying, but the way his cock jerks and spills more precum and the way his blush travels to his chest and shoulders and neck all points towards enjoying the objectification.

Ford can’t fucking tell if he is enjoying it, but he’s not making any move to escape, and there’s no real urge to scramble for the remote control for Bill’s ankle monitor in his lost pants. He just lies there on the couch, looking like a deer in headlights, which is really all Bill needs to keep going.

“You must like it! You’re so WET down here with slick you’re wrinkling my FINGERS. It’s hard to think otherwise with how wet and ready for the taking you are, y’know? Bet I wouldn't even need any extra LUBE. You're making plenty on your own.”

“What is wrong with you?” Ford gasps thinly, hating how his body is betraying him, how it’s reacting to Bill’s words. His voice is high-pitched and caught terribly off-guard, but he can’t do much other than writhe with the molten pleasure still glancing through him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Bill snipes back, giving him a look like he has no right to ask Bill such a question. “I’m not the one who’s staining the couch with how much he’s leaking. It’s like the NILE down here!”

Bill’s hand is still moving, working Ford’s cock out from the side of the pouch, the hard band coming to rest semi-painfully against his full balls, creating light indents in the skin. It only adds to the pleasure, has Ford panting heavily as pleasure sings through him, as Bill’s cruel hand dances up and down his wet cock.

Another hand finds a nipple, pressing down on the pink nub with the pricking tip of a sharp claw to heighten the sensation, gaining a quiet huff. He’s eyeing Ford’s pecs through the framing of straps and thin lace, tweaking Ford’s nipple through the fabric.

“It’s moments like these where I had a proper cock!” Bill goes on to say. “I wanna cup together these fat titties of yours and just slide home, right through the valley. The only lube I’ll need is your own spit and pre-cum. Bet you’d just love it, too, wouldn’t ya? Making all those noises like the slut you are.”

Ford’s head is reeling. Wondering where the hell any of that came from, and entirely unsure of what to protest against.

“They— they are not tit— titties,” he feebly moans.

“Really?” Bill asks in a way that sounds rhetorical. “Because they look like tits to ME, kitten. BIG ones too. How do you keep these things HIDDEN?”

Ford pants, knees twisting together, hips bucking into Bill’s black hand that feels like it’s getting bigger by the second, swallowing his cock whole. “‘M not a girl,” Ford says again, as if that would help any more than last time.

“You argue like one,” Bill says simply, squeezing and groping at Ford’s tits in blatantly obvious ways, all the while his other hand palms at the over-sensitive head of Ford’s dick in a way that has his toes curling. His hips are torn between bucking into the stimulation or trying to angle away from it, wanting more and wanting less.

“I guess it’s not really your fault,” Bill says with mock-sympathy, rising up on Ford’s abdomen to watch him twist and writhe, hands unclenching and clenching within the extra hand winding between his fingers, plastered to his palm like shadows taken from vanta black. His hands are pulled up and over the arm rest, pinned down firmly. “Just because your big mama hooters are IMPOSSIBLE to ignore it doesn’t mean it’s your fault you’re a cute little girly man with cute TITS, huh?”

Ford says nothing, just turns his head to the side and buries as much of it as he can into the couch cushion. It does not help. Bill’s voice still comes through loud and clear.

“You’re practically begging for these things to be pointed out, Fordsy. Don’t act coy now. Take what you’re given, unless you’re actually NOT that good girl I thought you were?”

“I— I-” Ford gasps, his mouth opening and closing much like a fish gasping for oxygen it won’t ever get. His eyes are glazed and there’s the smallest amount of drool he can feel slipping down his chin. He doesn’t even bother trying to clean it. “Please. I wanna cum, Bill!”

He’s getting close to his orgasm, his voice pitching in a telltale way despite his attempts to stay quiet. Bill helps him out, shoving fingers from a whole new hand into his mouth, making him choke on clawed fingertips. He makes a disgusting gagging sound borne of surprise, throat fluttering around the intrusion, and then instinctively starts to suck.

Ford’s moans get whinier, eyes fluttering closed as he tries to focus on his approaching orgasm which is right there— and then Bill grabs the base of his cock, squeezing tightly and denying the release Ford had been gradually getting more and more desperate for.

An anguished noise escapes him around the fingers shoved in his mouth, something protesting, surely. His hips judder upwards, searching for stimulation, but Bill’s hand is immoveable, his leaking tip held in a tight fist, Bill watching him with a clinical, detached sort of fascination.

His hand stays until Ford’s no longer a hair’s breadth away from orgasming. Until that peak he’d been gunning for is no longer within his grasp. Bill retains wet eye contact as his hand starts up again.

Fingers press down on Ford’s tongue, threatening to edge into his throat, as his other hand jerks and rubs at Ford’s cock faster than before. The claws of his other hand, still luxuriously squeezing at the heft of Ford’s chest, begin slicing through the lace. Not on purpose, but the care of his claws seems to be taking less importance, resulting in slicing ribbons.

Bill, upon noticing, seems to just go “screw it” and rips the lingerie apart on Ford’s chest, baring his curly hair and full pectorals to Bill’s hand, which eagerly twirls a bit of hair around its finger.

“The lingerie,” Ford tries to lament, albeit muffled, having grown a fondness for it whilst being fondled by Bill’s all consuming hands.

“Girl, please,” Bill scoffs. “I can just steal another! Maybe a different shade of RED next time. Something skimpier! Oh, oh! OR one with vibrating panties, could you imagine?” Bill purrs the words, his fingers forcing themselves down Ford’s throat, tilting his head back and baring his neck. “I’d have you wear them all day, doll. Have those panties vibrating until they run out of batteries, or YOU pass out and you’re outta FLUIDS.”

Ford whines a little as Bill’s finger goes back to rubbing cruelly at his glans, plucking the nerves there like he’s playing a harp, sure to have Ford falling apart within seconds. Which is exactly what happens. He hates how open he is to the idea, to the fantasy of being forced to wear vibrating panties until he reaches his limit, and then pushing further.

His head spinning dazedly, he tries to plead, desperately slurring, “oh, Bill, please, nnh— I have to–” but it’s all garbled by the fingers holding down his writhing tongue.

“We’ll set a whole new high score for how many times you can cum in one day!” Bill decides, something faraway and manic in his eyes. Being serious.

The hand in Ford’s mouth finally slides out of his mouth, sopping wet, and reaches down to join the other hand rubbing at his tip, beginning to take the job of stroking the length of Ford’s shaft.

Ford flinches like he’d been hit, hips bucking up instinctively, chasing that wet, soft, warm sensation of a palm, his own spit slicking the way. The spit-slick hand flies up and down, nudging up against the hand at his glans which is swirling around and around.

With the two hands on his most sensitive of areas, Ford finds himself very quickly reapproaching his orgasm. He tries to be a little bit more stealthy about it this time, trying not to start babbling, but he can’t hide his body’s reactions no matter how hard he tries. His moans get a little higher and a little lewder, back arching, eyes squeezing tight.

Bill fists his cock once more, grip tight and cruel, denying him again, cutting off that electricity.

“Fuck— Bill,” Ford huffs and puffs, breathing sounding like it’s taken from a ragged scrap of cloth, “please. You— I want— I need to cum!”

Bill says nothing, just reaches up the hand from his chest to gingerly caress the side of his face. Ford thinks he feels something stop working inside his head at the gentle touch. It’s there, and then gone, the hand slipping away to splay across the top of his exposed pecs once more.

Then he pulls out all the stops.

Tweaking fingers at his nipples, biting teeth surrounding the entirety of Ford’s shoulder, both hands resuming their motions on his cock. His nipples are rolled, his skin bitten until bleeding, cock squeezed and stroked by two dedicated hands on his head and shaft, touching all the right spots until he’s quietly sobbing. His balls are even given a moment to shine, rolled like magic glass balls between and around Bill’s long fingers.

Each one is tugged just once, and then full stimulation returns to Ford’s cock. The small break somehow makes it feel like more.

“Oh— oh- god,” Ford hiccups, twisting and writhing where he lay, the throw pillow behind him slipping out from under his neck, falling to the floor. His neck aches at the new strain, but like hell he wants to stop.

The stimulation is so neverending, that creeping precipice of endorphins that Ford’s body stubbornly remains on the edge of. He’s wobbling on the peak of a mountain, but his body just won’t let him tilt in any direction. He’s perfectly balanced on its peak, unable to fall into that welcoming abyss of pleasure, nor fall backwards, where he doesn’t want to go.

His eyes shut tight, imagining himself reaching for that light at the end of the tunnel, running legs wading through waist-high water. Never getting closer, nor further away, stuck on this plateau of frustrating pleasure that he’s making no progress towards.

“Ah- ah, it’s fuck, I can’t-” Ford gasps, panting heavily, hips rolling freely into the in-time strokes and rubs of Bill’s hands. Each wave of pleasure should be adding to the already-full barrel of liquid gold, but it just seems like there’s nothing to add. “Why— why can’t I–?”

“That’s me, Six,” Bill chimes in with a self-satisfied gleam in his eye when Ford manages to crack his own open. “Just gotta love these powers of mine, huh? Bet you’re REALLY regretting letting me have them baaack.”

Ford feels a slow realization dawn on him, like the gold shine of the sun cascading over thick morning fog.

“You don’t get to cum until I allow it! Pretty neato, huh?” Bill confirms his suspicions. He sighs fondly, saying something that sounds a lot like, “I’m totally losing some power privileges after this.”

If Ford heard him right, yeah, he really might be.

“You— Bill- you bastard, let me cum,” Ford hisses as best he can, though he’s sure any intimidation factor has long since left him, especially considering his current state.

Bill simply tsks, watching him laser-focus eyes.

“Bad little girls don’t get to cum,” he says simply.

Ford swallows hard, body unable to stop writhing through the cruel pleasure that he can’t find an end to, and yet stopping right now makes it seem like it would feel even worse. “Fuck- fuck off. I’m not— haah- a- a girl, and you know it.”

“Well! I guess you don’t want to cum then!” Bill chirps merrily, one hand leaving the tip of his cock, the other slowing down to a snail’s pace. It’s agonizing, and Ford has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming.

“No, no no no! Wait- please don’t stop!” Ford begs, even though Bill’s weight hadn’t even shifted where he sits on Ford’s tummy.

Bill’s thumb rubs slowly and methodically over Ford’s glans, where the pleasure sparks and could easily be enough to help him reach that edge, but with Bill’s mental block, or whatever he did to Ford’s brain when he touched his temple, it’s useless. It’s just torture.

He pauses.

Blinks at Bill with his brows furrowed in confusion as he tries to figure out what he’s feeling. Then he gasps, forgetting to breathe for a moment as he feels something inside of him. Something blunt and small, not even needing to wriggle through the tight channel of his anal cavity. It feels like a finger, probing inwards and rubbing against the little bundle of nerves buried within his body.

How it’s there is beyond his comprehension, but it’s certainly there. Inescapable, bleeding pleasure through his lower half and abdomen, fingers that are both there and not there rubbing against his sweet spot in sharp, rubbing strokes.

“Wha– what–” Ford whispers, eyes still wide, going glassy with pleasure, arms straining a little and getting nowhere. He’s held down firmly, not that sitting up would allow his to figure out what’s inside him any quicker.

Bill gives a mean little impression of a snarling grin as his physical fingers rub at the most sensitive part of Ford’s cock, gaining an impressive speed.

Ford’s eyes roll into the back of his head, hips humping the air, fucking himself on something that doesn’t exist. He has to take a few deeper breaths just to remember how to use his own words. All the air in his lungs has left him, making breathing extremely difficult to do.

“Please,” he sobs, the only word he seems able to remember.

“Are you going to be a good little girl?” Bill says, unmoved by his pathetic pleading.

“I’m a grown man—” Ford chokes on his words when his prostate is prodded, when his balls are physically clutched. The pleasure is all he needs to sob, “fuck— Bill— fine- I’m— I’m a good girl!” It comes out in a sweet, hesitant gasp, the words more or less spoken just to help him reach orgasm. A means to an end.

“Y’know, swearing wasn’t exactly ladylike last time I checked!” Bill croons, drinking in Ford’s state of duress like he’s gulping down the human’s blood. “Why don’t you go ahead and apologize for me? Set a prime EXAMPLE.”

Ford bites down on his tongue, his first reaction to snarl out something defensive and abrasive, but he just barely holds himself back. “I— ‘m sorry, Bill.”

“And what is it you’re SORRY for? I’ve got a short memory, kid. I need a reminder!”

Ford is so red in the face he feels like he’s about to explode. “I’m sorry for- ah! For swearing. I won’t– mm, won’t do it again—” He cracks open teary eyes, knowing he’s so close to fully shedding tears. The glossiness of his eyes glints in the light glow that Bill gives off, making it look like he’s crying ichor.

“Now say you’re my pretty little princess!” Bill orders, the tone of his voice a little heated, full of mania. It makes Ford want to whine, which he does without a full thought.

“I—” With a sniffle, the tears fall, defeat-tinged and golden and streaking wetness down the swells of his cheeks, through the dusting of facial hair he’s going to burn away in the following week. With a gut-wrenching sob, Ford manages, “I’m your— your pret- pretty princess.”

“What are you?” Bill asks again, almost singing, like a wolf going for the jugular of a sick deer.

“I’m your pretty princess! I’m your guh— good girl! Please let me cum!”

“Good girl, Fordsy.”

Whatever iron fist Bill had been holding Ford’s ability to orgasm with, it’s now released. Ford nearly howls as blinding pleasure rips through him, muffled only by fingers settling back inside his mouth, enlarging to better smother him. Bill’s hand on his dick moves aside to let Ford’s seed come spurting out in hot, thick ropes of creamy white, splattering all over the couch and their two bodies and ruining the lingerie.

Inside him, his prostate is kneaded like there’s a cat inside his body, with all knuckles and no claws, helping his cock drool that last bit of cum until there’s nothing left for him to give.

He sags into the couch, heaving for breath, and Bill carefully removes his fingers from his mouth. A string of spit follows, then breaks, splattering over Ford’s clavicle. Still sobbing a little, the sounds escape him in dry, gasping inhales and exhales that Bill basks in being the cause of.

“Moses,” Ford finally gasps into the quiet, feeling so very exhausted. “That was— agh!”

Ford’s newly released hands go right to his mouth as he feels his cock, definitely unable to go again, be stroked. And then continuously stroked. The pressure inside of him, that hadn’t abated, is right back to fondling his prostate like flour inside a fidget toy, and Ford thinks he’s going to die.

“Wait! Wait, wait— Bill, I can’t!” Ford is right back to gasping, a hand clawing over the side of Bill’s slant, nail catching on his bowtie and dragging it undone. It hangs, half untied, on his carapace, giving him that slightly unkempt look Ford would kill to see again when he’s not out of his mind with overstimulation.

“I thought you wanted to CUM?” Bill asks with a simpering grin, taking great satisfaction in the tears that roll freely down Ford’s overwhelmed, almost sickly flushed cheeks. “You should probably make up your mind, Sixer! I’m getting mixed signals!”

“I— I did, but-” Ford chokes on his tongue, garbles around the spit that streaks his chin. He’s a mess.

His hips twist futilely, though all he manages to do is thrust into Bill’s hand, which is taking great, long, twisting strokes up and down his little cock, making sure that sharp pleasure takes hold in Ford’s chest like a pulmonary sickness. With each drag, the overstimulation gives way to something slightly more bearable, and Ford’s hurt sounds ebb into mild moans.

As soon as this point is reached, Bill’s hand picks up pace once more. The slickness of Ford’s own cum and spit is enough to make the slide velvety and soft, but that may very well be the opposite of what he wants.

His back rises, arching, but Bill’s weight presses him firmly down.

“You can do it,” Bill tells him assuredly, like there’s no other option. And there really isn’t. Bill’s touch is cruel, but his hand works quickly in a rare show of sympathy, trying to get him to that edge quicker. The edge that Ford can almost see. It’s there, and then it’s gone, a teasing up and down motion that makes him want to cry with frustration.

The kneading to his prostate picks up, and that extra stimulation, painful as it may be, helps.

“Bill, I can’t–” Ford tries to insist, but his words fall on deaf ears.

Bill does not stop, just leans down and places a bite over his lower ribs, teeth sinking in just a little too deep, further ripping the lingerie.

Ford openly sobs, those thick, fat tears freely falling down his cheeks with no further probing needed. Rolling with no end in sight. He begs mindlessly, at first in protest but, as the stimulation starts reigniting that hunger in his veins, his words fall into the pleading category. Pleas to let him cum, to have the torment stop, but still pleading nonetheless.

“C’mon, gunslinger, gimme one more good shot of baby matter,” Bill encourages, fisting Ford’s cock in a tight hand, palm almost scraping Ford’s raw, sensitized skin on each stroke. “I know you have it in you, sweetheart. Just one more.”

The lack of bite in Bill’s words, no longer antagonistic and just very eager to have Ford shoot his load, helps too.

Ford’s noises pitch a little upwards, ghosty and incoherent, and then stop as he spills right over that edge. What follows is a much smaller bit of cum. It barely shoots out with the same force as his first orgasm, and it leaves Ford trembling in its wake, the wake not lasting nearly as long. Ford’s entire face crumbles with it, and Bill finally releases all of his erogenous zones.

Ford is left panting once more, feeling much heavier and wetter this time, his eyes half-open as he tries to gather himself, feeling absolutely ruined. He almost feels pretty. At least, half-undressed and under Bill’s self-satisfied gaze, he feels proud he managed one last orgasm.

“You did it!” Bill cheers, patting him on the flank like you would with a good dog. Ford jerks with surprise, then immediately slumps even further into the couch. God, he’s gotta clean the fabric now. “My good girl proving herself so well!”

“We’re not having sex anymore, Bill, quit that shit,” Ford pants out, voice rough and used like the rest of him and, most importantly, too exhausted for anything to bother him.

“Well I don’t know why that has to be just a SEX thing,” Bill scoffs, settling on Ford’s belly and crossing his arms, pouting. “Is it ‘cause you like it or something?”

Ford stays very silent and very still. As if Bill were a tyrannosaurus-rex. It, just like it wouldn’t work with a real one, doesn’t work now.

“I KNEW it.”

“If you call me that over dinner or- or during movie night, I will strangle you,” Ford says simply, without a lick of a lie.

“I don’t have a NECK, genius.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

Bill doesn’t doubt that. He dismounts Ford, notices the mess, and snaps it away. “We’re definitely doing this with another outfit,” he tells Ford matter-of-factly. “Thanks for the nice night, pookie! Try not to have any sex dreams WITHOUT me!”

Ford watches him go, still catching his breath on the couch. Moses, what a night.

Chapter Text

It’s a challenge, Stanley had told him over their coffee that morning, a little teasing twinkle in his eye. An online one, where pure strength declares you the winner.

Ford had told him he had no time for childish games, that he had much more important matters to attend to. That Stanley could do it himself if he was so interested. Stanley stroked his ego by telling him he’d do much better than him, and that he’d get to keep the crushed watermelon and do what he wanted with it.

That caused a pause a little more than the ego stroking, honestly. Ford could use that vegetable for something. Its seeds, its crushed flesh. He might even allow Stanley to use some for his small vegetable patch he’d been attempting to nurse to health just around the back of the shack. It would also make for great bait for the Hunkeswitch. A beast with a nasty attitude and a craving for the juiciest of foods.

And so here he is now, set up on the shack’s deck, sitting down, a thick, healthy and fresh watermelon placed between his bare, scarred thighs. He worried a little initially about what people would think of the scars, but Stanley assured him no one would care as he set the camera up.

And so he wears some green shorts, with Stanley and the niblings standing just to the side, behind the tripod camera they have set up. For “professionalism”, or whatever Stanley thinks it may be. They all watch Ford with similarly eager eyes (thank God Bill is getting a check in at the Theraprism today) and Ford is getting ready to crush this watermelon between his thighs.

He feels a little reluctant, not that he doesn’t think he can do it — he’s more than prepared to show that he can — but it’s more so the embarrassing fact he’s using his thighs to do the job. It’s not even something cool, like smashing his head into the fruit. Just squeezing it with his legs.

He doesn’t have much time to be slightly miffed about the very “uncool” body part he’s using, as Stanley is counting down from three, and Ford is bracing his feet on the ground, wedging the watermelon snug between his thighs. And then they’re ready.

The video starts with a countdown, and Ford is signalled to start crushing.

It’s a bit of a challenge, of course; just because he’s attempting to use raw man strength to crush a perfectly healthy and rotund fruit, but it’s not impossible. Slowly, with gritted teeth and bulging veins and straining muscles, the watermelon cracks. Juice leaks out, onto his thighs, down the rivulets of his leg, and red pops out from between the candy-green cracks.

That’s all the sign he needs that this is going well, and to give it his best shot, ignoring the sweat beading along his brow to instead double his efforts, squeezing his thighs together like his life depends on it.

The watermelon cracks and pops and, with a terrible crunch like a skull splitting open, collapses between his thighs.

There’s cheering, and Ford’s left panting as the video is stopped and Stanley approaches him with a damp rag. He takes it gratefully, standing, wincing viscerally at the sensation of watermelon juice streaking his thighs and soaking his shorts. He finds himself glad he didn’t wear his faithful green shorts today.

Duty done, Ford takes the watermelon with him to try and propagate, and allows Stanley some seeds for his own attempt at a garden. Ford doesn’t need all the seeds; just enough.

Reward in hand, Ford proceeds to clean himself up and forget about the video.

For a full two days.

Stanley bursts into the basement whilst he’s growing his monster watermelon to tell him that he’s apparently famous. His hand flips up, showing Ford an edit someone made of him to rather electronic music, the moment he fully crushes the watermelon being used as the beat. It’s… interesting, to say the least.

“Interesting,” says Ford, which Stanley says is not the correct response and that he just doesn’t understand the internet. Ford doesn’t bother arguing with him there.

Ford continues to think very little about the watermelon he crushed and the apparent “fans” he amassed overnight up until around noon-ish. He’s strewn across the couch, documenting his watermelon’s progress in what has only been a few hours, — something to do with the type of fertilizer he used, surely — and so he doesn’t hear the familiar stomping of heels until his journal is practically ripped from his hands.

He looks up, confused on why his family would snatch something from him in such a manner, before he feels his confusion rise at the sight of Bill sitting beside him.

“Bill?” Ford asks, alarmed and surprised as Bill grins at him from his couch cushion. He looks shark-like, and it makes a small shiver traverse Ford’s spine, feeling a little trapped despite not being so. “You’re back already? I thought it’d be at least another—” he checks his watch, marvels at the time. “Day. At the least.”

“I had a fit until they let me out early,” Bill tells him chipperly, feet swinging. “Second they saw WHY I was having a fit, they let me go!”

Ford doesn’t quite believe that’s how it went for a single second, though how else would he have escaped? And without his ankle monitor going off, at that. He tries to sit himself up to try and talk to Bill like equals and stop feeling so small, but Bill shoots out a hand, eye dark, pressed firmly to Ford’s sternum.

“Don’t,” he says dangerously, applying pressure.

With a wash of cautious heat, Ford carefully lowers himself back down onto his back, eyeing the demon watching him from over his knees. “And what was the fit about, pray tell?” Ford dares to ask, trying to sound unaffected even though there’s heat blooming across his chest where Bill’s hand is laid.

“I saw the video,” Bill informs him, wriggling onto his own knees, then prying his way between Ford’s two thighs, forcing them apart. His touch is firm then lightens, feeling ticklish like the watermelon juice that touched his skin not even two days ago. Bill’s eye lingers on the exposed skin Ford is showing where his shirt has ridden up slightly and a t-shirt sits on his body. It’s been so warm out, demanding shorter clothes.

“What, uh, what video?” Ford asks dumbly, clearing his throat worriedly, unable to quite think properly under Bill’s half-lidded gaze.

“The one from Thursday, Einstein,” Bill scoffs like it was obvious. "What OTHER video??"

“Are you talking about the… the one of me crushing a watermelon?” Ford hazards a guess, hands fluttering out of the way as Bill’s own stretching hands wind around his thighs and to the hem of his shirt. It’s tucked upwards a little, threatening to ride up further and expose his happy trail and belly.

“With your THIGHS,” Bill adds, looking surprisingly hot and bothered from what Ford can see, shimmerings of colours glancing under his eye. Is he really… into this? “Don’t forget the most important part!”

“Right,” Ford huffs, feeling oddly exposed with how Bill is leering at him from between his legs. “And you… what, liked that?”

“That’s why I threw a temper tantrum, baby,” Bill purrs. “I just HAD to get my ass back here! Get a taste of the thighs that I can just imagine CRUSHING someone’s SKULL!” His hands push up Ford’s shirt higher and higher, bearing more and more skin that Ford does nothing to stop even as he reddens deeply.

“You didn’t really find that attractive—” Ford stammers, even as his shorts’ waist band is snagged and snapped back to his skin.

Bill makes a noise like a hefty growl, pushing the ends of Ford’s shorts up until they’re tucked as far as they can go, allowing Bill completely free access, which he takes and runs. In a blur of movement, Bill’s mouth snaps open, and promptly envelops a portion of Ford’s thigh to dig into. He attached like a leech, sharp teeth digging into sensitive skin with no mercy, the sensitive pain making Ford’s thighs squeeze in instinctively.

The closeness of his legs presses slightly into Bill’s body, which Bill doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

Ford jerks sharply, yelping, eyes blowing wide as Bill sets to going the same to another part of his right thigh. Wherever he leaves is left with small triangular indents that are sure to fill with glimmering blood. Bill doesn’t bother licking it up, too focused on marking every inch of Ford’s thighs with teeth-marks.

Not even hickey's. He doesn’t take the time to suck any marks, just bites and bites and bites until it feels like Ford is being chewed on like a dog-toy.

Very quickly, his marking gets messy. Bill’s dry bites turn wet with slobber as he drools over Ford’s thighs like chicken breast at dinner. Ford’s thighs are left so wet that the drool dribbles down his skin and seeps into his shorts and it almost feels like Ford has crushed another watermelon between his thighs.

The only difference is that the liquid dripping slowly down is warm, and not red.

Ford feels himself getting aroused as Bill takes his sweet time marking up Ford’s thighs, something nibbling a special little bruise here and there when he feels like it. His arms sit loosely around Ford’s thighs, allowing him to close them and tremble when the pain/pleasure becomes too much.

Whenever he bites too hard, sinking those canines in a little too deep, Ford’s thighs come in tightly to try and ward off the pain. It only serves to trap Bill between his thighs, which just seems to set him off because he just bites harder, the pain sending jagged lightning jolting up through Ford’s spine.

His feet jerk out, his back twisting, biting hard into his lip until he tastes blood and there’s more red being added to his pretty skin. He tangles fingers into the fabric of his rucked-up shirt, not bothering to roll it back down, liking how being exposed makes him feel.

Eventually, with one final, mean nip to Ford’s inner thigh, closest to his groin, Bill manages to pull away from his thighs long enough to wrench off his shorts and toss them to the side. Ford manages, breathless, “I didn’t think you’d like this that much.”

Ignoring his hard dick, Bill tilts to nuzzle closer to the seam of his thigh, pressing more wet kisses and bites to the skin there. Ford’s cock taps against his hard bricks, but Bill pays it no mind.

“Seeing your thighs being put to good use would send ANY sane creature into a self-absorbed rage!” Bill tells him, grinning up at Ford from beside his dick. “PLUS, I can’t stop imagining MYSELF being the one to get crushed to death!”

Ford barks a laugh at the very ‘Bill’ thing Bill just said, though his amusement is cut short as Bill bites him again with a slobbery mouth. It hurts the most so far, springing tears to Ford’s eyes as his thighs angle inwards, squeezing tightly, and Bill makes a rumbling purr noise that reverberates through his entire body.

Releasing his teeth from his flesh, Ford’s thighs fall apart, stinging in the cool air, bloodied and gouged-out. Ford whimpers as Bill soothes the deepest mark with a wash of his tongue, spreading the blood and spit, though it does soothe the bite of pain.

With that tongue lolling out, black through allowing a glimpse of rows of teeth, Bill finally starts paying attention to where Ford’s poor, neglected dick had been leaking like a popsicle in warm weather. He swallows him down eagerly, getting to quick work to give Ford a mind-bending blow job.

Ford’s back arches until pain zaps down his body and legs, swallowing a terribly high-pitched and embarrassing noise. He’s engulfed in soft, warm heat that feels just as dangerous as the teeth in his thigh, decorated with benign brushes of Bill’s throat-teeth brushing against his cock.

The thrill of danger is enticing, and the soft, yet firm, brushes of sharp tips just gets him going even more. His hips try to move up, but Bill exerts some pressure to keep them pressed firmly to the couch, purring, “you better start squeezing those thighs, or I just might take a chunk outta one of them for safekeeping!”

Ford really does try. Not that he has to squeeze much harder than he has been with pleasure roving over and under his dick. Hard and ready to burst after his thighs had just been teased to high hell.

Bill rumbles a pleased note as he’s pressed, as Ford’s thighs indent with Bill’s hard angles, holding him tight between the two walls of firm, bleeding flesh. “Yeah, just like that,” Bill coos, hands taking possessive, greedy handfuls of Ford’s ass, hauling him ever closer. He drags him down the couch until he’s completely laying down, having to use straining muscles to peer at Bill. He can just barely see the bob of Bill’s hand below him, but the slick gulps and gasping does more than enough for his imagination.

It really does sound so wet down there, though Ford has a hunch a lot of the noises have been exaggerated. Bill just wants him to hear the flustering, slick sounds of wet gasping breaths and bubbles popping in his throat. And it works, worsening the flush that’s painted broad across the high rise of his cheeks.

He makes a sharp noise as claws dig into his rear, as a canine drags a line up the underside of his cock, digging into his glans. It feels mean, but the softness of Bill’s tongue, roughened by small bumps, tracing the zinging skin more than makes up for it.

“I should’ve gotten you to crush ANOTHER watermelon before I went HAM on ya,” Bill says as he does a swirling thing with his tongue that has Ford hiccuping. “Would’ve been REALLY NICE to lick up the sticky JUICE you got all over yourself, messy thing that you are.”

“Didn’t— ah! Didn’t have a chance to do anything before you jumped— fuck! Jumped me!” Ford gasps in return, voice threadbare and weak, hips trying to squirm to help his chances at orgasming.

“And I’d do it again!” Bill laughs. “You got yourself REAL famous,” Bill says as he doubles his work, trying to make Ford’s eyes roll back and into his head, though this is difficult with Ford’s eyes halfway to closing. “Lotta VIEWS on that video, you know! Lotta eyes on you, seeing these legs of yours for what they are. You know, I’d be JEALOUS, if I weren’t so sure you were mine.”

His teeth sink in possessively close to Ford’s dick, scraping at the skin, his claws taking hold and sinking deeper. Bill’s entire presence seems to throb with possessive heat, wanting Ford to drown in it all.

“You are, arentcha? Especially these thighs. Hell, I’ve got my calling card ALLL over them now! C’mon, baby. Tell me I’m right and you get to cum — and make sure to squeeze!”

Ford nods his head up and down desperately, affirmative babbling falling from loose lips, slack with wetness. “Yes— yes you’re right! I’m– I’m yours!” Ford manages to properly get across, high-pitched and rushed. It seems to be enough to soothe Bill’s wants, as Bill pulls out all the stops.

His teeth completely sink away and a warm, fleshy throat encases Ford’s cock on all sides, pressing into his flesh firmly. And then his throat begins to vibrate, undulating all around Ford’s dick like the rocking waves of a turbulent sea.

It’s all he needs to cum down that trembling throat, shooting his load with as muffled a noise as he can manage with the back of his hand. His thighs squeeze together as tightly as they humanly can, honouring Bill’s request. They close in even more as his orgasm rushes through him, peaking, and causing a slight pull of pain in Ford’s thigh that he can’t be bothered to care about.

Eyes squeezing shut, Ford’s arched back falls back to the couch with a whole gasp as his orgasm ebbs, and Bill’s body between his clenched thighs falls apart like a child’s fragile block tower. He shatters into literal blocks, collapsing onto Ford’s belly and the couch, then melts into something soft and warm.

The surprise of it ruins the end of Ford’s orgasm, making him jerk violently as his knees knock together, thighs putting unfair pressure on his still-dribbling cock. He gasps with shock, eyes jerking open wide as Bill’s triangular form disappears.

He finds Bill still there, although in a melted, gooey form that’s splattered across his belly button and crotch, painting him with liquid gold. It reminds Ford of ichor, if not for the way it’s slowly piecing itself back together, building itself up and forming back into tiny brick-shaped blocks that slot in together.

“...Bill?” Ford asks carefully, panting for breath but wanting to know if that was a good explosion and just one of Bill’s many ways of being extra, or if he actually just somehow killed Bill.

The bricks build themselves into a perfect equilateral triangle, floating between his legs for a moment before there’s a POP and Bill’s eye and his effects all come into existence. “I’m alive!” He cheers, falling onto the couch to press a kiss to a smarting hickey on Ford’s hairy thigh. “Oh, but WHAT a WAY to kick the bucket,” Bill laments forlornly, plastering himself to Ford’s torso, winding arms around his back firmly.

It feels like an attempt at post-coital spooning, which Ford can allow for maybe a minute before he has to take a shower.

“There’s something wrong with you,” Ford hums fondly, feeling uncharacteristically soft after his mind-bending orgasm. He’s still shaking a little.

“Takes one to know one, bub. Also you HAVE to crush another watermelon later today or else I’ll start screaming,” Bill demands, jutting a sharp finger into Ford’s chest.

Ford can already tell that’s going to turn into more insane sex.

Chapter Text

Ford is never quite sure how he gets himself into these situations.

Like where he is now; knelt on the hard floor, feeling like a kicked, yet hopeful, puppy, as his Muse sits just across from him, taking up space in the small, manifested Mindscape room they both sit in. His chair is gilded gold and plush, and the way he’s looking at Ford is making the younger man squirm like a pinned bug. Even just Bill’s gaze is too much to handle, especially with him leaning back in his chair, one slender leg crossed over the other in the perfect picture of keen nonchalance.

Neither have been here long, just enough to get Ford’s knees smarting and his skin to flush a small rosy pink colour, ears tipped reed and eyes downturned. He could call it a sign of respect, but really it’s just hard to meet his Muse’s intense stare at times like these.

As soon as his gaze fully drops to the floor, there’s the sound like a clicking tongue and For’s gaze immediately snaps back upwards. With no further sound, Bill gestures for him to come closer with a crooked finger, urging him to come hither.

Ford eagerly takes the invitation, skin burning with need, and starts knee-walking his way closer. He knows better than to get up, and he doesn’t want to be a brat or put off Bill’s hands touching him any longer than he needs to.

With the distance not being very far, Ford bullies his way through the aching pain of his knees, knee-waddling closer and closer. As he nears, Bill’s legs uncross, highheeled feet settling on the ground widely with twin clicks, giving Ford a perfect space to settle into.

“Stop there,” Bill tells him simply once Ford is just where his feet sit, though not close enough to touch anything. Ford immediately stops, licking at the dry skin of his lips. With a mild tilt of his body in something calculative, Bill eyes him curiously. “You should take off my shoes, don’t you think? I want to be comfortable, and I swear they’re cutting off my blood flow!”

Easy. Ford can do that.

With a little nod of assent, mouth too dry to even think of saying anything, Ford reaches eager hands for Bill’s left shoe, going for the little strap across his foot. He’s not exactly surprised when Bill’s voice rings out again in a slow tut, foot shifting away in a clear dismissal that Ford’s hands immediately retract upon seeing. He looks up, confused, sure it’s written all over his face in twisted, gnarled lines, that Bill grins upon seeing.

“No hands, kid. You know that’s not how you’re supposed to do it,” Bill coos, wiggling his toes inside his shoe. “Try taking them off with just those pearly whites this time, huh? Shouldn’t be TOO hard! These straps aren’t as tricky as they seem.”

Ford inhales a little slower, trying to calm the way his heart is racing, having inexplicably gone up with Bill’s suggestion. “I- my apologies,” he mutters back, clearing his throat of the slight raspiness that has taken over. Of course Bill wants him to do that.

“I wasn’t expecting you to go so dumb so quickly,” Bill muses, entertained, as he leans back a little more in his chair, nails tapping at the armrest with a steady beat. “Try not to forget again, huh? You should know how to do this by now.”

With a terribly red hue to his cheeks at being talked to in such a way, Ford does as is asked. He shuffles a little back to make room for himself, planting his palms on the floor to steady his upper half, and starts leaning down. His back bows, chest angled towards the floor, tailbone lifted high.

He’s done this before, he knows what Bill wants. What they both want, really, but he’s sure this is more for Bill than it is for him.

With a trembling bottom lip, he leans into Bill’s left foot and carefully presses a kiss on the toe of Bill’s shoe. He pauses, listening, and relaxes a little at Bill’s resounding hum — pleased. Knowing he’s heading in the right direction, Ford continues pressing little, firm yet shaky kisses to Bill’s shoe, laying them over the toe and further down and along the sides.

He almost mourns how perfectly clean Bill keeps his shoes, shiny and gleaming, certainly shoe-shined. He almost wants dirt and dust and smears, to be able to smell the result of Bill walking around in them all day. As it is, he gets a very mild smell he can’t quite put his finger on, and perfectly glossy, clean shoes to kiss.

Once he thinks Bill’s left shoe has been properly kissed, he turns his attention towards trying to wrestle the footwear off. He’s not allowed to use his hands, leaving him with only his mouth to aid him. He leans in as close as he dares, his face brushing up against Bill’s ankle as he wraps his lips around the buckle, the metal bit biting at the heat of his lip. He sneaks out his teeth and tongue to slip the buckle from the metal loop, then tug it free and out.

First roadblock done.

With an eye boring into the top of his head, likely rating his very performance, Ford spends a few agonizing seconds trying to tug the shoe off with just his lips. Quickly realizing this isn’t working, he resorts to biting at the buckle, attempting to pull it off that way.

The shoe is very tightly squeezed on, perfectly accommodating Bill’s foot, likely never meant to come off. Except Ford knows they come off, having done this before, and he knows he just needs to get the right angle and apply the exact right amount of force.

Grunting in frustration, Ford throws his inhibitions away and wraps his lips and teeth around the front of Bill’s shoe, digging his teeth in. He’s likely to leave marks, but Bill says nothing about his decision. He just lets Ford do as he wants, even if that means perhaps denting the material of his shoes.

Mouth in place, Ford wriggles his head around as he tries to pull the shoe off this way. He runs into an immediate roadblock again: Bill’s foot. It’s flat on the ground, and not responding to any of his tugging, pinning the sole and heel of the shoe between foot and floor. Knowing he must look downright pathetic, Ford tilts his gaze up, peering through frizzy hair and long eyelashes and around a shoe in his mouth to find Bill leaning over, watching him with that entertained pupil.

He whines softly, asking for help, and Bill’s eye curves in that dangerous way that has Ford’s belly doing swoops and flips.

“Oh, fine,” Bill sighs, like lifting up his foot is so difficult. “Here, just for you.”

His foot lifts and, as Ford goes back to tugging and wriggling, so does Bill’s foot. It makes the process much easier, and his high heel comes slipping off with a shift of fabric. Ford gingerly drops the shoe from his mouth, panting a little as he noses it off to the side and out of the way, glancing back up to Bill.

Bill raises part of his brow, bemused. “Well?” He asks, his right foot wriggling.

Ford immediately gets to work, much quicker with the process now that he knows what works. Bill helps him again, which is very kind, and Ford quickly drops the shoe to the side, discarding it. He pushes himself up, back aching a little, shifting his weight on his knees as he rises upwards.

The second he’s upright, he finds himself with facefuls of both of Bill’s fabric-covered feet, clad in black nylon. He freezes, eyes blinking wide as toes press against the arch of his cheek, not daring to move for fear of anything.

“You did good,” Bill tells him, watching Ford’s face as he walks his toes up the sides of Ford’s face, little toes pressing indents into his cheeks and nose and eyelids. Gentle and dexterous and fleeting in how they explore his face.

Ford breathes thinly through his nose, making a small, unsure noise as the toes of Bill’s left foot slide down his nose, nudging against his bottom lip and wriggling. He’s certainly not feeling disgust. He doesn’t think he could feel disgust for anything Bill does to him, really, and he certainly isn’t feeling it towards his Muses’ feet, which are currently requesting access to his mouth.

“Go on,” Bill encourages him, “open up.”

Ford’s bottom lip drops with barely any hesitance, allowing those clothed toes to worm inside his mouth.

Bill’s foot is rather tiny. At least at the size Bill is at right now, and compared to a regular human foot. It doesn’t take up much space as toes and the sole of his foot probes inside, likely small enough to fit both inside if Ford really tried. Bill doesn’t seem interested in doing so right now, as his toes slip inside Ford’s mouth, the fabric dragging against his curious tongue that instinctively squirms up to run along the new object.

Bill presses some weight down on his jaw, pressing against his teeth and pinning his tongue down. Saliva begins drenching the nylon, soaking the fabric as Ford’s mouth waters endlessly, creating a pool underneath his tongue.

The foot doesn’t stay inside long, dragging out as soon as it’s soaked, then drawing across Ford’s skin. The soaked fabric leaves a trail of wetness where it runs across, like a snail leaving a trail of slime, except this is much preferred.

As his right foot smears up and over Ford’s nose, his other foot rises up and dips inside Ford’s loosely hanging mouth. Instead of catching flies, however, he’s catching feet.

He hesitantly closes his lips around the foot, teeth gentle as he laves his tongue along the underside, which isn’t nearly as ticklish as he was wondering. Bill makes no movement, just hums as he practically warms his foot inside Ford’s willing mouth.

“You took to this rather quickly,” Bill purrs, which is an understatement with how Ford is running his tongue along as much skin as he can reach. With Bill not telling him not to, he has free reign with his tongue, and he intends on abusing this. “You’d just take anything I put in this mouth of yours, wouldn’t you, kid? Feet, fingers, tongue… cock. You’re like a vending machine! In goes whatever I want, and out comes a good ol’ ticket to cumtown, eh? I seethis if I gave you enough time!”

It’s true, Ford has gotten rather hard in an incredibly short amount of time, and from no stimulation to himself. It’d be embarrassing if it didn’t feel so good to have a foot in his mouth, toes wriggling along his tongue, exploring his oral cavity like it’s a foot rest. Ford would make it into one if he could.

“Alright, alright, enough of that,” Bill says, pulling his foot free from Ford’s mouth. A trail of sticky wetness is pulled along with it, broken by distance. “I don’t want MOLD growing on these things! Take ‘em off, will ya? You’ve already proven yourself to be so adept at taking off my shoes.”

Ford can absolutely do that.

Not even bothering with his hands, Ford reaches up as high as he can with his head, wrapping gentle teeth around the nylon fabric and pulling. He tries to be as careful as he can, not wanting the fabric to tear, though he finds himself distracted with Bill’s other foot resting on his shoulder like a parrot. It smears liberal wetness across his neck, Bill humming to himself as he does, as Ford fights to focus on pulling off these stockings.

The fabric gives way, and Ford scooches himself back as he drags his head down with it, the fabric bunching up as it goes, and then sliding off the end of Bill’s foot. He lets the stockings fall to the side, and then immediately turns his head to the foot on his shoulder, nibbling at the fabric there to try and pull it off.

It takes just as long as the first stocking, maybe longer with how jittery he’s getting. But he manages, and both of Bill’s damp feet are out in the open.

“The dogs are OUT! Finally,” Bill cheers, toes wiggling with their freedom. There are flashes of pink as his toes wiggle up and down, catching Ford’s divided attention.

Bill’s feet are more animal than man, with his digitigrade legs, and the claws he has at the end. Ford could barely feel them in his mouth, but he supposes Bill wasn’t trying to cut him with them. His paw pads are pink and tiny, and most definitely squishy, and Ford cannot wait to get his mouth on them.

“May I?” He asks eagerly, not forgetting his manners as he fidgets with the wrinkles in his pants, hands getting antsy. Needing to touch, but knowing he must have permission. His head tilts up, hopefully peering at his Muse with what he hopes looks like genuinity and something close to, if not, devotion.

“What, you WANT my toes in your mouth?” Bill coos, leaning on his elbows on his knees to get a bit closer to Ford’s face.

“Maybe– maybe I could use my hands, too?” Ford stammers, his tongue not feeling quite right in his mouth. He just wants to do. But he knows he has to ask, and he’s nothing if not good and polite. “Please?”

Bill looks quite smug, grinning with a sharp curve to his eye, pupil dilated in a way that can only mean good things. “You’re very good to ask, Fordsy,” Bill says, thrilling in Ford’s mild shiver. “You go right ahead and get that grubby mouth of yours where you want it.”

With permission, Ford quickly moves. He, still carefully, grabs Bill’s closest leg, supporting it as he lifts it upwards. He leans down as he brings Bill’s leg up eagerly, taking his foot in his mouth, feeling heat and warmth and feeling good where he is, squirming a tongue between Bill’s toe-beans, exploring.

There’s no really a musk, per se. At least not one that a human would have. It smells kind of space-like, kind of smoky, kind of like that dread Ford feels late at night when his brain is no longer busy and he’s allowed to think. It’s not quite a smell, but it’s all encompassing and Ford wants more. It’s enough to make his brain go quiet.

He slobbers, he’s messy with it. He leans back to suck each two individually into his mouth, giving each one its own time to shine. He swirls his tongue around each one, swipes his tongue around the squishy, pink paw-pads, tasting a little salty as he gets right to the source. He tilts his head at an uncomfortable angle in order to get underneath and trace his tongue over the flat plane and slight arch of the sole of Bill’s foot, tongue squirming up to his ankle, then back down.

He’s practically exploring, trying to get his tongue on every inch of Bill’s foot that he can manage. He dapples kisses over the black skin whenever he remembers to do so, but they’re few and far in between. Despite this, he’s reverent and sure to make it feel like he’s worshipping Bill’s feet, especially since that’s what it feels like to him.

“Don’t forget the other foot!” Bill minds him, hand reaching down to tug playfully at a few of the flyaway hairs attempting to lean away from Ford’s head. “It’s feeling pretty LEFT OUT, and we don’t want that, do we?”

Ford shakes his head wordlessly, pressing one last wet kiss to the middle of the top of Bill’s foot in parting before he places it back down. He shuffles over a little, the mild sparks of pain in his knees inconsequential as soon as he gets his hands on Bill’s left foot.

He tries to do the same to this limb as he did with the other, slobbering and kissing and sucking at whatever he can get his lips on. He grazes his teeth along the tendons and stretches of bone, sucks down Bill’s entire foot, worships every bit of skin he can get to with his spit-drenched tongue.

Eventually, Ford’s absolute frenzy slows down. His licking and kissing visibly gets slower, though no less affectionate. His eyes slowly open, half-lidded and hazy, and Bill wordlessly coos at him, a high-pitched, affectionate sound that Ford leans into as though it could cradle him.

“Very good, Fordsy!” Bill praises once it becomes obvious Ford’s steam has mostly run out. “Hell, I think you covered almost everything, which is a new record for you! Sit back a little for me, doll.”

Ford carefully places down Bill’s foot, his tongue tingling a little from the constant licking it had been subjected to. His jaw aches a little and his teeth kind of itch, but he feels good. Even despite the hardness in his pants, he’s satisfied.

Need crashes into him like he’d been run over with a speeding train as one of Bill’s feet lands directly where the heat and blood in his body has all pooled. He makes a gut-wrenching, surprised noise as pleasure and pain collide, body jerking and chest running into the long leg connected to the foot pressing down on his cock.

It’s not exactly painful, but it’s a lot to feel after ignoring his own bodily needs for the better part of an hour.

“Fuh- fuck-” he gasps, eyes blinking wide as he grips onto the leg Bill is applying pressure with, gazing down at him with a half-lidded, serene gaze. “Bill-” He makes another short noise as Bill’s foot quickly gets to work, pressing down on his dick through the layers of soaked clothes he’s wearing.

“You should take off your pants,” Bill tells him simply, toes wriggling one at a time over the tip of Ford’s trapped dick. “I can’t do very much like this.”

As soon as his foot moves away, Ford’s hands are on himself. They’re shaky and tremulous and hard to use, but he manages to get his belt undone, pants unbuttoned, and then shoved down to the mid-part of his thighs. He spreads them as best he can, and turns pleading, dewy eyes upon the Muse above him.

“Please?” He says, unneeded as Bill’s foot is already moving. Both feet, actually, take Ford’s cock in between two padded feet that move far more smoothly and dexterously than Ford’s unsteady hands.

He grunts sharply, hips crooking upwards, into that pressure that feels so good, as his dick is practically rolled between feet. The pleasure heightens as soon as Bill’s toes touch him, as his cock is wrapped within two firm masses of warm flesh. It’s almost too much, and Ford hunches a little, shying away from the pleasure and the sight of Bill’s feet rolling his cock between soft toe pads, his breath coming in great, heaving shudders.

“Watch, Fordsy,” Bill demands, and Ford, naturally, listens.

He bites at his bottom lip, leaning away to better bare himself. He plants the flats of his palms to the ground behind him, stabilizing himself as he watches Bill’s feet to get work on his cock. Weeping and red, crying out for touch and further slicking up as its wish is granted.

He looks about ready to burst, and he sure a s hell feels like it, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he shudders and twitches, jaw threatening to jerk and bite a hard gouge into his lip. Everything is hazy and warm, his thighs trying to open wider and finding themselves trapped by the bands of his pants, though the feeling of being trapped, and the helpless frustration that comes with it, only heightens everything.

He’s whimpering nearly constantly, like a broken record as these punched-out, barely bitten-off sounds fight between clenched teeth, adding music to the slick slide of skin against skin. He tries to be good with his hips, but they twitch up from time to time, especially when Bill takes his dick in two paws and starts twisting at the skin in a way that should probably be painful. Nerves fried, Ford only feels blinding pleasure. Neverending, and wonderful.

He cums with a shout, body jerking like a tense livewire, curling in on himself like an elastic band snapping. His leg cramps a little at the tightness in his body, at how he curls up, but it’s a mild discomfort as pleasure takes his brain completely over, as Bill’s toes tweak at the tip of his dick, finding his glans.

He yelps, shivers and shudders, twisting and writhing and finding only more pleasure with every movement. It feels endless, and by the end a single tear has managed to leak from his eye, though it’s impossible to care after an orgasm like that.

There’s wetness up the front of his shirt, down his thighs, and, most prominently, over Bill’s feet. Milky white against static black, a yin and yang.

Bill slowly takes his feet away, planting one on either of Ford’s thighs, dripping cum. “You made a mess,” Bill points out, the note of disappointment in his voice making Ford want to shrink into himself. “Oh, you couldn’t help it, Fordsy, don’t get shy on me! You can, however, FIX the mistake by cleaning it up.”

He gestures to Ford’s mouth with a flick of his eye, and, well, Ford can’t really say no.

With a small noise as he shifts and brushes against his spent dick, Ford leans over, taking up Bill’s leg that he got the most fluid on. He braces it with his hands and, with a mild amount of hesitation, leans in. His own cum isn’t the most delicious thing, most certainly. It’s not awful, either, but Ford wouldn’t be found licking up his own spend just for the pleasure of it. It’s bitter and a little salty and cooling, sitting heavy on his tongue and even heavier in his belly when he swallows.

He makes it quick, licks up his spend and clears Bill’s leg of any white. He finishes by showing Bill his tongue to prove he swallowed it all and, with Bill’s guiding hand, nudges in to rest his cheek on Bill’s warm thigh, a hand in his hair.

“Good boy,” Bill tells him, simple and assured. It’s impossible to believe otherwise.

Chapter Text

“Why isn’t it working?” Ford mutters, scratching at the space above his brow as he peers down at the device in his hands. Despite his constant poking, prodding, hitting, shaking, and even internal peering, the black screen remains stubbornly blank.

He’s completely taken over the kitchen table, but, in his defense, he got very caught up in fixing his topographical map and just kind of ended up here. The basement was too far away, and he had everything he needed with him. He’s planning to be done before dinner anyway, if he could just figure out the damn root of the issue.

Everything is plugged in, all the wires are in the right spots, he checked the batteries and the screen and the crystal inside the handle, which is also fine. It should be working.

He sighs quietly in exhausted frustration, turning the portable, handheld device around once more to find the four small screws he initially missed hidden near the base of the projector. He’ll need something smaller to unscrew those….

Before he has to get it himself, god forbid, there’s the familiar sound of Stanley’s characteristic footsteps approaching. Likely to check in on the progress. He’s stomping a little harder than usual, but it’s definitely him.

Perfectly right on time.

“Stanley, do you think you could grab me a smaller screw driver? I seem to have missed the screws here,” Ford asks the approaching man, not even bothering to look up from his quest. He’s been using Stanley to grab him tools from around the house since he sat down, abusing the fact he doubts Stanley will say no if it means getting Ford off of his dining table quicker.

Stanley doesn’t respond verbally, instead grabbing Ford by the scruff of his turtleneck once he’s behind him, and yanking him to his feet. The tools in Ford’s hands clatter to the table with his surprise, eyes flying wide as he’s tugged upright, and then given no time to ask questions as the grip changes to his forearm, and he’s dragged along.

It’s definitely Stanley who he’s staring at the back of, dragging him away from the kitchen table. No amount of surprised flailing or digging in heels saves him from the strength of a pissed off brother. A brother who he doesn’t know why exactly is pissed off, either.

“Stanley?” Ford asks, blinking at the tight hold on his wrist and then to his brother. “Is there an emergency?”

Stanley does not explain anything to him, which is very nice of him and not at all a cause for concern. Resigning himself to not getting any sort of explanation, Ford gets his feet into gear and, with difficulty, tries to match Stanley’s rather aggressive pace.

Within seconds, Ford goes from being a free man who was innocently tinkering with his equipment, to being shoved inside the broom closet on the second floor. Stanley lets him go once Ford is firmly inside the dim depths, which are then made worse when, by the time Ford gets his wits about him and turns around, the door has been closed and locked.

Ford blinks at the door, lost and a little confused, and slowly turns around to face the claustrophobic innards of the closet. It becomes obvious why he’s in here very quickly.

There, sitting on a throw pillow and grinning at him, is Bill. He’s not very far away considering the size of Ford and the subsequently smaller size of the closet itself, but he’s at least a good three feet away. Very hard to miss.

Ah, Stanley must have gotten tired of their less-than-cordial interactions and avoidance. He has been dealing with it first-hand for a few weeks now. Ever since Bill was thrown onto their family by the Theraprism therapists, at least.

“Now talk,” Stanley stresses through the wooden blockage, sounding gruff and absolutely done with the two of them. Ford would be more understanding if he weren’t the one locked up but, well, as it is.

“Why does he get a pillow?” Ford chooses to complain, calling through the door with an upset lilt.

“Because he dragged it in there with him,” Stanley calls back, evidently not going to grab Ford a throw pillow too. “Get comfortable! Neither of you are leavin’ until you’ve sorted your shit out.”

“I’m the one with the bad knees!” Ford yells, but Stanley does not reply. His footsteps do, receding back down the hallway they came from. Away from the door. Ford does not start pounding on the door with his fists and foot to be let out, but he does so in spirit.

Slowly, like a stone scraping against a rock floor, Ford turns to look at Bill with the most deadpan expression he can muster. Bill continues to grin, as though he’s also not locked in here.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Bill says, kicking out his feet and looking terribly smug for someone who has to talk about his “feelings”. Probably has to do with the fact Bill definitely has the patience to outlast anyone who locks him in a closet. Anything to avoid admitting he has feelings for anyone, platonic or otherwise.

The demon is glowing rather dimly, not really giving off any light which is mostly coming from the dust-covered lightbulb hanging precariously from the ceiling. The little light gives visibility to the cluttered nature of the storage closet, with a musty sort of stale air smell and the untouched storage that hasn’t seen sunlight in what must be decades. There’s boxes with tinsel hanging out, boxes with scrawled names of “Hanukkah” and “scientific theory” and “college”.

All of which spark interest, but are not his current fixation at the moment.

He’s not the best with small spaces. Not since that time on Klargon and that other time he got trapped in a ship that he was looting for a galactic confederation. Two and a half days. He would have died on three.

The only thing that’s really helping him right now is the fact he can still see, and he knows if he starts making enough distressed sounds his family will come running.

At that very moment he thinks he hears the distant sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by a hollow silence. Ford licks his lips, dry and dusty. Yeah, okay, perfect timing.

Now there’s a bit more on the line if the power oh so suddenly goes out. Judging by the finicky flickering of the bulb, he doesn’t think it has much life left.

“You’re chipper,” Ford comments, dragging himself away from the door to take a single-footed stride and lean against a cluttered shelf wall. “For someone locked in a closet with his “situationship”, as you put it.”

“You’re not about to bare your heart to me!” Bill scoffs, waving him off. “Which also means I won’t be!”

“And what if I did?” Ford counters, “bare my heart, I mean. Would that really help you talk sweet to me?”

“I already talk sweet to you,” Bill says back, leaning back against the wall, pillowing his hands behind his pointy head. “And NO, that wouldn’t work. I’m not some two-bit dimensional whore that’ll tell you what you want to hear if you play the emotional card.”

“I didn’t think so,” Ford mutters back, unsurprised. “Then what’s your great plan? Starve in here until they let us out?”

“You are so dramatic. No, Einstein, patience is our friend,” Bill coos, giving him a slanted look. “Just gotta outwait your stupid family.”

“They’re not stupid, and they certainly mean well.”

“Then why don’t you tell me something with FEELING? I promise I’ll only laugh a little.”

As Ford opens his mouth to snark back, the finicky lightbulb, which had been ramping up its flickering during their not-quite-an-argument, chooses that exact moment to go out. It’s just a day full of great timing, isn’t it?

The lightbulb goes out with a sad bzzt noise like a dying wasp, and sends both Ford and Bill into unimaginable darkness, which has Ford inhaling sharply as though he were stabbed.

Immediately, he feels any carefully sewn self-control slipping through his fingers like dry sand particles. He tenses up, bracing for impact that will never come, as darkness shrouds his vision and leaves him vulnerable, bringing him right back to that godforsaken ship he got himself trapped in. He can still smell the metallic tinge to the air, the rust, the distant sparking of electrical wires. He swears he feels the creaking of metal beneath his back.

Bill’s glow is too dim to properly penetrate the sheet of black, which also isn’t helping, and the way he’s peering at Ford with a reflective pupil is just as, if not more, worrying than the darkness.

Ford drops his gaze to his hands, which he can barely see, clenching them tightly together to prod the blunt ends of his nails into his palms. It bites a little, and Ford turns his attention to making sure he doesn’t start wheezing or doing something similarly awful.

“Fordsy?” Bill asks carefully into the sudden darkness and quiet, his tone oddly hesitant for an interdimensional being.

Ford tries to grab onto his voice, onto the sound of another person being here with him, in this dark space, but Bill’s sentence is short and he— oh, he’s asking Ford a question. He should probably answer.

He opens his dry mouth to respond, but there’s something hard and round in the back of his throat, and when he tries to push some semblance of comfort out with his tongue, it just comes out as that wheezing sound he had been dreading. He snaps his teeth together, but it’s too late, Bill knows.

“Really? You’re afraid of dark, enclosed spaces??” Bill asks with a small amount of incredulous laughter. Ford would try and find the entertainment value if he weren’t in the middle of trying to keep himself calm. And miserably failing.

“Wh— what? Didn’t— didn’t think I was scared of… of anything? Flattering,” Ford gasps back, a hand landing on the long column of his throat, as though he could ground himself by feeling each thin swallow, each bob of his Adam’s apple. It’s warm flesh to grab, but it’s his. He’s alone.

It really feels just how it did back in that spaceship. Small. Claustrophobic. Dark.

The only difference is the smell of staleness in his nose and the small, triangle-shaped demon just ahead of him, though, with his growing panic, both of these grounding aspects fade away.

“NAH, just didn’t think it’d be the DARK that gets that heart of yours working DOUBLE-TIME. You and your weird trauma,” Bill sighs, having no idea how nice it is to hear him talk. Ford wants him to talk forever, just to keep himself from teetering off this cliff edge, down into the panic clawing at his weak lungs.

Ford swallows, mouth clicking when it next opens, wet with spit that he needs to remind himself to not let overflow. “You’re one to talk,” he manages back, trying to coax Bill into talking again, into talking more, even though his own breaths are coming faster.

Bill doesn’t reply loud enough for Ford’s ringing ears to hear, muttering some sort of choice phrase to himself. Then he blooms with light like he’s a nightlight coming to life. It’s bright enough to make Ford’s retinas ache, to cast broad shadows across the cluttered walls, shelves and floor.

It’s nice, and it should be helping. Ford even manages to gulp down one good inhale of breath, which feels heavenly against the tightness binding his lungs. But it doesn’t seem to be enough.

Now that Ford is in the midst of a panic attack, it seems to want to run its course before it leaves him alone.

“Oh, of COURSE that’s not enough,” Bill scoffs, looking heavily irritated before a slow, slow glimmering gleam comes to his eye that Ford really doesn’t like the look of. His wariness is well-earned, as that look means mischief, and if there’s any time where mischief isn’t appropriate, it’s right now.

Bill doesn’t move at all, just sits very very still, watching Ford with an unblinking eye, watching him fall a little bit further apart with every passing second. Ford wishes he could be more on guard, but his defenses are down and he just wants to be able to breathe.

Something brushes against Ford’s bare ankle, sock having slid down and pants riding up. It squirms past like a warm snake, and Ford jerks with a sharp noise of alarm.

Bill doesn’t quite coo at him, really, but he does make a surprisingly comforting chirring and bug-like sound that has Ford’s chest stuttering with breath. He jerks his head down to his ankles, where he can just barely see the squirming figures of black arms. Familiar arms — Bill’s arms.

They writhe like snakes, their long bodies coming from Bill’s sides like a flowery lion’s mane. There must be at least twenty of them, all sprouting from any available side Bill’s 3D body allows, and all squirming towards Ford.

“Really?” Ford rasps as he feels a hand curl around his ankle, taking hold and urging his leg out from its curled-up state, encouraging him to loosen up. Ford doesn’t have much willpower to deny the demon what he wants. He lets the hand drag his ankle out a slight way, just enough to make him feel too vulnerable for his liking.

But not the same kind of vulnerable he felt whilst trapped. This one is much more appeasing.

“What?” Bill says slyly, another arm slithering up to curve around Ford’s clothed waist, bunching his clothes up beneath the tight wind of his arm. It’s actually kind of grounding, albeit surprising. Ford is just glad he’s in an “I need physical contact to ground me” mood and not a “don’t touch me or else I’ll flip out” mood. “I’m helping.”

He honestly is. Ford no longer feels that dizziness or that shortness of breath, newly focused on the arms twining around his body. He looks up, Bill’s name already on his tongue, when Bill is already there, kissing him.

He wastes no time biting at him like a dog, then shoving a tongue into his mouth when he gasps in reaction. Ford’s head is rocked back into the wall from the force, eyes squeezing shut as Bill presses close to him, arms slithering around and across his body like they’re mapping his contours and edges for the first time again.

The touch is both so familiar and unfamiliar. Physically, nothing about him has changed, but the way he touches has. He’s gentler, in a way, though still possessive. That may just be him being uncharacteristically worried about worsening Ford’s panic attack, though.

That’s probably the reason.

Bill licks into his mouth, suckling on his tongue, biting at his teeth and gums and lips until when he pulls back Ford is panting, though no longer from panic. His lips are puffy and kiss-slick, eyes a little doe-like. Wanting, needing. And then hardening as quickly as they can, brows drawing together.

“Bill,” Ford admonishes, frowning with kiss-bruised lips. “That’s an awful way to distract someone from a panic attack.”

His chastising is greatly lessened when there’s a hand crawling up his shirt, making a predatory B-line towards a perky nipple. He hisses through his teeth at the bite of pain.

“MAYBE, but I don’t see YOU complaining,” Bill purrs, tone noticeably deeper, hungrier. His dilated pupil won’t leave Ford’s face for anything, staring straight through him, into his shivering soul.

It’s true, Ford’s definitely not complaining. Not if Bill keeps touching him, staring at him like that, working hands up his shirt and down his pants and fuck. Ford inhales sharply, eyes blinking hard as a sneaky hand cups him through his briefs, finding where he’s radiating the beginnings of heat.

“I’m– ah- not,” Ford gasps, trying to arch his way into a firmer grip. His chest hunches, breaking away from the fingers pinching teasingly at the areolas of his nipples. Bill laughs at him, amused, hand twisting around to rub at the sensitive head of his cock through his briefs. Not yet hard, but on the way if Bill keeps touching him like that. “I just think that if you- gh- Tri- tried this method on anyone else, it wouldn’t work half as well.”

“Right, right. And you know why that is?” Bill asks snidely, making quick work of unbuckling Ford’s pants with another hand.

Ford blinks, eyes blurry from how close Bill has leaned in. “Why’s that?” He manages, strained with need.

“Because you’re easy.”

It’s hard to completely argue with that, even with the instinctual rearing of his head, wanting to defend himself against anything Bill accuses him of. He doesn’t quite get a chance to defend himself, if that’s what he was going to do with his mouth opening.

The hands on his body come to life, tugging and pulling and practically wrestling him down to lay flat on the dusty floorboards. In the same movement, Ford’s unbuckled pants are pulled from his hips and down his thighs, left around his knees in a frustrating band of tightness. Like this, he can’t spread them very well, but the restriction to his movements is undoubtedly hot as well.

With a whoosh of surprised breath as Ford adjusts to his new home on his back, legs spread, Bill above him, Ford manages to muster some fire. “No, I’m not,” he protests, but it sounds weak to even his own ears.

Bill takes him by the knees, tugging him close to his knelt figure with an easy movement that drags Ford across the ground. Bill kneels on his pants, pinning his legs down and helping keep them slightly apart.

The blatant manhandling sends a rush of heat through Ford’s body, feeling short of breath with his arousal straining desperately against his briefs, still being toyed with. His vision is flooded with gold as Bill leans in over his vision, holding himself up with a hand pressed close to Ford’s neck, holding himself up.

“What, you’re saying I’m not special?” Bill asks, pushing into Ford’s space as his multiple hands grab onto handfuls of flesh. “That I’m not the ONLY ONE you turn into a BELLY-UP BITCH for? NEWSFLASH, kid! I know I’m the only one who’s touched you. If I weren’t, I could prolly smell ‘em!”

“I— Bill— I have had sex with others—”

“No one important enough to remember though, were they? No one you let properly mark up your insides with their cum,” Bill steamrolls through, easing himself up and off of where he had been balancing over Ford’s face. With his absence, the numerous hands press against Ford’s skin, palms flat, fingers digging inwards. “I just knew you’d find your way back to me.”

“A little— a little self-centered, isn't it? To assume that?” Ford pants, brows furrowing and unfurrowing as he tries to process what he’s feeling, and why the hands have seemingly stopped moving.

“Right, too,” Bill replies smugly, patting at Ford’s hip with the simple knowledge that he owns him. “Next time we get into a fight, I’ll just lock you in a closet and we’ll have HOT and STEAMY makeup sex! You’ll give in, just like you always do!”

“I don’t usually get a choice— agh!” Ford yelps, eyes finally going wide as he feels something. Things get weird and smeary in his eyes as those multiple hands and their countless fingers feel like they start pressing into his skin. Sharp tips embedding within his meat, though not piercing. Simply merging.

And Ford thinks it feels good, too. Sparks of absurd pleasure bursting here Bill’s touch lands, where he presses in.

All at once, at the same time, every single hand over each open area of his skin presses into his skin. Pressing and pressing, coaxing pleasure from the insane feeling, twining through his epidermis and dermis and into muscle.

The deeper the fingers sink, the sharper and better the pleasure feels. All at the same time, it becomes too much too fast, like hot flashes throughout his body, and Ford has to wrench up a hand to shove his own fingers into his mouth, wanting to stay quiet.

He’s almost 100% he and Bill are the only ones in the house, but he can’t be too sure, though.

All without properly breaching him in a “normal” way, Bill reduces Ford to shuddering and squirming, trying to jerk to the left and right to get these fingers deeper into his body, into spots he never knew could feel pleasure. Bill, knelt between his legs, lays a gentle hand across his dick, untouched and hard as a rod, leaking like a faulty pipe, and Ford whines sharply at the added sensation.

Not even taking him out of his briefs, Bill just rubs at him through the wet fabric. But, with everything else that’s going on, it’s enough.

The fingers in his body all hilt in him at once, sinking into the very third knuckle and sheathing themselves in his muscle. And yet, instead of agony, it’s just blinding pleasure. Torturously slowly, each finger takes its sweet time pulling out and then pushing back in. N two fingers move at the same pace or the same time, leaving every single part of Ford’s body tingling with different variations of endless pleasure.

“Come on, admit it,” Bill purrs over Ford’s whines, drunk on the feeling of all the numerous fingers filling his pores, mingling with his atoms, merging with his very DNA. “You’re easy. I know you know it.”

“I’m not— this— ngh– this situation was just—”

“Well, that’s not the answer I was looking for,” Bill scoffs, and, with a single mental nudge, every single finger ceases to move. Any building orgasm Ford had been speeding towards is ruined, and not even his fruitless jerking and squirming can help. “You didn’t even try!”

Ford’s eyes slam open wide with betrayal, wetly finding Bill poised over his body, staring down at him with a wide, glowing pinprick of a pupil. He seems to have gotten bigger, his overwhelming warmth searing through Ford’s body.

“Go on. Try again.”

“Ngh– no-” Ford grunts back, body shivering with want and need as he’s left without anything to tide him over. Only the fingers themselves moving give him pleasure, making the pathetic wriggling of his body completely useless.

“No?” Bill snarks back, raising part of his brow in a blatantly unimpressed manner. His fingers wiggle enticingly, and Ford’s muffled cry bounces off the roof of his mouth. “You’re just making things harder for yourself, Pines! And, don’t get me wrong, it’s cute and all, but I thought all those pathetic noises you were making was ‘cause you wanted to cum. Was I wrong?”

Ford bites at his lip, shaking his head back and forth without pure conscious thought, feeling dizzy and heady with need, though stubborn pride halts him.

“You know what you hafta say, sweetie,” Bill purrs, burning like caramel dripping over him, sweet and scalding, bursting with flavour over his tongue. “Just gotta admit how much you melt for me. Even after so long, you always sink right into my touch, no matter the timing! I’d wager you were a whore if I didn’t know any better.”

Petting almost soothingly over his cock, the touch is much more akin to a hand slipping down a cat’s back rather than anything substantial or pleasurable, but, even now, it feels like an agonizing way of teasing. Ford huffs, head falling to grind into the floor, blinking at Bill’s top-hat swaying through his vision like the tick of a metronome.

“Easy flesh, easy soul, easy touch. Easy, easy, easy,” Bill murmurs to himself in soundless pleasure, a hand not sunken into Ford’s body sliding up Ford’s inner thigh, gripping at the warm skin. “You’re like a puzzle made for years 2 and up! You’re just that easy. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ford whimpers with pursed lips, hating how he’s found himself in this situation again. How he likes where he lies, and how Bill makes him beg for what he wants. He’s missed it, damn it. Can he really blame himself for how easily he gives in?

After all, he’s easy, isn’t he?

“I’m— I’m- fuck, I’m easy, easy for you, Bill,” he gasps, back arching futilely only to have it pressed flat back to the floor by Bill’s actual hand. “I’m only— only this easy for you.” The words burn as they leave his throat and tongue, and he almost wishes he had put up a bit of a bigger fight when he catches sight of Bill’s reaction.

Bill is grinning, something manic and pleased in his pupil that tells Ford maybe he didn’t have to go that extra mile, but then it doesn’t matter because the fingers are moving again. They feel even better after a momentary break, and Ford is quick to shove his fingers back inside his mouth, grinding the back of his head into the floor as he arches.

“That’ll do, Fordsy. That’ll do,” Bill purrs, effectively pleased as he returns to practically molesting Ford’s cock through his soaked briefs. His hand is clumsy and not nearly enough, but with everything else, it doesn’t even matter.

In a sharp jerking thrust Ford hadn’t been expecting, every single finger shoves knuckle deep into his body, prying the pleasure from deep within and drowning him with it. His orgasm is inevitable.

Ford’s vision whites out, entire body buzzing up and down like he stepped into a giant bath of ice-water for who knows what reason, practically numbing him. He cums hard enough he thinks he goes momentarily deaf, and the fingers finger him through the wave, pulling flow after flow from him even when he thinks this orgasm should have ended.

As soon as it starts getting painful and Ford starts whimpering, the fingers finally slowly pull from his body. It still feels good, almost too good, but the slowness helps to keep Ford from getting too overstimulated, and each finger pops free from his body. No bruise or pock-mark is left behind, no proof that they were ever inside of him, and they all seep back into their owner’s body.

Ford is left heaving for breath where he lies, too exhausted to even bother panicking about where he is. It could be worse, he could be alone in this damned closet.

“Can we agree we had an emotional heart to heart?” Ford asks, glancing at Bill who’s retreated from him to sit back on that silly throw pillow that Ford should have been the one to get.

“Well, if you count me sticking things inside your wrinkly body as emotional, sure!” Bill chirps back, eyeing him curiously. “You gonna panic on me again?”

“Not for another half hour,” Ford estimates, groaning as he sits up, wincing at his body. Okay, so he was wrong. The hands did leave behind bruises, pressed like flattened grapes into each section of his scarred skin. All over him. At least none slipped inside his face or his neck, he can cover these ones up.

Well, he guesses he prefers this to passing out from a panic attack in a closet.

Chapter Text

The last thing Ford expected to do today was walk in on Bill putting on lipstick. Not an odd thing to see the aftermath of, but he’s never seen Bill actively in the process of doing it.

It’s a very crimson shade that he’s dabbling his lips with. He’s phased out his eye to purse his lips, having to smear the material around the few eyelashes he has poking out from the lips/eyelids. He certainly knows what he’s doing, Ford can admit that. He’s never seen someone put on lipstick, but Bill just does it in a way that makes it look right. Fluid and easy, like he’s done it a hundred times.

Hell, he might have. Ford’s seen enough different colours on his lips to assume so.

He’s sitting at his vanity that he stole from a questionable place, watching himself put on the lipstick with an eye that’s not visibly around. It’s kind of fascinating to watch. And Bill, despite what Ford insists, does look good with the makeup on.

Up until Ford jerks himself out of his momentary shock and interest to ask an alarmed, “are you going out?”

Bill doesn’t even flinch, apparently having known he was there. “Can’t a triangle look pretty just for HIMSELF?” Bill snarks back, eye slipping out between his lips to glance at Ford in the mirror before his lips close back in. “Not everything is for YOU, Pines.”

“I didn’t—” Ford starts, aghast, before shaking his head and scowling. “Do what you want, Bill. Just don’t somehow use that lipstick to kill someone.”

“No promises!” Bill trills, giggling to himself.

Ford takes the chance to leave.

The lipstick haunts him. He’s not even sure why. It’s just lipstick. He’s seen it time and time before, on supermodels, on playboy magazines, on Bill himself in the far past when he was going through another lipstick-tryout phase. So why not, why now of all times is he haunted by the image?

It’s not even entirely Bill that’s bothering him, either. Sometimes it’s just the damn lipstick that haunts him, free from Bill’s grasp, hovering on its own within his brain. It is, quite literally, haunting him.

It does not help that Bill is wearing lipstick nearly constantly now. Always around his eyeball, always purposefully pushed out to create the barest impression of lips coloured crimson. He gets it on cups when he takes a sip, he gets it on blankets when he lounges on the couch, he even presses kisses into the windows to create smears, and Ford is getting very frustrated by it all.

He shouldn’t be, but it really feels like Bill is taunting him without even explicitly saying anything. Just that thought alone gets him riled up.

It leads to a confrontation, because Ford cannot hate living in his own house because of someone else. He tries to be confident when he approaches Bill sitting at his vanity, but even when he starts talking, Bill doesn’t look at him, just applying another shade of red to his lips.

“You need to stop wearing that lipstick,” Ford says, feeling a little stupid about the request, but serious all the same.

“Oh, yeah?” Bill says back, sounding a little slurred with how his lips are pushed out into the perfect oval shape. The small inclination that Bill may be listening has Ford going on a miniature rant. Mostly about the lipstick, about the fact Bill is getting it on everything and how it’s a distraction. By the end he’s panting, and frowning down at Bill, feeling like he just told the demon what-for.

Bill slowly turns around on his stool with a half-raised brow, looking wholly unimpressed by Ford’s anger-flushed cheeks and clenched fists.

“Are you done?” He asks, gaining a momentary splutter as Ford realizes Bill heard nothing of what he said.

“You– Bill, I am trying to have a conversation with—”

“Do ya wanna give it a try?” Bill cuts him off, honestly quite rudely. The offer comes completely out of left field and entirely ignores everything Ford just said.

Ford’s brain completely blanks.

“What?” He says, as if Bill would say something different the second time around.

“You heard me, don’t play dumb, IQ,” Bill scoffs, waving the little metal tube between his fingers back and forth, letting Ford’s eyes trace the pattern. Enticing him. “Maybe THAT’s why you’ve got your panties in a twist! You don’t feel pretty.”

Ford recovers well enough to scoff just in time, looking away from the lipstick to meet Bill’s all-seeing eye. “I don’t need to feel pretty, Bill. You, obviously, do. Besides…” he glances back at the red tube, almost yearning if it weren’t for the hard furrow in his brows. “I don’t really think red is my colour.”

“Bah!” Says Bill, and uses a long arm to slink over and wrap around Ford’s torso in seamless, swift movements, pinning his arms to his sides.

Ford makes an alarmed noise as the arm starts to drag him towards Bill, threatening to topple him over if he doesn’t get his ass in gear and use his feet. He stumbles, almost falling, and then really does go down when the arm applies some force and drags him to sit beside Bill on the ground.

The arm around his body slinks its hand up, cupping under his chin and tilting his head upwards, making him watch Bill uncap the lipstick in hand with a sickening click. Unable to scream, Ford sits still and silent even as his knees ache from his rough landing, as Bill brings the lipstick closer with a cooed, “pucker up, buttercup!”

Ford does not, but this doesn’t stop Bill from pressing the soft material of the red lipstick to his lips. The hand under his chin ensures he stays very still, fingers dipping in close to press indents when he threatens to wobble away.

Bill pulls away the tube, eyeing him critically, then instructs, “press your lips together and rub ‘em for me.”

Ford does so without complaint.

Once done, Bill presses a clawed finger underneath his bottom lip with a quiet tut, getting rid of the slight smear. He then frames Ford’s cheeks with two palms, peering down at him with a beautifully half-lidded gaze that has Ford’s thighs pressing together slightly.

“Red isn’t your colour? NONSENSE,” he says proudly, when he leans back, setting aside the capped lipstick. “You look ALMOST as great as me! Which, if you didn’t know, IS a compliment.” Ford is hauled upwards by the arm around his torso, positioned towards the vanity, and let go. “FEAST your four eyes!”

And Ford does.

Despite changing almost nothing, Ford looks very different. The red brings out the flush in his cheeks, the brown in his eyes, it highlights the shape of his lips — were they always this plump? — and make them sticky to press together, causing a slight pull that Ford finds unreasonably attractive.

He… He doesn’t hate it like he was secretly hoping he would. It’s just not something he ever pictured on himself, and something he never thought he wanted to see on himself. Then Bill comes along, flips his whole world upside down, and reveals to him a hidden want he didn’t even know he had.

Apparently he has a lot of those.

Bill, elongating his legs like he’s on stilts, steps off the stool and stands next to Ford in the vanity, his own lips similarly red and plush, but a little bit bigger than Ford’s. They sure do look like a matching pair.

“Huh,” Ford says, for lack of anything better to say. He can’t take his eyes off himself. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to look away from his reflection.

Bill makes him look away. Grabs him under the chin once more, a bit rougher, and yanks him into a surprising and tooth-smashing kiss. He makes it purposefully messy so that their lipstick smears over their faces and lips and rubs into already ruddy cheeks. Ford is so taken off guard he forgets to kiss back.

When they pull back, Bill cups his starstruck, panting face in two hands. He blinks, breathing heavily, face smeared red.

“You should wear this shade more often,” the demon muses, “suits you.”

Ford struggles to manage out, before he can fuck this up, “maybe— only if you have me wear it with you kissing me.”

Evidently being the right thing to say, Bill’s eye glints with amusement. “So you do like it,” Bill purrs, looking radiant even with his lipstick smudged all around his eye, plastering an eyelash to his eyelid. Ford thinks the red smears accentuates him.

Ford tries to clear his throat, shaking his head free of Bill’s hands, which, loose as they were, fall away easily.

“A little,” Ford coughs mildly, only to be cut off and made to flinch underneath Bill’s scornful scoff.

“‘A little’,” he mocks, looking wholly unimpressed. “Alright, pal. If you’re too good for these BEAUTY products then you can go and play in the mud like a real man. I’ll just be here. Lipsticking it UP.” Bill then takes a heaving seat and spins back around to focus on himself, a clear dismissal.

Ford immediately feels like he made the wrong choice, like whatever had just been brewing between them just fell apart like wet, shattered sea glass. “I- Bill, wait,” Ford says, feeling stupid as Bill turns slightly to eye him, eyebrow raised, eye half-lidded. “I like it,” Ford manages, “I like… I like the lipstick. On me.”

“Wasn’t so hard to say, WAS IT?” Bill asks, applying a darker shade of red to create a gradient. “Good for you, kid! Not every day you figure out you like how you look in RED!”

He turns back around, focusing on himself again, and Ford blinks, lost.

“That’s it?” He asks, hating how pathetic he sounds.

“You wanted something else?” Bill says liltingly, obviously teasing, angle tilting to eye Ford down his curved slant, like he’s looking down his nose at him. He’s playing dumb, probably able to smell the want wafting off of him.

Ford doesn’t bother answering, scoffing to conceal whatever flustered, irritated emotions are showcased all across his face, and quickly leaves. He finds a bathroom first, scrubs at his face until he realizes the lipstick is downright impossible to scrub off (damn that waterproof label he didn’t notice!), and leaves him with the only option to hide himself away in the basement until he’s able to get rid of any lipstick remnants.

He avoids Bill for a few days.

Not long, though. He’s drawn back in like a moth to a flame when Bill starts wearing a new colour. Purple. It compliments the yellow of his bricks, and is different enough to catch Ford’s eye, which he had been holding firmly to the ground ever since that embarrassing interaction.

The new colour just kickstarts a whole new firestorm in his head.

Eventually, while Bill isn’t around his vanity which has become his and Mabel’s to do each other’s makeup at, Ford steals a red shade of lipstick. At least he thinks it’s red. He remembers maroon being a sort of reddish shade. Hidden away in a bathroom where a mirror hangs, Ford cracks open the tube and finds it to be red enough. A little too dark for his tastes, but he’s not going back out there.

There’s no one home except for maybe Bill who he hasn’t actually seen today, but still. There’s safety in this small, isolated room.

He braces himself on the countertop, swirls the bottom of the lipstick a few times to bring it out of its shell, and looks at the shape for a moment. It hasn’t been used very much, which is a surprise considering Bill really seems to like the colour red. But he supposes the darker shade wouldn’t accentuate Bill’s gold hue like a sharper, lighter and brighter red would.

The lipstick is pretty. Slim. Full of potential. Potential Ford is planning on capitalizing on.

Swallowing a little harsher than he should in the face of a harmless stick of lipstick, he leans close into the mirror and, with a shaking hand, begins to draw along his lips. His aren’t as full and easy to colour in, and his own tracing of the shape of his lips leaves a lot to be desired. He’s clumsy — messy. His jerking hand strikes a line from the corner of his lips and into his cheek, which makes it look like he smeared his clown makeup.

He manages to complete the circuit of his lips. His own attempt is embarrassing to Bill’s practiced movements, but he’d argue it’s not that bad for his first solo attempt.

Bill would disagree, but the demon isn’t here right now.

Ford smacks his lips like he’s seen the demon do, rubbing them together, trying to even out the smears. He’s honestly not sure what the lip-rubbing does, but it doesn’t make it look more natural. He may have made everything worse.

With a grunt of slight frustration, Ford leans in even closer to his reflection, eyes focused on his lips that shine with an abnormal, sweetly roasting colour. He goes back in with the lipstick, wanting to touch up the problems he caused.

He knows this will probably make things worse, but he can’t just not try.

Focused as he is on his lips, Ford passes off the slight flash of gold from above his nose, unconcerned with visual hallucinations as he tries to focus. He’s not going to look away for anything.

Standing as still as he can manage, trying to focus, Ford’s reflection moves when he doesn’t. Ford freezes, blinking at his lips that have moved away from him, and slowly looks up. His own reflection is standing straight up, slitted pupils and wide, yellow scleras that are achingly familiar making Ford’s heart sink.

As soon as their eyes meet, his possessed reflection starts careening towards him with a sick, sick smile on its face. Ford only has time to widen his eyes as his reflection slams against the mirror and, instead of him popping through, out comes Bill. The mirror ripples like water as Bill slips through, grinning maniacally with only his eye.

“Looks like SOMEONE is having some TROUBLE,” Bill laughs, loud and nasally, snagging Ford’s lipstick-held hand before he can get too far away. “AND you stole my stuff. You could’ve just ASKED, sweetums!”

“Bill, I—” Ford tries to explain, feeling like he had been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. A silly thought, he’s a grown man in his own house, and he’s no longer in primary school. Still, he feels like he’s in trouble.

He could shock the creature with the chip he’s got implanted between his bricks. The remote is in his pants, where it always sits. Very close by. He doesn’t even try.

Bill’s eye somehow seems to curve further, as though he’s realized the same thing. His eye turns towards Ford’s smeared lips, and his brow furrows in concern. “You didn’t even DO it right!” Bill gasps, faux-offended. He slaps his ass down on the counter, pulling Ford in with legs locking around his hips, and then grabs him by the chin.

A bolt of heat rushes through Ford at the aggressive contact, hating himself for being so easy.

Bill’s body stretches a little, growing, and Ford’s head is twisted to the side and up, allowing Bill to hold the lipstick with his other hand. “Lemme help you! Inexperienced hands are the devil's best friend!”

And then he does what he said he would. He gets right to fixing Ford’s godawful attempt.

He hums as he goes, tearing off a bit of tissue paper from the toilet roll to clean up the edges, and the big long smear that Ford drew across his cheek. It honestly feels nice to have someone else do it for him, someone who even knows what they’re doing. Ford could melt into it if it weren’t for Bill’s legs locked tight around his waist, pressing his navel uncomfortably into the countertop edge.

He finishes with a squish to Ford’s cheeks, almost patronizing. “There!” he says with a proud gleam when he leans back, holding Ford’s chin hostage, the little pricks of his claw tips holding his face in place better than any soft touch would. “Lookin’ like a HUNDRED BUCKS, kid.”

Refraining from correcting Bill that he is, in fact, an old man in order to avoid thinking about his age, Ford murmurs, “let me see.” With his jaw hanging slack and with fingers digging into his cheeks, however, it comes out more as “lemme see.” And far poutier than he would ever actually say it.

Bill releases him for a moment to let him lean around the triangular demon to see his touched-up face. The lipstick is a little too thick in some places where Bill had to adjust and fix the smearing, but overall he has made Ford look prettier.

He hums, mostly pleased.

“You know what would be REALLY great?” Bill says casually, looping a possessive arm around Ford’s neck, leaning up against him so his warm bricks press against similarly warm skin. If Ford focuses, he can almost feel Bill’s individual breaths. “You, on your knees for me, with those red lips of yours stretched as WIDE as they can go around my cock.”

Ford’s eyes widen, his cheeks flare with heat, the colour of his lips newly sexualized under Bill’s words. He opens his mouth, flustering badly, knuckles curling inwards, but Bill just keeps going. He twirls a strand of Ford’s hair around his finger.

“I wanna dress you up in as MUCH makeup as you’ll let me,” he continues, voice still calm, still casual, like he’s telling Ford to stop making so much noise with his experiments in the night and not telling him he’d look good painted like a doll. “Mascara, blush, eyeliner, the works. We won’t be using the waterproof stuff, though. And, when we fuck, I want to RUIN you to the point where your mascara runs, and your pretty little face is made even prettier by the streaks of black. I won’t let you stop crying until ALL of that mascara on your lashes is running down your face.”

His hand around his neck comes around, grips Ford’s chin again, squeezes until clenched teeth fall apart into a slack ‘O’ shape. His face is jerked around, Bill floating around him as he turns Ford so his back is pressed up against the counter.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He asks almost sweetly, thumbing at the ridges of Ford’s teeth through the fat of his cheeks.

“I’m not your doll, Bill,” Ford argues, even as he has to actively fight to keep the breathlessness from his voice.

“You are,” Bill tells him simply, grinning gleefully. “My little blow up sex doll!” He takes Ford’s cheeks into two hands and sways his head back and forth as he does, cooing at him like you would with a dog who only knows that a light tone of voice means good things. Ford is not a dog, and Bill’s very unsexy cooing is kind of turning him off.

“Stop it!” he grunts, hands coming up to slap away Bill’s thin wrists. His bones are dense and hard, and Ford’s hands come away aching. Bill doesn’t seem dissuaded in the least, just leaning down to press various soft kisses to his skin, pressing deeply to ensure the purple smear of his lips leaves its mark on as many places of Ford’s face as he can possibly reach.

Ford is left dizzy in the flurry of movements, unable to fight any of them off. Not sure if he wants to. He feels every gooey smack, feels the lipstick stick to his skin, forced there by Bill’s forceful kissing, holding his head in place to make sure the marks stay. He pauses halfway into the motions to grab another lipstick shade that Ford hadn’t noticed, mixing orange with red.

He leans back in and Ford closes his eyes in preparation. The lipstick marks are placed all over his face. Over the crinkle of his frown lines, on his eyelids, his cupid's bow, the tip and bridge of his nose, his cheekbones where stubble as sprouted, his temple, his crows feet and the cleft of his chin. And, teasingly, on either corner of his lips, making sure to smear their purple and red/orange together to create a gradient.

By the time Bill pulls back, Ford is left breathless. The flurry of affection, soft as it was, is not matched by Bill’s following words. Mocking and cooing and making heat coil through Ford’s belly and up his spine, like golden lights twined around the thin trunk of a tree.

“You look like a PAINTERS PALETTE, Sixer!” Bill comments, though it’s impossible to know whether he means it as a compliment or insult. “A little repetitive on the colours, but I’ve got enough in my stash to SPICE UP your wrinkly face!”

“Are we going to do something or are you just going to insult me?” Ford snaps, losing his thin patience. He’s been steadily growing hot and bothered for the past few minutes, and Bill is doing nothing but kissing and manhandling him.

Bill’s eyelid lowers and his eye itself darkens. He makes a rumbly noise Ford might call a growl, and then sneers, “get on your knees.”

Ford blinks and hesitates for just a little too long. Bill rolls his eye and grips him by the shoulder, spinning them around and moving them a few feet over, shoving Ford with no regard to his age to his knees. He hits the ground hard, pain zinging up his knees a little too sharply to just be ignored, but Ford’s horny brain is far too distracted by the long, black legs bracing either side of his head.

He looks up slowly, eyes deliciously wide, finding Bill perched just above him, sitting on the toilet lid in lieu of the counter since it would be too high. He gleams brilliantly, the focal point of Ford’s gaze, just as it should be. His legs come in smoothly, little heels landing on Ford’s back, urging him closer.

“What, you thought I was joking?” Bill says, raising his brow, blatantly unimpressed. “You should know better than THAT, Fordsy! I wouldn’t JOKE about what I wanna do to YOUR precious meatsack!”

“The toilet, really?” Ford sidesteps to ask, pulling a little grimace.

“This or nothing,” Bill tells him cheerfully, but his legs do widen a little as if to allow Ford the choice to leave. Somehow, the receding weight of his legs has Ford’s heart jumping more than Bill’s casual displays of anger.

Instead of leaving, Ford presses a little closer. His eyes avert slightly, finding it embarrassing when he’s not being forced into something and actually has to choose to stay and let himself get treated like a toy.

Bill’s hand finds its way to his hair, cooing, “good boy,” as a way of a reward. It certainly hits like one.

He tugs, and Ford goes. Closer and closer until he understands what Bill wants. He carefully begins pressing trembling kisses over Bill’s surface, wobbly with a shaking bottom lip. His breath ghosts the demon’s carapace, trying to be firm in how he presses his lips in close. His stern touch gentles when Bill guides him to the glowing crack going diagonally.

The jagged opening thrums with raw energy and almost burns, numbing his lips to the point of worry. He manages two kisses across the bright crack before Bill drags him back to kissing his bricks and the brick seams.

Ford gets so into it he doesn’t notice the slight blue crack-like opening until what comes out is jutting against his cheek, smearing wetness. He jerks back at the blunt touch, eyes opening, and finds what could be considered a penis coming from between Bill’s bricks. Not a human one, no, never a human one with him. Almost vaguely equine, with a bit of a wider head and a thick, thick glans. Kind of worryingly long, actually.

It’s certainly not a biological penis, instead made from Bill’s own powers, like most of the appendages that come from his bricks are made from. It still has Ford’s mouth watering. It’s leaking something that looks like pre-cum, but almost certainly isn’t.

Ford would like to know what substance it is, but he also knows it’s about to go inside of him, so maybe he should hold off on the testing.

Bill taps it against his lower lip, cooing, “here comes the airplaaane~” as he goes, and Ford opens his mouth before he can think of berating Bill for that.

Ford sucks cock like he was made for it. Well, not made for it, but over the years he’s certainly figured out the best way to go about the motions. The best way to pleasure his partner and how to take a cock without gagging.

Bill, however, throws all of this out the window. Mostly because he has control, and he’s not about to let Ford not gag. He wants to see that, are you kidding? Despite Ford’s best efforts, Bill makes sure it’s messy, makes sure to shove deep into Ford’s throat until his eyes are watering and his throat is left sore and aching from the brutal thrusting.

It’s mainly to make Ford struggle, since the demon himself can’t quite feel pleasure. On account of the dick not being his and not having the connective tissues and nerves to feel pleasure. He could, but that doesn’t seem to be what his cock is made for today. It just wants to drive deep into Ford’s esophagus, making him choke and gag when it rams in and slips out.

And Ford certainly struggles. He holds the bit of Bill’s cock he can’t take down and that Bill hasn’t yet tried to make him take, desperately trying to jack off the organ with just his fingers. His hand is stroking most of Bill’s dick, Ford’s mouth only able to take a small amount, but Bill is carefully thrusting more and more into his mouth.

It’s a little worrying.

Ford worries he’s going to throw up as Bill grinds himself deeper. Bill has no such qualms.

Fluids of questionable types dribble down Ford’s throat, his chin. Liquid teases at his eyes, molten gold within Bill’s preening gleam. A hand in his hair takes a vice grip, guiding him up and down the length of his dick forcing more and more down his throat until Ford starts truly gagging and spluttering.

At that point, Bill kindly allows him a momentary break to catch his breath, which Ford takes eagerly, coughing and breathing, blinking through tears. Far before he’s ready, Bill butts the head of his curious cock against his lips, seating between them with only the gall of someone who thinks they have a right to his mouth.

Ford doesn’t bother fighting it, finding it fruitless as he lolls his mouth open and allows Bill easy access. His face is pet, his hair pulled taut to the point of delicious, spiky pain, like stalagmites pressing up against the inside of his body.

When he goes noticeably limp to let Bill’s cock slide as far as he can offer, Bill hisses a simple, “you’re learning,” that has Ford’s body flushing.

He’s being taught how to take it and accept it. After so long, he supposes it’s only natural that Bill would notice his forgetful nature, his forgotten place beneath Bill’s heel. A heeled dog, coming to remember its long lost commands, snugly kept within the print of his bones like awakened memories borne of nostalgia. Except this isn’t nostalgic. It’s just familiar.

Ford lets his mouth be used to the best of his ability, uses his teeth and inwardly delights at Bill’s slight hiss. Of both pleasure and irritation of the subtle, dangerous test. He’s not punished, just held close and used like his slack mouth is the exact doll orifice Bill had called him.

Mind fuzzing over gradually, Ford doesn’t think he minds being called such a demeaning thing as much as he thought he did.

“You’re getting your pretty lipstick all over my cock, y’know,” Bill bemoans, though the fire in his eye is not of irritation. Ford, through dizzy cross-eyed eyes, notices on each slick-spit drag back, that the lipstick caked onto his lips is being transferred to Bill’s dick. “Just like I wanted! You really are such a good listener when you want to be, Pines! All it takes is a little rough handling and you just SPLIT at the SEAMS, dontcha?”

Ford can’t even argue. It’s immensely frustrating, but at the same time lifts a weight from his shoulders that he doesn’t have to worry about responding. He settles for a little whine, which could be mistaken as an answer or a slipped noise.

Ford grunts, squeezing his eyes shut to try and ward away the stinging tears that want to keep coming, the previous ones having broken free to slip down his red cheeks. Don’t even need blush. He makes a muffled, garbled, wet noise that falls from his lips like one of the many rivulets of spit that escape him, dribbling down his neck and into the thick collar of his turtleneck.

His shaking hands transfer to Bill’s thighs, holding tight, sure he’d punch finger-shaped holes into Bill’s flesh were his skin any softer. As it is, he can only hope there are bruises. A silly hope, but one he laments nonetheless.

With a full-body hum, Bill releases questionable fluid down his throat. Ford tries to break away from the surprising influx of fluid, having not been warned, but Bill just hauls him in as close as possible. His legs close in, hands tightening in his hair to hold him down.

For a moment, Ford is unable to breathe, his throat spasming around the blockage as what may or may not be cum slides down his throat. Only when the fluid trickles to a stop does Bill pull him off, letting him go to hack off to the side.

He lets spit dribble from his open mouth, just needing to breathe for a moment. Which Bill allows.

He sits up a bit straighter once his lungs no longer ache with a lack of air, wiping the back of his hand across his soaking wet lips, smearing some spit and lipstick across his hand. A smaller hand tangles back in his hair, tugging Ford up violently to look up at him, wanting to get a good look at the man.

His face is wet and loose, tongue threatening to spill out, heaving wetly with spit bubbles sticking to the inside of his throat. His eyes are glazed over despite his best efforts, though his constant blinking is a sign he’s trying to fight his way back to complete lucidity.

Bill hums, his eye grinning with peeking teeth.

“You make a GREAT warm hole to fuck, at least,” Bill comments blithely, as though commenting on a flyaway hair on Ford’s appearance and not the dazed look in his eyes that’s only slightly clearing up. “Make sure you keep this thing HYDRATED!” He minds, a finger dipping easily into Ford’s mouth to swab the inside of his cheek much like a cotton swab. Ford’s mouth closes defensively when Bill’s finger slips out. “I’d hate to fuck this face a’ yours when it’s dry. Could you IMAGINE?”

Ford manages to scowl, but it’s soft, curved by time and the very recent and very rough treatment. “What a travesty that would be,” he musters, wincing at the gravel-crackle of his throat.

Bill’s eye widens further with glee. “JEEZ, KID. Were you on your knees sucking DICK or something?” He asks snidely, grinning at Ford like he just tickled himself pink with that one.

“I’m never sucking your “dick” again,” Ford says, deadpan. “If that’s even what that is.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, scienceboy,” Bill says, said cock slipping away seamlessly back into bricks. The wet splatter of Ford’s spit on it moves with its erratic movements, hitting both Ford’s face and Bill’s carapace. “All YOU have to know is that it’s gonna churn up your insides and you’re gonna forget EVERYONE’S names!”

The hand that had been holding Ford’s head up by his hair tightens and pulls just as Bill commands, “up, boy!”

Ford, dragged by both force and pain, stumbles unsteadily to his feet. His shoes clap against the tile as he goes, eyes widening, though his imbalanced state is quickly solved as he’s shoved into the sink counter once more, facing the mirror and getting a front-row view to his fucked face.

The lipstick on his lips has more or less disappeared, rubbed into his lips and Bill’s dick by the wet friction of sucking Bill’s monster-cock. He looks like a wreck, and he’s sure he’d be made worse if he were wearing mascara. His bottom lip trembles slightly.

He almost actually wants it.

Wants Bill to paint his face with the makeup he knows he has, use it to spruce up Ford’s face. A face he’s only recently realized could also be prettied up by lipgloss and blush and eyeliner.

It’s kind of terrifying.

“Just relax,” Bill croons to him, smoothing a hand up and under his shirt, running along his spine. Their dry skin catches painfully together, causing friction that Ford arches his back to try and escape.

Bill’s attempt at comforting Ford, if it could be called that, is not so comforting.

Ford only realizes what’s about to happen as Bill’s hands start plucking at his pants, pulling and tugging until Ford staves his wiggling enough to allow his belt buckle to be undone. Oh, there are so many better places they could do this.

“Can— can we not do this here?” Ford asks through a grunt, trying not to focus on how he’s been bent over the counter, chest threatening to lean on the uncomfortable spigot. Most importantly, there’s a mirror dead in front of him, where his close, rapid breathing is causing the reflective surface to fog up.

He makes eye contact with himself, though the yellow gleam in his eye comes from Bill’s form hovering just behind him this time, working on tugging his pants down his spread legs. They’re stopped around his knees, as far as they’ll go without closing his legs, which Bill seems loath to allow him to do.

“Hey, I’M not the one who locked himself up in the bathroom like a freshman at a party he wasn’t invited to,” Bill scoffs, peering at him over his shoulder, lips smeary and messy, but just as addicting as that first day Ford saw him wearing the makeup. “You afraid you’ll like what you’ll see?”

“I’m worried I’m going to hurt my back,” Ford scoffs, rolling his eyes into the mirror. Bill laughs with his belly. He hits Ford on the bare ass just to have the skin there jiggle enticingly and gain a surprised “eep!” from Ford, for lack of a better word.

“I think if you break your back I’ll have done something WELL!” Bill chirps, unconcerned with his worries. His arms then start multiplying in number, curving all around Ford like the black parts of a gilded birdcage, slithering across Ford’s skin. The demon dips down, both hands on either side of Ford’s asscheeks pulling them apart to properly show off the furled skin within.

He blows some warm air across the skin, gaining a twitch, which is then followed by full lips pressing a kiss to his puckered hole. Bill makes sure Ford feels and hears it by a long and obvious smacking sound, ensuring any excess purple left on his lips is transferred to Ford’s hole.

Ford cannot believe he’s going to have a little purple mark down there now. One he won’t be able to see himself, but one he’s going to know will be there for at least a day. Fucking demon.

With a kiss left, Bill pulls away, ending his streak of soft touches by delivering a sharp, enlightening bite to the swell of Ford’s left asscheek. It garners a sharp whine, Ford’s head falling forward at the pleasurable pain, which is then repeated on the same asscheek, closer to his hole. With a smear of lips and lipstick, Bill turns his attention fully to where it counts.

Ford holds his breath, peering at himself through the fringe of hair that had fallen over his face. His eyes are dark and have been swallowed by his pupils, blown out with heady arousal. He looks dumber than he’d like, his mouth hanging open, which he quickly closes.

He swallows hard, feeling Bill pull his cheeks further apart, eye roving all over his exposed entrance. He just floats there, staring, and Ford goes only a few seconds without saying anything.

“I can practically hear your sick thoughts from here, quit it,” Ford grunts, feeling a rough pad of a finger run over the furled skin of his pink hole. Threatening to slip inside. Bill makes a worrying humming noise as he traces the skin, thinking.

“I COULD use lipstick as lube?”

“Do not—” Ford threatens to pull himself off of the counter to twist around and stop Bill from doing such a threatening thing. A black hand slaps flat on his back, stopping him from rising and applying enough force to press him back into the granite counter. He huffs quietly, but allows the pressing, relaxing back onto his forearms, trying to angle the counter away from his abdomen.

“Relax pal. I was just spitballing! I wouldn’t waste my LIPSTICK on something like that. Spit’s our next best option! Unless you have a better idea?”

Ford shakes his head immediately, agreeing, “no, no. Spit works.”

Bill very promptly shoves some fingers into his mouth before he’s even done talking. With an angry noise, Ford does as is expected of him, seeking to rectify the fingers’ dryness with a sucking mouth. Bill’s hands taste like salt and something kind of earthy, like dirt. Ford hopes he wasn’t digging holes in the back of the shack, again.

“This is for your benefit, so make sure you do it WELL,” Bill hums, patting his side and taking a sneaky squeeze at a lipstick-painted love handle. “I won’t be going back for SECONDS.”

With the threat weighing on his mind, and the desire to not have penetration hurt fully, Ford focuses on his given task, doubling his efforts. He squirms his tongue out, lets spit well in his mouth to douse Bill’s fingers with, trying to soak them.

Bill makes it difficult, fingers sliding in and out in slow drags outwards, and then harsh thrusts forward. It’s extremely obvious what the movement is supposed to be replicating.

Ford’s face burns through the humiliating job, fighting between watching his own mouth suck on Bill’s fingers or looking away. A surprisingly hard thing to do when the sick curiosity inside of him always wins.

Spit is forced out with every slow draw back, splattering and dripping onto the countertop, onto Ford’s hands braced underneath him. It’s making the surface a little slippery, a little hard to hold onto, and the mess is only growing.

Bill gives Ford only a full thirty seconds to try his best to coat his fingers, which is not nearly enough, but leaves them adequately wet. He wrenches his hand free with an approving noise, scraping his skin on the slight jaggedness of Ford’s teeth, scissoring his fingers in front of their faces for just a second. Just to watch how the influx of spit stretches between the digits.

Then his wet fingers are pressing into him, quick and dirty, and Ford is left gasping for breath as he feels the digits enter him. Bill fingers him open with long, claw-like fingers that scrape minutely at his insides. Gentler than he would if either of them were younger, but just painful enough.

He starts with two fingers, scissoring Ford open, with sparks of pain and pleasure, the stretch a little much without proper lube. Down to the first knuckle they go, then leave, then when they sink back in it’s down to the third and last.

Ford drops his head as Bill finds his prostate, then proceeds to avoid it on every dizzying thrust inwards. His fingers curl, push and spread, doing everything but caressing where Ford’s hips desperately try to guide them to.

“Bill,” Ford groans, irritation softened by his desperation. Leaving him without his rough edges, like he’s been sanded down.

“Yes, sweetness?” Bill replies in a too-soft tone, a hand pressed firmly to Ford’s back, tweaking a knob of his spine as though twisting a nipple.

“Just— you know what you’re doing,” Ford gasps, then releases an outright cry as Bill pulls his fingers free from his clenching body, the squelching noise making Ford’s ears burn. His hole flutters around nothing, desperate for something.

“Yeah, I’m giving you exactly what you want!” Bill says, “I thought this greedy hole of yours WANTED to be filled up! Was I somehow wrong? Do you not like this? You just gotta say the word, Fordsy. You know I’ll stop.”

“N- ngh, no,” Ford gasps, hips swaying, held steady by the hand holding his hip firm.

“Say it,” Bill says, nudging something vaguely head-shaped and smooth against Ford’s hole. It’s thin at the tip, though round, and wet, and Ford just barely swallows a whine in time.

“Are you really going to make me—”

Bill grips him by the hair, stretching over him to proper their differently shaped faces next to each other in the mirror. Bill’s eye stares at him apathetically, concerningly calm next to Ford’s open-mouth which he has to consciously close once more.

“Why are you making it so DIFFICULT for yourself?” Bill asks through a snort, entertained. “You just have to say you LIKE IT and I’ll give it to you! But NO, you’ve just GOTTA protect that fragile pride of yours, right?”

“I am not—”

“You are. You just like it when I PUNISH ya, don’t you, you sicko? Should’ve just admitted you wanted to get FUCKED! NOW I want you to admit you like it when I PUNISH you. So,” Bill presses the tip of his cock closer to Ford’s needy, clenching hole, holding him still to keep him from bucking backwards. “Go on. Admit it.”

“Why can’t you just be nice for once?” Ford openly whines, lamenting that this is the demon he’s decided to sleep with once again.

“You don’t want me to be nice!” Bill replies simply, leaning away from him in order to properly get his hips situated. “You WANT me to pin you down and grind your face into the ground while I have my way with you. And, guess what, Sixer? Our interests align perfectly. I’m actually being pretty nice right now, just asking you to ADMIT something. Unless you WANT to make things even harder for yourself, which I won’t complain about!”

Ford grits his teeth, glaring at himself in the mirror, as though he could make his mirror self do what he desperately doesn’t want to. It, obviously, doesn’t work, and Bill remains stubbornly still, squeezing at his hip encouragingly.

With a hefty sigh, Ford’s shoulders drop a little and, almost as difficult as pulling teeth, he mutters, “I… I like it when you punish me.” It’s quiet, just loud enough for Bill to barely hear.

Without saying anything, Bill begins to move, and Ford relaxes more, believing that to have been enough. He bites his lip harshly at the press of the mushroom-tipped head of Bill’s dick opening him wide, his rim closing around the slim shaft once the tip makes it inside.

Then Bill stops.

Ford really does whine that time, wishing now more than ever that he could drop his head into his pillow of arms, but the hand in his hair forces him to see how his face screws up in mindless frustration.

“Nice try! Ain’t getting no FREEBIES by barely putting in any effort, IQ. Go on, try again. Like you really mean it this time!” Bill sweetens the deal by letting go of his hair and grinding in his dick a little further, just enough to entice him. He then slowly draws back out, ignoring his fruitless squeezing to try and stop him.

“F- fuck– I—” Ford croaks, his throat feeling like velcro. With a tiny nudge of Bill’s hips, he cries out, “I— ah! I like— like it when you punish me! I’m— please move!”

Bill makes a show like he’s thinking, and there’s a terrible moment where Ford thinks he hasn’t done well enough. But then Bill hums a pleased note, saying, “good enough for now!” and drives into him with the strength of a nuclear force.

The movement pulls a ragged gasp from Ford’s sore throat, hands splaying out on the counter, falling forward onto his elbows as Bill wastes no time carving him open. Bill’s cock feels even bigger than it did on the outside of his body, driving into points inside of Ford’s cavity that he swears he’s never had touched.

The organ itself squirms as he squeezes around it, almost tentacle-like, helping Bill hit those good spots that his fingers couldn’t quite reach. Ford’s head falls forward and into his arms, hanging between his biceps, unable to hold himself up.

“Oh, no you don’t. Get back up here,” Bill growls, a hand gripping Ford around the back of the neck, hauling him up bodily, then pressing him against the mirror instead.

The angle is uncomfortable, but it also allows Bill to drive deeper into his body, pushing through him much like an apple corer. Little punched out noises escape Ford, worsened when that blasted organ finds his prostate, and Bill angles his hips to ensure that gland is hit on every rock forward.

Ford’s cock drools underneath him, hanging heavy and uncomfortably erect, and Ford fights to not take himself in hand. It would be difficult, anyway, with his back arched in such a way, hands trying to stabilize himself. Breathing is also a little difficult with the angle, with Bill pressed flush against him, flattened across his back, almost trying to merge with him as their two warm bodies press uncomfortably close to each other.

All the while, the appendage thrusts into him like a jackhammer, with the tempo to match. He aches with it, but it’s a good ache, one that has him forgetting any inhibitions and openly moaning where his face is pressed into the mirror.

It’s all wet and fast and grabbing hands. Clawing at him, moving all over him, bricks overlapping with his skin, meat that’s not his brushing close to his back. It’s so much, he’s like a full circuit, completed by Bill seated fully inside him. It’s too little, he wants more.

Foregoing any worries about tipping sideways, Ford tries to grab his own cock to stroke himself off, wanting to cum with that extra bit of help, but it’s impossible when Bill only seems to make himself weigh more. The added weight pins Ford flat against the mirror, his hands back to trying to keep his back from arching too much and breaking.

He can feel a strain in his legs, worsened when an arm grabs him under the knee, hauling it up and over to allow Bill an even deeper angle. He shouts as his prostate is somehow struck better.

Hips slap against hips, Ford swears Bill feeds him a bit of lipstick to swallow somewhere in the fray, and, in the chaotic maelstrom that are his sensations, Ford orgasms.

He sprays all over the counter, body shuddering and convulsing against Bill’s who seems to time his own orgasm with Ford’s. There’s less power in it, but it’s warm and seed-like as the fluid rushes through him, deep into his body.

Bill stays plastered to him while Ford is left to catch his breath, which is nice because Bill is warm and also the only thing keeping Ford from completely collapsing to the floor. What feels like a tongue swipes along his back from the weird meat-mass that Bill seems to have turned into. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside. It’s kind of nice.

With his breath caught, he asks, “did you make me eat a bit of lipstick?” With his horny brain sated and able to think much clearer, his tongue working in his mouth, he can taste something pasty and almost chalky. Gross.

“I got a little carried away,” Bill admits into the backside of his entire body. Whatever he’s flattened himself into moves, sharp teeth brushing against soft skin, that tongue returning to squeeze across his spine.

It’s a little like being treated like a jawbreaker. A little bit.

“Can you blame me, though? I wanna RELIEVE you of your LOAD ALLLLL the time, baby!”

“Off,” Ford says, shuddering a little at the teasing sensation of a tongue swirling around each knob of his spine, tasting the sweat off of him. If it goes for much longer he might get hard again, and he doesn’t know if he can do that.

“What, don’t want a round two?” Bill purrs in a way that would be convincing if Ford wasn’t aching so much.

“I hurt Bill, I need some water and maybe a heat pack. Thanks for offering to take me to pound town, though,” Ford grumbles, which does get Bill off of him.

He feels Bill piece himself back together behind him, mouth leaving his skin with a gross suctioning sound and cooling spit and what will probably be a hickey. Ford can’t quite turn around with a dick still inside of him, leaving him wondering what Bill looks like as he detaches himself from Ford’s body, sure he’s never seen the demon with a hard shell on one side and the other acting as a mouth.

His thought process is derailed as Bill pulls away from him, which includes his dick. It pulls out with a rush of warm fluid all over the floor, leaving Ford with a grimace of distracted disgust.

As he carefully takes himself away from the mirror, leg falling back down, Bill swings in close to try and prod at his puffy hole with a curious finger. Ford immediately shoves him off, turning around to find the demon back to his normal form. He’s grinning, the lipstick kisses Ford gave him still attached to his bricks.

“Same time tomorrow?” Bill asks, wiggling his brow. “I’ll bring lipgloss this time!”

“Hm. Tempting,” Ford replies, wincing when he moves and finds himself still dripping the curious fluid Bill pumped him full of. He’s testing this substance as soon as he gets the chance. “Maybe if you get me a new change of clothes.”

That seems to be all the convincing Bill needs, saluting him with a cheeky, “eye-eye, captain!” as he disappears through the crack underneath the door.

Ford starts up a shower.

Chapter Text

Ford’s chest heaves — the only noise in the quiet, quiet room he’s knelt in. He’s been trying to get his breathing under control for the past few minutes now, getting unfairly worked up from where he’s sitting.

He shouldn’t even be worked up, which is the worst part. He’s already been stuck where he is for the last two hours, and he’s done exceptionally. Bill has even told him himself. And now, out of nowhere, the time-to-time touch of Bill’s hand in his hair, the warmth of his thighs around Ford’s head, the weight of his own body pressing his knees into the floor, his head so close to where he wouldn’t mind having it firmly guided to.

But he can’t. And he can’t move, either. His only directive is to sit still and pretty, to be “furniture”. At first he hadn’t quite seen the appeal, but when Bill guided him to his knees and had him creep between his spread legs, his head the resting spot for Bill’s hand which holds some garbage newspaper, he started to warm to the idea.

Bill is completely still and quiet — a rare state to see the Muse in — as he hums his way through his newspaper, taking short moments to scratch at Ford’s hair and croon a simple, ‘good boy’ once in a while.

Not even the high-heeled foot to his left, shifted to press the toe between the crease of his thigh, was enough to break him from the trance that his position left him in. Sometimes, the intermittent grinding of Bill’s shoe against his hardened groin feels a little too good, and Ford has to subtly shift his hips and desperately try not to look like he’s being affected by the simple touch.

It always stops very quickly though, and Ford is allowed to gather himself once more.

Bill’s scent is intoxicating, so is his warmth, and this entire task would be easy peasy if only Bill weren’t giving and taking away Ford’s pleasure every few seconds or minutes. It’s agonizing, leaving Ford looking forward to each subtle bit of pressure as much as he dreads it. Things were much easier when the teasing wasn’t involved.

But now he’s getting impatient, body aching something fierce, and Bill has shown no sign of stopping. Every languid lick of his thumb and flip of newspaper is like nails on a chalkboard, and done in such a way that Ford can just tell they’re nowhere near finished.

His self-control is usually pretty good, but when you’ve been stuck on the floor for hours on end with aching knees and a raging hard-on that seems to still be getting harder, it gets a little difficult.

It has his heart beating a little extra fast as he manages to work himself up into a needless tizzy. His head is still fuzzy, with his only forefront thought to be good for his Muse, but in his haziness he manages to lose the plot a little, pathetically.

He tries squeezing his eyes shut instead of immediately turning towards disobedience, trying to slip a hand down between his legs to clutch at his knees, he even tries to tap the floor with his other hand to try and get the restless energy out another way. Nothing works. Bill shows no mercy despite being able to feel his restlessness, likely wanting to see how long he can hold out.

The embarrassing answer is that he can’t manage for very long.

Like a nervous tic, his hips twitch upwards a little involuntarily, into the heaviness of Bill’s weight pressing down on him. He sucks in through his teeth at the obvious dangerous movement, which Bill definitely felt.

As a warning, Bill presses down on his dick a bit harder, forcing him back into the ground, pinning him between a sharp toe and a solid floor. “Stanford,” Bill says with a gravel-grind of teeth, a sure warning Ford would be wise to listen to.

He takes as much tension out from his hips and thighs as he can manage, going limp quickly. As Bill’s foot relaxes back to its original pressure, allowing him one more chance, Ford really tries to listen.

He even reaches up, clutching at Bill’s shin with a grasping hand looking for support, and Bill doesn’t swat him away. Despite being allowed to clutch, it’s not enough. He’s giving in another twenty minutes later, hips jumping into Bill’s heel again, huffing over Bill’s knee like a dog.

Even when he falls still at the aggressive crumpling of newspaper, there’s no third chance. Bill doesn’t do third chances. Not even in his best moods, which this certainly isn’t.

“Couldn’t handle yourself for another hour, could you?” Bill hisses, tossing aside his crumpled newspaper as he pushes Ford away with a boot to his chest. Ford falls back onto his eyes, eyes wide and guilty, knowing that no matter what he says he can’t make this better. He did deliberately disobey, despite not entirely wanting to.

Staying silent may well be his best choice thus far, as Bill only raises part of his brow and scoffs scornfully at his silence.

“Well, I did warn you,” he shrugs, and grows in size. He simply stretches, as though pulled like taffy, and when he snaps back to his original shape, he’s an absolutely massive size. Despite not being something Ford hasn’t seen before, he still finds himself stuck in place, eyes wide, mouth agape, which is his simple downfall.

Bill hinges at the hip, his arm swinging by and swiping Ford up into a squeezing fist. Then, as though crushing a pesky mosquito, Ford is swooped even further with the unstopping momentum, and then slammed against a nearby wall. The collision is hard enough that he momentarily thinks he broke a couple bones, the back of his skull aching from the concussive slam, leaving him dazed.

He wheezes, breath knocked out of him, hand slipping through finger-gaps to clutch at the hand strapped across his chest and down his front, holding him to a wall. Ford, looking through double-vision, carefully glances up, finding Bill floating in front of him, grinning coyly, eye-scrunched with glee.

“Awe, are ya a little disoriented? I didn’t break anything, did I?” Bill coos, fully mocking, and Ford frowns a little, now unsure if his head is fuzzy from a possible dream-concussion or if he’s still feeling fuzzy from acting as Bill’s furniture. “Now you can’t move! Good job, bub. Now, I’m gonna finish this newspaper, and, when I’m done, I’ll get to YOU. Not that you have much choice in the matter.”

“Bill, wait, I’m sorry,” Ford whimpers out, blunt nails digging into Bill’s skin, as though he could find some sort of weakness and claw himself out like that.

Bill pauses, eyeing him with a blatantly unimpressed look.

“Sure, kid. I’m sure you are. Except, I can’t just go back on the punishment NOW, can I? That would mean you could get AWAY with shit like that! You can handle another HOUR or TWO, just be patient!”

With that, Bill shrinks his body and other four limbs back down to size, takes a seat in his previously knocked over chair, and summons a new newspaper to read. One that looks even less believable than the previous one. The hand pinning Ford to the wall remains its humongous size, and Ford finds no give as he instinctively tries pushing against its warm flesh.

It weighs him down a bit more, presses firmly against him until even the pressure on his groin turns painful. He sags with a bitten off sound of frustration, hanging not unlike a wet cat clinging to a powerline.

Bill does not listen to his whines and cries and little pleas. Nor does he seem to even know Ford is there. Ford would assume the Muse just forgot about him, if not for the very occasional glances Bill affords him, and the subtle adjustments his hand takes to better hold Ford’s body still.

It’s frustrating, and Ford feels a lot like a kid put in a time-out corner, which is technically where he is, really. Bill put him in a corner because he was bad. It’s demeaning, for sure, and Ford feels hot shame prickle the back of his neck. Is he really meant to wait here for another hour? Or two?

He has to try something.

“Bill,” Ford says, whine-like and pouty, then whines again, louder, in case Bill didn’t hear him.

Bill flips a newspaper page.

“Bill,” Ford says again with heartfelt heartbreak. He doesn’t even have to try to sound pathetic, he just sounds like that.

Bill reaches up to pick something out of the corner of his eye, then goes back to reading. He even ruffles the paper, getting it to stand straight in his two hands.

Ford feels his lower lip wobbling a little. “Bill?” He asks again, eyes threatening unfair tears. He can’t even tell if they’re crocodile tears, but they certainly feel real enough. “Bill, I’m sorry,” Ford says wetly, which does get a slight hitch in movement from Bill. He recovers quickly, but that was something.

“I’m sorry for being bad, I just— I wasn’t thinkin’. Need some— need you. Please? Please, Bill?” Ford says, feeling his eyes wet with big, fat, warm tears. He feels guilty and a little ashamed and, most of all, needy. Bill had just gone from being so proud and warm and now he’s mad. It’s a little upsetting.

The newspaper rustles with a flourish, and Ford, through blurry eyes, finds Bill has set down the paper with his other hand, turning to eye Ford with a raised brow. “You’re sorry?” He asks, just to make sure.

Ford nods.

“Words, honey.”

He’s not actually mad, oh thank goodness. The sweet pet name is all the proof Ford needs. Ford nods again and then, remembering, manages, “I’m sorry.”

Bill hums, looking more pleased, the creases between his eyes easing away as he looks at Ford’s pinned form thoughtfully. “I GUESS I can make an exception, since you cry so pretty and apologize SO nicely, hm?” Bill drawls, snorting at Ford’s near-manic nodding. “Fine. This is all you’re getting.”

Ford doesn’t even care, as long as it’s something and it’s from Bill.

The hand on his body shifts a little, adjusting, and the fingers closest to his groin part slightly. They wiggle, letting Ford’s dick slide right into the small slit, and then close tight to create a nice channel to fuck into.

Bill snaps the fingers of his other hand, and whisks away Ford’s briefs and jeans, freeing him up for skin-on-skin contact which feels heavenly, albeit rough, compared to the hours of sitting in sweat-soaked jeans. Ford immediately gets to work with what he’s given, rocking his hips into that warm, rough channel of Bill’s slightly parted fingers, cajoling pleasure from his unbearably hard cock and his tightly wound body.

“There you go,” Bill purrs, pleased as a cat who got the cream, watching Ford chase his pleasure with nary a second thought. “Takin’ what you need, good boy, Fordsy. Give me a good show. Maybe it’ll make up a little extra for the stunt you pulled EARLIER.”

“Sorry,” Ford pants between heaving breaths, hands digging small marks into Bill’s black hands, feeling the tendons and bone just underneath.

“Oh, sweetie, I’ve already forgiven you,” Bill croons back, keeping his hand completely still to allow Ford to find the perfect angle for himself. Which he does, pressed firmly into the wall as he is. “I can’t expect much else from you, can I? You’re only human, making little rookie mistakes is a part of that! You’re just lucky you’re so darn CUTE. It makes it easier to let you off the hook.”

Ford really did get partnered with the most gracious Muse, didn’t he? Vibrant and forgiving, even for mistakes he most likely could have kept from happening. He whimpers high and pathetic, nodding his head in distant agreement as he guns for his orgasm, hips jumping and rubbing as he finds a perfect angle.

It happens so quickly. Bill is purring into his ear, watching him from below, and Ford is into the middle of a good gliding thrust when his orgasm takes him by storm. He curses, hunching over himself to sink his teeth into Bill’s giant finger, hips stuttering to a slow stop as he comes all over Bill’s hand.

He whines, high and reedy, a high-pitched noise on every breath as he comes down from his intense orgasm, sagging into the wall, satisfied and satiated. Slowly, with drool slipping down the sides of his mouth and onto Bill’s hand, he releases his teeth and blinks dopey eyes at the Muse below him.

“All you know how to do is leak fluids,” Bill muses as he manhandles him down from the wall, plopping him back to the floor with enough grace that Ford felt no discomfort. He looks to be eyeing his dirtied hand, now shrunk back to a normal size. Ford half expects Bill to pop into his mouth, and feels surprised when he just wipes it off on his brickwork.

“Fluids are part of the fun,” Ford replies tiredly, wiping himself off with his underwear. He’s not going to be using it, and its real life counterpart will (hopefully) be clean when he wakes up.

Bill lets him stay a bit longer with some tea while they sit and chat and Ford is allowed to dress in something much much softer than what he was wearing earlier. Despite not being cuddling or the closeness he desires, it still soothes his brain, eases the fuzz away from his ears and the fissures of his lobes until he’s back to thinking properly, and Bill can send him on his way without worrying about him freaking out.

It’s very nice of him, but also something the pair decided on when the last time Ford went into subspace and Bill left him, it did not end well. This is much preferred.

Chapter Text

“Are you planning on leaving soon, or?” Ford asks conversationally as he loads up his minecart with copious amounts of shrapnel, pushing it along the removed ground that a very old ship had disturbed, crash-landing messily just ahead of him. His cart is already decently full, but he’d like to get as much as he can before he leaves.

The sun from above, close enough to see each individual flickering solar flare, beats down on him, like the stare of a giant. It feels like it’s boiling him from the inside out, his black clothes, meant for blending in and staying inconspicuous, doing him a disservice by worsening the heat. He’s covered in sweat, and his irritation is threatening to rise with the presence of a particular demon hanging around.

The only reason he hasn’t snapped is because he has a job to do, and loading the shrapnel into his cart is taking all of his focus, which Bill is trying to distract.

“Eh, think I’ll stick around,” Bill, the exact demon the question was directed to, pops back, hanging in the air as he watches Ford work. “This is just SO riveting, I can’t miss a single second of this!”

“Riveting,” Ford repeats to himself, sighing as he nudges a big, sharp piece of an engine into the scrap bin.

Well, that confirms that Bill is hanging around for something and not just to catch up as old friends.

“You should have brought some popcorn,” he tells the demon, who, whenever he glances over, is still where he left him. Just watching him work with an unblinking eye, waiting for something Ford knows he shouldn’t stick around for. He’s trying to work pretty quickly, mostly because he wants to get this load to his client by sundown at the latest. He’ll be left with a huge payout if he manages to get there on time, and he certainly could do with the bits.

This timeframe leaves him with about a day, and so he knows he can’t afford to let himself get distracted by Bill’s odd behaviour. The oddest part is that he hasn’t tried to kill Ford, or maim him, or tried to take the form of, god forbid, the sun to try and manipulate him into having sex with him.

As much as the break and camaraderie is nice, it’s also insanely suspicious, and Ford knows better than to stick around for longer than he should. He just needs a few more big pieces of fine metal and shrapnel, and then he can get the hell outta here.

He bends down, scraping his fingers underneath a rather jagged piece of shrapnel, hauling it upwards, grunting to himself quietly as he does so. Perhaps a little big of a piece, but it should fit. The more he gets, the better.

As he shuffles over to his cart with loot in tow, his ears ring with the sound of Bill’s unassuming silence. The hair on his neck prickles, glancing up at the demon and finding him grinning, a little too gleeful to be considered normal. Opening his mouth to ask what his problem is, Ford’s ears are just a little too late in picking up the sound of deft footsteps behind him.

By the time he realizes the danger he’s in, someone slips up behind him, a serrated blade nestling up against his jugular, another claw-like hand clutching him across the shoulder, holding him firmly to the warm press of another body.

Ford scowls, deadpan and extremely unamused as Bill grins at him from across his levitating cart of shrapnel, pleased with himself. “Bill,” Ford says, apathetic and pissed.

“What, you thought I just came by to have a FRIENDLY chat?” Bill asks, raising part of his brow to show just how insane Ford was for thinking such a thing. “Sorry, chump! Just business.”

“Drop what you’re holding,” the disembodied voice of the bounty hunter behind Ford demands gruffly, cutting off Ford from continuing his conversation with Bill.

With rising irritation, heat-slick and pissed-off that now he might be late to the meeting spot with his client with the way things are going, Ford drops the heap of scrap metal in his hands to the floor with as much attitude as he dares, missing his feet by inches.

“We’ve been looking for you for the past hundred lightyears, you’re a slippery bastard,” the bounty hunter behind him says while gesturing with the side of his chin. Two other cronies come out from either side of Ford, wordlessly heading over to start searching through his things.

They aren’t going to find anything useful there, at least.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d leave everything as you find it,” Ford calls out in a tone likely far too friendly. The reptilian and feathery bipeds eye him, then glance towards each other, then immediately throw a chunk of heavy scrap metal to the ground, knocking it from his cart. “I– yes, alright. Thanks.”

Ford is left to watch as these two bounty hunters rifle through his cart, shoving shrapnel piece after shrapnel piece to the ground, making a giant mess. Ford’s arms, pinned at his sides, flex slightly with his irritation, threatening to grab his gun.

There’s a slight tsk behind him, and, all without moving the knife from his throat, Ford’s hands are drawn behind his back and tied with uncomfortable, fraying rope. It scratches against his skin painfully, sure to leave him with rope burn no matter how little he moves. Great.

“I don’t have time for this,” Ford tries, even though he’s well aware that attempting to reason with these fools will be like talking a starving predator off of a pile of fresh meat. Useless, to say the least.

“You ain’t going anywhere other than a jail cell, put any obligations you have on hold,” the biped behind him says, apparently not a bounty hunter for Bill.

Ford sends the demon a mild look.

“Hey, these guys don’t work for me! I would recognize their beautiful faces anywhere!” Bill says back, throwing his hands up like he’s completely innocent. "I just didn't warn you about them, that's all!"

Well, it seems Ford is going to be taken back to one of the numerous cities he’s had the misfortune of causing great strife within. A lot of those issues weren’t his fault, by the way. The security forces just like to make things worse when whoever they’re pursuing isn’t causing enough property damage to properly villainize them. They do it to themselves.

The knife settles a little more firmly against the tender flesh of his neck and, despite his best efforts at remaining calm, Ford’s anger and irritation just continues to climb. He’s overstimulated and overwhelmed and he’s going to have to repack all of the shrapnel and he’s going to be late. He doesn’t bother trying to stop the anger once it reaches a certain point, knowing it’s fruitless.

He grinds his teeth together as his eyes rove over the bounty hunters and the mess, knowing he has to do something or else he’s going to be able to reach his client today. Each minute wasted is an hour lost.

He has to do something.

Ford’s brain rushes with possibilities and solutions to his problem, trying to figure out the best course of action. The knife at his neck wards away most options, Bill is much too pleased watching him get kidnapped to help, and he’s outnumbered.

He really needs this payload. It was such a struggle to find a job, and he knows it’s going to be a struggle again. He can't afford to not make it to this client. He knows that this reasoning doesn’t completely justify what he’s about to do, but he’s desperate, and all he has as a weapon right now is his mouth. It’s fine. It’s just a bounty hunter. He’s killed others for less.

Running his tongue across his teeth, Ford allows his irritation to wash over him, and acts on instinctive anger. He twists, his neck sliding against the knife slightly as he moves, but the pain is inconsequential. He and the bounty hunter meet eyes as Ford’s head twists, just for a moment, before Ford ducks down and opens his mouth wide. He latches onto the front of the bounty hunters neck, slightly feathery, but lacking any sort of armor, thankfully.

Ford’s teeth sink in with just enough force, chewing through skin and feather and muscle and sinew, digging as deep as he dares, deep enough to kill. Blood spills into his mouth the second his teeth push through, tart and metallic, and then it floods down his throat as he jerks his head back in one sharp movement.

Meat and muscle pulls free alongside him, leaving a gaping, bloodied mass where flesh used to sit. The arm and knife fall free from him, the bounty hunter stumbling away with wide eyes and a bleeding throat, dropping his weapon to clutch at the wound. He tries to say something, but he just chokes on blood, lacking the ability to breathe.

Ford turns away and spits the meat and feathers in his mouth to the ground, tasting and feeling blood coating his mouth and chin, down to his shirt, soaking into his clothes. Pattering footsteps gather his attention, though when he twists around, prepared, he finds the other two bounty hunters running away. Yipping and yiping, apparently forgetting about their holstered guns, leaving behind their “leader” to drown in his own blood, collapsing to the floor.

“I thought bounty hunters were supposed to be braver than that,” Ford muses, deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth as he wriggles and shifts his hands. He could break his thumb, use the blood from his rope burn to slip out, or he could use a sharp edge of scrap metal and saw through.

He thinks one of those options is much preferable.

Turning around to find a good piece of metal, Ford pauses.

Bill is still there, surprisingly, and he looks like he just had some kind of religious experience. His eye is wide, which is not unusual, but his pupil is dilated heavily, and his little yellow body is shaking like he’s a paper cutout being jostled on a dangling string. Other than those two worrying symptoms, he looks exceedingly normal.

Ford isn’t really sure what to do about this, and he’s really wishing he could saw his hands free. “Bill?” he asks warily, shuffling slowly to the left to put the levitating cart between him and the demon. He feels inclined to mistake the shaking for rage, but that’s not quite right. Bill gets loud and proud when pissed. This is quiet and subdued, like he’s not sure what he’s feeling and it’s trying to get out.

Bill has never been one to hold himself back.

Ford is treated to watching Bill’s form change in front of his very eyes, bricks jutting out and pushing back in and spinning around in lines and rows much like a puzzle box. It’s a mesmerizing display, which is probably the intended effect it’s supposed to have, since Ford is stock still, unable to look away until the shifting and moving of parts is over.

He could’ve used that time to take his stuff and run, damn him.

Bill’s body finally stops its transformation, leaving him much bigger than before. He’s taller than Ford’s height, with long bending arms acting as legs and longer arms that look prepared to scoop Ford right up. He’s a disconcerting red-orange palette, and where his body is segmented, tongues loll out and teeth line.

At the very tip of his pyramid, along all four sides, are bulging eyes, all trained on Ford, on the blood he can feel drying along his throat and chin and lips, and the bits of flesh still stuck between the tight gaps of his teeth.

It’s not hard to figure out that that’s what set the demon off, which is as amusing as it is not the time. Ford has a giant delivery to get done, and now he’s in an even bigger rush with his scrap metal all over the floor. Of course Bill would find a way to ruin his payday for him.

Ford turns, intending on fleeing to the nearby treeline, when Bill lunges much like a cat. Next thing Ford knows, there’s this massive weight knocking him over and shoving him to the floor, grinding his body into the dirty ground, spongy and soft beneath his body. Thankfully, his collapse missed the numerous bits of scrap metal that litters the ground.

He lands on his back, his tied arms pinned painfully under the arch of his back, leaving it even more impossible to get to his feet, especially with a frenzied demon covering him. Giant hands grasp and grip, clutching and clawing, palms as big as his face and limbs as long as a giraffe’s neck running over and down his body.

One takes good, hard squeezes at his hip, at his waist, at his chest, and Ford’s full-body jerk is not quite an attempt to escape.

With hands pawing at him, kneading almost needily at his body, Bill’s giant body rumbles and he tilts forward, burying his eye into the crook of Ford’s neck, inhaling audibly. Smelling him?

“Bill—” Ford stammers, a little confused, a lot overwhelmed, as the heat of this giant creature rivals the beaming of the sun upon them both. A hand lands right on his crotch, where he’s not even hard yet, and Ford jerks again with his surprise at the firm touch, giant as it forces aside his thighs to cup him, thumb rubbing at his clothed perineum. “I have—”

Bill pulls back from his neck, eye half-lidded and pleased, going right to the blood still-drying on his face.

“WhatEVER it is you’ve got going on, it can wait,” Bill tells him firmly, a black, textured tongue slipping out from the underside of his eye to loll, dripping a generous amount of spit. He starts leaning in, trying to get his mouth on Ford’s face.

Ford twists his head away, grunting as that tongue misses and licks across his cheek instead, leaving behind a sticky trail of wetness that has Ford’s thighs trying to close around the hand steadied between his legs. It’s crazy how much it gets his motor heating up, just to be licked at.

“Bill— fuck- I can’t- I’ll be late–” Ford tries to convince as he turns his head further away, cheek pressing into the soft ground. He knows denying Bill will just make him try harder to get what he wants but Ford killed that bounty hunter for a reason, and he doesn’t want to have killed him for no reason.

“What are you, the White Rabbit??? I have a shortcut, just lemme-” Bill hisses, engulfing the top half of Ford’s face with his hand to keep him in place, careful not to smear the blood with his hand. Blinded by a palm, and his nose threatening to be squished shut, Ford is held steady to allow Bill to lean in, crushing their faces together.

The weight of Bill steadily holds him to the ground, forcing his head back with the force he uses to mouth at Ford’s face, his lips, giant tongue squirming inside to go right for his teeth. There’s still meat and feathers there that Ford couldn’t quite get out, and Bill wastes no time in laving his tongue across each seam and gap and ridge, purring into the kiss.

Ford can’t breathe like this, not with a weight crushing his chest and face, not with a tongue filling up his mouth like an inflatable ball. It’s strong enough to keep his teeth from closing on their own, too, overriding the strength of his jaw in order to toy with Ford’s teeth like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

Satisfying himself, Bill pulls free of his mouth, letting Ford gasp for air and choke on an influx of saliva that most certainly is not all his. He has no chance to recuperate, as Bill continues holding his face, keeping him blind, as he turns his attention to the drying blood on his chin and neck.

Ford shudders, back arching a little as that giant, ridged tongue goes for his skin, coating him with a thick, thick shine of saliva all over his chin. It runs over and over the same spot, desperately trying to lick up the blood that has completely dried, leaving Ford’s face tingling, his cheeks flushing, body warming in reaction.

Even the hard press of Bill’s hand on his dick is garnering a reaction, much to his chagrin. He’s losing the plot a little, losing sight of his goal as Bill licks him over like a cat cleaning her young, coating him in the thick, slimy fluid that Ford feels like he’s going to drown in.

Once his chin is completely cleaned, Bill’s tongue dips further. He reaches up to unravel the bandana around his neck, pushing it away and then hooking a claw over Ford’s clothing to pull down the neckline, exposing his neck and collarbones and part of his sternum.

He wastes no time getting to work, giant tongue bunching over itself and squirming about like an especially excited snake as it finds more blood. Much thicker here, where it’s all streamed down, painting Ford’s skin like a delicacy. Bill purrs again as he goes, long and warbling, licking up the blood remnants with a ravenous lunacy that Ford cannot believe.

No longer are his clothes soaked with blood, now they’re soaked with spit, much more plentiful and warming, stoking a small flame inside his gut that will be impossible to put out.

“God-” Ford gasps, body twitching a little as he tries to find a good way to lie on his arms, wanting to press into the touch, and yet also wanting to shy away. He wishes he was feeling revulsion, just so he could say that he wasn’t getting off on a demon licking him, but that’s not revulsion he’s feeling.

Bill’s giant hand nudges and grinds, and Ford’s eyes, already closed, roll back into his head at the press against his half-mast cock, encouraging him to grind. With nary a thought, Ford gives in, hips feebly pushing up and into that massive weight. His boots scrape in the dirt, heels kicking, scared of moaning for fear of getting saliva in his mouth.

Finally, that hand on the top part of his face lifts off, though Ford can’t see much with Bill lower down his body, tongue rolling around the prominent jut of his collarbones. Bill’s body seems to be trembling a little, bricks back to shifting, though Ford thinks that’s just his body trying to expel excess energy, worked up from the ministrations.

“You used your teeth!” Bill exclaims as he leans back, finally, black tongue still dripping enough spit that it could likely drown Ford if he were trapped in a bowl. “I can’t believe it! THESE things did THAT?”

He reaches down, giant fingers finding Ford’s canines to pinch between two fingers, shaking his head back and forth. He grunts, trying to bite down, though his teeth don’t even break skin.

Bill giggles, high and manic, and he releases Ford’s mouth, skin spit-slick. “I didn’t think these things could do that, or that YOU’D have it in you! Killing a poor, poor soul just trying to do his job. What’s the MATTER with you?”

“I had to— I have someplace to be, if you didn’t know-” Ford pants, whining a small noise at the teasing enclosing of fingers around his clothed dick, teasing him through his pants.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re in a rush. I think the fact you just tore out someone’s throat like an animal is pretty high up on my list of “important things”, so it should be on yours too,” Bill sneers, still gleeful, as he massages at Ford’s dick, spider-like hands stripping him of his pants. “That your usual solution when you’re overstimulated and you have a place to be, Mr. Teeth? Say, call me up when you do, I’d pay to watch you do that again! Hell, I’d pay to have you do it to ME.”

Ford shudders despite the sun and Bill himself giving off ample amounts of heat, the temperature change without his pants feeling quite drastic. His legs are lifted to strip him of his briefs as well, and Bill is allowed free reign to trap his cock in a giant palm. His hand dwarfs him, skin slick with spit already, and Ford cries out at the touch.

His arms jerk, wanting to grab and hold onto Bill, but he’s stuck and that’s just adding to the heat boiling inside his body. He pushes his feet up, trying to spread his legs, knees knocking against the heated underside of Bill’s brick, hitting a tooth and its paired tongue, lolling down over his belly.

Ford’s body trembles, belly pulling away and bowing as a tongue slurps across his gut and tummy, Bill leaning down closer to better press it flat to him.

“It’s not— not like you haven’t done- ngh- worse,” Ford spits back, almost forgetting to respond.

“Sure, sure, but it’s different when you do it,” Bill says back, palming at him, barely able to stroke Ford’s leaking dick with the size of his hand, coaxing it into full hardness. “You don’t do it OFTEN. It’s like a special feast for the eyes!”

As he’s licked over the belly and ribs, Ford’s hips hesitantly start fully rolling up and into the touch, cloying and suffocating, each finger and palm-line doing its part to tease pleasure into Ford’s.

God, he’s about ready to cum, which is absolutely embarrassing, with everything being a lot, but in a good way, this time. Bill’s weight remains above him, his eye peering into him, his warmth seeping through him, hands on his body, a hand on his dick, a tongue on his belly. Most of the touches aren’t even to any erogenous zones, and yet he finds himself aching to be touched in those places nearly as badly as he does on his dick.

He feels it between his legs, too, in the plush, pink opening sitting between pretty cheeks. He jerks his hips up, hips dipping and tilting, as though he could take anything inside him right now, having not even been opened up. He whines wordlessly, static blurring his vision.

“What, do you want something more?” Bill croons to him, head cocking a little with the glowing hue of his eyes boring through Ford’s face.

With a note of mild hesitance, Ford nods, and Bill snorts at him in a cruel manner, an answer in and of itself.

“Should’ve thought about that before you started insisting you were gonna be late,” Bill purrs back, making no move to prepare Ford, nor any move to even touch him where he yearns. “We don’t have time, Fordsy, you poor thing! You have somewhere to be. Maybe the next time you feel like killing someone like an animal, you won’t open your fat mouth and say you have something to do! Lesson learned, hm?”

Fuck, fuck him. Ford grits his teeth and frowns, though any rough lines have been sanded down by the touch on his dick.

Bill laughs at the expression he’s making, leaning back down to his face, back to roving his tongue meticulously over his neck, squirming around and under and over. Another hand presses over Ford’s chest, over the curves of his ribs in order to feel the thrumming pound of his heart, to feel every tremble of his body.

He’s tugged off quickly, massaged and stroked, teeth digging into his flesh and tongues squirming over his body. With the influx of stimulation and the need clawing up his throat, Ford cums in record time. He gets nothing inside of him, but his orgasm is still satisfying and long and Bill keeps going until he’s begging for a break. Surprisingly, he gets one, and Bill leaves him with one last good lick to the inside of his mouth, bricks twisting and shifting as he pulls away and transforms.

Ford sits up, sighing to himself, eyes a little distorted as he wriggles his hands inside his bindings. With all of his previous movement, the rope comes undone from its tightened state, leaving his wrists rubbed raw and oily with blood. He reaches up, fixes his askew glasses and rights his pants and briefs.

“Now, if you ever DO get around to killing me, if better be with those tiny bones you call teeth,” Bill says, shaking a finger at him as though he wants it to be promised.

“I would, but I doubt I could break through your carapace,” Ford mutters back, wiping away any leftover saliva remnants. He feels gross now, left cold without the heat of arousal to warm him, to make any kind of sensation pleasant.

“I’ll make one brick nice and soft JUST for you, but you’ll break your teeth on any OTHER,” Bill chimes, watching him stand on unsteady legs with a pleased, still-hungry gleam in his eye. “It’ll be like a fun lil’ game of Russian Roulette!”

“I might just stick to the weapon that I know will kill you.”

“Boo, where’s the homoeroticism in THAT?” Bill pouts, rolling his eye as though Ford is unruly. “Fine, whatever! Your shortcut is through THERE, by the way.” He points to a nearby tree hollow, just wide enough to get the cart through, and Ford frowns. Turning to ask Bill any questions, however, turns out to be a loss as Bill is inexplicably gone.

Knowing he’ll be late either way, Ford packs up very little scrap metal, rolls the cart through the dark tree hollow, and finds himself exactly where he needs to be. Not a few planets away, but directly inside of his client’s shop. He just went through a wormhole, it seems.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been insisting he was going to be late. Damn.

Chapter Text

Ford sits in front of a hulking figure and between its cold legs, stretching a little where he sits to be able to reach its neck. The figure is hunched over, head slanted to the right, eyes dim, body lifeless, metal hands hanging at its dead sides. Between Ford’s fingers he holds wires, carefully ensuring they’re snugly connected to where they’re supposed to go. The neck wires are, regretfully, going to be left exposed, but Ford isn’t exactly worried about anything ripping out the wires on account of robots not really having predators.

Maybe if you count humanity, but Ford isn’t planning on killing it either. He’s planning to have it work for him. What’s better than two pairs of hands? Three pairs of hands, and one with limitless stamina and an endless database of information that Ford plugged into it.

He’s hoping the robot will adjust to its new life quite quickly and not immediately have some sort of robot-related breakdown due to the artificial intelligence Ford gave it. When giving robots intelligence, there’s always a chance they’ll boot up with an existential crisis, and Ford is really hoping that’s not what’s going to happen.

Listen, maybe building a robot is an extremely ill use of his time, and maybe it’s a waste of materials, and maybe Ford knows this, but also he raises this: it’s a robot.

They’re useful, and, if he did this properly, it will lift a load of weight off of Ford’s shoulders. Just with basic labour, anyway.

He hums to himself, leaving the wires alone and smiling when they stay where they’re plugged in. Great! Alright, now he’s just gotta…

Leaning in close, Ford practically buries his face in the neck of wires, now working on getting them untangled now that he knows where they’re supposed to go. It’s like a rats nest here, he’s surprised he let it get this bad, especially since it’s taken weeks to get this thing fully constructed.

With none of Bill’s help, of course, who firmly thinks Ford can do things with just Fiddleford’s help, which already took him a bit to get used to. While he is useful, a third non-person is especially useful. As flattering as it is for Bill to think he can do things on his own, that is simply not the truth.

So engrossed in untangling the wires, and getting gradually frustrated with how some of them are properly tied together, Ford doesn’t hear the very subtle sound of the robot powering itself on, all important parts plugged in. He also doesn’t notice the robot’s hand slowly raising up behind him and flexing.

Ford makes a gross sound of surprise as something big and cold and with fingers wraps tight around the back of his neck. He’s hauled upwards and ripped away from his objective like a scruffed kitten, then thrown, which is not how you should put down a small cat.

Ford only gets to see a glimpse of his attacker, and feels his face arise in shock at who is holding him. His robot. Which looks pissed.

He’s thrown much like a bag of trash before he can feel a single ping of parental love for his creation, which would have very quickly grown into parental hate as he hits the ground with a painful thump. Kids, he’s never having them.

By the time he stumbles up and almost completely gathers his bearings, the robot is upright and its open panels are closing with little hisses. It looks very naked like this, with a rather brutalist structure that he was planning on covering with clothes. He didn’t quite get the synthetic skin done, and so it’s been left with barebones structure of ribs and hips and sharp edges and even sharper fingertips. Perhaps not as kid-friendly as he had initially thought.

Ford is barely able to consider maybe constructing some smooth metal to act as skin before the robot is upon him in two great, heavily thudding footsteps. In a matter of seconds, he goes from working on bringing his robot to tip-top shape, to fighting for his life, trying to keep those hands away from wrapping around his neck again — probably for the killing blow this time.

To his absolute horror, as he’s pressed into the floor, with this great thing kneeling over him, emanating warmth as its fans and motors whirr with life, Ford realizes he’s finding this situation kind of arousing. On top of finding his Muse attractive, he can add “robots” to his list now, too. Wonderful.

As much as he’d rather not be, the wrestling is doing something irreversible for him, not even the fact it’s trying to kill him putting a damper on the bodily contact and rough manhandling.

Right as the robot closes its icy fingers around his throat, it suddenly freezes up, giant red eye staring straight through Ford’s soul. He wonders what it sees in that five second time span. With a small robotic whistle, the red colour abruptly blinks to yellow.

There’s a few seconds of obvious recalibration as the robot, with an obviously non-murdeous temperament, seems to try and figure out when and where it is. Ford, having not moved, releases a sigh of relief as the hand around his neck releases, and the robot leans back on its haunches, making a low mechanical whirring sound.

Its digital eye blinks a few times, then, in a voice Ford would be idiotic to not recognize, says, “Only ONE optic, huh? I think I know where you got the inspiration for that.” Bill’s voice comes through the robot’s speakers, heavily distorted with a mechanized chitter that makes the grating quality of his voice even more grating. It’s also entirely unexpected.

Bill. Possessing a robot.

Maybe it shouldn’t be that surprising, Bill has shown off his possessing abilities many times, and a lot of the times it’s been something Ford hadn’t even known could be possessed. Much like a robot. Is the original intelligence somewhere in there? Did Bill kill it? Or just push it aside like he does when he possesses Ford’s body?

Questions he most likely won’t get the answer to.

Still being straddled by a possessed robot who doesn’t seem keen on moving, Ford doesn’t bother trying to pull himself out from underneath the hundred ton creature, staring up in surprised awe.

“Bill?” He asks, as if it could be anyone else. His voice sounds a little high-pitched with its surprise, but Bill doesn’t comment.

His Muse flexes his pointy fingers with hydraulic hisses and mechanical clicks, humming to himself as he surveys the body he’d stolen. “In the flesh! Or, well, metal. Easy to forget the difference!” Bill chirps after a delayed second, turning that pixelated yellow pupil back onto Ford’s face. He looks a little smug. “Bit off a bit more than you could chew, huh?”

Oh, of course he’s happy the robot failed. He’s the one who didn’t want it to work in the first place.

“It shouldn’t have gone rogue at all!” Ford exclaims in mild frustration, throwing up one hand vaguely in the air, avoiding slamming it against Bill’s metal head. “I tested everything five times, I ensured it had no reason to want to kill me!”

“It doesn’t really look like you MINDED the whole “killing” thing,” Bill comments slyly, his giant eye finding its obvious way down, down, down. Ford is immediately aware of the pressing concern creating a bulge in his slacks.

Right, yeah. He got hard from being nearly killed and wrestled to the ground by a rogue AI. Definitely nothing to unpack there.

“I have nothing to defend myself with there,” Ford mutters back, an admission of defeat as he glances away from his bulge and Bill. It hasn’t gone down in the least, and he doubts it will with Bill still poised above him, on his haunches, animal-like and predatory. It’s hard not to find that attractive.

“WELL, we can still put this robotic body to good use,” Bill hums, grating voice falling deeply, closer to a mechanized purr than anything else. His hand, planted near Ford’s leg shifts a little, closer to caging him in. Ford swallows hard at the insinuation, looking up with a wide eye. “Since you’re DEFINITELY getting rid of this thing after this.”

“The… AI isn’t in there, right? It won’t see?” Ford asks carefully, his concern lying in the unwanted voyeur that may be peering at him through the same eye Bill is staring through.

“Maybe,” Bill says back with a roll of metal shoulders. “MAYBE it’ll be easier to control when it sees what you have to offer.”

“Bill,” Ford huffs back, flushing a little, but he can’t really say the idea is entirely unwelcome. He honestly can’t tell if he completely likes the idea or not, and so he will simply not think about it.

“Ford,” Bill says back in the same pitch, though with a much more condescending factor. He moves, grabbing Ford by the scruff of his neck in a blatantly possessive grasp, pulling him onto bent knees as he rises upwards. “I dunno how much BATTERY this thing has in it, get up here.”

With his backwards legs and large build, Bill is certainly quite tall. Ford struggles into a half-crouched position in order to get to perfect height with the robot’s hips, held steady by the large, metal hand clasped over the back of his neck. Not enough to choke, but firm enough to ensure he can’t wriggle in any direction.

His eyes land on Bill’s metal crotch, where there’s a very distinctive lack of an important organ, not like that’s going to stop Ford. Though it does limit what he can do. There’s a small jut of metal between Bill’s legs that is phallic enough in shape despite its blockiness, oil-slick and hard-edged — nothing that would warrant any kind of sexual activity.

And yet.

Bill guides him in by his neck, crooning, “go on, do your worst.”

Ford’s eyes go half-lidded as he splays his hands on Bill’s metal thighs, the metal warm underneath his touch, and very uncomfortable. With all the angular bits, at least it makes him easy to grasp onto, trying to balance despite not needing his own help.

Tentatively, Ford leans in and kitten-licks at the jut of metal. It tastes metallic and oily, just like he figured, though not uncomfortable. The metal is smooth underneath his tongue and not uncomfortably warm, allowing him to get more comfortable with his licking.

Bill’s hand around the back of his neck tightens, which is really all the encouragement he needs to know he’s doing something right. He gets into it, slobbering over the knob-like jut of metal, trying to treat it like he’s licking at an especially melted ice-cream.

It’s no surprise when Bill makes no reaction, especially in this robotic body. Ford didn’t equip it with any sort of pleasure centers, mostly because that’s not what it was for. But now, with Bill giving no audible or visual inclination that he’s enjoying what Ford is doing, Ford is wishing he did. The best he gets is Bill’s other hand, trying to be gentle, petting through his hair, and a half-lidded yellow eye watching him go to town.

With the metal wet with spit from his tongue, Ford leans in to wrap it in his mouth. It’s not very big, or very long, giving Ford a lot of space to work with. And, with no worry of pain, it allows him to scrape his teeth along the metal, gnawing at the hard edge, wrapping it with his tongue and soft palate.

He treats it like he’s giving a blow-job to something with an actual dick, putting his all into making it as realistic as possible, and even getting into it himself. His half-lidded eyes threaten to fall closed, suckling at the square head, then dipping his head forward to take the small bit of metal into his full mouth.

It’s husky and warm, and Ford desperately wishes Bill would thrust into his mouth, even if he’d probably come away from this with a broken and bruised nose.

He pulls off from time to time, gasping, to try and get some oxygen back into his lungs, but Bill doesn’t allow him very long. Each and every time, Ford allows the subtle strength of the hand around his neck to guide him back to the robot’s crotch. He always continues, pushing up and down, pleased that he can take Bill all the way down.

As much work he’s putting into his goal, he’s not getting anything from Bill, which is making it kind of hard to focus. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, especially since Bill doesn’t usually make any pleasure indicators when he’s in his usual form, but he’s certainly more expressive. Like this, Bill’s stone-cold demeanour is leaving Ford wondering if he’s doing enough, doing well, if he could be bobbing his head more, or if he should use his hands more, which he has braced on either metal thigh, gripping at them like handlebars.

It’s a little frustrating, though not a turn-off, and just encourages Ford to do more than he has to. Even if the extra effort results in the exact same problem.

Ford gasps wetly, trailing his tongue along the underside of the metal, feeling his eyes and brain go foggy with every slurping twist of his mouth. He’s sure his face is an absolute mess, with rosy cheeks and red, spit-slick lips, threatening to drool down his chin every time he pulls back.

Bill’s hand abruptly tightens, metal creaking as it catches in Ford’s hair, and Ford is forcibly held where he paused, with his mouth stuck on this metal bit. “Alright, alright, that’s good enough. Good job, doll, you certainly know how to work your mouth on just about anything you’re given,” Bill says, static-laced voice purring his satisfaction as he uses his strength to pull Ford off of his nub.

“Wha–” Ford gasps, breathing through the spit in his mouth, the taste of oil coating his mouth like a bad aftertaste. Bill bends down, gripping him under the arms like some sort of animal, and then hauls him upwards. He dangles, gasping as he’s manhandled, carried backwards until he’s pinned between the robot’s chassis and the wall behind him.

Bill presses hard metal edges into his soft skin and ribs and sternum, peering down at him even like this, with his feet far, far from the floor. He feels a little unstable, and a little unable to breathe, but no wiggling moves him the slightest bit. He shrinks into himself a little, feeling like a pinned bug.

He probably could have made the robot a little smaller, but, in his defense, he wasn’t ever planning on using it for sex.

The breath is knocked out of him from his surprise, instinctively bringing up both legs to wrap them around Bill’s extremely uncomfortable and slim waist. Just a simple segmented spine, really, which he has to be careful of the ribs that surround it.

“I think this will work for us nicely,” Bill purrs, metal fingers reaching down to rip Ford’s pants off of him. With his robot-strength, they tear as though Ford was wearing nothing but tear-away pants and underwear, tossing the tattered remains of both to the very far away floor.

Ford whimpers quietly, ducking his head forward to find its comfort in the mess of cables that lead from what would be Bill’s shoulders, up his neck and into his vaguely TV-shaped head. There’s no comforting human warmth where Ford presses his head, just the distant whirr of fans and clicking of struts, but it hides him well enough, overwhelmed.

Metal fingers almost delicately wrap around his leaking cock, which is just as well since Ford knows the strength that lies in those digits, and he’s not exactly interested in losing his dick. He exhales sharply against Bill’s neck, pathetic fingers curling inwards to grasp onto the metal beast’s bone-like structure.

“REALLY? You wouldn’t even switch genitalia with me?” Bill blatantly whines at his worried thoughts, almost teasingly rubbing long, sharp fingertips up and down Ford’s erection.

Ford breathes a shaky sound through clenched teeth, wrapping his arms more firmly around Bill’s sharp-angled shoulders. “Wouldn’t— wouldn’t I look like a Ken— fuck- a Ken doll?” Ford gasps back, feeling fingertips trail up to his sensitive cut head, rubbing circles into the multiple nerves in the glans. Ford shudders terribly, full-body and tell-tale.

“That’s all the rage these days!” Bill replies simply, his touch so simple, but so devastating. “I’m sure I could work something else out, though if you really want something else.”

Bill, even with his limited knowledge in how human bodies work, seems to be immediately able to tell that this spot he’s got his finger pressed against is causing Ford to make the most hurt noises, which he focuses on like a shark scenting blood. He redoubles his effort, has Ford leaking more slick and more sounds that are gradually becoming more and more strangled and desperate.

“Bill- Bill please,” Ford cries, fingers scrabbling, his hips thrusting into Bill’s easy touch, knowing just how to make him lose his mind. It’s a little uncomfortable, if he’s honest, with Bill’s hard-edged and violent edges scraping over his skin, but the small bites of pain from the corners only adds to it all. Like little arcs of lightning trickling from his sensitive flesh.

The fist Bill makes is loose and firm, wet with oil and copious amounts of slick from Ford’s dick, and his pace is decent. It’s the oddest handjob Ford’s ever had, and the least skilled, especially with Bill’s hands not having that comfortable flesh that makes the glide so easy.

It forces the demon to be careful, which he’s terrible at usually, but honestly doing a pretty good job with right now.

A jagged metal thumb arches upwards, trailing along the underside of Ford’s cock with a sharp tip, prompting an eking, sharp sound from Ford as it drags and drags. The thumb tip then reaches the underside of the head of his cock, and slips upwards to press hard against his slip, slick squeezing out past the wet squelch of his prodding touch.

Ford gasps, wiggling, clutching on harder like a money in a wind-ridden forest, hips jerking up hesitantly into the gradual stroking. He pants wetly, knowing saliva is dripping onto Bill’s metal frame, and yet refusing to do anything about it.

He made the robot waterproof, after all. Some spit won’t be a problem.

With every stroke and perfect prod of a finger, Ford feels himself getting dragged to his orgasm. It’s quick and easy, and would be over and done with if he wasn’t torn away from that edge. Bill cruelly pulls his newly slicked fingers away, leaving his cock to jerk forebodingly as he’s left right on that precipice, and then teetering backwards with no stimulation to guide him. With a gutted sound, Ford gasps fitful condensation over Bill’s wires.

“Fahh- come on- please-” Ford gasps, rutting against nothing, Bill’s body too thin to reach and his hand steering well away from his weeping and bobbing dick.

“Oh, hush, you. I have something BETTER,” Bill replies to his silent protests, his wet hand drawing even further away.

Ford feels air being displaced around him as Bill’s hand moves, ducks under, and then starts pressing a very long, very dangerous metal finger against his exposed hole. Aside from a tremulous jerk of his hips, mostly from surprise, Ford tries his best to stay very still.

He doesn’t need Bill accidentally gouging him from the inside out.

As that fingertip starts digging inwards, into his softness, Ford, overwhelmed and needy, leans forward and begins thoughtlessly nibbling at the thickest cable in Bill’s neck. The action has the robot juddering a little, which is kind of painful in Ford’s ass, and then freezing.

Immediately sensing that to have been a bad reaction, Ford releases his teeth, mouth opening as he stutters out, “s– sorry, I didn’t–”

Bill moves suddenly, curling over Ford’s body to put the wires along his neck closer to Ford’s mouth, having the double effect of caging him in firmly against the wall. “Do that again,” he demands, a hint of something aside from cockiness and mockery in his voice that Ford wants to hear more of.

As though to encourage him, that damned finger in his ass starts up again, pushing deeper and deeper, pulling an ache from deep inside Ford’s body.

With eagerness, Ford does it again, leaning the short ways in to press his lips against the thinner wires. With a wet mouth, he wraps one with his lips, gently pulling it with his teeth to separate it further from the others, then grinding the rubber-wrapped wire between his molars.

Not wanting to pull out anything important or even shock himself by ripping the tubing, Ford tries to be gentle with the wires, teeth gently pressing in, then drawing out, mouth sucking. He tries a variety of actions, but Bill seems to especially like the teeth.

Each grind of teeth and chewing motion and toothy nibble pulls a delicious reaction from the possessed robot. He shudders against Ford, static-crossed moans falling from his voice-box, sounding seconds away from failing. The sounds are scratchy with their intensity. It’s all immensely satisfying to hear, and Ford redoubles his own efforts even as he’s worked open on uncomfortable cold and jagged fingers.

Before the first finger is even fully seated within him, a second finger is pressed in alongside the first, and Ford bites. A little harder than he means to, but it gains a throaty, metallic, robotic purring sound that reverberates into Ford’s body.

“Use those teeth of yours- haRdER,” Bill spits, his voice sounding thoroughly mechanical, snarling through static and Ford does what he wants.

He leans a little further up, catching a much thicker wire in his mouth, which he freely gnaws on like a dog with a table-leg. There’s less chance of anything tearing or breaking with this one, and he can apply more pressure.

Bill chitters and pops like a stereo suddenly breaking, and, as an obvious reward, Bill starts thrusting his fingers in and out of Ford’s aching ass. The stimulation is lovely and much-needed, delicious in how long Bill’s fingers are, able to reach so far inside of Ford’s body he swears he feels them in the back of his throat. Wet, slick sounds escape from both his stretched hole and pretty mouth, distractedly trying to strike a good balance between roughness with his mouth and not breaking Bill.

“Maybe this body isn’t as— zzt- as bad as I thougHt,” Bill fuzzes, sounding as though he’s trying to sound composed. It doesn’t really work. “Don’t— don’t you dare stop.”

Ford wouldn’t dare.

He reaches up alongside his mouth, taking handfuls of any other wires he can’t reach with his slobbering lips, twisting them and squeezing them in tight fists. He hopes it feels as good as teeth, or at least similar, hoping this isn’t a stupid move.

It’s not, and Bill seems to actually orgasm. Or, as close to orgasming as a robot can get. There’s no fluid, not that he could even produce any. There’s just a loud, shrill sound like a plane engine dying before Bill shuts down with a pop. His body falls completely still, with Ford pinned against the wall, giant metal fingers spearing him open.

Carefully, Ford releases all the wires, eyeing the small teeth marks he left with possessive satisfaction. Well, he certainly wasn’t expecting wires to be an erogenous zone for a robot, but he can’t say he’s upset with this revelation.

He tries to wait as patiently as he can manage for Bill to power back on, really hoping it’s Bill who comes back online and not the murderous AI. After a long moment, he starts getting genuinely worried he may just be stuck here, and his ass is starting to ache, but just in time there’s a whirring noise.

Leaning back, Ford watches Bill’s screen come to life with a little white loading screen. His eye then animatedly opens, as if waking up from a nap, blinking rapidly as he comes back to himself.

“WOWIE!” He yells right into Ford’s poor ear. “I would’ve had you build me some kind of vessel SOONER, if I knew it would feel like THAT!”

“This robot wasn’t for you,” Ford complains, breathless as he wriggles his hips a little, clenching urgently around Bill’s fingers. But, not armed with any sensory pads, he can’t feel anything Ford is doing and remains frustratingly focused on himself.

“Well, it is NOW,” Bill says back, then abruptly seems to realize that he does indeed have Ford still spread on his fingers. “Oh! Sorry ‘bout that kid. You crossed my wires so good I forgot what I was doing!”

He makes up for the time he spent unintentionally delaying Ford’s orgasm by very roughly and aggressively shoving those same fingers back into him. Ford makes an awful yelping noise, leaning back with his head pressed hard against the wall, eyes halfway closed with an expression contorted in a way that looks pained.

Bill eagerly pushes in over him, further caging him in so Ford just has a giant black screen and a yellow pixel eye to stare into, watching him fall apart with a keenness that’s mildly disconcerting. He slips a third finger in for good measure on one of the draws backwards, which is just on the verge of too much, and rips a sound of overstimulated surprise from Ford’s throat.

With a bullseye accuracy, as if he could see inside Ford, Bill ensures his freakishly long fingers hit Ford’s aching prostate on every thrust, making electricity rattle around inside his body. He’s mean as he thrusts in, grinds against Ford’s prostate to make him whine, then pulls out only to repeat.

It’s dizzying and with Bill just staring at him, holding him up, supplying him with overwhelming pleasure, it’s all too much. “Maybe, instead of using this thing for work, you could use it for THIS,” Bill purrs as he massages at Ford’s insides like he’s fingering jello. “It would CERTAINLY be used more, don’t you agree? And then I could swing on by and help you both out, hm?”

“I’m not— it’s not a sex toy,” Ford gasps back, thin and reedy, knowing his scowl is dampened badly by the glassiness in his eyes.

“Oh, but it could be,” Bill coos back, batting away Ford’s protests like they’re nothing to him. “You’re insatiable. It could do you some good to have something on hand that’s not ME, wouldn’t it?”

“Insatiable—” Ford tries to scoff, but Bill’s fingers choose that moment to score through him and it sounds more like a hiccup.

“Fine, NEEDY. Is that better? Feel more accurate?” Bill snickers, spreading his fingers apart, pulling him open, gaping wide, then collapsing his fingers to go back to petting at him. “Because you ARE. I’d almost think that robot was made to fuck the stress out of you if I didn’t know how much of a prude you were.”

“I—”

“I guess,” Bill starts forlornly, watching Ford gradually lose his mind and his willingness to fight as he approaches his previously interrupted orgasm, “it’s a good thing that you aren’t smart enough to think ahead like that, or for yourself. I’d have a thing or two to say about SOMETHING ELSE doing my job. Suppose I’ll just have to keep taking care of you myself, eh?”

Bill certainly does take care of him, his speed somehow rising, pistoning into Ford in a way that’s almost painful. That knot tightens and tightens and tightens in Ford’s gut, twisting and twirling with fitful need as Bill finger-fucks him right into his orgasm.

Ford cums with a yowl, spraying all over the front of the robot with a cry he muffles by biting at Bill’s metal neck instead. It leaves him rattled and shaking, trembling weakly against Bill’s uncomfortable body, drained and satisfied and glowing.

“I’d definitely be even MORE ticked off if you DID make this thing into a sex toy,” Bill hums as he draws his fingers away, pulling away from Ford and surprisingly gently placing him on the ground. Ford stumbles a little, leaning into the wall with legs that are too weak to walk yet, needing just a moment longer.

He laments his ripped up briefs and pants, and then decides he doesn’t care for just a few minutes.

“Yeah, I got that,” Ford sighs, glancing up at this giant robot that he has to crane his head far back to meet the eye of. At Bill’s stony silence, he continues, “I’m not going to, Bill. If I tweak it again, it’s going to be so it’s not rogue this time.”

“Good luck with THAT!” Bill laughs, which is very suspicious and has Ford frowning to himself. Was it Bill who infected it?

Before he can ask, Bill bids him adieu and very quickly whisks himself away, leaving the robot stock still where it stands, leering down at Ford with a black screen. He should probably unplug some of its wires before it turns on and tries to kill him again. Probably.

Chapter Text

Ford has been noticing things. Nothing super important in the grand scheme of things, but it must count as semi important since it’s taking up almost all of his attention. Like things that are oddly distracting usually do to him.

Specifically when Bill is possessing his body and they’re working in tandem on something, sharing a body that is starting to feel more normal with a second presence deep inside. It’s warm and nice and they work well together, almost in sync, with practice from previous possessions.

And then Ford starts to notice the way Bill uses his left hand. He picks at Ford’s nail-beds in thought, he taps the pencil in his fingers against Ford’s nail to create a tapping sound, he raps his knuckle on the desk, or taps his fingers one after another in a slow rhythm. Hell, even the way he handles a pencil, the way his fingers curl loosely around the writing utensil, or the way he writes. Pretty cursive, the way the pencil glides across leaf paper. Or even how, at the end of the night, Bill licks Ford’s forefinger and thumb and uses them to pinch the wick of a lit candle, snuffing it without a thought of pain.

These are all just the ways Bill does things and yet Ford finds it so intoxicating to watch. He doesn’t even realize he starts referring to his possessed hand as Bill’s, seeing it as an extension of Bill, something not of his own any longer.

He often gets distracted — watching Bill puppet Ford’s hand into doing something so mundane. Something about how he uses each finger, how a being with four fingers seamlessly manages to use six.

Bill has had to tap him on the face, on the back of the hand, to bring him back to reality, having gotten lost in thought after watching Bill pick at his nails. Creating uneven tears that will be a pain to deal with, and yet Ford makes no move to stop him.

He’ll jerk himself back into reality and have to pretend like he wasn’t just completely zoned out, staring at his hand moving on its own. And, somehow, Bill never pries. Just brings him back into the moment, giving him a mental nudge to get back to work which, of course, Ford does.

Not even entirely sure what’s wrong with him, or what he wants, Ford does his best to stop his blatant staring, but it still affects his work. Not to a worrying extent, because he would never let that happen, but to a noticeable extent.

It just seems like when Bill is around or on his mind, it’s exceedingly easy to get distracted if he allows himself to do so.

Which leads to here and now, a late Wednesday night, with Ford and Bill sitting at Ford’s desk. They’re hunched over papers and blueprints, with an orange lamp and candles providing ample warmth and light to allow Ford enough visibility to work. Bill doesn’t really need the light, but Ford does.

They’ve only been sitting here for a few hours now, and Ford’s body is a little stiff from not moving. His brain feels fine from the long hours due to Bill’s influence, which is nice, but his body is not included in that deal.

Gradually, with his exhaustion, Ford’s brain has grown distracted. He’s trying to keep his strained focus, but his brain keeps going literally anywhere else. Bill continues as he’s been going for the past few hours, constantly moving, constantly scribbling, though his half of the sentences are no longer being finished by Ford’s hand, leaving him hanging. He’s nestled comfortably into the left hemisphere of Ford’s brain, controlling his right hand, scribbling runes and mathematical symbols while Ford starts to fail to do his own share of the runes and maths.

It’s distracting, alright???

Distracting enough for Ford’s eyes to slide over and stay on his hand, moving on its own, tingling with numbness as Bill has full control over it. He knows he’s just watching his own hand work, but it’s the fact it’s Bill who’s intertwined with his nerves, controlling Ford’s hand in a way that’s so obviously Bill and just as endearing.

The way he moves Ford’s fingers is in a very dexterous way despite the many times Ford has had comments on his “sausage fingers”. Bill makes them look sleek. Prim and gentle, and yet with an underlying power that Ford can see trembling just beneath the surface.

Despite how foreign it must feel, Bill never complains about the hand he’s controlling, nor the body he’s inside. He slips into whatever side of Ford’s brain he prefers that day, taking up Ford’s six-fingered hand like it’s an instrument itself, using and plucking him, treating him as though he were normal and five-fingered. Ford would go so far as to say the way Bill orchestrates his fingers is beautiful. But that feels a little far.

It’s a low bar, but, after everything and after Bill’s reassurances that he likes Ford’s polydactylism, it’s still a relief that he wasn’t laying it on thick just for Ford. Really, the ease in which he takes up Ford’s hand, talking casually and with no sly or comforting remark towards his fingers, means more than Bill could ever know.

“You’re thinking pretty HARD but I’m not seeing much WORK there, Fordsy,” Bill’s voice, coming from Ford’s mouth, comments suddenly. The surprise of it yanks Ford back into reality with a cold splash of water.

“Apologies.” Ford clears his throat, forcing himself back into completing his half of the formulae Bill had been writing. As his pencil scratches, Bill’s half of his body doesn’t continue. It sits in thrumming silence, as still as a statue, leaving Ford refraining from ducking his head. He can feel Bill looking at him.

With a tiny inhale, and as the silence drags, Ford points out, “now you seem distracted.” He wonders if this is a punishment, if Bill is showing Ford how disrespectful not working whilst his partner works is.

“Oh, no. I’M just trying to figure out WHY you’re staring at your own hand like it’s got the key to a lab filled with experimental science,” Bill replies simply, flexing his hand and spinning the pencil around his fingers in an effortless display of control.

Ford’s mouth goes dry.

“It’s… it’s just still something to get used to— watching my hand move on its own,” Ford says, a little white lie. Some twisted amalgamation of truth and lie. He’s not sure how effective it is, but, if it were anyone else, he’s sure they wouldn’t dig deeper. However, this is Bill he’s talking to, who hates letting sleeping dogs lie. He’ll get an answer if he doesn’t think the answer he got was true.

“Sure, MAYBE, but that’s not just fascination that I’m feeling there, IQ,” Bill tells him matter-of-factly, twisting the pencil around and around on his fingers, a spinning trick Ford wishes he could do nearly as well. “You like this, don’t you?” Bill continues, the smile in his voice making Ford want to shrink into his shirt, “in more of an “this is neato” way.”

Bill’s voice dips, riding the coattails of Ford’s own voice, and it’s suddenly very hard to swallow the surplus of spit in his mouth. Watering. God, he kind of wishes it would go back to being an arid desert.

“That’s not—”

“What is it about me controlling your hands you like SO much?” Bill inquires, interested. He sets down the spinning pencil with more force than necessary, then reaches over to snag the charcoal pencil in Ford’s hand, flicking it away and then snagging Ford around the wrist.

It’s an odd sensation, and sight, to be physically restrained by his own arm. To an outsider, he would look like he’s insane. Inwardly, he feels like he’s currently losing sanity. He tugs at his wrist a little, but Bill presses his fingers into his skin, sure to dapple with purple soon, and Ford falls still.

“It’s interesting?” he says, not meaning for it to come out as a question. It’s also plainly wrong, and has Bill scoffing a disbelieving laugh, which Ford was half-expecting.

“Well, THAT’S certainly not the truth,” Bill trills, sounding excited at the prospect of breaking Ford open and figuring out what makes his internals tick. “But don’t you worry, I intend on finding out what’s got you in such a STATE.”

Bill lets go of his wrist, leaving it aching and red, with his attention firmly set on Ford and no longer on their combined work. His hand trails to Ford’s chest, finger-walking it up his front, following the ridges of his sternum, up his collarbones, up the long column of his throat and over his bobbing Adam’s apple, under and over chin and, like jumping into the deep end, he plunges his fingers into Ford’s mouth.

Oh, god, there are fingers in his mouth.

He tries to talk around them, eyes blowing wide as his own fingers, controlled by another person, are shoved far into his mouth, pressing down experimentally on his tongue. Like a button, it has Ford’s brain going fuzzy for a second, swallowing around the fingers and trying not to drool around them.

“Sorry, Sixer! If what you’re trying to say isn’t the truth, I don’t WANT IT,” Bill croons, taking to crowing inside the cavern of his skull. It brings his words even closer to Ford’s ears, making him even harder to try and tune out.

Ford garbles around the fingers, tastes the graphite from Bill’s pencil, and the tang of sweat from his skin. It’s not unpleasant, but the way Bill’s fingertips are gunning for the back of his throat is. He can’t quite shove them down the seal of his throat, but the tip can dip just to the slow decline of his tongue, and that’s close enough to his gag reflex to have him choking a little, eyes springing with tears.

Then he draws them back, two fingers curving and pulling out as far as they can go before they fall out. With them comes an influx of spit gouged from his mouth that he can’t contain, and the helping of saliva trickles down his chin in rivulets. Bill presses his fingers back in, with three this time, stretching Ford’s lips wider and pushing his mouth open, ensuring he takes them to the third knuckle.

Trimmed nails trail over taste buds and gums and teeth, petting at the fissured mess of Ford’s tongue. His exploratory movements are few and far in between, focused primarily on drawing his fingers in and out, ensuring spit spills down Ford’s front, and he can squirm finger after finger into his mouth until Ford feels stuffed.

Ford’s hand curls into the armrest of his chair, head tilting back a little as Bill takes to claiming his mouth for his own, eyes threatening to squeeze shut at the mildly uncomfortable treatment. He feels gross, which Bill seconds by purring, “you are.”

With that, there’s another spilling of spit, lukewarm and wet, and Ford feels the front of his shirt gradually become more and more soaked with saliva.

With a fifth finger teasing at Ford’s lips, a numbness seeps into Ford’s other arm and hand without him completely realizing. The little prickles of not-quite-pain only gain his attention when he realizes his other hand is moving on its own.

Down, down, down it goes, in stark contrast to the hand in the highest orifice it can comfortably nestle inside. Unable to see it, Ford is left to rely on touch, trying to focus on the slow gliding touch of his hand slithering over the swell of his belly, under his shirt, and then up his bare skin. The drag of bare-skin is dizzying, has him shivering and then jerking as two unfamiliar familiar fingertips reach a dusky nipple, tweaking it.

He jerks, and the fifth finger slips into his widening mouth, putting a painful strain into his jaw. “It’s only right you know what it’s like to get GAGGED by these fingies of yours,” Bill justifies, visibly happy that Ford, with his widened mouth, can’t help the drool slipping from the corner of his lips. “Imagine not being on the receiving end! I think you’d HATE that, wouldn’t you? How would you have survived if I hadn’t noticed you liked how I puppeted your hands?”

Bill is nice enough to draw the hand out of his mouth to let him speak. Ford coughs for a second, scowling ahead of him as if Bill were there. “I don’t like that,” Ford croaks, his voice already weakened by Bill’s movements. “It’s just— it’s just out of interest. It’s interesting.”

“When are you gonna get better at lying?? You better not be playing POKER with a poker face like THAT,” Bill tells him, and promptly shoves a whole five fingers back into his mouth. Ford chokes on them, his teeth scraping across his skin, but Bill does nothing but grin with half of Ford’s mouth. “You never do anything in halves, kid. You wouldn’t have been eyeing MY hand like that if there wasn’t SOMETHING ELSE to it. And, hey! Nothing to be ashamed about! You just like the way I use your hands, but don’t like hands on their own. TOTALLY nothing to overthink about there.”

Bill’s other hand twirls some fur from Ford’s chest around his finger, then, with a small tug, trails down again. Deftly, and with one hand, Ford feels tightness around his waist releasing as his belt buckle is undone.

With no help from Ford’s hips, Bill jerks down his pants just enough to expose the half-hard bulge in his briefs, obvious in the small wet spot. He whistles.

“Boy, you really DO like my hands, dontcha?” Bill coos, interested and intrigued as they both find Ford’s cock stirring with interest despite nothing of note having happened. “All from my fingers in your mouth. All weak in the knees, hard in the cock! Real easy, aren’t you?”

It’s odd, hearing him refer to Ford’s hands as his own, but they are his at this point. Just a different shape and colour and texture, but Bill is on the road to making Ford think about Bill’s hands whenever he looks at his own.

Ford makes a weak sort of sound in response, feeling Bill slip his hand under the tight band of his brief, making a B-line for his tucked cock, feeling for it. He wraps his hand around the underside and pulls it out from his briefs, exposing it to cold air that washes over heating flesh.

“You don’t have to answer,” Bill replies with a snicker, pinching the base of Ford’s cock with a sneaky couple of fingers. “We BOTH already know the answer. Think you can ask nicely for my hand around your dick?”

The surprising question takes Ford a couple of seconds to register, blinking through wet eyes as he forces his head up slightly. The crick in his neck abates, and a bunch of spit seeps from between fingers and teeth.

“Go on,” Bill encourages, circling the seam of Ford’s balls with a fingertip. “Admit you want my hands on you. I already know you DO, but it seems like YOU need a little extra encouragement! Don’t worry, I can be patient.”

Ford gurgles a little, and Bill pulls his hand free of his mouth, wiping spit-slick fingertips across his cheeks. It’s demeaning, and Ford is left panting for more than just the reason of having his mouth obstructed.

“Please?” He tries, raspy and desperate. Reduced to so little and so little time. Easy, like Bill said.

“I’m grading you on this, and you just got an F,” Bill denies, gradually circling and releasing Ford’s dick with a slow hand, barely making contact with his heated flesh. “Aim for at LEAST a D.”

“I—” Ford squeezes his eyes shut, weak-willed and desperate to have Bill’s hands on him again. He craves it, this fire in his soul wanting those fingers in him, on him, merged with him. Anything, and he’ll take it. “I like your fingers,” he gasps quietly, “I like them on– on me and in… in me. Please, can you touch me?”

“Now that was more of B+,” Bill purrs, and wraps Ford’s dick firmly in his hand.

Ford is treated to a masterful blowjob by his hand that’s not his hand. Well, it’s only really masterful because it’s Bill touching him. The hand on him trades with the hand that was in his mouth, slick and wet with spit, and helping the initial glide without much pre-cum be less painful.

Bill’s technique leaves something to be desired, but his own touch, through Ford’s hand, makes it feel better than it should. It’s clumsy and wet, and it very quickly has his cock filling out with each well-placed stroke. As soon as there’s an ample amount of pre-cum covering his hand and his dick, making the strokes soft and velvet-like, Bill trades hands again.

Ford’s mouth, dropped open to whine and grunt, is pushed into by the hand covered in his own slick. He gets to taste himself, which isn’t nearly as uncomfortable as he had thought it would be. Just kind of salty, which he already knew.

Bill doesn’t stretch his mouth wide this time, just wipes off all the slick on his hand onto Ford’s tongue, then draws itself out, slowly, to create a long strand of spit to connect them. As it breaks, his hand falls to rest on the base of Ford’s throat, curved around the very bottom in a mildly uncomfortable touch.

Ford forgets about it quickly as he’s played like an instrument, like the instrumental way Bill used his single hand. Now, with a fast-paced and cruel tempo, Bill plays his body. He may not know exactly how to handle it, but he knows where all the good spots are.

His thumb presses against Ford’s glans, like a little button to have him lose his mind, and it just feels like an arc of electricity. Ford tosses his head back with a strangled cry, feeling Bill purr inside his body. He pays some special attention to the frenulum as well, thumb rubbing and stroking, then he takes a great handful of Ford’s dick and begins yanking it like it owes him money.

With how on edge Ford is, and how close he is to cumming, any kind of rough handling feels good.

As he’s treated to an amateur handjob, really, the hand around his throat makes itself known. It crawls its way up, up, up, like a tree-trunk, thumb on one side, five fingers on the other, until the webbing of his thumb sits just under Ford’s chin. Then it gives a little squeeze. A tentative thing — testing the waters.

Ford inhales sharply at the feeling, eyes going wide, but he doesn’t yell, or shout or try to stop it. Bill, with a silent go ahead, squeezes again, taking a more firm fistful to properly constrict Ford’s breathing with the lightest pressure.

Ford swears something in his brain turns off as his oxygen is cut off from his brain. The pleasure heightens as his breathing is cut short, lungs quickly starting to burn with little to no air inside of his chest. The hand on his dick doesn’t stop for a single second, frantic in its jerking, and Ford thinks he starts drooling.

As his lungs start to burn, his throat is released, and Bill allows him a few good gasping inhales of breath. Just until he starts to calm, whereupon his hand returns.

“Well, if THIS is the price it takes to have you look at those extra fingers of yours in a new light, consider me on BOARD!” Bill grins, talking inside his head considering Ford’s busy gasping for breath that won’t come. “Was it this easy all this time? You sly dog, I wish you had gotten obsessed with me inside you SOONER.”

It’s really just an unintended side-effect of liking Bill taking control of his hands. One that’s positive, yes, but unintended. He supposes that’s the healthy bit of this interaction.

“Kid, it’s ABOUT TIME you realize how neat these extra fingies are! It’s not every day you can find someone who can make EXTRA cool shadow puppets! You’ve got a one up on ME, that’s for sure!”

It’s sweet, has Ford’s chest swelling with warmth. Or is that pain?

His throat is released, but, even when he’s gasping in ample breath and his lungs have stopped aching, the warmth does not dissipate. Bill is happy Ford has found a way to like himself, even if it’s kind of backwards, and is really directed towards Bill.

Bill twists his dick, throwing him off his rolling emotions and thoughts, and his neck is firmly taken hold of. His brain goes carefully blank, and Bill helps rush him to the finish line.

“I’ll finger you open on my fingers next time, toots, how does that sound?” Bill purrs to his rapidly declining awareness level. “Nice and slow, give you a whole NEW appreciation for how well I can pluck you like guitar strings! I won’t even touch you properly, all you’ll get is my fingers inside of you. Shouldn’t be hard for you to get off like that! I think your obsession will come in REAL handy for THAT.”

Ford’s brain floods with images of himself curled on his side in his bed, Bill controlling his body, gently guiding him into the right position to let him slip his fingers in with ease. Sobbing into the sheets, clutching at his pillow as Bill coaxes him to an orgasm with only his fingers inside his body, feeling the same as Ford’s, but moving in a way that is undeniably Bill.

“You’d take me so well,” Bill sighs, as though imagining the same scenario Ford is. “I bet I’ll barely need any lube, you’ll be so eager to just suck me right in, huh? And even if you couldn’t we both know you would.”

His throat is released again and, with a sharp twist to the head of his dick and a mental nudge from Bill, Ford is orgasming all over himself. All over his belly, his pants, his and Bill’s hands. It’s messy and he’s left heaving bodily, his chair creaking as he sags quite completely into the backrest.

He’s completely done for, exhausted and sated. And, based on the light-like thrumming and buzzing in his skull, Bill is too.

“I can’t believe it’s the way I use your HANDS that you got weird about,” Bill muses once Ford’s ears have stopped ringing. “I can’t imagine how you’d get if I started kneading some DOUGH or something.”

“Listen, I can’t control what I’m into,” Ford defends weakly, feeling coming back into his left hand, which he uses to carefully tuck himself away, not wanting to sit here with his dick out for longer than he has to.

“You’re lucky I’m flexible,” Bill says, which, yes, Ford is definitely lucky.

They don’t finish their work since Ford is drenched in sticky fluid, and Bill has to mysteriously go, apparently. Ford doesn’t ask questions, and when Bill leaves he silently cleans himself up.

Chapter Text

Ford’s third sneeze since coming up into the attic hits him just as the other two did: with zero mercy, and a quickly running nose to show for it. He sniffles, rubbing at the dribbles with his sleeve, having no tissues. He’s woefully underprepared, but he also wasn’t planning on so much dust when he came up for Spring cleaning.

That’s his fault, he takes full credit, but he’s not going back downstairs until the attic looks a LITTLE less like a mess. He feels like it’s about time he goes through all the shit up here and decides on what he wants to keep and wants to toss.

He’s the only one home today, so now’s a good time, no matter how much he’d like to be holed up in his hovel, experimenting. Plus, if he doesn’t do it today there’s a very high chance he’ll get distracted by anomalies, and he really does need to get this done.

He pushes things around, throwing stuff he doesn’t want into one box, keeping stuff he does want in a pile by the attic door, stirring up dust and making a mess. However, this one is much more organized. He knows where everything is, this time. As he sets another very old, very dusty cable-knit sweater to the side, his eyes catch something interesting.

A shape underneath a tarp, tall and slim, sat in front of some boxes. It’s odd Ford hadn’t noticed it when he came up.

He gets up, approaches it, and brushes aside the tarp with another wash of dust that comes from the disturbed material. It falls to the ground with a quiet shuffle and, underneath, Ford finds a mirror. There’s more dust on the glass, which he wipes a careful hand through, brushing off the accumulated dust onto his pants.

It’s a nice mirror. Floor-length, reflective and unsmudged, at a slight angle so Ford can see himself fully. He’s not one to preen, but it’s a pretty mirror with the surrounding metal painted a beautiful gold, so he’s thinking of keeping it.

For not other reason than to have, really, despite its lack of use in his life. That’s likely his first warning that something is wrong with the mirror, the simple fact he wants to keep it.

He turns away, going back to cleaning for a while longer, passing the reflective surface every once in a while. He watches his reflection follow him in the corner of his eye when he walks by, just viewing his body at the odd angle. He keeps glancing, and each and every time everything appears normal.

At some point, pushing a full box of junk into the corner to be disposed of, Ford glances at the mirror, and what he sees has him pausing. His reflection is him, but it’s not the current version of him. A past version. With brunette hair and uncomfortable stubble and that yellow-ish trench coat he wore back then.

It’s still mirroring him, it’s just not him.

The curiousness and oddness of the sight lures him in. Abandoning his current project, he gets closer, wondering if he’s having some sort of psychotic break. It wouldn’t make sense, coming out of nowhere like this, but he’s not sure what other”normal” explanation there is. He steps closer and closer, his reflection nearing him as well, his gaze connected to his eyes.

Then he sees it: yellow scleras. It all makes sense. His interested expression falls away to one of deadpan realization, sighing in mild frustration. He really thought he found an anomalous mirror.

“Really? This is what you’ve decided to do with your free time, Cipher?” Ford asks, mildly unimpressed even as he looks his past self over. Smaller and gaunter, knuckles bloodied. Taken from the worst time of his life. Of course this is the version of himself Bill has chosen to take on.

His mirrored lips stop mirroring him, pulling into a smile despite the fact Ford doesn’t feel like smiling. His reflection — Bill — fully stops mirroring him, breaking fully from the illusion as his smile comes in full force. “What? Can’t a guy show off his best bud’s prime time?” Bill asks, being facetious.

“I think I’m in my prime now, actually,” Ford points out, head cocking as he peers at the mirrored attic behind him in the mirror, though it looks the same as the one he’s in now. “Are you possessing the mirror?” He asks, curious.

“Nah, nah. I’m in a separate dimension,” Bill corrects, wiggling Ford’s fingers around as though he’s figuring out how to possess someone again.

Interesting.

That implies Ford’s reflection is an alternate version of him. Perhaps with its own thoughts and feelings. Who is the real reflection? Him, or the one in the mirror? He’s not sure how to feel about that idea.

“Alright, I’ve had enough of this GLASS BOX, get me OUTTA here,” Bill complains, and, before Ford can even ask what that means, he’s stepping forwards. Before Ford’s eyes, his younger self controlled by Bill touches the mirror, then starts pressing through it. The mirror’s surface warbles like disturbed water as an arm, then a head, then a torso and legs come through, his younger self breaking free from its liquid-like surface.

And there he is, younger and thinner, standing in the attic right alongside Ford, shaking out his body as though driving around a used car. Ford takes a wary step backwards, surprised, and Bill’s attention that had been focused on his feet jerks upwards, finding Ford’s wide-eyes and surprised expression.

“SOMEONE looks like they’ve seen a ghost!” Bill chirps, grinning all sick and amused. He treads forward, and Ford is too late to stumble away as two big six-fingered hands land on his shoulders, rooting him in place. “I thought you would’ve been more CHILL with seeing something STRANGE and UNUSUAL, considering that’s your whole schtick.”

“This is— this is a little bit more than strange or unusual,” Ford protests, honestly thinking it to be downright uncanny.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, hands and knees on the box over there! I wanna take this body for a SPIN,” Bill waves him off, waving his hands at him as he completely ignores Ford’s reply. He seems impatient.

“Now?” Ford gapes, even as he’s being pushed towards said box when his feet don’t start moving in time. “Here?”

“I dunno about you, but something tells me I won’t get to keep this form if I stray a LITTLE too far from the spawning point! Blame TROPES for that one,” Bill tells him gleefully, hand on his shoulder slipping away to snarl in the front of his turtleneck. “Hey, at least I didn’t pull you INSIDE the mirror! Small mercies, right?”

With no finesse, Bill shoves their faces together, lips crashing like two high-speeding trains, teeth clacking painfully and sending a shockwave through Ford’s head. He makes a muffled noise of surprise into the kiss, hands coming up to grip onto Bill’s biceps, debating on whether or not to grip, or push him away. He does neither, not as Bill smushes their lips together, forcing his head back with the amount of pressure he’s exerting. He’s huffing hot and heavy through his nose like a bull, eyes wide and glimmering yellow, prying through Ford’s half-lidded gaze, trying to gather breath through the corners of his mouth.

It’s hot and wet, and Bill stops for nothing as he presses his chest against Ford’s, bending him over just enough that he’d fall if Bill weren’t holding him up. Bill works his lips apart, a tongue that feels worryingly similar to his own slipping between the barrier of his teeth and into his soft mouth.

Ford’s jaw judders, instinctively wanting to bite the intrusion, but he holds back, his own slimy tongue sliding so pleasantly against Bill’s that it has him whining. He doesn’t remember kissing feeling this good, with a pleasant buzzing haze taking over his brain, with lips on his own, a tongue intruding inside his mouth, licking at his teeth and cheeks.

Their teeth grind painfully together at points, though Ford can’t jerk his head away to try to rub away the unpleasant sensation, not being held as he is by his shirt and wrist.

Drinking his fill of Ford’s sounds, Bill pulls back, breaking the string of saliva connecting them with a brush of his tongue over his lips. His eyes are half-lidded and heated, momentarily pleased with whatever flushed expression Ford has donned.

“I gotta say, being able to SEE while I’m kissing you is a whole OTHER reason I want my eye and mouth to be separate,” Bill tells him, his voice dropping lower with how close their faces are together.

“You’re– you’re supposed to have them closed,” Ford says, recalling how Bill’s eyes in his younger self were staring him down, refusing to shut them for anything.

“And miss ANY of those expressions you make? I think NOT,” Bill scoffs, reaching up to grip Ford’s cheeks in one hand, fingers digging into his flesh in a brazen display of possession. He shakes his head side to side, saying, “now, I’m gonna fuck you over this box with my fingers first, then my cock. Capiche?”

Ford, a little dazed from the kiss, just nods.

Bill grins, teeth glinting brilliantly. His hand relinquishes its tight grip, patting Ford’s cheek happily. “Great! Get comfy!”

Ford does his best. He finds himself knelt over the hard surface of a box, the flat surface of some board games inside keeping it relatively comfortable for his chest to lean on. He has his knees slightly spread, trying to distribute his weight evenly to lessen any discomfort. Bill gets him to shrug off his turtleneck and shirt, fingers landing on the top of his back, tracing the deeper scars and white lines down to his tailbone. His fingers dip slightly under the waistband of his briefs and pants, then retreat. “These too,” he says, and Ford complies.

He finds himself butt-naked, with his mirrored, younger self standing above him, fully clothed and leering at him in a way that has his half-hard cock twitching, hanging heavy between his thighs.

“Let’s try to get all six-fingers inside now, shall we?” Bill purrs, kneeling over Ford, along his back, reaching around him to press all six fingers on Ford’s hand against the seam of his lips. “You don’t have to take ‘em all into your mouth, but I SURE would recommend it!”

“Six?” Ford tries to articulate, though it comes out muffled as Bill slips three fingers inside his mouth as soon as it opens. He gags a little on the intrusion, as they gun right for the back of his mouth, blunt nails scraping against the softness of his throat. As soon as his throat spasms, they pull back, dipping under and over his tongue, his other three fingers pressed painfully against the corner of Ford’s mouth.

He tries his best to coat them in spit, tongue squirming and writhing a little clumsily, worried that he has a time limit despite it not being specified. As such, his technique is flawed and clumsy, and despite fingers being in his mouth, he doubts he gets them all sufficiently coated.

“Let’s try for another,” Bill purrs, a fourth finger pressing into Ford’s mouth, nail scraping at the roof in a jagged line that has him spasming. His head tries to rear back, but he just hits Bill’s shoulder, hovering right behind him, leaving nowhere for him to go as the pain recedes. “Good job! Four is getting a little harder, huh? Looks like you’re starting to STRUGGLE!”

Ford definitely is with how he’s gagging and coughing around the four fingers, already far too much considering their size and length. There’s no way he can do five, let alone six.

“Hey, no shame! We’ll just hope and pray there’s enough lube on the other four!” Bill tells him sweetly, drawing in and out of the slowly rising pool of spit in Ford’s mouth. He hasn’t bothered swallowing, and as such there’s some drool dribbling down the corner of his lips with each slow drag Bill takes, fingers wetting his chin. “Let’s give it a try!”

His fingers come out in one fell swoop, drenched in cooling saliva, leaving Ford panting and blinking a little rapidly to try and focus. The shoulder behind his head moves, and Bill’s presence shifts, a hand bracing one of Ford’s ass-cheeks, one wet finger pressing up against the pucker of skin between two cheeks.

“We’re really— really doing all six?” Ford stammers out fingers digging into the edge of the box beneath him, crumpling the material slightly with the dampness of his hands and the force he uses.

“Fordsy, I am getting this entire hand inside of you if it’s the last thing I do,” Bill tells him genuinely, patting his rump as though in consolidation before he starts pressing in. He goes two at once, likely too impatient to go through prepping Ford with just one finger when he knows he can take two if he really tries.

Ford grits his teeth, dropping his head and spreading his leg a bit more to try and alleviate the uncomfortable stretch. There’s nowhere to go though as it continues deepening, two fingers of the same size and thickness of his own pressing into him. They almost feel like his own, if they had an extra layer of cruelty to them.

“I’ve only– fuck, I’ve only taken— three before-” Ford grunts out, thin and reedy as he’s opened up, as those fingers lightly scissor him open on their adventure within his body. He’s not sure why he’s admitting it, as though that would make Bill go a little easier on him. It doesn’t soften his touch in the slightest, just garners a small chuckle that sounds eerily like Ford with his borrowed voice, albeit without any sympathy.

Bill bends over him again, his voice ringing out close to his ear that he nips at with blunt teeth. “We’ll be breaking THAT record tonight, not to worry,” he purrs, two fingers scissoring Ford open as they draw out, loosening his tight rim. He drapes himself over Ford’s back, pressed to the sweaty, sticky skin, taking to mouthing at the back of his neck, licking the salt from his feverish flesh.

Ford gasps quietly, head ducking as Bill’s fingers sink back in with a third, thick and rigid, forcing him to adjust around it, fluttering around the intrusion that waits for nothing. The spit he had coated the fingers with, which is drying, is still thankfully plentiful enough to ease the stretch and rough glide, though the friction is still just on the verge of catching, of dragging perhaps a little too painfully.

It’s right there on the edge, but a keen press to his prostate, helping zing painful pleasure up his back like electricity, eases it. He jerks bodily, kept pressed down by Bill pressed firmly against him, his mouth opening on a sharp cry. His fingers dig in a bit more, mouth dropping open fully to pant, no longer trying to breathe through his half-blocked nose. Still stuffy from the copious dust.

“I can feel you clenching around me,” Bill says conversationally, wriggling his fingers around, wrist twisting this way and that to rotate his fingers. “You’re all soft and velvety and pink down here, y’know?” He asks, then huffs, answering his own question. “Of course you know, you’ve opened yourself up just like this before. Probably felt yourself squeeze just the same, hm? Wet and eager, just you wait until you start sucking me IN, then we’ll REALLY have lift off!”

“Bill—” Ford gasps, unsure if he’s really processing everything Bill is saying, not with his head feeling like it’s underwater, hazy with pleasure and pain and the hardness of his dick, leaking over the cardboard box.

“Three more, think you can do it?” Bill asks, his voice rough, nibbling at Ford’s skin, scraping over the ridge of his spine. “I think you can. You know, the human anus can stretch to about 5 inches, and this hand of yours? UNDER that! You could fit at LEAST one baby raccoon in here! This should be a walk in the PARK for you!”

Ford thinks that this is Bill’s way of encouraging him, though he can’t quite say it has the intended effect, as his words of choice are more horrifying.

“Why would you— fuck– say something like that, while you’re fingering me open??” Ford gasps and grunts, wishing he could turn around and give Bill that look. But he’s pinned down right now, and he can feel Bill squirming a fourth finger inside, which he doesn’t want to risk going elsewhere by moving unnecessarily.

“I’m trying to tell you that this is EASY and your stupid squirming isn’t gonna stop PROGRESS,” Bill tells him, the fourth finger popping inside, sinking to the second knuckle. “Hey, you’re already past your previous record! That’s worth a round of applause, eh, folks?”

“Who are you talking to?” Ford heaves, forehead dropping, glimmering with beads of overexertion and sweat.

“The people at home, obvs,” Bill replies chipperly, stroking against Ford’s prostate, the information of which would be more disconcerting if Ford knew what that meant. He settles for focusing on breathing, chest heaving, lungs gasping, feeling cold and hot and overwhelmed and full.

His brain is scattered, thoughts aimed towards keeping what little composure he has left to keep, even as his back bows and he whines and he feels so much he’s teary-eyed.

Bill takes a little extra time on the four fingers, thankfully. He allows Ford a little more time to collect himself, to adjust to the scissoring and stretch of too-many digits carving spaces inside his body. If Ford’s opinion mattered, he honestly thinks the amount of time Bill takes still isn’t enough, especially when he presses the fifth against his puffy rim.

He refrains from pleading for a break, just grits his teeth and curls his toes and closes his eyes. It pushes and wriggles and— it pops in.

There’s a new stretch, one that claws an ache from his abdomen, his body, stretched thin like an elastic band prepared to break.

“You’ve got it,” Bill purrs as he wriggles five fingers into Ford’s body, feeling thick and almost too-much. Actually, it definitely is too much, as fingertips press against the soft skin of his anus, as all that’s stopping the widest part of Bill’s hand from popping inside is the missing thumb. “Easy, right?”

“Not– not really,” Ford spits, having to really focus to string a coherent sentence together, wondering if Bill is about to break him. He almost thinks he can’t do it, almost wanting to scramble for that shock remote, to push Bill away, but there’s a soft press against his prostate, a continuous massage, a gentle spread of fingers. It eases away most of the discomfort and mild pain, drawing Ford back down to a greener zone.

“Awe, c’mon. You’ve been through so much, and it’s your OWN fingers that might be TOO MUCH? Get real. You could do this easily if we had proper lube to fuck you open with,” Bill tells him, practically fondling his innards, fingers twisting and prodding, crooking upwards and downwards, towards his pelvic floor.

“I’d much— guh- much rather use real lube,” Ford gasps, grinding his forehead against the dusty box below him. It doesn’t do much to help, but the excess energy he has and the sheer amount of feelings is making him want to move.

“TOO easy,” Bill replies, heavily sardonic. “Your sense of adventure REALLY hit a low point, huh? Well, don’t even WORRY! I’ll help you get it back. Through FINGERING you, of course! What better way is there to have you snivelling like a brat beneath me? NOT many!”

“God–”

“Yeah, they’re not gonna help you. But if you want an audience, I can always make that happen,” Bill purrs, his sixth, and final finger, pressing in as close to his palm as he can make it, tucking inwards to help their chances of getting inside. “I’ll never complain about getting to show off my old man boy toy!”

It starts slipping inside, Ford’s fingers scrabbling for purchase, creating awful sounds as his nails rake across the cardboard box lid. The added stretch isn’t too bad, especially with the thumb tucked so close, but Bill is pressing and that includes trying to get Ford’s rim to inhale the widest part of his hand.

Each knuckle pops in, the thumb is fully enveloped, and his dry wrist, which was not licked, starts inserting itself. Ford’s thighs try to pass together as if that would help, and Bill’s other six-fingered, familiar hand clutches the seam of his thigh, pulling it apart to keep him spread wide.

Breathing heavily through his mouth, Ford squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to think about the fact there is an entire hand inside of him. His hand. His younger self’s hand, granted, but it’s the same size it is now, thick-fingered and wide and a lot.

“Well, there you have it,” Bill marvels, his fingers wriggling inside of Ford’s body, wrist twisting. “You ACTUALLY did it! Whaddya think? BETTER than five fingers, right? THIS hand can fill you up WAY BETTER.”

“Bill,” Ford hisses, thinking he’s seeing stars as Bill gives him an experimental thrust, fingers sent even further up his ass. It has him pressing a little away, cock trapped between his body and the box, drooling like a wounded tree down his inner thighs, sticky and copious.

“Well, if you’re not well-stretched NOW, I don’t think there’s much else we can do,” Bill informs him, pressing his hand in further, up to his wrist with a wet schluck sound that has Ford’s ears burning. Within the tight press of Ford’s wet heat, he’s still determined to help Ford loosen up, fingers spreading wide and as far as they can, wrenching a sharp whine from Ford’s throat. “Oooh, that was a nice sound. Bet you don’t sound like that on your OWN fingers. Excluding the fact that these ARE your fingers, of course!”

Ford’s hole, when Bill’s hand finally starts to pull free, tries to suck it in further, no longer trying to push it out. He tilts his head down to bury his face into his arms, mortified by the force Bill has to exert in order to free himself, hand coming free with a pop.

Left loose and gaping without a hand inside his body, Ford weakly clenches around nothing, feeling air penetrate his poor hole, not nearly as pleasant as Bill’s warm digits. It’s like there’s a void left where Bill had been and, in a sense, this is true. His toes curl, wishing that strongly-felt desire pooling in his gut wasn’t a need for something more or, really, anything.

It’s like a total switch has been flipped in his brain. From too much to feeling horrifically empty.

“DAMN,” Bill says loudly, wiping the residual stickiness and wetness on Ford’s cheeks, “that was like pulling out the SWORD in the STONE. You feeling empty, baby?”

Ford nods a little, an imperceptible movement that Bill catches, with his keen eyes tracking every minute reaction Ford’s body has to give. He’s not missing anything with the attention to detail he’s using.

“Oh, cute, is someone not feeling up to TALKING?” Bill asks, the very distinct sound of a belt-buckle reaching Ford’s ears. It clatters to the floor, and there’s the secondary sound of a zipper releasing its teeth. He shudders a little in mild apprehension, even if, really, there’s nothing to be worried about.

He knows his body, he knows the size of his dick. He knows it’ll be easy to take. Perhaps a little too easy, perhaps it won’t feel like enough, but it’ll be something easy.

The thing that bumps up against his rear, however, feels nothing like Ford’s dick. It’s monstrously huge, blunt and wide and girthy and giving off a plentiful heat that Ford can feel mingling with his body. He gasps, eyes blowing wide at the feeling, at the surprising weight of a cock that should feel familiar, but certainly isn’t. He can’t believe Bill made his dick bigger.

“What–?” He asks, threatening to sit up to lay his eyes on the thing threatening to spear him open, but there’s a warm palm flattening against his nape, pressing him down to rest on the box once more. “That’s not mine, Bill,” he further protests when he’s not allowed up, trepidation and an odd mix of excitement threatening to create a maelstrom in his belly.

“Nope! It’s not! Not an exact replica at least,” Bill chirps back, patting him at the back of the head like he just got the right answer.

At Ford’s ensuring silence, he continues. “What, you thought I was about to use THIS THING to fuck you?” Bill sneers reaching around and flicking the cherry-red head of Ford’s cock, burning up like a used cigarette. “Honey, this thing wouldn’t do much of ANYTHING. Especially after you just had a FIST inside of you. Hope you don’t mind that I made some… alterations.”

How can he even say that? He has to know full well that a thing like that will have Ford losing his mind in record time. There’s no question of if he’ll like the changes, not with his knees bowing inwards, nor his hips trying to subtly and subconsciously arch, something he puts a stop to upon realizing.

Bill pushes into him with no fanfare, holding him down and keeping his legs wide with a perfectly-placed knee. It’s immediately a lot. Stretching Ford’s rim wide around the tip, and then even wider as Bill continues pushing inwards, plowing into him with the determination of an unstoppable force. Ford doesn’t feel at all like an immovable object, not even as he feels his body taking the organ to the best of its ability.

Something about the cock and the way it’s rubbing up against his insides is just tickling Ford in the right way. Maybe it’s the fact his own voice, albeit tinged with Bill’s discordant drawl, is licking at his ear, maybe it’s his own stubble scratching at the side of his face, maybe it’s the fact he gets to feel his own six-fingered hands pressing shadowed bruises into his hips, hauling him back onto the thing spearing him open.

Or maybe it’s the fact that Bill has done what he wants with the body he now inhabits, making changes like an owner would do to a pet, molding them into a perfect shape. It’s intoxicating and heady and Ford doesn’t hate it, especially with how fuzzy his brain has become, thoughts turned off as his entire being comes down to feeling Bill bottom out.

Bill sighs pleasantly behind him, leaning against Ford heavily as though relaxing into a comfortable armchair after a long day. He drapes himself along Ford’s back, lazily grinding his hips into Ford’s rear, sending these tiny electrical sparks crawling up his spine and into his scalp

Ford moans raggedly, the sound a little high-pitched with the strain of taking something so large, like all the air has been pressed out of him. It feels like he’s just hitting all of the good spots, pressed right snug up against Ford’s prostate, grinding in nice and slow and unhurried.

“Y’know the REAL reason I haven’t let you take control and put that cock of yours inside ME?” Bill asks leisurely, pulling back and sinking home in one smooth movement, punching any remaining air from Ford like he’s fallen from a great height. From there, he starts pulling his hip back partway in order to not have to pull too far away from Ford’s back, thrusting in with power and force and wrenching a pattern of “uhn”’s from his mouth. “It’s because you wouldn’t even know how to use this tiny thing!”

He reaches around an under, flicking at the head of ford’s dick once more, at the soft skin of his glans.

Ford squeezes his eyes shut at both the shame and the simple idea of getting to squeeze into Bill instead. A long shot, and unlikely, but the idea is nice to mull. He’d take whatever orifice Bill would let him.

“You wouldn’t even reach anywhere near where you need to!” Bill says scornfully, words being breathed right into Ford’s ear. Over the heated slopes and valleys. “It’d be a WASTE of TIME and EFFORT. And let’s not gloss over just how QUICK you’d cum all over yourself. Leaving me unsatisfied.”

That cruel hand wraps firmly around Ford’s dick, lips curving into a pleased smirk at Ford’s resounding cry, as he’s enveloped in warmth.

“Let’s be real, too,” Bill’s voice drops, sounding gravelly and just a little too akin to Ford’s voice when he’s not talking loudly. “You take better than you give.”

And with that, Bill starts multitasking surprisingly well, fucking into Ford with reckless, numbing abandon, hips slapping together, cock wildly shoving into Ford with enough force and angling to make him feel stars. And on his other side, his dick is being tugged off like Bill is trying to strip him raw, nails digging and scratching lightly, palm squeezing and thumb nudging at his glans.

It’s all too much, and there’s a whiteness that glances behind Ford’s eyes at the influx of stimuli and blinding pleasure. He’s a waterfall of uninhibited sounds, unable to care when he’s getting stretched open so perfectly, fucked into a cardboard box that feels about ten seconds away from collapsing under his weight.

“C’mon, want you to shoot off first,” Bill murmurs into his neck, pressing what feels like a fluttering kiss along his flushed, rosy skin. “Wanna feel you fluttering around me, Pines. Want you to make a mess all over those thighs of yours, and I wanna hear you mewl when I cum inside you right after. Gonna fill you RIGHT up to the brim.”

Ford cums with a few easy tugs and sharp thrusts, tumbling right over into that bottomless pit of desire that he feels himself give in completely to. He certainly cums all over himself, and all over the box he’s lying on, back arching up, moans pitching higher when there’s the unexpected bite of teeth sinking into his shoulder.

Bill’s thrusts pick up, grunting into his skin, jaw locked in place as his hips jack-rabbit into Ford, clawing free of his squeezing and fluttering and then plowing back inside.

Something is released inside of Ford. He’s not sure if it is cum, but there’s a lot, and it’s warm, and it stuffs him absolutely full. He sobs dryly, feeling Bill fuck the liquid into him when he draws out, purring a soft sound as his jaw unclenches from Ford’s skin, and his hips lazily continue thrusting another few times.

It’s only when Ford starts whining and squirming that he lets up, pulling out and, with him, comes a rush of liquid after his plugging cock is relieved. His touch leaves, and Ford sags, knees aching, dribbling fluids of his own and of Bill’s, hazy-eyed and used quite completely.

“Ugh,” he says with empathetic exhaustion, and Bill laughs. It's a merry, giddy sound. Not the sound you'd expect out of your partner after they just rearrange your guts.

“Not much for escapades on the hard ground anymore, are you?” Bill asks knowingly, appearing relatively unaffected as he watches Ford wince and hiss. With a great heaving sigh, Ford slowly turns over to sit his ass on the ground, easing his back against the box behind him. He tries to let it take his weight, but it threatens to cave in, so he's mostly left on his own.

“I feel like doing THIS on the cold hard ground is likely where my knee problems came from,” Ford says back, thighs inching apart to spy the puddle of cum he’s leaving on the floor. He wrinkles his nose a little, hoping it doesn’t stain.

He decides the rest of his impromptu Spring cleaning can wait for another day. Preferably without a surprise bout of sex that Bill’s presence always seems to bring with him.

Chapter Text

Ford, if he can help it, is never going to be pregnant again.

He says it like that because it wasn’t really his choice to begin with. Some kind of poll, something he became aware of long after he had apparently started winning, knocking contestants out left right and center.

He still doesn’t know how he got involved in the poll itself, or why, but somehow he did. It was all news to him.

It was not news to Bill. The little yellow imp committed so much voter fraud, so much so Ford isn’t sure how many of the votes were Bill and how many were other voters. Despite this obvious wrongdoing which should have had Ford disqualified, he was not. He won, and none of his various attempts at sabotaging the competition worked in his favour.

And so now he is here. Pregnant in his own home, with Bill, the exact demon who got him into this mess, taking care of him. His family, thank god, are out of town for a few weeks, which should be enough time to give birth, then get back to his normal, regular, and child-free life.

He was given the option to terminate if he really and truly did not want to go through with the pregnancy, but he declined. It’s not every day your own body becomes a scientific playground, capable of what it should not be. He wouldn’t pass this up for the world. He’s got a notebook he’s been writing his symptoms and such in, along with how he’s feeling physically, and how the pregnancy is progressing.

All very important things. For research purposes and just plain old scientific curiosity. Treating it all like an experiment may be the only thing keeping him from having a complete and total breakdown, really. The only upside is that he honestly doesn’t mind being taken care of, especially right now and by Bill who is, as he adamantly declared, the father of Ford’s child.

Neither of them are actually sure, and it was a whole thing not too long ago, but Ford is, in fact, pregnant and Bill has decreed himself the father. Ford stopped fighting him on that many months ago.

The father of the hour has been waiting on him hand and foot, especially as his belly has swelled and walking has started to make his ankles ache. And, as he’s gotten bigger, Bill has been eyeing him.

Ford at first thought it had been a mild disgust for the ballooning of a human body, and how nauseous and needy and emotional he’s become, hormones imbalanced beyond measure right now, but that’s not quite right. Bill has been relatively kind through it all, and very eager to please. Any kind of disgust, if he has been feeling any, has been carefully sifted out from any expressions.

It hits him, very suddenly, one easy afternoon bleeding into evening, with Bill peering over his swollen toes, little hands firmly massaging the skin, what that gaze means. His eye is half lidded as he works, pleased, almost purring where he sits at the end of the armchair, as though he’s not doing work.

He’s enjoying this. Enjoying Ford. And what’s going on with him.

All the emotional outbursts, the needy demands for food and comfort during morning sickness and warmth and snacks, the display Ford makes when his pecs are plump and aching with pressure and he has to use a machine specifically designed to pump milk from his nipples. He’s enjoying it all, and even enjoying the fact Ford needs him.

That isn’t surprising. Having Ford dependent on him has always been a sort of kink for the demon. Not that Ford is doing anything to stop it.

Ford does not know what to do with this information, and so he does nothing with it. At least, until a few days later when Bill is hovering above him as Ford is in his recliner, sipping at his juice. The demon looks a little nervous, purposefully trying to look pathetic and innocent, an obvious ploy to sweeten the likelihood of getting what he wants.

His hat, usually so crimped and standing at attention, is flaccid and droopy, bent to the side and slightly shrivelled. Much like something else Ford knows of.

“What do you want,” Ford says eventually when Bill’s quiet simpering bothers him enough to gain a reaction.

“Any itty bitty tiny schminy chance for some pre-marital canoodling?” Bill asks quietly, twiddling his fingers, his beady black pupil boring straight through Ford’s thorax, right into his cramped belly.

Ford gives Bill a doubtful look. “You do not want to have sex with me while I’m like this,” Ford scoffs, thinking Bill is fucking with him, like he usually does. Ford doesn’t even know if he’d have sex with himself like this. Or if he wants to. He’s not really sure what he wants right now.

At that, Bill comes to life, no longer playing the pitiful, sympathy-craving part that he had been trying out. “You’re like a RIPE APPLE right now, of COURSE I do!” He yells, shoving into his space abruptly, forcing Ford to move aside his cup of juice to allow Bill enough space to get all up into his face.

His brows rise above his glasses, blanking a little. “A ripe apple,” Ford repeats slowly, just to make sure he got that right.

“Full of milk and life,” Bill affirms with a little nod.

Ford wrinkles his nose up.

“C’mon! Please! I’m on my knees here!” Bill begs, falling to kneel on the recliner, straddling one of Ford’s legs, hands clasped together as he begs to have sex with Ford in the state he’s in right now. “I’m just DYING to get my hands on you!”

Ford hums to himself, thinking. It’s really not a hard decision to make, especially since he knows the activity will distract him for a bit. Plus, well, Bill begging is doing a pretty damn good job at getting his attention.

“Fine,” Ford says, turning to the side to get his half-empty glass of juice out of the way on the side-table. “One roun— mmph!” The second he turns back, Bill has his cheeks caught in two hands, wrenching him forward and shoving his tongue into his mouth, regardless of Ford’s immediate reaction to bite.

It just makes the demon moan, shoving his tongue in a bit further, sprouting more hands to have them slide to Ford’s shirt, dappled with two small dark spots near the top. Wet spots. His pecs are due for a breast pump.

Ford kisses him back, reaching up to grab onto the demon in turn. As soon as his hand finds a spot to clutch, Bill pulls away from the curves of his lips.

“Two rounds,” Bill tells him, then swoops right back into Ford’s personal space, pressing himself against Ford’s belly. He’s warm, and the way he melds close is quite satisfying.

Ford scoffs a laugh into the distracting kiss, but there’s not much he can say in return, not when Bill is wrestling his cotton shirt from his body. They pull apart again as he does, and Ford finds himself breathing heavily, watching his swollen belly slowly be revealed, the aching mounds of his, well, breasts.

“They must hurt,” Bill comments as he comes face to face with the mounds of flesh, made bigger because of Ford’s pregnancy and out-of-control hormones.

The way he’s staring at them manages to pull a few stings of insecurity from Ford’s body. He still can’t quite believe that he’s been lactating, but this has been his reality for the past few months since becoming pregnant.

“Yes, well, it– it’s been at- at least a day since I’ve pumped them,” Ford musters back, writhing and shifting a little uncomfortably at the tender ache of Bill’s gentle touch prodding the warm skin.

“Well, why don’t I help you out?” Bill purrs, sounding far too eager. He snickers to himself at Ford’s little whimpering, cupping the undersides of his breasts to make them a little perkier. They leak with the tiniest touch, desperately needing to be tended to. “I’ve been told I have quite a sweet touch!”

With a certainly sweet touch, Bill guides Ford’s pants off of his legs and then pushes them open to hook over either side of the armchair, then presses him back to lay against the recliner. It leaves him open and vulnerable, chest stuttering with breath.

He’s already getting unbearably hard and wet, soaking his briefs, finding himself far needier than he thought he would be, but now that he has Bill’s touch on him, he can’t think of anything he wants more.

Bill takes great heaping handfuls of his wet pecs, squeezing in an undulating movement to help procure more pearly white fluid. “Your huge tits are practically begging for some relief, Fordsy! You coulda come to me sooner, baby. You know I woulda HELPED.”

Ford flushes at the specific name Bill has chosen to call his chest, though the red splattering all over him is impossible to differentiate from the embarrassment. “They aren’t tits,” he protests weakly, even if they, by all accounts are.

“I’M not the one who’s pregnant and leaking milk, Fordsy,” Bill replies simply, eyeing him evilly when Ford blinks dewy eyes upwards. “I’m just calling it how I see it!”

Well, what is he supposed to say to that? Bill has a point there.

Ford whines and whimpers as Bill squeezes and tugs at his tits, though the ache is getting relieved. Milk just continues to seep from his poor tits, making a mess down his chest and over Bill’s hands, though the demon doesn’t stop his ministrations, determined to help out.

“Like a dairy factory down here,” Bill murmurs, which certainly isn’t helping as he kneads and tugs at Ford’s engorged chest. He’s constant in his movements, ensuring the aching pressure in Ford’s tits is relieved with every push and pull.

“Bill,” Ford chides, though it comes out far more choked than he’d like it to.

“It’s true,” Bill argues, though his eye does not leave Ford’s smeary, messy chest. He almost looks like he’s going to—

He leans down and, before Ford can even think of stopping him, Bill is licking a stripe up the valley between his breasts, up over the curve of fat, and then enveloping a dusky nipple in a sharp mouth. Ford’s body jerks with surprise and pleasure, eyes going wide as Bill attaches himself to Ford’s tit, though his suckling is far from gentle.

With his mouth on one tit, drinking down milk, Bill’s left hand never stops its own squeezing and kneading. His right hand sits just under the nipple he’s attached to, splayed across his ribs, just under his tit.

Sprouting a new hand, it quickly finds its way down Ford’s body, underneath his clothes and prying its way between soaked fabric and sweaty skin. It dips down his pelvis, then presses a finger right up against his entrance.

Ford moans loudly, unable to help voicing his pleasure. It’s overwhelming and good and Bill is applying pressure to all the best, most needy spots. The digit is wet as it presses into him where he’s already open and wanting, using the liquid he’s leaking from his tits to ease the way. While not exactly slick, it works well enough, and Bill works him open thoroughly. Ford is barely disturbed by any presence of ache, distracted by Bill milking him, by fingers plucking at his nipples, and sharp teeth sinking into sensitive flesh.

His hips thrust up, cock rubbing up against Bill’s front, trying to angle his hips properly to get Bill’s prodding finger where he needs it. Obligingly, and with a remarkable lack of teasing, Bill changes his angle to strike that spot that has Ford seeing glittering stars.

He throws his head back, chest bouncing outwards which allows Bill even further room to gnaw at his chest to his heart’s content. Ford finds himself in the throes of endless pleasure, gripping at both Bill’s slanted side and the couch itself, fingernails digging inwards as if it would help him process things better.

It doesn’t, really, but it feels good to grip.

“I gotta say, I sure wasn’t expecting you to WANT to carry the baby!” Bill says rather condescendingly as he carries Ford towards a very easy orgasm, his body wet and ready and needy. He hadn’t realized how horny he was until now, with Bill’s touch on and in his body. “But I sure am glad you did. We would have been ROBBED of you lactating, and swelling up with the seed of my child!”

“We don’t— it’s not even yours-” Ford gasps, only to be rudely cut off as Bill’s bites turn aggressive.

“Who else’s would it be?” Bill says scornfully, bullying Ford’s prostate as he buries two fingers in deep and rubs at the little gland in cruel curling motions, “you think I’d let you just carry around ANY old chump’s SPAWN? NADA! That baby is MINE. It’s gonna have the colour of my eye and everything!”

Ford, despite his doubt, can’t deny the obvious effect the idea of the baby being Bill’s has on him. It makes it feel like less of a science experiment and more of a child, which is a dangerous thought, which he very immediately steers clear of.

Thankfully, his first orgasm of the night is there to discombobulate him, brought on by the abuse of his prostate and chest, properly sending him back into the dark-ages as he forgets how to do anything but make noises. High-pitched and overwhelmed, scratching at Bill’s back, dragging lines through the fabric of the couch.

He shudders through it, back arching, then gracefully sagging as the electricity inside his body comes to a slow, ebbing halt. Bill is still above him, still hungry, but his mouth is no longer on Ford’s tits, which are feeling a lot better now, and his eye is dark with lust.

Ford is sure he looks much the same, barring the mild half-lidded exhaustion brought on by a tear-jerking orgasm.

Round one, he muses tiredly to himself, feeling himself clenching weakly around Bill’s fingers as he pulls them free.

“Someone’s needy,” Bill coos teasingly as he feels the desperate squeezing, snorting at Ford’s dagger-filled glare. “Chillax, I’ve got something MUCH better in mind! Sure to cause a bigger stir than just a couple of fingers.”

Ford watches with undeniable interest as Bill’s fingers retract into his arm, leaving it smooth and without any bumps, just a round nub at the end. He then takes his arm and wraps it around where his waist would be a few times, swirling around him like a snake, then tying itself off at his front. With it pointed straight out in such a way, it could pass for a genuine penis. If not for the way it’s obviously an arm he’s wrapped around himself about five times.

Bill then grabs the copious amounts of cum Ford has coating his belly and pelvis, which he uses to slick up the long appendage, giving it some almost-passing lube this time. Better than milk, at least.

“Huh,” Ford says, honestly quite impressed with the idea. It looks rather appetizing too, despite its lack of features and resemblance to a tentacle.

“Innovation is key,” Bill tells him. “Leaves me ARMLESS, but also with a whole new appreciation for those with one arm!” He grabs Ford’s hip, skin sticky with sweat and milk, and drags him down the couch a little more, closer to his body. “Now! Let’s give that baby in you a TWIN!”

With the implication that Bill is going to cum in him fresh on Ford’s mind, he shouts out as Bill starts pushing into him. Loose as he is, there’s no pain as Bill presses in closer and closer, wriggling his prehensile penis deep inside.

Bill grunts as he presses in close, angular hips pressing against Ford’s rear, and honestly Ford isn’t surprised he’s making some noise. That is his arm, which he’s sure is feeling like he’s sunk it into some kind of warm and wet and squishy glove. Not exactly pleasurable, but satisfying.

Ford inhales sharply as the demon bottoms out inside of him, leaving him aching for more even when he’s already so full. He’s left gasping, watching Bill’s own pupil fritz and frizzle a little like a dying star. The demon tilts a little forward, bending in a way Ford can’t see his expression, his voice soft and breathy as he grunts something Ford almost thinks he was mistaken in hearing.

“Mommy–”

Bitten off as soon as it escapes, Ford catches immediate regret blooming behind Bill’s widening eye as he realizes what he said, and simultaneously confirms the utterance. Ford pauses as well, blinking in surprise at the unexpected name, and opens his mouth to ask what that was.

Before he can say anything, Bill is thrusting into him fast and hard and aggressive, knocking breath from Ford’s lungs and his need to ask questions to the back of his skull for the moment. Bill strikes his prostate hard and purposefully, further scattering his thoughts to the wind as he starts up an aggressive, fast pace certainly meant to bury his mistake under Ford’s sonorous moans.

His mind certainly goes blissfully blank for a moment, yelling out as he short-circuits from the blinding pleasure. It threatens to consume him, and really it’d be easier to just let it slip by, but Ford has never been good at letting sleeping dogs lie. He pushes himself out of his poor state to the best of his ability, cracking open his eyes as he stammers out, “B— B- agh! Bill!”

His grasping hands come up to grab where he thinks Bill’s cheeks would be, the touch doing its job to drag Bill’s attention back to him. He tilts up a little, drawing to a stop even as his eye seems a little shrunken, defensive like a cat about to start arching its back.

A bad colour on him, honestly. And something that must be rectified. An easy thing to do, since honestly Bill has said a lot worse, and Ford has liked it all. It’s not like a hidden mommy kink, however unexpected, is going to scare him any further away.

“It’s al- alright,” Ford says with a twitch of a smile. Because it is. And it’s not like Bill to be ashamed for liking one of his many kinks, so this requires an immediate assurance that’s not too on-the-nose to have him fleeing. Somehow, it works.

It’s like a switch has flipped, Bill’s unsure gaze turning predatory and hungrier by the millisecond, grasping, possessive arms sinking claws deep into Ford’s skin. He starts up thrusting once more, pounding into Ford’s welcoming heat, his size growing slightly, though his dick-arm thankfully stays its same overwhelming size.

“Mommy- stars- you’re amazing,” Bill starts talking as he towers over Ford, fucking him into the recliner that already has an imprint of Ford’s body from how many times he’s been sitting here. “The perfect human to bear my child, you’re gonna be an AMAZING mother- gonna- gonna be the perfect stay-at-home WIFE.”

Ford gasps wetly at the influx of everything, as Bill turns himself up to eleven, pounding into Ford like he won’t get to tomorrow, like he can’t help himself. Even one of his hands, scoring deep gouges into the couch, slips away to press gently against the slope and curve of Ford’s swollen belly, his touch firm and yet kind.

“Gonna get you the perfect nest of gold and silver to keep you in that you won’t ever have to leave,” Bill rambles into his ears, all-encompassing as his wide eye bores into Ford’s face, trying to tone down his expressions of bliss. “Gonna drape you over the side and fuck into you over and OVER again each day until my seed takes. Even- even if you’re already swollen with a child, I’m greedy, you know that, IQ. I’ll always want MORE offspring. More of what I know you can handle. And you’ve ALWAYS been able to take what I give you.”

Bill drags them both a little further down the couch, grateful for its sturdy foot rest, and, with a much bigger hand than before, Bill takes both of Ford’s thighs from the chair arms, pushing them up and into his chest, mindful of his belly and yet giving him no mercy. Bill then leans in over him, pressing as close as he can, wedging Ford between him and the couch. The angle is changed like this, and somehow Bill is drilling into him deeper, ensuring Ford sees blinding pleasure on every thrust inwards.

“B– Bill, please!” Ford sobs out, reaching up to clutch at Bill, feeling dizzy with arousal and his need to cum.

Despite not really asking for anything, Bill provides, bending at his soft middle to latch back onto Ford’s still-leaking tits, nibbling at the areola with his sharp teeth.

Ford cums first, spraying over both of their chest as his eyes roll back and into his head. Bill is close behind, nudged in close, chanting a concerning string of, “mommy’s” that Ford can only distantly hear. He doesn’t quite get filled by anything on account of the appendage inside of him being an arm, just it still jerks and twitches about as if releasing sperm.

Left heaving heavily, exhausted and yet satisfied, Ford’s arms and legs fall away as Bill purrs above him, much like a pleased cat. Then he promptly collapses inwards, gnawing at the prominent bit of Ford’s collarbone like a possessive dog with a bone. Ford allows it for a second, up until the teeth get a little too bold and start feeling like they’re trying to eat him.

“Well, we did our two rounds, you happy now?” Ford gasps, still catching his breath, still twitching from his intense orgasm.

Bill pulls away, a glint in his eye as he lifts himself up. “That was only round one,” Bill tells him, pushing back into Ford’s sloppy hole in one, smooth, gliding motion that punches out a vulgar sound from the back of Ford’s throat. “You’ve still got one more to suffer through!”

Ford should have known it’s not the orgasms that count as “rounds”, it’s Bill’s own approval.