Chapter Text
Fidds doesn’t know why he agreed to this.
That ain’t true. He knows exactly why he agreed to this: 1. Because if he hadn’t, Ford would be in his place, and call him a possessive asshole but he did not want that, and 2. Because Ford is actually really good at this, and 3. Because Ford looked at him with those big old puppy-dog eyes and hell, if that makes Fidds weak then he’s weak.
Bill, riding along in his skull, says, “And because you like me? Deep down?”
Absolutely not.
*
It’s not so much that Bill and Fidds have an agreement, and more that they’ve both accepted each other’s inevitability in the Stanford Pines ecosystem. For now.
Fidds has a feeling that his homicidal (teratocidal? demonicidal?) tendencies towards Bill are mutual. I mean, come on. You amicably end your lavender marriage (because it’s the eighties, goddammit, and your father is dead, finally) and shack up with the man of your dreams only to find out he’s in some kinda weird power exchange situationship with an extradimensional entity. That kind of goes beyond competition. There’s plenty of things Fidds can do that Bill can’t, and vice versa, so the idea—for either of them—of putting a foot down (so to speak) and saying “It’s him or me” is almost laughable.
Not that Bill didn’t try.
And Fidds can’t even have a superiority complex over not having been the one to put up a fight. He was, in fact, planning on it, but Ford shut down so hard over Bill’s attempt that he abandoned that ship immediately, and without any self-righteous feelings. God, were those a miserable few days in their fucked-up household.
So it ain’t an agreement; rather, Fidds is choosing to love Ford more than he hates Ford’s demon side piece. Choosing. Intentionally. Just, all the time. And Bill is—well, Fidds doesn’t know what his deal is, but in any case he needs Ford, maybe in a different way, and so.
So here they are. And all he’s gotta do is not think about it all too hard unless he damn well has to.
*
And he damn well had to: because for most of the time that he and Bill have been mutually aware of one another, and executing some sort of neutrality around one another, a policy of casual separatism has dominated. Ford seemed happy enough to be the nucleus, as it were, around which they orbited. Fidds had drawn a line in the sand at the bedroom door, Bill a line at the door of the study, and it was. Fine. It was going just fine. Fidds has some inkling of what goes on…between them in the mindscape, but doesn’t like to think too hard about it, and Bill has agreed not to poke around in Ford’s more private memories with Fidds, and much as Fidds don’t trust the bastard, he guesses he don’t have a choice—
Anyway, so it was going fine, only Ford’s curiosity is boundless, and that applies to the bedroom, too. Bless his heart, he ain’t what Fidds would call the freaky type, or dominant, so much as he likes to see a thing done well and doesn’t settle for less than whatever’s in his head. And while Fidds may be staunchly uncurious about whatever Bill’s deal is, y’know, sexually, apparently it doesn’t work both ways. Bill thinks human bodies are interesting. Ford agrees. Being—ahem—rather well-researched on certain subjects, he spouts off information from a variety of sources, lived experience included, and Bill only gets more curious.
Cue the lead-up to Fiddleford’s present dilemma. Bill began, as he so often does, to whine. (When given permission, he can talk to them both so long as they’re touching; Fidds silently gloats in Bill’s obvious resentment of this limitation.) Days of Ford asking Fidds if he wouldn’t just sit down and all of them have a three-way conversation, Fidds resisting with flimsier and flimsier excuses because he knew something stupid and hokey was on its way, and he didn’t want to deal with it, but what was he gonna do! The longer it went on the higher the chance that Bill would make him out to be the bad guy here, and Ford would listen to him, and that, in the end, would be worse than whatever the hell Bill wanted.
So they sat down. And there it was. Bill wanted to fuck the both of them, sharing a body with one or both (so not happening, Fidds immediately decided), because how was he supposed to know if he had certain kinks otherwise, and he was just so curious about things like endorphins, et cetera, so—and there were Ford’s puppy-dog eyes—
Fidds sat there thinking in circles about what he could and could not do in this situation, and at some point the image flashed through his mind of looking down at Ford and it being Bill, Bill he was trying to entertain in this vulnerable, intimate setting, and he knew he didn’t have it in him to even pretend. What they got up to in their own time was one thing. But this—Ford didn’t see any reason for Fidds to say no, because it was Ford’s own body, after all, and he’d still be there, they’d just be—sharing? Made his head hurt thinking about it—and Ford had said, “If you don’t want to, it’s all right. I’ll just figure something out solo. And in an emergency you can always just kick down the door.” And if that wasn’t worse somehow. The idea of it.
No. Just no. “I’ll do it,” he blurted out. “God in heaven, but you are gonna owe me after this.”
“You’ll do—sorry, you—what do you mean?”
“Let Bill ride along. But I got conditions.” Daddy would roll in his grave, he thought. Sharing skin with a demon to fuck another man. The thought, oddly, strengthened his resolve.
The thought, and the way Ford was suddenly looking at him, his gaze piercing, hungry, in a way he so rarely got, his face slowly pinkening. Like Fidds was something he wanted to hunt down.
And let it be said, again: if that makes him weak, he’s weak.
*
The rules: Bill controls the body, but Fidds controls the mouth, for the purpose of communication. During this time only, Bill can freely speak to both of them both with…whatever weird neural control he’s got that lets him project his voice into people’s minds. (Ford probably lets him do it most of the time, but Fidds is very stingy.) Bill will stick around until the second Fidds falls asleep. Fidds hates that part, but it makes a bit of sense, too: if things are intense, he gets…weird, after—clingy. The comedown ain’t always graceful, and he guesses it’s—it’s fine. It's part of the embodied experience, or whatever, so it makes sense. Plus Ford is very adamant that he wants to take care of them both. And Bill’s not allowed to probe around in Fidds’s mind.
“I can’t help overhearing surface thoughts,” he’d said, almost sarcastically, like Fidds was the idiot for not knowing it. “And you think particularly loudly.” He was trying to goad Fidds, he just knew it, so he just held his tongue. Ford, very diplomatically, had added a clause to the agreement that Fidds didn’t understand, but which apparently prevented any snooping, and then he’d had to spend several minutes carefully coaxing Bill out of a sulk.
What Ford sees in him, Fidds really doesn’t know.
*
So he does know why he agreed to this. And it’s—it’s probably gonna be fine. Nothing’s going to happen to his body that Fidds hasn’t enjoyed in the past—you know, one-on-one, with Ford, like a normal person. He’ll be here, experiencing it all, able to tell Ford if something hurts or the body needs a break.
It’ll be fine. They stand in the spare bedroom—there had, at least, been a wordless agreement between the two humans that their bedroom would remain a private space, even though Fidds is pretty sure that’s all for his sake—and Ford studies his face in that unsubtle, prying way he does.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”
“So long as the deal is upheld,” Fidds answers. Ford cups his face fondly in one broad hand, and he leans into the touch, trying to ignore his nerves.
“He can’t physically break a deal once it’s made,” Ford reminds him. “If he does, it’s immediately annuled.” Of course he would tell you that, Fidds thinks, but doesn’t say. It makes some sorta sense, but he’s still coming around to the fact that even if he don’t believe in god anymore, demons are literally real. Whatever. “It means a lot to me, that you’re being so open-minded about this,” Ford continues, then laughs softly at his own, unintended joke.
“Well,” says Fidds, and doesn’t have much else to say. If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’. Like hell was I gonna do this the opposite way. “I trust you,” he says in the end.
“I’ll take care of you.”
“I know you will, honey.” Fidds lays it on thick and sweet, hoping Bill’s already hanging around, listening. “You always do.” Ford gives him a lopsided grin, then says, “All right, then. Are you ready?”
“As I’m gonna be.” Ford kisses his forehead once more before his eyes go unfocused and strange and, a moment later, like the yolk of an egg breaking, Bill’s presence seeps through the whites of his eyes, the pupils gone cat-like, focusing on Fidds one at a time. Eugh.
Bill grins weirdly with Ford’s mouth. “Sure you don’t wanna do this the other way around, specs? I think I wear this body pretty well.”
“It ain’t a lab coat, you weirdo,” Fidds answers, trying to keep his voice flat and unimpressed. He’s learned the hard way that what Bill loves, more than anything else, is a reaction—drama. Theatrics. “We’re stickin’ to the original deal.”
“You’re no fun.” Somebody has to be the cautious one around here, he thinks tiredly, then lets the thought go, regrounding himself in the moment.
“If you want fun, then I guess you’d better do your thing,” he answers evenly. Bill lifts the corner of Ford’s mouth again, but it’s more of a snarl than a smile. He hates when Fidds stonewalls him.
“All right then, pretty boy. Shake on it.” He holds out one of Ford’s hands, rigid and limp at the same time—god, that’s creepy—and when Fidds takes it, shaking it perfunctorily, Bill holds on. There’s a tingling sensation creeping up from where their hands touch, crawling up his arm, and his right ear rings as it gets closer, and then all of a sudden he’s at a strange disconnect. Still in his body, still feeling it, but he’s all too aware that he’s in the passenger seat. He can feel Bill seeping through his veins, twitching in his muscles.
“This is fuckin’ weird,” he mutters. He still controls the mouth and voice, sure enough, but there’s perhaps a half-second delay between when he thinks to speak and when it happens. “Is that you, Bill?” he asks suspiciously.
“Can’t do much about it, Fiddsy, it’s not easy being—partitioned,” Bill says after a moment. “You’re right, this is weird.” Ford, who’s been blinking back to himself now that Bill’s left him, cups Fidds’s face in one hand again, peering into his eyes.
“How strange. You’ve still got one blue eye,” he tells Fiddleford. Bill lets the head go limp, sagging into Ford’s palm like a cat. Ford chuckles. “Fiddleford, are you all right?”
I love you more than I hate your weird demon boyfriend. “Yeah. Just—uh, just tryin’ to settle in.”
“All right. Bill, what about you?”
“Swell,” Bill drawls. “Christ, this guy needs to relax, though. I think his shoulders are basically all knots.”
“Ah. Well, we had probably better do something about that before we do anything else,” Ford decides. “Fidds, why didn’t you say anything?”
“I reckon I didn’t notice,” Fidds grumbles.
“It’s all right,” Ford soothes. “I can take care of that. Come here, Bill.” He leads Fidds—Bill—to the bed, sitting him down—god this is weird. As he starts on Fidds’s shirt buttons, they kiss, and Fidds remembers, smugly, the other reason he’d insisted on controlling his own mouth rather than just letting Bill project what Fidds wanted to say. He gets to do all the kissing. He feels the second Bill realizes it as a fizzing sensation across his scalp.
“You little weasel,” Bill hisses. “Let me kiss! Just for a second!”
Like hell, Fidds thinks, loud as he can, nipping at Ford’s bottom lip the way that always gets that satisfied hum out of him. Bill retaliates by pulling his head away, turning it to the side. Ford clicks his tongue in disapproval.
“Both of you, stop it,” he says firmly. God, that always gets to Fidds. Ford’s not really dominant so much as he is particular. When he sets his mind on a specific outcome, he’s impossible to reroute. Something about his assertiveness always gets Fidds squirming. “Bill, this was the agreement we made. Don’t punish him for sticking to it.”
“Agreements can be amended,” Bill says, and Fidds can feel his simmering resentment like capsaicin in the roof of his mouth.
“Not this one,” Ford answers evenly.
“Fine.” He hates, more than anything, to be beaten. Fidds doesn’t bother hiding a small smirk.
Back to kissing. Fidds’s shirt discarded, Ford starts kissing at his neck, and his body twitches, turning liquid as it always does. “Whoa,” says Bill. “Is that normal?”
“Is what normal?” Fidds strains, halfway between a whine and an exasperated laugh.
“That I kind of want to bite something,” Bill says, “when you do that.”
“When I do—what, this?” Ford attacks the side of his neck with more teeth this time, and Bill yelps. Fidds feels Ford smile against his skin. “Yes, it’s normal,” Ford hums, his breath in Fidds’s ear, prompting another shiver. “He’s quite sensitive when you know which buttons to press.” And oh, hello. That’s new. Being talked about in the third person. Like he’s not right there. He tries not to think so hard about it. Tries, desperately, not to like it.
“Clearly,” Bill answers, an extra sort of—something in his voice, like a higher pitch layered subtly over his usual one. “Are all humans like this?”
“I wouldn’t know. Fidds is the only one I know inside and out,” Ford answers fondly, then launches a coordinated attack: pulling his hair and sucking at the junction of neck and shoulder. A whine rattles up from his vocal chords.
“Surely your teeth can do more damage than that,” Bill says to Ford. “Assuming I’m not about to faint—specs, any insight on that?” As if it’s a business transaction in a boardroom somewhere. Christ.
“No,” he grits out, “you are not about to faint.”
“Then what the hell is happening to your carcass right now?” How colorful.
“This is what it feels like to be really turned on,” he pants.
“Not when I’m in Ford’s body.” Hell, I don’t wanna hear about all that. “You’re weirder, somehow. Kinda feels like you wanna be eaten up and then reborn as a small, tiny animal and to be tucked into someone’s pocket forever.”
“That’s an interesting descriptor,” Ford remarks. “I would wager it’s because he enjoys when I, er, take the lead during sex.” As weird as this little exchange has been, it’s at least a bit more subtle than Fidds’s general mood of I want to be subsumed by you completely when he and Ford are alone.
“Well,” Bill says slyly, “that is what we’re here for, isn’t it, Sixer?”
“Indeed it is.” Ford guides him onto his back before setting to work on his pants, leaving him in his underwear for the moment. “Turn over, please.”
“Turn…over,” Bill says doubtfully. Fidds holds back a huff of laughter, but only just.
“I mean—roll. So that you’re stomach-down.” Ford takes his arm gently and assists. Bill mashes his whole face into the bed.
“Can’t breathe this way,” Fidds remarks, muffled. After some grumbling, Bill turns his face to the side. And then Ford starts digging into the knots in the back of Fidds’s shoulders and oh yeah, okay. So maybe he let this go on a little too long.
“Seriously, how do you live like this,” Bill says, and then, “Nrrgh.”
“Yes, you really should’ve said something,” Ford scolds. “You could have strained something if I’d tied you without knowing.”
“I’m sorry,” Fidds breathes. “I wasn’t—it didn’t register.”
“Hm. Well, now I know I should check up on you more often,” Ford answers, working his fingers into a particularly dense knot. Fidds hums out a wordless response, one arm twitching. Ford works his way lower with his usual meticulous attentiveness until Fidds is lax and pliant under him, and Fidds finds himself drifting as the other two chatter.
He returns to himself as Bill flips over, Ford peering intently down at his face again. “Still with us, darling?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” The words come out breathy, content.
“Good. We’ve hardly started,” Ford says teasingly. There’s a dark edge to his voice that tells Fidds he has a very clear picture in his head of where he wants this to go. “Sit up, please.”
“Do I get anything if I do?” Bill asks lazily, opting instead to wriggle in place a little, like a dog.
“If you’re gonna be this much of a pain every step of the way, nothin’s gonna get done,” Fidds remarks. Ford makes that tongue-click sound again. “Don’t start,” he says, taking hold of an arm and hauling them up to sitting himself. It’s not clear who he’s talking to; based on the sense of animosity happening in Fidds’s head, both he and Bill are adamant that it’s each other.
“What you get, Bill,” Ford continues placidly, “is the satisfaction of good behavior. Besides, some things are so granular as to not merit reward on their own.”
“God, I love it when you say shit like that,” Bill says, almost mockingly. “‘Granular.’ Gotta be one of the sexiest words in your piddly little language.” Ford laughs fondly, and Fidds narrowly manages to clamp down on the wave of jealousy it inspires before Bill catches wind of it. “Seriously, though,” Bill continues, “good behavior being its own reward is such a joke. You guys are the only species I’ve ever met who are capable of gaslighting themselves to that degree.”
“Dopamine,” Fidds drawls sardonically. It’s a one-word argument.
“That’s what I’m saying. It’s gaslighting on a neurobiological level,” Bill answers, and, well, hell. That’s such a non-starter that Fidds abandons any urge to refute it. “Evolutionary gaslighting.”
“Are you saying you aren’t going to behave?” Ford asks.
“Yes,” Bill says gleefully, at the same time as Fidds says “No!”
“Well, that’s concerning,” Ford observes.
“What’s concerning about it?” Bill asks, false nonchalance in his tone. “What’s a little disagreement between frenemies-with-benefits?”
“Hmm,” Ford says, looking between their respective eyes. “I suppose that depends. The deal stipulates that Bill controls the body, yes? Unless it would cause undue physical harm or psychological discomfort.”
“Which is perhaps unfairly subjective,” Bill jumps in, eager to dogpile on Fidds, who twists his mouth.
Ford is looking into his eye expectantly. “The subjectivity isn’t in question, Bill. Rather, I’m just establishing that certain disagreements are weighted one way or the other depending on their nature.”
He could lie. But it would set a bad precedent. And, he reminds himself, he’s of a higher moral caliber than Bill. Not that it takes much. “It’s not a matter of consent, just preference,” he says at last.
“Good. Then the matter falls to Bill,” Ford says. Great. Fidds feels Bill’s smug, manic glee as a warm rush in the pit of his throat that’s not entirely unpleasant, but still unwelcome.
“That’s what I like to hear,” Bill says, before promptly flinging himself towards the edge of the mattress. Fidds yelps in shock, mildly embarrassed by the whole thing, but not unappreciative of Ford being able to haul him back with one hand in the crook of his elbow. Unfortunately, the other elbow promptly catches Ford in the ribs, and his grip loosens with a low grunt that Fiddleford hopes is more shock than pain. Bill’s off the mattress and scrambling in his drunkard’s gait for the door, his laughter seeming to ring in an unsettling reverb around the room.
It is the world’s most confusing boner. It has to be. Because Fiddleford is confused, exasperated, and more than a little embarrassed that his body’s being piloted so childishly, but clearly Bill’s getting something out of it, and Fidds is not immune to sex hormones. “Bill, stop,” he chokes out, shortly before they’re hitting the wall face-first, just beside the threshold, Ford’s body bracketing Fiddleford’s. He breathes out a sigh of relief, even as Bill squirms.
“If you really needed me to stop, I would have no choice but to comply,” Bill says smugly, and it takes his addled brain a second to test the statement against his assumptions, and the wording of the deal. “Just waiting for the right moment to rub it in. You know me.”
“Bill, that’s unnecessarily mean, don’t you think?” Ford huffs in his ear.
“Yeah? You gonna punish me, big boy?” Fidds almost laughs at that. While they’ve experimented with a variety of things, and Ford can come off as stern if he wants a certain thing and he’s not quite getting it, “punishment,” such as it is, isn’t really something they do. He doesn’t think Ford has it in him. “C’mon,” Bill continues, “what’s the promise of reward without the threat of punishment? They’re meant to go together.” Fidds bites his tongue, annoyed. Bill’s clearly picking up on his surface disbelief, trying to be subtle about it.
Ford sighs in their ear, a longsuffering sound, and adjusts his grip, trying to go for the rope without Bill catching on, which doesn’t work out. The second there’s an ounce of give, Bill is twisting again, stomping on one of Ford’s feet. Luckily, due to his coordination issues, it don’t seem like there’s much force behind it; all it does is make Ford stumble a bit and let out a labored huff. Fidds is mildly horrified by all of it, and then, with a low growl, Ford wrangles Bill into an honest-to-god chokehold.
I’m not into this. Wait, am I into this? I shouldn’t be into this, Fidds thinks, and based on Bill’s quiet snicker, it’s one of his louder thoughts. “I’m sorry,” he squeaks, on reflex, against the dizzyingly-firm crook of Ford’s elbow, which holds him sternly but doesn’t put any hard pressure on his neck. Yet.
“Fiddleford, darling,” Ford pants in his ear, low and raspy with exertion and arousal, “unless you have some tangible reason to stop us, I think you’d do well to remember that this is between me and Bill. All right?” His tongue feels thick and hot in his mouth, which suddenly swims with saliva. Oh. Halfway, at least, Ford is being reassuring, making sure he doesn’t take on guilt for Bill’s bad behavior, but—but—
He suddenly feels an acute sense of put-in-his-placeness. As for the place in question, it appears to be bottom dog on the pile. And he’s not—
He’s not into it. He’s not.
But he’s not not into it.
Some of it’s Bill, it has to be, he thinks, even as liquid heat rolls lazily down his spine, pooling in his groin. Bill shudders.
“Fid. I need a verbal acknowledgement, please,” Ford murmurs.
“I—yeah, okay,” Fidds says dizzily.
“I think you broke him, Fordsy,” Bill says, his voice oozing smugness. “It’s all hot and sticky in here all of a sudden. Call him a good boy, I think he’ll like that.”
Quit talking about me like I ain’t here, he’s about to say, but then Ford croons “Good boy” in his ear like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before, and he’s forgotten, entirely, how to work his tongue for a moment.
“You’ve unlocked something, anyway,” Bill drawls, and he half-remembers how weird and fucked-up of a situation he’s in. “I think this little nerd is way freakier than he’s been letting on—”
“How could I forget,” Ford huffs, cutting him off, “all while Fidds is being so good, you’re intent on getting into trouble.”
“It’s my specialty, dollface,” Bill answers blithely, kicking their shared feet to little effect as Ford manhandles them backwards towards the bed again. “And the kicker is, whatever you do to me, you’ve also gotta do to him.”
“Well, all due respect, but Fiddleford has demonstrated he can handle quite a lot,” Ford answers conversationally, and through his stunned and confused arousal, Fidds registers some smugness of his own. “You, on the other hand, have yet to really learn your limits in this context, so we’ll just have to see.” Bill’s jealousy runs an icy trail down Fiddleford’s spine.
“And I bet you he’ll tap out before I do,” Bill says savagely.
“I don’t make bets with brats,” Ford answers coolly, and even though the words aren’t aimed at him, Fidds feels his head swim a little. Whether that’s him or Bill, he can’t tell, that time. Where is this Ford coming from, anyway? Ford holds them down with a knee to the lower back, and Fidds feels the brush of rope ends against his shoulder blade. Bill wriggles against the tiny amount of give, a warm thrum of contentment bathing their shared brain at being held down so effectively. “But,” Ford continues, arranging their arms behind their back, folded loosely, palms against opposite wrists, “you can take this opportunity to apologize, and maybe we’ll get back on track.” His tone brooks little hope for Bill being amenable to this. Bill’s only answer is a manic laugh, and Ford clicks his tongue and whips through the first knot in record time, lashing their wrists together. “Does that feel all right, Fidds?”
It takes him a moment to get his tongue working again. “Yeah, it’s good.” Ford tests the give in the knot gently, and then he’s pulling them upright for a moment, on their knees, for long enough to wrap the long end around their chest. By the time Bill thinks to start struggling again, they’re back to face-down. It’s efficient and dizzying and it makes Fidds’s head feel fuzzy. It goes on this way for a few whirlwind moments over the next steps of the tie, Ford effortlessly predicting and averting Bill’s attempts at resistance, until Bill snarls, “Jesus, you have been holding out on me.” Fidds doesn’t know what that means and doesn’t want to know. But he kind of gets the sentiment. Still, he holds his tongue except for piping up about circulation and tension when needed until the tie’s complete, pressure in all the right places, securing their arms behind their back and framing their chest in the front. The rope rasps and presses against his skin when he breathes, a familiar endorphin curtain falling over his brain.
Bill makes a low, staticky, multi-layered humming noise, wriggling against the rope. Ford leaves him to it for a moment, watching him test the strength of the tie; each attempt, and subsequent failure, to find give adds to the syrupy glow of everything. At one point, Bill gets a little too enthusiastic and nearly falls off the edge of the mattress, and Ford hauls them back up effortlessly by the arm. There may be something to this whole struggling thing after all, not that Fidds is thinking too hard about it—he’s not thinking about much of anything, at the moment. “I’m starting to get it,” Bill says, his voice carrying some raw edge to it, like he’s lost some of the inflection that he uses to sound more human. “The endorphin thing. Heheh. I guess when this is as close to high as your puny little flesh-brains can get without external chemicals, you go all in on it.”
“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Ford says diplomatically.
“And this is as close as you get, Fordsy,” Bill continues, half-rambling. “To get what it’s like from my side, huh? You’re digging around in this meatbag’s brain, in your own way. Pulling puppet strings.”
“You don’t gotta be that crass about it, surely,” Fidds hums, his mouth loose and sluggish.
“You shut up,” Bill answers after a moment, clearly driven to distraction by the hormonal soup he’s swimming in. “Just shut up and, oh, I dunno, bask in it or whatever we’re supposed to do here. You’re harshing my vibe.” Is that an actual expression?
“Well, at least it seems you’re both enjoying yourselves for the moment,” Ford says, getting hold of the rope where it crosses the top of a shoulder and using the grip to haul them up to their knees. Fidds half-stifles a low whine as the rope bites in so pleasantly. Ford’s behind them, his chest warm against their back. Their shared body shivers, involuntarily, at the sensation of shirt fabric against bare skin. One six-fingered hand trails down the front of them, lighting up new shivers before palming the front of Fiddleford’s underwear. Bill makes that humming noise again, inelegantly leaning their hips into Ford’s hand.
“Christ, he is way more sensitive than you are,” Bill growls.
“Is he?” Ford murmurs it against that spot on Fiddleford’s neck, which kind of steals his ability to protest them talking about him like he isn’t here. And he would. Protest. If he could.
He would.
Instead, he’s reduced to a languid whine as Ford sucks at the side of his neck, thumb tracing the length of his dick with a careless familiarity through the fabric. While he’s catching his breath, Ford continues, “It’s possible it’s only because it feels quite different to have someone else do the touching. Or because of the hormones already in your system. We may have to test that, at some point.” Fidds has lost the train of the conversation. Bill makes a sound that he can only really categorize as an “aroused chuckle,” not that he’s ever heard one before right now.
“I like your thinking, IQ. And I’m digging—” Static, like he’s having trouble arranging whatever he is into something approximating speech. “Digging the hell outta whatever you’re doing down there.”
“Hmm. Therein lies the problem,” Ford muses, his breath hot and damp in their ear. “Because one of you has been very good for me, while the other has been very, very bad.” Fidds can’t tell whether the shock of renewed arousal spiking his blood is coming from him or Bill; it’s reverberating around, groin to head to chest, and it takes them both a moment to get in any semblance of working order. Bill makes a sort of discontented clicking sound, hitching into the palm still putting pressure between their legs, which is a move Fidds agrees with.
“All in good fun,” Bill says slyly. “We can just call it water under the bridge, if you want to keep doing what you’re doing—”
“Keep touching you, you mean? I don’t know. I don’t really see why I ought to keep doing that.” Bill twitches, fruitlessly, as Ford withdraws his hand. Fidds sighs softly. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy; even if Bill weren’t intent on raising hell, there’s no way this whole thing was gonna be over that quickly.
“Because Fiddsy here has been such a good boy and he deserves it,” Bill attempts, which only makes Ford stifle a laugh into their shoulder.
“You don’t believe that, Bill. You’re just trying to get out of it, as if you weren’t the one goading me just a moment ago.”
“Well, fine, then. Gimme your worst. Not that I think you’ll get much out of it. You’re no sadist, Fordsy. And you like blondie here a little too much to do anything even close to interesting to him.”
“I might not be a sadist, but I am patient, which, for all your might, is not your strong suit,” Ford answers, almost politely. Fidds suddenly has the plummeting feeling of being, perhaps, a chew toy tugged between the mouths of two stubborn dogs, or maybe a rabbit underfoot in a daring swordfight, not least because he can feel the acid snarl of Bill’s annoyance and defensiveness as a prickle along his marrow. Ultimately, neither image disturbs him as much as it should, which is what’s actually disturbing, in the end. “Fiddleford?” Oh, god.
“Mmh?” he manages, undertaking a mad dash to bury that train of thought before Bill picks up on it.
“Keeping in mind you always have the power to veto, is there anything you can think of off-hand that I shouldn’t do?”
He comes back into himself a little, if only for the reason that he still doesn’t think Ford really has much of a mean streak. “Nothin’ comes to mind except things you wouldn’t do anyhow.”
“Fid.” Ford’s tone is stern, cool, and he’s back to feeling like a bird in a bigger creature’s jaws all of a sudden. “Anything.”
He chuckles nervously. “Uh—? Well—” He should have an answer. He really ought to have an answer besides I would let you do anything to me. “If you’re gonna draw blood, do it safely?” he manages at last. “And, y’know. Don’t break any bones.”
There’s a pregnant silence from behind them, into which Bill sprinkles manic, horny laughter. God, Fidds wishes he could turn his head right now. Or maybe he doesn’t. If he’s just fucked up his whole relationship, then maybe he don’t actually wanna know right now. “Well, look who’s just full of surprises,” Bill purrs. Which isn’t actually a figure of speech, in this instance—there’s actually a catlike rumble under the words. “You’re reaching for all new lows today, McGucket. Unfortunately, Ford, you I know a little too well. Anything that could even begin to faze me is a little beyond your tastes, sweetie.”
“Haven’t you so often accused me of repression?” Ford asks, and Fidds winces internally. That he’d answered Bill’s taunting rather than Fiddleford’s statement doesn’t feel like a good thing. “The depths of which, I’d wager, you haven’t cared much to find out? Besides, above all else, I’m a scientist.” With a flick of his hand, Ford unbalances them; between Bill’s lack of coordination and their hands being indisposed, they gracelessly hit the bed, Bill narrowly managing to make sure it’s chest-first instead of face. “What’s within my tastes is first and foremost about what interests me,” Ford continues, brushing hair out of their face, “and from there, I decide how much I can justify.” His eyes spear into their face from this angle, lit with a competitive, almost predatory hunger, but when they light on Fiddleford’s remaining blue, they soften just a touch. “You haven’t scared me off, Fidds,” he adds in a lower tone.
Thank god. “Wasn’t worried about it,” he mutters, though his lips threaten to twitch up into a smile.
“Don’t lie to me now, darling.”
“Okay, I was a little worried about it.”
“Good boy.” He bites his tongue, but it doesn’t entirely muffle the whimper. Another low rumble of laughter from Bill, who seems to be enjoying the show. He probably likes how undignified Fidds currently feels. “You know, I’d say I hate to have to do this to you, Fiddleford, but I sort of get the feeling you’ll like it,” Ford continues, “and besides…I would be lying.” Fidds’s sluggish inquiry of What? gets stolen in a yelp as Ford manhandles them to the edge of the mattress, until they’re on their knees, bent over the bed, which stands just below hip-height for Fidds’s leggy frame this way. Bill makes a noise between a laugh and a snarl, attempting to wriggle, which Ford allows only insofar as it lets him slip a pillow between their knees and the hardwood floor. Then they’re hobbled, a tie pulling their left thigh towards the nearby bedpost. With Ford holding them in place by the rope around their shoulders, Bill’s pretty effectively immobilized right now.
The body shivers as Ford trails a hand down ther flank. “Why does that keep happening,” Bill asks, his annoyance jagged on the palms of Fidds’s hands. “Makes me feel like a goddamn horse.”
“I’ll explain the physiology to you another time,” Ford answers mildly. “For now, there are other sensations I’d like you to pay attention to.” Before either Bill or Fidds can get in a question as to what these other sensations might be, Ford has hauled back and slapped them across the ass. Hard. It’s not a warning tap, or an exploratory test of the waters: they are all-in.
What follows is a frantic couple of microseconds playing out in their shared meatspace, thoughts and emotions bleeding through whatever metaphysical callosum is keeping them “partitioned,” as Bill so aptly put it. The general mood is What the fuck and I should like this less than I do and oh god oh god oh god, and neither Bill or Fidds can tell who’s thinking what. Or whether the feedback is bodied or brained in nature. And then, with a sick lurch, it’s as if they’re bounced back to their predetermined corners again, and all this just before the real sting sets in. Anyone who’s been properly spanked before can tell you it takes a moment for the sensation to build. At the building warmth and sting, there’s a second wave of dear god oh my god holy shit but contained to their respective territories this time.
Well, that was…weird. A sound falls out of Fidds’s mouth. Bill makes a noise like a fucked-up lightbulb popping, then says, “Is that the best you’ve got? That was barely anything, Fordsy.”
“He’s lyin’,” Fidds says savagely, if only to detract from how skittery and unwell he feels over how much he liked what just happened.
“Fiddleford,” Ford says sternly, “you aren’t going to get any points for being a tattletale.” Well goddamn. Out of one messed-up sexual reckoning, into another. He bites at the inside of his cheek, back to that chew-toy feeling again. Before anyone else can get out another word, they’re hit again, the other ass cheek this time, and Fidds uses what little control he has to muffle his whine into the bedspread, face warm with a guilty flush.
Bill’s not happy with this, apparently, being as he turns the face over to the side more. “Gotta say, I’m still not impressed,” Bill says, though the sensation of restlessness in their toes says otherwise. Ford doesn’t comment, just lays into them with two more strikes in quick succession, and are they harder or does the newly-tenderized skin just think they are? Bill makes that static noise again, the metaphysical equivalent of an um or an awkwardly-cleared throat. The fifth strike makes Bill jolt, the sixth makes him thrash, and Ford waits a moment, patient, silent, for him to still.
“Involuntary,” Bill spits out after a moment. “If this little freak didn’t like it so much—”
“Who’s reacting is immaterial,” Ford says coolly. His fingers comb gently through their hair, and Fidds lets out a low hum of appreciation. “Body, mind…for humans, they’re one and the same. I did try to warn you.” All at once, his grip turns strict, pressing their head in place while the other hand strikes again, once, twice—four times, the pain, the feeling of vulnerability, rocketing along heightened nerves, stirring more hormones in the neuronal interstice. Fidds spits a broken curse, while Bill is back to half-aroused, half-annoyed laughter.
“No wonder you people make such stupid, impulsive blunders half the time,” Bill snarls, once he’s back to speaking shape. “This is all it takes to turn off your higher logic centers—”
“This isn’t something you can think your way around, my dear. Fiddleford knows that. In fact, I’d hazard a guess he’s already let go—he’s just feeling, now, isn’t that right, Fidds?” He rouses from his drunken drift as Ford gently lifts the head by the hair.
“Yeah,” he manages, licking lips that are suddenly very dry. “Yeah, I—mmh.” Words escape him.
Ford laughs softly, a pleased sound that sends a shiver down their spine. “Usually it takes me longer to get him here,” he says to Bill. “Fascinating. But I imagine he’s having trouble properly enjoying it with you making such a fuss.”
“This isn’t about him, is it,” Bill hisses.
“No, it’s not even about him, but he’s taking it so beautifully,” Ford says, laying their head back down before hauling back and landing another volley of hits. He pants roughly for a second afterwards, which makes Fidds feel woozy. He’s lost track of the noises coming out of his mouth, unable, as he is, to even control his reactions to the stimulus—that’s all down to Bill, who’s fallen prey to flinching and squirming.
“This shitty hormonal cocktail is nothing,” Bill snarls into the silence. “Really, I’m a little offended that you think this has any effect on me. I’ve eaten solar systems that gave me heartburn more interesting than this.”
“The thing about endorphins,” Ford says, his fingers testing the temperature of theirs for bloodflow, attentive as ever, “is that the body releases them in packets. They hit the nervous system in one big batch, and then it takes a bit longer to build up the store of them again, such that they can once more be released in one go. Fidds gets a good dose of happy hormones just from submitting—dopamine, serotonin, you know the ones—but endorphins? Those, you’re only in the very beginning stages of, if we’re talking about what’s possible.” He’s got the self-possessed, passionate patter that he always does when he’s explaining something he’s very excited about. It’s always driven Fidds crazy, even though, at the moment, he’s barely following what’s actually being said. “By the end of this, you may or may not care to apologize for being such a pain—” cleverly, he punctuates the word with another sound smack— “but either way you’ll be a wreck, and that’s gratifying enough for me.”
“Something we agree on,” Bill purrs, and then the clink of a belt buckle sounds, and Fidds feels their heart rate pick up. Bill tries to look over their shoulder, but Ford’s there with a hand on their head, keeping them down. “But you’re gonna have to up your game if that’s what you want.”
“Patience,” Ford murmurs, and then his belt brushes against the side of their thigh. “Fidds?”
“Mmh?” His skin’s buzzing with anticipation; hard to concentrate on Ford’s next words.
“Remember you can back out anytime, darling.” That’s all the warning he gets before the folded-over loop of the belt is hitting skin already hot and sensitized, stealing their breath. A choking sputter as Fidds tries to recover it. Ford waits, and Fidds notes, through his own pain-blind haze, that the surface feeling coming from Bill is ?????? Even still, the demon lets out a tight laugh and says, “Getting warmer, IQ.”
“Fiddleford,” Ford says gently, and Bill’s jealousy is acid for a moment before he represses it.
“Fuck, that—really hurts,” he blurts out, but it’s not a protest. It should probably be a protest, right? Ford hums sympathetically.
“I know, but somehow I don’t think that’s a complaint. …I’d appreciate a verbal answer, please.”
“Um—” His face burns, despite how far gone he is. “No. No, it ain’t a complaint.”
“Good.” The belt brushes the welt it just raised, and Bill makes a gravelly noise and tries to squirm away. With another crack it comes down, and the sensation bursts out of Fiddleford’s throat in a dry sob. A full-body shudder follows it, and Ford’s thumb brushing the mark it made precedes a cacophony of sounds between the two current occupants of this body. From Fidds, a low, delirious whine, and from Bill, something that sounds like a spoon clinking against a saucer in a thunderstorm. “Good job, Fiddleford,” Ford says, his voice low and rough like it gets when he’s caught off guard by his own arousal. The next strike is devastating, crossing over the first welt, and Fidds is aware he sounds like a kicked puppy. Bill, for his part, is making sounds like a house settling, hard, into its foundations.
Fidds is suddenly breathing too hard, overwhelmed. It’s the pain and the rope and the Bill and the—everything—and the next hit wrenches a “Please” out of his mouth. What he’s pleading for, he doesn’t know. Bill says something in another language, and in a moment Ford’s closer, leaning over them, his palm between their shoulder blades, present and soothing. “You’re all right,” Ford says, and it takes Fidds a minute to realize Ford’s talking to him. “Take a deep breath, love. And let it out. There you go.”
“I told you he’d tap out before I would,” Bill says after a moment, though it’s like he’s speaking through a tornado.
“I din’ say that,” Fidds slurs, without thinking about it. Ford’s hand slides up to brush through the curls at their nape, and he feels their chest loosen. “Nnh—I never said all that.” Ford lets out another of those harsh breaths, pleased, which intensifies the warm glow cupping their face.
“No, you didn’t, did you, darling?” Ford murmurs indulgently, trailing his fingertips lightly over the welts. Bill hisses, kicking out the right leg with what little give there is, and Fidds chokes on his next breath. “You’ll take more for me, won’t you?” An attempt at words comes out as a sort of affirmative mewl. Ford gets it. “Of course you will. Even though you’ve behaved so well, and you’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve it, you’ll take it anyway because you can’t help being good for me.” The mind-melting praise is followed by another cruel blow, which makes Bill spit like a cat as the body shudders. Ford’s kept his off hand on the back of their neck, grounding enough that Fidds doesn’t get overwhelmed this time, or at least more overwhelmed than he can handle.
“It doesn’t fucking make any sense,” Bill rants after a moment. “None of this makes sense. You’re fucked in the head, specs. How do you hate this and love this at the same time? What is wrong with your weird little body?”
“I think you’re starting to get it,” Ford says, fingertips tracing the marks again, like he just can’t keep his hands off them, can’t help catalogging them like one of his experiments. He lets his nails graze the raised skin, drawing a staccato series of notes from Fidds. “You’re used to pain being simple, and unpleasant. But sometimes it’s complex.”
“Not that complex. It’s more of an annoying conundrum than anything approaching interesting,” Bill snarls. Fidds feels the lie in the pit of his throat and can’t help but smirk just a little to himself. The big, bad demon is coming apart along with him.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Ford drawls, apparently sharing his read of the situation, and then, so quick Fidds can’t get in a good breath, he strikes them twice more. Once Fidds has managed to inhale, it leaves him in a little wail of sound, tears threatening to overspill their eyes. “Cry if you need to, darling,” Ford tells him, once again combing through their hair with disarming gentleness. Fidds lets go of what little control he has, both eyes streaming.
“God, this is pathetic,” Bill hisses. His voice is all shredded again, choppy. “I’m embarrassed to be anywhere near it. You know, I don’t even have to be. For all you know, Fordsy, you keep this up and I might just leave him alone with it, hm? Make him take it all by himself just because I can?” The cruel words wash a guilty bloom of heat up his pelvis, and Fidds feels the equivalent of an exasperated eye-twitch coming from Bill’s side of the brain. Before he can comment on it—small mercies—Ford cuts in.
“I think you’ll find you can’t, actually,” he says evenly. “The deal itself stipulates that you’ll remain where you are until the body falls asleep. I believe that’s the exact wording, yes?” It takes Fidds a long, sluggish moment to catch on, and a proud fondness cuts through his senseless haze. Ford, you beautiful bastard. It’s a little annoying that he’s being used as a fleshy fish trap in this situation, but the results are so good thus far that he can’t really be that mad.
“Oh, you little—” Bill breaks off into another language. Despite the angry undertone of his words, Fidds gets the sense that he’s—pleased?
“And even on the off chance that you have a loophole there, I’ve taken the liberty of customizing the rope a little,” Ford adds. “You don’t need the details. In fact, in your current state I doubt either of you could grasp them. But outside the conditions of the deal, they should trap you in Fiddleford’s body until I’ve untied the knots.”
“Well,” Bill purrs after a moment, drawing the word out to unnatural proportions. “Now, things are getting a whole lot more interesting. Aren’t you clever.”
“I had the thought that, due to your nature, simply being in a bound-up body wouldn’t give you the full picture of what it means to be properly restrained,” Ford says. Fidds feels, like a draft hitting his knees, Bill testing the metaphysical bounds of the deal and the ropes. Either on their own would have sufficed, but together they form a sticky constriction that prompts dual waves of alarm and intrigue.
“Ever the overachiever,” Bill says, his voice low and jagged.
“Precisely.” Another brush of the leather against their throbbing thighs is the only warning they get before a volley of four strokes knocks the breath out of them. Fidds feels the precise moment the next packet of endorphins hits, like a tidal wave washing through them. Bill’s resistance might’ve been holding it back, even. If anyone’s talking, Fidds isn’t processing any of it, lost in the tangled sensations of pain and pleasure and the plummeting, small, animal feeling he gets when he’s really deep into it.
He's dimly aware of Bill spitting out a garbled string of what sounds like Star Wars droidspeak. Ford’s answering chuckle makes the hair on their arms stand up. “That would be the endorphin load, I imagine,” he says. Fidds hears himself whimpering softly with every exhale, but he can’t figure out how to make it stop, or decide whether he cares.
“I see,” Bill says demurely, once he’s figured out English again. “GABA shit is all blocked up in here. Jesus fucking fuck.” Ford’s thumb brushing the space between their shoulder blades feels dizzyingly good, all sound coming through a delirious fog.
“Fiddleford,” Ford says, and a warm thrum goes through ihm at the sound of his name. “Can you speak?”
It’s hard, but for Ford, he manages. “Yeah. Ssslow, but—yeah.”
“That’s all right, love. You’re doing wonderfully.” Bill makes a low scoffing noise, but Fidds can tell he’s a bit consumed in what’s going on with the body. Fidds lets out a helpless whimper at the praise, fully in the throes of it. “Two more. Can you do that?”
“Is that really necessary?” Bill asks sharply, almost like he hadn’t meant to. “You’ve made your point.”
“What, all of a sudden you’re—concerned for his body? Or are you just overwhelmed?” Ford asks, steamrolling ahead before Bill can answer. “In any case, please let him answer.”
“Can do it,” Fidds manages. “I can take it.”
“Of course you can, good boy. Bill, do you have a sensible objection, or would you like to admit you’re feeling it?”
“Fat chance.” The body, tired as it is, nonetheless tenses in quivering anticipation.
“As I thought. Deep breath, please, Fidds. Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” he says, even though he doesn’t know if he is. Oh, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have to know.
The first of the two is so searingly painful he feels split in half (ha); he doesn’t know if it’s that much harder or if they’re just overwrought, tender. He bleats out Ford’s name between choking breaths, aware of a distant rumbling, like that of a train from downtrack, probably coming from Bill. He’s senseless, not entirely sure of the world at the moment, until Ford is running fingers through their hair again. “I know, my loves. Shhh, you’re doing so well.” His chest loosens a bit, and Bill leans like a cat into the touch. “Just one more, hm?”
“You might make him pass out,” Bill says flatly, a frisson of apprehension lighting up in their shared belly.
“Any objections to that?” Ford asks cannily, and Fidds stays silent. Though, as he hears the belt buckle clinking again, he lets out a distressed mewl.
“Honestly, Fordsy, go ahead, you’ve earned it,” Bill drawls after a moment. “You’re just too hot when you don’t care about his wellbeing.”
Ford laughs. “He knows that’s not true, but if that’s your fantasy, I’ll indulge it. Whatever gets you through, because believe me, I won’t go easy just because this is the last one.” With that, he draws his arm back, a tense, fraught silence following the movement, and then Fidds is whiting out for a moment as the belt once again sears them open. When he’s next aware of himself, Ford’s running both palms from shoulder to bound elbow to wrist to fingertip, the belt dropped somewhere. The knees are doing none of the load-bearing, their whole body limp where it’s been propped. Fidds feels a wet spot under his cheek, drool or tears or some combination thereof. Their ass throbs, skin alight with hypersensitivity all over the body.
“Perfect, that was—perfect,” Ford says, his voice rougher than it was a moment ago, like he’s dropping the air of cool matter-of-factness. “You’ve both done beautifully.” Bill is pleased to be praised and uneasy about it—Fidds can feel it, curiously, in his left ear. Ford undoes the hobble around their thigh, the legs too jellied to do anything transgressive, anyway. That done, he tugs them up, knelt behind them, so they lean back against him. He’s hard against the back of their hip, and Fidds whimpers as the fabric of his slacks brushes the welts from the belt. Ford kisses their ear, neck, shoulder, grazing his teeth against the rope. “How are you feeling?”
“Reallll floaty,” Bill mutters. “Drunk.”
“Good,” Fidds whispers. “Jus’—don’t go nowhere, ‘kay? Please?”
“I’m not, I’m right here,” Ford answers. His voice is at its lowest register, gravelly, and it makes Fiddleford’s mouth water. Bill turns their head where it falls back on his shoulder, inwards, pressing it messily against the side of Ford’s neck, his jaw. Ford laughs softly, then stands, taking them with him, blood rushing achingly through their knees, calves, feet. Fidds whines the moment he’s too far from them, arranging them on their side, but he’s back behind them in no time, running a hand down and down and—oh—
Funny. There’s been so much else going on in this shared body-brain that he’d kind of lost track of his dick, which is actually maddeningly hard, a fact he rediscovers when Ford trails a teasing finger up the length of it. “Should I take care of this?”
“I think that’s kinda the idea, IQ,” Bill says windily.
“That wasn’t very polite.”
“Please—god, please,” Fidds pants, without prompting. He can be mortified about it later.
“That’s more like it,” Ford murmurs. Still, his touches stay light, unsatisfying, though Fidds is beyond caring. He’ll take whatever he’s given, so long as Ford will touch him, talk to him, be pleased with him.
“Jesus, he’s like a goddamn golden retriever,” Bill says, though his voice still carries that odd unvoiced sound with it. “All he can think about is making you happy right now. Seriously untapped potential here, Fordsy.”
“I’m starting to see that. God, but he’s perfect,” Ford sighs, “you’re both so perfect, I just—fuck.” He’s unraveling, overcome. A point of pride for Fidds anytime he gets this side of Ford. Turned on beyond all reason, unbuttoned, unstrung. God, he wants—he tries to get his mouth to make words, but he’s too overwhelmed himself, thoroughly melted.
“He’s pathetic,” Bill says, but it’s almost…a compliment? “I can see why you’d keep him as a pet. He can’t even talk right now, he’s too busy thinking about how bad he wants you to rail him.” He’s trying to sound disinterested, even though they’re in the same body, and the desire is coming from both of them, is affecting both of them. Ford’s smile against their shoulder tells Fidds he knows, but isn’t going to push.
“Is that true? Fidds?” He manages an mm-hmm. “And Bill, what say you?”
Bill thinks too hard about his answer for it to be anything other than desperate. “I think I deserve the full experience,” he finally says. Ford only half-stifles laughter, already shifting towards the nightstand, where he’d set the lube earlier.
Fidds took the liberty of prepping, not really wanting to deal with Bill dealing with the process, so they take the first two fingers easily, the third without much struggle. “What a little slut,” Bill says, which Fidds likes way more than he should (if only Bill weren’t the one saying it).
“If he likes being fucked that much, then I’ll only compliment him and take full advantage,” Ford rasps in their ear. “Such a good boy, you wanted to be ready for me, didn’t you? Make things easier for all of us?” Fidds gasps out a Yeah, all he really has the faculties for at the moment. “Well then I suppose I shouldn’t keep you waiting,” Ford rasps, and, true to his word, he doesn’t take his time. There’s a general din coming from the shared brainspace, Bill twitching a leg as the movement jostles the welts from earlier yet again. Ford hasn’t bothered to fully undress, which is hotter than it has any right to be. So, too, is his grip on one of the ropes around their chest, his low groan in their ear.
An adjustment, and the next thrust is dead-on, the combined sensation of pain and pleasure sending Fidds’s eye rolling. Bill’s voice comes as if spoken over the ticking clatter of a roulette wheel. “Stanford—you had better do that again, buddy.” His inflection’s deadpan, but Fidds thinks it’s not out of a lack of fraughtness but the opposite.
Ford laughs breathlessly against their neck. “Been awhile since you’ve said my name like that, have I lost my touch?” He hits their prostate again, and Bill squirms floppily, emitting the noise of a radio station on the fritz.
“Ooh, you’re lucky it’s usually cute when you gloat,” Bill spits, once he’s remembered how. “I—” Whatever’s next cuts off in an alien language as Ford picks up the pace. “Rude,” Bill manages to chop out. “Keep—keep being rude. If you must.”
Each thrust jostles a wave of heat towards the growing knot low in their gut, and without having to consciously think about it, Fidds is scratchily panting out “Please—shit—pleasepleaseplease” between breaths like a broken tape recorder. Or is that part Bill? Someone’s throwing in white noise, anyway.
“Please what, darling?” Ford’s out of breath, ragged, ruffled, Fidds’s favorite look on him. Not that he ain’t always perfect.
He can’t figure out what’s being asked of him, or what he was asking, or how to say anything other than Please, so he keeps saying it until Ford shushes him, reaching down to cup their erection in too light of a touch. Even that feels electrifying. Fidds has a very confusing moment of trying to move his hips and finding that he can’t, that Bill’s control of the body immobilizes him, and he would panic if not for the annoyed brush of Bill’s mind against his, like the demon’s trying to remind him that he’s there. “Is this what you want?” Ford asks teasingly, to Fidds or to Bill or—hell, it doesn’t matter. Fidds can’t figure out how to respond so he just pants.
“God yes,” Bill says, his voice a knotted thing. “Come on, it’s obvious. Take pity on the guy.”
Ford coughs a laugh. “And what do we say, hm?”
“Sixer. If you don’t make us come right now, then I am going to give you that one stress-dream about midterms every. night. for the next month.”
“That’s what I like to hear, my muse,” Ford answers indulgently, and then he finally, finally gives them the pressure they need and he hits that weird human spot and they’re shaking, do all this body’s orgasms feel that way?—who thought that, Bill or the hillbilly?—oh, this is bad.—anyway. It’s like they’ve gone liquid, the world a blur of light and warmth, and Fidds is whole here. It’s quiet, here. Nothing in the world exists but him and this feeling and—
And all of a sudden he’s back, body still adrift on a sea of endorphins, resting back against Ford, cum cooling on belly and thighs. He makes a low, contented sound, looking to roll and press his face into his lover, but butting up against Bill instead, who doesn’t seem in any hurry to move. “Will you take off your shirt already, IQ? This is really weird,” Bill mumbles. Ford laughs softly in their ear and complies, drawing them back a moment later against warm skin.
Fidds hears his name thrice before thinking to respond with a sluggish and eloquent “Mmh?”
“Your circulation’s still good. Do you want these off?”
He can’t figure it out, what he needs to say. After a moment of silence, Bill says, “Not yet. He can’t figure out how to make words go between his brain and his mouth, it’s actually kind of hilarious.”
“Poor love.” Bill, at last, rolls over, succumbing to the body’s urge to face-plant directly into Ford’s chest. Ford immediately adjusts the head so they can still breathe. Some amount of minutes go by before Ford asks again if he should take the ropes off, and Bill, with a little jab of annoyance aimed in his direction, telegraphs that yes, he should. Ford’s strong hands rub down rope-marked skin, murmuring something about how good Fidds looks marked up, like always.
“I should probably get something for the welts,” Ford sighs after a moment. “I would’ve planned ahead, but—”
“You know better than that,” Bill mutters. “You’re talking to the king of spontaneity over here. And I do not mean your salt-of-the-earth cowboy.” Ford lets out a resigned sigh, shifting as if to get up; Fidds means to make a noise, but genuine anxiety over the concept mutes him, and Bill quickly says, “I wouldn’t do that, buddy. He’s gonna flip his shit if you leave him here and I’m too scattered to contain the damage if he does.”
“That’s all right, it can wait,” Ford soothes, adjusting them into a more comfortable position but otherwise stilling.
“You’re never this clingy after,” Bill says snarkily, even though Fidds can feel him feeling the sense of safety for what it is, and the need to be close. He’s just handling it way worse.
“I’m not as given to physical affection in the first place,” Ford murmurs fondly, his fingertips trailing up and down their spine. “I was never much of a hugger, or a hand-holder, or, I don’t know. Any one of the usual things. I don’t need it to feel secure. But I find myself giving it easily, when it’s him.” Adrift though he is, Fidds still smiles, touched by the sweet words.
“Ugh. I’m glad you have each other,” Bill says flatly. “Outsource all the gross shit to him, please.” There’s some truth to it that Fidds can parse, but also some—conflict? Curiosity? Before he can really chase it down, his thoughts leave him again.
“Thank you both,” Ford whispers, pressing a kiss to their hairline. “For all of it. For everything.”
“This is what I’m talking about, with the gross stuff,” Bill sighs.
“Well, this is the deal you’ve made, my dear. You’re stuck here for ‘the gross stuff.’ If it’s what the mind needs, it’s what the body needs.”
“Yeah, yeah, save your sermon for the pulpit, IQ.” Still, the old beast settles, his presence in the mind feeling less tense, less ready for action. Fidds drifts, and Bill, he assumes, endures some amount of coddling in the meantime. He wonders what it would be like to never get to shut off, to never rest, and then before he can stop it he’s resting, lids flagging, slipping towards sleep.
When he’s back awake, of course, Bill will be gone. Fidds will mentally comb over his own sense of self, paranoid, skittery, looking for fingerprints, any sense of anything tampered with.
There’ll be nothing. He’ll almost wish there was something. More and more so in the coming weeks, he’ll wish there’d been something—anything to justify—oh, he doesn’t know. What else there is. If there even is anything.