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The conjugal visits are the only thing they've found to make Bill behave. Every other privilege—television, dessert, extra craft time, tap shoes—is something he’ll willingly give up in favor of mischief. Not this, though. He gets a few hours once a month (and that’s an Earth month. Life in the Theraprism is one long, never ending day. Bill can never keep track of how long it is until his next visit) to spend with his favorite human, and he’ll be damned if they take that away from him. He’s been known to stop mid-riot when they threaten to cancel his visits.
The visitation room is unsexy and sterile. One door, no windows. There's a small table, two chairs, one of which Bill is still handcuffed to, a bed in the corner, and a basket overflowing with every type of contraceptive in existence. High up on the back wall there is a big, digital timer displaying numbers in red. It’s stuck at one hour now, and it’ll start ticking down the moment that door opens.
Bill shifts in his manacles, antsy. He can almost sense the moment the door will open, but not because he can see or hear what's happening on the other side. He just feels it, like a magnet finding a fridge; there’s a force about to bind together.
3, 2, 1. The door opens, and there’s Stanford Pines, looking miffed.
“The security here is worse than TSA,” he gripes. Bill dances on the chair impatiently, jangling his chains, waiting for the door to shut. “I should know,” Ford goes on, “I’m on a no-fly list and I can’t go through metal detectors!” He has the same complaints every month.
The door shuts heavily, Bill’s handcuffs automatically unlock with it, and the countdown clock begins.
“Bad news,” he says, continuing his anxious dance in a wider perimeter now. “You still have to submit to a cavity search!”
“No I–oh.” Ford drops his trenchcoat on the back of his chair. “Ha-ha.” He meanders around to sit down, far too slowly for Bill’s liking.
Bill claps. “I hope you took your Cialis, old man, I’m gonna climb you like a rock wall.” He crosses the table and hops into Ford’s lap, moving to get his fly.
“For the last time, I take that for my heart—” Ford blocks him with a hand. “Eager today are we?”
“I’m always happy to see you, Six, question is are you happy to see me?” He probes over his crotch, grabbing and squeezing and earning a surprised oof.
Ford glances at the clock on the wall as though just noticing it. “Oh,” he says, sounding unimpressed. “They docked our time. What’d you do?”
Ugh. Yes they did dock his time this month from four hours to just one, which is why Bill has no time to waste here. Normally they have more than enough time for chit chat and fucking and an argument. Not today. An hour is still enough time for a good fuck and a half decent fight if they play their cards right. He’s prioritizing. Important things first. It’s not like they can spend the whole hour going at it. Well, Bill could, Stanford’s medicated heart would give out.
“Why is it always my fault?” Bill demands. True to his word, he claws his way up Ford’s sweater to get mouth-level with him. Ford slumps down in the chair so Bill can get comfy on his chest and hook his legs over his shoulders. They're close enough that Ford has to go a little cross eyed to focus on the face in front of him. “Maybe the sociopaths running this place just have a grudge against me. Ever consider that?” Bill prods.
“I have, but I think it’s more likely you did something to deserve it.”
Bill switches tact. He swipes a finger down the bridge of Ford’s nose. “I’ve been a baaaad triangle.”
Ford just snorts. “That’s terrible.”
“Work with me, here!”
“Really,” Ford runs an idle thumb along his lower eyelid, “I’m curious what you can possibly get up to in a place like this. Indulge me.”
Bill leans into the touch, waiting for it to become more. When it doesn’t, he groans. “Let’s just say there’s more than one way to make an explosive out of orange juice.”
Ford laughs. It’s a hearty thing, genuinely amused by Bill’s antics instead of disgusted by them. That’s nice. That’s progress, as his airhead therapist would say.
The full-body movement of his laughter jostles Bill’s seating arrangement, and he grabs onto Ford’s cheeks to steady himself. Cursing the Theraprism gets old after a while, but he internally curses them anyway for taking away his levitation. He hates gravity with a passion.
No more waiting around. Bill rolls his eye back and lets his mouth out, then leverages his position to pull Ford’s face that much closer and jam a tongue in his mouth. Ford makes a surprised noise but lets him in, opening his mouth wider to accommodate. The tip of Bill’s tongue slides over his top teeth, feeling the hard edges of them, the metal fillings in the back, then snakes towards his uvula. He’s pushing it, deliberately trying to get him to gag. Ford pretends he hates when he does this, but he’s a liar. Bill knows he’s always trying to hone his gag reflex to allow for longer kisses.
That practice is paying off. It takes longer than expected for him to gag. When he does, his chest heaves and his head jerks backwards, disconnecting their kiss but failing to get the lengthy tongue out of his mouth. He snatches it and yanks it sideways, drawing a surprised shiver out of Bill as the motion pulls on sensitive ocular nerves. He rolls his eye forward to peek out of his throat. Ford’s got his tongue bunched in his fist in the air beside their faces. He’s frowning, and slightly flushed.
“It doesn’t seem fair that I have to suffer the time constraint, too, because of your pranks,” he says, picking up their conversational thread as if they hadn’t interrupted it at all. His grip slackens as he speaks, enough that Bill can press his tongue through the gaps in his fingers and weave through them. Ford relaxes his hand, opening it up, watching the muscle swivel around his thumb and tease his palm. After a second, he blinks back to awareness. "Bill," he says, like he really wants a response. He doesn't have enough composure in his voice to sound serious.
Bill frees his tongue from Ford's fingers and leans closer, trails it under his jaw and dips beneath the collar of his sweater. Ford's head reflexively drops back with a heavy breath, and Bill can taste the warmth lighting up his skin. "It's not fair, you're right," he says, "It's an evil, corrupt system, and you're just another victim of it! You're gonna have to take it up with the orbs. Y'know, violently. Show them how bad you want more time with me."
Ford scoffs. "That's not it."
Sure it's not.
"I just have an expectation for these visits—" Ford adds, and Bill interrupts him,
"If you're so worried about the time limit, take your pants off already." He worms his tongue around Ford's neck beneath his collar. "I'll make you come faster than you can say pulmonary arterial hypertension! Expectation met!"
A laugh is breathed against him. "You can't take them off for me?" Ford asks.
No, he can't. Not from here. His arms aren't long enough, and he can't shapeshift, and Ford knows it. "Stanford," he warns, pressing teeth against the tiny sliver of neck bared above Ford's sweater. Ford chuckles, and Bill bites down, turning it into a jittery mix of a yelp and a moan. The jangle of a belt being undone follows, but Bill doesn't turn to watch, he's busy enjoying the taste of stubble.
"Can we at least—" Ford starts, clearly trying to keep his movements careful so he doesn't knock Bill off balance. Bill grabs onto his hair and pushes back into his mouth, cutting him off. Ford meets him with the same amount of force for once, hands creeping up to wrap around Bill's edges and hold him steady. When he gags, Bill retracts his tongue back beneath his eyeball, leaving Ford coughing against him. "Can we at least move to the bed?" Ford manages.
"No time," Bill says, "You gottaHAH!" Ford interrupts him back with a nip to the eyelid, sucks the skin in between his teeth, and Bill forgets what he was saying. "You little—" he starts and stops himself before he can make any embarrassing noises. Ford hums, low and contented, sending light vibrations pouring over his eye. Bill—very graciously—lets him carry on, even though he knows he's going to end up with a shiner from how Ford is trying to suck his mascara off. Well, whatever. Let everyone else on the ward see that he's getting some and they're not!
He gets a little distracted, letting his eye roll back so Ford can reach closer to his optic nerve and digging nails into his scalp. He hardly notices the hands that trace around to push open the top snap of his jumpsuit, then move to cup his lower corners. He does notice, however, when Ford suddenly gets to his feet and takes Bill with him, holding him up near his face.
"WHAT—" Bill sputters, blinking away the saliva blurring his vision. He grabs onto Ford's ears both to punish him and for balance. The sudden airtime is over just as soon as it starts, with Ford flopping onto the bed looking satisfied with himself. He sets Bill back down onto his chest.
"There," he says, "And with plenty of time to spare."
He moves to kiss Bill's eye again and Bill stops him, grabbing him by the face and hooking thumbs in either corner of his lips. "Don't get smart with me, Pines," he snaps, "You've already wasted," he glances up at the big, ominous clock and balks. "FIFTEEN!? FIFTEEN MINUTES OF MY TIME WITH YOUR LOLLYGAGGING!"
The scarcity of their time really starts to hit him. He's not worried about not having enough time for sex. Obviously. He could have gotten Ford off three times by now if he wanted. No, he's not worried. It's just not enough time. 45 minutes left, and who knows how long he'll have to wait before the next one. Another incalculable stretch of non-time spent without burning Theraprism to ash, all so he can do this.
Ford is unaware of or unbothered by the clock at the moment, too busy rolling his tongue up against Bill's thumbs. Stealing Bill's move. Doesn't even bother to look apologetic when he does it. Bill's eye twitches in his attempt to hold back a shudder, and he turns it into an angry squint. He extracts his hands from Ford's mouth and tells him, "Take your cock out." Ford nods as much as he can, body shifting around under Bill as he does what he's told, shaking a bit as he does a little extra. "Ah-ah!" Bill snaps. "Did I say you could touch it?"
He doesn't have to turn and look to know he's being begrudgingly obeyed. He keeps his eye trained on Ford's, feels him go still as he lets go of himself. A little laugh escapes Bill, elated at how easy Ford is to control, still. He doesn't even need to be inside his body to pilot it!
"Good boy," he giggles and squishes his cheeks together. Ford makes a face that is probably supposed to be a scowl, but looks more like a pout. "You're hilarious," Bill coos. "Do you always have to pretend like you hate it when I call you a good boy?"
"I'm a grown—" Ford starts, and Bill kisses him again. He can't talk while his mouth is occupied, it's so easy.
"You say the same thing every time," Bill points out, "Aaaaand you keep coming back. So you must not hate it that much!"
Ford bites down on his tongue in warning. Bill just laughs again, tries to make him bite harder.
"Stop being a pouty bitch and I'll let you touch yourself, how's that?" he offers.
He pulls away enough to let Ford answer, teases the corners of his mouth with the forked tip of his tongue.
Ford is still pouting quite bitchily, his cheeks flushed pink and his breath unsteady. "I don't have to keep coming back," he insists.
"You say that every time, too." He knows as well as Bill does that they'll both be right back here in one Earth month. Bill checks the clock. They've lost another three minutes. "You're running out of time, Sixer. Unless you want me to send you home with blue balls I suggest you stop arguing!"
Ford scoffs. "I don't need your permission."
"OH REALLY?" Bill leans in close enough to press his cornea to Ford's nose, grips his cheeks with sharp nails. He can't shapeshift any bigger, but there's this neat way to trick Ford's human perception into thinking he's bigger called getting in his face.
Ford goes wide eyed. He doesn't say anything, but Bill notices the way his breath catches. He backs off him slightly, grinning.
"Thought so! Now go on, put your hand on your dick," he waits to feel the flex of muscles and tendons beneath Ford's sweater, and adds at the last second, "And hold it still."
Ford huffs out a breath and frowns at him. "That's it?"
"For now. You haven't earned anything better!"
Of course Ford takes that as a challenge. He cranes forward to get his lips on Bill's eye again, which may or may not have Bill making a surprised noise, who's to say. Ford mouths hastily downwards over his bricks to show where he wants to go, and stops at the collar of his jumpsuit.
Bill can feel how his lower exoskeleton has gone soft, preparing to loosen enough to split open along his bottom edge (“Fascinating!” Ford said the first time he witnessed this process. “It’s like the opposite of a human erection!” And somehow it didn't kill the mood). It becomes especially apparent when Ford presses his free hand to his back and leaves doughy indents in the surface. Ford makes a noise of interest in the back of his throat and starts trying to work Bill's jumpsuit off him in earnest. Bill is just happy enough with the mouth tricks being done to his eyelids to go along with it. He kicks off his sneakers so they can get the jumpsuit over his legs, and it snags, predictably, on his ankle monitor. They both pretend not to notice. Ford flicks the jumpsuit somewhere else. Then it's back to that warm tongue on him, trailing back and forth over his lower edge in search of an opening.
Ford nudges and nudges him to try and get the right angle, careful to avoid his fracture. He's clearly trying to impress Bill with his eagerness, and for that reason alone Bill is happy to go along with it. He's not caught up in it at all. His exoskeleton is begging to pry apart already, which was fast, but, hey, they don't have all day here.
Somehow in all the nudging he finds himself scooped onto Ford's face, toes against the pillows and knees hugging the sides of his head. He starts to laugh at the sudden turn of events, jittery, trying to think of a joke and coming up short, "Hahaha—This sure is—"
Ford finds the slit in his base and slides inside.
Bill doesn't shout, but he lights up just as brightly as he would've if he had. He curls forward to steady himself against Ford's forehead and grab onto his hair. Ford doesn't let up, moving back and forth and in and out to open him up further, all at the same whirlwind pace he got Bill's clothes off with. The enthusiasm more than makes up for any deficit in technique he has, this being only the second or third time Bill has ever let him do this. It's not like they've had many visits for him to try it, anyway. Bill is starting to think they've wasted a whole lot of time not doing this; Ford's mouth is a great place to be.
Unexpectedly, Ford curls his tongue against some spot inside Bill that makes him twitch and tense up, knees digging into cheekbones. He peels open his squeezed-shut eye to see Ford below him, looking up with a dazed, quizzical expression, silently asking if that reaction was good or bad. He's so eager to please it's disgusting. Bill has the urge to reach through those fogged up glasses and squish his eyeballs in his hands like wet sand. Then he remembers that Ford is just trying to earn the right to jerk off, and he—
Lets out a squeak laced with static, because Ford just prodded that spot again. His eyes crinkle up in a grin, and Bill wants to smack him or perhaps cut out his tongue so he can take it back to his cell later and have some alone time with it. Again, he twitches and flickers, again, he pitches forward to get better leverage, again, again, his body moves on its own, grinding down and down and down. He tries to give Ford some instructions on what to do with his hand, but all that comes out is a garbled mess of colors. Ford moans something needy against him, lips buzzing with it, and a shiver bursts out of Bill's core and all through him. He digs his nails down into Ford's scalp, not realizing what's happening until it has racked its way through his entire body and out through his angles.
Ford doesn't seem to catch on, still lapping at his insides, which is good, because whenever he comes that fast Bill spends the rest of the visit teasing him about it. He doesn't want to give Ford the opportunity to get back at him.
He bears the first hints of overstimulation long enough to check the clock. It's hung on the wall directly above their bed, so he has to bend back to see it. 36 minutes and 49 seconds left. He could probably wrap this up in under five minutes and have a full half hour to try and convince Ford to break him out of here.
Or…he could make it last.
He plants his feet on the pillows and lifts himself up enough to get Ford out of him, and cringes at the sight of his warped, squishy base. Ford's mouth and chin are shiny with fluids and he's panting, waiting on Bill's order.
"Eh," Bill decides. It sounds nonchalant if you ignore the shortness of his breath. "You're gonna have to try a lot harder than that if you wanna get off sometime today!" He turns to make sure he hasn't been disobeyed while he wasn't looking. Ford's hand is still sitting there motionless while his dick leaks all over it. Bill laughs, delighted. "Look at that," he says happily, "You really can follow simple instructions! Good for you, IQ."
Ford's cock twitches in the loose grip of his hand. "Don't patronize me," he grumbles.
"You'll go soft if I don't!" Bill hops off him to sit beside his head and ruffles his hair. "Now, let me guess, you want to move that hand dontcha?"
"Yes," Ford answers immediately.
"Hmm, I dunno…doesn't seem like your heart's really in it."
Ford glances over at him. "Yes," he says again, irritable this time.
"Lose the attitude," Bill warns.
"Oh, for god's sake." Ford scoffs. Despite the fuss, he's still not doing anything without permission.
"Tick tock, kid. You're down to—" Bill strains his eye upward to check the clock again. He can really feel the swelling in his eyelids now. "35 minutes! I can wait that out easy! I've got a pretty good view from right here," he settles back on the pillow and kicks his feet up on Ford's shoulder. "We can sit here for half an hour if that's what you want! I'll tell you all about how I'm gonna torture you when I get out of here while you try to stay still!"
There's a minuscule, uncomfortable squirm of Ford's hips, trying to sneakily fuck into his hand. "Bill," he complains.
"Hoho, what's that?" Bill laughs, "You think being pathetic will make me go easy on you?"
Ford shuts his eyes and mutters, "I think you're fucking with me."
"Sure am! Next best thing after fucking you. Do you want motion or not, you crybaby?"
"…Yes," Ford says, sounding defeated.
"O-kay then! That wasn't so hard," Bill pinches his cheek, "Start off slow for me."
Ford kicks into gear, dragging his hand over his cock at a pace that looks perfectly agonizing. It looks like it takes a lot of restraint to keep that pace, like it's so slow it might actually be worse than nothing, which is exactly how Bill wants it. He spends a long time staring sidelong at Ford's expression while he tortures himself for his enjoyment. Eyes shut, brows knitted, face tense, like he's concentrating hard on the task at hand. All his brainpower dedicated to doing what Bill asks.
"Can I…" Ford says after a minute, "I…" his voice trails off into a quiet groan.
"Pull up your shirt and play with your tits? You sure can! How sweet of you to ask!"
Ford does it without protesting the use of the word tits, so he must be pretty far gone already. He knows Bill wants a show, clearly, with how he fumbles to push his sweater high enough to expose his nipples, trails his free hand up over his stomach and cups his pec. The pillow has become oddly damp against Bill's base.
"Not what I meant," Ford manages. "I want…"
"Spit it out, smart guy, what good are all those PhD's if you can't string a sentence together?!"
"Can I try again?" He rolls his head to the side to look at Bill directly. "With my mouth?"
Oh. Bill was expecting a plea to go faster, not that.
He almost says yes immediately before he gets a hold of himself. "Huh," he says, casually checking the clock, "Do you really think your head game got any better in the last six minutes?"
"Just let me try. Ple—"
Bill is swinging a leg over his head before he can fully get the word out. "Ooookay, sure, but I'm not a practice dummy! You better wow me or there'll be consequences!" he sings the word. "For your dick!"
Ford just moans in response, lips wrapping warm around his edge. He takes to doing what he did before at a much, much slower pace; experimentally licking his way around and inside. Bill is perhaps a slight bit more sensitive this time around, even this languid approach is making him jolt (and laugh it off each time it happens). He's facing Ford's body now, keeping an eye on his hands and making sure they don't get any funny ideas. It's a little harder to balance without Ford's noggin to brace himself on, which he finds out the hard way when a soft roll of his tongue has Bill curling forward, gasping, nearly falling off his perch. Ford stops feeling himself up to offer a hand for him to hang onto, and he accepts it without acknowledgment.
"Why—" Bill starts, and his voice is already wobbly. He clears his throat, or whatever the area is where his voicebox resides. "Why don't you pick up the pace?" He has to hold Ford's hand with both of his to keep himself upright. "But don't get crazy."
He realizes he didn't specify hand or tongue when both start to move faster. Resisting the urge to sink into it takes too much effort, so he sinks into it, moving with Ford's rhythm to let him brush against that sweet spot inside him over and over and over and over.
He's up at the edge before he knows it. He can see Ford moving way too fast, losing control of himself, but he's too dazed to get out a proper command. "You better not—" he manages, "You—" And somehow Ford gets the message enough to slow down again. It's so good, he knows exactly what Bill wants from him without even needing the instruction. You'd think they shared a brain at one point or something.
Bill makes a noise like a transformer blowing out when he comes, thinking about being in Ford's brain, inside his body, how whole and right it felt. He squeezes tight where his fingers are interlaced with Ford's and feels him squeeze back and pictures their hands merging into one.
The sound of sloppy, uneven groans catches his attention as his orgasm fizzles off. Ford is huffing harshly through his nose and noises are pluming from his throat seemingly uncontrollably, volume rising and falling with each movement of his mouth, each gasp for air. He's close. Too close. Bill jerks back to life with a "Haaa—!" one more try, "Hands off! Now!"
Ford rips his hand away from himself, fingers curling in the air like he's fighting to do it. His hips strive upwards and his cock bobs sadly against his stomach while he struggles not to come. It's quite the show. Very dramatic.
His tongue goes still though; mouth falling open to breathe hot, ragged breaths and one sad whine against Bill's base. Bill reaches back to pat him on the cheek. "Awww," there's no real sympathy to it, "I didn't tell you to stop up here, pal. You can come after I do!"
Ford says nothing for a second. Then he rasps, "You haven't yet?"
"Not once," Bill lies.
"Hm."
Bill twists around to look him in the eye. Or tries to. He's not quite flexible enough to pull it off. "You got something to say?" he demands.
Instead of answering, Ford kisses between his legs to make him twitch. Bill can feel him grinning.
"Real cute," Bill grumbles. "You've got 20 minutes left." 22, actually, but he's rounding for dramatic effect. He kicks Ford's ear like he's spurring a horse. "Giddy up!"
Any concern about the time limit shoots to the back of his mind when Ford gets back to work. He's much better when he's not multitasking. Now his full attention is on Bill, just how it should be. And both his hands are free to grab Bill's angles and pull him more firmly into his mouth. "That's, ah," Bill wheezes. "A good try but you still suck at this." Maybe he shouldn't let Ford do anything but tongue him for the remainder of their time, he thinks. Who cares if Ford goes home pent up? He only has to wait a month!
Bill is so soft he feels like goop, like he's melting, like the only thing keeping him triangular are the hands on his sides. He can't seem to decide between letting his eye roll back or watching Ford uselessly hump the air. Just that tiny struggle takes up all his brain power for a long, long moment, and he forgets about everything else. Forgets about the time limit. Forgets Ford will be gone pretty soon. Somehow forgets he's in Theraprism at all. For a long, stretched-out moment he's just with Ford and everything is good.
The thing that brings him back to reality is the irritatingly polite chime of the fifteen minute warning. Bill flinches, suddenly antsier than ever. How could they have possibly used up so much time?
He smacks the back of Ford's knuckles to get his attention, and makes sure he can speak semi-steadily with a practice hum before he tells him, "Fuck your hand already. What are you waiting for?" He wrenches one hand off his side, opens it up, and spits in the palm. "Get busy!"
Ford pauses to mumble, "If I do, I'm going to—"
"No you won't! Not without my say-so!" Bill nudges his hand away. "You're gonna stop every time you get close."
Reluctantly, Ford takes his dick back into his hand. His movements are delicate and slow, but he still only manages a few strokes before he has to let go again. He makes an unhappy sound into Bill's edge.
"Just like that," Bill chirps. He starts to shift around against Ford's lips to urge him on. "Come on, keep going or you're gonna miss your chance to blow your load!"
Ford gets back to mouthing at his base with a desperation that has Bill squirming to adjust to the unexpected speed. It's so much and so fast it has him fighting not to come, which is not how this is supposed to go. He can come whenever he wants! And Ford will be lucky if he does!
He just…doesn't want it to be over yet.
Ford, on the other hand, is begging for it to be over. After only a few seconds or minutes—Bill isn't checking the clock—of increasingly short bursts of hand-fucking, he's mumbling "Please, please," in between wet sounds and breaths. Without meaning to, Bill starts to move in tandem with him, fueled by the sweet sound of begging. What he had only just managed to adjust to becomes too much again, and he lets it. He lets Ford know that he's close with claws in the back of his hand and distorted, uncontrolled noises and flickering. Once again he's in that nowhere spot at the top of the rollercoaster, floating in a contextless space and feeling every glowing inch of his body. He watches the way Ford's cock flushes with need, the way his stomach tenses when he lets go for the nth time, hears him sob beneath him, and he comes again.
This time it goes on and on and on because Ford won't let up. It's good for a few seconds before it sets prickling sensitivity exploding all across Bill's planes, clinging to him like static electricity on a TV screen. He wriggles, trying to get away, pushing at Ford's hand on his angle and kicking at his collarbone. "Okay okay OKAY," he cries, twisting. "SIX—" He swears, but it might come out in Euclydian by the way he flashes with light. "YOU GAH—YOU GOT IT BLF WRW RG LPZB MLD VZHV FK!"
Ford finally stops and lets go of his corner.
Bill heaves a breath before flopping dramatically down onto his chest. He can feel himself pulsing with light like a broken neon sign, and it doesn't settle down for way too long. He pats at himself to check if he's still structurally intact, and he is. Shocking with how soft he's gotten. It's never as dramatic looking as it feels. It took a while for Ford to even notice when it happened.
He realizes, belatedly, that he practically cried uncle just now. What an embarrassment. Maybe he'll stay facedown in Ford's boobs with his limbs all wet-noodled around him forever so he doesn't have to be seen ever again.
He realizes more belatedly that he didn't hear Ford come yet. He's still waiting on the explicit go-ahead. Even though he just had Bill fighting to escape his tongue. He knows his place so well!
Bill peels his face up off sweaty skin to check, and yep, no jizz puddle. He gives a thumbs up as best he can and says, "You're in the clear!" then props himself up on his elbows to watch the finale.
Ford comes in a matter of seconds, shuddering and twitching with his own oversensitivity. Bill gets that satisfying relief of revenge, watching it, and a little bit of cum in his eye, which he promptly licks off. The rise and fall of Ford's chest beneath him is like a slowly calming sea post-storm. Bill lays there atop the waves until they settle completely, and checks the clock. 8 minutes. Somehow he missed the chime of the ten minute warning.
He scoots further down Ford's torso and sits up properly so he can reach down and roughly jerk his dick.
"Bill—fuck—stop!" Ford curls up like a dying insect and snatches Bill's hand off him. "Why?!"
"Just checkin' to see if there's anything else in there," Bill says innocently. He drags one finger through the cum on Ford's stomach and reaches up to offer it to him.
Ford scowls, but sticks out his tongue to accept it anyway. He wrinkles his nose at the taste. Funny that gets him after an hour of gulping down Bill's mystery fluids. "I can assure you there's nothing left," he snaps, and collapses back against the pillows. He pulls up a handful of the bedsheet and uses it to wipe off his face, then his belly. "…I hate to imagine what else is on these sheets," he says idly.
"A smorgasbord of genetic material," Bill answers, "If this bed could incubate it'd be pumping out the most fucked up crossbreeds imaginable!"
"That's disgusting," Ford chuckles.
"Oh yeah, you should see it under blacklight. Looks like primordial soup!" Bill lays down again, right over top of Ford's diseased old heart. Ford rests a hand against his back. He's smiling, but in a way only Bill can recognize; with his eyes instead of his mouth. "So," Bill goes on, kicking his legs in the air behind him to make a point of his ankle monitor. "You figure out how to get this jewelry off me yet?"
Ford's expression falls. "I already told you I won't—"
The five minute warning chimes a soft three-tone melody. An automated voice follows, bringing both of their gazes up towards the ceiling,
"Five minutes remaining. Please return Patient [323322] to their safety bracelets before the conclusion of the visit."
A pin-drop silence follows. The same one that always does, where reality decides to smother both of them. Where Bill silently demands that Ford resist for once, get him the hell out of here, and Ford silently says no. It happens every single time, but Bill never gets used to it. At least when they have their normal-length visits they have some time to hash it out. Or rather, he has time to get Ford just as pissed off as he is.
Ford sighs into the quiet, "Let's get dressed," and brushes Bill off him and onto the bed so he can sit up.
"Fuck off," Bill snaps, "You were JUST complaining that an hour isn't enough time, now you're gonna walk out when they tell you to, you complacent little pawn?"
Ford pulls up his pants, redoes his belt, pulls down his sweater. He plucks Bill's jumpsuit up off the floor and wordlessly passes it to him. Bill just glares at it.
"You're a joke," he spits, "You ALWAYS do this, and the punchline never gets any better! You KNOW this ends with me getting out. You're just DELAYING THE INEVITABLE."
There's a quiet shift of fabric as Ford drops the jumpsuit on the bed. His face is a disappointed wince.
"Sure!" Bill says with a harsh, hysteric laugh. "This is fine! This is EXACTLY HOW YOU WANT IT! This is PERFECT for you! You haaaaate being controlled, even though it's the ONLY THING THAT GETS YOU OFF!"
Ford drops his sneakers on the bed as well. Bill picks one up and hurls it at his head, but it flies right past him and across the room. It lands on the linoleum with a humiliating rubber bounce. Ford's stupid holier-than-thou quiet act makes everything ten times worse.
"All you know how to DO is what other people tell you!" Bill shouts, "They tell you to go and you DO IT WITHOUT QUESTION! YOU WERE BORN TO BE A PUPPET, KID. YOU'RE NOTHING WITHOUT ME PULLING YOUR STRINGS!"
"We have two minutes left, Bill," Ford says, looking past him at the clock.
"YOU AREN'T PUTTING ME IN CHAINS!"
"For every second you're not in them after the time is up they'll dock us for the next visit," Ford says wearily. "We have four hours for next time as of now. I'd like to keep it that way. Although you're making me seriously rethink that." He mutters the last part.
Bill knows that, but it only infuriates him more. He hates this place and he hates Ford for going along with their bullshit rules. He hates him for not putting up a fight. He hates him for leaving like it's nothing.
But something sticks with him enough to make him put his jumpsuit and remaining shoe back on: next time.
Next time, next time, next time. He'll be back. Of course he will. He can't stay away!
When he's dressed, Ford holds out both arms, a silent offer to carry him back over to his seat. Bill does not need to be carried. He can walk perfectly fine.
He accepts the offer anyway. Clings onto Ford's neck tight enough to choke him, with any luck. Feels the warmth of him through his clothes, the press of his hand against his back surface. Ford is gentle when he sets him back in his seat and helps him put the cuffs back on, and Bill hates him more than anything for that. He squeezes Bill's hand once, after the locks are secured, and Bill latches onto his thumb. It takes a few seconds for Ford to work his hand free, eyes downcast. He spares an awkward look at Bill when they're separated, cheeks puffed like he doesn't know what to say.
"Goodbye," he settles on, as though they're strangers parting in an elevator.
The chime signaling the end of their visit sounds, and the door pops open with a hollow clunk. Bill watches Ford gather up his coat and walk out the door without so much as a glance back. Then he's alone.