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Bill is idly skimming through townspeoples’ dreams, when Stanford summons him. He’s drawn out of his prison and into Ford’s mindscape, and the spellwork on his wrists and ankles glows blue, forcibly shifting his form to something… rather more humanoid than his default. He focuses carefully, shaping the magic as it works, trying to get everything in the right places; he can’t stop it, but he can influence it. As his form settles, Bill clenches his shackled hands, and as Stanford looks him over, Bill stares right back.
“Hm. Better than last time,” Ford allows, after a moment of scrutiny. He looks just the way he does in the physical realm; the fitted turtleneck, the perfectly-tailored coat, the sparkling blue amulet around his neck that Bill spends so much of his time trapped in.
Bill looks down at himself, examining. He’s still wearing his top hat, his bow tie. He’s got brown skin this time, two arms and two legs and two eyes, a mouth with soft lips. Ten fingers and ten toes, hair in tight curls that keep close to his scalp. A brick-patterned dress that poorly mimics his usual shape, just barely brushing the tops of his feet. Last time, the yellow bricks patterned his skin, instead of his clothes; he knows he hasn’t made such an egregious mistake this time, so…
“What did I get wrong?” he asks, looking back up.
“The hands, again,” Ford says.
Bill raises his hands. Wiggles the fingers. They move in stiff arcs, curling inward toward his palm. They look human. He glares at them. “Too many joints,” Stanford says, and Bill looks back at him, watching him spread one six-fingered hand out demonstratively. “The fingers should have two, and meet the palm at the third.”
Bill spreads his hands out the same way. Counts the finger joints: one, two, three… four.
“Oh,” he says, dropping his hands.
“Don’t worry. Practice makes perfect. Soon you’ll have all the details down.”
Bill bites the inside of his cheek, and doesn’t argue that he doesn’t want to have the details down, because he doesn’t want to look like a human. He just wants to go home, back to his own dimension, where he doesn’t have to worry about power-hungry madmen tricking him into helping them build portals for world domination. Where he doesn’t have to spend his time doing cheap tricks and making himself look human and pretty.
Stepping closer, into Bill’s space, Ford leans down-- the kiss isn’t unexpected, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant, as Ford more or less tries to shove his tongue down Bill’s throat. Bill entertains, briefly, the thought of biting it off, but he knows that the damage wouldn’t be permanent, in here. It wouldn’t do anything but make Stanford angry.
Ford grips the backs of Bill’s thighs, lifts him off the ground to press his back against a wall that wasn’t there a moment ago. Bill’s breath hitches, and he wraps his legs around Ford’s waist, lifts his arms over Ford's head to drape over his shoulders, even as Stanford breaks the kiss and draws back slightly, eyeing Bill like a bug under a microscope.
“The children said they caught you talking to that Valentino boy, while you were out, earlier,” Ford says, and Bill tenses.
“W-who, Hearts?” He laughs, internally wincing at how nervous it sounds-- but he’s always nervous, nowadays. “He just asked for a fortune! I told him the exact time and place of his death!”
“So he didn’t have any questions about the family?” Ford asks, raising an eyebrow. Bill shakes his head vehemently. “And you didn’t tell him anything about us? About the portal? About you?”
“Of course not!” Bill shakes his head again, hoping desperately that Stanford will buy it. Ford hums, thoughtful, as he eyes Bill, searching for signs of a lie. He won’t find any-- Bill’s too good a liar for that, even in this form, with all its expressions and reactions. Practice makes perfect, after all.
“...Good,” Ford says eventually, sounding pleased, and despite himself, Bill relaxes at the word, practically melting in Stanford’s grip.
The wall at his back ripples, and the surface shifts. Bill finds himself sitting on a ledge, with Stanford still standing between his legs. Ford moves his hands to Bill’s hips, leans in for another kiss, and Bill returns it eagerly, relieved that he’s no longer being questioned. He shifts his wrists in their shackles, tangles his fingers in Ford’s hair, his other hand dangling at an only-slightly-awkward angle.
Ford pulls Bill’s skirt up, out of the way, until the front of it is bunched in his lap, and a startled, muffled sound leaves Bill’s throat as Stanford grabs his now-bare thighs again, dragging him closer to the edge of his seat. Breaking the kiss, Ford moves one hand up, grabbing Bill’s hat off his head and tossing it aside. He runs his hand back, over Bill’s hair, stopping at the base of his skull and pulling on one curl to get it to straighten to its full length. There isn’t far for it to go. He lets go with a fascinated hum, and Bill waits for the question he knows is coming.
“You usually make your hair long,” Stanford says, almost softly. “Why’d you change it?”
Because I know you like it long, Bill keeps himself from snapping. Because I still don’t have to give you everything you want.
“Just thought it might be fun to try something new,” he says. Ford smiles, like he doesn’t believe that, but Bill doesn’t care.
Stanford keeps one hand on the back of Bill’s neck, slides the other up the inside of Bill’s thigh. His hand goes still at what he finds between the demon’s legs.
“I know you know better than this,” he says, fingers curling curiously around a tentacle, which curls right back.
“Like I said,” Bill grins, a bit smug, “I thought it’d be fun to try something new.”
Ford laughs, amusement outweighing disapproval, and he spreads his fingers, letting them tangle in the small nest of tendrils. Eyes closing, Bill lets his forehead drop against Stanford’s shoulder.
Things like this-- all physical sensations-- are muted, in the mindscape. Not as intense as they’d be in the physical realm. So, as his body gets used to Stanford’s attention, Bill finds his mind wandering. He thinks of all the times they did this before, when it still felt real. He thinks of the first time they met, when Ford summoned him; how delighted the then-young man had been to have a muse. How Bill had felt so powerful, to be helping Ford build something that could change both their worlds. How Ford always seemed to regard him with such reverence, his awe and affection bordering on worship, and how Bill ate it all up and never saw the trap closing underneath.
Not until he was human-shaped and vulnerable, open in every possible way, on his back and breathless as the magic took hold and the chains appeared. Not until Stanford had responded to his frantic, angry questions with a cold smile and a whispered “you’re mine” with enough gravity behind it to form a black hole.
Bill thinks of how long he’ll drag out his revenge, if when he gets free. How he’ll take his sweet fucking time, make the whole damn Pines family hurt, save Stanford’s punishment for last and make him beg--
A painful tug at his new tentacles brings Bill back to himself with a gasp, and his eyes fly open, blinking down at where Stanford has tangled all of them up in his fist, the tips squirming desperately between his fingers.
“Daydreaming, Bill?” Ford asks, and Bill doesn’t have to look to know the man is grinning. “At a time like this?”
Ford punctuates the question by twisting his hand, pulling the tendrils in new directions, and Bill can’t help the small sound that escapes him. He shuts his eyes again, pulls harder at Ford’s hair, because he hasn’t been ordered to stop yet.
Stanford’s grip loosens, and he drags his fingers gently through the mess of tentacles, grabbing at one or two at a time, twisting them between his fingers before letting go. They get more eager the more he plays with them, wriggling, curling around his hand, secreting a clear, sticky fluid that soon coats his fingers. He reaches down to the base of them, to the center of the small, writhing mass, and pokes and prods at the smaller nubs of soft, sensitive flesh there, until Bill shudders, and the tentacles wriggle urgently, grip Ford’s hand with more force, trying to entangle him, keep him close, keep him there, right there, keep going--
Ford hums, withdraws his hand abruptly, and Bill makes a small, frustrated sound, looking up just in time to see Ford swipe one finger across his lower lip, tongue darting out to taste the fluid left there. “...Interesting,” Stanford murmurs, primarily to himself. Bill suppresses the urge to shudder, or wrinkle his nose, or anything else that would show his disgust. He just silently watches Ford mull over the taste of him. When Ford raises his fingers to Bill’s mouth, next, Bill thinks again about biting. It wouldn’t take much effort, really. He opens his mouth, lets his teeth graze over the two fingers Ford pushes between them. He sucks the digits clean, swallows the taste of his own sweet-acidic slick. Doesn’t react when Ford presses the fingers deeper into his mouth, poking into his throat; Bill knows humans have a gag reflex, but he’s long known better than to give himself one.
He doesn’t bite Stanford’s fingers off, which shows a great deal of self control, in Bill’s opinion. Ford pulls his hand away, keeps the other at the back of Bill’s neck for an extra second, squeezing just for a moment before letting go. He pauses, then ducks his head, purposely bumping his forehead against Bill’s arm. Bill gets the message and raises his tied hands over Ford’s head, unlooping them from their place draping over his shoulders. He rests his hands in his lap, instead, gripping tightly at the fabric of his bunched-up skirt.
For a long moment, they only stare at each other. Something unreadable flashes in Stanford’s eyes.
“...What?” Bill snaps, when nothing else happens right away. He forgets himself for an instant, tries to reach out and See what thoughts are hiding behind those glasses-- the tattoos on his limbs glow again, and the magical backlash forces a short cry out of him. He curls in on himself, trying to minimize the pain, somehow, and Stanford puts one hand at the small of his back, shushing him gently. The other hand nudges between Bill’s legs again, apparently determined to pick up where it left off.
Stanford pinches roughly at one of the small, less dextrous tendrils hiding at the base of the larger tentacles. When Bill’s leg jumps in reflex, Ford gives a breathy, self-satisfied laugh, and does it again. Bill curls further over Ford’s arm, all but hugging it, gripping his coat sleeve with both hands.
“ Please ,” Bill grits out, and he’s not even sure what it means: please, stop, or please, more .
Stanford tangles his fingers through Bill’s tentacles again, keeps twisting and rubbing and grabbing just as he did before, and this time he doesn’t stop. Not even when Bill tenses, his tentacles all curling up around Ford’s hand, up his wrist. They pulse as Bill cums , rippling against Ford’s skin , dripping a new fluid, this one a bright magenta, tiny splatters of it bleaching the edge of Ford’s dark coat sleeve.
“Strange,” Stanford notes, still so fucking detached, even as Bill shakes apart at his touch. And he still doesn’t stop , hand still moving, chasing Bill’s tentacles, which desperately shrink away from the contact, overstimulated. “Where did the inspiration for these come from?”
Bill doesn’t technically need to breathe, but he takes a few deep, shaking breaths, before answering. To get his thoughts in order, and to give his body some semblance of a pause, and just to make Stanford wait.
“An old ex of mine,” he answers blithely. Ford raises an eyebrow, and Bill forces himself to grin. “Don’t look so worried, Sixer. She was long before your time.”
Stanford doesn’t look amused. Or impressed. He grabs roughly at a few of Bill’s tentacles again, wringing a broken moan from the demon. He pulls on them, gentler this time, a long, slow stroke, sliding his fingers all the way to the tips before letting go. The tendrils retreat immediately once they’re released, and Ford watches, his fascinated stare almost clinical.
“Well, you certainly failed at passing for human,” he says. He pulls his arm back, and Bill quickly lets go of his sleeve, letting Ford move away. “We’ll just have to try again later, I suppose.”
Bill doesn’t bother agreeing. There’s always later . Always next time . He still doesn’t know what the point is, besides humiliating him. Reminding him that he’s under Ford’s complete control-- as if he could ever forget.
Without so much as a goodbye, he’s suddenly back in his usual prison; the muffled sound of knocking tells him what must have woken Ford up, brought them both out of the dream. He can’t see anything but the blue void of the amulet, but he can hear. He listens as Ford crosses the room, opens the door.
“What is it, Stanley?”
“Where’s the little guy?” Stanley demands. “I was gonna leave him out on display longer. He was making us a fortune off these stupid tourists.”
“He’s a demon, Stanley, not a carnival attraction,” Ford replies, disdainful, but not heated , Bill notes, which usually means he’d rather hand Bill over than argue about it. “Here, take him.”
And there it is. The familiar feeling of being stretched through a vacuum, and the shift to a near-identical blue cage, as Bill is shuffled from Ford’s amulet to the gem atop Stan’s cane. He’s still stuck in this almost-human form until Ford remembers, or cares enough, to release the spell, so Bill takes advantage of how easily it folds in on itself. He pulls his skirt down, tucks his legs up to his chest, wraps his arms around them, drops his head to his knees.
Then he’s shifted to yet another familiar prison-- this crystal larger, the barrier thinner, easier to see and See the people who come eagerly asking for answers they think they want. Bill sits, and answers them, and waits for later to come.