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Ford laces his fingers together tightly to stop them trembling. Bill would have mocked him for it, or if he'd been feeling merciful, pretended to ignore it. But the extra-dimensional being who decided (after poking through Ford's mind and memories) that he wanted to be called Stan has always been kinder to him than his wayward twin.
"Don't you worry, Sixer, I can feel how much you don't wanna back out," he says with Ford's voice, sliding himself into control just enough to ease the tension in Ford's hands. "And hey, if it turns out you don't like it you won't need to say a word, 'cuz I'll be right here feeling you every step of the way."
Ford ducks his head, blushing. He will like it, he knows, they've tried this in the dream realm once or twice - or, well, a few times - but there's something about the way Stan offers the assurance, as if Ford isn't ridiculous for liking hearing it, as if liking it isn't an insult that means he doesn't trust Stan (the way Bill would have heard it) - it's, it's nice.
He's safe.
Ford takes in a deep breath and bows his head.
Stan raises it.
Sharing a body, sharing control of his body like this, it brings their - minds, spirits, paraphysical entities - close enough to touch - not an overlap, more two puddles of wet paint mingling where they touch, Ford is still Ford and Stan is still Stan but their emotions are becoming Ford&Stan's, becoming StanFord's, there's no room for Stan to misunderstand whether Ford wants him to stop at any point, Ford is safe.
Ford is safe.
His vision cuts off, and Ford gasps, hands rising to his face.
"Easy," Stan soothes, the soft rumble of his own voice making Ford's vocal cords vibrate strangely in his throat. "Don't worry, Sixer, your eyes are still working just fine. 's just that I'm the only one seein' through 'em right now." Hearing the Jersey accent that he so carefully pruned out of his speech makes Ford flush with unexpected shame - Stan likes using that accent, and when they're both in the mindscape there's something reassuring about hearing it, something homely, so Ford is blindsided by his sudden dislike of hearing it now just because it's coming from his own throat.
That reaction distracts him from his nascent panic, giving him space to calm down. He feels a little foolish - they've already done this, he knew it was coming, he doesn't understand why it's so shocking this time just because they're in a different layer of reality.
Stan moves Ford's hands to the back of their neck, pressing in little circles as if he's trying to rub Ford's tension away. "Don't worry, sweetheart, I gotcha," he says, and Ford lets himself relax. Stan looks back down, and Ford takes a moment to sink deeper into his body and try to feel enough to know what Stan is seeing.
He's nude, kneeling on a thick soft rug patterned with tessellating fish in different shades of gold. Stan will see his thighs, his knees spread slightly, his - oh. Somehow, it's a surprise to realise he's half-hard.
Stan's chuckle rumbles in his throat. His hands slide around, over their shoulders and down, one pausing to thumb lazily at Ford's nipple while the other trails over their belly to their groin, going to cup and gently squeeze Ford's testicles.
Ford moans.
Ford doesn't hear himself moan.
Ford feels his eyes widen, feels his mouth shape the words What? Stan - but he can't hear anything - and then his mouth curls into Stan's smirk, and he does hear Stan gloat, "Tolja I gotcha, Sixer! And now all you can hear - is me."
The words, the promise, the insane amount of control Stan must have over Ford's perceptions to filter them so precisely - they make Ford groan again, cock jumping as he collapses into Stan's control. His body barely slumps, Stan letting their shoulders round as he wraps six dry fingers around Ford's cock, squeezing more than stroking. "That's right, sweetheart, you just give in to me," Stan croons. Their other hand reaches for - Ford should know, he's the one who laid everything out, but it's so dark and the only sound is Stan's voice (is Stan using Ford's voice) and it's a complete surprise to feel their fingers dipping into the bowl of lubricant (homemade, an experiment Stan had affectionately bullied him into). Ford's body shifts, and he isn't the one shifting it. His fingers are dripping with oily salve as they skip his hard dick to dive between his asscheeks, rubbing and prying and Ford has no idea how loud he cries out as the first finger pushes in because he can't hear anything.
But Ford's the one who pushes his hips back to ask for more, Ford's the one who makes Stan swear, "Fuck, ya need it bad, doncha?" and shove a second in immediately, Ford's the one who says, begs, Stan, more, more! and can feel his throat tighten against some disappointed noise when the fingers are pulled out instead.
Their hand flies out to grab something and then Ford's head spins as they move, soft-thick against their back instead of their shins, and then something that is very much not a finger is pressing into them and Ford throws his head back as he unhearingly wails. He doesn't know what it is, he doesn't care, all that matters is that Stan is fucking him with it. The hand that was on his dick lets go and fumbles for the lube, coming back to catch him in a slick hot grip that works him in a rhythm Ford has no control over, and Stan is babbling about how good he'll make Ford feel, how perfect Ford is, his words stumbling around the sounds Ford knows he must be making but he doesn't care, he doesn't, all he cares about is being good for Stan -
Ford's back arches as he comes, Stan intent on milking every drop out him. They slump, breathing slowly evening out as Stan eases the - whatever-it-was - out of Ford, and relax onto the rug.
Ford isn't sure how long he stares at the ceiling before realising he can see it. His twinge of embarrassment makes Stan chuckle again, and their arms wrap around him and squeeze in a quick hug. "Love ya, Sixer," Stan murmurs, comfortable admitting to a vulnerability they both know is entirely mutual, then shoves them into a sitting position with a grunt. "How's about I stay in charge for the clean-up?"
Ford hums agreement. It's an odd form of laziness, to do nothing even though his body is still doing all the work, and he luxuriates in it. Stan stands up, wipes them down with the damp towel prepared earlier (the hot water it was soaked in cooled to warm), picks up the lube bowl and - something Ford would not have thought to use as an improvised dildo if Stan hadn't suggested it to him - and turns to grin at the thing Ford had completely forgotten about.
A video camera, dutifully recording every moment of Ford's possession.
"What'd'ya think, Sixer? Should I hide the memory of this bit of fun, put the video somewhere, see how long it takes ya to find it?"
Ford licks his lips, the suggestion sparking a squirmy warmth in his guts. "That sounds - I - yes," he says, trying not to sound too eager. The thought of finding the recording, with no idea what's on it - the thought of reminding himself by watching, feeling it all again at the same time as he learns what exactly the sounds he's made and the faces he pulled are - it's going to be a humiliation unlike any other.
Humiliating, but completely safe.
He swallows. "Don't, ah, don't hide it too well."
Stan gives a full belly-laugh as the camera turns off.