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Ford catches his reflection in the bedroom mirror and immediately regrets every decision that led him to this moment.
The leather jacket fits well—he'll give Bill that much. Tailored, probably expensive, the kind of thing Bill would've had shipped from somewhere ridiculous like Milan or Tokyo just for the drama of it. The material is supple under Ford's tentative touch, broken in just enough to move with him rather than against him. When he shifts his shoulders experimentally, testing the range of motion, the leather whispers across his back like a secret.
The gloves are soft, butter-smooth against his six fingers, hugging each joint like they were made from a mold of his hands. Ford flexes his six fingers slowly, watching the leather crease and fold in the mirror. They fit perfectly—disturbingly so. Bill must have traced his hands while he slept, or stolen measurements somehow. The thought sends an unexpected flutter through his chest.
The pants, though—
"The pants are ridiculous," Ford mutters to his reflection, heat creeping up his neck.
They fit like a second skin. They do not forgive. They do not allow for dignity. They outline everything. Every line, every curve, every— Ford forcibly drags his eyes away from the mirror, face burning.
But god, the feeling of them. The leather clings to his thighs when he moves, slides against his skin with every step. It's warm now from his body heat, conforming to him in ways that feel almost obscene in their specificity.
"You coming out or what?" Bill calls from the other side of the door, voice muffled but tinged with anticipation. "I'm getting bored in here."
"I look like—I don't know what I look like." Ford's voice comes out rougher than he intends, betraying his nerves.
"Hot, probably. That was the whole point of the outfit, Fordsy."
Ford tugs at the collar of the jacket, trying to make it sit less… whatever it's currently sitting. The leather creaks with the movement, a low, intimate sound that makes his ears burn. The sound reminds him of old books being opened, of footsteps in empty hallways, of doors closing on private moments. He feels exposed despite being fully clothed. More exposed than if he were actually naked, somehow.
This was Bill's idea, of course. "Try something new," he'd said, sprawled across their bed two weeks ago with that particular glint in his eye that meant he was planning something. One leg bent at the knee, arms folded behind his head, looking for all the world like some kind of satisfied cat. "You're always so— I don't know, academic about everything. What if you tried being a little more…"
"More what?" Ford had asked, looking up from his journal with the kind of wariness that comes from decades of knowing Bill Cipher in all his forms.
"Dominant." Bill had grinned, sharp and teasing, his mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief. "You know. Take charge for once instead of letting me run the show."
Ford had pointed out that he took charge plenty, actually—strategically, intellectually, conversationally—but Bill had just laughed and kissed him, all heat and teeth and amusement. Two days later, a package arrived with Ford's name on it and Ford's credit card footing the bill.
Now Ford is standing in their bathroom in head-to-toe leather like some kind of midlife identity experiment, and his reflection is both foreign and unsettlingly compelling.
"Ford, I swear to god, if you don't get out here I'm coming in there."
"Don't you dare."
"Then stop being a coward and show me what I— you— paid for."
Coward. Ford straightens unconsciously, shoulders back, chin lifting. He's faced extradimensional horrors. He's survived thirty years in nightmare-ish dimensions. He's stared down idiots and demons and things that defied classification. He can handle walking into his own bedroom wearing expensive pants.
He takes a breath. Steadies himself. The leather is warm now from his body heat, molding to him in a way that's actually not unpleasant once he gets past the initial self-consciousness. He can smell it—that distinct new-leather scent, sharp and clean and slightly chemical, mixed with something else. Cologne, maybe, that Bill spritzed on the jacket before wrapping it.
He opens the door.
Bill is exactly where Ford expected him to be—stretched out on the bed, propped up on his elbows, wearing an old band t-shirt and boxer shorts and nothing else. His hair is messy, sticking up in six directions like he's been running his hands through it while he waited. His mismatched eyes—one gold, one glass and silver—track Ford's movement as he steps into the room, and there's something almost predatory in the focus of his gaze.
The afternoon light slants through the window, catching on the silver of Bill's glass eye and turning it into a point of brightness in the dim room. For a moment Ford is struck by how human he looks. How far removed from the incandescent, impossible triangle that used to invade his dreams. The t-shirt is faded—some band Ford doesn't recognize, probably from the 70s, probably stolen from Ford's box of old college clothes that he can never seem to get rid of. Bill's legs are bare, one ankle crossed lazily over the other, pale skin almost luminous in the golden light. There's a book abandoned face-down on the nightstand, pages bent, bookmark forgotten.
Then Bill's mouth falls open.
The change is immediate and total. His whole body goes still, every muscle locking into place like he's been frozen mid-breath. His eye widens until Ford can see the white all around the gold iris, pupil contracting then dilating in rapid succession.
"Bill, dear, this is ridiculous," Ford starts, tugging at the jacket collar again in a futile attempt to appear less… whatever he currently appears. "I look like I'm having some kind of crisis and—"
Bill makes a sound.
It's not a word. It's barely even a sound. More like air escaping from a punctured tire, high and strangled and completely involuntary. His hands, which had been loose at his sides a moment ago, curl into the bedspread, gripping it hard enough that his knuckles go white against the dark fabric.
Ford stops mid-sentence, hand still on his collar. "…are you alright?"
Bill doesn't answer. Can't answer, apparently. His eye is wide, pupil blown so large it nearly swallows the gold, and he's staring at Ford like he's seeing him for the first time. Like Ford just walked in wearing something genuinely dangerous instead of something he nearly returned three separate times before Bill hid his phone.
Ford watches, fascinated despite himself, as Bill's chest stops moving. Like he's forgotten how to breathe. Like the automatic processes of his human body have shut down in favor of dedicating all available processing power to looking.
Then Bill's mouth snaps shut. Opens again. His tongue darts out to wet his lips—an unconscious, very human gesture that Ford has catalogued a thousand times in a thousand different contexts—and Ford tracks the movement before he can stop himself. Watches the way Bill's throat works as he swallows. The way his fingers flex against the bedspread, then tighten again.
"Holy shit," Bill breathes finally, and his voice is wrecked.
"It's just leather," Ford says, but his voice has gone rougher. He can hear it himself, the drop in register, the way the words catch slightly in his throat.
"That's not—" Bill sits up fully, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with jerky, uncoordinated movements. His hands are still gripping the comforter like he needs it to stay grounded, to keep from floating away or combusting or something equally dramatic. "You're not just—" He gestures vaguely at Ford, a helpless, flailing wave that encompasses everything from Ford's boots to his hair. "Fuck."
Heat creeps up Ford's neck, spreading across his cheeks in a way he knows must be visible. He's not used to being looked at like this. Bill looks at him all the time—with affection, with amusement, with fond exasperation when Ford gets too caught up in his own head and forgets to eat or sleep or acknowledge the passage of time—but this is different. This is raw want, unfiltered and obvious and almost overwhelming in its intensity.
It lands in Ford's stomach like a dropped weight, heavy and warm and spreading.
"If you're going to make fun of me—" Ford starts, but his protest sounds weak even to his own ears.
"Make fun of you?" Bill's voice cracks slightly, jumping up half an octave in a way that would be funny if he didn't look so genuinely undone. "Ford, I'm about to pass out. You can't just— you can't walk in here looking like that and expect me to form coherent sentences."
"I look the same as I always do." It's a lie and they both know it, but Ford says it anyway, some reflexive need for grounding in the familiar.
"You absolutely do not." Bill pushes himself to his feet—or tries to. Gets halfway there before his knees seem to give out and he sits back down hard on the bed, the mattress bouncing slightly with the impact. "Oh Ax– Okay. Okay, give me a second."
Ford has never seen Bill this flustered. Not in any iteration, any form, any dimension.
It is… intoxicating.
Something warm and pleased unfurls in Ford's chest. Not arrogance, exactly. But a dawning awareness of leverage. Of power, quiet and controlled and his. The kind of power that has nothing to do with strength or force and everything to do with the way Bill's breathing has gone ragged, the way he can't seem to look away.
Ford takes another step into the room. Slow. Measured. The leather creaks again, deliberate this time, and he watches Bill's eye track the sound like a physical thing.
Bill's gaze drags slowly up Ford's body—boots to thighs to hips to gloves to shoulders to face—and Ford watches him watch. Sees the way his throat works as he swallows. The way his chest rises and falls too quickly. The way his fingers press into the bedspread like he's trying to anchor himself.
"You're staring," Ford points out. His voice is steady now, almost amused.
"Yeah, no shit I'm staring." Bill laughs, breathless and a little hysterical. "Have you seen yourself?"
"I was looking in a mirror for fifteen minutes. I look like I'm about to buy a motorcycle I don't know how to ride."
"You look like you know exactly how to ride it," Bill shoots back automatically.
Ford's lips twitch. The corner of his mouth curves up despite his best efforts to maintain composure.
"No, you know what?" Bill shakes his head, scrubbing a hand through his hair and making it stand up even more. "I'm not playing into your weird fishing-for-compliments thing right now. You know exactly what you look like."
"I genuinely don't."
"Liar."
"I am not lying. I think I look absurd."
"Well you're wrong." Bill's voice firms up, some of his usual sharpness returning even as his hands continue to betray him with their trembling. "You look like every fantasy I've had since getting this body and a few I had before it."
Ford's breath catches. The words hit him like a physical thing, stealing the air from his lungs. "That's—"
"True. Extremely true." Bill leans back on his hands, and the movement makes his t-shirt ride up slightly, exposing a strip of pale stomach. Ford can see his pulse there too, fluttering visibly beneath the skin. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me right now?"
"I'm standing here," Ford says, but the words come out lower than he intends, settling somewhere deeper in his chest.
"You're standing there looking like you're going to wreck me."
The words hang between them, charged and electric.
"That was the idea, wasn't it?" Ford says, and his voice drops lower without his permission. "You wanted me to be more assertive."
"Yeah." Bill's breathing has picked up, chest rising and falling visibly. "Yeah, that was the idea."
"So…" Ford lets the word trail off, watching Bill's reaction. Savoring it.
"So stop hovering by the door like you're afraid I'm going to bite and come here."
"But you do bite."
"Only when invited." Bill's grin is sharp, hungry. "Consider this an invitation."
Ford moves before he can overthink it. Three long strides across the room, the leather announcing each step with its distinctive creak and whisper. He stops just in front of Bill, close enough that he's standing between Bill's knees, that he can feel the heat radiating from Bill's body. Close enough that Bill has to tilt his head back to keep eye contact, and the shift in height, in position, in power—
Bill's hands come up automatically, settling on Ford's hips—or trying to. His fingers catch on the leather and slip, and he makes a frustrated sound low in his throat and tries again. This time his grip holds, thumbs pressing into the space just above Ford's belt, and Ford can feel the heat of his palms even through the leather. Can feel the tremor running through Bill's fingers.
"Hi," Bill says, and there's something almost shy about it.
"Hi," Ford echoes.
They hold each other's gaze. Ford can feel the tremor in Bill's hands, the heat of his palms even through the leather. Can see the way Bill's pulse jumps in his throat, rapid and erratic. The way his pupils swallow the gold of his iris until there's barely any color left. The way his lips part slightly, unconsciously, like he's forgotten how to breathe through his nose.
"You're nervous," Ford observes quietly.
"I'm not nervous." But Bill's voice wavers, giving him away.
"You're shaking."
"That's just—" Bill tightens his grip on Ford's hips, jaw clenching. The muscles in his arms flex, visible beneath his skin. "That's unrelated."
"To what?"
"Come here and find out."
The air in the room shifts. Thickens. Becomes something Ford could almost reach out and touch.
Ford inhales slowly, deliberately. Lets the silence stretch between them like a rubber band pulled taut. He's spent his entire life filling silences with explanations, with theories, with words upon words upon words. This time, he lets it hang. Lets the tension build. Watches Bill squirm slightly under the weight of it.
"I could take it off," Ford says mildly.
"Don't you dare." The vehemence in Bill's voice is immediate and absolute.
The response makes Ford laugh—a surprised, genuine sound that loosens something in his chest, something that had been wound too tight. Bill grins up at him, sharp and feral and so very, very human.
"Good," Bill mutters, his grin softening into something warmer. "You're finally enjoying this."
Ford considers that. The warmth in his chest. The steady thrum of control under his skin, subtle but undeniable. The way Bill is looking at him like he's something rare and dangerous and utterly captivating. The power of it. The heady rush of having Bill—Bill Cipher, chaos incarnate, reality's favorite toy—completely and utterly undone by his presence.
"…Perhaps I am," he admits quietly.
Bill's breath hitches, and Ford watches his throat work as he swallows.
Ford reaches up slowly, deliberately, and tilts Bill's chin up with two gloved fingers. The leather whispers against Bill's skin, and Bill goes utterly still beneath the touch. His eye widens, fixed on Ford's face with an intensity that feels like it could burn. Ford can feel Bill's pulse beneath his fingertips, rabbit-quick and erratic, and the sharp inhale Bill can't quite swallow down.
"You wanted me to take charge," Ford murmurs, and his voice has dropped into a register he barely recognizes as his own.
Bill's eye goes dark, pupil swallowing even the last rim of gold. "Yeah," he breathes.
Ford leans in—slow, deliberate, giving Bill every second to anticipate it. Watching the way Bill's eye tracks his movement, the way his lips part further, the way his whole body seems to lean into Ford's space like a flower turning toward the sun.
And that's when Bill ruins it.
He shifts suddenly, scrambling forward like he's about to either tackle Ford onto the bed or climb him outright—Ford isn't entirely sure which and suspects Bill doesn't know either. His knee catches the edge of the nightstand, the sharp corner digging in, and the nightstand jolts sideways. The old record player perched precariously on top wobbles dangerously, teetering.
"Bill—" Ford starts, reaching out uselessly.
Too late.
His elbow slams into the tonearm with a solid thunk.
The needle drops with a scratchy, violent hiss of vinyl—then the speakers crackle to life at full volume, absurdly loud in the quiet room.
I will be your father figure—
Put your tiny hand in mine—
Bill's mouth falls open. Just drops, his jaw going slack with shock and horror.
Ford freezes, still half-leaning over him, gloved hand hovering uselessly in the air between them. His brain struggles to process what's happening, caught between arousal and mortification.
Bill makes a strangled noise.
Then he absolutely loses it.
He collapses backward onto the bed, laughing so hard he can't breathe, hands fisting in the sheets again—but this time in hysteria instead of want. His whole body shakes with it, curling in on himself. "Oh my god— oh my god."
"I did not plan this," Ford says desperately, yanking his hand back like he's been burned.
Ford lunges for the record player, nearly tripping over his own boots in the process. The leather squeaks obnoxiously as he bends, fumbling for the volume knob with his gloved hands, the leather making his fingers clumsy and imprecise.
"Don't you dare turn it off," Bill wheezes between peals of laughter.
"I am absolutely turning it off."
Bill grabs him around the waist before he can reach it, hauling him backward with surprising strength. The motion knocks them both off-balance, gravity taking over, and Ford stumbles, landing half on top of him with an undignified oof as the chorus kicks in again, even louder somehow.
I will be your father figure—
They both freeze, Ford's face approximately three inches from Bill's.
Then they burst out laughing at the same time.
Ford's laugh is flustered, embarrassed, pitched higher than usual and threaded with mortification. Bill's is feral and delighted, bordering on maniacal, the kind of laugh that suggests he's never going to let Ford live this down.
"This is humiliating," Ford groans, dropping his forehead to Bill's shoulder. The leather creaks dramatically, as if mocking him, and that just makes him laugh harder despite himself. "I am never attempting this again."
"Are you kidding?" Bill wraps his arms around him, still shaking with laughter, pulling Ford closer against his chest. "This is the best thing that's ever happened to me."
The song keeps playing, absurdly sincere, completely oblivious to the chaos it's caused.
Ford lifts his head just enough to glare down at him, but there's no real heat in it. "You're enjoying this far too much."
"Oh, I'm enjoying everything right now." Bill's laughter softens into something warmer, hungrier. His hands slide slowly up Ford's back, fingers finding and pressing into the seams of the jacket, tracing the lines where the leather panels meet. "Every. Single. Thing."
"Bill—"
Bill's grin shifts. It doesn't lose the humor, but it sharpens around the edges, takes on a different quality. His mismatched eyes drag over Ford again—really drag this time—taking in the flushed face, the way the collar sits crooked now from the scuffle, the faint crease between Ford's brows, the way his hair has fallen forward.
"You have no idea," Bill says quietly, and all the laughter is gone from his voice now, replaced by something raw and honest, "how badly I still want to climb you like a tree."
Ford's blush deepens, spreading down his neck. "You just nearly concussed yourself on a record player."
"Worth it." Bill's hands tighten on his back, pulling him closer. "So worth it."
They both glance toward the still-blaring speakers, and the absurdity of it hits them again.
Ford makes an exasperated sound and finally reaches back, stretching just enough to knock the needle off the vinyl with more force than strictly necessary. The music cuts out with a sharp scratch, leaving the room suddenly, almost oppressively quiet. The silence feels loud after the chaos, pressing in on them from all sides..
Bill looks up at him, breath still uneven, hair a complete disaster, grin wicked and warm and absolutely incorrigible.
Ford looks down at him, cheeks burning, dignity in complete tatters, leather pants squeaking traitorously every time he shifts his weight.
"This," Ford says, attempting authority and only half succeeding, his voice still rough around the edges, "is not how I envisioned this going."
Bill's hands tighten on his waist, thumbs pressing into that sensitive spot just above his belt.
"Oh, I don't know," Bill murmurs, eyes dropping to Ford's mouth, and his voice has gone low and intimate again. "I think it's perfect."
Bill surges up again—this time successfully—and drags him down with him, laughter still clinging to the edges of both of them, heat threading right back through it. And if Ford's poor attempt at dominance has been thoroughly derailed by an 80s top hit, well.
At least the leather still looks good.
And Bill's hands are already working on the jacket zipper, still trembling slightly, still desperate.
"You're keeping these pants though," Bill mutters against Ford's mouth between kisses.
Ford watches Bill's fingers fumble with the jacket zipper, watches the way his hands shake even now, and something in him shifts. Settles. Clicks into place like a lock finding its key.
He catches Bill's wrists. Gently, but firmly enough that Bill's hands still immediately, his eye going wide.
"Let me," Ford says quietly.
Bill's breath catches. "Ford—"
"You wanted me to take charge." Ford's voice has dropped into that lower register again, the one that makes Bill's pulse visible in his throat. "So let me."
He guides Bill's hands away from the zipper, presses them down against the mattress on either side of Bill's hips. The position puts Ford leaning over him, the leather of his jacket creaking softly with the movement, and Bill makes a sound that's halfway between a whimper and a groan.
"Keep them there," Ford murmurs.
"That's—" Bill's voice cracks. "You can't just—"
"Can't I?" Ford tilts his head, studying Bill's face. The blown pupils. The parted lips. The way Bill's whole body has gone tense beneath him, wound tight like a spring. "You seem to think I can."
Bill swallows hard. His fingers curl into the bedspread, gripping it like a lifeline, but he doesn't move his hands. "You're evil," he breathes.
"You love it."
"I—" Bill's eye darts down to Ford's mouth, then back up. "Yeah. Yeah, I really do."
Ford leans in slowly, deliberately, watching the way Bill's breathing speeds up with every inch of distance he closes. He can feel Bill trembling beneath him, can see the war playing out across his face—the desperate want to surge up and close the gap himself, fighting against the equally desperate need to obey, to let Ford control this.
"Good boy," Ford whispers against Bill's ear, and Bill makes a sound he's definitely never made before.
His hips buck up involuntarily, seeking friction, contact, anything, and Ford pulls back just enough to be out of reach. Bill's eye snaps open—when did he close it?—and the look he gives Ford is absolutely devastating. Want and frustration and something that looks dangerously close to worship.
"Stanford Pines," Bill says, voice wrecked, "you are going to be the death of me."
"You’re immortal," Ford points out mildly, even as his own heart hammers in his chest. "Technically."
"Then you're going to be the death of me repeatedly. On a loop. Forever."
Ford laughs, low and warm, and finally—finally—closes the distance between them.
The kiss is different this time. Slower. Deeper. Ford takes his time with it, maps Bill's mouth like he's cataloging a new discovery, and Bill melts beneath him with a sound that's almost a sob. His hands stay where Ford put them, fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white with the effort of keeping them there.
When Ford pulls back, Bill chases his mouth automatically before catching himself, and the aborted movement makes Ford's chest tighten with something warm and possessive.
"You're being so good," he murmurs, and watches Bill shudder. "So patient."
"Ford, please—"
"Please what?"
Bill's eye flutters closed again. "You know what."
"Maybe I want to hear you say it." Ford runs his gloved hand down Bill's side, slowly, feeling the way Bill's muscles jump and tense under his touch even through the t-shirt. "You're usually so eloquent. All those words at your disposal."
"I hate you," Bill gasps, but there's no heat in it. Just desperate, aching want.
"No you don't." Ford's hand finds the hem of Bill's t-shirt, and he pauses there, leather-clad fingers just barely brushing against bare skin. "Do you want me to stop?"
Bill's eye snaps open. "Don't you dare."
"Then tell me what you want."
"I want—" Bill's voice breaks. "I want you. Just you. However you'll give it to me."
"Good answer," Ford breathes, and then his hands are moving with purpose, the leather whispering promises against Bill's overheated skin, and Bill arches up into his touch with a sound that Ford is definitely going to remember for the rest of his extremely long life.
The leather pants were absolutely worth it.
Ford's hands work the hem of Bill's t-shirt up slowly, deliberately, and Bill's breathing goes ragged as more skin is exposed to the cool air. To Ford's gaze. To the brush of leather-clad fingers that trail fire in their wake.
"Arms up," Ford says quietly, and Bill obeys without hesitation, lifting his arms and letting Ford pull the faded shirt over his head. It gets tossed somewhere and then Bill is laid out beneath him, bare-chested and flushed and trembling.
Ford sits back slightly, just looking, and Bill squirms under the scrutiny.
"Don't—" Bill starts, and Ford can hear the self-consciousness creeping into his voice. The vulnerability of being seen. "Don't just stare."
"Why not?" Ford's hands settle on Bill's ribs, thumbs brushing just under his chest, and Bill's breath hitches. "You're beautiful."
"I'm—" Bill laughs, shaky and disbelieving. "I'm a washed-up muse in a meat suit, Ford. Beautiful is a stretch."
"You're my muse in a meat suit." Ford leans down, presses his lips to Bill's collarbone, and feels Bill's whole body shudder beneath him. "And I'll stare if I want to."
The leather jacket creaks as Ford moves, mapping a path with his mouth—collarbone to sternum to ribs—and Bill's hands stay obediently pressed into the mattress even though Ford can see how badly he wants to touch, to grab, to pull Ford closer.
"You're doing so well," Ford murmurs against Bill's skin, and feels the full-body tremor that runs through him at the praise. "So good for me."
"Ford—" Bill's voice is thin, desperate. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." Ford's hand slides down Bill's stomach, feels the muscles jump and clench under his palm. His gloved fingers find the waistband of Bill's boxers and pause there, just resting. "But you're going to wait. Because I'm not done with you yet."
Bill makes a sound that might be a whimper or might be a curse—possibly both—and his hips lift slightly, seeking more contact that Ford refuses to give.
"Patience," Ford says, with a small smile against Bill's ribs.
"I don't have patience, I'm—" Bill breaks off with a gasp as Ford's teeth graze his skin. "Fuck, okay, okay, I can be patient."
"Can you?" Ford kisses the spot he just bit, soothing it. "Because you're not very good at it usually."
"I can learn. I'm extremely motivated right now."
Ford laughs, and the sound vibrates against Bill's chest, making him shiver. "What happened to the all-powerful dream demon who used to terrorize dimensions?"
"You happened," Bill says, and there's something raw in his voice, something honest that cuts through the desperation. "You happened and now I'm just—" He swallows hard. "I'm just yours."
The words hit Ford like a physical thing, stealing his breath. He lifts his head to look at Bill properly.
"Say that again," Ford says quietly.
Bill's good eye meets his, unflinching. "I'm yours. However you want me. Whatever you want from me." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I've been yours since the moment you put your hand in mine, Fordsy. Even when I was too stupid to know it."
Ford's chest tightens almost painfully. He leans down, captures Bill's mouth in a kiss that's somehow both fierce and tender, pouring everything he can't quite say into it. Bill kisses back just as desperately, and his hands finally break free from where they've been pressed into the mattress, coming up to fist in Ford's jacket.
"Sorry," Bill gasps against his mouth. "Sorry, I know you said—"
"It's okay." Ford catches one of Bill's hands, brings it to his lips, kisses the palm through the leather of his glove. "Touch me. I want you to."
Bill doesn't need to be told twice. His hands slide under the jacket, pushing it off Ford's shoulders, and Ford helps him shrug out of it. The jacket hits the floor with a soft thump, but Ford keeps the gloves on—he's noticed the way Bill's breathing gets even more uneven when the leather touches his bare skin.
"The pants stay too," Bill says, reading his mind. His hands slide down Ford's back, down to his hips, fingers catching on the leather waistband. "Definitely the pants."
"Greedy," Ford murmurs, but he's smiling.
"For you? Always." Bill's hands tighten on his hips, pulling him closer. "Now are you going to keep torturing me or—"
Ford kisses him again, deeper this time, swallowing whatever smartass comment Bill was about to make. His gloved hand slides down Bill's chest, his stomach, following the path of dark skin and scattered freckles, and Bill arches into the touch with a broken moan that Ford wants to catalogue and keep forever.
"Still want me to take charge?" Ford asks against Bill's jaw, his voice rough with want.
"Yes," Bill breathes. "God, yes, please—"
"Then stop talking," Ford says, not unkindly, "and let me."
Ford takes him apart with careful hands and patient kisses, learning every sound he can pull from Bill's throat, every spot that makes him gasp or whimper or curse. The leather glides over Bill's skin like a whispered promise, and Ford watches Bill come completely undone beneath him with a sense of wonder that hasn't faded even after all this time.
"Beautiful," Ford murmurs again, and this time Bill doesn't argue.
He just reaches for Ford with shaking hands and pulls him down into another kiss, giving himself over completely to Ford's control, and Ford has never felt more powerful or more trusted in his entire life.
Ford's hand finally, finally slips beneath the waistband of Bill's boxers, and the sound Bill makes is absolutely obscene. His back arches clean off the bed, head thrown back, throat exposed in a way that makes Ford want to bite it. So he does—gentle teeth against the pulse point, feeling Bill's heartbeat rabbit-fast against his lips.
"Ford—" Bill's voice breaks on his name, hips bucking up into his touch. "Oh god, oh fuck—"
"Language," Ford murmurs against his throat, but there's no real reprimand in it. He's too focused on the way Bill responds to every touch, cataloguing it like data. The spots that make him gasp versus whimper versus curse. The pressure he likes, the rhythm that makes his fingers claw at Ford's shoulders.
"You're—" Bill can barely get words out. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"You told me to take charge." Ford's gloved hand wraps around him properly now, and Bill nearly sobs. "I'm simply being thorough."
"Thorough is—oh—thorough is going to kill me."
Ford pulls back just enough to look at him. Bill is completely wrecked—hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, face flushed, eye glassy and unfocused. His lips are kiss-swollen and parted, chest heaving with each ragged breath. He looks like every fantasy Ford didn't know he had until this moment.
"You're staring again," Bill pants.
"I told you I would."
Bill laughs, breathless and shaky. "Yeah, well—" He breaks off with a gasp as Ford's hand moves. "—well I'm not complaining."
"Good." Ford leans down to kiss him again, slow and deep, swallowing every sound Bill makes. The leather of his glove is soft and warm now, and the sensation must be different—unusual—because Bill keeps making these small, desperate noises into Ford's mouth.
Bill's hands are everywhere—sliding over Ford's shoulders, down his back, gripping his hips through the leather pants. His fingers catch on the waistband and tug, and Ford pulls back slightly.
"Getting impatient?"
"I've been impatient." Bill's hand slides around to the front, palming Ford’s dick through the leather, and it's Ford's turn to gasp. "And you're clearly not unaffected, so—"
Ford catches his wrist, pins it back to the bed. Bill whines at the loss of contact.
"I'm in charge, remember?" Ford's voice is rough, control starting to fray at the edges. "Which means you wait until I say."
"That's—that's not fair."
"No?" Ford shifts his hips deliberately, pressing against Bill's thigh, letting him feel exactly how affected he is. "Life's not fair, dear."
Bill groans, head falling back. "You're killing me. Actually killing me. This is murder."
"So dramatic." But Ford's hand starts moving again, finding the rhythm that makes Bill's breathing stutter, and Bill stops complaining in favor of making sounds that are going to live in Ford's memory forever.
"Please," Bill gasps, and there's no teasing in it now, just raw need. "Ford, please, I need—"
"What do you need?" Ford asks, even though he knows. He wants to hear Bill say it. Wants to hear that desperate edge in his voice.
"You. Inside me. Please." Bill's good eye focuses on him with effort. "I need you, I need—oh fuck—I need all of you."
The words go straight through Ford like electricity. His control, already tenuous, cracks completely.
"Nightstand," he says roughly, pulling back. "Top drawer."
Bill moves faster than Ford's ever seen him move, practically throwing himself sideways to fumble with the drawer. He comes back with the lube, shoving them at Ford with shaking hands.
"Here. Now. Please."
Ford takes it, but catches Bill's face with his other hand, makes him meet his eyes. "You're sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything." Bill's hand comes up to cover Ford's, turning his head to kiss the leather-covered palm. "Want you to completely ruin me."
"You already are ruined," Ford points out, but he's smiling. "Look at you."
"Your fault." Bill pulls him down into a kiss that's all heat and teeth and desperation. "Now are you going to do something about it or do I need to—"
Ford shuts him up with another kiss, deeper this time, as his hands start working Bill's boxers down and off. Bill kicks them away impatiently, and then he's completely bare beneath Ford, flushed and wanting and so trusting it makes Ford's chest ache.
"Beautiful," Ford says again, because it's true, because he can't help it.
This time Bill just pulls him closer. "Then do something about it."
Ford's hands—still gloved, because Bill keeps making these incredible sounds when the leather touches his skin—slide down Bill's thighs, urging them apart. Bill spreads for him without hesitation, without shame, and Ford has to pause for a moment just to breathe.
"You're staring again," Bill says, but his voice is fond now, pleased.
"Can't help it." Ford leans down to kiss his inner thigh, and Bill's breath catches. "You're perfect like this."
"Like what? Desperate and begging?"
"Trusting." Ford presses another kiss higher up. "Mine."
Bill shudders. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."
Ford takes his time despite Bill's increasingly desperate pleas, working him open with patient, thorough attention that has Bill writhing and cursing and eventually just making incoherent sounds. The leather gloves slide easier than skin would, warm and slick against Bill’s cunt, and the sensation seems to drive Bill absolutely wild.
"Ford," Bill finally sobs out, "if you don't get inside me in the next thirty seconds I'm going to—"
"Going to what?" Ford asks mildly, adding another finger and watching Bill's whole body arch.
"I don't know! Please, I'm ready, I've been ready, I—oh—"
Ford curls his fingers just right inside of him and Bill loses his entire train of thought, reduced to gasping and shaking.
"I think you can take a little more," Ford murmurs.
"I can't, I'm going to—" Bill breaks off with a strangled sound. "Please, Ford, please, I need you, I need—"
"Shh." Ford withdraws his hand and Bill whimpers at the loss. "I've got you."
He strips the gloves off finally—he'll need better grip for this—and makes quick work of his own pants. The relief of getting out of the tight leather is immense, but it's nothing compared to the look on Bill's face when Ford settles between his thighs.
Bill's legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. "Now?"
"Now." Ford lines himself up, watching Bill's face. "Tell me if—"
"I will. I promise." Bill's hand comes up to cup his face. "Now please."
Ford pushes in slowly, so slowly, watching Bill's face for any sign of discomfort. But Bill just gasps and arches and pulls him closer, whispering "yes" and "please" and "more" against Ford's shoulder.
When Ford bottoms out, they both freeze, breathing hard.
"Okay?" Ford asks roughly.
"Perfect," Bill gasps. "You're perfect, this is perfect, move—"
Ford moves.
And Bill comes completely apart beneath him, all that chaos and power reduced to gasping breaths and desperate touches and Ford's name falling from his lips like a prayer.
The leather pants lie forgotten on the floor.
But Ford thinks he might wear them again just to see that look on Bill's face.
Ford sets a rhythm that's deliberately slow, measured, and Bill makes a sound that's half pleasure, half protest.
"You're still—ah—still torturing me," Bill gasps, fingers digging into Ford's shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"I'm savoring," Ford corrects, rolling his hips in a way that makes Bill's breath catch. "There's a difference."
"Semantics. You're—oh god—you're being mean."
Ford leans down, braces himself on one forearm so he can look at Bill properly. "You like it when I'm mean."
Bill opens his mouth to argue, but Ford shifts the angle slightly and whatever Bill was going to say dissolves into a broken moan. His head falls back, throat exposed, and Ford can't resist leaning down to kiss the pulse point there, to feel Bill's heartbeat racing against his lips.
"That's—fuck—that's not fair," Bill manages.
"Still not interested in fair." Ford punctuates the words with a harder thrust, and Bill's whole body jolts, his legs tightening around Ford's waist.
"There," Bill gasps. "Right there, please, Ford—"
"Here?" Ford does it again, hitting that spot deliberately, and Bill nearly sobs.
"Yes, yes, oh god yes—"
Ford maintains that angle, that depth, watching the way Bill's face changes with each thrust. The way his eye goes unfocused, the way his mouth falls open around gasps and curses and Ford's name. He's cataloguing it all, filing it away—what makes Bill whimper versus moan versus that high, desperate keen that goes straight to Ford's spine.
"Look at me," Ford says roughly, and Bill's eye flutters open with visible effort.
The look Bill gives him is absolutely devastating. Want and trust and something so overwhelming it doesn't have a name. His hand comes up to cup Ford's face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone with surprising gentleness given how wrecked the rest of him is.
"Love you," Bill breathes, unguarded and raw. "Love you so much."
Ford's rhythm stutters. His chest tightens almost painfully. "Bill—"
"I know you know," Bill continues, words tumbling out between gasps. "But I'm—oh—I'm going to keep saying it anyway. Love you. Love this. Love that you're—ah—that you're finally letting yourself be—"
Ford kisses him, deep and consuming, swallowing the rest of the sentence. When he pulls back they're both breathing hard.
"I love you too," Ford says against Bill's lips. "Even when you talk too much."
Bill laughs, breathless and giddy. "Especially when I talk too much."
"Especially then," Ford agrees, and picks up the pace.
Bill's laughter dissolves into moans, his hands scrabbling for purchase on Ford's back, his shoulders, anywhere he can reach. Ford can feel him starting to shake, can see the tension building in every line of his body.
"Getting close?" Ford asks, even though he knows the answer.
"Yes," Bill gasps. "So close, I'm—I need—"
Ford shifts his weight, gets one hand between them and presses both of his middle fingers on Bill’s clit.
"Is this what you need?"
"Yes," Bill sobs. "Don't stop, please don't stop, I'm—"
"I've got you." Ford's hand matches the rhythm of his hips, and Bill is completely incoherent now, reduced to broken sounds and desperate touches. "Let go. I want to watch you."
"Ford, I'm—oh god—I'm going to—"
"Do it," Ford murmurs against his ear. "Come for me."
Bill does, with a cry that's half Ford's name and half something that might have been a prayer in some long-dead language. His whole body goes taut, back arching clean off the bed, and Ford watches him come apart with something like reverence.
The sight of it, the feeling of Bill pulsing around him, the desperate way Bill clings to him—it's too much. Ford's own control, already frayed to breaking, snaps completely. His rhythm goes erratic, chasing his own release with single-minded focus.
"Come on," Bill urges, voice wrecked but firm. His legs tighten around Ford's waist, pulling him deeper. "Want to feel it. Want you to—please, Ford—"
Ford buries his face in Bill's neck and falls apart with a groan that sounds like it's being pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips stutter, then still, and for a moment the whole world narrows down to this—the feeling of Bill around him, beneath him, the sound of their ragged breathing mingling in the quiet room.
They stay like that for a long moment, neither willing to move, to break the connection. Ford can feel Bill's heartbeat gradually slowing against his chest, can feel the tremors still running through both of them.
"Holy shit," Bill finally breathes.
Ford huffs a laugh against his shoulder. "Eloquent."
"I used up all my words about ten minutes ago." Bill's hand comes up to run through Ford's hair, gentle and soothing. "You completely destroyed my vocabulary."
"Good." Ford lifts his head enough to look at him. Bill looks absolutely debauched—hair a disaster, skin flushed and sweat-slicked, lips swollen from kissing. "You look—"
"Don't say beautiful again or I'm going to get emotional."
"I was going to say thoroughly ravished."
"You were perfect." Ford kisses him, soft and sincere. "Absolutely perfect."
"Yeah?" There's something almost shy in Bill's voice, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows.
"Yeah." Ford carefully pulls out, both of them hissing at the sensitivity, and rolls to the side, immediately pulling Bill against his chest. "Though I do think we need to discuss your inability to follow simple instructions."
Bill laughs against his collarbone. "My hands stayed put for like a full minute. That's a record for me."
"Mmm. We'll have to work on that."
"Oh we will, will we?" Bill props himself up on one elbow, looking down at Ford with a grin that's equal parts smug and delighted. "Does this mean you're keeping the outfit?"
Ford groans. "Bill—"
"Because I have opinions about that jacket. Many, many opinions. Which I will happily demonstrate. Repeatedly."
"The pants are ridiculous."
"The pants are staying." Bill's hand slides possessively over Ford's hip. "They're non-negotiable. I'm getting them bronzed."
"You are not."
"I'm getting them framed. Enshrined. I'm building them a little temple."
Ford laughs despite himself, pulling Bill down for another kiss. "You're absurd."
"You love it," Bill murmurs against his mouth.
"Unfortunately, I do."
They settle into comfortable silence, Bill draped over Ford's chest, Ford's fingers tracing idle patterns on Bill's back. The afternoon light has shifted, going golden and warm, and Ford can hear birds outside the window. Everything feels soft, peaceful, perfect.
"So," Bill says eventually, voice lazy with satisfaction. "How does it feel? The whole taking charge thing?"
Ford considers. The leather outfit. The way Bill fell apart under his hands. The power and trust and intimacy all tangled together.
"I think," he says slowly, "I could get used to it."
Bill grins against his chest. "Good. Because I'm absolutely ordering you more leather."
"Bill—"
"Vests. Boots. Maybe a harness—"
Ford covers Bill's mouth with his hand. "One step at a time."
Bill licks his palm and Ford doesn't remove his hand.
And if Ford finds himself thinking about that harness comment later, well. That's between him and the suspicious packages that start arriving two weeks later.