"Bill, I-" Ford begins, stammering, but Bill finishes for him.

"Like cute boys in glasses?" Bespectacled Bill tilts his head, mouth parted just a tad– a possible invitation. Or a potential trap. Ford sees himself reflected in the uncoated, shiny lenses of Bill's square black-frames. They match his hair and inked hands– a dark triad. Ironic. Ford is sure Bill would score quite high on every trait of the actual Dark Triad; narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy.
All traits Bill would take pride in confirming to allegedly own. (but in Ford's opinion, his darling isn't quite there and would no doubt falsify his answers to appear so)

Leaning closer over Ford's desk while arching his back, Bill deploys his killer smirk. "You fucking pervert."

Hyperfocus: Ford's eyes are drawn to every tiny change in body language. It's those glasses, but he won't admit it. Not after spending so much time inculcating Bill to embrace modesty– or at the very least, tact and restraint when pursuing sexual exploits. A time and place for everything – and now was not the time for this.

"Bill, this is inappropriate I'm your-"

"Teacher?" Bill's laughter is hoarse, emitting from deep in his chest. It reminded Ford to the growling of an empty stomach; oddly appropriate. Bill was indeed hungry. Or merely feigning hunger? It was hard to tell just yet.

"Among other things, yes. This is a professional environment. And if anyone were to see-"

"Blah blah, why don't you live a little?" Bewitching Bill's eyelids droop. "So, who knew you had a glasses fetish? You haven't looked at me like this since that first night we were together."

Ford sighs, cheeks red; Bill laughs, tongue out.

Those glasses slant upwards at the perfect angle to compliment Bill's cheek bones; said cheekbones seem even sharper now and Ford feels attacked just by looking at them. Every spectacled glance is a cut, a slash, a slice. Death by a thousand cuts. A lovely way to go, he thinks–

"You look like you could use a glass of water, Doctor Pines." Bill's voice is as smooth as his skin beneath his extravagantly dapper clothing; smooth satin snugly fettering Ford to bedposts erected from Bill's dissolute words. Bill's eyes flutter and call him a pervert for his metaphors.

Ford has a bottle of spring water on his desk, and Bill takes it upon himself to fill the empty glass beside it to the brim. "Aren't I just a darling?"

He pretends to hand it to Ford, only to spill it all over himself. Over his white and thin slightly unbuttoned shirt. No undershirt today– Bill always wears undershirts, but today, he's bare beneath the wet and now transparent cotton. Ford's stomach does a triple backflip.

"Oops. It's surprisingly cold…" Bill pouts, fingers assessing the damage and yet somehow only targeting one area: fingertips focusing on now very visible nipples.

Really now. Ford's between laughing and scowling.

"Bill, you are ridiculous. As if this is going to have any effect on me." Ford says, an eyebrow raised. As if he would yield to such a vulgar display of eroticism. Bill's little act had begun interesting enough but the boy always had to go too far. Guileless and shameless to the very end.

"Were your pants always that tight?" Bill muses.

"Yes."

"Touché."

Bill takes out his phone, and after a few taps, places it on the desk. Ford waits and regrets it as sleazy jazz music sweetens the air.

"Bill, this– you cannot be serious now."

"I am. Gotta set the mood." Bill grins. "This is like a plot of a cliché porno where-"

"Enough." Ford says, using his effectual stern voice, and Bill steps back on reflex, eyes suddenly wide and then (to Ford's utter amazement) charges forward and cups Ford's cheeks with savage tenderness; it hurts but it could hurt more if Bill desired so and he knows this, can feel this. A black grip by black hands.

"Your pants weren't always that tight." Baleful Bill says as his hand loosens, slithering down to ensnare Ford's neck while the latter remains as still as possible, fearful of what sudden movements might provoke. The Black Finger necklace breaks and Bill paws Ford at his cheeks with a soft, seductive:

"Meow."

Then Bill pulls back, wrapping his arms around himself to signal his cold and Ford suspires in relief at both the demonstration of vulnerability and the abrupt change in demeanour. Back to Baby Bill, Itty Bitty Bill– his Beloved Bill. Itty Bitty Black Kitty.

Ford stands and approaches Bill as non-threateningly as possible; Bill stood, frozen in place with downcast eyes that shoot skittish glances up at Ford as he comes. Removing his own short jacket, he places it over Bill. "You can't walk around like that."

"Y-yeah…" Bill agrees, pulling the coat further over himself, glad for Ford's persistent kindness. "I was just fooling around."

Cupping his cheek, Ford smiles, confessing: "I do like your glasses." And Bill glows as Ford imagined a treasure-chest to glow upon being opened in a densely-darkened room for the first time in thousands of years.

Tesoro.

Ford withholds the need to pull Bill into his arms, demurring until they were truly alone and out of the all-seeing public sphere.

Always and forever Bad Boy Bill, but in Ford's arms, he was only ever William. His darling kitten William.

"Have you perhaps considered cat-eyed ones?" Ford asks as he touches Bill's glasses.

…

Dirty cat fucker.