#It’s like a reward | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geniusboyy · 3 months ago

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Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 8

Cortex

Ford jolted awake with a sharp breath, still at his desk in the dimly lit corner of the lab. His eye circled the room as he came to his senses. The remnants of his dream clung to him, a surreal haze still making his skin tingle. He sat up, blinking against the harsh light of the desk lamp. The blanket that covered his shoulders slipped down his back, making him jump. His head swiveled around as it pooled on the floor behind his chair. He didn’t remember getting a blanket. He didn’t even remember falling asleep. All he remembered was Bill, his hands and their tight grip around his hips, the smell of sweat, the sound of his voice as he pushed himself deeper—

Ford shook his head, running a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to brush off the dream’s hold. Without thinking, he stood, peeling off his lab coat and hanging it on the rack as headed upstairs. His legs moved on autopilot as he climbed the steps, his body still feeling the echo of exhaustion. When he reached the bathroom, the cool splash of water on his face offered some relief. He grabbed his toothbrush, mechanically scrubbing at his teeth while staring into the mirror. His reflection stared back—tired, haggard. His eyes were bloodshot, the circles beneath them dark, a bit sunken. He leaned in closer, inspecting his face. The man looking back seemed older somehow. Worn down—not entirely him.

He stared at himself for a moment, really looking for the first time in a long time. The faucet dripping cut through the silence with a hypnotic rhythm as he looked into his own eyes. They were unmistakably his, but behind them, he could feel it—Bill looking back.

He made quick work of changing his shirt. He continued his routine by visiting the coffee pot, still warm from earlier this morning when Fidds made it; he always left the hotplate on for Ford. He poured himself a cup, grabbed a new pack of cigarettes from the counter and headed back to the lab. The machines still whirred softly, the low hum breaking through the fog of his morning. The samples had been processed overnight, left waiting for him to dig deeper. He set his coffee and smokes down on his desk before pulling his lab coat back on. He dumped the ashtray on his desk into a trash bin, then set in neatly back into place, only to strike a match, setting himself on track to refill it. He sat in his chair, took a long sip from his coffee, then checked his watch. He went for his notebook, opening it to a new page and scribbling down the date and time. He flicked the cigarette ash into an ashtray, clearing his throat as he turned in his chair. He pushing himself across the lab floor, snatching up the printouts that had been spit out from the analyzer in the night, folds and creases set into the paper. Ford’s eyes scanned the readings as his room another sip of coffee as he read. His gaze began darting between pages, brain beginning to fire on all cylinders. His chair scraped across the floor as he stood abruptly, clutching the papers in a frenzy. Without a second thought, he hurried back up the stairs and to the front door, slamming it shut behind him.

Outside, the morning air hit him, cool against his skin as he made his way toward the shed. Inside, the smell of motor oil mixed with the metallic clink of tools echoed through the air. Fiddleford was under his car—his baby, the glossy black Mustang that he doted on more than his firstborn child. The engine purred softly as Fidds made adjustments, whistling along with the radio that played overhead.

“Fidds!” Ford barked, rushing in, catching his breath as he stood in the middle of the shed. “Fidds, I need you to look at this.”

Fiddleford slid out from under the car with a grunt, lifting a pair of goggles from his face with greasy hands. “C’mon, Ford, it’s Saturday!” He groaned as he sat up, wiping his hands on a rag. There was a slight scowl on his face, but that vanished the second Ford shoved the readings into his chest.

“Look!” Ford said breathlessly, tapping his index finger on the stack of pages.

The protest in Fiddleford’s eyes faded as he took the papers. His face shifted as he scanned the data, his brows furrowing deeper with every second. His eyes snapped up to Ford’s. “Show me…”

Ford’s expression was wild, manic even. “Come on.”

Back in the lab, Ford moved with renewed purpose. Fiddleford trailed after him, papers still clutched in his hands, his mind racing to catch up. In the center of the lab, neural tissue cultures—samples they’d prepared for other experiments—were set up next to the antler material. Ford was already prepping the equipment. The analysis had revealed something neither of them had expected—a strange electromagnetic anomaly emanating from the material. “We’re running it again,” Ford muttered, eyes fixed on the setup. The electromagnetic field generator buzzed to life. Ford carefully adjusted the parameters, fine-tuning the frequency until it hit the right level. A tense silence filled the room as they both watched.

The neural tissue began to respond. First subtly, then visibly, electrical activity from the neurons spiked. The spikes—representing the flow of information and memory formation—began to slow, stutter, then quiet. “There!” Ford exclaimed, his voice strained with excitement. He gestured to the readout. “It’s disrupting the hippocampal neurons. Memory function is shutting down!”

Fiddleford watched in amazement as the data scrolled across the screen. “How?”

Ford’s hands waved over the readout. “The material—it’s generating a specific electromagnetic frequency. It’s affecting synaptic plasticity, the brain’s ability to form or erase connections between neurons. This is what allows us to retain or lose memories. By manipulating that EM field, we can disrupt those neural connections and essentially… erase them.”

Fiddleford’s jaw hung slack as the implications sank in. “You’re telling me we can use this material to selectively target memories?”

Ford nodded, his gaze intense. “Exactly. It’s like a reset button for the brain. Think about it—if we can control the frequency, we can control what gets erased and what stays intact.”

Fiddleford jumped up, scrambling toward the bookshelf in the corner of the room. “That’s—I’ve read about something like this,” He dug through the rows of books, pulling one down with a thud, flipping frantically through its pages. “This, here—Transcranial magnetic stimulation,” Fiddleford muttered to himself. “Uses magnetic fields to influence the brain’s electrical activity. They’ve been able to affect mood, perception, and even temporarily impair memory.” He stopped on a page, turning it to face Ford. “This could be a more advanced kind TMS, something naturally occurring, maybe something… in its evolution, a defense mechanism of some kind.” Fidds chewed in his lip as he thought. “When you were out there yesterday, did you at any point feel …disoriented?”

Ford thought about it for a moment, now that Fidds had mentioned something, he did lose track of the buck in the chase. It was foggy, but not that foggy. And the way it got the drop on him, he didn’t see it coming at all. “Yeah…” Ford said. “Yeah, I did.”

Fiddleford rubbed his chin, flicking through the pages. “Ah, well, that explains that…“ he paced for a moment, his attention jumping back and forth between the pages in the book and the printouts. “Instead of just modulating the brain, we’re talking about erasing entire chunks of memory. And if we get it right…” His voice trailed off, awe creeping into his tone.

Ford met his gaze, a spark of excitement in his eyes. “We can build something like that. With the antlers… with the right calculations. We can reverse engineer it. I can figure out the math. But I’ll need your help to build the device.”

Fiddleford let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. “You really think it’s possible?”

Ford’s face was resolute. “I know it is.”

Fiddleford stared down at the readings in his hands, then back at the neural tissue sample. His mind raced with possibilities—what this discovery could mean for science, for memory, for their work… but also the dangers that came with it. He could already see Ford’s excitement spiraling. “If this works…” Fiddleford’s voice was softer now, almost hesitant. “This could change everything. I mean, imagine this falling into the wrong hands.”

Ford’s response was immediate, almost too quick. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

Fiddleford nodded slowly, Ford was right. This is exactly what they were out here to do. And he couldn’t deny the curiosity flooding through him, his heart pounding with excitement. “Alright… better than the communists, right?” he said with a lightened resolve, pushing aside the unease. “Let’s get to work.”

Ford smacked his hands together and leaped into the air, whooping with excitement. He clapped his hands on Fidds’ shoulders, shaking him. “This is gonna be so fucking cool!”

Fiddleford laughed, feeling the surge of adrenaline and enthusiasm Ford radiated. His face was lit up, and it was nice to see him smiling like this again. It was hard not to get swept up in it. He mirrored Ford’s excitement, grabbing his shoulders back and reveling in the moment; their discovery.

___

Ford sat hunched over his desk, a lit cigarette smoldering between the fingers of the hand that propped his head up. His eyes darted between data print outs and his notebook, his other hand scribbling long lines of transcripts and equations. His lips moved with his thoughts, he and Bill’s usual groove rolling steadfast. Fidds had returned to the garage, insisting he finished what he started, claiming it’s ‘not the sort of thing you stop halfway through’, Ford didn’t mind though, math was his best discipline, and he preferred the quiet while he worked. With Bill only making it easier on him, his mind was able to wander a bit while he worked.

Ford’s pen scratched steadily across the paper as his mind began to drift. The concept of controlling memory—of altering the very fabric of a person’s experiences—was staggering. The power behind it was beyond comprehension, the kind of thing that could reshape lives, rewrite history. He imagined the applications: governments, corporations, even individuals could pay fortunes for such control. And then there was the ethical side, an edge that he couldn’t quite push away. What right did they have to meddle in someone’s mind like that?

His cigarette burned low between his fingers, long forgotten as he jotted down more notes, trying to focus on the technical details of their latest discovery. But the thought gnawed at him. What were the limits of that kind of power? Could anyone be trusted with it? He had seen too many examples of people misusing knowledge—those in positions of authority willing to cross any line if it meant more power.

The ethics became more complicated the longer he thought about it. There was something fundamentally invasive about rewriting someone’s memories. A person’s identity, their entire worldview, was shaped by the experiences they carried. To erase or alter those memories would be to change who they were at the core.

Ford frowned, his pen pausing mid-sentence as he contemplated. Was it any different than what Bill was doing to him?

His mind wandered to Bill—ever-present, always lurking in the background of his thoughts, shaping his decisions in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. Ford had invited it, of course. He welcomed Bill’s guidance, his insights, and the way he could unlock parts of Ford’s intellect that had been previously out of reach. It was thrilling to work alongside a being who understood things so far beyond the scope of human comprehension.

But Bill didn’t just guide. He prodded, nudged, and manipulated. Ford could feel it at times, the way his thoughts aligned with Bill’s suggestions, his reasoning swayed by a gentle push in the right direction. It was like Bill had a hand on the controls of his mind, tweaking here and there to suit his own ends. Ford allowed it because he believed in the work they were doing together. It made him sharper, more efficient, more capable than he’d ever been before.

Yet, wasn’t that the same invasion of autonomy he was now questioning? Bill had reshaped parts of his thinking, influenced his emotions, even heightened his senses at times to sharpen his focus. The connection had become so powerful it even began affecting his physical attributes. What was the difference between that and the kind of memory manipulation they were developing?

Ford’s lips tightened as he wrote, the contradiction gnawing at him. Bill’s influence was different, though, wasn’t it? It felt different. There was consent here. He had chosen to be connected to Bill, to let him in. He was aware of what was happening, and he welcomed it. Bill had never hidden what he was capable of, and Ford had wanted to see the limits of that power firsthand.

He glanced at the notes scattered across the table, the visual proof of his increased output. Bill’s hum was still in the back of his mind, a low, comforting presence that sharpened his focus. It was extraordinary, the way Bill could take control and make everything feel clearer. Ford knew it was more than just guidance—there were times when he felt Bill in his thoughts, his emotions, even in the way he responded to Ford’s senses. He was a test subject as much as he was the scientist.

Yet the paradox didn’t dissuade him. If anything, it excited him more. This was uncharted territory, and if anyone could navigate it, it was Ford. Besides, he trusted Bill, even if he didn’t entirely trust himself around him. Bill had given him the tools to explore these concepts, to understand the mind in ways no one else ever could.

He took a long drag of the cigarette, exhaling the smoke slowly as the weight of his thoughts settled in his chest. Ethics were a slippery slope, and Ford had already crossed the line. Maybe, in the end, that line didn’t matter as much as the results. If Bill was showing him what could be done—if manipulating memories could open new doors to understanding consciousness—who was he to stand in the way of a revolutionary progress. Better him than someone else, he thought.

Leaning back in his chair, smoke curled upward in a thin stream from his fingers as he tuned into where Bill’s presence loomed, always there, always watching. “You ever think that maybe you got the wrong guy,” Ford mused, the smoke trailing from his lips as he spoke. “To inspire, I mean… why me?”

Bill chuckled, his velvety voice slipping into Ford’s mind. “Oh, don’t play humble, Specs,” he said. “You know why. Other people just aren’t… wired the same way you are.”

Ford gave a half-laugh, exhaling another puff of smoke. “Is that your way of saying I’m special?”

“Don’t get too sentimental.” Bill retorted, shifting to a more casual tone. “Your mind is just better able to process my manipulations, it’s more pliant.”

Ford’s brow furrowed. “Pliant?”

Bill’s voice took a suggestive tone. “When I take control, I tap into your neural pathways, then I can manipulate your movements. I could adjust your emotions, even make you feel things that aren’t really there.” he said. “It’s just a matter of knowing which buttons to press and how much your body can take. So far, you’ve proved to be quiet resilient… and receptive.”

Ford sat up straighter, his curiosity piqued. “You can manipulate my senses? While you’re in my head?”

“It’s possible. Your brain’s just a network of signals, and I’ve got the manual.” Bill professed.

A chill ran down Ford’s spine— he was fascinated. “How… how much control are we talking about?”

Bill’s voice dropped to a whisper that sent a tremor through Ford’s mind. “I’m not sure, it depends. I suppose we’d have to experiment.”

Ford glanced at the stairs, reminding himself that his roommate was still outside. “Well…” he started. “I’m working on this memory manipulation thing, so�� maybe you could...” he stumbled, clearing his throat. “For science,” he clarified, his tone more clinical. “I can catalog the experience. Understand the process. I think if I observe it firsthand, I’ll have a better grasp of how it works.”

He quickly flipped his notebook to an empty page and logged the date. Ford bit his lip, tapping his pen against his notebook before he rolled his chair back and grabbed a bundle of electrodes that hung over a EEG machine nestled among other lab equipment. Ford made quick work of pressing them onto his head and turning the machine on. “You can manipulate the neurons, and I’ll record the sensations.” he added, sitting up in his seat eagerly. “Simple as that.”

“Like this?” Bill whispered, but when he spoke this time, the sound felt like it was right next to Ford’s ear. He flinched at the sudden closeness of the voice, so real that he could almost feel the warmth of Bill’s breath on his skin. He pressed a hand to his ear instinctively and turned his head, looking in the direction of the sound. But, as expected, he was still alone. He glanced up at the machine and noticed a spike in his temporal lobe.

“Whoa…” Ford muttered under his breath, a small thrill running through him as his heart skipped. His mind immediately began to wander, with the idea of what else Bill could do. The light pink that had crept onto his cheeks deepened, and his thoughts veered into dangerous territory.

“Write.” Bill said in a low tone, this time in the other ear. Ford sucked in a quick breath, goosebumps spreading across his back making the hairs stand on end. He tightened his grip around the pen, checking his watch before time-stamping the first test.

Ford jotted down the reaction immediately. “Auditory cortex manipulation,” he murmured to himself, “localized sensation… proximity effect. Subject experienced sensation and external sound: tactile, gentle brush on the ear. Physical response: goosebumps.” Ford said as he wrote.“Emotional response: mild thrill, some apprehension… increase in theta activity and heart rate.” he checked his watch again, tracking the time. “Start the next sequence.”

It started as a soft pulse, like the flick of a switch deep inside his brain. A wave of warmth spread through his chest, moving out toward his limbs. It wasn’t overwhelming—just a gentle tingle, pleasant and strange. It felt like a finger dragging down from the inside of his elbow to his wrist. Ford’s other hand moved, jotting down notes as the sensation spread. His handwriting was steady, but there was a slight wobble to the script. His eyes flicked to the machine, watching the readings carefully.

“Somatosensory cortex is active despite lack of external stimulus. Subject Feeling… warmth. Tingling across extremities. Non-invasive, subtle,” Ford muttered under his breath as he wrote, trying to remain clinical despite the creeping sense of intrigue. “Comfortable… brain waves and heart rate even.”

The sensation shifted suddenly. What had been a soft warmth now turned sharp, focused. It felt like a pinch on his forearm—distinct, real, and startling in its clarity. Ford’s body jerked involuntarily, a gasp catching in his throat. He winced, glancing down at his arm where the sensation had come from, but there was nothing there. No mark.

“Jesus, Bill,” Ford muttered, rubbing his arm. The pain had been brief, but very real. His pulse quickened, and he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks again, a bit flustered by the sudden pinch.

He forced his attention back to the notebook, scribbling quickly. “Somatosensory cortex still engaged. New stimulus: sharp pain, localized pinch on the left forearm, sensation increasing in level of precision,” he said aloud, logging it with a quick glance at the machine. “Physical response: flinch, increased heart rate, muscle contraction. Subject reacted as if real external pain had been applied.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head slightly as he readied for whatever Bill would throw at him next. “Emotional response: startled...”

Bill’s voice was close again, the edge of amusement evident. “Too much for you, Fordsy?”

Ford’s lips twitched, his excitement far from dampened. “I can handle it.” He glanced at his watch again, noting the time. “Proceed.”

“How about this?” Bill’s voice came again, and the sensation changed—multiplied. Ford stiffened slightly, then relaxed as he felt what could only be described as the pressure of two hands on his shoulders. The grip was firm, kneading into the tense muscles, and Ford couldn’t suppress the low sound of relief that escaped him as the touch rolled out the knots in his neck.

“That’s… highly effective,” Ford muttered, adjusting his glasses. He leaned back just slightly, allowing the pressure to deepen, though he forced himself to stay focused. “Simulated touch, shoulder massage. Pressure applied to trapezius… responding positively.” He paused for a beat, leaning into the ease spreading through him.

“Log it.” Bill’s breath ghosted against his ear, sending a ripple of sensation down his spine. Ford swallowed hard, immediately writing down the time, though his fingers trembled slightly around the pen.

“Increase in pressure. Subject is relaxed,” he said, letting out a quieter sound as a particularly stubborn knot was worked out. “Noticeable drop in heart rate.” he managed to say past his teeth as the phantom thumb pushed against the tense bundle. “Emotional response: calm.” His breath hitched as a third sensation joined in—a hand running through his hair. Ford’s eyes fluttered for a moment before he quickly corrected his posture, maintaining focus as best he could.

“Additional sensation in scalp,” he said, his voice still steady but his pulse quickening just slightly as the hand massaged his head. “Subject is… receptive to the input. Emotional response: contentment, moderate pleasure. Physical response: relaxation in upper body.”

He almost smiled, feeling a slight rush of satisfaction alongside the data he was collecting. “The stimulation in the insular cortex is charting very high. Proceed with the next sequence,” Ford managed, more eager than he intended to sound.

Bill’s voice curled in his ear again, lower this time, teasing. “Is this helping with your research, Ford? Or is it getting a little harder to focus?”

Ford’s lips twitched into a half-smile, his hand tightening around the pen as he forced himself to continue writing. “Focus is… manageable,” he said, though his tone was strained. Bill wasn’t just prodding at his neurons anymore—he was methodically testing Ford’s limits.

The fingers running through his hair tugged gently, just enough to send a shiver of pleasure down his spine. Ford bit down on his lip, stifling a groan as his grip on the pen faltered. His eyes darted toward his watch, still steadfast on maintaining the experiment’s structure despite the growing physical responses. He still couldn’t help what bled into his thoughts. His notes grew messier, shaky but legible, as another sensation joined—the unmistakable press of lips brushing against his neck.

A quiet whimper escaped him before he could stop it. His heart thudded in his chest, the EEG spiking in response. Ford’s gaze flicked to the monitor, seeing the rise in his brain waves, but Bill’s voice captured his attention again, a low growl in his ear. “Keep writing, Ford.” he instructed, the hands on his shoulders slithering to his chest.

Warmth billowed inside him now, more intense—sinking into his core. The hands on his chest slid lower, a sensual tease, while the lips on his neck lingered, sending a tremor through his breathing. Ford scribbled down more notes, struggling to hold on to the task.

“Increased intensity,” he muttered, though his voice was softer, breathier than before. His body tensed as the heat surged again, and he felt his focus slipping. “Heart rate sharply increasing with added… sensation…” His writing paused, a visible tremble in his hand as his head dipped slightly, overwhelmed by the sensation of a tongue against his sensitive skin, but he clung to the experiment.

Ford’s glanced back at the stairs, his mind torn between fear of being caught and the overwhelming desire to give in to Bill’s relentless touch. He knew Bill was toying with him, but he was in no rush to end their experiment. He forced himself to look back at his notebook, but the pen was lose in his grasp.

“Still with me?” Bill’s voice curled around Ford’s senses, the satisfaction evident in every word. The invisible hands slid further under Ford’s shirt, tracing his abdomen and curling around his waist. His pulse raced, each touch heightening the unbearable tension.

Ford swallowed hard, his face flushed deeper. “Y-Yeah… keep going,” he managed, though the control in his tone was starting to fray.

Another pair of lips pressed softly at his navel, brushing against his skin like a flicker of electricity, but it was the sensation creeping into his mind that nearly unraveled him. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, his body writhing in his chair, fighting against the rising tide of pleasure. “Subject’s face is… hot,” he mumbled shakily, forcing himself to write. “Perspiration forming—temples. Increase in blood pressure… Emotional response: D-Desire...”

Bill’s laughter rolled through him, dark and teasing. “Lonely little scientist, tinkering away in his lab. So desperate to be touched,” Bill cooed, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. Ford felt the sensations intensify, like Bill had flicked a switch in his brain. The hands that gripped him doubled, each one more demanding, more precise. Ford’s composure faltered, his entire body, his back arching into the touch.

“You’re doing great, Six,” Bill purred, voice thick with amusement. “But you’ve got to keep writing.”

Ford’s hand was trembling violently now, the pen scratching across the page in uneven lines. His heart pounded in his chest, breaths coming faster as the ghostly hands slid further, teasing the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. His legs twitched, unconsciously spreading as the sensations crept in. His writing faltered, ink blotting across the paper, as he gasped. Sweat dripped from his brow, his focus dissolving with every passing second.

“Bill…” Ford groaned, his voice breaking with a mix of frustration and need. The sensation was overwhelming, a chaotic mixture of heat and pressure that left him quivering in his seat. The ghostly lips at his neck lingered, hot breaths tickling his skin, while its counterpart at his navel slowly trailed lower

Bill’s laughter echoed in Ford’s ears, low and indulgent, the teasing edge unmistakable. “Come on, Ford. Control yourself.” His voice was velvet, curling around Ford’s senses. “I thought you needed the data.”

Ford’s breath hitched, his focus slipping as his mind began to fray at the edges. “I—” He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat, lost in the rising tide of sensations. Every touch, every flicker of Bill’s presence, pushed him further from the rigid structure of the experiment. His teeth clenched as he fought to stay present, to maintain control. He forced his eyes back to the notebook, pen poised to continue, but his body betrayed him.

The hands brushing his chest suddenly flicked over his nipples, twisting and tweaking them just enough to send a sharp jolt through his body. The pen slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering onto the desk as his head tipped back, a strangled sound escaping his throat. “F-Fuck…” His body shuddered, muscles tensing as he fought against the urge to fully give in.

Behind him, the EEG machine flared to life, the readings spiking erratically as his brain’s activity surged. Waves of sharp electrical pulses lit up the screen, the rhythmic pattern lost to chaos as Bill’s influence washed over Ford’s senses. The crackle of neurons firing wildly filled the air, the machine struggling to keep up with the flood of stimuli. Ford barely registered it, lost in the sensations, his body trembling as it succumbed to the pressure, mind unspooling further with each calculated touch.

“I’ll take the notation from here, Fordsy.” Bill’s voice dripped with playful condescension as the invisible hands tightened their grip on Ford’s body. “You just tell me what the test subject is feeling, and we’ll be sure to get it all down.”

Ford’s focus was slipping, the rigid control he’d maintained over the experiment fractured under the constant barrage of touches. The sensations blurred together—pressure, warmth, the soft drag of phantom hands across his skin. His breath hitched, muscles tensing involuntarily as the feeling intensified, wrapping tighter around his chest, hips, and thighs. His mind scrambled to keep track, but the tactile overload was too much.

A shudder ran through him as lips trailed up the side of his neck, grazing his collarbone, light enough to tease but heavy enough to draw a whimper from his throat. His pulse was racing, pounding erratically against his ribs. “F-Feeling… intense… pressure around… chest and—” He gasped as the hands dug deeper into his thighs, spreading them further apart. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the chair, trying to ground himself, to hold onto any semblance of control.

“Subject’s… breathing is… shallow,” Ford choked out, his voice strained as the phantom touch slid higher, grazing the skin under his waistband. “Increased… muscle tension… involuntary reaction… h-heart rate spiking.” His reports were more fragmented now, barely coherent as his body writhed under the barrage of sensations.

His legs twitched, hips arching into the invisible pressure, and Ford’s brain scrambled to keep up. His eyelids fluttered shut, his thoughts dissolving into the heat flooding through his limbs. “Subject—subject experiencing… heightened… oh God—arousal.”

“You’re trembling, Sixer,” Bill’s voice was velvet-smooth. He could feel Bill’s satisfaction bleeding through their connection, feeding off every jolt and twitch. “You’re so close, aren’t you?”

Ford took a shaky breath. “Subject’s arousal levels peaking… physiological responses indicate elevated heart rate and—p-plateau,” he forced out, his voice trembling as Bill’s hands roamed lower. “Endorphins released in response—heightened sensitivity across skin…” The last syllables fell from his lips as Bill’s fingers slipped into his pants, finding their mark with expert precision. A sharp gasp escaped him as the illusionary hands enveloped him, his back arching in response to the sudden wave of pleasure. “Subject experiencing… significant— significant…” He broke off, a whine catching on his breath as he felt Bill’s touch ignite every nerve ending. His head fell back, every sensitive part of his body being touched and teased with an expert precision. “God, I wanna touch you so fucking bad…” he growled the admission, the pretense of the experiment shattered under the weight of his desire.

Bill’s fingers danced skillfully, moving deeper with a tantalizing slowness that drove Ford to the edge of his sanity. Each caress ignited a fire within him, and he could feel the tension building, coiling tighter in his abdomen. “Subject—oh fuck…,” he gasped, his voice trembling as he struggled to form coherent thoughts. “Heart rate—rapid… breathing irregular.” But the words slipped away, lost in the haze of pleasure washing over him.

“It’s okay, Ford. Let go,” Bill whispered, his voice low and inviting, laced with authority.

Ford’s eyelids fluttered shut, and he surrendered completely once he got permission, losing himself in the waves of sensation flooding his senses. “Oh god, Bill, yes… ” he cried, breathless, his body falling completely into Bill’s touch. He could no longer hold on to the remnants of his composure; the world shrank to all of Bill’s hands and the exquisite pressure building within him. “I—I’m—” The words faded, replaced by a soft moan as he finished, spiraling into the depths of pleasure that consumed him.

As the waves of ecstasy began to ebb, Ford slumped back against the chair, panting heavily. His body felt heavy and relaxed, yet an uncomfortable awareness settled over him like a cold shroud. The reality of the situation crashed in, sharper than any sensation Bill had conjured. “Oh, jeez…” A rush of embarrassment washed over him as he processed what had just occurred. “Fuck,” he muttered, scrambling to compose himself, panic flaring as he heard the front door of the cabin creak open.

“Ford?” Fiddleford called out, his voice echoing down the hall. “You still down there?”

“Think fast, IQ.” Bill whispered, the smirk on his lips almost palpable as all the sensations he simulated vanished, leave no trace, aside from the uncomfortable wetness settling between Ford’s legs.

“Y-Yeah! Just—just doing some work!” Ford stammered, his heart racing as he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He quickly buttoned his lab coat to conceal the dark stain growing on the front of his pants. His attention shot to his notebook, ripping the last page of his notations out before shoving it into the pocket of his lab coat, just as Fidds made it to the doorway.

“You gotta come listen; I finally adjusted the timing chain, and now she’s smooth as silk—whoa…” Fiddleford stopped short at the doorway, his eyes darting around the room like he was trying to catch a whiff of something strange. Ford looked up from his desk, still hooked up to the erratically beeping machine, the sound of Ford’s still buzzing brainwaves filling the silence. “Doin’ an experiment…?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah… a very important experiment,” Ford stammered, trying to sound nonchalant. Fiddleford chuckled, shaking his head. “Looks like it’s running a bit hot, buddy.” He glanced at the wild readings still buzzing on the machine, then back at Ford before tilting his head back. “C’mon, take a break. Get out of your work clothes and let’s go for a ride. The leaves are really startin’ to turn and it’s a beautiful day.”

Divine timing. Ford cleared his throat and stood from his desk, switching off the machine. “Yeah, good idea,” he said as he followed Fidds up the stairs. “Right behind you.”

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#covenants and other provisions #my writing #billford #stanford pines #bill cipher #billford fanfic #ford pines #gravity falls #fiddleford mcgucket #Bill gave him the ole squishy weasel #it’s like a reward

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