#weasel writes

[weaselchild]

A Late Night Hunt

This is set before after Laque has managed to cap his leaking flow and adapted from an rp with a good friend of mine

There were shadows all around him. In the dim lighting of his bedroom, figures illuminated by the moonlight that streams through his open window danced at the corners of his eye as he so desperately tried to focus on the blueprints before him. His vision swam, eye wanting to chase those shadows further into the bedroom, beckoning his gaze towards sharp teeth and wide eyes; unnatural grins and spindly, dripping fingers that wanted to graze ever so lovingly over his face. But he kept his gaze on the paper, vision blurring ever so slightly with fatigue.

Something dripped onto his page. Iridescent and glowing. Flow splattered like tears on his papers. It was getting worse again. It always got worse before it gets better again. His body needed a break from the heavy restrictions he used to cap the ebb and flow of the world’s magic through him.

Letting out a groan of frustration, Laque let his head fall and forehead thump lightly against his desk. Whispering, chittering, laughing, roaring, the cacophony in his head continued, playfully echoing about the room, following figures out of his imagination, black shadows leaving a glowing magenta trail after them as they moved.

Sitting up again, he swivelled in his chair. Pink smeared across his cheek and on his sleeves as he considered what he’s about to ask.

“Did you want them for the night?”

And in the darkness, two eyes blinked back, torn from their simple thoughts of observing.

She was his shadow. A corporeal creature given existence by his acknowledgement, following wherever he goes.

Perhaps that was a little dramatic. She was her own person, after all. She just didn't care much about what that meant. Laque just was the only thing she cared about in this world, her overprotective tendencies never wavering at the sight of that living glass bottle of flow; that she could see the cracks claim more of every day. She knew she'd lost him once. Or was it twice? Between them, their memories of the past were still nonexistent and likely would never exist again. Three was a magic number, but not for the better in this grim fairytale.

She was his shadow. Her existence defined by his. She was one of Them. The Ones he created with the magic of his hallucinogenic-flow dreams. The only one sitting between his dreams and his reality without hurting him. Glowing flow splinters scattered from her jaws as his voice echoed through the dimly lit room. Like a panther she slid from the shadows to his presence, one fingertip trailing off an inky blackness in her shadow along the wall. It seems to shudder.

"Want what? Your furniture?" she whispers, voice low but scratchy. The urges were strong tonight. She’d have to slink out once he was asleep.

She watched a tired smile crack across his face at the perceived joke, the rough edges of his face softening. Her presence always brought him comfort, a familiar lower energy to complement his own. They had been companions since they both could remember (not long at all), perhaps longer.

"Them," he clarified, jerking his head to the corners of the room where the shadows felt most alive, writhing in an endless void, perhaps an amalgamation of various things he saw in his general day to day, making them a terror to behold. She isn’t sure. He isn’t too descriptive when he does see them.

And then one of them blinked at him, its emaciated body breaking from the mass to wind forward as its lidless eyes gaze upon the two of them. He saw its horrible face contort in what might have been the grin of a rotting corpse. More flow splattered across his clothing as he makes to remove his glass eye as distraction, lips curled back in a half snarl at the thought of how he was going to get the stain out of the carpet.

"They're restless. Their voices pound at my skull such that I think they may crack it open."

The emaciated figure knocked its head playfully, much to his annoyance. As if mocking him. Like an asshole. And then it crawled, spider-like, to rest its spiny fingers over Someone’s shoulder where she pulled its lips apart in a gruesome smile in a pathetic attempt to make it presentable.She dared a glance at her disfigured friend, a sweatdrop forming behind her neck. The chapaa hat she's wearing wasn't alive, but sometimes it seemed to move with the flow….like how it was drooping now a little, as if she was in trouble with a parent. And his followed, little ears twitching as if to show their connection.

"You know," she chanced a meek reply, just a little guilty.

The creatures had made their presence known to her not long before Laque's eye started bleeding flow, but she knew only Laque should be able to see them - or at least used to. Not eager to make him doubt his own sanity further, she took them away on regular hunts if only so that her dear friend could have some peace from their haunting presence. She had learned that the creatures cared for their unknowing master as well, much to both party's misery.

"I know… And I'm grateful. I probably would have lost my sanity having to deal with them on my own. I just didn't want to acknowledge them…"

The light thud of his eye on the table got her attention once more and she watched as he reached out to the oversaturated silks that have seen much use already. She frowned as she watched flow trickle down his neck, like blood from a dying body. Another minute or two, and they would have to be out of there. Tonight looked bad, and Laque was pale even under the moonlight.

With the wrap secured, he stood up, brushing his dirty hands off on his hoodie before removing it to clean up the rest like a rag. Without looking, he easily slotted up against her side, followed by two or three more blinking faces slowly coming into focus proper.

"They don't hurt you, right?"

"They hurt you," Someone replied quickly, leaning back against him, "and they know it. They don't want to. When did you notice?"

“I mean… It’s not hard to equate their and your disappearances when they happen at the same time. And they are far from my least favourite part of my symptoms." He gently knocked his head against her a second affectionately, bringing the stained hoodie to reinforce the cloth on his face before repeating his original question once more. "They don't hurt you, right?"

"They…don't. They uh. They make me more powerful? It's great. I don't even need arrows to hunt."

Powerful was an understatement. The flow energy transformed her entirely. She was much more akin to a beast than any human or Majiri in that form.

And she liked it. She was just not sure how Laque would react to it. What if it shocked his mental state enough that it affected the flow? She couldn't risk that right now. Absolutely not. She couldn't lose Laque again. Even if she couldn't remember how she'd lost him the first time.

But he snuggles against her more, hiding his head like a bunny as if to hide from the pounding in his skull. There was something hauntingly familiar about that look of pain. As if it wasn't just something she saw regularly, but before their life here together. She knew as much as he the effect that the hallucinations had on his dwindling sanity on nights like this, when the flow was too rough and restless enough that it gave his demons corporeal form. He wouldn't be able to sleep through it.

"Could you take them for tonight? They're too much."

"Was just about to."

Someone changed into her tank top before throwing a worn out cloak on top. No one needed to recognize her out there with Them. Nights like these were conflicting. She looked forward to the hunt, but the conditions for it hurt Laque.

But if he knew and he was actively asking her…

Maybe not so conflicting then. A small sigh escaped her as she puts their foreheads together in a moment of peace.

"Stay safe. I'll bring back some ingredients for breakfast."

Before Laque could say anything else, she slid off the sheets and silently stalked outside. Claws of neon violet protruded from her hands, connected to magical swirls that slither up her arm. The squeals of terror and calling voices were like a symphony of cacophony in her ears.

An eye in the midst of a swirling portal of magenta, disembodied.

She could feel the power behind her closed sockets now; the snap of pink electricity at her fingertips. They had to go.

"Prey," she hissed, voice like a snake. The shadows around her seemed to echo her statement, contorting in back breaking forms as they manifest from the ground. A small army of repulsive black bleeding upwards in a blasphemous act against the laws of physics. Not a moment later, they're gone.

Never does she feel closer to the feral violence of the land than in this form. With the wind in her hair and blood across her body, she threw her head back and howled’ joined by her friends of the night in a chorus of strangled pleas like the flow in her ears. The impressions of teeth and eyes swirled forth occasionally, the distinct shape of a creature showing through in the light of the two moons, otherwise shrouding her form in an almost protective darkness in the night.

There was always a comfort in the flow that supports her with the shadow creatures, like a gentle touch of Laque's presence. Then again it probably was, the shadow creatures that grant her these abilities were of his power, after all. They clung to Someone, melding around her form and acting as an extension to help track her prey. Instances like these where roles were almost reversed, in which she became the dominant and a part of him her shadow. A snare, an arrow, a boost of speed, whatever she needs to take down her prey, whatever would expend energy and work it off into the bay to join the ambient flow of the air.

She spat out a piece of flow wood, swiped before the small pack of humans descended upon the grove tonight. There was always plenty for everyone, so no one ever cared much about the strange break marks caused by her violent harvesting.

Sometimes she wondered if Laque could make flow wood himself by sleeping on a pile of logs. The creatures behind her begin to dissipate, making a series of sounds rsembling the hacking of flow trees. The energy around them had stabilized, meaning by extension, Laque must be in better shape. She could tell through the flow around her as well. By the time she returned, the creatures were all but thin air. She stood alone next to a large pile of neatly wrapped carcasses.

Blood and liquid Flow smeared her sides, coating her hands and teeth like a thick red glue. A curious expression settled on her face as she internally debates. Laque must be tired tonight, she'll wash up.

Ten minutes later she slipped into Laque's bed, still damp and bare from their pond. Snuggling her young companion is like her wolf's cozy den at the end of a long hunt as he turns over like a bunny looking for affection. He looked a lot better, the color having returned to his cheeks. The leak had already slowed to an almost drip, manageable now even by the oversaturated cloths he used as a makeshift eyepatch though the excess still smeared across her pale flesh. Maybe if she hugged him tight enough, he wouldn't see her friends for the night. Come morning they'll bathe and have breakfast with whatever she's brought back. Life as normal.

[musingweasel]

Heyyy guess who actually started the teen wolf fic they were thinking about writing??

[mamawasatesttube]

the whole "jason rules crime alley and none of the other bats are allowed there!!1!" thing is so funny like. tim LITERALLY lives in the theater where bruce's parents died,

[silver-weasel]

Chap 3 is up! Read it on AO3 here

Tags: ballet AU, pianist!Bakugou Katsuki, ballet dancer!Midoriya Izuku, aged-up characters, strangers to lovers, pining, getting together, eventual smut

This was written for the @bakudekubigbang 2022!

[cheese-water]

Watching Tubbo interact with people is so interesting. Every conversation he has is a information game that for some reason he keeps winning while making the other person think they won. Even today with his convos with Fred And Foolish, it’s like he knows all the right buttons to press to get someone to talk, literally.

Like, I would have never guessed fighting back on Fred’s robotic answers would get him to speak. Friendship and politeness and compassion, yes but calling out the bullshit responses he gives? I haven’t even mentioned the absolute gall Tubbo has to pull a “let’s run that back bucko” and continue questioning him. And he was right too. Tubbo treated Fred like anyone else on the server, demanding him to just talk to him like a normal person, and that’s what made the worker crack. And now he has a personal appointment at 1 pm pst all from two conversations (we still don’t know if it’s a positive or negative but it’s still a fuck ton of information).

Not even an hour later, we get Tubbo and Foolish’s discussion about the order which was incredible on Tubbo’s part. He instantly twists Foolish’s question about his opinions on The Order back on him and when he doesn’t get a satisfactory response (“I mean, they’re my friends!”), his approach changes.

“Do you think I should join The Order? Disregarding what’s in my best self interest of course.”

The speed at which Foolish responded no is astounding to witness. And Tubbo didn’t even answer his question. He just tweaked it ever so slightly to make Foolish think he was offering the newcomer advice instead of being forced to show most of his cards. To y’know, the guy he’s supposed to arrest in the future.

Makes me wish Tubbo was here for when Foolish arrested Pac and Mike. That interrogation probably would’ve gone a lot better lmao

[deepwaterwritingprompts]

Text: We raise Cockatrices among other magical creatures, for their strange, sometimes useful byproducts. An unfertilized egg will blind anyone who so much as touches it for 24 hours.

[awanderingtortoise]

Did anyone say zoyalai fake dating Hollywood au, where they fall for eachother while simultaneously taking down morozova's abusive directing career?? No?? Well here it is anyway!

[carlyraejepsans]

Out of curiosity what instantly ruins a soriel fic for you? I promise this isn't for my own fic 😁

Sans remembering resets. Not even a Soriel specific thing, I catch one whiff of it in any UT fic and it immediately kills any interest I might have had in it. Same with Sans being suicidal (he is not. lmfao)

But let's see, Soriel specific... hm. It's hard to explain what it is that they do wrong specifically. But there's a brand of h/c fics with sans being the comforted where you can tell the author has not taken into account everything that is also wrong with Toriel. She's just there to offer comfort, which I'd argue is something Sans would do more often with how evasive and private he is about his own issues (and how we have literal in canon examples of him comforting her instead, even before they officially met each other)

[deuxcherise]

Collar Crimes: Weasel In

C/w: Unhealthy behavior, yandere OC, yandere male, whiny yandere, gender neutral reader, comfort (?), fluff (?), mentions violent action, cute image of stoat for reference A/n: So I watched a video about a stoat, a type of weasel, and oml it's adorable as heck. And vicious. And we can’t deny a cute yandere, can we? Enjoy~ Masterlist | Part 0, Part 1 (you're here!), Part 2

The stoat is a very lovely creature. Quite small, halfway tameable, and very weasel-like. A long-shaped living doll of a creature. However, it is… less cute in its mannerisms. You've seen it, with its tiny form, take down a rabbit twice its size and thickness. You were a child back then when you first witnessed this shocking event in a documentary, and have long since accepted that not all cute things are gentle and innocent.

Perhaps that is why you haven't called the police yet, though you definitely keep your phone on hand. Just in case…

“(Y-Y/n)... I… This is not what it looks like!”

Really? Then what the heck am I looking at? 

The very large trash bag he is dragging away in the alleyway next to your apartment has a very suspiciously human shape, with a defined head, armed-bound torso, and bound legs. Sure, an idiot could chalk it up to Eris's strange tying technique, but you are no idiot.

Not to mention, the bag starts to squirm and make a muffled noise.

“Quiet,” Eris spit before he stomps on the bag so hard you hear a crack. The bag immediately stills. He then turns to you with a bashful smile, like the kind of smile you’d find on a person who accidentally made a mess in the kitchen because they were trying to make a cake for you.

…..

Yeah, that’s the same exact smile he had when the one time you found him in your kitchen at 3AM, in the middle of baking a cake for your birthday. Sweet as the gesture was, you’re pretty sure you’ve never given him a key to your apartment.

You sigh. “Listen, could you please be more…” You gesture to this whole scene with circular motions of both of your hands. “Inconspicuous about your crimes?”

Eris's eyes sparkle. “Of course, my love! I made sure there aren't any cameras or witnesses here to catch me!”

There were many cameras set up by your landlord just a few days ago, as a result of an uptick of crimes in the area recently. Knowing Eris… that landlord wasted quite a sum.

“Actually, the area here is pretty dangerous,” he adds. “You should come live with me!”

“I've said this before, and I'll say it again. No, thank you.”

His pleasant expression falls for a second before he pipes up, “Mm, okay! Then let me install some cameras!”

“No. No, thank you.”

“But (Y/n)! How else am I going to wat- protect you?” he whines, his arms flailing the trash bag like a child throwing a tantrum.

You sigh as you turn around and start walking back to your apartment. You ignore his cries for your name, unwilling to deal with people in general after finishing your 9-to-5 customer service job. That's how you found him actually, or rather how he found you. Funny, isn’t it? You don't understand why he's so… obsessed over you to this point. 

Why haven't you taken any real action so far? It’s because he’s been pretty harmless overall—aside from a few kisses on the cheek and head and hand. He really likes planting kisses on you, doesn't he? At least he doesn't kiss you on the lips… as far as you're aware…

Still in your work uniform, you collapse on your couch and take a nap for at least an hour. When you wake up again, you find Eris on top of you, staring intensely at your face with a very blank, doll-like expression. Realizing you're awake, his doll-like face breaks into a smile.

“(Y/n)~” he sweetly calls out to you, like a puppy greeting his owner. It would’ve been cute, but his history of creepy antics pollutes his image.

You don't question how he gets into your apartment without a key anymore. “Get off,” you command.

“Noooo… Don't wannaaaa.”

You sigh. He's being difficult again. You take a hand and push against his shoulder, expecting to push him off your bed as usual. This time, however, he's too solid and stable. Drowsiness is keeping you weak.

“Eris…”

“Yes, love?”

“Please get off… you're crushing me.”

“Eh?? No, I'm not!”

He really isn't, bearing his weight on his elbows and knees and not at all on your body. How long has he kept this pose?

Seeing his face about to whine again, you say, “Ugh, fine.” You roll over onto your stomach and close your eyes again.

“(Y/n)? Are you going back to sleep? You haven't had dinner yeeet.”

“.....”

“(Y/nnn).”

“Don't feel like eating,” you mumble.

“Uh… But (Y/n), you have to take care of your health. Or let me take care of your health.”

“Don't need you to. Leave me alone.”

“Hmphhhhh.”

“.....”

You hear him lower himself down onto your body to wrap his arms around you. His lips trace the back of your neck, much to your discomfort.

“(Y/n),” he whispers.

“.....”

“You're lonely, right?”

“.....”

“I am too, so I know. You don't have to tell me.”

“.....”

“Since we're both alone… I was thinking… we should become a family together… Isn't that a good idea?”

“.....”

“I can wait for you at home… cook for you… do the laundry… take out the trash… take care of our children…”

“I don't want any children,” you murmur.

He gently kisses the back of your head. “Of course, of course. I’m okay if it’s just you and me too~ Would you like a summer wedding or a winter wedding? Personally, I prefer winter-”

“I'm not… marrying you.”

“Mm… That's okay too! We can… elope, if that's what you want. As long as we're together.”

“I don't… like you that way.”

“Oh… does that mean you like me in other ways?”

What part of– You sigh. “Shut up… trying to sleep…”

You hear him giggle as he hugs you tighter and plants some more kisses on the back of your head. “Okay, okay, my love. I'm just… so happy. Being with you. I really am. I'll make you fall in love with me… someday, (Y/n).”

“Mm hmm… Sure…”

“Just need to… get rid of some more… pests… so we can be together… always…”

And the both of you head off to dreamland together on the couch~

[fatehbaz]

Because tuatara are very long lived - between 100 and 200 years by most estimates […] - the founding of Aotearoa/New Zealand as a modern nation and the unfolding of settler-wrought changes to its environment have transpired over the course of the lives of perhaps just two tuatara [...].

---

[T]he tuatara (Sphenodon punctatus) [...] [is] the sole surviving representative of an order of reptiles that pre-dates the dinosaurs. [...] [T]he tuatara is of immense global and local significance and its story is pre-eminently one of deep timescales, of life-in-place [...]. Epithets abound for the unique and ancient biodiversity found in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Prized as “Ghosts of Gondwana” (Gibbs 2008), or as denizens of “Moa’s Ark” (Bellamy et al. 1990) or “The Southern Ark” (Andrews 1986), the country’s faunal species invoke fascination and inspire strong language [...]. In rounded terms, it [has been] [...] just 250 years since James Cook made landfall; just 200 years since the founding of the handful of [...] settlements that instigated agricultural transformation of the land [...]. European newcomers [...] were disconcerted by the biota [...]: the country was seen to “lack” terrestrial mammals; many of its birds were flightless and/or songless; its bats crawled through leaf-litter; its penguins inhabited forests; its parrots were mountain-dwellers; its frogs laid eggs that hatched miniature frogs rather than tadpoles [...].

---

Despite having met a reassuringly temperate climate [mild, oceanic, comparable to western Europe], too, the newcomers nevertheless sought to make adjustments to that climate, and it was clear to them that profits beckoned. Surveying the towering lowland forests from the deck of HMS Endeavour in 1769, and perceiving scope for expansion of the fenland drainage schemes being undertaken at that time in England and across swathes of Europe, Joseph Banks [botanist on Cook's voyage] reported on “swamps which might doubtless Easily be drained” [...]. Almost a century later, in New Zealand or Zealandia, the Britain of the South, [...] Hursthouse offered a fuller explication of this ethos: The cultivation of a new country materially improves its climate. Damp and dripping forests, exhaling pestilent vapours from rank and rotten vegetation, fall before the axe [...]. Fen and march and swamp, the bittern’s dank domain, fertile only in miasma, are drained; and the plough converts them into wholesome plains of fruit, and grain, and grass. [...]

[The British administrators] duly set about felling the ancient forests of Aotearoa/New Zealand, draining the country’s swamps [...]. They also began importing and acclimatising a vast array of exotic (predominantly northern-world) species [sheep, cattle, rodents, weasels, cats, crops, English pasture grasses, etc.] [...]. [T]hey constructed the seemingly ordinary agronomic patchwork of Aotearoa/New Zealand's productive, workaday landscapes [...]. This is effected through and/or accompanied by drastic deforestation, alteration of the water table and the flow of waterways, displacement and decline of endemic species, re-organisation of predation chains and pollination sequences and so on [...]. Aotearoa/New Zealand was founded in and through climate crisis [...]. Climate crisis is not a disastrous event waiting to happen in the future in this part of the world; rather, it has been with us for two centuries already [...].

---

[T]he crest formed by the twinned themes of absence and exceptionalism [...] has shaped this creature's niche in the western imagination. As one of the very oldest species on earth, tuatara have come to be recognised [in Euro-American scientific schemas] [...] as an evolutionary and biodiversity treasure [...]. In 1867, [...] Gunther [...] pronounced that it was not a lizard at all [...] [and] placed the tuatara [...] in a new order, Rhynchocephalia, [...] igniting a frenzy of scientific interest worldwide. Specifically, the tuatara was seen to afford opportunities for "astonished witnessing" [...], for "the excitement of having the chance to see, to study, to observe a true saurian of Mesozoic times in the flesh, still living, but only on this tiny speck of the earth [...], while all its ancestors [...] died about one hundred and thirty-five million years ago" [...]. Tuatara have, however, long held special status as a taonga or treasured species in Māori epistemologies, featuring in a range of [...] stories where [...] [they] are described by different climates and archaeologies of knowledge [...] (see Waitangi Tribunal 2011, p. 134). [...]

While unconfirmed sightings in the Wellington district were reported in the nineteenth century, tuatara currently survive only in actively managed - that is, monitored and pest-controlled - areas on scattered offshore islands, as well as in mainland zoo and sanctuary populations. As this confinement suggests, tuatara are functionally “extinct�� in almost all of their former wild ranges. [...] [Italicized text in the heading of this post originally situated here in Boswell's article.] [...] In the remaining areas of Aotearoa/New Zealand where this species does now live [...], tuatara may in some cases be the oldest living inhabitants. Yet [...] if the tuatara is a creature of long memory, this memory is at risk of elimination or erasure. [...] [T]uatara expose and complicate the [...] machineries of public memory [...] and attendant environmental ideologies and management paradigms [...].

---

All text above by: Anna Boswell. "Climates of Change: A Tuatara's-Eye View". Humanities, 2020, Volume 9, Issue 2, 38. Published 1 May 2020. This article belongs to the Special Issue Environmental Humanities Approaches to Climate Change. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Text within brackets added by me for clarity. The first paragraph/heading in this post, with text in italics, are also the words of Boswell from this same article. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[diodellet]

cw: incoherent rambling, im still going through it™, unbeta'd++all mistakes are mine

grim being a selfish brat is the point of his character arc. when you're told to claw for your survival in a prestigious yet hostile magical academy, when you're told that the weak must obey the strong, of course you're going to make use of what little advantages are given to you. that means demanding your henchman to do your every bidding and taking any opportunity to prove your strength.

kindness, consideration, compassion, empathy - they don't have a place in NRC. or so it seems.

the great thing about him starting the story with an obnoxious and abrasive personality is in how he awkwardly navigates his first ever friendships. in the sweetness of the rare scene where kinship just clicks for him, where his boasts and complaints become banter, where he feels like he gets to belong, to have a home.

and there's something deeply tragic about grim too, the fact that he's going to be left alone when yuu returns to their original world. what will happen to his student status? will he have to move out of the ramshackle dormitory? can he make it through his studies without you at his side?

when the first person who gave you kindness leaves, what are you supposed to do? will you say goodbye or will you fight to keep them?

[taniushka12]

stages of being a barry wheeler fan:

stage 1: wow this barry fella kinda sucks :/

stage 2: actually he's alan's best friend and he would do absolutely anything for him and hes a great friend and hes got a big heart and hes a great guy actually and also hes smart and and and

stage 3: barry loves alan and he cares about his people (affectionate) but also he does kinda suck (affectionate)

[elleryhart]

Implications, announcements, and overwhelming joy

A few drinks in with the Lieutenant --just a few? more than a few, surely, but it's hard to keep track when some are directly from the bottle --he makes half an insinuation.

Hell, not even half. It's an off-hand implication buried in other words as part of a tiff of sorts, but in that span of seconds it holds immense meaning for Ellery. It's an implication they haven't dared allowed to cross their own lips, let alone think someone else might accept. And there it is, thrown out casually. A given.

Instead of pointing it out directly and giving him space to challenge it, they instead tell him they're growing out their hair, and, to repeat the implication, say that one of the reasons they're doing it is because he seems to like men with long hair.

He doesn't challenge it. He says Ellery would look good.

They take a final swig of the drink and set the bottle down —carefully, deliberately— before they ball both of their hands into the fabric of his shirt and pull him to them— to him— for a kiss.

-

Jin, their roommate, starts calling their shared space a bachelor pad. Merry calls him handsome. Lyra calls him her boyfriend. The Scrimshander feels his bursts of joy before he can even tell it.

He hasn't gotten to everyone yet, but each time the words come out of his mouth, Ellery feels a brand new wave of euphoria and gains a little more confidence.

[verflares]

need to hurry up and play minish cap so i can jot down my ideas for Varmint LoZ Races and Guys. unfortunately i am just so so lazy

[geniusboyy]

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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[radlyradar]

Silly headcanons I have about Firefly and Wild Weasel because we don't see what Firefly looks like under the mask and his bio said he was born in France I now headcanon that he is French but gradually lost his accent throughout his time traveling the world and now it's only come out when he yelling at something or someone also ngl he gives me Francis vibes lol in my heart that his names that why he never tells anyone, especially wild weasel

As for Wild Weasel I feel like he is either Asian or Mexican or mixed just those vibes you know I'm still deciding for him

Cause let's be honest the writers definitely intended for a huge majority of cobra team to be people of color or of minority groups ( i got this from the original cartoon) the baroness is Russian, destro is Scottish and so on and so on

So do you have any silly headcanons or crazy headcanons about them?

okay a.) I agree with your wild weasel theory, I fully hc him as Mexican (totally not because I’m Mexican and am projecting or anything)

also I completely made this one up, but I imagine wild weasel with a stutter, because he is scarred and has a strange voice because of it in cannon and I think it would just fit him.

and in the comics I’m pretty sure they confirm that firefly is multiple people under a pseudonym (correct me if I’m wrong) but even if I am right I like to thing either wild weasel knows who’s HIS firefly or I choose to ignore it lol. Also I love the French accent (wild weasel would totally make fun of him for it)

dude I kinda want to write a fanfic about these two but don’t know what I would write 😭