Chapter Text
Ford hugs the back wall of the dimly-lit malt shop, fingers tapping impatiently against its surface as he waits for Stanley to return with their sodas. Evidently his brother is in no rush, taking his sweet time chatting with a girl by the jukebox in plain view.
“Uhm, you’re Stanford, aren’t you?” A meek, feminine voice cuts through the noise, startling him so well he’s half-thankful he has no soda in his hands to spill all over himself at the sight of its owner. A modest curly-haired girl with a less-than-modest chest straining the seams of her button-up blouse stares back sheepishly at him.
Ford clears his throat, pointedly fixing his gaze at a spot somewhere past her head. “Speaking. You’re Cathy Crenshaw, right? Your family just moved to Glass Shard Beach?” Normally, he would have paid no mind to such meaningless goings-on, but the hope of starting anew with a mysterious out-of-towner ignorant of his awkwardest years gave him incentive to retain the information.
“Word gets around fast here, doesn’t it?” Cathy nervously chuckles. “Sorry if this sounds sudden, I’ve wanted to talk to you before but you’re always with your brother. Since you’re here, would you like to… dance a little with me?”
She gestures towards the informal dance floor around the jukebox where other high schoolers are cutting a rug under spotlights, and stretches her other hand towards Ford. He is hit with a sudden nauseating jolt of deja vu at the sight.
He knows how this ends.
But his foolish, traitorous 15-year-old body moves without him, taking her hand in his.
Cathy smiles wide, unnaturally wide, and yanks Ford by the arm towards the dance area. But that’s not right. This is when she grimaced at the unnatural feeling of his hand, shrieked in terror upon examining it closer, and ran away to berate her new friends for pushing her into such a cruel dare.
Instead, she’s eagerly pulling him into the crowd, unfazed by his deformity, if she’s even noticed it.
“What’s going on? What are you doing?” Ford asks in confusion, palm growing sweaty in her grasp.
“Dancing, silly!” Cathy says, twirling herself.
“I know this is a joke. You can stop now.”
“I do LOVE a good JOKE, but I’m DEADLY SERIOUS about this!” With surprising strength, Cathy pulls Ford into a full-body dip. The light in his eyes is blinding, obscuring her face in shadow.
“But—! But my hands! Aren’t they—” He’s cut off as Cathy pulls him back up and takes one of his hands in both of hers, pulling it up to the light and spreading its fingers with glee.
“These? I think they’re WONDERFUL! Why, I could even—” With zero warning or ceremony, she engulfs one of his extraneous digits, swirling her tongue around its length and moaning wetly.
Ford is petrified, cheeks burning at the lewd display. “I— what are you— I-I-I,” he sputters uselessly.
Cathy’s eyes open to look back at him mischievously, and in the proper light, Ford finally spots a familiar yellow glint in them. Curse his habit of avoiding eye contact.
“Muse,” he exhales in awe and relief. “What is this?”
“Oh, just a wet dream I cooked up as a gift for my favorite hardworking genius! Wouldn’tcha like to go all the way with your cute little teenage crush?” Bill shouts nasally, dropping all semblance of Cathy’s voice. Still gripping Ford’s wrist, he shoves it up her shirt. “Even gave her a REAL RACK just like you used to imagine, instead of the bra full of tissues she was actually packing!”
“Wait, Cathy was— nevermind, that’s not relevant,” Ford shakes off one more of many adolescent disappointments. “I’m flattered at the thought, really, but I don’t think I’d like this.” He gently extracts his hand from Bill-as-Cathy’s grasp and crosses his arms protectively around himself as his appearance shifts back to his current day form. “I’m far too old for the version of her I knew, and I remember how terribly she really thought of me. It’s… a memory too tainted by pain.”
Bill blinks Cathy’s two eyes slightly out of sync. “You sure?” He lunges forward to squeeze the slight bulge in Ford’s pants harshly. “This guy down here doesn’t seem to care!”
Ford squeaks in a completely undignified manner. “My muse— please,” he chokes out, breathless.
“Aw, who am I to resist such sweet begging? Fine, fine.” Bill’s familiar triangular form pops out of Cathy’s body and he snaps his fingers, dissolving the entire scene. A peaceful grassy field flanked by birch trees surrounds them.
“Welcome to the surface level of your DESIRE CORTEX!”
Ford furrows his brows in skepticism, and a medical textbook manifests in the air that he proceeds to flip through. “I didn’t take up a neuroscience degree, but I can’t see how this place corresponds to any known anatomical structures of the brain—”
“Sixer, Sixer, you gotta stop taking everything so literally! This is a PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION of an ABSTRACT CONCEPT OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS for the sake of our dear OMNISCIENT READERS!” Bill gestures wildly to a far-off, unseen plane.
“Point is, this baby has LAYERS, like your dirtball planet!” He taps the ground with a fist to emphasize. “Out here is where I pulled that socially-acceptable, heteronormative fantasy from. Not your thing, I get it! But I still wanna line up something special for you, and to do that, I’ll have to DIG DEEPER, get into the nastier repressed stuff! Sound like fun?”
Ford contemplates, still feeling a knot of caution in his gut. On the other hand, it may not be advisable to refuse multiple gifts in a row from his muse. He is lucky to receive even this much mercy from him. And this opportunity could be quite… illuminating, especially now that he’ll know what’s going on.
“I could give it a try, I suppose. When you say ‘dig’, is that also metaphorical? Will it be painful?”
“Depends what kind of pain you mean!” Bill says without elaborating. “But let me ask you this, IQ: do you think I’d ever throw something at you that you couldn’t handle?”
Ford rises to the verbal challenge with fierce, open-hearted determination. “Never, my muse. I trust you entirely.”
“FANTASTIC! LET’S GET DRILLING!” In the blink of an eye, Bill manifests an adorable OSHA-compliant safety vest, goggle and helmet. And a jackhammer already cranked to full power.
Ford’s face falls. “Wait, Bill, you’re going to use that on my brain?!”
“WHAAAT? SORRY PAL, CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THIS THING!”
With no further warning, Bill plunges the jackhammer into the earth below, splitting open its crust. He grips the handles like that of a pogo stick, allowing its up-and-down motions to flail his whole body about comedically.
Ford’s hands instantly fly to his head in pain at the sight. It’s a strange, numbing kind of pain, of intrusion and things deep inside being unearthed, far-off crevices being filled. It’s overwhelming, but not entirely unpleasant. His thighs twitch and squeeze inwards unconsciously. His ears are ringing and his vision is whiting out.
A crack branches out from the spot Bill is drilling, stretching across the landscape. It spreads wide, and the tone ringing through Ford’s ears is so loud he cannot hear his own screams as he and Bill are swallowed by the abyss below.
***
Even as a mere second-semester freshman, Ford is no stranger to office hours. Dissatisfied with the surface-level knowledge covered in his courses, he relishes any opportunity to discuss his studies at length and share theories with his professors.
Still, it’s strange that he’s been asked this time to come at the end of the posted office hours, to which he dutifully arrived 15 minutes early, happy to patiently wait outside. He hears muffled chatter with another student about microbiology from behind the door, as he mentally speculates the reasoning for this meeting. Perhaps this professor finally understands that the mere half-hour allotted slots are simply not enough time for Ford to elaborate as he wishes. Or less optimistically, Ford will be told to expand his social life outside his roommate and classes in favor of taking part in one of Backupsmore’s student clubs instead, or perhaps their robust counseling services. He grimaces at the thought.
He’s pulled from his rumination by the office door opening, and a studious, bespectacled young lady emerging. Exactly the kind of girl Ma would be delighted to see him to bring home, he can’t help but think wistfully. Too lost for words, Ford would attempt a friendly wave to acknowledge each others’ existence, but he learned long ago people don’t take kindly to that with hands like his.
Thus, he resigns himself to the lesser pain of invisibility, hanging his head low and doing his best impression of the upholstered lobby chair he sits in until her footsteps fade. His eyes remain locked on the ground in residual shame as he rises, shuffles to the office door and raps on its surface.
“I know that knock, come on in!” a warm, chipper voice rings out from inside. Ford rubs his knuckles. Even their sound is distinct? He’s still examining them when he turns the handle and pushes inward.
“Stanford Pines! There’s the star student I was waiting for! Take a seat.”
Ford’s head snaps up to the familiar man beckoning him from behind a desk laden with papers and a full ashtray, an unused cane leaning against its side. He’s approaching middle age, lanky, with combed over dirty blonde hair. There’s something comforting in his relaxed posture, necktie tucked neatly into an unremarkable sweatervest, but something fundamental and unnameable is missing behind his creased eyes.
Something besides the fact that said eyes are also glowing with slitted pupils like a cat at the moment. Ford regains his lucidity.
“Doctor Bratsman,” he exhales, playing along and briskly sitting across from him.
“Please, please, no need for such formality!” Bratsman parries casually, rising from his chair, grabbing his cane and striding over to a counter on the far side of the room. “We’re bound to be colleagues in no time with those smarts of yours. Call me Herman, or just ‘Herb’!” He bends over and opens an embedded filing cabinet, where glass objects clink inside.
“Be that as it may, you’re still technically my superior. Please allow me to call you ‘Professor’, at least.”
Herb’s head swivels to flash Ford a shit-eating grin. Bill projects his own voice telepathically without moving his host body’s lips to indicate a complete break from character: Oh, is that what this is doing for you? I’m already learning so much about you, Sixer—
“SO! For what purpose did you summon me to your office, Professor?” Ford swerves, loud, abrupt, manic. Herb goes with the flow without missing a beat, as perfect as he remembers.
“Well, let me start by thanking you again for taking part in my polydactyl case study for the genetics department.” He takes out two crystalline glasses and a bottle of jack from the cabinet, setting them on the counter and pouring effortlessly as he speaks, like this is all completely above-board and appropriate. “But I’m not blind, kid. I saw how you were reacting to all that poking and prodding.” His eyelids lower as he takes a slow sip. “You were hoping for a bit more than just a few extra credits on your transcript, weren’t you?”
Ford covers his face with a hand to hide a rising blush. Was this Bill’s omnipotence, or was he truly that obvious to the real Professor Bratsman?
Oh, he had an inkling, Bill’s voice rings out in his head. But that’s because the interest wasn’t all one-sided! He would have disappeared you into his secret cloning lab if he had the chance. Lotsa creeps out there, Sixer. Good thing you’re such a shut-in or you woulda ended up on a milk carton long ago!
Before Ford can recover from the information that he’s apparently irresistible to predators, or the only slightly queasy sense of pride he feels at being at all wanted, Herb is speaking again and walking towards him, carrying the two glasses. “Whoa Stanford, it looks like that head of yours is going a mile a minute! Want some liquid courage to bring you back to the present?”
Ford is dimly aware of how shady this position he’s being put in by an authority figure is. But he remembers warmly how liberated from shame and anxiety he felt when inebriated with Bill once before, and within this realm of fantasy he decides to put his faculties in the hands of another, reaching out his hand for the glass as Herb approaches.
Herb stops in his tracks a few feet away, and drops Ford’s glass to shatter on the ground. “Oops!” He grins without remorse. “You can have the rest of mine, if you don’t mind a little backwash.”
Bill is 100% fucking with him. He could absolutely conjure up a new glass, or midair reassemble the shards and liquid soaking into the aged carpeting. Still, Ford appreciates the ritual, the excuse to initiate contact.
He outstretches his hand once again but Herb ignores it, and suddenly he’s pressing the rim of his glass to Ford’s lips, the side his own lips had touched, and he’s grabbing Ford’s chin and leaning in close and this is quickly forgoing any plausible deniability—
“Relax. Drink,” he breathes against Ford’s ear.
He tips the glass and Ford obeys, but instead of the smooth, woody flavor he’s grown accustomed to with seasoned drinking, pure bitterness floods his tongue. The only subtlety he can discern is smoky notes of the cigarettes Bratsman favors, sexy in theory but unpleasant in practice. He struggles to gulp down the cascading liquid without choking, and some of it misses his mouth as Herb continues to pour, dripping down his chin and onto his sweater.
Noticing Ford’s poorly-hidden lemon face, he chuckles, some of Bill’s distinct echo leeching into his timbre. “Physically a grown man, but you can’t handle the hard stuff, can you? Need one of those girly fruity drinks instead? Sorry, I’m all out of silly straws!”
Ford scowls and blushes at the accusation. He’s clearly just retaining his 18 year old self’s palate. The onslaught of liquor continues for improbably long, as if the glass is bottomless. Herb cruelly pulls it back while still tipping it downwards, signaling Ford to chase it and not let any spill on the floor. Ford leans forward, head swimming but keenly aware of Bratsman’s eyes following the amber rivulets sneaking down his throat and beneath his shirt collar. Finally, the bitter swill appears to start properly draining from the bottom and Herb’s pouring slows to a stop. He assesses Ford’s thoroughly soaked front.
“There, feels nice, doesn’t it? Seems you made a bit of a mess of yourself, though. Don’t want you to get all sticky.” He strolls back to the counter and refills the glass for himself, leaning against it and sipping. “Why don’t you take those off while I finish mine?”
“Gladly,” Ford grunts, discomforted at the tacky sensation forming on his skin despite the pleasant looseness spreading through his limbs. He peels off the sweatervest with relative ease, but he reels with vertigo when he stands to put it over the back of his chair. As he rights himself, another issue makes itself known in his pants: he’s half-hard. From some flirting and sharing a drink. What the hell was in it?
Herb hasn’t commented so he refocuses his efforts on his damp shirt, hands trembling as he slowly fumbles with the top buttons. A sharp clink and harsh footsteps in Ford’s periphery are his only warnings before Herb is close enough to grab the sides of his shirt and rip them apart, scattering the buttons.
“Too slow, Pines. What happened to those dextrous fingers that played piano for me?” he croons. With surprising strength, he drags Ford with him to his own office chair opposite the desk, sits down and manhandles his student onto his lap.
“Professor, what are you doing?” Ford gasps, his attempt to hide his enthusiasm hindered by the way he turns his head to expose his bare neck. This is ridiculous, he knows it, but he’s officially too drunk and horny to care.
“I’d like to run some additional tests. After all, you’re fantastic at them,” Bratsman purrs, pulling his necktie loose and gingerly lifting Ford’s glasses to cover his eyes with it. Ford embraces the darkness the makeshift blindfold provides. “Firstly, let’s see how you respond to stimuli when your main source of sensory input is removed.”
“What kind of stimul-IGH!” Ford’s inquiry is cut short by Bratsman taking the invitation to ravish his throat, lapping up drying trails of whiskey with his tongue and eagerly peppering bites in between.
“Subject displays increased reactivity when he can’t visually anticipate tactile contact,” he smirks against Ford’s skin.
“The. You. You weren’t joking about the tests thing.”
“The scientific process is no joking matter! I thought we saw eye-to-EYE on that.”
Ford might just be in love.
Cold hands sneak their way into Ford’s open shirt and cup his pecs. “Upon physical examination, the subject appears to possess higher than average amounts of breast tissue for a physiological male.”
“Must you note that in the record?!” Ford whines indignantly.
Yeesh, you can’t even compliment a nerdy piece of jailbait’s tits anymore without him getting all offended! Bill mentally chimes in again, like the “compliment” wasn’t delivered with the clinicality of an autopsy technician. Ford is regrettably very into that clinicality.
As Herb proceeds to ravage the aforementioned tits like a man quite literally possessed, a stray thought idles across Ford’s mind: that this scenario may not be solely for his own pleasure. But… that’s impossible.
A thorough tongue continues to lave through Ford’s stickied chest hair like a cat grooming its mate’s matted fur, while bony hands make their way down his sides and settle on his hips. They pull Ford’s pelvic region (where his growing issue from earlier has become fully apparent) flush against Bratsman in a rocking motion. Mercifully, Ford is not alone in his interest, if the tented slacks rubbing against his front are any indication.
Still, the older man beneath him maintains a stoicism Ford has yet to achieve; when his mouth latches onto his student’s nipple, Ford cannot hold back his resulting moan, nor the spurt of pre in his jeans.
“The subject is especially sensitive here,” Bratsman continues to narrate, pinching the nipple between two fingers to replace his mouth. “Does the above average tactile responsiveness our research team previously noted in his hands extend to his other extremities and areas of high nerve density? Or is this the result of his present intoxication? The blindfold?”
“The variables,” Ford mutters, trying to stave off an embarrassingly premature end. “You’d have to— ugh, haahh— isolate ‘em. Run separate tests.”
“I’m well aware,” Herb snips back testily, grinding their clothed cocks together more aggressively and delivering a sharp bite to Stanford’s poor abused nipple.
The dual sensations have Ford crying out and bucking his hips wildly. It’s too much. “St— Stop!” he yelps. “STOP!”
His resistance physically manifests in their surroundings: time reverses for his ill-fated buttons as they magically levitate off the floor and re-thread themselves into the torn edges of his un-stained dress shirt, closing its top half of buttons and hiding the well-marked skin beneath.
“I-I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to finish too fast—” Ford attempts to say while beginning to pull his blindfold down, but Bratsman grabs his wrist and indicates to him to keep it on.
“First you try and tell me how to run my experiment, and now you’re holding out on me,” he sneers. Ford is suddenly grateful for the blindfold, shielding him from surely disdainful eye contact.
Herb pushes Ford to get off his lap so he can rise from the chair. He maneuvers Ford into bending over the adjacent desk. “You may be a prodigy, but I think you’ve forgotten who’s in charge here. Stay here, up on your elbows. Ass up.”
“Yes sir,” Ford squeaks, an old familiar terror gripping his spine as he hears a belt unbuckling. And yet, his boner remains. How sick is he?
The first strike of leather spooks him into a full-body shudder despite him half-expecting it. At least his pants are still on. “Count down from six for me. Your lucky number! Be grateful it’s only that much, we’re on a time crunch.”
“Six,” Ford obeys, not bothering to question what he means by a time crunch. Thwap. “Five.” Thwap. “Foh. Four,” he tensed a bit before that one made contact, worsening the impact and giving his dick a bit of friction against the desk.
There is an uncomfortable pause that somehow fills Ford with more dread than the prospect of physical punishment. At least the latter means attention is paid to him. The thought that Herb has somehow very quietly left the room occurs.
“Professor, are you still— AH! Three! Two!” Two sloppily delivered hits of the belt come in quick succession, the latter aimed a bit too high and painfully grazing Ford’s lower back.
“No other commentary necessary, just count,” Bratsman reminds him sternly. Ford nods shakily. It’s difficult to keep his knees and elbows upright even through this measly discipline.
At last, the final strike lands, and it seems the professor wanted to vary it up as much as possible in the short time they had, because he uses the edge of the belt to slice at the seam between Ford’s buttock and upper thigh. “One,” he winces, eyes watery.
“There. Good counting, you math whiz,” Herb coos condescendingly. “Let’s see if your little virgin cock made it.” He reaches around and finally unfastens Ford’s jeans, pulling them down to expose his underwear. “Ha! Classic tighty whities, cute. You get ‘em in a seven pack at Sears?”
Ford’s elbows collapse and he buries his face in the desk. “Please,” he mumbles weakly. “Haven’t I been good?”
“...You have,” his mentor concedes, uncharacteristically soft. He gently pulls down the underwear and presses his lips to one of the welts marring the revealed soft pale skin. Ford sighs, relaxing.
He then hears a distinct pop of a bottle cap and a squirt of liquid, while a hand spreads one of his asscheeks, exposing his hole to the cool air. “You ever play with yourself back here?”
“A little. But I’ve been too busy with—” Ford pauses and reorients himself in the past. “Your um, class.” A cold, wet finger circles his rim. “Ah— I’ve had almost no time to, well, relieve myself at all.”
“Maybe I did that on purpose,” a raw voice responds, lightly dipping one finger in while another teases Ford’s pucker like a madman pacing back and forth. “Loaded you with busywork. Got you backed up, frustrated, kept you tight. All for ME.” Impatient, he plunges in both fingers up to the first knuckle. “Ugh, it’s sucking me in—” He curls them upwards cruelly.
“Ghn— Please, moreee…” Ford begs, but his sweet spot is neglected in favor of more practical scissoring motions. A third digit slips in and Bratsman wiggles them around.
“Look at you. A little praise, a little discipline and you MELT. You need to be CHOSEN, to be SPECIAL so badly, you’ll do anything, won’t you?” At last, Ford hears pants unzip and feels a blunt, fleshy tip at his entrance.
“Yes, I’m ready—” he gasps.
“But it’s not enough to just be special to me,” Herb cuts him off, continuing to tease with shallow gyrations of his hips that leave Ford’s hole winking, desperate to be filled. “You need to show everyone, let the WHOLE WORLD know how special you are. What would your fellow students think if they saw you, bent over my desk and begging for my cock?”
“Fuck, I can’t even imagine—”
“You don’t have to.”
Ford’s blindfold is ripped violently from his face and his vision is flooded with blinding overhead lights. They’re…in the lecture hall. When did their surroundings change? The room is spacious and familiar, an auditorium of packed rows wrapped around a center “stage” area in a tiered arrangement. Countless spectators tower above, leering down at Ford’s compromised position, literally caught with his pants down.
“Take notes on our star here, class!” Bratsman projects a confident stage voice to the audience. “Only myself and my lovely TAs are permitted to touch him for now,” he gestures to several teacher’s assistants flanking the desk with glowing yellow eyes and clipboards in hand, “but if he holds up through our special treatment, you can all have a turn yourselves!”
Without further decorum, he slides home, forcing a groan from deep within Ford’s gut and having him grip the edges of the desk for dear life as the man behind him proceeds to fuck back and forth into him at a ruthless pace.
“Ah, ah, ahn—” ineloquent sounds are punched out of him involuntarily, his jaw slack and spit flying as he jolts like he’s being electrocuted.
“Whew, folks, the pipes on this one!” Herb manages to snark even as he’s balls-deep in Ford’s tight heat. “Can we Ratatouille him?”
Ford has no idea what a piece of homely French cuisine has to do with this, but he’s quickly preoccupied by a TA grabbing a handful of his brown curls and giving them a yank forceful enough to pull his whole head upwards. The high, airy keen that springs forth from his throat is a pitch he had no idea he was even capable of. A neighboring hand takes reign of another chunk of hair and pulls him in a different direction. Another reaches around and kindly strokes his neglected cock, though the angle is less than desirable. All the warring sensations elicit a symphony of moans as he’s played like an instrument. A familiar cackle echoes all around.
This is so humiliating, to be seen like this by— Ford masochistically cranes his head out to peek at who exactly his audience is, who he can never look in the eye again.
The front rows house vaguely assembled forms of his college classmates, though a few of various genders who caught his aesthetic fancy back in the day appear more starkly. Further up, the seats’ occupants become more anachronistic. Current creatures of Gravity Falls he’s fantasized about having relations with lounge about. There are even people he’s never met or cannot meet; Nikola Tesla and a stoic uniformed man with pointed ears stare at him with curious yet detached interest.
His investigation is cut short by Bratsman taking hold of his hips and flipping his entire body over violently on his back. He’s too preoccupied by the delicious new angle of the cock thrusting up into him to care about how sore his shoulder blades will feel later.
“Stop looking at them. Look only at me.” Ford is commanded. He tries to obey the familiar, hypnotic voice, but the figure pinning him and engulfing his view is itself engulfed in shadow from the harsh light of truth above. Ford wraps his legs around its backside, wanting to keep it nestled close as possible. That would fix him.
It’s a shame the professor hunched over Ford is blocking the audience’s view of his hardworking body; his bobbing cock dripping over his pudgy, fuzzy stomach and down his bare taint, framed by the parted bottom halves of his dress shirt and kneesocked calves all make for a lovely image. “Yes, YES, deeper, I’m yours,” he chants in tune with wet, slapping thrusts.
If his mentor’s movements stutter a bit at that, he doesn’t notice. “Say that again. Who do you belong to?”
“Y-YOU! Fuh— fuck, I’m close—” The light is too bright. Ford squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his hole as he approaches.
“SAY MY NAME.”
“Professor Br- …Buh…BILL!” Ford cums with a shout.
His eyes shoot open in horror, dick still spasming wildly, soiling his shirt once again. Above him, “Bratsman” grins knowingly, so wide Ford can see his greying gums, and he realizes he can’t unsay what’s been said.
The room shakes and roars, the overhead lights short and spark, and the ground breaks apart once more to engulf the desk and its occupants. Everything goes black.
***
What will happen to our dashing hero Stanford after voicing his brimming desire for the irresistible brutish rogue Bill Cipher? To be continued…