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notmyneighbor · 6 months

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Let Me In ~ Doppelgänger Francis Mosses/The Milkman x Female Reader

Chapter 4

Word Count ~ 4.5k

Rating ~ Explicit

CW ~ minor blood and violence, sexual content

Also available on AO3

taglist @luthien-elvenia-asher

Fanart used with permission @kaworinx on Instagram and TikTok

You’ve only barely begun to recover from the wrung out feeling of ultimate bliss when you hear it: the warning klaxon, followed by the sound of tires screeching to a halt. The aggressive roar of truck engines. Doors opening in rapid succession. Loud voices and boots pounding on pavement.

The doppelgänger jerks upright, sliding off the bed and wrenching the curtains to one side to peer down at the scene unfolding on the street below. “They’re here,” he says, and for the first time you detect something like fear wafting from the imposter.

A flood of relief washes over you. Someone had alerted the disposal unit. It wasn’t too late to save lives after all.

You search for your discarded clothing, hurriedly sliding the retrieved garments back into place. Francis’ copy looks at you.

“They’ll know you let me in.”

“Yes,” you agree distractedly, hastily shoving the hem of your blouse back beneath the waist of your skirt.

“They’ll know,” he says again, more firmly this time, moving in front of you, one hand closing around the wrist you’ve yet to refasten the shirt cuff upon. “They’ll know about me.”

You stare at him, realization kicking in. The others were safe. You, however, had no such guarantee. “Are you going to kill me?”

“I should. You’re a liability.” His grip on you abruptly relaxes. He’s merely holding you now. “Your organization will punish you for this.”

You shake your head, trying to hastily tuck your hair back into place. “Not once they hear my explanation.”

The intruder scowls. “What defense will you offer? You knowingly let a replicant into your precious building.”

“I…” Your confidence wavers as you begin to consider how your actions will appear. He’s right. There’s no excuse for what you’ve done. You’ve not only failed at your assigned task, you’ve betrayed your own kind. An unforgivable crime.

He seems to read the slight panic on your features, his voice gentling. “Suppose we make a deal,” he says.

You look at him warily. “What kind of deal?”

“I make it look like you were attacked while you tried to fend me off. Make up some doppelgänger appearance when they ask you. Don’t tell them about Francis’ death. You get to live. I get to go down the fire escape, avoiding extinction.”

A life for a life, in essence. The elevator was temporarily disabled the second the alarm was pushed, but it won’t take the team long to sweep each floor. You were running out of time.

“Okay,” you reluctantly agree.

He turns your arm over so the underside is exposed, thumb pressing firmly just below the hollow of your elbow. “This will hurt,” he cautions. The only warning you get before you see it: that thing inside of the milkman breaking through, emerging. A sickly gray-green digit topped with a sharp yellow claw. He drags it right through the fabric of your shirt, right through your skin. It burns. A blossoming line of red appears, your lifeforce weeping out of the laceration. You feel lightheaded and nauseous.

“Don’t look at it. And don’t let it get on the carpet. We need to leave, now.” He steps back into the milkman’s shoes, not even bothering with the laces. You follow him to the front door, exiting the apartment. Locked again. You hear voices echoing in the stairwell, the heavy tred of the suited disposal unit pounding on the steps.

“Remember what I said.” The imitation’s knuckles graze your cheek, the touch almost tender. The injured arm cradled against your chest is throbbing. “I’m going to knock you out. It will help further disguise what happened.” The voices are getting louder. They’ve finished on the second floor, making their way to the third. The doppel’s fingers curl around the back of your neck, his mouth brushing yours hurriedly before your head is slammed against the wall, sending you hurtling into a void of darkness.

***

There is a debriefing after the incident.

No casualties. The residents were safe, excluding Francis, of course. You have a lie ready to account for his sudden absence. You say you’d heard him mention something about an emergency visit to a sick relative in a neighboring city as he’d dashed out the front door earlier that day. A phone call to his employer wouldn’t match this story, of course. You weren’t sure what family the man even had. None that would corroborate your fabrication, certainly. You were just hoping that your claim about him needing to leave abruptly very early in the morning without contacting anyone was convincing enough. It’s all you can think of on the spur of the moment.

The director, a severe looking middle aged man, frowns over the lenses of his glasses at you. You keep your hands folded tightly in your lap. Your stitched wound is slowly healing, the ache now a sort of dull throbbing that you’re consciously aware of from time to time. No apparent signs of infection, the surrounding skin clear.

“Your track record, up until now, has been impeccable.” The older man’s voice brings you out of your reverie.

“Yes, sir.” It’s true. For six months you’d performed your role as doorman perfectly. Never failing to detect a single doppelgänger. Protecting the innocent.

“Still, this is not a transgression that can simply be overlooked. The consequences of your misjudgment could have been dire.”

You’d stated that you’d realized the person requesting entrance was really a copy only after the door had been opened, catching an error on the paperwork at the last minute. Intervening, attempting to stall the intruder. Injured and knocked unconscious. You knew nothing more after that.

“It’s suspicious that none of this alleged false documentation has been retrieved at the site. Strange also that you’d been carried all the way to the third floor. We also have no record even remotely matching the description of the doppel you’ve given. How do you account for these discrepancies?”

“The replicant stated they were a new resident moving in to the vacant apartment on the third floor. It seemed plausible that there hadn’t been a chance for them to be featured on the day’s list yet. It’s hardly the first time someone’s name hasn’t been placed as it should be. The subtly incorrect DDD logo was the tip off I unfortunately picked up on too late, sir.” You pause, clearing your throat. There is virtually no moisture left in your mouth and you find it suddenly parchment dry. It’s difficult to speak, your nerves betraying you. “The replicant must have taken the paperwork with them in order to conceal the evidence. And I was knocked out immediately after being cut. I don’t remember anything after that.”

His lips press into a thin line. Your force yourself to maintain eye contact. This was your explanation and you could not falter. “Even so. You failed to follow protocol. And you failed to contact the disposal team.”

“There wasn’t time to dial the phone number. Not even time to sound the alarm. I simply reacted on instinct. I was hoping to…”

“To what? What did you think you would accomplish? You, a mere unarmed woman?” He drapes the last word in contempt. You flush, squirming in your seat at the insult.

The suited man sighs heavily, closing your file folder. “You’re going to be suspended without pay for one week. Then I expect you to return to work. Your temporary replacement is…less than ideal. Let me be clear, though: if anything else happens, you’ll be terminated. No debriefing. No excuses. Understood? This is your final warning.”

You nod, saving your sigh of relief for when you’ve exited the office. The air departs your lungs in a loud rush. You’d done it. You’d actually managed to talk your way out of it.

Your thoughts immediately shift to Francis’ doppelgänger.

He was out there, somewhere. The safest move would be to travel, to just flee the area entirely, but you doubt he’ll leave. He’s still here.

You can feel him.

***

You drive to your house, to the home of your childhood. An inheritance from your great grandparents, passed down through each generation. Outside of the city. Quiet. It’s a relief to see green again. The air smells clearer, too. No waste from factory smokestacks or concentrated exhaust from automobiles. A light scent of grass and summer wildflowers. You roll your window down, inhaling deeply. It’s the best you’ve felt in a while. Since before the incident.

Francis. Your good mood departs just as quickly as it had arrived. How terrible a person you are. Lying to save your own skin. To protect the doppelgänger that had killed your beloved milkman. Putting innocent lives at risk. You had no right to feel anything even resembling happiness or contentment. You should turn the car right back around and return to the office. Confess your sins and receive whatever punishment would be decided for you. Imprisonment, certainly. Perhaps a life sentence to match the life that had been stolen from the third floor resident.

You trudge up the steps of the porch, sinking down onto the topmost stair, your head resting against the post of the railing. There are strips of paint peeling, you notice. You’ll need to sand them down before you apply more stain. Something to occupy you during your week off. Distract you from your own misery.

You close your eyes and listen to the hum of insects. There is another scent in the air now; something damp. The sky’s clouds were white and fluffy looking, but you know those can change in an instant. You think there is a storm approaching.

Perhaps you will wait it out. Just rest here and see what happens, studying your surroundings. There are birds singing in the vacant field that hasn’t known crops for many seasons. You only tended a much smaller one close to the house. Some vegetables. That was all. More often than not the local wildlife took a sample, but you didn’t mind sharing. You should have a look before you head back inside later on, see if there is anything to harvest.

It’s comfortable here. The sun is at the perfect angle. You still have plenty of shade. Warm enough to warrant rolling your shirt sleeves back. Catching sight of the scabbed, sutured line marring your forearm. You trace the mark. You think about the copycat tracing your cheek. That final kiss before he’d knocked you unconscious. It made so little sense to let you live. Had some remnant of Francis’ psyche influenced him somehow? Urging him to spare you?

Your eyes slide closed and you drift off to sleep still mulling this over.

***

In the dream you are standing in the nearby orchard.

You know it is a dream, because in reality these fruit trees are no longer tended. Yet here you are, standing beneath the crooked branches of one peach bearing specimen. The many smooth emerald leaves shield you from the sun.

Francis is beside you.

Or not-Francis. You cannot say which it is. The smile is as you remember. The perpetually tired eyes. He reaches for one of the velvet skinned fruits, plucking it easily and handing it to you.

The texture is exactly as it should be. Not too firm and not too soft. Ripe and ready to take a bite from. You do so, your teeth sinking into the soft yellow flesh. A burst of sweetness on your tongue. The excess juice drips down your chin. You offer the peach to the milkman but he doesn’t accept, instead moving to take a taste of it from your face, first doting on your lips before he laps at the dribbling trail. You clutch his shirt and his kisses become rougher. Pushing you gently to the ground. You drop the fruit and your hands become full of his shirt, his hair, the soft earth beneath you. His mouth plants kisses along your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. Hand dragging down through the floral patterned button front dress you’re wearing.

“Francis.” You reach for his face. It’s wrong. Something in the structure of the nose. So subtle it could easily be mistaken. The teeth suddenly bared in a smile that’s unfriendly. A grin of triumph. It isn’t Francis. You’ve been duped by an imposter.

The skin ripples. His eyes become bloodshot. You struggle to move. Your wrists are pinned at your sides. Sharp teeth nipping at the skin of your throat. A wolf ready to destroy its prey.

The thunder awakens you.

You jolt upright, massaging your stiff neck as you glance around hurriedly. The sky is a mass of gray clouds now, the natural illumination of the heavens notably dimmed. The air is laced with the scent of petrichor. You rise and the first drops of rain fall, pattering on your bare arms, sinking into you hair. Another disgruntled warning rumble, louder this time. The interval between that and the next shortening. You’re about to turn and enter the house when you see a figure standing nearby, on the outskirts of the side yard.

It’s him. The imposter that took over Francis.

The normally pristine, starched uniform is dirt stained, collecting souvenirs from the unpaved road leading to your house. The bowtie around his neck is loosened, draped around the unbuttoned shirt collar, the first several buttons of that work shirt similarly unfastened, revealing the white undershirt beneath. He’d never bothered retrieving the hat, the uncovered thatch of thick chestnut hair now tousled. Your fingers curl around the railing for support as he begins walking towards you with determined strides, closing the distance rapidly. The thunderstorm’s namesake harbinger sounds again. A flash of lightning. The rain is no longer a faint scattering of drops, now falling in an earnest deluge.

You both manage to escape being drenched, finding shelter beneath the porch roof in the knick of time, the imposter halting just in front of you. His chest is rapidly rising and falling, as if that brief exercise he’d just participated in was taxing him. You know that’s not the reason for those panted gasps for air, your own body mimicking that movement.

“Francis,” you say, but the name is drowned out by the growing ire of the storm.

He moves then, pressing you against the weathered clapboards near the living room window that overlooks the front yard. He cups your face between his hands and his lips crush yours. You respond without hesitation, kissing him back. Not giving yourself time to think about what you’re doing; to recall the dream you’d just had where you’d been destroyed by one of his kind.

“How did you find me?” You gasp when you part for air.

This utterance is barely audible, threaded between the next two bouts of thunder, muffled by the sound of the downpour. He slides his fingers against the harsh furrow on your arm. “I could sense where you were. Tracked you…” The words drowned out once again. His mouth moves close to your ear. “What did you say to them? What happened?”

“They bought it, for the most part, I think. The director is suspicious, though. I got suspended for a week.”

Another flash of lightning. It was foolish to remain outside any longer. You invite him in, struggling to fit the key in the lock, your trembling fingers not cooperating. His hand closes over yours, steadying you. The door surrenders, swinging inward.

It’s dark in the living room. You switch on the nearest lamp and toss your keys on the table.

“I’d offer you something to drink, but I don’t know if you still do that, or…” It was unknown what the doppelgängers consumed for nutrition. Perhaps it would be different now that they could occupy a human body and not merely disguise themselves as one.

“I do. But that can wait.”

“Did you know that would happen? You being able to trace my whereabouts when you cut me?”

“No. It’s uncharted territory. Like so much of…this,” he murmurs.

“You need to call Francis’ workplace. Explain to them that there was a family emergency. That’s the excuse I gave for the sudden absence. The DDD has been looking for you. Well, for him,” you correct yourself.

“They’ll expect me to return at some point.”

“Yes.”

“So you’ll let me in. To dwell there. And what of my brethren?”

“I can’t let them in. You know that.” You swallow nervously. “You can’t harm anyone. If I let you inside, you have to promise me you won’t. You got what you wanted. You got to be one of us. There’s no reason to hurt anyone else.”

A large clap of thunder makes you jump. The doppelgänger moves closer to you, tipping his head to one side thoughtfully. “You think I’ll cooperate?”

“We had a deal. I let you escape. I lied to protect you.”

“And I let you live. Both ends of the bargain fulfilled. There is no obligation beyond that.”

“You don’t want to hurt me.”

“Are you quite sure of that?” One arm circles your waist, drawing you against him. His fingers sift through your hair, tugging your head back slightly. “These hungers for the flesh are so distracting. How your kind manages them…” His voice trails off and his lips touch yours.

The light flickers and dies. You’ve lost electricity, now standing in the darkened room cradled by the deceiver.

“<i>The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep</i>…”

You inhale sharply, thinking of the Bible on Francis’ nightstand. Reading scripture like any good devout soul, learning verses by heart. That memory resurfacing now.

“Francis.” You know it’s no longer him, not in his purest, human essence, but this evolution still holds traces like this that you can’t help but hold dear.

“I’m here, sweetheart.” His hands slide down over the curve of your buttocks as he kisses the corner of your jaw. You guide him towards the nearby couch, watching him sink into the cushions before you climb into his lap, your shoes sliding off and falling to the hardwood floor. You run your fingers through his hair, your mouth ravaging his. It’s the parts of Francis that you love that you’re adoring, you tell yourself. Not the pretender, but the fragments of the man inside he still carries with him. That is what your fingers caress and your mouth cherishes. You unbutton his shirt the rest of the way, then reach for the belt buckle, jerking the leather strap free from the metal, all while your lips and tongue work in a frenzy over his.

The rain and the thunder becomes white noise, a nearly muted sound in the background as you unbutton his pants and pull down the zipper, the metal teeth parting to reveal white briefs. You touch his erection through that thin material, feeling the hard, thick line of it and he hisses, then groans somewhere near your neck.

“Yes, love, that’s what I need…”

You shove your hand beneath the elastic waistband and you make contact with feverish flesh. Another groan from the imposter. You sweep over the head of his cock, realizing he’s circumcised, smoothing leaking precum over the dome before you wrap your fingers around the shaft and begin stroking up and down. He moans into your mouth. It’s not the best angle, your hand a bit squashed awkwardly between your bodies. You slide off his thighs to sit beside him, never breaking contact, still pumping his prick, rolling your fingers over the crest as you reach the top, thumb dragging over the frenulum with each pass. Your tongue dances over his and you feel the arousal leaking from your own sex, soaking your panties.

Another glob of clear fluid oozes from the tip and your mouth waters. You want to taste it. Want to feel him in your mouth.

Your lips abandon his and he frowns, confused until he sees your head bowing over his lap, your body shifting as you engulf his turgid member. Another hissing sound of pleasure as the slightly musky flavor hits your taste buds. You haven’t fully taken him inside yet, only reaching close to halfway, applying suction as you move across that shallow expanse, allowing yourself to become accustomed to the length and girth of him. His fingers touch your head, not applying force, just resting there. You release his cock with a wet popping sound, stroking your saliva over his erection before taking him into your mouth again. You push deeper this time, forcing your lips closer to the base of his cock, to the nest of dark pubic hair. Your throat protests and you gag, the fingers on your head now tightening, pressing, urging you on.

“Sweet girl, that’s it, you can take it. All the way. Fuck.” The curse is something you’d never imagine coming from the milkman’s lips, but you find yourself aroused by it, the depravity of what you’re doing erotic. Your head bobs, dipping lower each time, eliciting an obscene wet squelching sound as his prick collides with your throat. There’s a higher pitch to his sounds of pleasure now. His hips lift to meet you, shoving him in as deep as he can reach while your nostrils flare, searching for a greater air supply.

Your nails dig into this thigh. The loosened belt buckle jingles with each thrust into that moist cavity you’ve provided. The fingers in your hair loosen, allowing you a brief respite. You withdraw and cough. A thick trail of saliva connects your lower lip to his glistening cock. Your fingers massage through the slick and he hums appreciatively. Your lips feel slightly numb, tingling from the stretch. There’s a burning sensation in your abused throat, a soreness when you swallow. But the discomfort is bearable. You want to do this. You want him to feel good.

You suck in a lungful of air and then begin again. You hear the replicant’s breathing becoming shallower, more rapid. He’s getting close. You redouble your efforts, moving fast and deep.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to make me…it’s so fucking good…”

His hips snap up and an acrid spill of semen floods your throat. It catches you by surprise and you choke around the pulsing erection. It’s a copious amount of seed that spills over your retreating tongue. You swallow down the last of the bitter fluid, straightening, dragging the back of your hand across your spit drenched chin.

“That was…you…” The creature is speechless. You can’t help but feel a little pride over that. He captures your lips, mulling over the taste he’s left there. “I want to taste you,” he says, and your pussy throbs. “I want you to cum inside my mouth.”

He moves off the couch, kneeling in front of you. Shoving at your skirt. You hurriedly hook your thumbs over the edge of your panties and drag them down, feeling how wet the crotch is as they drag across your legs. Scooting closer to the edge, spreading yourself open for him.

His face moves forward and his tongue parts your folds. Laving down to gather a sample of your arousal. Humming with approval at the taste of you as he focuses on your clit. A long, slow drag over the sensitive nub. You whimper. His thumbs wedge along either side of your sex, stretching the pink flesh further open. His mouth covers your cunt and he sucks and your thighs try to close, the sensation overwhelming.

“Oh sweetheart, you’re delicious.” Slurping on your clit now. You thread your fingers through his hair, caressing his head as his tongue flicks across the hooded button. He doesn’t need guidance this time. Everything is the way you like it. Dividing attention between your clitoris and the entrance of your pussy. Pushing that muscle inside, fucking you with his tongue, alternating with lapping at your bundle of nerve endings. You wish it wasn’t quite so dark. You want to see his eyes. You know he’s looking at you even if he can’t discern much in the dim gray light filtering in through the windows. Watching your reaction even as he feels it in his mouth. Hears the pleading, the needy gasps and moans, the whining that begins the closer you get to coming apart in his mouth.

He moans, too, and the vibrations of that sound add another layer to your pleasure. A finger makes its way inside you. Violated by a second soon after, thrusting while he sucks your clit. You climax, panting his name over and over, your fingers frantic in his hair, your pelvis quaking as your grind yourself against him.

Eventually your movements lessen. He eases back and your quivering legs draw closed. He rejoins you on the couch, his mouth on yours, gifting you a taste of yourself.

Then you sit quietly, listening to the diminishing storm outside. The rain drums on the roof and taps along the gutters with a soft metallic sound. Your face is tucked into the doppel’s shoulder, one hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, his arm curled around your shoulders.

You shouldn’t enjoy this. Any of this. You should be afraid, disgusted. Instead you feel oddly calm. Safe in his arms, even though you certainly aren’t. These alien beings were masters of deception and manipulation. You know better. It was foolish, what you were doing. Dangerous—for you, for everyone else.

But you’re convinced more than ever that some part of Francis is still buried within. The goodness of him negating the evil of this imposter.

“I’ll make the call in the morning.” The first words spoken in a long time. Your head lifts. “And I’ll move in to the apartments.”

“Just you. And you won’t harm anyone.”

“You ask for too much.”

“I’m giving up everything for you. Risking my job, my life, the lives of the people I’ve sworn to protect. My heart. My soul,” you finish with a whisper. “I don’t think you understand how many things I’m sacrificing.”

“I’m not human. It’s impossible for me to. There are no words for them in our language because they simply don’t exist.”

“But you want to be us. You should understand…”

“I will make the call and I will move in. Beyond that I am not promising you anything. Except…I do not want you harmed.” He reaches for your arm, tracing over the healing wound he’d inflicted. “I will try to prevent that, at least.”

A small concession, perhaps, but an important one nonetheless. If he was willing to spare you, maybe you could convince him to spare others.

Teach him the value of a human life while taming the monster within that wears the face of the man you love.

#francis mosses #francis mosses x reader #francis mosses x you #milkman #milkman x reader #milkman x you #thats not my neighbor

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 months

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Cleantech has an enshittification problem

On July 14, I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

EVs won't save the planet. Ultimately, the material bill for billions of individual vehicles and the unavoidable geometry of more cars-more traffic-more roads-greater distances-more cars dictate that the future of our cities and planet requires public transit – lots of it.

But no matter how much public transit we install, there's always going to be some personal vehicles on the road, and not just bikes, ebikes and scooters. Between deliveries, accessibility, and stubbornly low-density regions, there's going to be a lot of cars, vans and trucks on the road for the foreseeable future, and these should be electric.

Beyond that irreducible minimum of personal vehicles, there's the fact that individuals can't install their own public transit system; in places that lack the political will or means to create working transit, EVs are a way for people to significantly reduce their personal emissions.

In policy circles, EV adoption is treated as a logistical and financial issue, so governments have focused on making EVs affordable and increasing the density of charging stations. As an EV owner, I can affirm that affordability and logistics were important concerns when we were shopping for a car.

But there's a third EV problem that is almost entirely off policy radar: enshittification.

An EV is a rolling computer in a fancy case with a squishy person inside of it. While this can sound scary, there are lots of cool implications for this. For example, your EV could download your local power company's tariff schedule and preferentially charge itself when the rates are lowest; they could also coordinate with the utility to reduce charging when loads are peaking. You can start them with your phone. Your repair technician can run extensive remote diagnostics on them and help you solve many problems from the road. New features can be delivered over the air.

That's just for starters, but there's so much more in the future. After all, the signal virtue of a digital computer is its flexibility. The only computer we know how to make is the Turing complete, universal, Von Neumann machine, which can run every valid program. If a feature is computationally tractable – from automated parallel parking to advanced collision prevention – it can run on a car.

The problem is that this digital flexibility presents a moral hazard to EV manufacturers. EVs are designed to make any kind of unauthorized, owner-selected modification into an IP rights violation ("IP" in this case is "any law that lets me control the conduct of my customers or competitors"):

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

EVs are also designed so that the manufacturer can unilaterally exert control over them or alter their operation. EVs – even more than conventional vehicles – are designed to be remotely killswitched in order to help manufacturers and dealers pressure people into paying their car notes on time:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

Manufacturers can reach into your car and change how much of your battery you can access:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

They can lock your car and have it send its location to a repo man, then greet him by blinking its lights, honking its horn, and pulling out of its parking space:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

And of course, they can detect when you've asked independent mechanic to service your car and then punish you by degrading its functionality:

https://www.repairerdrivennews.com/2024/06/26/two-of-eight-claims-in-tesla-anti-trust-lawsuit-will-move-forward/

This is "twiddling" – unilaterally and irreversibly altering the functionality of a product or service, secure in the knowledge that IP law will prevent anyone from twiddling back by restoring the gadget to a preferred configuration:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

The thing is, for an EV, twiddling is the best case scenario. As bad as it is for the company that made your EV to change how it works whenever they feel like picking your pocket, that's infinitely preferable to the manufacturer going bankrupt and bricking your car.

That's what just happened to owners of Fisker EVs, cars that cost $40-70k. Cars are long-term purchases. An EV should last 12-20 years, or even longer if you pay to swap the battery pack. Fisker was founded in 2016 and shipped its first Ocean SUV in 2023. The company is now bankrupt:

https://insideevs.com/news/723669/fisker-inc-bankruptcy-chapter-11-official/

Fisker called its vehicles "software-based cars" and they weren't kidding. Without continuous software updates and server access, those Fisker Ocean SUVs are turning into bricks. What's more, the company designed the car from the ground up to make any kind of independent service and support into a felony, by wrapping the whole thing in overlapping layers of IP. That means that no one can step in with a module that jailbreaks the Fisker and drops in an alternative firmware that will keep the fleet rolling.

This is the third EV risk – not just finance, not just charger infrastructure, but the possibility that any whizzy, cool new EV company will go bust and brick your $70k cleantech investment, irreversibly transforming your car into 5,500 lb worth of e-waste.

This confers a huge advantage onto the big automakers like VW, Kia, Ford, etc. Tesla gets a pass, too, because it achieved critical mass before people started to wise up to the risk of twiddling and bricking. If you're making a serious investment in a product you expect to use for 20 years, are you really gonna buy it from a two-year old startup with six months' capital in the bank?

The incumbency advantage here means that the big automakers won't have any reason to sink a lot of money into R&D, because they won't have to worry about hungry startups with cool new ideas eating their lunches. They can maintain the cozy cartel that has seen cars stagnate for decades, with the majority of "innovation" taking the form of shitty, extractive and ill-starred ideas like touchscreen controls and an accelerator pedal that you have to rent by the month:

https://www.theverge.com/2022/11/23/23474969/mercedes-car-subscription-faster-acceleration-feature-price

Put that way, it's clear that this isn't an EV problem, it's a cleantech problem. Cleantech has all the problems of EVs: it requires a large capital expenditure, it will be "smart," and it is expected to last for decades. That's rooftop solar, heat-pumps, smart thermostat sensor arrays, and home storage batteries.

And just as with EVs, policymakers have focused on infrastructure and affordability without paying any attention to the enshittification risks. Your rooftop solar will likely be controlled via a Solaredge box – a terrible technology that stops working if it can't reach the internet for a protracted period (that's right, your home solar stops working if the grid fails!).

I found this out the hard way during the covid lockdowns, when Solaredge terminated its 3G cellular contract and notified me that I would have to replace the modem in my system or it would stop working. This was at the height of the supply-chain crisis and there was a long waiting list for any replacement modems, with wifi cards (that used your home internet rather than a cellular connection) completely sold out for most of a year.

There are good reasons to connect rooftop solar arrays to the internet – it's not just so that Solaredge can enshittify my service. Solar arrays that coordinate with the grid can make it much easier and safer to manage a grid that was designed for centralized power production and is being retrofitted for distributed generation, one roof at a time.

But when the imperatives of extraction and efficiency go to war, extraction always wins. After all, the Solaredge system is already in place and solar installers are largely ignorant of, and indifferent to, the reasons that a homeowner might want to directly control and monitor their system via local controls that don't roundtrip through the cloud.

Somewhere in the hindbrain of any prospective solar purchaser is the experience with bricked and enshittified "smart" gadgets, and the knowledge that anything they buy from a cool startup with lots of great ideas for improving production, monitoring, and/or costs poses the risk of having your 20 year investment bricked after just a few years – and, thanks to the extractive imperative, no one will be able to step in and restore your ex-solar array to good working order.

I make the majority of my living from books, which means that my pay is very "lumpy" – I get large sums when I publish a book and very little in between. For many years, I've used these payments to make big purchases, rather than financing them over long periods where I can't predict my income. We've used my book payments to put in solar, then an induction stove, then a battery. We used one to buy out the lease on our EV. And just a month ago, we used the money from my upcoming Enshittification book to put in a heat pump (with enough left over to pay for a pair of long-overdue cataract surgeries, scheduled for the fall).

When we started shopping for heat pumps, it was clear that this was a very exciting sector. First of all, heat pumps are kind of magic, so efficient and effective it's almost surreal. But beyond the basic tech – which has been around since the late 1940s – there is a vast ferment of cool digital features coming from exciting and innovative startups.

By nature, I'm the kid of person who likes these digital features. I started out as a computer programmer, and while I haven't written production code since the previous millennium, I've been in and around the tech industry for my whole adult life. But when it came time to buy a heat-pump – an investment that I expected to last for 20 years or more – there was no way I was going to buy one of these cool new digitally enhanced pumps, no matter how much the reviewers loved them. Sure, they'd work well, but it's precisely because I'm so knowledgeable about high tech that I could see that they would fail very, very badly.

You may think EVs are bullshit, and they are – though there will always be room for some personal vehicles, and it's better for people in transit deserts to drive EVs than gas-guzzlers. You may think rooftop solar is a dead-end and be all-in on utility scale solar (I think we need both, especially given the grid-disrupting extreme climate events on our horizon). But there's still a wide range of cleantech – induction tops, heat pumps, smart thermostats – that are capital intensive, have a long duty cycle, and have good reasons to be digitized and networked.

Take home storage batteries: your utility can push its rate card to your battery every time they change their prices, and your battery can use that information to decide when to let your house tap into the grid, and when to switch over to powering your home with the solar you've stored up during the day. This is a very old and proven pattern in tech: the old Fidonet BBS network used a version of this, with each BBS timing its calls to other nodes to coincide with the cheapest long-distance rates, so that messages for distant systems could be passed on:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FidoNet

Cleantech is a very dynamic sector, even if its triumphs are largely unheralded. There's a quiet revolution underway in generation, storage and transmission of renewable power, and a complimentary revolution in power-consumption in vehicles and homes:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/12/s-curve/#anything-that-cant-go-on-forever-eventually-stops

But cleantech is too important to leave to the incumbents, who are addicted to enshittification and planned obsolescence. These giant, financialized firms lack the discipline and culture to make products that have the features – and cost savings – to make them appealing to the very wide range of buyers who must transition as soon as possible, for the sake of the very planet.

It's not enough for our policymakers to focus on financing and infrastructure barriers to cleantech adoption. We also need a policy-level response to enshittification.

Ideally, every cleantech device would be designed so that it was impossible to enshittify – which would also make it impossible to brick:

Based on free software (best), or with source code escrowed with a trustee who must release the code if the company enters administration (distant second-best);

All patents in a royalty-free patent-pool (best); or in a trust that will release them into a royalty-free pool if the company enters administration (distant second-best);

No parts-pairing or other DRM permitted (best); or with parts-pairing utilities available to all parties on a reasonable and non-discriminatory basis (distant second-best);

All diagnostic and error codes in the public domain, with all codes in the clear within the device (best); or with decoding utilities available on demand to all comers on a reasonable and non-discriminatory basis (distant second-best).

There's an obvious business objection to this: it will reduce investment in innovative cleantech because investors will perceive these restrictions as limits on the expected profits of their portfolio companies. It's true: these measures are designed to prevent rent-extraction and other enshittificatory practices by cleantech companies, and to the extent that investors are counting on enshittification rents, this might prevent them from investing.

But that has to be balanced against the way that a general prohibition on enshittificatory practices will inspire consumer confidence in innovative and novel cleantech products, because buyers will know that their investments will be protected over the whole expected lifespan of the product, even if the startup goes bust (nearly every startup goes bust). These measures mean that a company with a cool product will have a much larger customer-base to sell to. Those additional sales more than offset the loss of expected revenue from cheating and screwing your customers by twiddling them to death.

There's also an obvious legal objection to this: creating these policies will require a huge amount of action from Congress and the executive branch, a whole whack of new rules and laws to make them happen, and each will attract court-challenges.

That's also true, though it shouldn't stop us from trying to get legal reforms. As a matter of public policy, it's terrible and fucked up that companies can enshittify the things we buy and leave us with no remedy.

However, we don't have to wait for legal reform to make this work. We can take a shortcut with procurement – the things governments buy with public money. The feds, the states and localities buy a lot of cleantech: for public facilities, for public housing, for public use. Prudent public policy dictates that governments should refuse to buy any tech unless it is designed to be enshittification-resistant.

This is an old and honorable tradition in policymaking. Lincoln insisted that the rifles he bought for the Union Army come with interoperable tooling and ammo, for obvious reasons. No one wants to be the Commander in Chief who shows up on the battlefield and says, "Sorry, boys, war's postponed, our sole supplier decided to stop making ammunition."

By creating a market for enshittification-proof cleantech, governments can ensure that the public always has the option of buying an EV that can't be bricked even if the maker goes bust, a heat-pump whose digital features can be replaced or maintained by a third party of your choosing, a solar controller that coordinates with the grid in ways that serve their owners – not the manufacturers' shareholders.

We're going to have to change a lot to survive the coming years. Sure, there's a lot of scary ways that things can go wrong, but there's plenty about our world that should change, and plenty of ways those changes could be for the better. It's not enough for policymakers to focus on ensuring that we can afford to buy whatever badly thought-through, extractive tech the biggest companies want to foist on us – we also need a focus on making cleantech fit for purpose, truly smart, reliable and resilient.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/26/unplanned-obsolescence/#better-micetraps

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ckret2 · 2 months

Text

Chapter 59 of human Bill Cipher possibly not being the Mystery Shack's prisoner because he got executed two chapters ago:

Everything you haven't wondered about how Bill survived his execution.

7:27 a.m.

Mabel didn't know why, but figuring out when to ask Mrs. Grendinator to pull over had felt as stressful as trying to throw a ping pong ball into a passing car's open fuel door to land in the little fuel pipe. All she had to do was ask to pull over after they'd passed everything but the last truck stop, but before it was too late for Mrs. Grendinator to make the turn into the Triple Digit parking lot. That was a large window. It wasn't easy to miss. Somehow Mabel still dreaded that she'd speak up too late and Mrs. Grendinator would say she'd have to wait for the next rest stop—by which point Bill would have splatted like a bug against the weirdness barrier while everyone else passed safely through.

But she'd managed to blurt out "I forgot to use the bathroom at home. Can we pull over?"; they'd stopped at the Triple Digit Truck Stop; and Mabel made it inside before her friends could catch her.

She locked the unisex restroom door, set her backpack on the ground, opened it up, and sighed with relief when she saw Bill sitting on her sweater. She carefully pulled him out, set him on the floor, and pointed the height-altering flashlight at him.

For a moment after returning to his true size, he remained seated on the floor, legs bent, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Worriedly, Mabel asked, "You okay?"

"Think I learned what motion sickness is," Bill groaned. "Just—gimme a sec."

"Aww, I'm sorry." Mabel surreptitiously checked in her backpack to make sure Bill hadn't been sick on her sweater. (It was a cool one. It had kissing parrots.)

After a few deep breaths, Bill lifted his head enough to look at Mabel. The first thing he said was, "'Cool big brother-slash-sister,' huh?" He gave her a queasy, but cheeky, grin.

"Shut uuup you weren't supposed to hear that!" She'd just about died with embarrassment when Candy had repeated that where she knew Bill could hear.

"I'm flattered." Bill uncurled himself from his nauseous half-fetal position; and then, gripping onto the sink for support, got back to his feet. "Being smaller again was nice, but I'm never traveling like that again."

"You're such a whiner."

"Yeah, yeah. I have a lot to whine about. I'm dead and about to be executed. Talk about... lose your cake and... not-eat it, too."

Mabel laughed. Bill mussed her hair, grinning, and said, "Hey, you've got no room to laugh, you're the one with the not-setting-houses-on-fire bit."

"Arrrgh, don't remind me!" She pushed Bill to the side so she could use the mirror to straighten out her hair again.

"You did pretty well, though! I'd say that was some of the best acting I've ever seen out of you."

"You too! They definitely bought it," Mabel said. "Even Grunkle Stan was getting worried."

"Especially back in the kitchen, wow! That was really convincing." He paused. "Really, really convincing."

Something heavy hung in the air. Mabel focused on her hair in the mirror.

Bill said, "That bit in the kitchen about me 'depending' on you." He exaggerated the air quotes around the word, distancing himself from the concept. "It wasn't on our list."

"Yeah. It just kinda... seemed right. Improv." Mabel waved unenthusiastic jazz hands.

"It bothers you."

Mabel winced. "I mean... I'm not actually mad at you. But. I want to help, but I don't know what to do for..." She gestured at Bill. "The whole being dead on an alien planet issue."

"Believe it or not, the hoodie helps," Bill said. "Listening helps." But he couldn't meet her gaze; he was fiddling with his friendship bracelet instead. He had to know how heavy even just listening to him could be.

"I'm glad, but... I just... wish you had more friends you could talk to."

Bill nodded morosely. "So do I." It wasn't like he'd chosen to only have one friend, was it? Prisoners didn't get to make those kinds of decisions.

Mabel asked, "Do you really think I think you're just a summer fix-it project?"

"I... pfff... come on, I watched you spend all last summer handing out makeovers and dating advice. You've already done my makeup, taken me clothes shopping, and tried to pump me for info on what kinds of freaks I'm into."

(Mabel quietly filed away the fact that Bill referred to "freaks" as his preferred romantic targets.)

"That's how your summer was going to end," Bill said. "You tame the monster, go home triumphant, and don't worry about it anymore. Like how you patched up Broken Heart's love life and left him to sort out the consequences."

"No!" Mabel huffed, "I mean—maybe a little at the beginning, but... you're really my friend now, I'd hate it if I never saw you again. I don't give friendship bracelets to just anybody!"

Bill kind of thought she did; but he wasn't about to argue. "Well, I've only given one person a bracelet, and I meant it." (Even more now than when he'd originally made it.) "You're never getting rid of me now, star girl. You're stuck with me forever!"

Coming out of Bill Cipher, the promise should have filled her with dread. A month ago it would have filled her with dread. But Mabel just found it comforting. "Good."

(And Ford hadn't felt any dread when he'd sworn "until the end of time," either.)

Bill took off his backpack and rummaged through it. "Now let me make sure I can keep that promise."

He took out a map of the mountains and forest around Gravity Falls and spread it out on the floor for them to kneel in front of. "You know about the spaceship buried under town? When its ring cut through the mountain, a few chunks of the ship dislodged and were buried in one of the mountains. No human has ever found them before, not even your great uncle. That's where I'll hide."

"Are the chunks big enough to hide in?"

"Sure! There's one that'd serve as a decent studio apartment. Well—the cheapest studio apartment in Manhattan, maybe. But, hey, I don't have much furniture."

On the map, he showed Mabel a route to reach the base of the cliff, tracing it with his finger. She couldn't afford to take a map with the route marked; if the adults discovered Bill's escape and confiscated Mabel's possessions, a marked map would lead them straight to him. She'd just have to do her best to memorize the route he described. "When and if the coast is clear, you can come find me there."

"How do I get up the cliff?"

"Don't worry about that. You make it that far, I'll take care of the rest."

And that was all they could afford to discuss. Mabel couldn't hide in here for long. As Bill refolded the map (and Mabel was awed to learn he was the kind of person who could refold maps correctly on the first try), and he packed the map and the height-altering flashlight in his backpack, they each tried separately to figure out how to get around to saying goodbye.

"I uh... I know you're sticking your neck out for me, kid." (Bill wasn't used to this, wasn't used to people who didn't help him due to fear or duty or lies, wasn't used to people who still wanted to help him after they knew what he was really like.) "So, thanks—"

Mabel flung her arms around him. Her voice thick, she said, "I think your manners are getting better."

"Shut up, I've always known how to say thanks." It was gratitude that was new.

"Be safe out there," Mabel said. "Don't die, or else. Remember to eat. And drink water! And do laundry sometimes."

"All right, all right. You'll find me in better health than you left me. All the sunshine and fresh air this body can take."

"I'll miss you."

Keep it together, Cipher. He swallowed hard. "Have you ever heard the song 'We'll Meet Again'?"

"Uh-uh?"

"Old war song. Look it up once you're in Portland, when you aren't busy having synthesizers pumped in your ears."

"Is it about... how we'll meet again?"

"Yes, smartypants. Look it up anyway," Bill said. "I'll miss you too."

Mabel washed her face, left the restroom, and shut the door behind her; and Bill waited in the dark while everyone left.

####

7:45 a.m.

A woman with two children opened the unisex restroom door, and gasped in shock when she saw a human silhouette lurking in the dark, one eye shining.

"Hey, thanks, lady! Couldn't get the door for some reason." He breezed past her. "Careful, it sticks from the inside."

He grabbed an empty backpack for sale, and loaded it up with supplies, food, and drinks. (The good stuff, not the weak cider he got in the Mystery Shack. He was making margaritas tonight.) He headed up to the cash register... veered to a currently-unmanned register, stole a handful of loose change out of a tip jar, and timed his exit so he walked out just as a man walked in and kindly held the door for him.

####

7:55 a.m.

It was a fair walk from Triple Digit back to the cliffs around Gravity Falls. When Bill was a safe distance into the woods, he unzipped his first backpack, retrieved his flattened top hat, and popped it out; and then continued on, behatted and using his umbrella like a cane.

Even with no sleep, even just a couple of days after the worst hiking trip in history, even tired and sore from an hour of frenzied dancing, even carrying two full backpacks with one strap slung over each shoulder, even with the sky gloomy and overcast—this was the best he'd felt since Weirdmageddon.

His steps were sure, his body was unchained, and the future had opened up for him again.

####

8:00 a.m.

Mabel kept glancing out the window, back in the direction of Gravity Falls, waiting and waiting to see the light of some kind of killer laser cut through the sky.

Maybe the Quantum Destabilizer's beam just wasn't visible from this far. Maybe they'd decided to wait to execute Bill. Maybe they hadn't wasted their shot because they'd already discovered Bill and Mabel's ruse. Maybe the "enchantment" Bill had written hadn't done its job.

But if they had discovered Bill was missing, they would've called Mabel immediately, trying to find out what she'd done and where he'd gone.

Her phone sat hard and heavy and silent in her pocket.

The butterflies in her stomach didn't stop fluttering until long after they reached Portland.

####

10:30 a.m.

Plus or minus a few trees, the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff was just how Bill had remembered last seeing it millennia ago. The Trilazzx Betan proximity sensor that had been embedded in the cliff face since the ship crash was still there and still sensing, even after millions of years and a layer of stone had closed around it. He could see it behind the face of the cliff; and it could see him.

He took out the multi-tool pocket knife Dipper had "donated" to Bill's supplies, flipped out the blade, and carved his face in a tree far enough from the rendezvous point to avoid notice by anyone who found this spot, but near enough it could see anyone who showed up. He made it as accurate as he could—hat, bow, limbs, eyelashes. That would unfortunately make it easier for humans to identify the face if anyone happened to walk by, but his ability to connect to his other eyes was still weak, he needed as much of a boost as he could get. He licked the bark, leaving his saliva to connect the eye on the tree to him.

And then he returned to the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff, and, beneath the watchful eye of the proximity sensor, began digging in the dirt with his hands.

Beneath the soil, fortunately not buried too deep, was a stone shaped like a small tombstone with several symbols carved into its surface that superficially resembled common runes. Bill brushed the dirt off of his leggings and rubbed it out of the carved lines in the stone. It was lucky that today was overcast; it would make this thing a lot easier to control.

Bill took out the flashlight, removed the height-altering crystal, turned it on, and aimed the beam at the topmost rune.

The runes began glowing an eerie green.

The ground shuddered; and then a patch of ground five feet in diameter lifted up into the air, carrying Bill with it, tearing the grass at the edge of the circle, propelled by a long-forgotten enchanted stone platform concealed in the clump of dirt.

He rose to the gouge that the spaceship had carved into the mountain; and then he moved his flashlight's beam to another rune. The platform smoothly shifted to moving sideways, gliding beneath the ancient overhang. When he turned off the flashlight, the stone stopped glowing and gently settled to the ground. Bill stepped off, fished a spare shirt out of his backpack, and pulled it over the rune-covered stone so it couldn't take off if the sun came out. There was a reason this buried stone was the only platform of its kind left in the area outside of the deep mountain caverns: leave one outside on a sunny day where the light can hit its runes, and next thing you know it's zoomed out over the Pacific and is quickly rising toward space.

He surveyed the area. Every once in a while humans climbed up here just for the challenge of it, delightful little explorers they were; but he doubted anyone had been up here in decades. He stood in front of what was, to all appearances, a completely nondescript patch of stony ground; and he said, in heavily accented but intelligible Trilazzx Betan, "Let me in, you hunk of junk. Activate emergency crash protocols."

A fragment of ship deep beneath the ground stirred awake, registered the command, analyzed itself and concluded from the fact that it wasn't in space and was separated from 99% of the rest of itself that it had indeed crashed, and activated emergency crash protocols. In acknowledgment of the dire situation, it deactivated its usual authorized personnel list—there was no sense in waiting for the captain to approve new orders if the captain might be dead—accepted the command given by the unknown being above it, and opened its hatch.

Millions of years of solid stone groaned and buckled in protest at being moved; but Trilazzx Betan engineering was strong enough for the framework of a portal capable of ripping a hole between dimensions without being ripped apart itself. The stone yielded first. A hatch swung up, revealing a tilted chamber descending into the cliff.

Bill strolled confidently down the walkway. "Cancel distress signal. Disable life support's air filtering." The fragment of a ship beeped a warning, and Bill responded, "I'm aware of this planet's high oxygen content. You worry about your health, I'll worry about mine. Disable air filtering." The ship beeped a confirmation. "Reconnect to all external proximity sensors in range and display on screens one, two, and three." This broken part of the ship had once handled communications. It had a whole wall of screens. He wondered whether he could jury rig this thing to pick up human satellite TV. Nah, probably not worth the effort.

He slung off his backpacks and started unpacking.

####

12:04 p.m.

It was time.

Dipper sat on the floor and put his head in his hands. He felt sick.

He was dead. In just a few seconds Ford would discover that Bill was gone—Dipper was sure he was gone, they hadn't heard a peep from the room, Mabel must've snuck him out or left him some escape route—and then Ford would know that someone had warned Bill and Mabel, and then Dipper was dead—

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah." Dipper waved Ford off. "Just... didn't get much sleep. Little dizzy." Ford would never trust him again. Stan would be furious. They'd both be furious.

"You can go downstairs if you..."

"No no, I'm fine, I..." Dipper took a deep breath and lifted his head. "I'll face it." Better to get it over with now than to hide downstairs and wait for it.

Stan nodded. "Good man." He wouldn't be so proud of Dipper in a moment.

Ford nodded, stood, opened the door—and Dipper buried his face in his hands again.

####

12:06 p.m.

Ford could see Bill up in the loft, hood up and shoulders hunched, back to the room. Ford could shoot Bill in the back without him ever waking up.

He climbed into the loft. Bill lay curled up in a ball, a small as Ford had ever seen him.

But it only took a moment for Ford's eyes to adjust to the dark; and even in the dim light through the stained glass window, he could tell:

The shape in front of him wasn't human. Just lumpy clothes.

Ford whipped around, heart pounding, clutching the Quantum Destabilizer's carrying case against his chest, searching for the real Bill lurking somewhere in the shadows. No sign of him. Ford had already looked on the floor level. Was he gone? How?

He was too dumbfounded to be outraged. He walked up to the dummy to pull it apart—

And saw the paper, folded in quarters, floating in the air above it. Four symbols in a cipher were written atop the paper. Ford recognized them: it was the alien alphabet of an interdimensional pidgin used as a written lingua franca throughout the Nightmare Realm and its bordering regions; it was so widespread that Ford had learned the alphabet before he ever left Earth.

The four letters read, "F O R D".

Ford plucked the paper out of the air and unfolded it.

Stanford–

I'll cut to the chase. I need your help. I don't want to die.

I'm banking on the hope that, in spite of everything you've said and done, part of you also doesn't want me to die.

You have a choice. You can walk out there, tell them I escaped, rally an angry mob, and comb everything under the weirdness barrier for me. This town's not that big and I'll need to eat eventually. We both know I can't hide forever.

Or you can tell them you finished the job. No one looks for me. No one knows but you and me.

I don't have rewards or deals to offer. You already know what I bring to the table. If that hasn't persuaded you to side with me by now, it never will. I'm not bargaining. I'm begging.

I'm asking you, as my friend, to help me survive.

Please.

· –·-– -–

Of course.

How dare he.

Had Bill planned this all along? Was this why he'd insisted he wanted to be Ford's friend? Was this why he'd saved his life? Maybe the entire rescue had been staged—the rescue, the performance of fear over a harmless phenomenon, the mental breakdown, all of it. For all Ford knew, maybe the accursed Axolotl was in on the scheme! How clairvoyant was Bill? Had he seen this moment coming?

But if he'd seen this moment coming, wouldn't it have been easier to just let Ford, his executioner-to-be, die? Ford and Dipper both, so Dipper wouldn't figure out how to synthesize NowUSeeitNowUDontium? If he'd saved them in spite of that, didn't that make it a sincere gesture?

But implication was clear: I've been a friend to you, now be one to me. A life for a life. There was nothing sincere in that. It was pure self interest.

(For just a couple of days, Ford really had thought it was sincere.)

But if the only reason Bill had saved Ford was to save himself—then why had Bill endangered his own life in the process?

With every thought Ford's paranoia pendulumed.

He should get Stan. Call the cops, confess who they'd been harboring for the past month, tell them everything, get a manhunt going before Bill could make it any further away. Even if he couldn't leave the weirdness barrier, there were probably hundreds of hidden hidey-holes Bill could dig himself into that humans had never seen—unexplored hallways in Crash Site Omega, uncharted caverns behind Trembley Falls where Bill didn't even need light to see. They could drag him back into the light, tie him up, aim the Quantum Destabilizer straight at him...

But. In spite of himself, he could still see Mabel's drawing hopefully reassigning Bill the role of a superhero. He could still see the crumpled drawing in his pocket—"I BELIEVE IN YOU. YOU CAN CHANGE!" He could still see Dipper tentatively asking whether they might need Bill someday. He could still see Bill playing teacher in the living room. And for a moment, for just a moment, Bill had been so good. He could be so good.

Why couldn't you have been this person?

Why can't you be this person?

What if he could be better? What if he could be decent? What if he could be a friend?

Ford didn't believe Bill was any better today than he had been the day he died. But—at some point, something had slowly turned over in Ford's mind. He believed that Bill could change. Not would change, not is changing, but could. And if Ford started a manhunt, Bill would never be a threat again—but he'd also never be better.

There was a point where the doubt and hope built up to a critical mass—when they became enough, just enough, to stay the trigger finger. Because once Ford fired on Bill, that was it. All chances were gone forever. It was over. If Bill was alive they could always try again to kill him later; but if Bill was dead, they could never try again to better him.

And for the first time in thirty years, Ford wanted Bill to be better more than he wanted Bill to be dead.

Ford looked at the dummy. Looked at the note.

And then he lay the note on the dummy, knelt by the edge of the loft, opened his case, and removed the Quantum Destabilizer.

####

12:09 p.m.

Ten minutes ago, Bill had been in the process of emptying out his backpacks and finding nooks and cubbies amongst the alien communication workstations where he could tuck his supplies, when he'd glanced out the open hatch and noticed the beforeimage of the shot lighting up the sky.

He'd come out of his shelter to watch the moment approach; but he hadn't quite believed it until it was in the present and actually happening. The blue-white beam of the Quantum Destabilizer—its one and only shot—screamed off into the sky.

"Well, what do you know," he murmured, standing at the edge of the cliff, hands on his hips, staring out in wonder over the town. "I really didn't think you'd do it."

Ford had saved his life.

Bill crossed his arms tight and tried to convince himself he didn't wonder why.

####

12:10 p.m.

Ford heard Dipper and Stan come into the bedroom and climb the ladder. He was seized by an urge to sweep away the ashes and the evidence of his trick before they could realize what he'd done.

"Grunkle Ford...?"

He forced himself to speak. "It's done."

"So... Bill is...?"

Ford suddenly realized: Dipper knew Bill wasn't in here. He must have warned Mabel, and Mabel had arranged for Bill to be alone in their room long enough to escape.

Which meant Dipper knew Bill was alive.

(Bill had written, "No one knows but you and me." Bill was covering for the kids.)

Ford turned to look him in the eyes. "Yes, he's dead."

Which meant Dipper knew what Ford had done—and knew Ford knew what he had done.

Neither one of them needed to say anything else to know what the other was thinking. They just shared a look—the two most miserable co-conspirators in Gravity Falls.

####

12:25 p.m.

Bill sat cross-legged at the edge of the cliff and watched until the afterimage of the Quantum Destabilizer's shot had faded from the sky; and then he went inside his shelter, mixed the world's lamest margarita in a coffee mug, took it outside, sat again, and toasted toward the town and the Mystery Shack.

Here's to survival.

He sat outside until the gash the Quantum Destabilizer had cut in the clouds closed and it began to rain.

####

1:10 p.m.

Stan had come and gone a few minutes ago, and already Ford had forgotten everything he'd said, if he'd even registered it in the first place.

His fingers had itched until he'd finally had a moment to steal down to his study, retrieve Journal 5, and bring it up to the guest room; and now for over half an hour he'd been feverishly writing down every single thing he could remember learning about Bill over the last two days. The drawing of his homeworld. His lecture on biangles and psychic powers. How polygons inherited their sides. (Their royalty sounded nigh on Habsburgian; had their political system ever changed?) What little details Bill had let slip about where Edward Bishop Bishop's book was wrong. (Had he told Mabel more about their relationship? He'd have to ask when she was home.) How Bill signed his letter: "· -·-- --", Morse code for "EYM," was it an acronym, was it a code, what did it mean, why did he write it in two colors? How Bill spelled Mabel's name in alien alphabets: Mabelle, Maybell, the varying extra letters. How Bill danced: how he struggled to cross his ankles, how he turned out his feet, how his spine and shoulders never bent, how the complex ways he tilted his legs and pelvis compensated for his stiff spine.

If Bill was sticking around a while longer, then these details still mattered.

He refused to forget a thing.

####

Sunday, 12:02 a.m.

As "We'll Meet Again" finished playing, Mabel turned off her phone, put it back on her nightstand, and wiped her eyes again. Big stupid dork couldn't even say this himself, he had to hide it behind a song.

Yes. They would meet again. Law of attraction. Believing it was the first step to making it come true.

####

10:20 a.m.

The fearful butterflies in Mabel's stomach had slowly returned during the drive home from Portland. No one had texted her—was that a good sign?—but she was afraid it just meant they'd decided to let her enjoy the rest of her trip before letting her know she was grounded forever for helping Bill escape. When they'd all greeted her at the door, looking so somber, and she was sure she was about to get the bad news, she'd just had to keep acting normal and hope she wasn't gonna get in more trouble for playing dumb.

The last thing she expected Stan to say was, "Weshotim."

"Say wha?"

"We got that—space gun of Ford's working. We shot him. He's... I'm sorry, sweetie."

Mabel stared at Stan. That was impossible—there was no way they'd found Bill. But—if Stan believed he was dead...

She dragged her gaze from his face to Dipper's. Dipper bit his lips, staring at his feet. He wouldn't meet her eyes—too afraid that even looking at her would give something away.

She looked from Dipper to Ford. "Grunkle Ford?" She tried not to hope. "Is it true?"

There was no way he'd believed the dummy was real. The moment she'd read Bill's so-called "enchantment," she'd known making it believable was never the point. Bill's only real plan had always been to get Ford on their side.

For a long moment, Ford said nothing. He dragged his eyes up to meet her stare, took a deep breath, and nodded. "He's dead."

Mabel's eyes widened. Two days ago, Ford had been the one arguing that killing Bill was their only choice. If he'd changed his mind...

If anyone said anything else, she didn't register it in her excitement. She backed out of the doorway, leaped off the porch, and ran around the shack, looking for her bike.

She had to see Bill immediately.

####

10:21 a.m.

Quietly, Dipper asked, "Did we do the right thing?"

Ford didn't know. His stomach had been twisting with guilt and doubt since yesterday. His conscience had kept him up half the night. "I hope so."

He feared they'd have second-guessed themselves no matter what.

####

2:30 p.m.

Bill was asleep. He'd been sleeping off and on for most of the past day. This was the first time since he'd died that he had somewhere safe to sleep—somewhere nobody could touch his vulnerable body, nobody could move him, drown him, kill him.

And this was the first time he hadn't been helpless and sightless.

In his sleep, he saw his own body, curled up on the tilted floor against a wall, on top of the sleeping bag and under the Pony Heist bedsheet, from an eye he'd drawn on the ceiling.

From another eye he'd drawn on the wall, he saw the ship's open hatch, the overhang above, a small sliver of the gray drizzly sky over Gravity Falls.

And from his eye on the tree, blurry and fading as the rain washed away his saliva, he saw a human-shaped mass of raucous colors exploring the pit in the ground left behind by his hovering platform.

A human? He sat up with a gasp and looked at the screen displaying the proximity sensors. Sure enough, the sensor at the base of the cliff was displaying a Mabel-shaped silhouette.

He grabbed his flashlight and climbed out of his shelter.

####

"Kid, what are you doing out out here?!"

Mabel looked up. Bill was some twenty feet above her and quickly descending on what looked like a chunk of flying dirt the same size as the pit in the ground she'd been inspecting. "Bill!" She leaned her bike against the cliff face. Finally—she'd been wandering around in the trees forever trying to figure out where Bill's rendezvous point was hidden.

"It's pouring rain," Bill scolded. "You could lose your immune system or—or slip in the mud or something."

"Wow, nice to see you too, mom." Mabel ran up as Bill landed his floating chunk of ground.

"Hey, I don't want anything happening to my favorite human!" He scooted over to make room for her on the platform. "Just couldn't wait for a sunny day to meet again, huh?"

"Psh, come on! Like you meant that literally." Near Bill, the rain had mysteriously stopped landing on Mabel. She looked up and saw the rain simply parting in the air over Bill's head.

He noticed her glance and said, "Did I ever teach you the spell to repel rain? Remind me to do that before you go." He pointed his flashlight's beam at a rune on a stone rising from the platform, and it lifted off again. "Nice sweater today." He poked one parrot-winged sleeve, its bright colors darkened by the soaking rain. "It probably looked better dry."

Mabel smacked away his hand. "Bill, guess what! Grunkle Ford decided to protect you!"

"I know, I saw the wasted shot from here." He steered the platform onto the cliff. He landed it next to a hatch that opened into a subterranean tunnel. "Of course, I always knew he would. Didn't I say we'd pull this off?"

Sure he'd known. That was why he'd lied about what the "enchanted" paper really was so Mabel wouldn't worry.

Mabel followed him down into the metal tunnel. "Do you know what this means? You can come back to the shack!"

Bill turned to stare at her in bewilderment. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because... it's safe now? They're not gonna kill you?" Mabel squinted. "Why's it so dark in here?"

"Oh, right. You need this." Bill offered the flashlight.

Mabel turned it on. They were in a metal chamber, about half the size of the Mystery Shack's floor room and nowhere near as tall. One end of it had been torn off and dirt and stone served as the new wall. Most of the walls were dominated by heavy metal consoles, curved metal chairs, and screens, a few of which were on but flickered irritatingly. One chair still had a fossilized alien skeleton in it. Bill had put his top hat on it.

His supplies were piled haphazardly on consoles and the floor; all Mabel saw in his food pile was shelf-stable junk food and drinks. The air somehow felt more damp in here than it did outside with the rain. The chairs didn't have cushions, the floor didn't have carpet; everything was hard and cold and dark. She didn't even see a door for a bathroom in here. This was where Bill was staying?

"The Mystery Shack is safe for now," Bill said. "Just wait until Stanley decides to take another swing at me, or Dolores poisons my dinner again—or Ford changes his mind, dunks me in the bathtub, and doesn't let me back out."

"They wouldn't..." Mabel trailed off. She tried to imagine how mad Stan would be when he found out Bill was alive, and had to concede he might.

"Even if it was safe—why would I go back to that sorry makeshift prison?" Bill hopped up into one of the tilted alien chairs. There was a weird extended bit designed for alien anatomy that curved up at the end of the seat and forced Bill to straddle the chair rather than sit in it normally; it didn't look comfortable. "After almost a month and a half, I'm finally free!"

"Free inside a tiny bubble around the town," Mabel protested. "To live in a... weird little metal dirt room."

"Freely moving inside the entire barrier is a lot better than freely moving through half a shack! Surrounded by people who want me dead! I don't even get full privacy when I'm using the toilet—that's the bare minimum humans offer as basic respect! You don't know how many times I've been walked in on!"

"Do you even have a toilet here?"

Bill hesitated. "There's a—there are gas stations within walking distance."

"How are you gonna get into the restroom?"

"Fine, I'll dig a pit or something, all right? The point is, whatever I do, at least I can do it in freedom!"

He hadn't planned this through at all, Mabel realized. He'd only thought as far ahead as finding food and shelter that would last him the next couple of days. "But..." She gestured at the pathetic room around them. "The shack's got a proper roof and a shower and real food—wouldn't that be better than this?"

Bill scoffed "Only humans care about roofs and showers, and the idea of 'real' food is a social construct I reject!"

He'd be miserable here. Mabel couldn't let Bill do this to himself. "Then don't you wanna be in the shack with your only friend on Earth?" She gave him a pleading look. "Would you really rather spend the rest of summer in some dumb old busted alien ship?"

There was a flash of light reflected in the dark as Bill's eyes turned away from Mabel.

"Bill?"

He didn't respond. He trudged past her, halfway up the walkway out of the ship, and stopped there, his back to Mabel, hands on his hips, staring out into the rain. He sighed. "Kid, you're trying to give me Stockholm syndrome."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means I'll think about it," Bill said, voice flat. "Go back to the shack."

Before Mabel could move, Bill said, "Hold on. Let me teach you that umbrella spell first." He turned and descended back into the ship. "And when's the last time you ate? Human bodies act pathetic if they don't get glucose every three hours. Get some lunch, it's a long bike back to the shack." He gestured at his meager food supplies.

She rummaged through the foil bags and colorful boxes and grabbed some Chipackers and sour gummy dolphins.

Bill sat near her, grabbed a bag of jerky for himself, and said, "And tell me about that concert you abandoned me to my doom for."

####

4:00 p.m.

Bill escorted Mabel down off the cliff—and, at her request, let her borrow the flashlight and wiggle the floating platform back and forth a little as they descended. He took back the flashlight when she nearly crashed the platform and killed them both.

"Where'd this come from?" Mabel asked, poking the stone. "Did the aliens make this, too?"

"Nope! This is good old local Earth magic. Ever hear of Caterpillar Man?"

"Is that some kind of superhero?"

"Afraid not. Well—ever hear of Grendel?"

"Uh-uh."

They were nearly at the ground now. "I think I'll tell you next time."

As the platform lifted him back up, Bill watched Mabel wheel her bike through the trees, slowly heading toward the main road back into town.

For a midsummer day, it was chilly in the rain.

####

Monday, 1:03 a.m.

And it was even chillier in the post-midnight dark when he knocked on the Mystery Shack's door.

####

(Eager to hear what y'all think now that you've seen the full story of how Bill survived—last week once Dipper and Mabel's roles were revealed, I think most folks thought that fully explained how Bill faked his death. ;) Next week is probably a double length chapter, because there's no graceful way to break it in half and also it'd be nice to get this plot arc wrapped up before The Book of Bill comes out lmao.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #grunkle ford #stanford pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 11 days

Text

* * * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

September 10, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Sep 11, 2024

Former president Trump has always approached debates as professional wrestling events in which the key is not to explain policies or answer questions, but rather to demonstrate dominance over your opponent. In 2016 the Democratic nominee, former secretary of state Hillary Clinton, had a hard time countering this strategy effectively because of the many expectations of what was appropriate behavior for a female presidential candidate. In 2020 and then again in the June 2024 “debate,” Democratic candidate Joe Biden’s stutter made it difficult to counter Trump’s scattershot attacks.

The question for Democratic presidential nominee Vice President Kamala Harris in tonight’s presidential debate was not how to answer policy questions, but how to counter Trump’s dominance displays while also appealing to the American people.

She and her team figured it out, and today they played the former president brilliantly. He took the bait, and tonight he self-destructed. In a live debate, on national television.

The Harris campaign began the day trolling Trump with a new campaign ad featuring the pieces of former president Barack Obama’s speech at the August Democratic National Convention that concerned Trump. “Here’s a 78-year-old billionaire”—the ad cuts to a photo of Trump in a golf cart—“who has not stopped whining about his problems.” Then a clip of Trump shows him complaining about Harris’s crowds, before Obama notes Trump’s “weird obsession with crowd sizes,” complete with Obama’s hand motion suggesting Trump’s sizes were small. “It just goes on, and on, and on,” Obama says, before the ad shows empty seats and people yawning at Trump’s rallies.

“America’s ready for a new chapter,” Obama says to the overflow crowd cheering at Chicago’s United Center during the Democratic National Convention. “We are ready for a President Kamala Harris!” At the end, even Harris’s standard statement, “I’m Kamala Harris and I approved this message,” sounds like a challenge.

This morning, the Harris campaign began running the ad on the Fox News Channel.

At the same time, they began running Philadelphia-themed ads across the city on billboards, in the Philadelphia Inquirer, and on food trucks and taxi cabs, sidewalk art, and digital projections making fun of Trump’s fascination with crowd sizes. They showed, for example, a full-sized Philadelphia pretzel labeled “Harris” alongside a piece of one that looked like an upside down U labeled “Trump.”

The taunting might have been behind Trump’s demand for loyalty from Republican lawmakers this afternoon, telling them to shut down the government if he doesn’t get his way on the inclusion of a voter suppression measure in the bill to fund the government. The right has often relied on threats of government shutdowns to try to get their way, but such shutdowns are never popular, and even moderate Republicans are leery of launching one just before an election.

Nonetheless, Trump tried to lock them into such a shutdown, reiterating in a post this afternoon the lie that undocumented immigrants are voting in presidential elections. “If Republicans in the House, and Senate, don’t get absolute assurances on Election Security, THEY SHOULD, IN NO WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM, GO FORWARD WITH A CONTINUING RESOLUTION ON THE BUDGET. THE DEMOCRATS ARE TRYING TO ‘STUFF’ VOTER REGISTRATIONS WITH ILLEGAL ALIENS. DON’T LET IT HAPPEN—CLOSE IT DOWN.”

Throughout the day, the Harris campaign placed posts on social media showing Harris looking crisp and presidential and Trump looking old and unkempt. And then, for ten minutes in the hour before the debate, the Harris campaign held a drone show over the Philadelphia Museum of Art showing campaign slogans and then turning the words “MADAM VICE PRESIDENT” into “MADAM PRESIDENT.”

Hugo Lowell of The Guardian reported today that Trump’s advisors were concerned ahead of the debate about whether they would get “happy Trump” or “angry Trump,” worrying that a frustrated Trump would engage in the vicious personal attacks that turn voters off. They expressed relief that having the microphones muted when it was not a candidate’s turn to speak would prevent Harris from irritating him with fact checks and snark of her own. Conservative lawyer George Conway noted that it was “[i]nteresting how one campaign is extremely concerned about the emotional stability of its candidate, and how the other is not.”

Harris’s attacks on Trump, including her campaign’s subtle digs at his masculinity, appeared to have accomplished what they set out to. When the two came out on stage, he went straight to his podium, while she strode across the stage, moved into his space, held out her hand, introduced herself and wished him well: “Kamala Harris. Have a good debate.” He muttered in response, “Nice to see you.” Then she took her own spot at the podium. When the debate opened, it was clear that Harris was the dominant figure and that her opponent was “angry Trump.” He would not look at her during the debate.

In her first answer, Harris tried to set out both her own story as a child of the middle class and how she intended to build an opportunity economy for others, lowering food and housing costs and opening the way for more small businesses. It was a lot, quickly, and she looked a little nervous.

Then Trump spoke and it was clear he was going off the rails. His first comment was to suggest Harris was lying, and then to insist that his proposed tariffs will solve everything, although he has the way tariffs work entirely backward: they are paid by the consumer, not by foreign countries. As he followed with a long list of his rally lies, Harris started to smile.

From then on, he continued to produce rally stories full of wild exaggerations and attack Harris with lies in what CNN fact-checker Daniel Dale called “a staggeringly dishonest debate performance from former president Trump.” "No major presidential candidate before Donald Trump has ever lied with this kind of frequency,” Dale said. “A remarkably large chunk of what he said tonight was just not true. This wasn't little exaggerations, political spin. A lot of his false claims were untethered to reality." As Harris spoke directly to the American people, growing stronger and stronger, Trump got wilder and angrier and told more and more crazy stories.

And then, about ten minutes into the debate, Harris baited him. She invited the American people to go to one of his rallies, where “he talks about fictional characters like Hannibal Lecter, he will talk about ‘windmills cause cancer.’ And what you will also notice is that people start leaving his rallies early out of exhaustion and boredom.”

Trump lost it. He defended his rallies, said Harris couldn’t get anyone to attend hers and has to bus in attendees (in reality, her rallies are packed and he is the one who reportedly hires attendees), and then, in his fury, repeated the lie about immigrants eating pets. When a moderator fact-checked that story, he fought back, saying he heard it on television.

And from then on, Harris kept baiting him while explaining her own policies directly to the camera, and he took the bait every single time. He ran down every rabbit hole and appeared unable to finish a thought. Notably, he refused to say he would not sign a national abortion ban and admitted that after nine years of promising one, he had no health care plan (he has, he said, “concepts of a plan,” and if they pan out, he’ll let us know in the “not too distant future”).

He threatened World War III and repeated that the U.S. is “a failing nation.” He told a long story about threatening “Abdul,” the leader of the Taliban; in fact, the leader of the Taliban since 2016 is Mullah Hibatullah Akhundzada. In response to Harris’s statement that foreign leaders thought he was a disgrace, Trump answered that Hungarian prime minister Viktor Orbán, who destroyed his country’s democracy and replaced it with a dictatorship, says he’s a good leader. New York Times columnist David French wrote: “It's like she's debating MAGA Twitter come to life.”

The debate moderators, David Muir and Linsey Davis of ABC, asked solid questions and corrected the most egregious of Trump’s lies. But as he continued to interrupt and yell at Harris, they increasingly gave him leeway to do so. This meant he spoke more often and for more time than Harris; MSNBC’s Stephanie Ruhle reported that he spoke 39 times for a total of 41.9 minutes, to her 23 times for a total of 37.1 minutes. But the extra time did him no favors.

By the end of the evening, Harris had delivered a clear message about her hopes to move the country forward beyond years of using race to divide people who have far more in common than they have differences. She promised to develop an economy that will build small businesses and support a growing middle class, while protecting rights, including the right to make reproductive decisions without the intrusion of the state. And she showed the nation that Trump can be baited, that he lies freely and incoherently, and—perhaps crucially—that he is no longer the dominant politician in America.

Immediately after the debate, the Harris campaign continued their demonstration of dominance. Harris-Walz campaign chair Jen O’Malley Dillon released a statement recapping Harris’s strength and Trump’s angry incoherence. She concluded: “Vice President Harris is ready for a second debate. Is Donald Trump?”

Then things got even worse for Trump.

Music phenomenon Taylor Swift endorsed Harris, telling her 283 million Instagram followers that she felt she had to because of Trump’s earlier reposting of an AI image of her seeming to endorse him. That, she said, “brought me to the conclusion that I need to be very transparent about my actual plans for this election as a voter. The simplest way to combat misinformation is with the truth. I will be casting my vote for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz in the 2024 Presidential Election.”

After explaining why she was supporting Harris and Walz and urging her fans to do their own research, Swift signed off: “Taylor Swift, Childless Cat Lady.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #election 2024 #debates #Kamala Harris #Trump lies

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alottieluv · 2 years

Text

happy valentine’s day <3

mdni. yandere!villain!bakugou, fem!reader, dark content, noncon/dubcon, unprotected sex, char. death, somnophilia, cunnilingus, fingering, vaginal penetration, creampie, breeding, possessiveness, violence, reader is called princess/baby/wife, he’s obssessed w/ u and ur ok w it

yandere!villain!bakugou who’s been pining for you since U.A. and even more since the start of your third year when you and deku started dating.

he tried to not let it bother him, he really did. tried to focus on his goal, on becoming the number one hero, on beating deku. but it’s useless if deku’s already beaten him to you.

it drove him crazy at first. your dating meant he couldn’t creep into your dorm at night, watching your sleeping figure under the thick covers that you would eventually throw off,

it meant he couldn’t walk right up to the side of your bed, where your quiet snores would make bakugou scoff because you just look so defenseless,

and it meant he would no longer be able to flick off what little of your blanket is left covering, finger trailing your bare waist before hooking onto the waistband of your shorts—fuck, he misses the way you clenched down on his digits, your breath hitching with arousal leaking into his palm and you never knew.

and the moment he heard the news of your engagement, only a year later after graduating, he went insane.

at first, it was labeled as a disappearance. everyone’s favorite brash hero dynamight had not shown up to work for multiple days on end with no explanation. no appearances by the public and not a word heard by his friends.

then dynamight reappeared, rebranded—as a villain.

step by step, little by little, the sound of his explosions soon became a warning to all besides villains. loud, bright, and burning—and that’s exactly how it went down as he watched your husband choke on the aftertaste of his explosions, eyes burning with the same passion as the fire that surrounded them until the number one hero was no longer heard from—nor his wife.

it happened in the middle of the night, far from your apartment where you wouldn’t be able to hear the sirens of the police or honks of the fire trucks as they rushed to the sight bakugou had the pleasure of seeing mere moments ago, but now he takes a breath of deja vu as he quietly steps into your apartment.

he’s courteous enough to lock the door behind him, lest anyone else get in his way, but his boots clunk heavy against the wooden floors, past framed pictures of your marriage, your high school days, your childhood.

finally, bakugou reaches your bedroom door, cracked open just a bit where he can see your sleeping figure bounce up and down in quiet breaths. bakugou can’t keep the grin off his face as he pushes the door open, like you were inviting him in.

he makes his way to your side of the bed, pushing off the covers to reveal your bare shoulder, and almost as if he was possessed, bakugou’s breath hitches as he slowly lifts the cover off your body to reveal the set of lingerie decorating your body.

he almost laughs. of course, you’re wearing that of all things, so delectable, so enticing. it’s like you knew he was coming, hooking those little straps and pieces of fabric around your body, all for him.

and when you wake up to the feeling of pleasure pooling in your core, you can’t even move him an inch off of you, not while he’s got your thighs trapped in his hands—so big, hot, and dangerous.

and with every little move you make to shove him off of you, he pulls you closer and shoves his tongue deeper into your pussy until he has you squealing.

fingers tug at his hair as he eats you out until you’re clenching around nothing while he’s sucking your clit, lapping up your essence before shoving it back in with his tongue.

you’re too worn out to move away when he finally lets up, thinking about how he got in, how long it would take for the police to get here, and where your husband is, until you hear the sound of a zipper.

you look up, wondering if you should try to fight him yourself or let him do what he pleases and hope that it’ll be enough to satisfy him and make him leave. you regret not becoming a pro-hero in the end.

you let bakugou push your legs up to your ears, shaking when you feel something hot against your exposed pussy. bakugou towers over you like a shadow, envelopes you until all you can see, hear, breathe, is him.

“don’t worry, princess, i’ll make you feel so good. better than he ever did.” giving no room to even talk back, your breath is stolen away as bakugou sinks into your pussy, clenching around his cock that fills you to the brim and has you moaning shamelessly.

every drag against your walls has you tightening, leaving creamy rings of precum at the base of his cock as he fucks you. lewd sounds of your pussy squelching around his dick fill the room, bringing you closer to the edge until you can’t hold back anymore.

“o-oh, oh fuck, bakugou—“ before you can get anything else out, one hand comes up to cup your jaw, squishing your cheeks to direct your eyes to his. “you call me katsuki when i’m making you feel good like this, got it, princess?” you nod, barely able to keep yourself sane enough to understand.

“katsuki, katsuki, oh—,” katsuki grins, balls slapping against your ass as he quickens the pace. you can feel the way his blunt tip kisses your cervix, making you clench and unclench as he easily slides in and out of your pussy. “katsuki, i’m gonna cum. wanna cum.”

katsuki muffles his moans in your neck, pressing kisses and sucking hickeys on your neck until he knows it’ll show in the morning. his. you’re all his now.

“you wanna cum?” you nod frantically. “go ahead and cum, baby.” you clench once more on his cock before a knot in your stomach unravels, coating his length in your cum. katsuki fucks you through your orgasm, relishing in your overstimulated cries as you milk his cock.

he groans as he fills you, hot sticky cum squirting from his tip that presses deep inside you. katsuki takes a minute to come down before pulling out, watching as cum gushes from your pussy and connects to his cock in white milky strings. without thinking, katsuki scoops a glob of cum and pushes back in slowly until he plugs you up with his dick.

your breaths start to mellow out after your intense orgasm, eventually pulling you to sleep before you could fully grip the reality that had taken place. katsuki finally got you, all to himself.

his. all his.

forever.

#lottie writings ! ~ ☆#bakugou x reader #bakugou smut #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha bakugo smut #mha bakugo katsuki #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugou katsuki x reader #mha smut #bnha smut #bakugo smut #bakugou x reader smut #tw yandere #tw somno #tw dark content #tw noncon #tw dubcon #tw death

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fallenneziah · 1 year

Note

I loved your story "Flicker" with Optimus so much, I like to read it as a comforting thing ❤️ can you do like a part 2, but this time reader being the "stressed" and "exhausted" one, reader and optimus going (again) for a drive, maybe going out holding hands just killing time

Thank you!! ❤️ Have a good day!!

Ps:. If you're not taking requests ignore this.

Thank you, I'm really glad you enjoy it. Here is a little part 2 to Flicker.

You sighed heavily. You rubbed your temples, your paperwork looked no more enticing than it did half an hour ago. You knew you needed to get it done, but there was just too much going on.

Everything in your small world seemed to get more stressful. You'd think with the prospect of giant Autobot life walking amongst you you'd feel less alone, but that wasn't much the case.

Your pen fell from your hands, having fidgeted it too much between your fingers.

You sigh again and close your book, shoving the work back in your bag. Whatever. You just couldn't do it now.

Bumblebee whirred happily, jumping up and down around the yard, talking with Optimus. Although Optimus kept a very watchful optic on you.

He could point out the stress in your body and the very clear sadness that lingered with you.

Optimus put his servo up to calm the young scout. "Take a breath Bumblebee, perhaps you can go talk to Crosshairs??"

Bumblebee revved his engine at the prospect and looked over where the green Autobot was talking away with Drift. He crossed his arms and turned up his helm.

Optimus chuckled. What would he do with those two. No matter, you were walking away and he needed to catch you.

You know, because he was almost 30ft tall, catching up to you wasn't a problem at all.

"Y/n, may we talk??"

You looked up at him and nodded. "Hey Optimus."

Optimus got down on one knee and looked at you, examining your face.

"Are you alright young one??"

You huff at the nickname and approach his servo, placing your hand on his digit. "I'm just having a bad day. There's a lot of stuff going on,." You shrug.

"You do seem very distracted. It is stressing you out." He says matter of factly.

"I know, but it's not a big deal."

Optimus, not entirely satisfied with your current state pulled away and transformed, opening the door of his truck.

"Oh?" You hum. "And where are we going??"

"That is a secret." He replied.

You shrugged and tossed your backpack in the front seat. You climbed up to his passenger door and got comfortable in the passenger seat.

The seatbelt came down and clicked around you, locking you in.

He set off down the road, the end of the day coming soon, looking out the window at the evening light took your attention in the silence.

"So, what is this paperwork you must complete?"

You look over at the steering wheel. You assume that If his face was anywhere it would probably be there.

"It's just for work."

"It seems to have you stressed."

You nodded, scratching at your arm.

"I have to have it finished soon. It's no big deal."

Optimus hummed.

You drove down the road a long way, into the city and then back out. The sun was really setting by the time Optimus decided to pull over. Along a deserted road out in the fields. Somewhere both of you could go, not be seen and just hang out.

He transformed and looked out across the dusty land.

"Where are we??" You walked along the road, squinting to see if you could find where you were supposed to be going.

Optimus bent down and held out his hand for you to step onto. You did so, settling in his palm and looking around at the world.

Optimus walked into a small field along the road as the sun set just right.

Orange and deep red streaked across the sky. Pink flaked off and dyed the surrounding scene a beautiful color. Bathed in the glorious light of the dim night glow.

You relaxed in his servo, watching the sun set. You held onto his index digit, smoothing your hand over the rough metal.

Optimus watches you, curious of everything going through your mind.

"I understand that work among humans is demanding task sometimes," He says. "But all humans deserve to be relieved of their duties for a time. You especially."

You look up at him and smile. You lay back against his palm, letting your legs dangle over the edge.

Optimus finds a place along the grassy area and sits down, careful not to rattle you too much.

He relaxes, holding you in his palm, close to his chest. You both watch the sunset, admiring it as it went down and took all the beautiful colors with it.

It did relax you. And for a while you forgot all about the stress of your work. You loved these moments with Optimus no matter how long or small they came.

"I enjoy your sunsets. We did not get many sunsets on Cybertron."

"You didn't?"

"The many moons and planets often blocked the sun by the time it fully orbited around your planet, and would keep us from seeing the glow I suppose."

"That and it was always very far away."

You hummed. "Well, I'm glad we could see one together."

You held his digit as tightly as you could. The exhaustion from the long work day finally starting to catch up with you.

"I am glad I get to spend this time with you."

Optimus noticed your eyes fluttering closed and smiled. The sun is fully setting, darkness bleeding into the beautiful colors and setting the tone for the night. "Shall we go home, you're looking about ready for recharge."

You nod slowly, rubbing your eyes just to stay awake a big longer.

"Thank you Optimus, for bringing me out here. I always love doing this."

"As do I, your presence is always a comfort."

You smile and slide off his hand when he brings you back to the ground. He transforms and pops open the driver's side door, letting you climb in.

He straps you in and you lay your head back against the headrest.

"I think your my favorite Autobot Optimus."

He chuckles. "You think? Who should I be worried would take my place??"

You smirk. "Drift."

Optimus scoffs playfully. "Of course it's Drift..."

You chuckle and pat the steering wheel. "Optimus, I'm only kidding, you are my favorite 'bot."

"I can accept that. Thank you Y/n."

You hum, your eyes starting to close. The world starts to slow down as you sink back into the seat and let the exhaustion finally catch up with you.

"You're welcome..."

Optimus feels his spark swell with love. Something he hadn't felt truly for a while. But having you around was refreshing, hanging out with you always brought him joy.

And he got to help you, just like you helped him.

Hope you enjoyed your part 2 anon 😊

#transformers #optimus prime #optimus x reader #optimus prime x reader #maccadam #x reader #transformers x reader

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tradgedyinwaves · 7 days

Text

Touch - Ch. 7

Most of this chapter is the reader's first time with one of the boys. It’s skippable if it makes you uncomfortable and there will be a warning where it starts.

tw: smut, choking, hint of auralism/voyeurism

The old dilapidated flat buried in the poorest part of Manchester was filled with whirring, flipping papers and voices. Voices that spoke low and quick, pointing out places on a map with dirty, grubby fingers. Plans being laid that threatened life and limb. And every string on their board leads to one picture of a young woman.

You.

Stepping out of the bathroom, you took a deep breath and did your best to walk confidently back into the room. Four heads raised the moment you entered making you want to shrink back into the shadows. Each face that looked back at you held apprehension and hope, but more than that, you could see the adoration they all had for you, even Simon.

You walked over to Simon, who’s dark eyes widened the closer you got, and cupped his cheek, running your thumb over one of his many scars. “I don’t know how to do this,” you started, speaking to everyone in the room though your eyes remained locked on Simon’s. “But I trust you and I trust this can work out. What’s one more person, right?” You smiled down at Simon softly, feeling the room depressurize at your words.

The other three men sighed collectively though they still watched as you bent over Simon’s form, your lips ghosting over his ear. “Looks like you’ve got some catching up to do, Si,” you whispered against the shell of his ear, making a chill run down his spine. “I could catch up right now if you’d like me to,” Simon offered, hand snaking its way up the outside of your plush thigh, sliding around to grip your ass in his massive paw. “I still remember how you taste, luv,” he whispered back, digging his digits into your flesh.

You didn’t think that words could have such an impact on you, but the telltale rush of adrenaline and arousal proved you wrong. “Christ, Si, manhandling her already?” Price chuckled, watching as both you and Simon looked over your shoulder. Simon’s eyes narrowed while yours widened and a blush colored the apples of your cheeks.

You straightened, cupping Simon’s chin with your hand as your eyes met his once more. “Wanna go to lunch with me?” You asked, the corners of your mouth curling up in a soft smile. “I’m supposed to be the one asking,” Simon countered even though his lips curled into a grin. “Too bad I got to it first,” you flirted back, stepping away so Simon could stand. You’d forgotten how massive he was, bigger than Price even and that night flashed through your mind.

Knees a little weak, you took his hand when he offered it while he smirked at the boys over your head. “Alright, you big lug, let’s go,” you urged, heading towards the door as you dragged him behind you. He pulled a plain black gaiter out of his pocket and tugged it on before heading out the door.

Simon led you to a taco truck and you think you saw him smile with the way his eyes crinkle when you laughed at his corny taco joke, asking which way you tilted your head when you ate tacos. He assured you that what happened that night hadn’t been his intention. He’d only wanted to comfort you. You told him it had been a comfort, despite the way he left.

⛔SMUT WARNING!⛔

When the two of you arrived back at the flat, bellies full and hearts soaring, there was a faint sound coming from one of the bedrooms. You raised your brow and looked up at Simon, wondering if he knew what the sound was. “That’ll be Cap and Johnny, probably Kyle too, based on the sounds I’m hearing. Always makes Price a little randy seeing someone get felt up around him,” Simon explained like he was reading off his grocery list.

Your cheeks turned pink and you blinked up at him. “That’s just from you groping me?” You questioned, the sounds creating a reaction between your thighs and you pressed them together to relieve some of the tension. Simon eyed you for a moment, watching the way your chest rose and fell with your quickening breaths, noticing the clench of your thighs. Simon stepped behind you, hands resting on your hips as his lips came close to your ear. “Does that turn you on, luv? Knowing just my hand on your arse has Cap so riled up he had to take poor Johnny to relieve himself?” he whispered against your ear, his hot breath ghosting the shell and sending a shiver down your spine.

Your thighs clenched again and you couldn’t help the tiny whimper that escaped your throat. “Aw, pet, do you want to see? Or would you rather I satisfy your pretty cunt myself?” he entreated, his hands sliding around as one came up to settle against the base of your throat while the other wrapped around your middle to pull you flush against him.

You shuddered in his grip, head coming back to rest against his chest as your eyes flicked up to his. He was pleasantly surprised to find your pupils blown and your breathing catching in your throat. His fingers slid up to wrap around your throat and squeeze ever so slightly. Kit never touched you like this, always shied away from your kinkier requests saying you didn’t need all that if you really loved him.

But Simon could see the desire in your eyes as he stared down at you. Keeping his grip on your throat, he released your middle and brought that hand up to rip down the gaiter so he could crash his lips to yours. You gasped against his lips, turning towards him as he tightened his grip around your throat. The slight feeling of blood loss to your head made the pleasure of his kiss higher, fingers itching to touch his skin.

Simon backed you up to the wall, the faint sounds of the other three spurning you two on as you gripped his hoodie in your hands. When he finally pulled back and allowed you to breathe, his free hand slid down your body, watching your eyes for any sign to stop. But you didn’t stop him, or couldn’t, you weren’t really sure. His thick digits found the gusset of your leggings, sliding between your thighs with expert hands. “Barely touched you and you’re soaked, luv,” he practically growled before slamming his lips back to yours again.

You let out a whimper against his lips, hips rocking forward in search of his fingers when he removed them. Suddenly, your throat was released and he was taking your hand, dragging you to his room where he threw you on the bed, your size not even a question when he lifted weights heavier than you. His hulking form hovered over you, a menacing vision if you didn’t know he wanted to ravage you.

“S-Simon,” you breathed out his name like a prayer and he swore he heard angels singing. He watched you carefully as he began removing your clothes, swearing under his breath with every inch he uncovered. By the time he had you undressed down to your panties, he was panting and his erection pressed against the zipper of his trousers painfully.

You fought the urge to cover yourself, watching him with wide eyes. “So bloody gorgeous, luv. Fucking hell, so pretty laying there all for me,” he murmured, quickly working off his own shirt before laying over you and kissing you deeply. Tongues and teeth clashed as your hands came up to hold his shoulders, fingers pressing into his flesh.

Pulling away, he stared down at you before he was bringing his lips to your neck, your shoulders, your collarbones. When your hands left him to cover your soft stomach, he growled and yanked them away, gathering your wrists in one hand while he muttered about not hiding from him.

Simon swallowed, feeling an overwhelming honor at being able to see you like this. Bare except your panties, lips swollen and your chest heaving with your breaths. He determined he’d never seen a more beautiful sight. He brought his mouth to one of your pebbled nipples, using his tongue to lick over the nub before wrapping his lips around it. His tongue flicked while he sucked, the sensation making you moan out his name as your hand found the back of his head

His mouth continued its hot trail down your body until he got to your hips, the fabric of your panties cutting into your plush flesh. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, looking for any sign that you were uncomfortable while his fingers hooked into the waistband and tugged them down over your legs. He tossed them off with the rest of your clothes, eyes settling on the glistening slick that covered your puffy core.

Simon gripped himself over his pants and adjusted himself, licking his lips before his eyes flicked up to yours. You were hot, skin heated and flushed under his gaze. When he lowered himself between your thighs, you hiccupped and scooted away. His eyes narrowed and he wrapped his massive arms around your hips and tugged you to him, keeping eye contact as he pressed a light kiss to your clit.

The sight made you keen, gasping when he drug his wide tongue along the length of your slit. His touches were tentative, ready to stop if you said the word, but your fingers sliding into his hair and the rock of your hips told him you had no intention of stopping him. He lapped at your folds, groaning at your taste before he slid two fingers into your tight heat. “So fucking tight, pet, been too long, yeah?” he muttered against your pussy, not sure if he was talking to your or your cunt.

It felt like hours that he devoured you, bringing you to orgasm twice before ever raising his head. When he finally lifted from your quim, his chin and lips were shiny with your wetness and he licked his lips. A soft blush formed on your cheeks as you looked at him through hooded eyes. He grinned, the smile almost mean as he shucked off his pants and your eyes widened slightly. So that was why he’d insisted on using three fingers to bring you over the edge the last time.

Giving himself a few slow, long strokes, he looked where you were and chuckled. “Gonna take it nice and slow, hm?” He nodded his head like he was expecting your answer and you met his eyes with a small nod and your bottom pout caught between your teeth. Shuffling onto the bed, he pressed his hips against yours, laying the length of his cock against your belly and grinning to himself. Gripping himself, he ran the tip through your folds, spreading your slick before notching himself at your entrance.

A soft gasp filled the room as you felt just the head stretching you already, a sting following as he started to push inch after inch into you. When he was halfway inside, he leaned over and whispered praises into your ear. “So good, taking me so well, aren’t ya, luv? So fuckin’ tight around me, such a good girl”

His praises only fueled you, whimpering at the feeling of his thickness stretching you. If they were all hung like this, you were in trouble and it excited you further. Your walls clenched around him and he gasped, the feeling making him press the last few inches into you in one quick thrust. “Simon!” You cried, back arching as he split you open on his cock.

Minutes later, he had you screaming his name as the headboard hit the wall with the strength of his thrusts, having bent you over so he could grip the fat of your ass in his giant paws, watching the way your flesh gave into his tight grasp. By the time he was close to filling you, he’d brought you over the edge two more times, ensuring you knew that your pleasure was his number one priority. But when you started begging for him to fill you, he was a goner.

Hunched over your back, his hips slammed against your ass while he grunted in your ear, knowing the other three would be standing on the other side of the door. One hand planted firmly on your hip, gripping tight enough to leave bruises while the other slid up your body to wrap around your throat, gripping it tightly. The others had their ears to the door and their cocks in their fists as they listened to Simon rearrange your insides.

“Cum for us, pet. Come on my cock and scream for them. I know they want to hear your pretty sounds,” he urged while his hips began to stutter. That was all it took for you to start wailing and cumming around his cock, clenching him in a grip he couldn’t ignore anymore. His hips stilled against you as he came with a roar, filling you with everything he had as he released your throat mid-orgasm. The rush of blood made you feel light headed, arms finally giving out under you as his hands found your hips again with a bruising grip and holding you against him until he was sure that he was done.

Panting, he pulled from you, sitting back on his haunches to watch his seed drip from your used hole before scooping it up and shoving it back inside. With a grin, he gave your ass a light smack and climbed off the bed to grab a cloth, cleaning you delicately before wrapping you in his arms and pulling the blanket over you.

“Rest, luv. I’ll be right here when you wake,” Simon whispered, kissing the top of your head. You nodded, nuzzling against his chest and quickly falling asleep, exhausted emotionally and physically from the day you’d had.

There was a soft knock on the door and Simon called out softly for them to open it, his gaze never leaving your sleeping form. Price filed in and sat at the end of the bed, hand coming to lay over your feet under the blanket. “Think it was a good idea to break her in so quickly?” Price asked quietly, eyes settled on you. Simon’s eyes narrowed slightly at Price’s words, his regard moving to look at the other man.

“I wouldn’t have had to if you all hadn’t been so loud. Should have seen her, Cap. It was almost instant. Heard you guys and then she was putty in my hands. Don’t worry, I gave her every opportunity to stop me,” he reassured his captain and partner, eyes sliding back to you. “We have to protect her, John. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her again,” Simon confessed, eyes wide as he tried to convey the strength of his feelings. “We will, boy. She’ll be the safest woman in the world.”

The smut got a little away from me. If I don't include it with the other boys in the actual story, I'll be doing one shots once the story is done.

Thank you to everyone who has been supporting this story! I greatly appreciate it.

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mskenway97 · 8 months

Text

Come My Way

I've been listening to a cover of 'Come my way' for a few days now. this story came to my mind.

youtube

ROTB Optimus Prime x Fem!human!reader

Words :1.215

Summary: You had always learned to keep how you felt in your heart of hearts that everything was under control until someone came along and proved you otherwise.

Warning: g/t fluff, confort, hide feelings

Y/N usually had her problems under control, but this problem was bothering her too much.

No one will come to help you when you are alone. The world is a cruel place and you have to adapt. That was what Y/N's father always told her.

Y/N got to hear those words all her life until she moved to New York, so she could get the job in screenwriting: Y/N got the essence of every action part, serious situations…

But her bosses saw the lack of feeling, the lack of soul….

-I understand, what your bosses mean - Noah said as the two of them were talking on the fire escape of their floor.

Y/N sighed as she looked at him - And the explanation? - Y/N said looking expectantly.

-I have seen your works are excellent… Maybe you should focus on feeling it? Those butterflies in your stomach when you see that person, those thoughts that you would do anything for him?

-What do you mean? - Y/N asked as Noah was taken aback.

-Girl… Having a crush on someone. Come on there must be someone who has caught your heart

Y/N came up with the idea of someone, that someone is over 16 feet tall, who could practically fit in the palm of your hand. He came from space…he was literally a truck. It was because he saw Mirage turned in front of the same fire escape where he was sitting. You found all of them intriguing, but the big truck that appeared before her. Even though it was distant at first…. He approached Y/N in ways she didn't expect.

-Look if you've blushed, then someone," Noah said, teasing her a little.

Y/N nudged him as he got up and walked down the stairs.

-Aren't you coming to the warehouse today? Mirage wanted to show a new dramatic scene for your scripts," said Noah.

-Another day… I have to finish this script any way I can. I'll go to the warehouse as soon as I finish it - said Y/N as he walked away to his house.

Y/N was locked up at home for several days trying to finish the script, she had an internal conflict with her father's words… She started to rethink a lot of things. She just wanted to finish the script… but maybe it was also creating doubts about what she felt.

Until she heard the horn and went out the window to see the Freightliner just down the street flashing its lights. Y/N knew what that meant she went downstairs and changed her clothes. To see the doors were open as she approached the truck. It was a little colder until she bundled up some more. The door closed behind her and she settled in.

-Hi Optimus, I didn't expect to see you here - Y/N said as she felt the belt tighten, she heard a little radio.

-I haven't seen you in the warehouse for a while… Noah said you were making a new script. Are you okay? - Optimus said as he drove to a more secluded road.

-Yeah, it's no problem at all…

-Y/N… You have dark circles under your eyes, red eyes… From what I can tell you're not well," Optimus said as he drove to an open field area away from the people.

It was a wooded area where you could see the lights of New York but far away where calm and silence was all around. The truck opened the door to let you out and transformed in front of you. His transformation was something that had always fascinated you. Giving you again those butterflies you tried to ignore again.

-I'm telling you everything is fine, nothing to worry about," Y/N said trying to sound calm, but with Optimus it had always been different, he always read her like she was an open book.

Optimus knelt down in front of her as he gave her a somewhat serious look and pulled her chin up with his digit.

-Y/N… Tell me

Y/N sighed and began to speak - I'm locked in a love script but see it as empty and devoid of feeling, it also partly confuses me with my own feelings… I mean ideas.

Optimus hummed and took her in his servo bringing her closer to his chassis while Y/N was feeling nervous.

-Transmitting words and actions to people is one of the most difficult things you can do… Y/N just transmit them

-That's easy to say, some people are just afraid of rejection…. Sometimes they think that being left alone is the best thing to do. I mean, who is the person who will be there or the person who will listen to everything you say," said Y/N as he saw his other servo stroking his head.

-Isn't it worth it, at least to have felt it? - said Optimus making his deep baritone make Y/N shiver a little and those butterflies feel stronger.

-But if that feeling is only fleeting? You are afraid of not being worthy? To be worthy… - Y/N said as she fell silent feeling his words in her mind.

"No one will come to help you when you are alone. The world is a cruel place and you have to adapt."

Then in the middle of the mess of mind Y/N felt a soft kiss on her forehead by Optimus, making her blush and leaving her speechless.

-Close your eyes and listen," Optimus said as Y/N didn't hesitate at all in doing so.

She could hear her heartbeat and the buzzing of Optimus' spark as she felt Optimus playing with her hair in his digits.

-It has nothing to do with being worthy or unworthy. But how they both feel… Cybetronians feel deeply we show our feelings to the one we care about… In times of war, we would do the same as you but I have learned several things about your species. We are not so different," Optimus said as he stroked your neck.

Y/N's heart was racing almost a thousand revolutions per minute, feeling every touch, his cool metal touch giving her some comfort. No she wanted it to stop. Her father's words blurred in the atmosphere as the night surrounded only them.

-I wish we'd stay like this. Just like this… - Y/N said without thinking as Optimus smiled.

Y/N was catching the feeling she had long repressed, she thought it was a dream but it was not. It gave her a shiver as she felt the servo tighten a little more and she opened her eyes.

To see those blue optics gazing at him with pure devotion and love to feel her lips meeting his. There were no words needed to say only that they both felt something mutual.

Y/N had understood the feeling, the dream she thought she couldn't make come true. She had forgotten the world to just feel that warmth, that tenderness even though she was a huge metal being despite the differences they would both have.

She would always have someone in the world who would not leave her alone just like him.

Always coming to him no matter what.

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yaskie · 5 months

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This video is also uploaded on TIKTOK Ko-fi Website: Click Here

A continuous battle and I am scared(URGENT) - you can click on the image to direct you to the Ko-Fi Site.

Dear Friends, Right now I feel despair, and hopelessness. And I feel so tired. I deeply apologize for tagging you all again, please don't get mad. I just really needed help.😢😢 I just got my life back, and recently recovered from my debts from my previous battle in between 2021 and mid 2023. I really felt so ashamed in writing this, because I am avoiding as much as I can to ask help financially again.

You were there for me during my darkest hours, and for that, I will be eternally grateful. But now, I find myself in a situation more dire than ever before, and I am trembling with fear as I implore you to lend me your aid once again.

The video you see attached to this post is a painful reminder of the recent loss I've endured. Uncle Dindo joined our creator last March 24, 2024, after battling Stage 4 Lung Cancer for a month. His passing has left a void in our souls, and also drowned us in debts too. I am helping with expenses as much as I can, that it also drowned me. My Father died of the same illness as well. I made a post more than a month ago with the Title: FIGHTING AGAINST CANCER sadly we still have zero donation and sales from our Emotes and Digital Stickers sale.

I do not know how to approach all of you again, but I am so scared right now. The reason I made this new post is I've been doing my best to make ends meet, trying to loan to a bank to be able for me to start my Treatment again(but mostly got rejected). I am already back to work eversince the fourth quarter of 2023, but the income is not enough as I earn only $12-$15/day with 12 hours plus of work. I am really really scared right now as I am writing this. First, I need to settle my rent within 12-24 hours which cost $500(water & electricity is unstable). My landlord is threatening me that he will lock the house, kicking me out and leaving my pets behind. My cats and my dog are my life. Update(05/02/2024): I asked helped from a local council here to help me talk to my landlord. We have an agreement and I am given enough time until Saturday of this week - May 4, 2024. To settle the rent and for me and my pets to leave the apartment, we found a new one but we need a 2 month deposit. And payment for a rental truck. I need to pay my landlord too - so, I can be able to transfer to another home, and he will let me leave peacefully. Which will have another cost, as I need to rent a small truck because I have my pets with me. I have written this on my previous blogs before that I have been sexually harassed(this SCARES me so much too), and stalked by a former friend. He was jailed, but he is back again(already reported it to police). But for safety transferring home is needed. My trauma is still not yet recovered. We still need to prioritize as well my Aunt's treatment, as her health is rapidly deteriorating too(Stage 3 breast Cancer is advancing, her right breast has already been removed). And I need to start mine again, it spread in other parts of my body(I am holding on). I'm really scared right now. If you can spare anything—money, support, anything at all—it would mean the world to me. I hate asking, but I don't know what else to do. Any amount is appreciated, or you can purchase from my Small Shop as well. Thank you so much. Please take Care. Love, Jasky P.S. Sorry if my writing sounds scattered. I don't have proper sleep at the moment.

Sorry for tagging again, please do not get mad at me. I really help so badly. Reposting, or if you have any at least $5 or buy stickers it will really mean a lot to us, to me.

@boost-the-signal @measurelessdreamer @c1a1r3r3df1e1d @samblerambles @nearlybitches

#gofundme #donate if you can #send help #help needed #fundraising #mutual aid #cancer patients #important #prayers #share #tiktok

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joelswritingmistress · 8 months

Text

You Scare Me, Professor: Chapter 38

Summary: The reader is taking graduate classes at a local university in the wooded upstate New York. She is drawn to her professor, Dr. Joel Miller, though she is also inherently aware that he has something dark about him that she can't quite put her finger on. As the reader's attraction grows deeper, she has to decide whether to endure the danger or run away as fast as possible.

Pairing: Professor Joel Miller x f!reader

I made myself paranoid all day. At work I avoided going down the long hallway to the isolated bathroom for as long as I could. I had been in that bathroom more times than I could count without a thought. My coworkers were right there. There was no chance this mysterious lady killer was in our building. Still, I felt anxious, peed quickly and hurried out there.

The same thing happened on the ride home and the stop for gas. I wanted to get out of there. I felt like death was a dark hanging cloud over the area and I just needed to go. My parents practically begged me to come home, but I assured them that a “girl’s weekend” away was the best thing for me. I didn’t know when I planned to tell them about my much-older boyfriend - who happened to be my professor. I was planning on leaving that detail out.

My eyes hit the rearview mirror as I cruised around. I was tempted to swing through the Dunkin Donuts drive through for a quick pick-me-up, but my nerves even talked me out of that. I couldn’t stop thinking about Trevor and his odd behavior as of late.

Could it be him? Was he actually sneaking up behind me the night he got into it with Dr. Miller on the sidewalk? Would he ever be crazy enough to follow me up this way?

I was suddenly thankful I had put my social media on private. At least there was a digital barrier, not that that would help me in the physical world. When I was certain no one had followed me home from work, I made the turn up the driveway to Dr. Miller’s mansion. I still couldn’t think of it as ours. I probably never would, even if I was lucky enough to marry him one day.

When I got there, the gate was open and I could see him loading up some luggage into the back of the pickup truck. He gave a wave and after parking I greeted him with a quick hug and a kiss.

“You okay?” He asked me, putting a hand on my cheek.

I nodded. “This just feels surreal.” I sighed, “I’m glad we’re getting out of here for a few days. “I need a break from the gloom and doom and the death.”

Dr. Miller nodded and pulled me in for a hug, kissing my forehead. “Now will you consider dropping Dr. Stevenson’s class? I don’t want you on campus.”

“I’m paranoid everywhere,” I admitted, glancing up at him. I shook my head with a little laugh, “I was nervous going down the hall to the bathroom at work today after they told me about the third body.”

“I get it. It shakes you up. If it didn’t there’d be something wrong.”

I looked up into his eyes and we shared another peck of a kiss. My eyes stayed locked on his as I stared up at him.

“What?” he asked.

I gave a half-smile. “Nothing. I’m just thankful I have you.”

Dr. Miller smiled back, “Let’s get the last couple things and we’ll hit the road.” He grinned and tugged on my sleeve, “Don’t forget your bathing suit.”

The ride to the resort gave me time to decompress. With each half-hour that passed, I felt the weights of Woodbridge falling off my shoulders. We alternated taking turns listening to songs we chose, talked about anything except for the murders and even played a silly game from passing cars’ license plates at the tail end of the trip.

And then, by nightfall, the gorgeous, illuminated snow slopes came into view as we made our way through the final stretch of the Vermont countryside. It was even gently snowing as we pulled onto the grounds of the resort. Another perfect winter wonderland.

“I wish I knew how to ski,” I said with a laugh, “This looks awesome.”

Dr. Miller, linked his hand with mine as we cruised down the long, bumpy driveway. “Well, there’s always time to learn. I think there’s a hill for snow tubing if you’re up for it.”

“No way.” I knew my face perked up like a small child at the thought of tubing down a hill.

“Way.” He chuckled at my reaction.

We found a parking spot and made our way to check in.

“I wonder who’s here yet from the wedding party,” Dr. Miller said aloud. We approached the front desk of the on-site hotel. “Here for the Brennan-Miller wedding,” he told the woman behind the counter.

“Ahh, yes.” She grinned to herself and glanced up at him. “What’s the name?”

“Joel Miller.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet, handing her a card to put on file for the room.

After punching in the information to the computer and retrieving a pair of key cards, she looked back at us with a smile. “You’re on the top floor, room 522. Pool is on floor one. Gyms are on every even numbered room. Continental breakfast runs from 6-10 every morning.”

“Great,” Dr. Miller said with a nod. “Thank you. Have any of the other wedding guests checked in?”

“I can’t really tell you that,” she said, but whispered, “A few of the rooms have already been claimed but I can’t tell you who.”

He chuckled when she winked. “Thanks so much.”

“Enjoy your stay.”

I gave a friendly goodbye wave and made our way with our luggage toward a visible elevator. When we got inside and the doors closed, I glanced over at Dr. MIller.

“You know what being in this elevator alone with you makes me think of?” I wiggled my eyebrows at him, and he took the hint, giving in to a laugh.

“I know what you’re going to say.” Dr. Miller pulled me for a playful kiss.

“You had me wrapped around your finger that first time I had a drink with you.”

“I probably shouldn’t have said what I said, “ he told me, still with a sly grin.

“Yes, you should have.”

Our lips met again and we kissed until the little bell rang and the doors swung open at floor five. We both read the little golden plate on the wall across, tell us with numbers and directional arrows which way to go for room 522.

Each window along the way gave a snapshot view of the slopes, where skiers and snowboarders still whipped around in the dark under the display of bright lights. It was a cool, new atmosphere that I wasn’t at all used to - but would be happy to embrace.

At 522, Dr. Miller placed the key card up to the slot and a blinking green light let us know we could enter.

“Here we go.” He glanced over his shoulder at me with a wink and I trailed him inside.

Just as I had suspected, the room was another little slice of heaven. King sized bed, small kitchen, small hot tub on an enclosed balcony. When I walked into the bathroom I called him in.

“This shower has like four shower heads,” I exclaimed, “And two more down by your legs.”

“Well, I know what our first activity should be.” Dr. Miller huffed a laugh and gripped his tongue between his teeth.

“We haven’t tackled that one yet.” I wrapped my arms around him and we indulging in making out for a moment. “I really could use a shower.”

“Well, let’s not waste any time.” Dr. Miller unzipped my jacket and then reached into the pocket of his when his phone buzzed. He read the text aloud, “Meet for drinks in the lodge at 8?”

“Carol?” I asked him.

He nodded. “It’s seven-fifteen now.”

“Plenty of time.” I grinned and unzipped his jacket now. In a jokingly sexy manner I slowly took off mine to reveal the striped sweater I still had on from work.

Dr. Miller laughed out loud and did the same, giving another wink for good measure.

I then tiptoed toward the shower and cranked the lever, almost immediately sending a pool of steam into the small cubicle when I shut the door.

I proceeded to strip down in front of him, flicking my lacy thong toward him with my toes and he hummed a, “Mmm,” of approval.

“I see you’re in a lighter mood,” he pointed out the obvious, still grinning as he removed his jacket and tossed it out the door onto the floor.

“I know a way to make it even better.” I opened the door to the shower and the pitter patter of the water grew louder.

When he joined me inside, the stress of real life all but disappeared. Dr. Miller was the perfect medicine for that. A getaway with him was just icing on the cake.

@untamedheart81 @suttonspuds @cesspitoflove @michilandcof @grogusmum @morallyinept @akah565 @brittmb115 @magpiepills @poodlebae @gobaaby-blog-blog @mermaidgirl30 @mandijo17 @shotgun-shelby @itscatrodriguez-thepearl @macaroni676 @acciowolfstar1 @smolbeanzzz @sarcasm-theotherwhitemeat @bandluvr97

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notmyneighbor · 4 months

Text

in the dark | izaack gauss x francis mosses

explicit

part 1/?

words | 2.5k

cw | fluff and smut

ao3 link

Francis Mosses has a crush on local news anchor Izaack Gauss, who also just happens to live in the same apartment building, one floor below.

He’s not even aware of his feelings at first. He tunes into the local television station early in the morning, before he leaves to deliver dairy products to the citizens of the neighborhood, intending to get the day’s weather report. But that excuse gets flimsier as time wears on. Sometimes he doesn’t even pay attention to the meteorologist. He has eyes only for the handsome reporter with his broad shoulders and generous smile, his wavy dark hair and the prettiest teal blue eyes he’s ever seen.

He’ll just finish making a delivery to one of several bakeries on the weekend run when he picks up a shift and sometimes Izaack will be filling in as well, his image captured on one of the television screens in the window display at the local electronics shop. The milkman freezes in his tracks and just stares until his neck feels hot and the starched work uniform starts chafing just a bit too much in certain areas and then he hastily returns to the truck, hoping no one has noticed.

Despite the fact that both men reside in the same apartment building, they don’t cross paths very often. At most they might share an elevator ride, at the least line up one after the other to present their required documents to the DDD doorman. Francis doesn’t dare let his eyes linger, no matter how much he feels the irresistible pull to gaze at the object of his desire in such close proximity. He can’t look at the source of his most depraved fantasies, when he finally succumbs in the shower or in bed and it’s just him, alone in the dark, wishing and wanting so bad it hurts worse than the ache of desire, the shame that spills guilty, hot and sticky over his hands.

The bachelor tells himself he’s not going to be one of the groupies that hangs around the news station, harassing the poor man for an autograph, but he ends up there anyway, feeling so out of place among the crowd of women of varying ages. Gauss seems to choose whom to gift a signature to at random, scrawling on whatever he can easily reach, typically a photograph of himself or the cover of one of the many magazines he’s graced on more than one occassion.

Francis has none of these items. He’s carrying a copy of a book that the news anchor had mentioned had been a personal favorite of his once. He doesn’t expect the man to make eye contact, to offer a smile that feels a fair bit different as he reaches for the literature. The delivery man has that feeling again, that rushing heat, that uncontrollable itch of skin as he focuses on the plush curves of the television star’s lips, the slight caress his tongue makes to moisten them, the way the lock of raven hair falls forward over his brow as he bends to scrawl on the title page. He hands the book back and their hands touch for the briefest of moments and Francis actually forgets how to breathe for a moment.

He doesn’t view his prize until he’s back in his apartment, fingers trembling when he lifts the cover of the hardback and there is more than just a name there, written in elegant cursive. There is a phone number as well, and he stares at that sequence of digits in stunned disbelief.

It’s late at night by the time he finally works up the courage to dial the number, clearing his throat hastily, the words he’d been rehearsing all day instantly gone out of his head. Izaack’s mellow voice answers and Francis is left to awkwardly stammer, choking. He very nearly hangs up right then. He can’t do this. He’s completely out of his depth.

“It’s…it’s me. From earlier today. With the book, at the autograph session outside the studio.” There. Words. Strung together to form sentences. Not so hard to utter, right?

“Ah. I was wondering when I would hear from you.”

“Uh, yeah.” Francis rubs the back of his neck nervously.

“You want to meet up somewhere for a drink?”

“I don’t uh…I don’t really drink.” He mentally kicks himself immediately. Stupid. The man was inviting him out. For what, he’s still not certain. He has his hopes, but they seem more grounded in fantasy than reality.

“Conversation, then, if alcohol doesn’t suit you.”

“Um…” It’s different, hearing that voice crooning into his ear. On television he’s brisk and professional, formally addressing a large population. The intimacy, the rich sensuality of it directed only at him, like this, is quite a different experience. “Yes, that would be fine.”

“Excellent. You live on the third floor, don’t you? Second apartment?”

“Yes. How did you…I didn’t think you’d noticed…”

“I noticed,” he says, and those two words are velvet and silk, black cherry and whipped cream, sinfully rich and smooth and full of promise. “How about tomorrow night, around seven? I’ll stop by your place.”

“Okay.” Francis’ heart hammers in his chest. So soon. And yet not soon enough.

“See you then.”

***

Francis’ entire closet has been emptied.

He’s not a fashion guru by any stretch, but he wants to look his best for Izaack. The man always wore the nicest looking suits, a new one for every broadcast, or at least he’d never recognized the same tie twice. He doesnt think a tie seems quite right for this outing. Maybe just a long sleeve shirt and slacks. White and black. Not unlike his milkman uniform colors.

He spends a great deal of time in the bathroom. Extra time shaving. Cursing when he knicks his cheeks and throat with the razor more than once. His hair, of course, is refusing to cooperate. Stubborn cow licks standing this way and that. He runs his fingers underneath his eyes. They’re as bruised looking as ever. He’s never slept well, and the position he works doesn’t exactly help that cause, either. Getting up before the birds five days a week or more isn’t exactly conducive to getting adequate rest.

He sighs, finally surrendering. There’s nothing else he can do. He doesn’t own the expensive looking, tailor made Italian cut suits or have that thick head of charcoal hair that sits perfectly in place, the flawless complexion or muscular physique. He looks like someone playing dress up, a pretender. Tired and pale. He can’t imagine what about him has attracted the news reporter’s eye.

Gauss is prompt, arriving precisely at the designated hour. He raps on the door softly and the milkman finds himself face to face with a man he’s coveted for a very long time. Mosses had though his height of six feet had been decent, but Izaack’s got a good half foot piled on top of that. And as well fitting as his suits are (and yes, he is wearing one now) there’s no concealing the muscles that strain the seams at times as he gestures during a newscast. Francis feels so small next to him.

“Ready to go?” The smile is meant to be reassuring, but it only makes the third floor resident’s stomach flutter. He nods and fumbles the door closed and follows the taller man to the elevator and then outside the building. The dark sedan he’s lead towards is unrecognizeable—he’d had no idea what type of vehicle the reporter drove before this. It suits him, though. Sleek and posh and classy, just like its owner.

The seats inside the car are cushioned in plush leather that Francis sinks down into. He secures the lap restraint which earns a little amused smile from his companion before the engine purrs to life.

The milkman has not been on a date in a long time, and he has not been driven anywhere for even longer. He’s accustomed to being behind the wheel, not being chauffeured around. It seems to further offset the balance between the two men. He feels inferior. Even a bit helpless. His eyes focus on the dark hairs lining the hand that grips the steering wheel, the platinum banded watch that probably costs more than what the delivery man earns in a year. He wonders what common ground they can possibly find for conversation. Worlds apart. What was he even doing, living in that apartment building? Surely there were more elegant, upscale offerings in the city. Easily obtainable for a man of his standing and economic means.

“Where are we going?” It seems as safe as any other option to dive into a discourse.

“Someplace nice. I think you’ll like it.”

Francis can’t imagine how the man would know what he does and doesn’t enjoy. They’re virtual strangers.

The car halts at a traffic light and the milkman feels the other man’s eyes on him. He swallows nervously and glances over.

“You look very tense,” the reporter remarks, one arm casually reaching across the seats to drape over Francis’ shoulders. He stiffens and Izaack hums thoughtfully, his thumb pressing against the knotted muscles between his neck and shoulder, working in small circles. “Must be those long hours sitting in that wretched delivery truck. You could do with a proper massage.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

The light turns green and the hand slithers back across, fingernails scraping the fabric of his shirt. Francis thinks he might just spontaneously combust right then. It was all so much, so quickly. He doesn’t know how to respond. Well, maybe not with words. Other parts of him certainly seemed to know.

He squirms in his seat, staring hard outside the passenger window, willing the rising arousal to calm down. He notices a billboard atop one of the high rises advertising the television station the man beside him works at, featuring a larger than life display of their star reporter, and it doesn’t help things any. He can’t escape the man. He’s everywhere.

Francis doesn’t recognize the building he’s brought to. It’s dark and unmarked, with a stern looking bouncer outside that gives even the formidable Gauss’ muscles a run for their money. Izaack parks along a stockade fence behind the establishment, a fair distance away from the building and any other patrons’ cars. He turns the key in the ignition and then leans back, the leather seat creaking slightly.

Francis doesn’t know what to do. Should he open the passenger door? His palms feel clammy. He’s got the entire instrument panel memorized now. The chrome detail of the interior’s trim. He doesn’t know where else to gaze.

“Look at me.”

Francis turns his head slowly. It’s dark in the parking lot. The nearest streetlight is some distance away. The taller man’s features are bathed in shadows.

“You’re nervous.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t go out. Haven’t in a long time. And I’ve never been…out with a man,” he finishes in a breathless sort of rush. He’s heard stories about what happens to people that dared to express homosexuality openly. It wasn’t just a shunned, taboo practice. People were harmed. Worse than. It was the kind of thing you had to keep behind closed doors. A big risk for someone of Izaack’s notoriety to be taking, if this place is what Francis is beginning to suspect it might be.

“No one here is going to judge you for that. Trust me.”

The milkman isn’t confident, even if his companion exudes so much faith in the alleged discretion and safety of this location. “Have you…have you ever…”

“Been with a man?” He supplies. Francis nods. “Yes. And women, too. But I prefer the company of the former.”

“You could have anybody. Why me?”

Izaack’s head tips thoughtfully. “Why not you?”

“I’m not famous like you. Not…refined. I don’t have nice clothes or a fancy car or any of that.”

“The fame doesn’t matter. Yes, it affords one nice things, and yes, I enjoy them. But those things are material and fleeting. At the end of the day, they don’t really matter. I come home to an apartment full of them, and it still feels empty. I don’t care what you’re wearing. I’m more interested in the man beneath.”

Francis stares, open mouthed. He doesn’t know what he’s expected the reporter to be like up close and personal but this…this isn’t it. So candid. So raw.

“Look, maybe we should just get something over with right now. Break the ice, you know. Then you’re not going to be worrying and wondering about it the whole time we’re trying to have a conversation inside.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Something like this.” Izaack’s knuckles graze his jaw. “Relax, Francis. I’m not going to bite. Unless you want me to,” he adds with a mischievous smirk. Then his expression softens and he leans over to kiss him.

Oh.

It’s soft and sweet in the beginning, just a light brush. Then the kiss deepens, gets rougher. He feels Izaack’s tongue prodding his mouth open and he surrenders with a moan. Kissing a woman is nothing like this, not that he’d had a lot of practice with the opposite sex, either. But women have smaller jaws and mouths and more delicate bone structure in general. Everything curved where with this man it is all angles: strong, blocky jaw and cleft square chin and a sharp jut of aquiline nose, every feature digging in, demanding its presence to be known. His fingers curl around the side of Francis’ throat, and for one wild moment he thinks the reporter is going to squeeze and the idea excites him more than terrifies him and that, right there, should give him pause. But he’s at the apex of a rollercoaster and there is nowhere to go except plummeting downward. His own fingers curl around the news anchor’s lapel and he sucks and licks and even lets his teeth boldly nip at those juicy lips and that thrusting tongue and it’s wet and messy and absolutely glorious. His cock hurts, struggling so fiercely against the seam of his fly, demanding release. He’s panting, desperately seeking air when they finally draw apart, and for all his suave, confident demeanor, the man behind the wheel looks just as shaken as he feels.

A lazy, crooked sort of smile curves Izaack’s mouth, just barely visible in the dim interior of the luxury automobile. “Well, I think it’s safe to say you definitely prefer the company of men as well.”

“Not men. You.”

“Me,” he agrees, his smile broadening. “Need a minute before we head inside?”

“Uh…yeah.”

Francis tries to find something else to occupy his thoughts and ease the bulge tenting his slacks. But it’s difficult.

More difficult than ever, now that he knows exactly what he can have, right within arm’s reach.

#izaack gauss x francis mosses #izaack gauss #francis mosses #that’s not my neighbor #tnmn francis mosses #tnmn izaack #tnmn smut #tnmn milkman #divider @saradikagraphics

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