#Efficient Warehouse Operations

[aidc-india]

Cost-Effective Strategies with Warehouse Management Systems

n today’s fast-paced business landscape, managing warehouse operations efficiently is critical for staying competitive. Businesses are shifting from manual methods to modern Warehouse Management Systems that save time, cut costs, and reduce errors. AIDC Technologies India, known for its innovative and practical approach, helps organizations modernize their warehouses with smart, cost-effective solutions that truly make a difference.

What Makes a Warehouse Management System Effective? Insights from AIDC India

An effective warehouse management system isn’t just about tracking stock; it’s about simplifying processes, supporting decision-making, and preventing costly mistakes. According to AIDC Technologies India, the best Warehouse Management Systems combine real-time data, user-friendly design, and seamless integration with other business systems. By customizing solutions to fit each business, AIDC ensures that clients don’t just get software—they get a tool that aligns with real operational needs.

Key Features of AIDC’s Warehouse Management Systems for Modern Businesses

AIDC’s Warehouse Management Systems offer features designed for real-world efficiency, like real-time inventory visibility, automated alerts to prevent stockouts, and dashboards that help managers quickly identify trends. These systems also integrate easily with sales and accounting platforms, reducing manual data entry. Thanks to these features, businesses can reduce human error, speed up order processing, and keep customers satisfied.

Cost-Effective Strategies Powered by AIDC Technologies India

AIDC Technologies India understands that businesses want results without breaking the bank. Their Warehouse Management Systems help reduce overstocking, lower labor costs by automating routine tasks, and minimize losses due to errors or theft. By focusing on smart organization and clear data, businesses can use their warehouse space better and avoid unnecessary expenses, leading to a stronger bottom line.

Improving Accuracy and Efficiency with AIDC’s Automated Systems

One of the biggest benefits of AIDC’s solutions is automation. Barcode and RFID scanning, system-generated picking lists, and automatic reordering help employees work faster and make fewer mistakes. These improvements lead to higher accuracy, faster shipping, and better service quality. Warehouse Management Systems from AIDC Technologies India empower teams to do more with less effort.

Reducing Errors and Operational Costs: AIDC’s Proven Methods

Errors in warehouses can cost money and reputation. AIDC Technologies India helps businesses reduce these risks by implementing role-based system access, automatic data validation, and regular training. By combining technology with clear processes, companies experience fewer returns, happier customers, and fewer unexpected costs—making operations smoother and more predictable.

Industry Applications: Where AIDC’s WMS Adds Real Value

The flexibility of Warehouse Management Systems means they help across industries, from e-commerce and retail to manufacturing and logistics. AIDC’s solutions are tailored to meet the needs of each sector, whether it’s managing large inventories, tracking raw materials, or handling fast-moving consumer goods. This adaptability is why many companies choose AIDC Technologies India as their trusted partner.

Future Trends: AIDC Technologies India Shaping Smarter Warehousing

Looking ahead, AIDC Technologies India is exploring AI, IoT, and cloud-based Warehouse Management Systems that make processes even smarter. These innovations promise better forecasting, mobile access, and advanced data analytics. By investing in future-ready solutions today, businesses can keep improving efficiency and stay ahead of competitors.

Why Choose AIDC India for Your Warehouse Management Strategy

What sets AIDC Technologies India apart is a blend of practical experience, customization, and reliable support. Instead of offering generic software, AIDC focuses on building Warehouse Management Systems that reflect each business’s unique goals and challenges. Backed by years of industry expertise, AIDC ensures clients get solutions that truly add value.

Conclusion: Optimize Your Warehouse Operations with AIDC Technologies India

Modern Warehouse Management Systems help businesses cut costs, improve accuracy, and simplify complex processes. With AIDC Technologies India, companies get a partner dedicated to turning these benefits into everyday reality. Book now with AIDC Technologies India and discover how smarter warehouse strategies can boost your business in 2025 and beyond.

[loriijone]

WMS ROI

Modern warehouse operations rely heavily on digital transformation, and one of the key contributors to profitability is achieving a solid WMS ROI. A Warehouse Management System helps reduce manual errors, improve inventory accuracy, and streamline order fulfillment. Businesses adopting WMS solutions experience significant gains in operational efficiency and workforce productivity. Moreover, analytics tools embedded in WMS platforms offer data insights that further drive strategic decisions. If you're looking to cut logistics costs and maximize output, investing in a system with strong WMS ROI potential can be a game-changer.

[dyna-clean01]

Industrial sweeper

Upgrade your cleaning operations with our advanced sweeper machines, crafted for unmatched performance in every setting — from indoor warehouses to busy city roads. Our portfolio includes powerful industrial sweepers, efficient floor sweepers, and durable road sweepers, all tailored to suit your unique requirements. Whether you’re managing a facility, warehouse, or outdoor premises, our machines serve as the perfect sweeper for factory cleaning or sweeper machine for warehouse applications. Choose from ergonomically designed walk-behind sweepers for compact spaces or opt for our high-capacity ride-on sweeper machines for broader coverage. Need an eco-conscious solution? Our battery-operated sweepers, electric and eco-friendly sweeper machines, ensure green cleaning without compromising power. For areas that demand more muscle, our diesel sweeper machines and heavy-duty sweepers are built for rigorous use. Each model is engineered as a dust-free sweeper, supporting healthier environments with minimal airborne particles. The machines are also low-noise sweeper machines, ideal for noise-sensitive zones. From the 100 L sweeper machine to the robust 200 L sweeper machine, every unit promises maximum productivity. Whether you’re maintaining industrial floors, parking lots, or public roads, our commercial sweepers, road sweeping equipment, and industrial floor cleaning machines offer a high-efficiency sweeper experience that gets the job done — fast, clean, and quiet.

[metropolitantransportllc]

Effective inventory control is key to avoiding stockouts or overstocking. Warehousing and container transload services offer businesses the ability to store products efficiently, allowing for real-time tracking of inventory. This visibility ensures that stock levels are always optimized, reducing the chance of delays or disruptions in the supply chain.

[carrymaxlifts]

Carrymax Lifts offers robust and reliable freight and goods lifts designed to handle heavy loads with ease. Built for durability and efficiency, our lifts ensure safe and smooth operations, making them ideal for warehouses, factories, and industrial settings.

[immensitylogistics]

Leveraging AI and Cloud Technology to Address Key Challenges in Logistics

At Immensity Logistics, we recognize that integrating advanced technologies such as Artificial Intelligence (AI) and Cloud Computing is essential to overcoming these hurdles and optimizing our operations. This article explores how we utilize AI and cloud technology to tackle logistics challenges and improve service delivery.

Enhancing Demand Forecasting

One of the most significant challenges in logistics is accurately predicting customer demand. Fluctuations can lead to excess inventory, which increases costs or shortages, lost sales, and dissatisfied customers. By leveraging AI, Immensity Logistics utilizes predictive analytics to analyze historical data, market trends, and external factors (such as seasonal changes and economic indicators). This data-driven approach allows us to make more accurate forecasts, ensuring we have the inventory to meet customer needs without incurring unnecessary costs. 2. Optimizing Route Planning

Efficient route planning is critical for reducing transportation costs and ensuring timely deliveries. AI algorithms can analyze variables, including traffic patterns, weather conditions, and delivery time windows, to determine the most efficient routes for our fleet. At Immensity Logistics, we harness these capabilities to minimize fuel consumption and travel time, enhancing our service efficiency while reducing our environmental impact. As a result, our drivers can navigate urban environments more effectively, leading to improved customer satisfaction. 3. Improving Warehouse Operations

Managing warehouse operations can be complex management, order fulfillment, and space optimization. AI-powered systems can automate various tasks, such as sorting, picking, and packing, operational efficiency. Immensity Logistics employs AI-driven solutions to monitor inventory levels in real-time, allowing us to streamline our warehouse processes and ensure that products are always available for timely dispatch. Additionally, cloud technology facilitates seamless communication and collaboration among teams, enhancing overall productivity. 4. Enhancing Visibility and Transparency

In logistics, visibility is to be informed about shipment status and potential issues. By leveraging cloud technology, Immensity Logistics provides a centralized platform for tracking shipments throughout the supply chain. This cloud-based system allows our clients to access real-time information regarding their orders, enabling them to make informed decisions and respond quickly to disruptions. Enhanced visibility improves customer satisfaction and fosters trust and transparency in our operations.

5. Streamlining Communication and Collaboration

Effective communication among various stakeholders—vendors, carriers, and customers—is essential for successful logistics management. Cloud technology facilitates seamless communication by providing a shared platform where all parties can access critical information and collaborate efficiently. At Immensity Logistics, we utilize cloud-based tools to streamline communication, ensuring that those involved in the logistics process are on the same page. This improved collaboration minimizes delays and misunderstandings, leading to smoother operations. 6. Enhancing Customer Experience

AI can analyze customer behavior and preferences to personalize the delivery experience, enabling us to offer tailored solutions that meet individual needs. Whether providing estimated delivery times, offering flexible delivery options, or proactively notifying customers about shipment status, AI-driven insights allow Immensity Logistics to elevate the customer experience. By leveraging cloud technology, we can implement these personalized services at scale, ensuring consistency across all interactions. 7. Cost Reduction and Efficiency Gains

Implementing AI and cloud technology reduces operational costs and enhances overall efficiency. Immensity Logistics continuously monitors key performance indicators (KPIs) through cloud-based dashboards to identify areas for improvement and adapt our strategies accordingly. This proactive approach drives cost savings and positions us to remain competitive in an ever-changing industry. 8. Sustainability Initiatives

As the logistics industry faces increasing pressure to adopt sustainable practices, AI and cloud technology can drive environmental initiatives. AI can optimize routes to minimize fuel consumption, while cloud-based platforms enable us to track and analyze our carbon footprint. At Immensity Logistics, we are committed to sustainability, and by leveraging these technologies, we can implement green logistics practices that benefit both the planet and our bottom line.

Conclusion

From enhancing demand forecasting and optimizing route planning to improving visibility and customer experience, these technologies empower us to operate more efficiently and effectively. As we continue to innovate and adapt, we remain committed to leveraging these advancements to deliver exceptional logistics solutions that meet the evolving needs of our clients. By embracing the future of logistics through AI and cloud technology, we are enhancing our operations and setting new standards in the industry. For more information about our services, please visit our website or contact our team today!

[equalonline]

Hand Truck – The Most Useful Industrial Equipment

The hand truck is considered to be the most industrial or warehouse tool after the aluminum ladder as this helps in warehouse management. It is also known as a platform trolley. It is a kind king of transporting equipment used to move products from one place to another. This can make your lifting and carrying the product from one place to another very easy. This can also reduce your effort of moving.

What Kind Of Industries Use Platform Trolley

When you’re selecting a heavy-duty hand trolley, it’s important to make sure that you just opt for the correct one for your business. If the right one isn't chosen, a heavy-duty platform trolley ill-suited for its purpose is more likely to degrade over time or, worse, suffer a ruinous failure. That’s why here at EQUAL, we do our best to assist our shoppers in selecting the most appropriate heavy-duty trolley for their desires.

You should continuously keep your business in mind and select the correct one, accordingly. Here are just a few of the industries that use industrial trolley every day.

Warehouse

Platform trolleys, also known as warehouse trolley are incredibly helpful for shelf stacking machines because of their load capacity. These trolleys are specifically designed to handle the heaviest loads, with the trolley we tend to stock boasting load capacities from 25kg to 500kg. Platform trolleys are also ideally equipped to handle shock loading – common in a warehouse setting wherever weight is probably going to be dropped onto a cart from a height. This industry often uses a four-wheel trolley due to its load capacity.

Hospitality

Hospitality is another place where platform trolley is used frequently. There are numerous types of trolleys used in hospitality to serve various purposes. Everyone is familiar with luggage trolleys at transport terminals like airports or seaports, or in the entrance hall of hotels. They frequently make use of spring-loaded heavy-duty trolleys because of their ability to limit vibration, particularly when traveling over rough surfaces. This makes them ideal for handling fragile items of baggage without worrying about them being broken in transit and enabling individuals to avoid mishaps before and after their vacation.

Industries

In several industries, speed is the key essence. That’s why Industrial Hand Truck is often employed by industries because of their ability to hold bulky loads. A foldable platform trolley is specially engineered to handle significant loads for extended periods, ready to travel at speeds. With the assistance of those castors, businesses can keep moving efficiently.

Catering

Those working in the catering business are typically functioning at extreme temperatures or in wetter than normal environments, like hot and steamy kitchens or shiver-inducing freezers. This may usually have an unwanted impact on a trolley. With a heavy-duty platform trolley designed to handle tough environments like these, such as high-temperature heavy duty trolley or corrosion-resistant trolley made of ABS, customers’ meals are invariably delivered on time.

Common Types Of Platform Trolley

Platform Trolley 150 kg

Platform Trolley 300 kg

Platform Trolley 500 kg

Let us know if you have any questions regarding the platform trolley and its appropriate type for you. Our experts are ready to assist you.

Image Source: 500 px

[dhazefawn]

❀﹒﹒⇅﹒𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ╱ with JASON TODD & DICK GRAYSON ㄨ BLACK WIDOW ! READER ꩜ .ᐟ ⠀⠀ hcs & drabbles. ⠀·⠀ ୭

　　﹕   (✿˘͈ᵕ˘͈)   ┈ #directory #rules .   ♡   ﹒ this ask made me rethink the whole ‘reqs closed but suggestions open’ deal i gave going on rn. i cannot physically write everything req i get in my inbox,,, so i just take suggestions— no pressure to write it like a request.

❛   ꜝ   ┈   ✺ cw  ﹒ violence and abuse described in this work— it doesn’t take a big part of it though. a bit of angst because i cannot control myself.

𓏲𓏲⠀⠀.. ⠀Your reputation precedes you—former Black Widow, perfectly trained killer, someone who understands that justice isn’t always clean or merciful. But Gotham’s protectors seem determined to complicate things. You find yourself in unfamiliar territory— a certain vigilante has wormed his way into your heart. ✶

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 ︶︶

The warehouse explosion lit up Crime Alley like the Fourth of July, and Jason couldn’t help but grin as you dropped down beside him from seemingly nowhere, not even slightly singed despite having been inside thirty seconds ago.

“Show off,” he muttered, but there was admiration in his voice.

“Says the man who literally just drove his motorcycle through a second-story window.” You checked your weapons with practiced efficiency, muscle memory from a lifetime of survival. “Find what we needed?”

“Financial records, shipping manifests, and enough evidence to put half of Falcone’s operation away.” Jason held up a hard drive. “Plus whatever you did in there should send a nice message to the rest.”

You shrugged, the movement elegant even in tactical gear. “The message needed to be loud.”

“No arguments here.” He stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in your eyes. “Bruce is gonna have an aneurysm when he finds out about tonight.”

“Good. Maybe it’ll keep him busy enough to stop lecturing us about ‘excessive force.’” Your fingers found the edge of his jacket, tugging him closer. “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind my methods when I saved your ass in there.”

Jason’s laugh was rough around the edges. “Pretty, I never mind your methods. Just wish you’d give me a heads up. I like to watch.”

Your smile was dangerous and entirely too appealing. “Next time, I’ll put on a show.”

Jason absolutely gets your approach to justice and rarely questions your methods— if anything, he thinks you’re more efficient than the Bat-family’s usual “catch and release” program.

Will definitely team up with you on missions and enjoys the hell out of it, especially since you don’t try to hold him back from doing what needs to be done.

Gets incredibly protective when other people criticize your past or your methods, even though he knows you can handle yourself— old habits from his own experience being judged.

Loves sparring with you because you’re one of the few people who can actually challenge him, and there’s something thrilling about fighting someone who’s genuinely dangerous.

Sometimes you’ll find him reading up on Red Room techniques or Widow operations, not to judge but to better understand what made you who you are.

Has absolutely gotten into arguments with Dick and Bruce about your relationship. It’s a delicate situation. While Bruce and Dick understand you would never hurt Jason on purpose, they do worry how the methods you two choose will affect not only Jason— you as well.

There’s a twisted kind of understanding between you and Jason. I think in the end Bruce only wants the two of you to be able to find peace and not feel trapped by the blood you two have spilled.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍 ︶︶

The Blüdhaven rooftop was slick with rain as you materialized from the shadows, silent as death itself. Dick didn’t even flinch— he’d learned to sense your presence weeks ago, though he still couldn’t figure out how you moved so quietly in those boots.

“You’re late,” he said, not turning around.

“I’m exactly on time. You’re just early because you’re nervous.” You stepped beside him, close enough that he could smell gunpowder and vanilla perfume. “The target’s already handled.”

“Handled how?” Dick’s voice carried that careful neutrality he used when he was trying not to lecture you.

You tilted your head. “Does it matter? The trafficking ring is shut down, the girls are safe, and the world has three fewer monsters in it.”

Dick closed his eyes briefly. “We talked about this—”

“No, you talked. I listened.” Your gloved fingers traced along his jaw, gentle despite the calluses from trigger guards and knife hilts. “I know you want to save everyone, even the ones who don’t deserve it. It’s what makes you beautiful, Dick Grayson. But some people can only be stopped one way.”

He caught your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And what does that make you?”

Your smile was sharp as broken glass. “Practical.”

Dick tries so hard to be the moral compass in the relationship, constantly walking the line between accepting who you are and hoping he can influence you toward less lethal methods. (He’s like “I can fix them” and just makes it even worse). It’s not as if he doesn’t want to see this side of you. He does. He just wants to help you navigate the pain jt took to get here.

He’s genuinely fascinated by your skills and will ask you to teach him your stealth techniques, though he draws the line at the more assassination-focused training.

Gets genuinely distressed when you disappear for days on missions, not because he doesn’t trust your abilities, but because he worries about what those missions might be doing to your body and mind.

Has definitely tried to introduce you to everyone else as a “reformed” anti-hero, which backfired spectacularly when you made a casual comment about eliminating witnesses. He learned not to sugar-coat you and your methods after that. Better to accept them head on.

Loves the way you move— there’s something almost hypnotic about your grace in combat that he finds beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

Will patch up your wounds without question, but always with that worried crease between his brows that you’ve learned means he’s planning another “conversation” about your methods and how you cannot keep putting yourself in so much danger.

Sometimes catches you staring at him like you’re memorizing his face, and it breaks his heart a little because he knows it means you’re always prepared to run.

Has started leaving his window unlocked specifically for you, even though you’ve never actually needed to use the window.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

﹒   ♪   ┊ INBOX OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

˖ `· . 𓏵 © DHAZEFAWN don’t use my work without my consent. ... ⏤ㅤ Ⳋ ⊹

[mostlysignssomeportents]

AI turns Amazon coders into Amazon warehouse workers

HEY SEATTLE! I'm appearing at the Cascade PBS Ideas Festival NEXT SATURDAY (May 31) with the folks from NPR's On The Media!

On a recent This Machine Kills episode, guest Hagen Blix described the ultimate form of "AI therapy" with a "human in the loop":

https://soundcloud.com/thismachinekillspod/405-ai-is-the-demon-god-of-capital-ft-hagen-blix

One actual therapist is just having ten chat GPT windows open where they just like have five seconds to interrupt the chatGPT. They have to scan them all and see if it says something really inappropriate. That's your job, to stop it.

Blix admits that's not where therapy is at…yet, but he references Laura Preston's 2023 N Plus One essay, "HUMAN_FALLBACK," which describes her as a backstop to a real-estate "virtual assistant," that masqueraded as a human handling the queries that confused it, in a bid to keep the customers from figuring out that they were engaging with a chatbot:

https://www.nplusonemag.com/issue-44/essays/human_fallback/

This is what makes investors and bosses slobber so hard for AI – a "productivity" boost that arises from taking away the bargaining power of workers so that they can be made to labor under worse conditions for less money. The efficiency gains of automation aren't just about using fewer workers to achieve the same output – it's about the fact that the workers you fire in this process can be used as a threat against the remaining workers: "Do your job and shut up or I'll fire you and give your job to one of your former colleagues who's now on the breadline."

This has been at the heart of labor fights over automation since the Industrial Revolution, when skilled textile workers took up the Luddite cause because their bosses wanted to fire them and replace them with child workers snatched from Napoleonic War orphanages:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/26/enochs-hammer/#thats-fronkonsteen

Textile automation wasn't just about producing more cloth – it was about producing cheaper, worse cloth. The new machines were so easy a child could use them, because that's who was using them – kidnapped war orphans. The adult textile workers the machines displaced weren't afraid of technology. Far from it! Weavers used the most advanced machinery of the day, and apprenticed for seven years to learn how to operate it. Luddites had the equivalent of a Masters in Engineering from MIT.

Weavers' guilds presented two problems for their bosses: first, they had enormous power, thanks to the extensive training required to operate their looms; and second, they used that power to regulate the quality of the goods they made. Even before the Industrial Revolution, weavers could have produced more cloth at lower prices by skimping on quality, but they refused, out of principle, because their work mattered to them.

Now, of course weavers also appreciated the value of their products, and understood that innovations that would allow them to increase their productivity and make more fabric at lower prices would be good for the world. They weren't snobs who thought that only the wealthy should go clothed. Weavers had continuously adopted numerous innovations, each of which increased the productivity and the quality of their wares.

Long before the Luddite uprising, weavers had petitioned factory owners and Parliament under the laws that guaranteed the guilds the right to oversee textile automation to ensure that it didn't come at the price of worker power or the quality of the textiles the machines produced. But the factory owners and their investors had captured Parliament, which ignored its own laws and did nothing as the "dark, Satanic mills" proliferated. Luddites only turned to property destruction after the system failed them.

Now, it's true that eventually, the machines improved and the fabric they turned out matched and exceeded the quality of the fabric that preceded the Industrial Revolution. But there's nothing about the way the Industrial Revolution unfolded – increasing the power of capital to pay workers less and treat them worse while flooding the market with inferior products – that was necessary or beneficial to that progress. Every other innovation in textile production up until that time had been undertaken with the cooperation of the guilds, who'd ensured that "progress" meant better lives for workers, better products for consumers, and lower prices. If the Luddites' demands for co-determination in the Industrial Revolution had been met, we might have gotten to the same world of superior products at lower costs, but without the immiseration of generations of workers, mass killings to suppress worker uprisings, and decades of defective products being foisted on the public.

So there are two stories about automation and labor: in the dominant narrative, workers are afraid of the automation that delivers benefits to all of us, stand in the way of progress, and get steamrollered for their own good, as well as ours. In the other narrative, workers are glad to have boring and dangerous parts of their work automated away and happy to produce more high-quality goods and services, and stand ready to assess and plan the rollout of new tools, and when workers object to automation, it's because they see automation being used to crush them and worsen the outputs they care about, at the expense of the customers they care for.

In modern automation/labor theory, this debate is framed in terms of "centaurs" (humans who are assisted by technology) and "reverse-centaurs" (humans who are conscripted to assist technology):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

There are plenty of workers who are excited at the thought of using AI tools to relieve them of some drudgework. To the extent that these workers have power over their bosses and their working conditions, that excitement might well be justified. I hear a lot from programmers who work on their own projects about how nice it is to have a kind of hypertrophied macro system that can generate and tweak little automated tools on the fly so the humans can focus on the real, chewy challenges. Those workers are the centaurs, and it's no wonder that they're excited about improved tooling.

But the reverse-centaur version is a lot darker. The reverse-centaur coder is an assistant to the AI, charged with being a "human in the loop" who reviews the material that the AI produces. This is a pretty terrible job to have.

For starters, the kinds of mistakes that AI coders make are the hardest mistakes for human reviewers to catch. That's because LLMs are statistical prediction machines, spicy autocomplete that works by ingesting and analyzing a vast corpus of written materials and then producing outputs that represent a series of plausible guesses about which words should follow one another. To the extent that the reality the AI is participating in is statistically smooth and predictable, AI can often make eerily good guesses at words that turn into sentences or code that slot well into that reality.

But where reality is lumpy and irregular, AI stumbles. AI is intrinsically conservative. As a statistically informed guessing program, it wants the future to be like the past:

https://reallifemag.com/the-apophenic-machine/

This means that AI coders stumble wherever the world contains rough patches and snags. Take "slopsquatting." For the most part, software libraries follow regular naming conventions. For example, there might be a series of text-handling libraries with names like "text.parsing.docx," "text.parsing.xml," and "text.parsing.markdown." But for some reason – maybe two different projects were merged, or maybe someone was just inattentive – there's also a library called "text.txt.parsing" (instead of "text.parsing.txt").

AI coders are doing inference based on statistical analysis, and anyone inferring what the .txt parsing library is called would guess, based on the other libraries, that it was "text.parsing.txt." And that's what the AI guesses, and so it tries to import that library to its software projects.

This creates a new security vulnerability, "slopsquatting," in which a malicious actor creates a library with the expected name, which replicates the functionality of the real library, but also contains malicious code:

https://www.theregister.com/2025/04/12/ai_code_suggestions_sabotage_supply_chain/

Note that slopsquatting errors are extremely hard to spot. As is typical with AI coding errors, these are errors that are based on continuing a historical pattern, which is the sort of thing our own brains do all the time (think of trying to go up a step that isn't there after climbing to the top of a staircase). Notably, these are very different from the errors that a beginning programmer whose work is being reviewed by a more senior coder might make. These are the very hardest errors for humans to spot, and these are the errors that AIs make the most, and they do so at machine speed:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/23/maximal-plausibility/#reverse-centaurs

To be a human in the loop for an AI coder, a programmer must engage in sustained, careful, line-by-line and command-by-command scrutiny of the code. This is the hardest kind of code to review, and maintaining robotic vigilance over long periods at high speeds is something humans are very bad at. Indeed, it's the kind of task we try very hard to automate, since machines are much better at being machineline than humans are. This is the essence of reverse-centaurism: when a human is expected to act like a machine in order to help the machine do something it can't do.

Humans routinely fail at spotting these errors, unsurprisingly. If the purpose of automation is to make superior goods at lower prices, then this would be a real concern, since a reverse-centaur coding arrangement is bound to produce code with lurking, pernicious, especially hard-to-spot bugs that present serious risks to users. But if the purpose of automation is to discipline labor – to force coders to accept worse conditions and pay – irrespective of the impact on quality, then AI is the perfect tool for the job. The point of the human isn't to catch the AI's errors so much as it is to catch the blame for the AI's errors – to be what Madeleine Clare Elish calls a "moral crumple zone":

https://estsjournal.org/index.php/ests/article/view/260

As has been the case since the Industrial Revolution, the project of automation isn't just about increasing productivity, it's about weakening labor power as a prelude to lowering quality. Take what's happened to the news industry, where mass layoffs are being offset by AI tools. At Hearst's King Features Syndicates, a single writer was charged with producing over 30 summer guides, the entire package:

https://www.404media.co/viral-ai-generated-summer-guide-printed-by-chicago-sun-times-was-made-by-magazine-giant-hearst/

That is an impossible task, which is why the writer turned to AI to do his homework, and then, infamously, published a "summer reading guide" that was full of nonexistent books that were hallucinated by a chatbot:

https://www.404media.co/chicago-sun-times-prints-ai-generated-summer-reading-list-with-books-that-dont-exist/

Most people reacted to this story as a consumer issue: they were outraged that the world was having a defective product foisted upon it. But the consumer issue here is downstream from the labor issue: when the writers at King Features Syndicate are turned into reverse-centaurs, they will inevitably produce defective outputs. The point of the worker – the "human in the loop" – isn't to supervise the AI, it's to take the blame for the AI. That's just what happened, as this poor schmuck absorbed an internet-sized rasher of shit flung his way by outraged social media users. After all, it was his byline on the story, not the chatbot's. He's the moral crumple-zone.

The implication of this is that consumers and workers are class allies in the automation wars. The point of using automation to weaken labor isn't just cheaper products – it's cheaper, defective products, inflicted on the unsuspecting and defenseless public who are no longer protected by workers' professionalism and pride in their jobs.

That's what's going on at Duolingo, where CEO Luis von Ahn created a firestorm by announcing mass firings of human language instructors, who would be replaced by AI. The "AI first" announcement pissed off Duolingo's workers, of course, but what caught von Ahn off-guard was how much this pissed off Duolingo's users:

https://tech.slashdot.org/story/25/05/25/0347239/duolingo-faces-massive-social-media-backlash-after-ai-first-comments

But of course, this makes perfect sense. After all, language-learners are literally incapable of spotting errors in the AI instruction they receive. If you spoke the language well enough to spot the AI's mistakes, you wouldn't need Duolingo! I don't doubt that there are countless ways in which AIs could benefit both language learners and the Duolingo workers who develop instructional materials, but for that to happen, workers' and learners' needs will have to be the focus of AI integration. Centaurs could produce great language learning materials with AI – but reverse-centaurs can only produce slop.

Unsurprisingly, many of the most successful AI products are "bossware" tools that let employers monitor and discipline workers who've been reverse-centaurized. Both blue-collar and white-collar workplaces have filled up with "electronic whips" that monitor and evaluate performance:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/02/despotism-on-demand/#virtual-whips

AI can give bosses "dashboards" that tell them which Amazon delivery drivers operate their vehicles with their mouths open (Amazon doesn't let its drivers sing on the job). Meanwhile, a German company called Celonis will sell your boss a kind of AI phrenology tool that assesses your "emotional quality" by spying on you while you work:

https://crackedlabs.org/en/data-work/publications/processmining-algomanage

Tech firms were among the first and most aggressive adopters of AI-based electronic whips. But these whips weren't used on coders – they were reserved for tech's vast blue-collar and contractor workforce: clickworkers, gig workers, warehouse workers, AI data-labelers and delivery drivers.

Tech bosses tormented these workers but pampered their coders. That wasn't out of any sentimental attachment to tech workers. Rather, tech bosses were afraid of tech workers, because tech workers possess a rare set of skills that can be harnessed by tech firms to produce gigantic returns. Tech workers have historically been princes of labor, able to command high salaries and deferential treatment from their bosses (think of the amazing tech "campus" perks), because their scarcity gave them power.

It's easy to predict how tech bosses would treat tech workers if they could get away with it – just look how they treat workers they aren't afraid of. Just like the textile mill owners of the Industrial Revolution, the thing that excites tech bosses about AI is the possibility of cutting off a group of powerful workers at the knees. After all, it took more than a century for strong labor unions to match the power that the pre-Industrial Revolution guilds had. If AI can crush the power of tech workers, it might buy tech bosses a century of free rein to shift value from their workforce to their investors, while also doing away with pesky Tron-pilled workers who believe they have a moral obligation to "fight for the user."

William Gibson famously wrote, "The future is here, it's just not evenly distributed." The workers that tech bosses don't fear are living in the future of the workers that tech bosses can't easily replace.

This week, the New York Times's veteran Amazon labor report Noam Scheiber published a deeply reported piece about the experience of coders at Amazon in the age of AI:

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/05/25/business/amazon-ai-coders.html

Amazon CEO Andy Jassy is palpably horny for AI coders, evidenced by investor memos boasting of AI's returns in "productivity and cost avoidance" and pronouncements about AI saving "the equivalent of 4,500 developer-years":

https://www.linkedin.com/posts/andy-jassy-8b1615_one-of-the-most-tedious-but-critical-tasks-activity-7232374162185461760-AdSz/

Amazon is among the most notorious abusers of blue-collar labor, the workplace where everyone who doesn't have a bullshit laptop job is expected to piss in a bottle and spend an unpaid hour before and after work going through a bag- and body-search. Amazon's blue-collar workers are under continuous, totalizing, judging AI scrutiny that scores them based on whether their eyeballs are correctly oriented, whether they take too long to pick up an object, whether they pee too often. Amazon warehouse workers are injured at three times national average. Amazon AIs scan social media for disgruntled workers talking about unions, and Amazon has another AI tool that predicts which shops and departments are most likely to want to unionize.

Scheiber's piece describes what it's like to be an Amazon tech worker who's getting the reverse-centaur treatment that has heretofore been reserved for warehouse workers and drivers. They describe "speedups" in which they are moved from writing code to reviewing AI code, their jobs transformed from solving chewy intellectual puzzles to racing to spot hard-to-find AI coding errors as a clock ticks down. Amazon bosses haven't ordered their tech workers to use AI, just raised their quotas to a level that can't be attained without getting an AI to do most of the work – just like the Chicago Sun-Times writer who was expected to write all 30 articles in the summer guide package on his own. No one made him use AI, but he wasn't going to produce 30 articles on deadline without a chatbot.

Amazon insists that it is treating AI as an assistant for its coders, but the actual working conditions make it clear that this is a reverse-centaur transformation. Scheiber discusses a dissident internal group at Amazon called Amazon Employees for Climate Justice, who link the company's use of AI to its carbon footprint. Beyond those climate concerns, these workers are treating AI as a labor issue.

Amazon's coders have been making tentative gestures of solidarity towards its blue-collar workforce since the pandemic broke out, walking out in support of striking warehouse workers (and getting fired for doing so):

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/14/abolish-silicon-valley/#hang-together-hang-separately

But those firings haven't deterred Amazon's tech workers from making common cause with their comrades on the shop floor:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/19/deastroturfing/#real-power

When techies describe their experience of AI, it sometimes sounds like they're describing two completely different realities – and that's because they are. For workers with power and control, automation turns them into centaurs, who get to use AI tools to improve their work-lives. For workers whose power is waning, AI is a tool for reverse-centaurism, an electronic whip that pushes them to work at superhuman speeds. And when they fail, these workers become "moral crumple zones," absorbing the blame for the defective products their bosses pushed out in order to goose profits.

As ever, what a technology does pales in comparison to who it does it for and who it does it to.

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/2025/05/27/rancid-vibe-coding/#class-war

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[dyna-clean01]

Sweeper Machine

A sweeper machine is not just a cleaning tool — it’s an essential part of modern facility maintenance, ensuring large areas remain clean, safe, and presentable with minimal manual effort. These machines are widely used across sectors such as manufacturing, logistics, commercial complexes, municipalities, and parking management. A ride-on sweeper machine is ideal for expansive areas like warehouses, industrial plants, and parking lots, offering maximum efficiency with operator comfort. For smaller or more congested spaces, walk-behind sweepers provide excellent maneuverability without compromising on cleaning power. Our range includes battery-operated sweepers and electric sweeper machines for environmentally sensitive zones, delivering low-noise, dust-free, and eco-friendly cleaning, perfect for indoor use or areas requiring quiet operation. For outdoor and heavy-duty jobs, diesel sweeper machines and road sweeping equipment offer unmatched power and durability. Whether you’re looking for a sweeper machine for warehouse operations, a sweeper for factory cleaning, or a commercial sweeper for public facilities, our solutions are available in various models, including 100 L and 200 L capacities to suit your cleaning scale. Each machine is designed as a high-efficiency sweeper, capable of removing fine dust, debris, and waste quickly and effectively, ensuring a cleaner, healthier environment. With robust build quality, intelligent features, and versatile performance, our industrial floor cleaning machines are your go-to solution for modern sweeping needs.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-six: distance

word count: 3.3k

warnings: this chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

twenty-five | twenty-six | twenty-seven

Lando didn’t need to think.

What he needed was movement.

Work—harder than ever, more ruthless, more efficient, and god help anyone who stood in his way. The weight of her arms around him, that moment of weakness—it couldn’t linger. Not in this world.

Because whatever that had been—whatever she was starting to mean to him—it was a weakness, a slow bleed in his armor. And in this world, a slow bleed was fatal.

So he compensated, overcorrected.

Within two days of returning from Brazil, he had doubled his hours at the warehouse, demanding updates from his suppliers and chemists with a level of scrutiny that bordered on manic. He started showing up to every quality control check himself, watching the men sweat under his gaze. Some of them cracked. Some of them bled.

He picked more fights. Took on riskier shipments. Approved operations that even Verstappen raised an eyebrow at.

When Carlos knocked on his office door late one night to ask if he was going home, Lando didn’t even look up from his screen. “Didn’t realize I paid you to ask stupid questions,” he said coolly. 

Carlos didn’t ask again.

The next morning, Lando was in the ring by six.

The gym was still dark when he unlocked the door himself. No music, no trainers, no echo of voices. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the steady thump of his own heartbeat, already too fast for how early it was.

He didn’t wrap his hands. Didn’t warm up.

He just went for the bag—let his knuckles split open on the leather, again and again and again. Raw, purpled arcs blooming beneath the skin—split open in one place where the wrap had come loose, the tape sticky with half-dried blood. It stung when he flexed his hand, but Lando welcomed it. 

Pain was clean. Simple. Honest in a way people never were.

It had been three days since the coffee, three days since her arms wrapped around his neck and made him feel like something other than a weapon.

He hadn't seen her since.

Instead, he buried himself in the only thing he knew how to trust: work. There were meetings now—double what he used to take. Late-night negotiations with men whose eyes darted too fast and hands trembled as they signed. More territory, more leverage. Deals struck with hard eyes and a gun under the table. Lando sat through it all like a statue, cold and unreadable, like the chair beneath him was a throne carved from bone.

Fewtrell was the first to notice, of course.

“You haven’t slept,” he muttered, after one particularly brutal morning, watching Lando wipe blood off his hands like it was nothing more than smudged ink. “And you’re bleeding again.”

Lando didn’t even look up. “It’s handled.”

Max didn’t argue. He knew better.

Because if Lando got like this—tight-lipped, volatile, spiraling inward like a storm—it meant someone had gotten too close. And Max had seen what happened to people who got too close.

The fights came next.

They existed with no purpose, no rules. There was just the sharp, metallic taste of adrenaline and the sound of fists meeting flesh in the underground ring he rarely visited these days—until now. There, under flickering fluorescent lights, sweat mixing with blood, Lando could forget and slip into something primitive. A machine of bone and instinct and rage.

He stopped pulling punches.

He didn’t stop until the man he fought stopped moving. Even then, it took two of his own men to pull him back, their voices distant over the ringing in his ears. His breath came in harsh, wet gasps, his shirt soaked through.

“Thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Max muttered after Lando took a particularly ugly hit to the jaw and spit blood into the sink like it owed him something.

“I am,” Lando said, jaw tight. “I’m just done pretending to be soft.”

And when he looked in the mirror in the locker room after—blood on his cheekbone, lip split open, eyes dark and hollow—he saw a ghost staring back.

Not her ghost. His own.

The boy who had slept in gutters and stolen fruit from markets. Who’d gone cold inside long before he learned how to make others afraid of him. Who once told himself he’d never need anyone again.

So why did it feel like something had gone missing the moment he walked away from her?

He’d spent too long feeling the afterburn of her hug—the way her arms had felt around his neck, the clean warmth of her skin, the easy trust in her body language that made something in him splinter. He hated that part. That human part. He thought he’d killed it off years ago, buried it beneath piles of money, blood, and the reputation he’d built out of nothing but brute force and raw intelligence.

But she had reached it. Worse—she had awakened it.

So now he had to kill it all over again.

One night, after leaving the ring with bloody hands and a bruise already blooming across his ribcage, he sat in the back seat of his car, staring out the window. The city was loud—horns, shouting, flashing neon light against the rain-slicked pavement—but all of it felt muted.

He thought of her again.

Of course he did.

He thought of her – not the hug, not the coffee, not the smile. No – what haunted him was the look in her eyes right after he said no.

That flicker of confusion, followed by the quick mask of understanding. The way she shrank back—not physically, not dramatically, but just enough. Like she realized she’d overstepped. Like she’d made a mistake thinking he was someone warm. Someone she could reach for.

She’s better off, he told himself, dragging a dark red smudge across his cheek. She’s better off bein’ away, better off not knowin’ what I really am.

Because the truth was, if she knew—if she saw him like this—she’d never look at him the same again. 

And maybe that was the point. If he couldn’t be touched, he couldn’t be hurt. If he kept himself cold, kept the world afraid, then nothing could break through again.

He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes, letting the ache settle into his bones.

At night, he didn’t sleep.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how it felt to have her fix his collar absentmindedly, to have her scold him for eating pastries before lunch, to hear her say she’d miss him.

He hadn’t even responded properly. Hadn’t said he’d miss her too, because he wasn’t supposed to.

She was light. He was built from soot and steel and ruin.

So he leaned into the ruin. Drowned in it. Let it take him under like it always had before. Let it remind him what he was made of.

Because if he let softness rot in his chest any longer, it would only get worse. And he couldn’t afford worse. Not in this line of work, not with this name. Not when people were always waiting to find his weakness—and use it to end him.

So he burned the part of himself that missed her.

Or at least, he tried. But the bracelet was still around his wrist, tight and handmade. And no matter how many times he tried to untie it, he never quite could.

He boxed until his knuckles split and his ribs ached, until his fists were slick with sweat and someone else’s blood. Until he couldn’t feel anything except the burn in his lungs and the pounding in his ears. Until he remembered who the fuck he was.

Lando took the pain like he deserved it.

He was colder, crueler. Faster to bark orders, slower to forgive mistakes. The men around him started noticing. They stopped making jokes around him, stopped asking if he’d eaten. Even Daniel, loyal and annoyingly perceptive, had gone quiet.

"You're running yourself into the ground, mate," Daniel finally muttered one night, leaning against the ropes of the ring as Lando stripped off his gloves, hands raw and red.

Lando didn’t even look at him. Just said, flatly, “Ground’s not deep enough.”

It wasn’t about her. He told himself that often. It wasn’t about missing the way she grinned at him when he brought her coffee, or how she’d made studying feel less like drowning. It wasn’t about the way she said his name like it wasn’t something to fear.

It was about control. About reminding himself that he didn’t need softness to survive.

But alone in the dark, shirt clinging to his back, jaw clenched so tight it ached—he wondered. If he wasn’t careful, would he even remember how to come back from this?

Would she still recognize him when he did?

Or worse—what if he didn’t come back at all?

Somewhere in the middle of all of it—between a broken tooth and a dislocated thumb—Daniel cornered him again in the backroom, fists clenched and voice low.

“You think this makes you stronger?” he growled. “You think turning yourself into a fuckin’ animal is gonna fix whatever’s wrong?”

Lando didn’t answer, just stared at himself in the cracked mirror. His face bruised, blood caked on his jaw, eyes gone hollow and dark. 

He looked like something dangerous. Something empty.

Good.

Daniel tried again. “You were doing better. A week ago, you—”

“Drop it.” Lando’s voice was a knife. Sharp, final.

And for once, Daniel did. 

Because it wasn’t grief they were dealing with, it wasn’t heartbreak. It was a man tearing out the piece of himself that could have one day known love—before it got him killed.

So Lando kept going – more jobs, more blood, more shadows.

Until the boy who’d smiled at fresh lemon biscuits didn’t exist anymore.

Monday morning came with a faint chill in the air, the kind that clung to her sleeves and nipped at her skin as she locked the apartment door behind her. Her boots hit the pavement with their usual rhythm, but her eyes—almost by reflex—glanced toward the curb.

His car wasn’t there.

The spot where Liam usually parked was… empty.

She hesitated, just for a second. Long enough for a frown to twitch at her mouth. Long enough to consider that perhaps she’d been looking forward to seeing him—though she hadn’t let herself think of it that way until now.

It was objectively a stupid thing to be upset about, she told herself. It wasn’t like they had a schedule. He didn’t owe her anything. She knew that.

There was no real schedule per say – no routine set in stone. But still… it had been there last Monday. And the one before that. And—if she was honest—most days she hadn’t even realized how much she’d started expecting him.

She shook it off and kept walking, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

It doesn’t mean anything.

He had a life. A busy one. She knew that. Important meetings, complicated logistics, probably jet lag from Brazil. Maybe the trip hadn’t gone well. Maybe something came up. Maybe he had the flu. Maybe he just—

Still, her footsteps felt slower as she walked past the spot. Still, she checked her phone—nothing. No text. No update.

Maybe he just forgot.

No. That didn’t sound like him. For all his strange hours and sharp edges, Liam didn’t forget things. He remembered tiny details she only mentioned once. He got her the exact brand of coffee she liked, for god’s sake. He noticed when she was too quiet, brought her pastries when she didn’t ask, made sure she always had a way home—even when she said she didn’t need one.

Maybe he’s just tired. Brazil was a long trip. Maybe he slept through his alarm. Maybe he’s busy, or catching up on work, or—

The list of maybes was longer than it should’ve been.

She forced herself to keep walking, ignoring the twist in her stomach that had no business being there. It was just a ride. Just coffee. Just a guy doing a favor.

That’s all it had ever been.

She sat through her morning classes, half-present, highlighting case law she’d have to re-read later. Her thoughts kept drifting—uninvited, unrelenting—back to him.

This whole drop-off and pickup thing had started months ago, after the string of weird feelings that she hadn’t quite been able to shake. Like someone was watching her, following her. Nothing solid, nothing provable, but just enough to put her on edge.

Back then, she’d been jumpy. Paranoid, maybe. She couldn’t explain it, not exactly—just that lingering feeling that someone had been watching her. Following her from across the street, lingering too long near her building. It was probably nothing, she’d told herself.

And then, things changed. Liam would just show up, leaning against the hood of his car like it was the most natural thing in the world, coffee in hand, eyes already on her. He would say something casual about “sketchy corners” and “shit lighting.” He would lie and say he was heading that way anyway.

And the funny thing? She hadn’t felt unsafe since.

She hadn’t asked questions. Something about his tone had made them unnecessary.

Since then, he’d been a steady, if unpredictable, presence. Not every morning—but enough. Enough that she noticed the difference today. Enough that she’d started associating his voice with the beginning of her day. His car, parked just slightly crooked. The quiet calm of his presence beside her, never demanding, never pushy—just there.

And now he… wasn’t.

She tried not to overthink it, but she did. Of course she did.

It could have been any of a thousand different things, right?

Maybe Brazil didn’t go well. Maybe the time zone shift was hitting him hard. Maybe he caught something on the flight back. Maybe he was swamped with work. Or maybe— 

Maybe she had crossed a line.

The thought crept in slowly, but it stuck, solid and uncomfortable.

She’d hugged him, without thinking and without asking.

Her stomach turned.

God, what if that was too much?

He hadn’t exactly pushed her away, but he hadn’t welcomed it either. He’d gone stiff in her arms, like he didn’t know what to do with the contact. And then he left. Fast, like he couldn’t get away quick enough.

She shouldn’t have assumed. Just because he bought her coffee. Just because he remembered the brand and hunted it down in a foreign country. Just because he stood in her doorway like he wanted to be there.

Liam was...busy. He was a businessman. He moved through life with detachment, calm and unreadable. He probably did this for lots of people. She was just another name on a long list of good intentions.

Still, the quiet this morning had felt louder than it should’ve. His absence clung to the edges of her day like smoke. It trailed her through campus, followed her into the library, haunted the space in the corner that night when she closed up at Books & Brews.

She hated how much she noticed.

They didn’t text much. Instead of making any real conversation, she’d just send him little things. 

A picture of a dog in a tiny raincoat on her walk to class. A blurry photo of latte art she’d been practicing, captioned don’t laugh. A random quote from a book she thought he’d like, even though she knew he’d probably roll his eyes and skim it at best.

Nothing heavy, and certainly nothing that demanded an answer. Just enough to keep a line between them—thin but steady.

But then, she saw him.

She was on her lunch break, standing in line at the corner market by the office, when she glanced through the fogged-up window and caught a familiar profile by the far register. She knew that posture. Even from a distance, she could recognize the casual indifference, the way he held himself like nothing in the world could touch him.

Liam.

There he was, dressed in a sharp coat, collar turned up, half a scowl pressed into his jaw like it had been carved there.

Her eyes dropped to the cup in his hand. Paper, stamped with the logo of his old café. Not the familiar emblem of Books & Brews. Not the little tucked-away place with the fresh cinnamon buns he had pretended not to like and then ordered three days in a row. Back to the place he used to swear tasted like “burnt incompetence.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But god, it did.

He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t explained this new distance, hadn’t replied to her last few messages except for a thumbs-up and a vague “lol.” No more wry comments or late-night one-liners. No more smirking emojis that didn’t match his tone but always somehow made her smile anyway.

And now—he was back at the café he’d once claimed to hate. Like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t happened.

She stepped out of line and left the store without buying anything.

She stopped texting after that.

Not all at once. It was a slow fade, the kind that almost didn’t hurt until you realized it had already disappeared.

No more pictures of dogs. No more awkward selfies with whipped cream on her nose. No more texts saying, this book made me think of you, don’t ask why. 

Just... silence.

Lando’s mornings got quieter. His phone stayed dry, empty but for meeting reminders and business alerts. No dumb memes at 2AM. No pink hearts next to her name lighting up his lock screen like it meant something.

It pissed him off more than it should’ve.

Wasn’t this what he fucking wanted?

He’d made the choice. He’d stepped back. He’d pulled the plug before it could get messy—before she could start expecting things from him that he didn’t know how to give.

So why the hell did his car still smell like her perfume?

“She ghost you?” Fewtrell asked casually, leaning against the doorframe of Lando’s office, sipping on a drink he hadn’t paid for.

Carlos looked up from the couch where he was half-asleep. “Did you finally scare her off?” “‘Bout time,” Daniel added from the armchair, flipping a stress ball in one hand. “We were beginning to think you had a soft spot.”

Lando didn’t look up from his laptop, jaw tight. “I’m busy.”

“Busy being miserable?” Verstappen quipped. “Mate, your car still smells like a goddamn rose garden. Not exactly inconspicuous.”

“Seriously,” Carlos chimed in. “You used to smell like leather and rage. What happened?”

“Shut up.”

“Come on,” Daniel said, pushing. “You think we haven’t noticed? You vanish for hours at a time. You smile at your phone like a bloody idiot. And then all of a sudden you’re picking fights with everyone. Even your punching bag looks scared.”

Lando’s eyes flicked up, cold. “Drop. it.”

“Look, I don’t care who she is,” Max said, his tone softening slightly, “but if she made you less of a dick, I kinda liked her.”

That got a muscle ticking in Lando’s jaw. He stood up, abruptly enough that the chair screeched. 

“She’s not your business!” he bellowed, heading for the door. “None of this is.”

“Then why’re you acting like you lost something?” Daniel mumbled after him.

The room was empty by then, but Daniel said what everyone was thinking anyway.

“You’re the one who let go.”

Logan’s voice cut through the radio later that week, giving an update on her security detail. Something about her late-night shift. The building entrance. A guy lingering too long near the stairwell.

Lando snapped the button to put the call through.

"She doesn’t need you anymore," he said flatly.

Logan paused. "...Sir?"

“She’s off the list. Effective immediately.”

And just like that, he cut the thread.

But sometimes, late at night, he still felt it—tight in his chest, like something he couldn’t un-pull. Something he’d let go of, only to realize too late that it might have been the very thing holding him together.

a/n: this one is my offering, especially dedicated to @oscobabe and @eclipsedcherry, whose every comment and ask makes me excited to post each chapter.

i hope u like it :)

and as always, please lmk what you think! i love hearing what y'all have to say

[naxalbari1967]

How did the Inca Empire function without money? 

Books I'm referencing here are 1491: The Americas Before Columbus by Charles C Mann, and The Last Days of the Incas by Kim MacQuarrie.

The latter goes into more detail of how the Inca Empire functioned as it operates as a chronicle of the Spanish Conquest of what would later be known as Peru by Francisco Pizarro. In essence, the Inca Empire didn't have a large amount of free, internal trade as we would understand it in European cultures.

In the Inca society, all lands belonged to the Inca and were used with his permission. The structure was fairly typical of feudalism, with a strongly defined hierarchy from the Inca down through increasingly regional Chiefs, to the populace.

The Inca tithe system operated purely on labour. A typical household would have a quota of three months per year in labour for the state. This was considered to be service directly to the Inca, and is also where tribute comes from.

This work might have been to fabricate Vicunya garments for the Inca, it may have been for building roads or bridges, serving in the military, or making weapons. The tribute would be distributed to local warehouses, where it would then be distributed to where it needed to be. It might be that llama wool was woven into nets in one area, to be eventually moved across to a coastal city for use in fishing. The fabricator typically wouldn't leave their home further than the local warehouse to deposit these goods. (Unless they were called to serve somewhere specifically, like a construction project or military campaign.)

This system was incredibly efficient. Numerous Conquistador accounts note warehouses piled high with goods, as the Empire tended to overproduce materials under this system. It also gave incredible resilience to food supplies, allowing a 2000 mile long empire of ten million people to operate for 90 years apparently without a single major famine.

Communication was also quite sophisticated. Runners called Chaski would operate in relay. Apparently this allowed a message from Cajamarca to reach Cusco, a distance of 1100 miles over mountainous terrain, in only five days. Atahualpa was able to operate his empire in captivity entirely through these runners, organising literal tonnes of gold and silver to be delivered across to Cajamarca within the span of months. It was also difficult to intercept the messages, as there was no writing. One would have to capture the Chaski himself and get the message from them. Serving as a Chaski was also a labour tithe option.

This also means, however, that the message dies with the Chaski. The Spanish used this to terrifying effect as their horses could cover ground far faster, and thus Chaski struggled to get the message out about the initial invasion. The fact that the Inca was the nexus of all these communications was also a key weak point. The capture of Atahualpa at Cajamarca by Pizarro completely stalled the empire until he was able to negotiate resuming his duties, in exchange for gathering gold and silver for the Conquistadors.

[bloodandiron-if]

How would the ROs react if, during a fight, m looked at them SO fondly and decided to confess right in the middle of the action??

- - -

⚠️ EXTREMELY LONG CONTENT INCOMING ⚠️

- - -

OPERATIVE D-6

The alley is soaked in red. Brick walls on either side echo every impact—the dull thud of fists, the crunch of boots, the hiss of a blade slicing air.

You’re fighting back-to-back with D-6, the two of you flanked by a group of men you’ve been tracking. No room for error. No time to talk. And yet—

D-6 moves like shadow incarnate. Efficient, brutal, wordless. They don’t waste energy on flourish, don’t grunt or shout like the others. Just inhale, exhale, react. Every movement is calculated—until you catch a glimpse of their face.

Blood trailing down their temple. Eyes sharp, scanning every angle. Then for a split second—your eyes meet.

You’re not sure why it happens. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. The way your ribcage feels too tight. The way they always move closer when you’re hurt, even when they swear they don't care. But the thought breaks loose in your chest and won’t go back in.

You look at them again, mouth bloodied, arm trembling from a deep gash—and you smile.

Not a smirk. Not a challenge.

A real smile. Soft. Fond. A warmth they haven’t seen from you in years—if ever.

“I’m in love with you, Dee.”

It’s quiet. Almost lost in the chaos around you. But it hits like a bullet.

D-6 stops. Just enough to matter.

Their blade catches the arm of an incoming attacker but doesn’t swing right away. You see the brief hesitation—the shake of their shoulders, like someone tried to reboot them mid-mission.

They turn toward you, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen. Shocked. Unreadable. Something fragile and dangerous flickering in the silence between you.

Another guard lunges. You don’t even flinch—D-6 is already on them, intercepting the hit, feral in how fast they react.

But it’s different now.

There’s something raw in the way they fight. Not cleaner. Not calmer. Messier, like they can’t focus. Like your words took out some crucial wire and now they’re glitching through the rhythm. Their hands tremble after each kill. Their shoulders twitch like they’re fighting the urge to look at you again.

When the last one falls, you’re both bleeding. Breathing hard. Leaning against the alley wall, barely upright.

D-6 looks at you.

Really looks. Then steps closer.

You expect a nod. A punch. Maybe one of those rare glances that says “don’t do that again.”

Instead?

They press their forehead to yours. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel how cold their skin is. How tightly wound they really are beneath the surface.

They don’t say anything. They can’t. But their hands hover—fists at their sides like they don’t trust them not to reach for you.

You feel the unspoken words between you:

“Why would you say that?”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t know what to do with this.”

And somewhere deep beneath it:

“Say it again.”

- - -

DETECTIVE JUNO REYES

The warehouse stinks of old copper and gunpowder. Light flickers from a broken overhead bulb, casting everything in a twitching yellow strobe. You and Juno move through the shadows like twin blades—clean, fast, coordinated from far too many nights tracking this particular crew.

They’ve been smuggling bodies through the meatpacking district for months now—victims with their organs carved out like butchered cattle. It’s not your first joint mission. Won’t be your last.

But tonight, something feels different.

The air is thick. Heavy with dust and sweat and something sharper underneath. You’re ducking behind a rusted conveyor belt when you hear the crack of gunfire—too close.

Juno’s already there, stepping in front of you, pulling you back with a growl. “Keep your damn head down.”

You want to bite back with something sharp—something that’ll make them flinch—but the words die in your throat the second you look at them.

Blood speckled across their cheekbone. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. Their body coiled like a spring even after the last shot's been fired.

They move like a force of nature. Controlled, steady, brutal when they have to be. You’ve seen Juno at their worst. They’ve seen you at yours.

And still, they’re here.

Still keeping you alive.

You’re both pinned in a choke point now—five armed men fanning out, pushing forward. You toss a flashbang to the left, Juno fires to the right, and in the storm that follows, something strange takes root in your chest.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Or the way your arm burns from a graze you didn’t register until just now. Or maybe it’s just the way Juno shouted your name like it mattered.

But the words hit your tongue before you can stop them.

You lean in close as you reload, breath ragged, voice low.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Juno freezes. Their hand drops halfway to their holster. The magazine clatters to the floor.

“What?”

You don’t repeat it. Just keep your eyes on theirs. Let it hang there in the heat and chaos, as bodies close in from every side.

And then—they snap back.

No words. Just movement.

They’re more violent now. Less precise. Every blow has weight behind it, like they’re exorcising something. Every time someone gets too close to you, they’re there—blocking, intercepting, protecting. It's reckless. Uncharacteristic. You’ve never seen them fight like this.

And maybe that’s what terrifies you.

When the last man drops, groaning and bleeding onto the concrete, the silence roars between you.

You lean against a pillar. Juno’s still standing, chest heaving. Eyes wide and unreadable.

“Say it again,” they murmur, voice rough from shouting, from shock, from… something else.

You blink. “What?”

Their gaze cuts to yours. “Say it again.”

You do.

They don’t move for a long time. Then—slowly—they cross the space between you. Not to grab you. Not to yell. Just to be closer.

Their forehead drops against yours, their palm finds your wrist, and the warehouse fades around you for one suspended second.

“You can’t say shit like that in the middle of a firefight,” they whisper. But their voice is trembling. “You can’t just—drop something like that and expect me to keep it together.”

They pull back just enough to look at you. Eyes soft now. Conflicted. Open.

And then, the smallest smirk, cracked at the edges.

“You’re a goddamn menace.”

But they don’t let go.

And you don’t want them to.

- - -

NICO/NIA RUSSO

The fight is chaos.

Of course it is.

It’s South Side chaos. Rusted fences, blown-out floodlights, and a chain of abandoned warehouses that smell like gasoline and guilt. The kind of place people disappear into, but don’t come out of.

You’ve been tracking this crew for week now, hoping to take them alone as always—but Russo had forced you to bring them along, and wasn’t taking no for an answer.

The group is splintered—with too many guns and too many debts. You’d been moving silently, inching your way through shadows and metal stairs—until someone tripped an alarm, and now everything's gone loud.

You’re flanked, ducking behind a stack of rotted pallets. Russo’s just ahead, crouched low behind a rusted sedan that still smells faintly like blood.

Gunfire pops. Muffled screams. The glint of steel in the dark.

Russo curses under their breath, fires two clean shots, and slides over the hood of the car like they were born in a damn movie. They land next to you with a scowl, winded but electric with adrenaline.

“You good?” they rasp, not quite looking at you. “You better be.”

You nod. Lie. You’re bleeding from somewhere, but it doesn’t matter.

Their eyes finally meet yours.

There’s dirt smudged on their jaw, a cut on their lower lip. That ridiculous piercing still gleaming under the weak light. Russo looks like hell—but they always look good when they’re angry.

You should focus. Should reload. Should plan your next move.

But instead, you’re looking at them.

Really looking. And it just… slips out.

“Hey, Russo,” you murmur, blood in your mouth, smile soft and stupid.

“What?” They glance over, impatient. “We’re a little busy, genius.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

And then—

“The f**k did you just say?” They whip their head toward you, voice sharp enough to cut. “Are you—? No. Nope. Say that again. I dare you.”

You grin, half delirious, maybe. “I said I’m in love with you.”

It hits them like a misfired round.

Russo doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Their jaw works through some invisible argument, eyes scanning your face like they’re waiting for the punchline. But there isn’t one. Not this time.

“…You’re out of your goddamn mind,” they mutter.

And then?

They lunge.

Not at you. At the guy trying to sneak up behind you with a pipe. Russo takes him down like they’re possessed—grabs the guy by the collar and slams him into the concrete hard enough that the wet crunch makes your ribs ache in sympathy.

“You don’t get to say s**t like that,” they growl through gritted teeth, barely breathing. “Not while we’re in the middle of a gunfight.”

Another attacker runs up. Russo spins and throws a punch so clean it drops the man in one hit.

You lean back against the wall, stunned. Watching Russo unravel with every swing.

They’re reckless now. Not sloppy, but aggressive. Emotional. Like your words untethered something they were trying so hard to keep hidden. Like if they fight hard enough, they won’t have to admit they felt it too.

When the last man goes down, Russo stands there—chest heaving, eyes wild.

They turn back toward you. A beat passes.

“I’m gonna pretend you said that ‘cause you were bleeding out or had a concussion,” they say, voice cracking just a little. “And you’re gonna let me do that, yeah?”

You don’t answer.

Just watch as they step closer. Closer still.

Russo doesn’t kiss you.

But their hand brushes your shoulder as they move past, fingers curling like they want to hold on—then flattening into a fist at their side.

They mutter it so quietly, you almost miss it.

“Say it again when we’re not about to die.”

And then they’re gone, already storming toward the next building.

But their ears are red. And they don’t look back.

- - -

KIERAN/KIERA MYLES

You’re inside a mansion.

No—more like a rotting palace pretending it still matters. Cracked marble, columns held up by duct tape and delusion. The kind of place that used to host gala nights and governor handshakes, now stripped to its bones and taken over by men with hollow eyes and expensive guns.

You’re not supposed to be here. But neither is Myles.

You hadn’t planned it, but your leads crossed. A sting operation gone crooked. Surveillance cameras looping the wrong feeds. Now it’s just the two of you, ducking behind shattered statues and torn velvet curtains, fighting to stay one breath ahead of the crew you’ve both been hunting for months.

Glass shatters as someone fires from above.

Myles yanks you down, back colliding with theirs. You’re both crouched behind a pillar that’s already half-gone. Their voice is calm, but their breath hits your neck.

"You're bleeding."

You glance down. Shoulder wound. Deep, but not lethal. You’ll live.

You chuckle. "So are you."

Myles says nothing.

There’s smoke in the air. Dust. Gunpowder. The scent of their cologne still clinging to their coat, sharp and clean, like they planned for this moment even if they’ll never admit it.

They reload. You press a hand to your wound.

And then, for no reason at all—maybe because the world feels too loud, or maybe because Myles has this look like they’ll disappear the second it’s over—you speak.

"I’m in love with you, Myles."

It’s too soft.

Too honest.

You don’t know why you said it now, of all times. But the words are out there. Between the gunshots and the sirens and the flicker of failing chandeliers.

Myles freezes.

Just a breath. Just enough to register the blow.

They glance over their shoulder at you, eyes sharp as razors, lips parting—but no sound comes out. You’ve seen Myles composed during interrogations, smirking during firefights, unbothered while being hunted by half the city.

But this?

This cracks something in them.

"You're joking," they murmur, voice low. But there’s a flicker. Not amusement. Not disbelief. Something closer to fear.

You shake your head.

"I'm not."

Their stare could cauterize. Could kill. But it doesn’t.

They look away first.

Myles stands, gun drawn, movements stiff and precise like their entire system had to reboot. They fire at the men rounding the stairwell, three clean shots that send bodies toppling. But it’s different now.

Every twitch of their jaw. Every step they take.

They’re unraveling.

You follow, shoulder screaming with each breath. You reach the landing as Myles takes down another man with a brutal, sweeping blow—elegant and feral all at once. Their coat flares behind them like they planned for the dramatics.

They didn’t.

They’re rattled.

And when the last enemy falls, when it’s just the two of you again under the ruined glass dome, Myles turns.

Not their usual stance. No calculated poise. Just a person trying to hold themselves together with silk threads and pride.

"You don’t get to say things like that when I’m this exposed," they whisper. "That’s cruel."

You take a step closer.

Myles doesn’t move.

"It’s not a tactic," you murmur.

They laugh, quietly. It doesn’t reach their eyes.

Then—slowly—Myles steps forward. Closer than they should. Their gloved hand rises like they might touch you, but stops just shy of your cheek.

Their eyes search yours. Not with suspicion. Not even with caution.

With longing.

"You do realize I could get addicted to you, right?" they say, voice raw.

You nod, lips barely parted. "Yeah. I think I already am."

They don’t kiss you. That’s not how Myles works.

But they lean in.

And their breath brushes your ear like a secret, a sin, a promise.

Then they're gone—coat whipping behind them, rage and wonder knotted in their spine. But they don’t look back.

They don’t have to.

- - -

ALEX/ALEXI MONROE

It’s chaos.

Pure chaos.

The kind that tastes like copper and burns the back of your throat. Somewhere outside, a car alarm is shrieking. Inside the half-demolished apartment complex, you and Monroe are trapped in what used to be a laundry room, now nothing but rubble and steam. The tiles are cracked. The walls are damp with burst pipes and dirty rainwater.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

You were tailing one of the lower enforcers. Just watching. Just gathering intel. And then everything exploded—literally. A pipe bomb in the stairwell. Reinforcements swarming faster than either of you expected.

Now you’re fighting side by side, hearts pounding, soaked to the bone in heat and fury.

Monroe isn’t trained like you are.

But they’re quick. Smart. Desperate, in the way people get when they’re terrified and trying to protect someone else.

You.

They shove someone back with a rusted broom handle, breath ragged, foot slipping on the wet tile. You close the gap before the second attacker can swing—slam your elbow into his throat, feel the crunch, push him down and keep moving.

Monroe grabs your arm. Their voice is tight.

"You good?"

You nod. Blood’s running down your temple. Your lungs ache. But that’s not what gets to you.

It’s them.

The panic behind their eyes. The way they haven’t left your side even when they could’ve ran. The way they glance at you between every punch like they’re checking if you’re still breathing. Still here.

You don’t mean to say it. You don’t plan it.

But between the noise and the fists and the flickering fluorescent lights, it just spills out.

"I’m in love with you, Monroe."

Their head snaps toward you.

The world blurs. Slows.

Monroe stares like you hit them. Not physically—but somewhere worse. Their mouth parts slightly. Eyes wide. You think they stop breathing for a second.

"You—" Their voice breaks. They blink fast, like trying to erase what they just heard.

Another man swings at them from behind.

You intercept it, driving your fist into his solar plexus, then again, and again until he drops. You’re panting, vision starting to swim. You wipe the blood from your face with the back of your hand and look at them again.

"I said what I said."

Monroe drops the broom handle.

Their whole chest rises like they’ve just remembered how to inhale. Then they take a shaky step forward, close enough that you feel the warmth coming off them, even in this icy wet mess of a room.

"You really mean that?" they whisper.

You nod.

Monroe swallows hard.

"That’s..." They shake their head, overwhelmed. They reach out like they’re going to touch you, but their fingers hover—trembling. They pull back.

"This is the worst possible time for you to say something like that."

"I know."

"And still..."

They don’t finish. They can’t.

Instead, Monroe leans in. Not to kiss you. Just to rest their forehead against your shoulder. A quiet moment in the middle of ruin. Their breath shudders against your collarbone. Their fists clench and unclench at their sides like they’re trying not to fall apart.

You stand there, both of you bleeding, shaking, surrounded by steam and broken pipes.

And they whisper it into your shirt like a confession they don’t know how to live with.

"I think I’m in love with you too…”

- - -

ROWAN/RHEA CARTER

It’s a warzone.

Or close enough to it. Burned-out cars smolder in the alley behind you, still hissing smoke. The cracked pavement beneath your boots is wet with something that isn’t just rain. Sirens echo somewhere, far enough away to ignore. Close enough to feel like a warning.

You and Carter have been tracking this cell for weeks. One of the syndicate’s nastier arms—ideologues and black-market butchers with a penchant for “cleansing.” You were supposed to hit them before they moved the shipment. In. Out. Done.

But they were ready for you.

Now, you and Carter are fighting through what used to be a parking structure, half-collapsed, scattered with debris and broken steel. You move in rhythm. Strikes traded without words. One breath apart from each other, backs nearly touching.

And Carter—Carter is brutal.

When they fight, it’s not graceful. It’s furious. Efficient in the way someone becomes when they’ve lost too many people already.

There’s no room for error, no patience for show. Just fists, blood, and a righteous kind of rage. Like the world wronged them personally and they’re still collecting receipts.

You duck a swing, pivot behind the attacker and bring them down. Carter kicks another through a rusted railing—no hesitation, no wasted motion.

And yet… you catch them glance at you.

Just for a second. But it’s enough.

The way their brow furrows when they see you bleeding. The way they keep shifting toward your side when they don’t have to. It’s not tactical.

It’s protective.

And maybe that’s what does it.

The crack inside you that’s been waiting to split. The words you’ve been holding like broken glass in your throat. You don’t know why they come now—maybe because everything hurts. Maybe because Carter moves like the world is ending and you want to believe in something else, even for just a breath.

So when the last two attackers go down and there’s a heartbeat of silence in the dark—

You say it.

Soft. Grounded. Real.

“I’m in love with you, Carter.”

They freeze.

Completely.

Their hands lower. Their chest rises and falls, fast. Like someone trying to slow their heart with fury alone. They don’t even look at you—not at first. Just stare ahead at the shadows, like maybe they misheard. Or maybe if they ignore it, it won’t be true.

But you don’t move. Don’t flinch. Just watch them.

And when they finally turn to face you—oh.

It’s like looking at a storm that wants to hold something.

Their jaw is clenched tight. Eyes darker than usual. Burning in a way that has nothing to do with rage and everything to do with fear. Hope. Grief

"You shouldn’t say that."

You don’t respond.

They take a step closer, soaked in sweat and bruises and blood that might not all be theirs. Their voice drops—low, sharp, trembling.

"You don’t get to say that now. Not when I’ve spent every second trying not to feel anything. Not when you’re bleeding. Not when we still have a job to finish."

Another step.

"Because if you say that..." Their breath catches. "If you say it again, I’m not gonna be able to pretend I don’t feel the same."

The silence swells. Tight. Hot. Barely contained.

And then Carter reaches out—not rough, not demanding. Just... steady. Their hand brushes your arm like they’re anchoring themselves to something real.

"Say it again," they whisper.

"Say it like you mean it."

And you do.

You say it again, and this time Carter doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t fight it.

They just nod, once—and step forward into the wreckage, into the danger still ahead, with you at their side.

Because now? There’s something worth surviving for.

[reiding-writing]

SCREAM AT THE ABYSS — SPENCER REID!

after being kidnapped because of your involvement in the case, spencer and the team rushes to shut down the operation as quickly as possible.

s1!spencer x fem!reader | mystery | 4.0k | event masterlist.

main masterlist.

| part one. | part two. | part three. |

a/n — happy? ending? maybe? uh… idk bro

The van’s doors slam shut with a cold finality, the sound echoing in your mind like a death knell.

The air inside is thick, musty, and suffocating, and your heart hammers in your chest as you struggle against the hands pinning you down.

Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, muffled by the rough cloth they’ve tied over your mouth. The floor of the van is cold, hard, and your skin scrapes against the metal as you writhe, trying to free yourself. But the grip on you is unyielding.

The men say nothing, their movements precise and practiced. It’s terrifying in its efficiency, how quickly they’ve taken control. You try to scream, to shout Spencer’s name, but your voice is swallowed by the cloth gag and the darkness.

The van jerks forward, and you’re thrown back against the wall, your head pounding as the vehicle accelerates through the night.

Time blurs, the minutes stretching into an eternity. The sound of the engine and the steady hum of the tires are the only things you can focus on, grounding you as your thoughts race. How did they manage to grab you? The club was literally crawling with police. Where were they taking you? Did anyone notice that you disappeared? The questions pile up in your mind, each one more frantic than the last.

You force yourself to calm down, to breathe through the panic that’s clawing at your throat. You can’t lose control. Not now. You try to remember everything you’ve learned—everything you and Spencer uncovered. The missing girls, the disappearances, the trafficking ring. It’s all connected. You are now part of that connection.

The realisation hits you hard: you’re not just chasing the truth anymore—you’ve become its prey.

The van lurches to a stop after what feels like hours. Your heart leaps into your throat as you hear the doors swing open, the crunch of gravel under heavy boots. The hands tighten around your arms, dragging you roughly toward the exit.

Your body resists, instinctively fighting, but it’s useless. They haul you out of the van and onto your feet, the blindfold over your eyes making it impossible to see where you are.

You can hear distant voices now—faint murmurs of conversation, some in a language you don’t understand. There’s a sickening sense of organisation to it all, like this is something they’ve done a hundred times before. You’re pulled forward, the sound of a heavy door creaking open, and the air shifts as you’re led inside.

The smell hits you first—damp, metallic, and faintly chemical, like rust and bleach mingling in the stale air. You try to make sense of your surroundings, but everything feels disjointed, your senses heightened but useless without your sight. The blindfold is ripped off, and the dim light of the room stings your eyes.

It’s a warehouse. Or at least, something like it. The walls are gray, lined with stacks of crates and industrial equipment. There are a few flickering overhead lights, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Your stomach churns as you notice the small cages along one side of the room. Empty now, but too small for anything other than a person.

There’s a man standing in front of you, older than the others, his presence commanding in a way that sends a cold shiver down your spine. His suit is pristine, his demeanor too calm for the circumstances. He steps forward, appraising you like a piece of merchandise.

“You’ve been poking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he says, his voice low and smooth, as if this is all just a game to him. “We don’t take kindly to curious minds like yours.”

You feel the bile rise in your throat, but you hold his gaze. Despite the fear gnawing at your insides, you refuse to look away. “What do you want from me?” The words come out muffled, but the venom is clear in your tone.

He smirks, a slow, predatory expression. “It’s not what we want from you. It’s what we want with you.” He gestures to the cages, the darkened corners of the warehouse where shadows shift and other captives might be hidden. “You see, girls like you are quite valuable. Especially when they know too much.”

The weight of his words crashes down on you, and suddenly, the stories you and Spencer uncovered—the whispered rumours, the reports of girls vanishing into thin air—become horrifyingly real. This isn’t just a trafficking ring; it’s a machine, a well-oiled operation designed to exploit the most vulnerable. And now, they’ve pulled you into their web.

The man’s eyes narrow. “You’re not the first to think you can expose us. But you might be the last if you’re smart.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You have no idea how deep this goes. We own people—law enforcement, officials, you think your amateur investigation will protect you? You can’t touch us.”

You feel cold all over, the enormity of what he’s saying sinking in. They’re bigger than anything you’ve imagined, and the people you thought you could trust may be compromised.

One of the men standing beside you moves toward a nearby table, grabbing something—a syringe. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline flooding your system as you realise what’s about to happen.

You thrash again, the blind panic finally setting in, but the hands pinning you are too strong. They hold you down as the needle pierces your skin, the sharp sting quickly dulling as something cold spreads through your veins.

Your vision blurs, the room around you beginning to fade, but you hear the man’s voice one last time, as distant and cruel as the darkness closing in.

“Welcome to the market.”

The world tilts, and then everything goes black.

—

When you wake, you’re lying on a cold floor, the taste of blood sharp in your mouth. Your wrists are bound, and you’re in a different part of the warehouse, the dim light casting long, eerie shadows in its corners. The sounds around you are different now—muffled voices, footsteps echoing on metal stairs, the distant hum of a generator.

Your body feels heavy, sluggish, whatever they injected you with still coursing through your system. Panic threatens to overwhelm you, but you force yourself to focus. Stay calm. Think. You scan the room, your heart pounding as you see other girls huddled in the corners, some barely conscious, others staring blankly ahead.

This is what Charli went through. This is what all of them went through. And now, you're trapped in the very nightmare you were trying to stop.

But somewhere out there, Spencer is still looking for you, he has to be. And if you can hold on—just a little longer—maybe you’ll find a way out before you disappear for good.

—

You don’t know how long you’ve been in the warehouse. The minutes blur into hours, the cold seeping into your bones. You drift in and out of consciousness, each time waking to the same gray walls and the quiet murmurs of the other captives.

There’s no sense of time, no way to gauge how long you’ve been held or if anyone is coming for you. Your thoughts grow darker with each passing moment, and for the first time, a terrible possibility creeps into your mind—what if no one ever finds you?

Then, one night, everything changes.

You’re startled awake by a series of loud crashes, followed by shouting and the unmistakable sound of gunfire. The entire warehouse erupts into chaos—men yelling, doors slamming, the heavy thud of boots on concrete.

The other captives stir around you, eyes wide with confusion and fear, but none of them move. Everyone is too frightened, too broken, to hope for rescue.

Your heart races as the door to your cell flies open, and for a terrifying second, you think it’s one of them coming to take you. But it’s not. It’s Spencer.

He looks disheveled, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, but his eyes lock onto yours with a fierce determination. Relief washes over you, overwhelming and disorienting, but you can barely process it as he rushes to untie your hands. "It’s okay," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "You’re safe now. We’re getting you out of here."

Your mind struggles to catch up with what’s happening. You’re safe. The words don’t seem real, not after the nightmare you’ve endured. But then Spencer is pulling you to your feet, his arm around your waist as he helps you stumble toward the exit. “You’re okay, I’ve got you,”

All around you, agents from the BAU and local law enforcement swarm the building, subduing the traffickers, rounding up the men who took you. The sting operation has finally come to fruition, and the trafficking ring is being torn apart.

But the price of that success hits hard as you step out into the night air, your legs trembling beneath you.

In the days that follow, the weight of what happened doesn’t lift. It sits heavy on your chest, even as you’re surrounded by people trying to reassure you, to tell you that you’re safe now, that it’s all behind you.

The arrests make headlines: dozens of men involved in the trafficking ring, including high-profile figures in the D.C area, are taken down. The news calls it a victory for the BAU and law enforcement. They call it justice.

But it doesn’t feel like justice.

Not when the trauma lingers like an open wound, raw and festering beneath the surface. You sit in the hospital room, staring at the IV in your arm, but all you can think about is the warehouse. The cold concrete. The cages. The girls who weren’t so lucky.

Spencer comes to see you every day, though you don’t say much. He sits in the chair beside your bed, his eyes full of worry, as if he’s searching for the right thing to say but knows that nothing will fix it.

He saved you, but you can see the guilt weighing on him, the same questions gnawing at him that haunt you: How many girls did they miss? How long had this been going on? Why didn’t anyone notice sooner?

“You don’t have to talk,” he says one afternoon, breaking the silence. His voice is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, a weariness that mirrors your own. “But when you’re ready… I’ll be here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

You want to respond, but the words don’t come. You’re trapped in the in-between—relieved that you’re out of that hell, but shattered by the memory of it, by what you witnessed, by how close you came to disappearing completely.

—

The days stretch into weeks. The investigation wraps up, the trial dates are set, and the media frenzy dies down. But your world feels smaller now, confined to the four walls of your apartment, where you spend most of your time trying to make sense of everything that’s happened.

The smallest things bring it all rushing back—a sharp sound, the clink of metal, the smell of bleach—and suddenly, you’re back in that van, or in that warehouse, bound and powerless.

You’ve been through the trauma debriefs, sat through sessions with psychologists who try to help you process the experience. They talk about recovery in terms of stages, as if healing is something you can track and measure. But for you, recovery isn’t linear. It’s fractured, messy, one step forward and two steps back.

One evening, Spencer comes over to check on you. He brings takeout and sits with you on the couch, both of you eating in silence. After a while, he sets his food down and looks at you with an intensity you haven’t seen since the night he found you.

“I know it’s hard,” he says quietly. “I know you’re still processing, but you did something incredible. You found the truth. And because of you, so many girls are going to be saved.”

You swallow hard, staring at your untouched food. “But I couldn’t save them all.”

Spencer’s expression softens. “No one could’ve. This operation—it was bigger than any of us imagined. You did everything you could, and more than most people would have. That’s what matters.”

His words settle over you like a blanket, warm but not entirely comforting. You know he’s right, but the guilt still gnaws at you. You think of Charli, of the girls who didn’t make it out. You think of the nights you spent terrified, wondering if you would ever escape. The victory feels hollow.

“I don’t know how to go back to normal,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper. “I don’t even know what normal is anymore.”

Spencer is quiet for a moment, then he reaches out, placing a deft hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to go back to how things were. There’s no ‘normal’ after something like this. But you will heal. It just takes time. And when you’re ready, we’ll keep fighting. For the ones we didn’t find. For the ones who are still out there.”

You meet his gaze, and for the first time in weeks, you feel a flicker of hope. It’s faint, fragile, but it’s there. The trauma won’t vanish overnight, and you know the nightmares will come for a while yet. But Spencer is right—what you uncovered, what you survived, will save lives.

Maybe you didn’t stop it all. Maybe you couldn’t save everyone. But you made sure the world knows what’s happening. And for now, that has to be enough.

As you sit there, the weight of everything still heavy on your shoulders, you take a breath. It’s shaky, but it’s a start. You survived. You’re still here. And for the first time in a long time, that feels like a victory.

In the months that follow, you begin to rebuild. It’s slow, agonising at times, but each day you feel a little more like yourself—though a new version of yourself, forever changed by what you went through.

The nightmares come less frequently, the panic attacks that once struck you in broad daylight begin to subside. But something is always there, lurking in the quiet moments, reminding you of the darkness you escaped.

It’s during one of those quiet moments, sitting in the early morning light by your window, that the idea first comes to you. You’ve spent so long trying to understand what happened, to come to terms with it, but you realise that your experience doesn’t have to be just your burden. It could be a way to help others. To make sure something like this never happens again.

You begin to think about the girls who went missing, and the eerie silence that had surrounded their disappearances until it was too late. The indifference of the campus administration, the lack of awareness, how easy it had been for these predators to operate in plain sight.

If anything was going to change, people needed to be aware. Students needed to be armed with knowledge and resources—tools to protect themselves and others.

That’s when you decide. You’re going to turn your pain into something meaningful.

—

The first meeting of your support group takes place on a rainy Tuesday evening in one of the small, out-of-the-way rooms on campus. The turnout is small—just a handful of students—but that doesn’t matter.

What matters is that they’re there. You sit in a circle, Spencer at your side, Detective Walker standing off to the side, her presence both protective and reassuring.

You never expected her to become such an ally after the initial doubts she had about your investigation, but after the sting operation, she’d been just as shaken by the scope of the trafficking ring as you were. Since then, she’d committed himself to working with you and Spencer, determined to prevent anything like it from happening again.

As you look around the room at the students—some hesitant, others eager to share their fears and concerns—you realise how important this is.

These are people who are scared, who’ve heard the stories and rumours about the disappearances, but never knew where to turn.

Some of them share personal experiences of feeling unsafe on campus, of reporting suspicious behaviour only to be dismissed or ignored. Others simply want to know how to protect themselves and their friends.

You take a deep breath, then start to speak. “I want to thank you all for being here tonight,” you begin, your voice steady but soft. “I know how hard it can be to talk about things like this. To admit that you feel vulnerable, or that you’re scared. But that’s why we’re here. To change that. To make sure no one has to feel like they’re alone.”

You pause, glancing at Spencer, who gives you an encouraging nod. “Some of you might have heard about what happened a few months ago. About the investigation into the missing girls and how it all led to… something much bigger. I was part of that investigation. And while we were able to stop some of the people responsible, the truth is, this could happen again. It happens more often than we realise.”

There’s a quiet murmur in the room, but no one looks away. They’re listening. You can feel the weight of their attention, and you press on.

“That’s why we’re starting this group. To create a space where we can talk openly about campus safety, about the things that make us feel unsafe, and to figure out how we can protect ourselves and each other. We want to raise awareness, but more than that, we want to take action. We want to make sure the administration hears us, that they take real steps to keep us safe.”

Detective Walker steps forward then, her authoritative voice grounding the room. “I’ll be working closely with you all to help guide these conversations. We’re also going to be pushing for more campus safety initiatives—better lighting, more security, self-defense classes. But what matters most is that you’re aware of the risks and that you don’t hesitate to report anything suspicious. Your vigilance is the best defense.”

The group talks for over an hour that first night. Some students share their experiences—times they felt unsafe walking home alone, or how they avoided certain areas of campus after dark.

Others ask questions about how to recognise warning signs, about what they should do if they feel they’re being watched or followed. You and Spencer answer as best you can, while Walker gives practical advice, but you’re careful not to push too hard. This is a space for support, not fear-mongering.

As the meeting comes to a close, you feel a sense of relief. It’s a small step, but it’s a step forward. And in a way, it’s part of your own healing process, turning your trauma into something that might help others.

Over the next few months, the support group grows. What started with just a few students in a small room blossoms into something larger. More people show up, word spreads, and soon, the administration can no longer ignore the conversation.

Spencer helps you organise events in his spare time—awareness campaigns, partnerships with local law enforcement, and self-defence workshops led by professionals. Detective Walker becomes a trusted figure on campus, and her involvement lends credibility to your efforts.

One night, after another well-attended meeting, you stand with Spencer in the empty room, gathering your things. The exhaustion is still there—the weight of everything you’ve been through never fully leaves—but there’s also a sense of accomplishment. Of hope.

“You did it,” Spencer says, breaking the comfortable silence. “You turned this into something real.”

You glance at him, offering a small smile. “We did it. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

He shakes his head. “You were always the one pushing forward, even when it was hardest. I just followed your lead.”

You pause, thinking back to everything that brought you to this point—the investigation, the sting, the night you thought you’d never make it out of that warehouse alive. The memories still haunt you, but they don’t control you anymore. You’ve taken that power back.

“None of this brings back the girls we couldn’t save,” you say quietly. “But at least now, we’re doing something. We’re making sure people know what’s out there. Maybe it’ll stop someone else from going through what we did.”

Spencer nods. “It will. I know it will.”

And you believe him. It doesn’t erase the trauma, but it gives it purpose. And that’s enough.

As you lock up the room and step out into the night, you take a deep breath of the cool air. The campus is still, the buildings lit up by streetlights that feel brighter than they used to.

There’s a sense of safety now, not just for you, but for everyone who came to those meetings, who learned something that might one day save their life.

You reflect on the journey that led you here—from the isolation and doubt at the start, through the horror of the trafficking ring, to this moment of quiet resolution.

You’ve changed. You’re stronger. And now, you’re not just surviving—you’re making sure others have the chance to, too.

—

The city buzzes with energy on Friday night, vibrant and alive with laughter and music echoing from the clubs lining the streets. Young people gather in groups, their voices blending into a lively symphony as they celebrate the end of the week.

“Hey, you almost here?”

Jules takes a deep breath, a feeling of giddiness washing over her as she glances at the neon lights flickering across the street. The club is packed, and the atmosphere is electric. “Yeah, yeah I’m almost here,”

“Great, I’ll see—” The line cuts out into static, and Jules furrows here eyebrows, pulling the screen away from her ear momentarily.

“Hey? Hello?” she asks, pulling her phone closer to her ear.

“Yeah, I’m—”

Jules sighs as the line continues to cut out, ending with a dead tone as the call ends. “Stupid phone— whatever,” She dumps her cell into her purse as she turns towards the club, crossing over the street.

Before she can even make it to the sidewalk, a hand clamps down over her mouth, yanking her back into the darkness. Panic ignites within her, and she struggles, her heels clattering against the pavement.

The laughter and music from the club fade into oblivion as she’s pulled toward a nearby alley, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Help! Let me go!” she cries out, muffled by the grip on her mouth. But the streets are alive with laughter, the music too loud for anyone to hear her desperate pleas.

[neesu]

The white fox

Contains: D/s dynamics, brat taming, degradation, power imbalance, possessive behavior, psychological control, heated make out sessions

The white fox masterlist

Part 7

The streets were chaos — sirens in the distance, gunfire still echoing off concrete and steel — but none of it registered properly. Not with the ghost of his grin still burned into the back of your mind. Not with the memory of his voice — smooth, sharp, laced with that same dangerous playfulness — still rattling around in your head like a loaded chamber.

You dragged a hand down your face, forcing your focus back, but it barely worked. Your men were moving, disciplined, efficient — clearing the block, sweeping corners, securing territory. But all of it felt mechanical now. Routine.

Because your thoughts were miles away.

On him.

On the way Gojo didn’t flinch when you shoved him against that wall. How his lips curled like he lived for the tension — like testing you wasn’t a risk but a reward.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to crush his side of the city. Shut down his operations. Break his crew until there was nothing left but a lesson painted in blood. That was the job. That was the rule.

But he broke the rule.

With that damn smile. That spark behind his eyes that said, “Come on. Hit me harder.”

A voice crackled through the radio. “South alley’s cleared. No sign of their boss. Orders?”

Their boss.

Right. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Their boss was somewhere out there — not running, not hiding — waiting. Waiting for you.

Your fingers tightened around the radio. “Pull back. Lock the perimeter. Nobody in or out unless I say.”

Static. Then: “...Copy that.”

You pocketed the radio. Lit a cigarette. Let the bitter smoke sting your lungs. For a second — just a second — the city went quiet.

And then, like clockwork, the buzz of your phone.

Unknown number.

But you didn’t need to check. You knew.

You answered. Said nothing.

A lazy breath on the other end. Then, his voice — low, smug, just this side of reckless. “Miss me already, boss?”

Your jaw clenched. “Where are you.” Not a question. A demand.

“Nearby.” You could hear the grin. “Watching.”

“Careful, Satoru.” You flicked ash to the pavement, eyes scanning rooftops, alleyways, windows. “You’re running out of lives to waste.”

A pause. Then softer — too soft. “Am I?”

Your breath caught. Just for a second.

Because beneath the teasing, beneath the bite — there was something else in his voice. Something rougher. Tighter. Like maybe he was just as tangled in this as you were.

“You don’t get to play with fire,” you warned, “unless you’re ready to get burned.”

“Sweetheart,” Gojo purred, lower now, threaded with something far more dangerous than teasing, “I’m betting everything on it.”

The line went dead.

For a moment, all you could do was stand there — cigarette burning down between your fingers, blood rushing hot beneath your skin, jaw tight enough to crack.

Because that wasn’t just a taunt. That wasn’t just Gojo being reckless.

That was a challenge. An invitation. A promise.

Your radio crackled again, distant voices calling out updates, but it barely registered. Not when every nerve in your body was drawn tight, strung somewhere between fury and something darker.

You crushed the cigarette under your boot. Straightened your jacket. Your men were closing the perimeter, but deep down you knew — he wouldn’t be caught unless he wanted to be.

And the bastard wanted you to come looking.

“Boss,” one of your lieutenants called, jogging over. “We’ve got eyes on a black car leaving the north lot — plates match one of the enemy crews.”

Your gaze sharpened instantly. “Who’s inside?”

“Can’t confirm, but—”

“Follow it.” You didn’t wait for a response. “But don’t engage. Not until I say.”

“Yes, sir.”

As he ran off, your phone buzzed again. This time, a message. No name. Just an address. Somewhere on the edge of neutral territory — a warehouse you knew was supposed to be empty.

And beneath the address, one line.

“Come alone. If you’ve got the guts.”

Your knuckles cracked as you curled your fingers into fists.

Game on.

Without another word, you turned, headed for your car — steps sharp, controlled. Because you already knew how this was going to end.

Either with Satoru Gojo finally on his knees — broken, begging — or with both of you burning this whole city down together.

⸻

The warehouse stood like a skeleton against the fading skyline—rusted steel beams, shattered windows, the kind of place deals were made and bodies were buried.

You pulled up, headlights off, engine low. Scanned the perimeter. Empty. Too empty. No guards, no lookouts, no snipers on the roofs.

He wanted you to know this was a trap. And he wanted you to come anyway.

Fine.

You stepped out, boots hitting gravel, hand resting near the gun holstered under your coat—just in case. But you didn’t expect this to go that clean.

Not with him.

The door creaked when you pushed it open. Dust and cold air hit first—then something sharper. The smell of tension. Of waiting.

And there he was.

Gojo Satoru, sitting lazy on the edge of a metal table like he owned the place. Legs crossed, jacket open, shirt half unbuttoned like he hadn’t bothered pretending this was anything but personal.

His eyes dragged over you the second you stepped in. Icy, bright, and so damn smug. “Took you long enough.”

“You really don’t value your life,” you muttered, letting the door slam shut behind you.

His grin widened. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He stood, slow, deliberate, each step echoing. “I value it very much. I’m just starting to think it’s safer in your hands than mine.”

Your jaw flexed. “You should be careful throwing lines like that.”

“Or what?” His head tilted, hair falling into his eyes. “You’ll kill me?” A step closer. “Bury me out back?” Another step. “Or worse… make me yours?”

You didn’t back away. Not an inch. “You think this is a joke?”

“No,” he said—too quiet now, softer, but not weaker. “I think this is inevitable.”

Silence stretched. Tight. Heavy.

And then you snapped.

Fist curling in his collar, you shoved him back into the wall. His breath hitched—half-laugh, half-shudder—as your hand pinned him there, the other gripping his jaw, forcing him to meet your stare.

“You drive me insane,” you bit out. “You’re reckless. Disrespectful. A liability.”

“And you,” Gojo panted, gaze dropping to your mouth, “are completely obsessed with me.”

Teeth gritted, you shoved him harder. “Say that again.”

“I said—” his hands slid up your chest, slow, taunting, “—you’re obsessed with me.”

The tension snapped—electric, volatile, inevitable.

You crushed your mouth to his. Brutal. Claiming. No space for breath, no room for anything but teeth, tongue, possession. He moaned—into your mouth, against your lips—fisting your jacket like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull you closer or tear you apart.

“Mine,” you growled against his lips, biting down just enough to make him gasp. “You hear me, Satoru?”

“Yeah,” he rasped, breathless, dizzy. “I hear you.”

But his grin was still there, stained red from your teeth. “Question is… what are you gonna do about it?”

And you knew exactly what.

⸻

You grabbed him roughly, pulling him back from the wall and pushing him down onto the cold steel table. The impact made the whole surface shake, but Gojo didn’t flinch. Instead, he smirked, eyes bright with a mix of amusement and challenge.

“Always this rough, or just with me?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you pinned his wrists above his head, holding them tight so he couldn’t move. His heartbeat was fast under your hands, betraying how much this affected him, even if his expression didn’t show it.

“Don’t push me,” you said, leaning close so your breath brushed his lips. “You’ve been crossing the line. Now it’s time to deal with the consequences.”

Gojo’s eyes darkened, caught between daring you to push further and something softer—something he wasn’t ready to admit. Slowly, he lowered his forehead to yours.

“Then prove it,” he whispered. “Make me yours.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your hands moved over him, controlling, claiming, but not without care. Every touch was sharp but held a quiet promise: this wasn’t just about power, it was something more.

The tension between you broke all at once. Your bodies moved together, fast and urgent. The sound of ragged breaths and low groans filled the room. He didn’t fight. Instead, he gave in, matching your pace, every shudder and gasp showing how deep this went.

Afterwards, you held him close, your chest rising and falling against his. Both of you were exhausted but connected in a way that words couldn’t explain.

Gojo smiled, tired but satisfied. “Not bad,” he said quietly.

You tightened your grip around him. “Next time, you’re not leaving.”

He chuckled softly, eyes closing. “I don’t want to.”

You tightened your grip just a fraction, the promise in your hold clear — this wasn’t just a fleeting moment. It was the start of something dangerously real.

Slowly, you pulled back enough to look at him properly. The usual spark of defiance in Gojo’s gaze was tempered now, replaced by something raw and unguarded. The city outside was loud and unforgiving, but here, in this room, time felt like it had stopped.

“Good,” you said quietly. “Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

Gojo smirked, opening his eyes to meet yours with that familiar mix of arrogance and something softer — vulnerability, maybe. “Then you better be ready. I’m not easy to tame.”

Your lips twitched into a dangerous smile. “I’m not here to tame you. I’m here to own you.”

He laughed again, breathless and low, and leaned in until your foreheads touched.

“Guess we’re both trouble then.”

Outside, the city carried on with its chaos, but inside, the war between you wasn’t just about power anymore. It was about possession, desire, and a battle neither of you wanted to lose.

And neither would.

[drgrlfriend]

I commissioned the AMAZING @himbionn for art of my favorite chaos trio, Jason Todd, Bucky Barnes, and Clint Barton. Here they are in a scene from First Glance: Bucky sits on the steps of the warehouse, Clint leaning on his left side and Jason leaning on his right, all of them content with spectating while Coulson cleans up the scene.  Ambulance crews evacuated the kids first thing, and now Coulson is directing local law enforcement, firefighters, and SHIELD field operatives with his usual preternatural efficiency.

“That guy shot me once,” Clint observes, not sounding mad about it in the least.  His voice is a little slurred.  He took a bit of a conk to the head near the end there, and Bucky feels bad about that, but he can’t regret the way it makes Clint slump into him, all relaxed and pliable, uncaring that Bucky is using the metal arm to support him.

“He was tryin’ to recruit you,” Jason says.  “Consider it a compliment.” 

If you are new to Winterhawkhood, come check it out, especially the two fics that inspired First Glance: Third Wheel by @kangofu-cb and Second Chance by @there-must-be-a-lock. You can also check out my latest Winterhawkhood fic, Glitter in Our Wounds, which is fully written and currently being posted at one chapter every other day. :-D