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mostlysignssomeportents · 25 days ago

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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

#pluralistic

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pathologicalreid · 4 months ago

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forwards beckon rebound | s.r.

[previously]

in which fate reveals itself to you and Spencer. it's exactly as you feared, you're in love with him.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: blowing smoke FINALE (p4), maeve, kidnapping, russian roulette, imminent death, violence, blood, nondescript case fic, no hea word count: 1.88k a/n: two things 1) i do have an alternate ending to this series 2) fluff this weekend i promise

Brightness seared your retinas when the blindfold finally came off, you felt the sore skin in places where the fabric was too tight over your face. An abstract of indents were left over your skin.

Dots and shadows danced in your vision while you tried to blink them away, forming the shape of someone who oddly resembled Spencer. He was hunched over in a chair in front of you, his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. Your solace was the steady rising and falling of his chest. Each time he took a breath it eased your own.

“Spence,” you called for him, your throat so swollen that it came out as a hiss. The desperate cry of a rattlesnake hindered by whoever had crushed your windpipe.

Tunnel vision blinded you to anything in the periphery, your eyes scanned Spencer while you acquainted yourself with the binds around your wrists and ankles. He seemed unharmed, save for the obvious unconsciousness. You had no idea who had taken you, but the BAU had no shortage of enemies. The two of you were, by extension, always targets.

Your ears perked up at the first sign of noise in the warehouse, hot air rose to the floor you were on, leaving you sticky and uncomfortable in the humid prison. Glancing over your shoulder, you watched a masked figure waltz through the doorway.

Clocking the gun affixed to their hip, you quickly looked over to Spencer, hoping he would wake up soon. The fabric ties around your wrists dug into your fragile skin as you looked around the room, remembering there was someone else in here with you, someone who had pulled your blindfold off.

Silently, you started putting the pieces together. “Spencer,” you whispered, having half a mind to reach your foot out and try to kick him awake. There was a reason you had been the one blindfolded. Somewhere in your subconscious, you knew where you were. It led to the horrifying realization that this was about you.

His nose wrinkled, and the first sign that he was starting to wake up was interrupted when the masked figure stood behind him, gripping him by his hair and lifting his head.

Your body instinctively tried to jump to its feet in protest, “Hey!” You shouted as your chair creaked from its bolts in the ground, “Let him go.” Cringing, you watched as he dropped Spencer’s head, letting it loll to the side while he woke up.

The two UnSubs walked out of the room, leaving you and Spencer to your own devices. You shushed him slightly while he groaned, your breath hitching when your name slipped past his lips.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “I’m okay, I’m right here,” you assured him, though you weren’t entirely sure how comforting it was knowing you were both bound to chairs.

Spencer didn’t respond. You twisted your wrist within your binds and winced when it pulled in precisely the wrong way. Looking around, you chewed on the inside of your lip and tried to find something to help you, but there was no next step if you couldn’t get your hands free.

He groaned across from you, and you swallowed back a consolation. You studied him, his head tilted so aggressively to the side that you could see the glint of the scar on his neck. The faded mark was invisible to the naked eye, but when it caught in just the right light, you remembered the way you’d succumbed to dread in that hospital in Texas.

You should’ve called it then. You should have thrown in the proverbial towel and committed yourself to him that very night, with that guy bleeding out on the hospital floor and Penelope shouting about her ears popping.

But you’d heard the gunshot, and you’d seen the fear on his face, and at that moment, the only thing you could remember was trying to pick him up from the floor when he tried to crawl over to Maeve’s lifeless body. You remembered the way he cried when the team tried to give him space and you watched him push Diane’s body over so he could finally get a look at his dearly departed.

Even before she became the most beautiful girl in the world, you never trusted yourself with him. Your lack of faith in him pressed upon your shoulders like the weight of the sky. The pendant he had gifted you seared your chest like a brand. The Tree of Life weighed heavy over your heart.

Your romance with Spencer was like a car crash you couldn’t take your eyes off of. He relentlessly rammed his shoulder into the wall you’d constructed between you while you were on the other side reinforcing the bricks. His soft skin had been marred with bruises, and debris was littered across your body.

You should’ve called it then, but besides your sinking feeling that you’d never step up to the pedestal he had placed Maeve on, you knew you’d only have him temporarily. Life was excruciatingly short, and no amount of time would suffice when it came to him

The wall remained standing in the same way that Maeve’s had, refusing to let Spencer in, refusing to let Spencer help. “Spence,” you whispered. “Are you alright?”

Slowly, his eyes lifted to look at you, and you imagined he was witnessing his worst nightmare. Maybe he’d convince himself he was dreaming, damning you to the fate of telling him this was really happening. “You’re bleeding,” he said, voice gruff from lack of use. His brown eyes flashed with fear when they met yours, but it was no longer residual fear from Maeve’s death—it was fear for you. Had it always been fear for you? Was it possible that the terrorized look in his eye that pushed you away from him had always stemmed from his fear of losing you?

Wrinkling your nose, you finally felt it on your upper lip; blood had trickled from your nose down your face. You shook your head once and said, "It’s just my nose.” You watched his face contort as he tried to free himself from his binds.

Birds chirped outside of the windows; the setting sun invaded the blinds that shadowed the otherwise dark room. Lines of tangerine light lit his face while he ascertained your well-being for himself. There was no point in asking if you knew what had happened, and Spencer wasn’t in the habit of wasting time.

You tried using your thumbnail to cut through the twine around your wrists, the broken piece of keratin on your hand was, so far, the best option you’d had. “Did you see anything?” You asked him, trying to use conversation as a distraction from your current predicament.

He only said your name in response, wide eyes looking past you and watching as the man in the ski mask walked back into the room. The revolver that had previously been holstered on his hip was now in his hands. He spun the cylinder as he approached you, and your heart dropped when he raised the gun, pointing it at Spencer.

“No,” your voice was no more than a whisper while Spencer looked up at your abductor. He met his gaze and refused to flinch, even when he pulled the trigger. Someone who had never met Spencer would think he was entirely stone-faced in the face of a weapon, but you watched the light in his eyes shift and his Adam’s apple bob.

When he pulled the trigger and nothing happened, your chest tightened, but everything about Spencer’s demeanor changed when the gun was turned on you. The barrel pressed to your temple, you shook your head when the shouting started, “Stop!” You closed your eyes, two silent tears streaking your face as the cold metal pressed against your skin. “Let her go,” Spencer urged. “You don’t need both of us.”

The bargaining started, and memories flashed behind your eyelids. Her for me. Let me take her place.

Spencer called your name when the trigger was pulled again, and the weapon clicked without expelling a bullet.

“Where is she?” Your abductor asked, his voice ringing out in an unfamiliar accent, referring to a mystery woman.

You shook your head once when the weapon was removed from your temple, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Part of you wished you were just egging on a suspect, but you felt entirely powerless while you looked at Spencer, confused.

His clenched fist made contact with your cheek, eliciting a shout from Spencer while your head twisted to the side. “Don’t lie to me! I know she called you.”

The gun rose again, “Please,” you cried as the barrel met Spencer’s forehead. “We can help you if you tell us what’s going on,” you assured the unnamed man.

Flinching, you watched the revolver click again, now halfway through the six cartridges. You were left with three more chances and, presumably, one bullet. “Killing one of us isn’t going to get us to help you,” Spencer tried to reason with him, but if there was one thing you knew, it’s that you can’t change a mind that’s been made up.

He scoffed, lifting the gun to your head, and you felt the blood drain from your face in anticipation. Every part of you ran cold as the gun met your temple, “Spencer, close your eyes.”

You continued digging at your restraints, jumping slightly when the gun clicked again. The mechanical sound of the trigger rang in your ears, echoing endlessly when you looked back at Spencer. You swallowed back an I love you, not wanting to succumb to the cliché while you met Spencer’s eyes again. A piece of you hoped the look in your eyes said everything you needed, noises came from elsewhere in the building, and you wished it was a savior.

With the revolver up at his temple, he nodded reassuringly at you, “I know.”

“Please let him go,” you begged, your voice catching over your tears. “If this is about me, you have to let him go,” you promised.

When the trigger was pulled again with no consequences, your heart dropped. The blood-pumping organ fell through your entire body, and you looked up at Spencer, unable to hide the terror in your eyes.

You shook your head as the gun was pressed against your temple, “Spencer, don’t watch.” You faced down your own death, trying to ignore the way your hands trembled as you tugged at your binds in a last-minute escape attempt. “You don’t need to see this,” you didn’t add again, but the thought crossed your mind while you thought of the necklace that sat over your heart.

“I have to see you through,” Spencer insisted, silver lining his eyes while he furiously pulled at his own restraints.

Your chest rose and fell in desperate, shaking breaths. You couldn’t do it; you couldn’t meet his eyes with a revolver pressed to your skull. You should’ve done it. You should’ve called it then, but that was how life worked. Things were already clearest when they were in the rearview window. There was nothing for you to do.

All Spencer could do was watch as he pulled the trigger, and the cycle repeated.

"History repeats itself, but in such cunning disguise that we never detect the resemblance until the damage is done." - Sydney J. Harris

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot

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wonderjanga · 9 months ago

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What if Marvel got Amnesia

So basically, Billy as Marvel gets hit with a memory wipe spell. Only, the spell is so strong he gets amnesia so far back he now thinks he’s a former champion that came even before Adam.

In case you can’t tell, this is really bad, because in their eyes, they just suddenly woke up in what was practically another world. (They’d be from like 5000 BC) So, naturally, they brush off the rubble and look around what looked to be the aftermath of a fight. They fly out of the building, and holy moly, where in the God’s were they? They’re looking around the architecture of Fawcett in both awe and confusion. They’re also confused as to why all the citizens are looking at them strangely and whispering. (He isn’t smiling. Captain Marvel isn’t smiling. He’s always smiling, why isn’t he now?) Cue them whooping absolute ass, like wasting no time and turning themself into an human electricity bomb and blowing up whatever warehouse they and Sivana were in. This continues until the Marvel misses a JL meeting cause, you know, they doesn’t remember. Which, is rare for Marvel, but not uncommon. So Former Champion Marvel keeps handling business. Meanwhile, the JL is getting increasingly worried, Marvel hasn’t show up for his monitor shifts and They actually act a lot like Billy, they do the helping old ladies cross the road, helping cats out of trees, and helping lost kids find their parents. So, the Fawcett citizens know something is wrong, but something isn’t completely wrong. Their hero’s probably just having a bad day… or couple weeks… or couple months. During all this time, the champion went back to the Rock of Eternity and talked to wizard after figuring out the whole thing with the brazier, and the wizard is like, “okay, this isn’t that bad” and if anything, it isn’t, he supposes. He gets to spend time with one of his dead kinda-kids. But he also has to figure out a spell to reverse this. Now, the whole thing comes to a head when the JL has had enough and sends Flash and GL, buddies of Marvel to ask him what’s wrong, because if the champion was mad, he certainly wouldn’t drag it out this long. This ends with Former Champion Marvel trying to fight the both of them (successfully winning, and dropping a lore bomb on Flash that he’s (Former Champ) met a speedster and dropping some cold ass line like “all over you are the same” or something like that) because he thinks their villains. Soon after the fight, the wizard figures out the spell, gets Former to cast it and boom, Billy’s back and has to explain why he beat the crap out of Flash and GL, and by extension, had to explain why he didn’t go to the Watchtower for a bit and stuff. (Also he had to explain to Freddy and Mary as to why he was transformed for like a good two months)

The end.

#billy batson #the flash #wally west #green lantern #hal jordan #captain marvel dc #dc captain marvel #shazam #mary batson #mary bromfield #freddy freeman #the justice league #fawcett city #fawcett comics #fawcett #the wizard shazam

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helliloveit · 3 months ago

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Night Shift

Ok this is kinda crazy, maybe too much. It can be worse ngl 😅. Im a Frank girl but this guy… i can express more with him(? Like he’s so unhinged im not so worried about what he does is appropriate cuz he’s never appropriate so, well, proceed with caution.

Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter x reader

Warnings: Dark!Dex, defenseless!reader, insults, psychopath behaviors, noncon touches? (Not smut), Dex is obsessed with you, harming, choking, licking, stalking, angst. Dark themes, do not read if it triggers you, please.

W.c: 1k

Summary: You organize a stack of boxes in the scrappy shelter house you had been working for the last 3 years. Don’t get it wrong, you love your job —that feeling has been decreasing like a plane nosediving lastly. It all started when your employer, Ms. Marie, decided it was a good idea to give this gentleman an occupation. He goes by Dex.

You organize a stack of boxes in the scrappy shelter house you had been working for the last 3 years. Don’t get it wrong, you love your job —that feeling has been decreasing like a plane nosediving lastly.

It all started when your employer, Ms. Marie, decided it was a good idea to give this gentleman an occupation. He goes by Dex, you are pretty unsure if thats his real name.

I mean you are unsure about everything that involves him, he is creepy.

Countless times have you tried to rationalize with your boss, God-, you’ve found him killing a bird. Smashing it, smearing it over the ground with his very own shoe, not a single noise of disgust he vocalized, not even the flicker of commotion wet his eye.

Dead inside.

Since your boss is a very insistent woman, there’s not much you could actually do. You don’t blame her at all, she is the head of an orphanage, it is an organic unfolding that her heart goes tender every time a portrait of misfortune hangs on the wall.

In these case, a ex-fbi agent, kicked out of his position for episodes of psicosis and violent behavior, probably caused by PTSD and general trauma for such a tough job. The vacancy for a guard was open. Her eyes turned into stars.

There isn’t a reason you can call out to get him away from the job. Your boss is on vacations. You can’t open everyone’s eyes, he worked his charm neatly, all pearl teeth and wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, but is in the night, the night shift, the kids sleeping, the drowned silence, the dryness of the air, the nauseous flickering of the LEDS on the ceiling, his steps moving through the aisle in front of the small warehouse you were in now.

This last nights is when you are allowed to see how he really is.

And he sees how you really are.

Insightful. He fully remembers how your judgmental stare pierced prolonged on his face the moment his left eye twitched. The reason: Marie had advertised him to not get rid of flies by throw paper clips at them, it is as weird as impressive, regardless of that, scares the children.

It would had been fun. It would have been fun if you didn’t discover the milimetric cilidric extension of the clip stabbing directly on their tiny bodies to the cardboard. Would have even more fun if he just got to frighten you and not get your goodie ass to snitch to the boss.

You’re sure that since that day, the blondie always have a bone to pick with you, avoids you and the rare moments you get to be in the same place —usually coworkers meetings— never fails to have an odd with you, not verbally, no, Dex stares at you, eyes blank in that specific way a person who abhors someone would do.

That’s not enough to assert he is a total piece of shit, he is just weird or that’s the prompt you been cajoling yourself with to not deeply panic, even when you precise his icy hazel iris peeking through the ajar door… no wait— is he watching you?!

You sprint to fully open the door and look around. At the threshold you’re met with nothing more than the empty white aisle, you thought you heard his steps at the end of it so, what you saw must come from tiredness since it’s late.

Picking up the marker again you dispose yourself to the write down the content of the boxes on it surfaces.

You don’t get to uncap the sharpie.

Echo of a loud thud travels the path its end you are. Despite the cold sweat forming on your back you go, ‘it’s for the kids’ you repeat yourself for your own sake, you hold the marker for dear life and stand up from the small rigid bench to explore.

The old lights keep buzzing on top of your head, the stale smell of the old place made your heart accelerate its rate. Keep going, you just keep going checking through the wooden doors at your sides and… there’s nothing weird.

You get to the end of the L shaped aisle. No signs of Dex though. He should be on his place, outside, what he was looking for before then? That’s a question you should made yourself, but everything is so heavy, exhaustion tenses your spine, mind is numb. Back to work.

Like a robot, you walk down the route you forcefully went before. Your home is all occupying your mind when you see all the stacks you need to put together.

When you attempt to sit at the bench again, the door behind you closes on it own. Shit.

Maybe he wanted to play a joke on you but that theory dismantled itself the moment you turn around to face it.

Dex was there in the room with you, locked entrance at his back. A pocket knife in his hand.

You almost cry.

—“Okay, what the actual fuck is going on?!” Punctuating every single word of the question, your stomach quiver yet you are proud how firm your voice came out.

—“You don’t wanna wake up the kids, do you?” His lips crack with an uneven smile.

All this time, you were right. Fuck, fuck! He’s twisted! Like a fucking corkscrew. It is fair to say you are in utter panic.

—“I have a few things to tell you, but you need to collaborate, you need to help me, would you?” He whispers in such soft tone despite there’s nothing soft splattered over his features.

His eyes are low, appeased, pupils blown, flared nostrils, the collar of his black gear is untidy as if the tugged it down in a rush, you even discern the nail scratches over his neck- but there’s no time to catch the little details.

—“Okay, okay,” You raise your hands in faux surrender —“What is it?” You ask hesitant, one thought is executed before you can meditate on it, you try to grab a cutter lying over a box but,

he reaches you.

His hand slides across your cheek. Suddenly gasp for air when what seemed like a tender caress turned into a harsh grasp, gripping your jaw, straight into the bone. Definitely gonna leave a bruise.

The man doesn’t talk right away, remains staring at your face void of all color, his breath brushes your skin erratically.

—“You think you get to ruin all i have built,” he mumbles between gritted teeth. — “it makes me want to smear you all over the ground like that pigeon you were so loud about.”

He was so close it felt overwhelming. He wasn’t drunk, no alcohol smell, this is not okay.

—“What Dex? You want me to stay all calm and sweet when i see a guy doing something so unhinged in a place like a child shelter?! You must be fucking crazy.”

If you were going to die tonight, at least you’re gonna stand for your thoughts. It pulls a laugh out of him. —“Moral girl.”

—“If- if you’re planning on killing me now-“

—“Shut the fuck up.” He chuckles, as a warning.

—“It would be a fucking mess and you couldn’t even escape properly, there is cameras everywhere, they’ll be looking for you by the morning.” You are stressed, the words come out rapidly, it makes him harrow.

—“Shut up!!” Dex finally shouts.

Rage is crawling up his face in the color of red boiling blood, he shoves you back so roughly you feel the waves of the stunt coil back and forth within your rib cage.

Here stamped onto the wall, trepidation climbed up your limbs like burning ivy. You can’t help the tears welled in your eyes. You feel overpowered, incapable.

His fingers are still painting white over your masseter muscles, he nudges at it maliciously and your glare, holding his in a fragile act of courage, faltered—leaving salty drops slipping down your cheeks.

—“I think you get it now.” He almost slurs, hazel eyes fixed on your… lips?

Every alarm in your body is yelling at you to scream, push him, go away, but everything is happening so fast you don’t know what to do first. You shut your eyes closed again, exhaling to dilute some adrenaline build up in your blood.

When he gets that close is something you don’t quite notice immediately.

He licks the fresh path of tears on your cheek.

Sick fuck knew the business so well that before you thought about screaming the same hand clutched your neck with the right amount of pressure to not let anything out or in, including your voice… and your breath.

If what came before was a nightmare, then this is the night terror that leaves you adrift—aware you’re dreaming, yet unable to wake up. Trapped.

—“You get it, do you?” He asks full of cynicism, over your ear, warming it with his breath. You nod hysterical, the lack of air burning inside your lungs. It wasn’t enough for him.

—“Do you?!!” Dex half shouts, a harsh whisper, slamming you back against the concrete wall, you cry out, reaching his hand to scratch it. You can’t breathe.

He lasts another few seconds bathing in the sweet syrupy feeling of you not only surrendering to him but to writhe between his fingers.

You collapse onto the floor the second he lets you go. You reach up, fingers trembling, trying to soothe the irritated skin of your neck. Looking up, what coughs and tears allow you to see is the slightest of the smirks.

Son of a bitch thinks you won’t say a thing about this later.

That when he disappears through door behind him and go away, you won’t wait till the next day and call Ms.Marie and not hold a single thing about his fucking psychopath demeanor, how much of a danger he is to the children and other coworkers, what he did to you…

But oh… surprise.

When you actually do, the first thing you know is he was fired, yes, he was, and all the walking through the aisle yesterday was nothing more than… you don’t know. He had like bloody 2 weeks off but nobody noticed since the night shift was only you and him, occasionally Marie if she didn’t went on a month vacation like she did now.

You can’t quite name the feeling. That moment was, without question, the most haunting thing to happen to you in years. Realizing how helpless you are in such a tense situation.

Sleep schedule all fucked up, eating more than you should out of anxiety and rethinking your life choices. You wont let yourself get defeated, you won’t quit the job, you wont move away.

It eventually happens one day, 6 am when you finally get at home after a torturous walk from bus stop to here. The morning is chill, perfect to sleep, you’re so sleepy now, you open the main door and look down, and all the cozy feeling is drained with a straw.

His small knife pocket he never used on you, at your feet.

#benjamin poindexter x reader #ben poindexter x reader #bullseye x reader #dark!bullseye x reader #wilson bethel

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castielli · 2 months ago

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Not requested. !!First time trying to write sex scenes!!😀. I’m so embarrassed but equally hard. You may notice differences between the normal scenes and the smut cause I usually let my friend fix my mistakes, but she didn’t want to read the gay sex thing💋.

Bruised Knuckles, Broken Walls

Frank Castle x Male!VigilanteReader

Enemies to enemies with benefits, reader has a dick, AMAB reader, angry gay smut scene, oral (r receiving), handjobs, making out, canon violence, cock before taking a cartel down. DNI MINORS, GIRLS, PPL UNCOMFORTABLE WITH SMUT

You’d been tracking the same bastard for days. A dirty dealer with connections in the cartel deep enough to make you sweat and teeth sharp enough to bite back. You’d gotten the location, abandoned warehouse in the Narrows, and moved in like always- silent, clean, brutal.

And then he showed up.

You recognized him by the way the shadows bent around him, the skull on his chest catching the moonlight like a warning. Frank Castle. The Punisher. A walking wrecking ball with a moral code scribbled in blood and a reputation for not playing well with others. Especially not you.

“Of course” you muttered under your breath as he stomped through the broken door like a bear out of hibernation, shotgun already raised. He barely glanced at you. “I had this.”

“I had it first.”

“You sure? ‘Cause all I see is a bunch of guys still breathing.”

“You’re one to talk, Castle. Half the building’s still standing.”

It escalated quickly. It always did. Words turned into shoves. Shoves into fists. You cracked him across the jaw, he tackled you into a stack of crates. Splinters, curses, the sound of your bodies hitting the concrete hard enough to shake your teeth.

And underneath it all, something else. Something hot and electric, seething beneath every punch you threw.

He had you pinned to the ground, forearm to your throat, breathing hard. His eyes burned into yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, smell the sweat, the blood.

“You gonna back off?” he growled. You didn’t flinch. “Make me.” His grip tightened for a beat, then loosened.

That was the moment. That single second when something cracked open. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Yours to his. Breathing slowed. Shifted. Became something else entirely.

And then you kissed him.

You didn’t plan to. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth clacking, breathless, rough, an extension of the fight. He froze for half a second, like the idea had never occurred to him, and then he was kissing you back with the kind of ferocity that made your spine arch off the floor.

It wasn’t just lust. It was frustration. Power. Rage and grief and too many years of carrying pain like armor. His hands gripped your face like he didn’t know whether to shove you away or pull you closer.

You rolled over, pinning him instead, your knees at his sides. He growled into your mouth, his hands digging into your jacket. You bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, and he gasped against you like it surprised him.

“I hate you” he muttered, breathless.

“You wish you did” you shot back, dragging your mouth down to his jaw, the curve of his throat. “You hate that you want this.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Then shut me up.”

He did.

Your back hit the floor again seconds later. He had your arms pinned above your head, the bulk of him pressing you into the cold brick, kissing you like he was trying to bruise the taste of you into his memory. You could feel every inch of him, anger, heat, want, like it was a second skin against yours.

When his hand dropped to your belt, you grabbed his wrist. “Frank.” He stopped. Breathing hard. Waiting.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just met his eyes, dark, stormy, cracked wide open. You didn’t need to ask what this was. It was obvious. This wasn’t love. This was need.

You let go of his wrist. Nodded.

His hands were rough. Your mouths never stopped moving. There was nothing romantic about it, the way he shoved your shirt up, the way you hissed when your back scraped the bricks, the way you both fought for control with every kiss, every bite, every ragged breath.

You didn’t undress, not all the way, pulling your rough jeans and boxers down enough to free your achingly hard cock, the tension making you feel like it was about to explode.

He kissed you like the world was ending. You held him like it already had. His big, warm and calloused hand wrapped around your shaft, making you shiver and grunt in pain and want.

You kept on making out, swapping saliva and blood as Frank’s thump ran over the slit of your pulsing dick, spreading beads of precum all over the tip before finally starting moving.

You groaned against his mouth, your fingertips pressing into his scalp as Frank roughly pumped your member, letting his big fingers brush against your full balls.

He only pulled away from your now bleeding lips after what felt like an eternity, his deep, dark eyes looking into yours as you both panted harshly.

The hand that was on your cock raised, brushing and tickling the pubic hair above as Frank made his way lower, now laying face to face with your annoyingly delicious looking penis. “Fuck” you groaned as he pushed your sweat damp hair away from your forehead, your eyes following Frank’s every movement.

He looked up at you, his mouth tentatively close to your lubed member, his big eyes looking into yours just to see how good he was already making you feel. As if on cue, you pushed both your hands into his dark hair, surprisingly softer than you imagined. You have it a tug, inviting him to continue before your balls exploded.

He didn’t waste a second, he didn’t want to go slow. He took half of you into his mouth, making you groan at the tight, fuzzy sensation you got from feeling and looking his thin lips wrap around your veiny cock.

He started nodding his head, eyes never leaving yours as he used his other hand to pump the part of you he couldn’t fit into his mouth. He was enjoying it, the feeling of your hairs on his nose, the wet stickiness on his hand, the precum mixing with the blood in his mouth…it was better than anything else he had ever tired.

You started rocking your hips, fucking into his mouth, feeling your cock curve down his throat. Frank was not gagging, somehow. He removed his hand from your member to go back and focus on your balls as well, as he took you deep inside.

But having Frank all to yourself is too nice to be real. The taste of you was still on his tongue when the noise started, somewhere deeper in the warehouse, the sound of movement. Footsteps. Muffled voices. A groan that was definitely not yours or his.

You both froze. Your back was against the wall, pants half-off, Frank practically welded to you, breath hot against your cock. His fingers were still digging into your thigh, lips grazing your skin. You could feel how badly he wanted to finish. You were right there too, already cursing the interruption.

“Shit” you muttered, dragging in a breath through clenched teeth.

Frank pulled back slightly, forehead pressed to yours, jaw clenched like he was physically holding himself back from finishing what you’d started. His hips were still twitching like muscle memory hadn’t gotten the memo yet.

“We didn’t clear the whole place” he growled, like it was your fault somehow.

“No shit, Castle.” He glared at you, breath still ragged. You both looked down. Yup. Still hard. Both of you.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and frustrated. “We gonna finish this or save the city or whatever?”

He let out a groan, half pissed, half desperate, and slammed his fist against the wall right next to your head.

“This never happened” he gritted out, already tucking himself back in, hands shaking slightly.

You adjusted your pants too, biting back a hiss at how sensitive everything still felt. “Sure. Never happened. Just two guys bumpin’ dicks in a warehouse. Completely normal vigilante behavior.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me- oh wait” you snapped, wiping his spit from your mouth with the back of your hand. “You were.”

Frank didn’t answer. Just gave you a look that said ‘I will end you’, but with slightly less conviction than usual. Like maybe he was still fighting the urge to drag you back against the wall and finish what you started.

Instead, he stormed off toward the noise. Like a punished guard dog with a bone still stuck in its teeth. You followed, adjusting your jacket, trying not to think about the ache between your legs or the heat still crawling across your skin. Your whole body was buzzing like it’d been jump started then left hanging.

This wasn’t over. Not even close. But for now? Duty called. And your blue balls were along for the ride.

#male reader insert #male reader #x male reader #gay #smut #mlm smut #gay smut #reader #x reader #frank castle x male reader #Frank castle #frank castle x reader #the punisher #the punisher x reader #the punisher x male reader #marvel x male reader #marvel

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01zfan · 3 months ago

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see you around pt. 3

swim captain!anton x reader | 8.5k words

i initially had no inspiration for this fic, i had no idea where i was going with it. but then one of my favorite artists of all time released an album and one of the songs gave me so much inspiration. inspired by love me not by rayvn lenae and you’re not good enough and champagne coast by blood orange. hope you guys enjoy this! this couple grew on me so freaking much.

contains: no warnings!

see you around: one | two | three

The inclement weather put the abandoned warehouse out of commission, putting Giselle out of commission, and by extension you were also out of commission. March was dreary, cold, party-less, and desolate. The world was seemingly ending, Giselle made the current state of affairs seem like that. The world was ending and she couldn't have her ears blown out by shitty music on the weekends.

“I see you.”

You were forgetting was summer was like. By the time March came all you could remember was the cold. People still wore heavy jackets and had mittens with the part that covered the tips of their fingers. People stayed in their dorms or traveled to places close huddled together or taking taxis to their location. August was nice. The heat was bearable and everything was in bloom, classes were just starting and you were hopeful. In March, trees were barely coming back to life and you still had to layer your clothes.

Back in August you met Anton and you two were dating but not really, you were casual but serious, and you thought he needed you because you didn’t need him. Then he played that game with you where he abided by your unfair rules until you showed that you truly didn’t care.

“I’m sitting on the bench.”

Now there was a void, an absence of affection that made you say the obvious and wait for him in the cold. He already saw you sitting and he saw you on the bench, but you felt like you had to repeat it for good measure. The cold made your hands shake and it made you look for warmth. These days you waited for Anton to be done with practice and met him on his own terms. He wouldn’t be home anymore when you popped up without a notice, he wouldn’t ask you to come over. Your situation had gotten messier despite Anton becoming increasingly benevolent to your arrangement. Your texting conversations changed from Anton struggling to pull responses out of you to one worded answers. The only time he deviated from yes and no was to tell you the schedule for his practices. Maybe the world really was ending.

You were the one going out to see him lately, waiting outside the pools where he had practice. You were never in this position prior to March, it must be the cold weather. Everything was out of sorts, you were waiting on a bench looking around for him past the snow that still stuck to the ground. You turned around and saw him, and you felt like it had been ages since you saw him last. In passing suddenly wasn’t enough, hearing about the talks of his birthday party next week wasn’t enough. You didn’t know what would be enough. You should probably create some distance between the two of you.

“Your place or mine?” He asked.

You still sat on the bench, looking up at him. You blinked twice at the sudden question, not him commenting on how cute your outfit was. You put on stockings and your cutest jacket, even if it didn’t protect you from the cold. You had on those leg warmers, the ones Anton always smiled at. His eyes didn’t leave your face, his hand didn’t leave his pockets. You had to blink again, flicking your head as calmly as you could towards your end of campus.

“Karina’s got class late today.” You answer.

You said it while Anton was already walking past the bench, over the snow towards your dorm. You got up from your seat quickly, matching your steps with Anton purely to preserve body heat. Your limbs are frozen from sitting down for so long, and you spent all day running from class to class. You give yourself time to slow down for the first time ever with Anton right next to you. You move from the side that has his duffle hanging from his shoulder.

“How was practice?” Anton looks up from the ground. You press your thumbnail into your index finger. Usually the sound of crunching snow would fill the silence and you looked for nothing else. “I know you have that meet coming up soon right?”

Before he can answer, you pass by someone else he knows. Someone on the swim team you think, or it could be someone from his class. Or just a random person Anton found himself talking to. Regardless, like Anton knows him personally he smiles and asks how he’s doing, until the person asks him a question about the party. Anton confirms the date to the thing he hasn’t told you about yet and bids the person farewell. Like your question wasn’t asked he continues on the path to your dorm, adjusting the duffle on his shoulder.

Don’t ask about it. If you were supposed to know you would’ve known, if you were invited you would’ve been told. Even if it seems like half of the campus is going, it’s none of your business. Going to his birthday parties was suddenly too personal for what you two were, and it was by design none of his friends didn’t know to ask you. You should be happy. Anton is walking towards your apartment with you solely to fuck. he doesn’t ask you about your day or if you want to go on a date. He’s finally fallen in line to your demands. You don’t know why you miss him even if he’s right next to you.

You don’t say anything all the way up to your dorm. You let Anton follow in closely behind you, you even let the residence assistant at the front desk see him. She says hi and you say it back, you even look behind you until Anton is waving awkwardly and saying hi too. You hold his hand in the elevator silently, and you don’t let go when other people enter the elevator from other floors. You let them look at your hands, and you still hold it tight when Anton’s confused grip loosens.

You don’t say anything when you feel Anton come closer behind you as you walk down the hallway to your room, you don’t say anything until he closes the door and pushes you against it.

“You’re really hard to figure out.” Anton murmurs against your neck. Like that was supposed to turn you on you tilt your head back, arching your body further into his. His hand on your shoulder holds it tighter, the arm around your waist pulls you closer. “I don’t know what you want from me,” He kisses the junction of your neck, because if you hold his hand in semi-public settings maybe that means something else. He looks up to you when he’s done, because you’ve always reacted to pointless kisses. Anything that wasn’t leading directly to your pleasure always made you pull at his hair before telling him to stop playing around. "if you want me here or if you want me to go."

But when Anton indulges in kissing your collarbone next, and then another slow kiss to your neck you only tilt your head to the side to give him more. Of course you want him here. You want to grab him tight and not let him go until it freaks you out, then you want to let him go until you want to repeat the cycle over again. You take off your jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Anton works the buttons on your shirt slowly, the same way he kisses you.

“I didn’t know you were having a birthday party.” You sigh and tilt your head to the side more. Your hand goes to his duffle, and Anton lets you slide it off of him. Next is his varsity jacket, when it joins everything else you grab a fistful of his white shirt. Anton’s hand goes to your face, caressing your cheek and taking up any viable thought. “Were you not going to invite me?” You ask.

Anton pulls away from your neck. He looks down at you and you have to press yourself into your door to see all of him. He’s confused, because you’re confused and everything about you two is confusing. He sputters, he licks his lips and you let your lips part.

“Come, if you want.” His thumb goes to your bottom lip, pressing into the skin. Your hand wraps around his wrist, and you try to not think about how you’d be satisfied just doing this. “Sungchan invited Giselle.”

He knows you know about the party, because Sungchan tells Anton everything and Giselle tells you everything. You’ve decided you’ll go, or just entertain the thought of going because you decided the look in his brown eyes is almost pleading you. Everything you do is for Anton’s benefit, you’ve decided that this is all for him. Even if you feel like you’re weaker when it comes to him, everything is for Anton’s benefit. That’s why you reach for his pants before you reach for yours, and why you make sure you’re undressed before he climbs up the stairs to your loft bed.

“So pretty.” Anton brings his hands to your shoulders, and you straighten your posture to meet him the rest of the way. You’re embarrassingly put on display for him, sitting up on your knees patiently. “How are you so pretty?”

Anton sits down on your bed, pulling you closer to him by your waist. You let yourself be pulled closer, until you have to plant one hand on the mattress and the other on Anton’s shoulder to balance yourself. You lean into the kiss, and tilt your head when Anton tilts his.

You two work too well together. You kiss him when he pulls his hands away to put on a condom. You take charge and you’re sure this could work, you’re sure of it. Even if seeing him is pain it’s alright when his lips are so gentle against yours. You let your eyes open just for a moment to see his closed in bliss, and the way he turns to accommodate you so quickly. Why’d you turn him away from you so many times?

Anton’s hand goes to your face and tilts it for you, and his tongue is dragging over your lip then the top row of your teeth. You drag your hand down his stomach and finally touch him. Instantly Anton’s kisses get deeper, he pulls your face against his and changes his grip so he’s holding the back of your neck. You try to rise above him, to give some sense of control but he’s tugging you to his lap.

“Come here.” He murmurs, and he opens his eyes to look up at you. His eyes are so sincere, you don’t know if he knows how honest he looks from up here. Anton tugs at you again and you give in, sitting on your ass and scooting towards him. He helps you move, until you’re hovering above his lap with his dick in his hands. His hand preemptively wraps around your waist, and Anton nods before looking up to you again. “It’s yours.” He says quietly.

You’re not sure what the it is. He must be talking about something unimportant, because Anton whispers it under his breath. You only know he’s speaking because he’s so close his breath fans your face. It must not be anything more than sex, because there’s no reason Anton would be sitting on top of your sheets after another bout of no contact. You know that it must be embarrassing, because you can’t bring yourself to look at Anton as you sink down, until you have to move your hand away and you can feel him in the pit of your stomach.

“Anton.” You whimper into the crook of his neck.

His hand on the back of your neck keeps you there, and he moves his hips in the smallest motion. You can feel him inside of you, and you grind back desperately. You’re not sure this is doing anything for him, because you are the one moving your hips and whining pathetically in his ears. Anton just continues the smallest movements, reaching a hand down to your ass to help you move.

“I know, I know.” He coos, and you can feel him place a kiss to the side of your face. This is embarrassing, the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever had to endure. It makes you weak, because just hearing Anton know anything about you makes you continue to grind against his hips, until the frame of your bed starts to gently rock and you start forgetting about your neighbors. “Keep going.”

You really try to stay in the moment with Anton. The day turning into dusk makes the light leave your room, except for the muted sunlight that stays directly on him. Everything seems to want you to keep your focus on him, nothing else in your room can distract you. But you wonder how long you can keep this going. You already feel the burn in your thighs and being with Anton makes you feel like you’re losing your sanity. At the very least your agency is gone, because you follow everything he tells you to do without a second thought. When you’re without him all you can think about it having him like this again, holding onto him in elevators and pretending like you don’t know what’s going on in his life.

When you start whining and leaving indents of your nails on Anton’s arms and back he pulls away. His hands leave your body to plant behind him on the mattress so he can give you what you need. Your pathetic grinds looking for stimulation is by no means productive, only making you more strung up. When he pulls away his eyes tear you down, from your shaky chest down to the way your legs are tucked on either side of him. You try to tear him down too, to make him feel as naked as his eyes make you feel but he’s focused. Anton starts flicking his hips, meeting your grinds on him. He finds a way to fuck into you, and for a moment you find it in yourself to be still. He’s deep inside of you, each movement digging in deeper. Anton found that spot that makes you hang your head low and bite your lip so hard it could draw blood.

You focus on the place where you two meet, where Anton has sweat lining his toned stomach and it flexes with each movement. You see his muscles contract with each grind, and you can see something moving in your stomach too. Your hands don’t know what to do when they’re not holding onto Anton.

This is pathetic, because you’ve always known what to do with yourself during times like this. You could grab your chest and reach down to your clit, you could reach behind you and stabilize yourself on Anton’s outstretched legs. Maybe from that position you could attempt to pull some of your weight. You’re shaking, not contributing anything besides drowning out Anton’s grunts and quiet curses with obnoxious sounds of your own. You want to reach forward. You have never wanted to reach forward so badly. This was the first time you pushed your weight and hands onto Anton, holding him with one hand tight by the shoulders and the other carding through his hair. You have never put so much of your body weight on him so quickly that he has to pull one hand from behind him to wrap around your waist to stabilize you both, and you have never felt yourself look at him so guilelessly that his eyes widen in response.

“Are you okay?” Anton loses his rhythm, because something has to be wrong for you to look so vulnerable. He must also see the tears welling at your waterline because he brings his other hand to stop you from looking away. You’ve distracted him, because for the first time ever Anton stops completely when you’re both so close, until you’re just sitting on all of him and he’s looking you directly in your eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Don’t stop.” You shake your head and plant your feet flat on your bed, pushing yourself upwards just to come down. Anton’s hold on your face falters, just enough for you to straighten your back. There’s already a burn in your legs, but that is better than whatever that feeling was when Anton looked at you with genuine worry. “Just hold me tight.” You say.

Anton nods his head against your chest, letting his chin rest right in the center. He holds you tight, so tight your back straightens and his breath is fanning your skin. He laves the area and the burning in your thighs is manageable. Anton looks up to you, and your hand pulls at his hair, he takes your nipple into his mouth and you sit even taller. He helps you when you falter, his hands on your waist are strong and guides you back down on him. Your bed is creaking from your shared strength, the springs bounce underneath you both. Anton is grunting with your nipple in his mouth, his teeth graze your sensitive skin and your eyes screw shut.

“So close,” He pulls you closer, whatever he says to you is muffled. “so close, Anton.”

You can tell he wants to pull back to fuck you deeper. The mere thought of Anton not holding you the same way he is now makes you dig your nails into his skin. Like this he can’t leave you, he wouldn’t. This has to feel good for him too, because you can feel him twitch inside of you and hear the sounds he makes. You can see the sweat on his body, the determination in his eyes as he continues bringing you down on him. His hand tries to snake between your two bodies to your clit, but the closeness makes it impossible. He just wraps his arms around you, a bear hug that leaves his hands planted on your waist.

“Me too.” Anton unlatches, and you can feel the spit cool on your body. There’s a string of saliva broken by his tongue, that stays peaked out pressing into his top lip until he hits that spot deep in you again. Anton leans his head back, until your hand in his hair brings it close to your chest again. He stays there, panting against your skin trying against your strength to look up at you again. “I need you to cum first, though.”

Anton leaves one hand around your waist and the other goes to your shoulder. He covers the area easily, and with his new grip he finds another way to bring you down. You’ve never done this before. He’s working hard despite you being a hinderance, sacrificing the one thing you two count on eachother for just to be close. This has to be the last time, for someone’s sake. The thought of it almost makes you cry, especially because you’re barreling towards that feeling only Anton can make you experience. You can identify it as something akin to suffering, because you’re crying out and leaving marks in retaliation. You have to bear with it, because in that moment it’s the only thing you can think about. Anton changes to rut into you, hitting that same spot over and over again quickly. Your head goes to the crook of his neck, and you can hear Anton’s desperate sounds right in your ear. They’re loud and strangled, because he must be suffering too.

Without thinking you press your mouth to his neck and suck, because there has to be something that reminds you this is real. Anton flinches the moment he feels your lips, but then he stills inside of you and you can feel it. He whimpers in your ear, his hands moving to grip at anything his can. He has your soft skin in a vice grip, and the pain only makes everything more unbearable. You grind against him a few times, trying to prolong the torture he put you through. You’re stopped by his hands and his head shaking next to you, and your knees collapse to the bed. You’re slumped against Anton and his body wavers too.

To catch your breath you have to unlatch. To remember what this is you have to separate from him completely. But he still holds you tight and you still leave a mark, right where Anton will have to bear through comments at his next swim practice.

Your air conditioning unit kicks on. The bed creaks again, and you can feel your damp sheets underneath you. Anton spreads his legs a little further, and you slide down from his lap.

“We’re gonna make a mess.” When Anton lowers his hand you think for a second he’s going to pull you onto his lap again by your thigh. But it’s the slightest movement, one that makes you fully slide off of him like you’ve been hit. You’re so fast you don’t shiver like Anton does when he slides out. He’s careful with taking the condom off, because everything about Anton is so sensitive when he cums. His legs are still spread and you’re still between them, looking down at his fingers become shiny as he ties off the slimy latex.

“Where’s your trashcan?” He asks quietly.

You look up and Anton looks away, trying to find out where your garbage is. You point towards the cabinet space underneath your sink and Anton is getting up before he crawls down from your loft bed. The spot is right next to your door, and on the way to his clothes that were carelessly discarded on the way. This setup is perfect, but you feel cold again. The air conditioner is working overtime, and the cold bleeds through your rooms windows. Now you’re shivering on your bed, trying to hide it when Anton covers up the used condom with trash and pulls his boxers back up his legs.

You can admit to yourself that your relationship with Anton changed for the worse. If the lack of eye contact and the silence and the fact that you’re cold in the middle of March is any indication. Neither of you talk about it, how he left you at your most vulnerable the same way you did to him countless times before. In your long course of a relationship, whatever this was now, you would’ve never thought it’d be Anton saying that phrase to you.

I’ll see you around.

The worst part about it was that he said it so casually, the words rolled off his tongue the same it did yours. Patting your ass for good measure as he went down your loft bed and walked out. You watched him in silence as he put his pants back on, then his sweatshirt, then slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder before he walked towards the door.

The same scene played again and you felt your body being pulled towards his again. The tired euphoria that came from whatever happened minutes ago was replaced with the overwhelming feeling that something was wrong.

You wanted to right it more than anything. You wanted Anton to come back to your tiny bed and lay with you. Vocalizing something so simple should be easy. You just told him to hold you tighter so clearly, and you enunciated how close you were to finishing. There was no reason why it should be hard now. You have been figuratively throwing bones to Anton for what seemed like an eternity, you should know how to catch one. Instead you just want it so badly it causes you to crawl to the edge of your bed closest to him, reaching out a hand he can’t see because his back is facing you.

“You should stay.” You say quickly.

That got Anton to stop. You casted your line and he bit it. You saw him turn towards you, and you almost smiled at the attention he was giving you. His focus was on his clothes and the fastest way to leave, you felt like you were shining underneath his gaze. You quickly went to the edge of your bed, feet on the top of the ladder like you would dare to come down to him.

He adjusted the strap of his duffle. Your hands started messing with your covers. Your suggestion, your plead for him to stay lingered in the air as you could see him think about what you said. The Anton before would’ve taken you up on your offer immediately. He would’ve beamed at you and had a shocked look on his face, his eyebrows raised as he took in your words. You want me to stay the night? He would’ve asked with a teasing smile. You would’ve recanted your offer jokingly, trying to cut through whatever sentiment he was trying to project on you. You would’ve given an excuse as to why you wanted him to stay, and he would’ve acknowledge it for your sake.

But now Anton seemed uninterested. He got what he came here for—what you pathetically waited outside his practice for. He already fucked you and got out all of his frustrations for his devastating loss at his swim meet and the frustrations that come with whatever this is. He did what you needed him to do, you could actively see yourself be casted to the corner of his mind when you used to occupy so much of it.

“Why do you want me to stay?” He readjusted the strap on his duffle again. “I don’t think I have another round in me.”

He didn’t ask the question with a smile. He wasn’t teasing you, he wanted a straightforward answer when that was the one thing you weren’t good at doing. You wanted him to stay because you were cold, you think. You wanted him to stay because you wanted to not tell him how sorry you were for missing his swim meet. When you wanted to tell him your throat felt dry and when his eye contact didn’t falter you felt your eyes cast to the other side of your room.

“It’s late.” You said.

Saying a fact is better than admitting to your feelings. But it was the wrong answer. He only nods, flicking his wrist to check the time as he turns around and begins heading towards the door.

“I got swim practice early tomorrow.” Anton says.

You don’t know whether it’s the truth or not. He leaves your room, and all the cold air from the hallway rushes in before your heavy door can close behind him.

There was a mutual silence from the two of you after he left your room that night. You didn’t miss him. When you missed him you would message him. You never did, so you must’ve not missed him. You were strong enough to avoid him on campus and change the subject when Giselle would bring him up.

Whatever happened in your room was the last time it would ever happen. Even if you felt an itch where he kissed you last and it was like you couldn’t escape him and you saw him everywhere. You told yourself over and over that it wasn’t going to happen again. You genuinely weren’t going to go Anton’s birthday party. You deluded yourself into thinking that you were strong enough, until Giselle called your phone and told you parties are important, parties are fun, and she was going to be at your door in ten minutes.

So thirty minutes later you and Giselle were making the same trek you’d make to the warehouse. A bus—because public transportation was also fun and important according to Giselle—and then you were walking on paved sidewalks joining other people who were making the trip to the only party that has happened in a while.

“Why is March this year so cold?” You pulled your thin jacket closer to your body, shivering and huddling into Giselle. “I’m freezing.”

“It’s not that cold.” Giselle’s jacket was open and hanging off her shoulders. She was also on her phone, already curating a list of songs for when she’d inevitably hijack the aux. “You’ll warm up once we get to Sungchan’s.” Giselle looked up from her phone, looking at the small groups of people heading towards the same direction. “I think it’s gonna be packed.”

“I’m freezing. And everyone’s out because the warehouse is closed. This is probably like the first party that has happened in like a month.” You say. You went to your phone too. Giselle slides up on a text message, and you realize you haven’t gotten a single message all day. Anton used to ask you for confirmation on if you’d be somewhere or not. Now your phone is completely empty, clutched in your hand like you’re waiting for something.

You also made the mistake of getting Giselle started on the closure of the warehouse, because she’s talking your ear off about it. She talks about her dismay when she saw an off duty police car waiting on the edge of the property, just waiting for someone to come on the grounds. Giselle told you she could practically smell the cops, and she could already hear the sound of tickets ripping off their penpads before doling them out to unsuspecting college kids.

“Stupid cops getting in the way of fun. If they turned it into something I’d get it.” Giselle spoke over the drink to her lips, lowering it each time she remembered something else about the situation that pissed her off. You were leaned against the wall of Anton’s party, focusing on her because you didn’t want to think about anything else. “But it’s literally just a vacant building. They just want to be a fucking bother.”

“I know.” You nod and watch Giselle finally take a sip of her drink. She leans her full back against the wall, right next to the glorified DJ booth made from a bedside table and a bunch of speakers. You two settled right by the door, close to the aux cord and the man guarding it. Your ears were getting blown out by the loud chatter and the booming music, but you two have made it this far already. Giselle was busy trying to find an opening in between her rants and other requests, and you didn’t have the courage yet to head deeper into the party. You look down at your drink and lean in close, until your lips are right by Giselle’s. “It’s ridiculous because where else are we supposed to go?”

Just like that, Giselle is wound up again. Her eyes go wide before she brings her cup back down again and goes on another tirade. You lean one side against the wall, nodding along and taking another sip of your drink. Something about taking this issue right to court, or to have a party in retaliation. Giselle wouldn’t have noticed your wandering eye, she was too busy figuring out the logistics of an illegal party. But you were looking at her and only her. Convincing yourself you didn’t need to see someone was alot easier than actually following through with it. There was also the problem that you were here at a party celebrating him, because he was bound to be anywhere if you weren’t already seeing him everywhere. So you continued looking at Giselle, nodding knowingly even though she had told you these same things a million times before.

Giselle was actually the one who saw Anton first. The song changed and you thought she had finally gotten in the mood to dance her anger away, but she stilled and began looking forward.

“What’s wrong?” The bass shook your chest and the floor underneath your boots was sticky. You bumped into the framed picture on the wall as you leaned closer to Giselle, trying to figure out why your friend was suddenly silent. “Do you wanna dance?” You asked.

Giselle turned towards you instead, yelling directly in your ear as people danced and bumped into you.

“Don’t look,” You instantly turned your gaze through the throngs of people, looking for whatever Giselle was trying to keep away from you. “But I think a girl is smoozing up Anton right now.”

Almost immediately, you found them. Anton was leaned against the doorframe into the room where everyone was getting their drinks. He was nursing a beer, and right before you could cast Giselle’s words to the side you saw it. The girl got up on her tiptoes, leaning her hands on his shoulder as she talked right in his ear. He was attentive, not even finishing the swig of beer as he listened to her. You didn’t want to know where his other hand was. You prayed it was smushed between his body and the doorframe, not around the girls waist helping her balance. He looked down at her and smirked. You thought that look was for you and you alone. You felt the hair stand in your neck and a drop in your stomach.

“I told you not to look.” Giselle said it quickly, and you felt her tug at your arm to get you to face her again.

But it was too late. There was a pounding headache forming at the base of your skull and not from the shitty music playing directly into your ears. You felt it pound in your chest and you saw red, then you saw the white ceilings coming closer to you. You saw Anton lean down again, before smiling and whispering something into the girls ear. A group of smokers passed by you earlier and headed towards the bathroom and haven’t come back sense.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, not even sure if you got your sentence out before you were walking in the direction of the smokers. You had to tell people excuse me, and ignore the pleas from your friend to come back. You kept walking past the fairy lights, ignoring that feeling you got on the back of your neck when you entered Anton’s line of sight. You kept walking, because you didn’t know where else to go. You had to squeeze past a couple fully occupying the hallway with something that should be done in private, then you pressed your ear to the closed bathroom door. Someone was talking to their friend against the wall and you turned towards them. “Is someone in there?”

“No one is taking a shit if that’s what you’re asking.” The person dressed for a rave more than a house party motioned past the closed door. “They’re not letting anyone bum a cig off them either.” He continued.

You opened the door to an empty and cold bathroom. The sweat that was beading across your body was cold now, and the open window let even more cold inside. You heard the talk of the selfish smokers outside, you think they were even talking about the person outside who wanted it. It wasn’t a crime to want a free American Spirit at a party, but you had a million other things to worry about now. You needed a place to cry, not on the toilet where someone could walk in at any moment, maybe outside on the fire escape. The cold might even bring you to your senses if you’re lucky.

The end of March and it was still cold. Your breath vaporized as soon as you crawled past the threshold of the bathroom window. The fit was tight, you squeezed through and regretfully had to put your hands on the rusted metal to pull yourself out. Your breath came out in white huffs as you pressed your feet to the metal ground, and dissipated into the air when you stood up. You took staggered steps to the railing and held on tight. The selfish smokers didn’t care that you were out here, they only redirected their smoke and faced their bodies away from you. Maybe they weren’t so selfish after all. Maybe you would need a cigarette after all of this.

The people on the other end of the fire escape shivered and complained about leaving their jackets inside while you looked over the edge of the railing.

How was it still so cold outside? This time last year you would’ve been wearing shorts and crawling on fire escapes to try and get a nice spring breeze. The world must be ending you’re sure of it. The dread you feel in your stomach is about global warming than anything else. You don’t even care what’s going on inside, even if that’s all you can think about.

“You smoke now?” Before you turn around you already know who is talking to you. Your hands are resting on top of your hands, and you still look towards the other buildings in the apartment complex. The smokers turned around before going back to their conversation, huddling closer to preserve body heat. One of them crawls up the fire escape until they can sit on the metal rusted steps. and curses when they realize that’s cold too You shook your head, and you found yourself clearing your throat and straightening your posture. “What are you doing out here?”

“It was getting stuffy.” Even when you could hear Anton come through the open window and feel him stand behind you on the fire escape, you didn’t look over your shoulder. You still looked out, even when Anton leaned on the railing next to you. “There’s alot of people.” You say.

You finally steal a glance at him when he nods. You catch him in a moment where he’s changing the way he leans on the metal railing, you get to look at the side of his face for a second that stretched into an hour before you have to avert your eyes again.

“I think alot of people came because the warehouse is like, decommissioned.”

Anton lets out a breathy laugh and you have to grip the metal railing tighter. You want to turn and look at him. You haven’t been at the receiving end of his side smile, and out here it would be something reserved for you only. Nothing like inside the party. That had to be for show, the way he leaned in close to the girl talking to him. If it was, that’s none of your concern. The way he turns away from your face when you won’t look at him has to be real. You wonder if he’s looking at the same apartment building you’re focused on, or if he’s looking at the street lamps, or the skyline beyond that.

“I’m glad you’re here, though.” He comes closer, Until his arm touches your shoulder and your hands are gripping the railing next to eachother. “I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

“I haven’t been out in a long time.” You say.

The smokers got their cigarettes down to the butt, squishing out the dwindling flames. They drown the ends with beer in the ash tray for good measure, and then they’re scooting past you and Anton to squeeze through the bathroom window back to the party. One of them claps their hand on Anton’s back, wishing him a happy birthday and you can hear Anton try to remember who the person is. They’re shuffling back into the bathroom, the sound of the party can be heard when the door opens, then it becomes muffled again once it shuts. There’s a gust of wind, one that pushes Anton’s hair back and pushes you forward.

“Still,” Anton turns to face you again, and you realize that there’s nothing between the two of you. No smokers conversation, no one throwing up in the toilet. It’s you two on the fire escape by yourself, while people in the apartment look for the birthday boy. They’ll be outside any moments, you’re sure the girl that was hanging off of Anton is looking for him too. “didn’t think you’d show.” He says.

You lift your hands off the railing just to shrug them. Like you have no idea why you’re here. You remember when you used to redirect Anton’s questions with ease. Now you’re overthinking the shrug of your shoulders, if he saw how dirty your hands were from holding the railing.

“Did you enjoy the party?” Anton talks with a laugh again, like he truly cares if you’re enjoying yourself or not. You wish that girl would come through the bathroom door and pull him by the arm until he went back to the party. You want to be outside even if it’s too cold and the world is ending. “Before it got too stuffy?”

You nod your head, because you can’t bring yourself to verbally lie to Anton anymore. You felt sick since you opened the door to the apartment, and it only got worse when you realized it was worse seeing Anton even if you missed him more than you thought you would. You should be unaffected by being here. This should just be another party. Stuffy is nothing compared to the warehouse when people would show up. There you’d be shoulder to shoulder with no ventilation and the exits blocked. You’d be there in the August summer, but nothing felt like the apartment. Sweat and panic lined your body like there was an accident waiting to happen. Even after you left and you were here on the fire escape the fastest way to safety something felt wrong. Anton took a step closer and you went backwards, until the fire escape pressed into your back.

“I’m really glad you’re here.” Anton said it quietly.

Everything about Anton is intrusive. Even if he doesn’t move any closer to you, just the view of his face makes you remember everything. He makes it so hard to leave him, he makes it so hard to be with him in the way you need. You’re a match made in Hell, because the ice caps are melting and it’s freezing in the end of March but all you can think about is him. You’ve done nothing wrong, but all you can think about is apologizing. You have no right to be with him but looking at the side of his face makes you want to hold him tight.

You don’t even know if he notices, because he is looking towards the moon instead of turning to face you. He leans on the railing more than he leans on you, and he says nothing even if his lips keep twitching.

“Thanks for inviting me.” You say.

Anton leans down until his chin rests on the top of his hands. He tilts his eyes up at you, and you keep eye contact with him. The time stretches to grueling hours. There was a time when you could keep eye contact with Anton and not feel your body get weak.

“You come now when I invite you to things?” His voice is sarcastic, and you know that you could apologize for missing his swim meet. But that night you apologized the best way you knew how and you were sincere, even if it was prefaced with having makeup sex for something that too serious for your current arrangement. You were sorry when you were getting on your knees and you were sorry when he left so quickly afterwards. You were sorry for other things too, like feeling so weak, missing him so much, and thinking you were strong enough to be normal about him. “I didn’t know you were here until a couple minutes ago.”

Anton doesn’t say anything else. Like you had the right to be upset you got upset, and now Anton is acting like everything is alright you force yourself to act the same way.

“I’ll be better about that.” You look behind you again when the door to the bathroom opens and closes. People are filtering through the rooms, trying to find a silent place. You put all your weight on one foot, trying to distract yourself from that growing feeling in the pit of your stomach. “You looked busy.” You say.

“Never too busy for you.”

Anton comes a little closer and you can hear the metal beneath you creak. He still looks forward when he lets one hand go of the railing, then brings it to wrap around your waist. The gesture is simple—very low on the list things you two have done to eachother—but it makes you freeze nonetheless. Your breathing stops for a beat, even Anton is silent. He chews on his lip, and you try to not bend the metal in your grip.

Like it was the first time of you two ever doing anything you take in a deep breath. You’re hesitant titling your head until it’s up against Anton’s shoulder. He leans into you more to make the distance smaller, and you can feel him lowering his body to give your head a proper place to lay. This weather is bearable. The cold isn’t too bad, it keeps the bugs away and layering clothes can be fun. Protecting yourself from the cold is better than the heat, and snow is always nice to see.

“You’re shaking.” Anton is quiet, because you’re so close and it’s only you two you. You nod against his shoulder because the tremors are more prominent than before and even thought it feels like it’s August again. “We should go inside.”

You nod against his shoulder again but neither of you move. Your breath mingles over the railing of the fire escape before disappearing into the night. You settle further into him, and he leans more into you. His arm on your waist gets tighter. The lights from the other apartment buildings start turning on, and you know if you looked to the side you could see Anton clearly. You don’t know if you could bear it, even if it feels like right now something is being fixed.

You heard the bathroom door open, and instead of it closing it stays open. The music comes into the bathroom, past the window to you two. It’s loud but is filtered through whatever bubble you’ve found yourself in.

“Ton.” Anton turned around but you stayed looking forward. You knew who it was by the hesitation in her voice and the way Anton pulled his arm away from your waist quickly. It’s March again, freezing and desolate. “What are you doing out here? We’re about to cut the cake.”

You looked down from the railing of the fire escape, looking down at the people walking around in the parking lot. The world really was ending. Anton was smiling and saying he’d be inside in a second while the world was coming to an end. You remember all the times you found a reason to leave him alone at parties, just to show up at his place hours later. Now for some reason this seems final, even if he stays outside with you after the girl leaves.

There’s another bout of silence. You let out a fast breath and pull one in quickly.

“Ton?” You continue looking forward. You try thinking about the times you’ve called Anton by his nickname and the only thing you can think about are the times he’s been inside of you. That makes everything worse, because now you think about him being inside other girls, despite your current arrangement allowing him to. You think about other girls calling him Ton and you feel a pull in your stomach. “I didn’t know people called you that.”

“There's plenty of nicknames I have.” There must’ve been other girls whose dorms he’d go to. There’s no way it was just you, no matter how many times you both shared sentiments that you were only for eachother. “if you asked, it could the nickname only you call me by. But I think I prefer when you call me Tony.”

Last time you called Anton by that nickname it was August. You were pretending like things were casual between you two, trying out nicknames between the two of you after sex. Pillow talk between the two of you lately left much to be desired, but it's nice Anton remembered. You thought he would've liked to forget, especially because other girls call him other nicknames and everyone in this party seems to want him.

“Are you staying for cake?” Anton leans forward, trying to get into your line of sight. He’s so pretty and his eyes are so sincere it makes him look like a puppy. “The cake is kinda small,” He laughs and makes the size with his hand. It was probably one of those personal cakes you had seen in the casing at the bakery. You sent him a picture of a miniature cake with a dog on it once, saying it looked like him. “but I could save you a piece.”

You should go inside. You know Anton would help you through the bathroom window, and keep an arm around you as he goes back to the party. You know he’d keep you close and glance to you while everyone sang him happy birthday. You know he wants you there, and you know he’d invite you back to his place afterwards. But the world is ending, it really feels like it, even if Anton looks so hopeful.

Fully turning to face Anton it’s different. You watch his head tilt to the side, a knowing smile is across his face when he looks down. He’s so pretty out here in the nighttime. You’re ashamed you’ve never given yourself the chance to see him in the daytime. Back in August he was so pretty, the sun made him look like a dream in front of you. He looked different in the moonlight, his short black hair and his ears poking through. You want to go back to August. Only five more months until you two repeat this cycle again. If the world hasn’t ended by then.

“There’s another thing happening after this, I think.” Anton continues. His hand that was around your waist is limp between your two bodies. The warmest you felt since August came and went. You could have that back if you just moved a little closer. “My friend invited me. The one that just came in.” Anton uses his other hand to motion towards the girl that was waiting at the windowsill moments ago. You wonder if she knows he’s inviting you to something that was probably more personal than this gathering. “Are you going to that too?” He asks.

Anton is hopeful. There’s still stars in his eyes, or maybe its anger. Recognizing the signs has been harder since you’ve spent so much time denying them. The way Anton leans close could just be an attempt at extending a platonic olive branch, being out here with you instead of celebrating himself is just pity. You can’t seem to escape him, even if you’re at his party with him alone. You have to focus on your breathing again, to make sure the white puffs of air vaporizing doesn’t show how tight your chest feels.

“Maybe.”

You look over your shoulder and Anton looks back at you. He’s already halfway to the window, leaning against the side of the building right next to the opening. He nods like he knows how you’re feeling and reaches out a hand to clasp over your shoulder. Almost August. The touch is like June, right before everything happened and before you knew someone was going to change your life. He pulls his hand away and crouches to go back to his party. You don’t like how March feels.

“I-I’ll be at that swim meet next week though.” You say it when Anton is halfway through the window, and you make him pause to turn around. The light from the bathroom shows his entire smile, from his teeth to his eyes that close. You have to lean against your back against the railing and your hands to keep yourself grounded. “I’ll be there.” You repeat.

Anton goes back into the bathroom, hands planted on the windowsill as he looks up at you. Someone calls for his name again and the music abruptly stops.

“I’ll see you around then?“

Anton asks the question. They start chanting Anton’s name in the apartment, talking about cake. The temperature outside is suddenly bearable.

“Yeah. You’ll see me.”

#seriez: see you around #01zfan: anton #anton smut #riize smut

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constructioncostco · 3 months ago

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The extensions allow the users to add special tools and features for using. Users can find extensions from extension warehouse for particular application like drawing or 3D based printing. Users can customize the capacity of SketchUp by using and adding extension to it. The extensions are very useful to smooth the workflow and speed up the productivity.

Here we will discuss about top ten extension for SketchUp. The extensions are mentioned below.

V-Ray next for the SketchUp

This V-Ray next extension for SketchUp provides the users quick and easy photorealistic render. This extension improves the workflow, can quickly interact with SketchUp scenes, set the perfect lighting, assets, and render fast. Though this not free of cost. Users who are in intermediate and advanced level and familiar with rendering process can access this. This extension is superb for high quality renders. This extension is available in windows and mac. This extension has 30 days free trial. The annual subscription of the extension is ?270.

Lumion Live Sync for SketchUp

By using this extension users can keep live connection means users can create different model and rendering at a time. This extension gives the user an experience of making real life building. This extension is suitable for smaller scale models. Users who are in intermediate and advanced level can use the extension. It can visualize small scale projects as the model. Users can use this extension in windows only. Price of Lumion is ?1499 and the price of Lumion Pro is ?2999. This extension has a free educational license in few countries. A free trial version of this extension is also available for 14 days only.

#architecture #sketchup #extension #warehouse #building

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badasoneandonly · 5 months ago

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𝘚𝘈𝘓𝘝𝘈𝘛𝘖𝘙𝘌 || 𝘏𝘞𝘈𝘕𝘎 𝘐𝘕-𝘏𝘖 × 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘋𝘌𝘙

𝘞𝘤: 1,714𝘬

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺:

Hwang In-Ho, a powerful mafia boss, falls for Y/N, a humble barista. When she's kidnapped, In-Ho rescues her, and they form a deep bond. As she heals, their love grows, and In-Ho finds peace in a life of simplicity, realizing that love is more valuable than power.

𝘎𝘌𝘕𝘙𝘌: !𝘔𝘈𝘍𝘐𝘈 𝘉𝘖𝘚𝘚 𝘐𝘕𝘏𝘖¡ 𝘉𝘈𝘙𝘐𝘚𝘛𝘈 𝘠/𝘕! 𝘛𝘏𝘙𝘐𝘓𝘓𝘌𝘙, 𝘋𝘙𝘈𝘔𝘈, 𝘋𝘈𝘙𝘒 𝘙𝘖𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘊𝘌, 𝘊𝘙𝘐𝘔𝘌/𝘔𝘈𝘍𝘐𝘈, 𝘈𝘊𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕, 𝘙𝘖𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘛𝘐𝘊 𝘚𝘜𝘚𝘗𝘌𝘕𝘚𝘌.

𝘈/𝘕: 𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘮 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘧𝘪𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘦... 𝘌𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 (𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥)

It was a cold evening in Seoul, the air crisp and sharp with the promise of winter. The city was a constant whirl of movement, but in the heart of it, Hwang In-Ho stood apart, a towering figure of power and wealth. His reputation was built on blood, his empire thriving on fear and ruthlessness. At forty-three, he had seen it all—ruthless enemies, betrayals, and betrayals disguised as loyalty. Money and power came easily to him, but peace and contentment were things he had never known. He had everything the world could offer—expensive suits, limousines, and mansions that glistened under the city lights—but nothing filled the void inside him.

Then he met her.

Y/N was a simple woman who worked in a small café at the edge of the city. She had no regard for the world of wealth that In-Ho lived in. She was nothing like the women who flitted around his life, who were fascinated by the money and power he controlled. She was kind, humble, and... real. Every time In-Ho walked into the café, her presence tugged at something deep inside him. She was just a barista, but there was an honesty in her eyes that In-Ho couldn’t ignore. She never sought his attention, never looked at him with awe or wonder. She treated him as any other customer, which was rare in his world.

It was the quiet moments with her that stayed with him—the brief exchanges over coffee, the subtle smile she gave him, the way she never asked for anything. There was no agenda with her, no hidden motives. Y/N had lived a life far different from his, one of simplicity and grace. She had no need for the things he could offer. Yet, she was magnetic, drawing him in, piece by piece.

But, as time passed, something unsettling began to gnaw at him. He hadn’t seen her at the café for days. At first, he thought little of it. People took breaks, sometimes they were sick or away, but when a week passed without a word, something inside him stirred—a feeling of dread he couldn’t explain.

In-Ho wasn’t the kind of man who wasted time searching for anyone. But Y/N was different. She had become a constant in his life, the one thing in his world that felt real. His concern turned into something more than curiosity, something deeper. He knew that something wasn’t right.

His men scoured the city, tapping into his extensive network of informants. Hours turned into days, and his obsession with finding her only grew. It wasn’t until the truth came to light that the darkness inside him began to take shape. Y/N had been kidnapped.

In-Ho’s heart stopped. His enemy—his greatest adversary—was behind it all. They had taken her to send a message, to hurt him, to make him bleed. But they had underestimated him. They hadn’t just taken his prey; they had taken someone he cared about.

His men worked fast, preparing for a raid. In-Ho’s world was one of shadows and power, but now it was personal. They had crossed a line. Y/N was more than just a victim—she was his. She was someone he couldn’t lose. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anyone destroy the one thing that had started to bring him peace.

The warehouse was abandoned, cold and uninviting, the perfect hideout for men like his enemies. The smell of rusted metal and stale air filled the space as In-Ho and his team stormed through it. The sound of his footsteps echoed, the tension palpable in every move.

And then, he saw her.

Y/N was shackled to a chair, her face pale, her body bruised and broken. Her eyes were wide with fear, but there was a flicker of recognition when she saw him. In-Ho’s chest tightened. Her beauty was untouched, but she was different. She was no longer the woman he remembered from the café. This woman was a victim—beaten, tortured, and broken by the cruelty of his enemies. His enemies who would pay for this.

Without a word, he rushed to her side, his hands shaking as he carefully untied the ropes that bound her. Her skin was raw, and there were signs of brutality in the way her body trembled, but when their eyes met, there was no fear in her gaze—only exhaustion and disbelief.

“I’m here, Y/N,” In-Ho whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re safe now.”

She didn’t speak at first, her body too weak to respond. But as he lifted her into his arms, her sobs broke free, her body convulsing in his embrace. She clung to him, her tears soaking through his suit, her cries raw and desperate.

“Why me?” Her voice was hoarse, broken from the trauma. “How do you know my name?”

In-Ho’s heart clenched. He hadn’t expected to hear such questions, but he understood. He wasn’t just the man who saved her—he was the man she had never known, the man who had shown up out of nowhere. But now, in her time of pain, he had become her savior.

“I’ve been watching over you, Y/N,” he murmured. “I couldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Her eyes searched his face for an answer, and he could see the confusion and hurt in them. She didn’t understand, and perhaps, she never would. The man she knew was not the man she was seeing now. But In-Ho wasn’t about to let her go. Not now. Not when she had become the most important thing in his life.

The ride back to his mansion was quiet. Y/N was too tired to speak, her body shaking from the pain and exhaustion. In-Ho held her close, his thoughts swirling. He had never felt like this before—this protective, this vulnerable. But for her, he would do anything. She had shown him a life he had never known, one that wasn’t built on lies or greed, but on kindness and simplicity.

When they arrived at the mansion, In-Ho ensured she was taken care of. He had everything a man could want in life—wealth, power, and influence. But as he watched her, he knew that she didn’t want any of it. Her eyes spoke of a life far simpler, a life she didn’t want to be bought.

“I don’t want any of this,” she whispered, her eyes flickering to the luxurious surroundings. “I just want to heal, In-Ho. I don’t need your wealth. I don’t need any of it.”

Her words struck him harder than he expected. She wasn’t like the women who craved wealth or status. She didn’t need his money or his mansion. She just needed him—someone who cared for her, someone who didn’t see her as an object to be admired, but as a person worthy of love.

He fell in love with her more in that moment, realizing that this was what he had been searching for all his life. Not a woman who wanted his money, but a woman who wanted his heart. And for the first time in years, In-Ho knew what it was like to love and to be loved in return.

Days turned into weeks, and as Y/N’s strength returned, so did the bond between them. She still didn’t want luxury, still rejected everything In-Ho offered her in the form of wealth and opulence. Instead, she wanted to heal in her own way, in the quiet, away from the glittering world In-Ho had created. And he let her. He let her find peace in the simplicity she longed for.

One night, Y/N awoke with a start, a scream escaping her lips. Her body was drenched in sweat, the nightmare lingering in her mind like a ghost. The fear and helplessness she had felt in captivity flooded her senses, the memories too vivid to escape.

In-Ho jolted awake at the sound of her scream. His heart raced as he immediately reached for her, his hands trembling as he pulled her into his arms. Her body was rigid, her breath quick and shallow, her face pale with terror. She was shaking, her body locked in the grip of the nightmare.

“Y/N,” he whispered urgently, his voice rough with worry. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’m here.”

Her eyes darted around, confused and frantic. It took a moment for her to recognize where she was—the soft, warm sheets of their bed, the scent of his cologne in the air. Gradually, her breathing slowed, but the fear in her eyes lingered.

“I—I was back there,” she choked out, her voice shaky. “I was back in that place...”

In-Ho tightened his hold on her, his heart breaking at the sight of her pain. He gently stroked her hair, his lips brushing the top of her head.

“Not anymore,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing. “You’re with me. No one will hurt you again. I swear it.”

Y/N clung to him, her body still trembling, as she let out a sob, the dam of her emotions breaking in that moment. In-Ho held her tightly, feeling his own heart break with each tear she shed. He would never let her go. He would protect her from everything, from the world that had tried to take her from him.

The months passed, and in the quiet of their life together, Y/N became his world. She healed, and with her, he found healing too. They married in a small, intimate ceremony, just the two of them. No extravagant celebrations, no lavish guests. Just a bond between two souls who had found each other against all odds.

Soon, they were expecting their first child. In-Ho could hardly believe the transformation that had taken place within him. His empire was still there, his wealth still vast, but it was no longer the driving force of his life. It was Y/N. It was their child. It was the simple, quiet life they had created together.

In-Ho had built an empire from nothing. But with Y/N by his side, he found something even more valuable than money. He found love.

𝘛𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵: @warlabels @ehcausewhynot @m0rtifiedg0th @xcinnamonmalfoyx @hwang-inhosb1tch @kimeungun114 @enzosluvr @filthygalli

𝘈/𝘯: 𝘈𝘈𝘈𝘈𝘈 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘧𝘪𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥? 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 2 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘸 𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩.

#hwang in ho x reader #hwang in-ho x reader #hwang inho x reader #player 001 #frontman x reader #lee byung hun #squid game #squid game fanfic #oh young il #hwang in ho #lee byung hun fanfic #001 #frontman x you #front man x reader #the front man #oh young il fanfic #Spotify

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luxaofhesperides · 2 years ago

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Danny accidentally appearing out of Duke's shadow. And doing it purposely every time after that. ; requested by @kyrianclawraith! (deviated from your original prompt a bit, sorry! the ghostlights brainworms got away from me)

Traveling through shadows has become second nature for Duke after using them so extensively over the years. He even uses them as a civilian, hopping between shadows when he’s running late to class so he doesn’t have to stress out over traffic.

Not even Batman’s scoldings can stop him from making it on time to his classes. Risks need to be taken for the sake of his education!

The shadows are comforting. They hide him from sight, get him to where he needs to go, and gives him the alone time he needs when he’s been around people for too long and desperately needs some quiet to recharge. Duke would say that he’s well versed in the shadows at this point, no longer stumbling out into the light.

Even with all his practice and confidence, he still can’t prepare himself for tripping over someone in the shadows while he’s trying to escape some of The Riddler’s goons.

They both go tumbling out of the shadows, landing in a corner hidden by storage shelves. The poor tripping hazard of a person is under him, groaning lightly as he reaches up to press a hand to the back of his head, where he hit the concrete floor.

“Oh, shit,” Duke whispers, “I’m so sorry. What are you doing here? How are you here?”

“I was hiding,” the guy hisses back at him. “I wanted to get out of the rain and dozed off and when I woke up, guns were being shot! I was up in the rafters, so excuse me for thinking no one would find me up there!”

Another gunshot rings out, alarmingly close to where they are.

Duke curses under his breath, then picks up the guy and hauls him over his shoulder. “Time to go!” And then he’s disappearing into the shadows again, following the line of them outside the warehouse and down the street.

As soon as they’re safely away from the goons, Duke steps out of the shadows and carefully sets the civilian back onto his feet.

“So sorry about that,” he says, “But I need to get back and deal with them. Stay safe!”

He’s gone before the civilian can say anything else, and though it’s embarrassing that he tripped over someone while shadow hopping, at least it ended relatively well. It’s not like it’ll happen again.

Duke, sweet, naive Duke, doesn’t think much of the civilian again. He’s a busy guy with a busy life! Lots of things to do! Lots of embarrassing moments to keep secret from the other Bats! No one has mentioned it at all, so he thinks he’s safe from being teased about it.

That is, up until he’s training with Dick and a hand pops up out of his shadow.

“Um,” Dick says, backflipping away from Duke’s punch. He lowers his escrima sticks and squints at the space behind Duke. “Are you… trying something new with your powers?”

“...No? I’m not using my powers right now.”

Dick looks more and more alarmed. He won’t look away from the space behind Duke, and it’s making him nervous. He doesn't want to look, but he knows he has to.

Steeling himself, Duke takes a deep breath, then turns slightly to see what’s behind him.

Nothing.

His gaze goes down, and he sees a pale hand sticking out of his shadow, moving back and forth. It then comes out some more, up to the elbow, and the hand pats the ground Duke’s shadow lays on, a stiff mat perfect for sparring.

Behind him, Dick turns on his escrima sticks, the electricity crackling through the air.

The hand disappears for a moment.

Then two hands appear and grab the ground, hauling up a body from Duke’s shadow.

Duke is very well versed in shadows. He travels through them almost daily. He thinks he would know if there was some strange netherworld hidden in the shadows where other beings could pop out of shadows like portals. This is alarming, to say the least.

“Don’t move, Duke,” Dick warns, creeping closer, ready to attack.

A head pops out of his shadow. Whatever it is glows and their white hair moves softly as if underwater. They’re facing away from him, so he can’t see their face, but he can see the black, skin-tight suit their wearing as they float up from his shadow, no longer needing their hands to pull themself out.

“Huh,” they say, looking up at the ceiling.

Dick grabs Duke’s arm and pulls him back, shielding him with his body. “Who are you?” he demands, voice cold.

The creature/person startles and whips around to stare at them with wide green eyes. His gaze darts down to the electrified escrima sticks, then back up again, visibly nervous.

“Um, hi! Sorry, I didn’t know anyone would be here. Wherever this is.”

“How did you get here?”

“I was practicing a new portalling method. I found a ghost to teach me how to move through shadows, since my usual portals are very bright and noticeable. Not great when you’re trying to be stealthy! I did not mean to end up here.”

Duke stares at him. “You came out of my shadow.”

“Sorry,” the guy repeats. Then he squints at Duke. “Hey, didn’t you save me the other day? From the warehouse?”

It’s been a while since Duke’s saved anyone from a warehouse. Criminals and goons have moved on to condemned apartment complexes and the back rooms of bars. The only person he’s saved is the tripping hazard…

“Man, what is up with you and getting caught in my shadows?”

“This is your fault!” the guy insists. “I associate shadows too strongly with you! That’s why I’m here! Probably. I don’t actually know how this works.”

“You don’t know how it works but you did it anyways.”

“It sounds bad when you say it like that.” The guy floats down to the ground and offers Duke a hand. “I’m Phantom, by the way! Figured I should introduce myself because this will happen again.”

Duke considers introducing himself as the Signal, but Danny is looking directly at his bare face, so it’s lost cause. Talk about an unexpected security breach. “Duke. You looked a little different when we first met.”

“Yeah, that was my human form. This is my ghost form.” A watch on his wrist, some clunky looking thing that looks like it came from the early 2000s, beeps and Phantom frowns at it. “Shoot, I need to go. I’ll see you later!” And he dives right back into Duke’s shadow, disappearing.

Duke blinks at the empty space where Phantom used to be, still reeling from the shock of it. He’s so busy processing the last few minutes that he doesn’t hear the escrima sticks turn off until Dick is dropping a heavy arm around his shoulders, holding him in place. There’s a smile on his face, but it’s not happy; it’s a warning that he’s at his limit and is barely hanging on to niceties.

“So,” he says as Duke cringes, “Looks like we need to have a talk about the things you’ve been hiding from us, Duke.”

He can’t do anything but resign himself to his fate.

After that conversation, he’s instructed to let them know when Phantom pops up. Which is fine until he realizes that Phantom really did mean it when he said that it’ll happen again.

Phantom pops up constantly. Most of the time, Duke is lucky enough to be at home, or in the Manor, or in the Batcave away from the public where no one will freak out about a glowing boy popping out of his shadow. Sometimes, he’s in the middle of the street as a civilian and has to sprint away, ducking into the first empty alley he can find in order to climb up onto the rooftop where no one will see him.

It’s stressful and confusing and he wishes he could be more upset about it, but Phantom is fun. He’s funny and charming and tells the craziest stories about ghost fights that Duke can’t help but hang onto every word.

He dutifully updates his Phantom Log, noting each time he’s portaled through Duke’s shadow, any information he’s revealed, and an injury count after Duke noticed a concerning pattern of Phantom often showing up after he’s been in a fight.

Duke begins to get a feel for when Phantom is about to show up. A shiver runs down his spine and his awareness of the shadows around him grows. Sometimes, he could swear he could feel something tear apart in his shadow. He feels it then, a tear that stitches itself up almost instantly, a ripple in the shadow, before that familiar hand pops up again and Duke grabs hold of it to haul Phantom out into his bedroom.

He is, once again injured. There’s a large gash running down the length of his other arm, bleeding a toxic, glowing green.

“Dude,” Duke says, unable to keep the judgment out of his voice.

“You should see the other guy,” Phantom snorts. “I slammed him through five streets, then ripped his limbs off.

“Dude…”

“Just to be clear, they weren’t his real limbs. He has a robot suit he uses like a body because he’s like a tiny little bean.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how to take that. Anyways, have you still not figured out how to open portals that aren’t connected to my shadow?”

Phantom shrugs. “Nope. And I’m not really trying to figure it out. I like hanging out with you. Plus, it’s nice to see a friendly face after a fight.”

“Can’t you like, go home and have your family take care of you first.”

“Uh, better not,” Phantom laughs nervously. “They’d probably kill me for real if they saw me like this.”

Duke quietly notes to himself to add that statement to the Alarming Things Phantom Says list.

“Does it… bother you? Me always coming to you?” There’s a smallness to his voice, a fragility that makes Duke want to beat himself up for making Phantom feel like that.

“No! No, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t keeping you from anyone else.”

Phantom brightens. “Oh! Well, no need to worry about that. No one’s worried, back home. They know I disappear sometimes.”

…Another concerning thing. Duke is considering bribing Phantom into staying in Gotham forever, living in his shadow, just so he can take care of him. Just to be sure Phantom’s safe. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks, eyes flickering down to Phantom’s bleeding wound.

Phantom futilely tries to hide the wound with a hand. The green blood leaks out from between his fingers, and he applies more pressure to the wound with a faint wince. “Nope! All good here. I’ll heal in no time, honest.”

“Then, do you want to just hang out? I really don’t know why you’d chose to keep coming to me.”

“You’re good company, dude. Very chill. Very fun. And you’re a hero! That’s so cool. Why wouldn’t I keep coming back?”

Duke shrugs, not sure how to put his insecurities into words. He’s already starting to get the Bat-specific inability to communicate emotions, which is definitely a problem. He’ll need to spend time with other people to be normal again.

As if sensing that Duke’s mood is falling, Phantom launches into another tale, complaining about people who bother him, teachers who are terrible at teaching, having snark-fights with the embodiment of Time itself, and so on. He always has the craziest stories, and he tells them so casually that Duke has to second guess himself, wondering if he’s overreacting when he’s shocked by what Phantom tells him.

He starts telling his own stories as well, mostly fun civilian interactions he’s had since they last spoke, villain fights, the ever changing theories on the ‘Who is Batman Sleeping With Now?’ shared document all the other Bats have. By the time an hour passes, Phantom’s arm is fully healed and he’s flying in lazy circles above Duke.

His watch beeps again in the middle of him recounting the insane drama happening at his school. Phantom sighs and sinks back to the floor, hovering just above Duke’s shadow.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he says, voice warm.

Duke shrugs. “You’re good company. I like when you visit.”

A slow, soft smile spreads across Phantom’s cheeks, making him glow even brighter. “Sweet talker,” he accuses fondly, then flies in for a quick, tight hug. He pulls back before Duke can reciprocate, and salutes him with a cheeky, “See you soon!” and is gone, flying into Duke’s shadow before he can respond.

Shaking his head fondly, Duke falls back against his bed.

Despite how unconventional their friendship is, he is glad Phantom keeps coming back. He hopes he’ll get to see Phantom’s human form again.

…And get more used to the horror movie scene that is Phantom clawing his way out of his shadow. No matter how many times he sees it, the sight still makes him jump.

Not that he’s ever going to admit that.

If Phantom thinks he’s cool, he’s going to do whatever he can to keep that impression from changing. It’s only reasonable, really.

(“Shut up, Dick,” he says later when he recounts this encounter with Phantom. Dick just keeps laughing, endlessly amused that Duke got ‘jumpscared into a crush’ as he phrased it. That’s definitely not what happened.

Next time, he’s definitely convincing Phantom to scare Dick with him.

Revenge will be his.) . . .

[send me ghostlights prompts! one day left before they close on 11/17]

#ghostlights #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp fic #dp x dc fanfic #prompt fill #my writing #100% after danny gets a hang of traveling thru shadow portals more hes going to help duke in fights #meaning duke is going to throw a ball of shadows like a pokeball and dannys going to pop out of it to deliver a spectacular flying tackle #theyre the dream team (trouble makers) :)#thanks for the prompt!!

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redhoodinternaldialectical · 1 year ago

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Cannot stop thinking about how like... Jason has died more than once. Jason has probably died at least three times and I'm nearly certain that all of those are still applicable to modern canon.

He died as a kid in the warehouse

He is so strongly implied to have died and been rezzed in UtRH's ending that like I'm not sure how else to interpret it tbh

He died in Task Force Z and is given a huge dose of Lazarus Resin to resurrect him again

Considering that the crash shown in Gotham War entirely obliterates the plane he was in

and Jason just fucking shows up?? As though he was somehow, mysteriously, able to walk away from that plane destroying crash completely unharmed?

I think it's very reasonable to assume/headcanon that he died here too. Hell, it might be reasonable to assume he's immortal in a similar way to Savage???

If Jason doesn't have extensive experience with the afterlife, it's only because he's not allowed in the door lmao

Also just... so much ow with him being the only person who actually knows he's died more than the once? And like... does he actually realize how many times he's died? Would he ever be willing to tell anyone else? Why doesn't he ever bring those other times up? Were they too quick, and thus he only feels like the first "counts"? Or does it simply hurt too much to consider the implications?

Idk there's something very fascinating about the way his death is central to his character, but his deaths aren't.

#jason todd #damian's tomfoolery #largely incoherent but like I keep thinking about it #so it had to get typed

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ddostoyevskyy · 21 days ago

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GUNS N’ ROSES

Oneshot versions of the Guns N’ Roses Series.

Nakahara Chuuya

FORMERLY AGAINST THE GRAVITY

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒... gn!reader, PM strategist!reader, he fell first and fell harder trope, quite suggestive, mostly in Chuuya’s POV, typical-canon violence, reader has no ability but is good at fighting (especially guns and fighting mid-air), crappy writing fight scenes (srry), spoilers from the stormbringer, reader is heavily in denial of feelings and Chuuya’s a bit pushover

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄... 'm gonna drop this like this and be gone for months again, bye 🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️ I changed the title because I feel like it was more fitting? And, y'know, reader uses guns and Chuuya's ability creates flower-like patterns to his skin so... (this was actually the oneshot version of Guns N' Roses series)

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒... 5.6K words.

You gave Chuuya Nakahara the impression that he was chasing something out of reach, and he couldn't stand it. When you were around other people, you were friendly and even lively; you laughed readily, leaned into conversations, touched people's shoulders, and joked as if you were breathing. However, he felt as though a switch had been flipped. Your voice was always calm, aloof, but never impolite. The way you kept him at arm's length made his skin crawl with annoyance, even though you never disregarded him or went too far in showing disrespect. You were courteous and succinct when he talked to you, and you only looked at him once before quickly moving on.

You never stayed or offered him the same simple solace that you provided to everyone else. He would, however, catch you doing things that spoke louder than words could. An additional umbrella, obviously yours, would always be waiting at his door on rainy evenings. During lengthy sessions, you secretly placed your coffee next to him if he casually stated that he had a particular preference. You never admitted it. Never grinned. Didn't remain long enough to ask him. He was enraged by this type of contradiction.

However, your stillness was most audible during conflicts. Just instinct, skill, and a keen mind that synchronized perfectly with his, without any talent or glitzy techniques. The last time a dozen armed men ambushed you in the industrial district, there was mayhem — gunfire, clashing steel. Chuuya recalled how you had jumped without thinking, relying on him to invoke his ability in midair and effortlessly catching your fall. He was able to manipulate space to land unbelievable kicks, slide through opposing lines, and strike out opponents with horrifying precision as you spun around him in perfect time.

Every movement flowed like choreography — unspoken understanding, flawless coordination — even though not a word was spoken. You even launched yourself off a wall nearby and slammed your heel into a man's chest, the impact resounding like thunder, using his gravitational field. You just nodded and walked by him after it was all over, bloodied, bruised, and breathing heavily, as if it didn't matter. As if you weren't a ridiculous extension of his body that moved with him.

It infuriates him. Because if you didn't feel anything, why in the world would you act that way? And why did you act as though you didn't feel anything if you did?

The warehouse was still, the aftermath of violence echoing in the silence. Faint creaks in the metal beams. The slow drip of something — blood, oil, rain. The smell of gunpowder and scorched fabric still clung to the air, thick and heavy. The storm outside had started to calm, but inside, the static between them hadn’t gone anywhere.

Chuuya stood in the dim light, watching you from across the room.

You were sitting on a crate, leaning forward, forearms braced on your knees. Your shoulders were slack now, exhaustion bleeding into your posture, the tension from the fight melting into silence. Your fists were unwrapped, bruised and smeared with dried blood, and there was a smudge on your cheek— someone else’s blood, maybe your own. It didn’t matter. You hadn’t even bothered to wipe it away.

You looked like you’d been through hell.

But God, you were beautiful.

Not in the clean, polished way most people thought of it. Not in a way that begged for attention or knew how to wear admiration. It was in the way you held yourself now, quiet and raw, like the aftermath of a storm. Your hair was damp and tousled, bits of it clinging to your skin. Your chest rose and fell slowly with each breath, your body language still alert despite the exhaustion. The sharp edges of you had softened — but only just. You looked wrecked. Real. Human.

And to Chuuya, that was what made it impossible to look away.

You didn’t glance at him once, but he couldn’t stop staring.

You always did this after a fight. Shut down. Pull inward like a closing door. Like you didn’t want anyone to see you when your guard was lowered. But he saw you. He always saw you —especially like this, when everything else was stripped away. When there was nothing left between you but sweat and blood and truth.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You good?”

Your voice came back after a beat, flat and automatic. “Yeah.”

Liar.

He moved closer, slow and deliberate, boots crunching faintly on the ruined floor. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge him. Just kept staring at your bloodied hands like you weren’t quite sure they belonged to you anymore.

He stopped in front of you. His eyes dragged down your figure — not in hunger, not exactly, but in ache. You were a vision like this, worn down and shining under the low amber light. Every mark on your skin felt earned. Every movement felt like a secret you didn’t mean to share.

“You fought like hell,” he murmured, crouching low until he was eye level. “Didn’t even flinch when I launched you into the air.”

You gave a faint snort, a breath of amusement — but no words. It was the closest thing to softness you’d shown him since the fight ended.

Chuuya let himself watch you.

Really watch you.

The way your lashes cast shadows under your eyes. The way the light hit your skin — still glowing faintly from exertion and blood loss. The gentle tremble in your fingers that you were trying to hide. You always carried yourself like a weapon — but now, for once, you looked like someone who bled. Someone he could touch.

And fuck, he wanted to.

He wanted to run his hand along the curve of your shoulder. To brush that stubborn hair out of your face. To rest his palm against your jaw and make you look at him — really look.

“You always act like nothing gets to you,” he said quietly. “Even when you’re bleeding.”

You didn’t reply. But you glanced at him then — just a flick of your eyes, nothing more. And that one look? It landed like a punch in his chest.

There was heat behind your gaze. Not sharp like anger, not soft like affection. Something else. Something heavy. Fragile. Wanting.

“Say something,” he murmured. “Anything.”

You swallowed. Your lips parted, then closed again. You looked away.

Chuuya sighed, low and frustrated — but not at you. At himself. At this whole thing. At the way he couldn’t stop caring about someone who refused to let themselves be cared for.

Still, he reached out.

His gloved hand moved to your cheek, brushing away a smear of blood with his thumb. You tensed — but didn’t pull away. Your breath hitched just slightly at the contact.

And that was all it took.

The air between you cracked open.

Your eyes locked again, and this time, neither of you looked away.

He leaned in slowly, his face just inches from yours. The space between your knees framed him. The warmth of your breath mingled with his. Your lips hovered just out of reach, close enough to count the seconds before they might touch.

His heart was hammering. He didn’t think. He didn’t breathe.

He just moved — closer, closer—

Your nose brushed his.

And then — Clang.

A distant crash. A pipe hitting the floor. Footsteps.

The spell shattered.

Chuuya jerked back half an inch, head snapping toward the noise. You blinked once, as if waking from a trance. The tension in your body returned like a closing door. Shoulders pulled back. Jaw locked tight.

“They’re here,” you said, voice flat again. “The sweep team.”

Chuuya cursed under his breath and rose to his feet, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. You stood too, brushing your hands on your pants, your body language closing again. Just like that, the moment was gone. Like it had never happened.

But he felt it.

The heat still burned in his blood. The way your breath had hitched. The way you didn’t move when he touched you. The way your mouth had parted like you wanted him to close that final inch.

He glanced at you one last time before turning toward the noise. You didn’t meet his eyes. But he saw it. The way your fingers flexed at your side like you’d almost reached for him.

Almost.

And that — that — was going to haunt him more than anything else tonight.

Chuuya watches you from across the dimly lit room, your figure still and reserved, like a statue carved from ice. You move through the world with precision, each step measured, every glance carefully controlled. It’s a dance of distance — not cold exactly, but deliberately kept. An artful performance of detachment that masks something deeper beneath. He’s known you this way for a long time, but lately, something has been shifting.

At first, it was subtle — a flicker in your eyes when he caught you off guard with a joke. A breath held a moment too long when you stood too close. The faintest twitch of a smile that you wiped away before he could see it properly. These tiny cracks in your carefully constructed armor are invisible to everyone but him.

He remembers the nights you spent together after missions, sitting side by side in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy between you. You never reached out, never sought comfort, but neither did you turn him away. There was a fragile tension in those moments, like the calm before a storm — charged and waiting to break.

Chuuya feels himself drawn in, pulled closer by the mystery you carry. He knows the fight isn’t just against your enemies. It’s a war within yourself, a battle to keep the pain locked away, to deny the feelings that threaten to overwhelm you. And yet, the more he watches, the more he realizes you’re not as untouched by emotion as you pretend.

There’s a softness in your gaze when you think no one’s watching. A vulnerability that you don’t let yourself admit aloud. When you think you’re alone, your shoulders slump just a fraction, and for a heartbeat, the weight you carry shows in the curve of your neck and the tremble of your hands.

Chuuya longs to reach out, to brush away the walls you’ve built so carefully. To touch you, not just physically, but with something more — a quiet assurance that you don’t have to fight alone anymore.

It’s terrifying, he knows, to let someone in. To expose the parts of yourself you hide, the fears you bury deep. But Chuuya senses that you’re beginning to want it, even if you won’t admit it to yourself. He sees it in the way your eyes search his in moments of quiet, the way you hesitate before speaking, as if weighing the risk of vulnerability.

The night after your last mission, when you finally let yourself break —trembling in his arms, tears you refuse to shed escaping in quiet gasps — was the first time he truly believed you might let him in. The walls cracked open, if only slightly, revealing the fragile heart beneath the armor.

Since then, your connection has deepened, though you still fight to keep him at arm’s length. But Chuuya is patient. He understands that breaking through those defenses will take time. Every glance shared, every breath caught, every subtle touch is a thread weaving you closer together.

He has learned to read the language of your silence — the way you tense when he moves too close, the way your fingers twitch like they want to reach out but don’t. And with each passing day, those threads grow stronger, binding you together in a way neither of you has fully dared to acknowledge.

Chuuya knows the moment when you truly begin to feel something for him. It’s in the small things; the way you linger near him just a little longer than necessary, the softening of your eyes when your hands brush accidentally, the hesitant smile you offer when he catches you watching him.

It’s not a grand confession or a sudden outburst, but a quiet awakening — fragile, uncertain, and entirely new.

He cherishes it. Holds it gently, like a flame that could be snuffed out by the slightest breath. Because he knows how scared you are. Scared of feeling too much, of losing yourself in something you can’t control.

But he is there. Steady, unwavering. Ready to catch you if you fall, to fight by your side through whatever comes next.

Because for the first time, Chuuya understands that what you have is more than just partnership. It’s the beginning of something real. Something worth fighting for.

And he’s not going to let go.

Weeks passed.

The memory of the almost-kiss became a wound neither of you addressed nor allowed to heal. You pulled away, and not just emotionally. You started swapping out of missions — his missions — requesting Akutagawa instead. The reasons were always vague: tactical reassignment, alternate skill sets, mission chemistry.

It wasn’t personal, you claimed.

But it was.

It always was.

Chuuya watched from a distance as you walked past him in the halls without so much as a glance. When you stood silently during briefings, responding to his presence with clipped professionalism and a stiffness in your posture that hadn’t been there before. You weren’t cold. Not exactly. Just... indifferent.

It was the indifference that stung the most.

The way you laughed again—but only with others, for nameless operatives you barely knew. But not for him. Not once. Not anymore. And yet, you were getting hurt.

Every mission without him, you came back with more bruises. A cracked rib. A dislocated shoulder. Once, a gash across your thigh that bled through your uniform. Akutagawa’s reports always called them “minor injuries,” but Chuuya saw the truth behind the words. Saw the tremble in your hands, the way you limped for days without complaint.

You were burning yourself out — and it was killing him to watch.

Chuuya slammed the office door behind him hard enough that the walls rattled.

Mori looked up from his desk with his usual calm detachment, folding his hands neatly.

“I assume this is about them again,” the Port Mafia boss said dryly. Chuuya didn’t sit. He paced.

“They’re getting hurt, dammit. Again and again. And you’re still pairing them with Akutagawa like it’s nothing.”

Mori lifted a brow. “They requested it. Voluntarily.”

“They’re pushing themselves to the edge. You think I haven’t noticed? They’re not sleeping. They’re bleeding too often. They’ve stopped caring what happens to them.”

“Perhaps they’re trying to forget something.” The implication struck hard, like a slap without the courtesy of touch.

Chuuya stopped pacing. “I don’t give a damn if they’re trying to forget me,” he growled. “But I do care if they die over it.”

Mori leaned back slightly. “It’s not your job to care. You’re not their handler.”

“They were my partner.”

“They were,” Mori echoed, without a hint of remorse. “Now they aren’t. Let it go.”

But Chuuya couldn’t.

He left Mori’s office with a dangerous thought forming behind his eyes.

If he couldn’t reach you the usual way... he’d make damn sure the world did it for him.

It took a few days.

He orchestrated it carefully — worked with itelligence to plant falsified reports, manipulated field assignments behind the scenes, pulled in favors no one realized he still had. The fake mission report detailed a local uprising from a splinter criminal faction hiding underground, with rumors of ability-enhanced experimentation. A pattern eerily close to the Arahabaki program.

The moment your eyes scanned the mission brief, he saw your expression crack.

You read it again. Then again.

The words “underground testing,” “emotional triggers,” and “unclassified military research” were all designed to look disturbingly familiar. And you — strong as you were, quiet as ever — you didn’t say a word. But you accepted the assignment.

Because of course you did.

Chuuya volunteered himself for it.

When you realized you'd be paired with him again, your jaw tensed — but you didn’t argue.

You never argued. Not anymore.

The train station was long forgotten, buried beneath decades of dust and silence. Its rails had rusted to brittle threads, swallowed by overgrowth and concrete rot, and the signage above the terminal hung crooked, letters faded to ghost shapes. Chuuya stepped off the last working elevator shaft with quiet footsteps, his gloves flexing as he scanned the dark.

Beside him, you were silent. Professional. You hadn’t said much since accepting the mission — an investigation into a rumored underground facility used for ability enhancement experiments by a rogue criminal faction. The words on the dossier had been too familiar. Too deliberate. But you hadn’t said no.

That alone had been Chuuya’s first sign that you knew.

You walked ahead of him, your stance stiff, shoulders drawn back like a blade pulled halfway from its sheath. The entrance to the tunnel yawed wide, and the air that poured from it was sharp with mildew and rust. Beneath it all, there was something else — something chemical, metallic. Artificial.

He knew that smell. It hadn’t changed.

You didn't speak as the two of you descended deeper into the station. Every few meters, a busted light flickered faintly to life under emergency power, revealing slices of your expression as you walked through alternating light and dark. Even in the dimness, he could see the way your jaw clenched tighter with each level. Your hand stayed close to your weapon. Not out of fear — but readiness.

The facility was five levels underground. The deeper you went, the more decayed it became. The pristine fake research reports, the distorted recordings, the atmospheric design—it was all Chuuya’s doing. Fabricated, planted, made to mimic the hell he once lived through. The echoes of test rooms, sealed doors, false observation windows. Even the soft, repeating voice from the intercom that asked for clearance to chamber B7. He’d picked the phrase himself. It had haunted him once. Now it haunted you.

He hated himself for it.

You reached a wide hallway lined with locked doors and broken lights. The floor was slick in places, stained dark from water or something older. One of the doors creaked open when you passed it. You froze.

Chuuya stayed behind you.

“What do you see?” he asked, his voice low, cautious.

You didn’t respond immediately. Your hand hovered near the handle of your holster. Then slowly, you stepped into the room.

It was empty, save for a small child’s chair in the center of the room. Bolted to the ground. Leather straps dangled from its arms, frayed but intact. An old record player spun in the corner, emitting warped lullaby music that scratched its way into the air.

You stared at it.

For a long time, you didn’t move.

Chuuya stepped inside. "This part isn’t real. None of it is."

You exhaled — softly, but it cracked around the edges. "Feels real."

He watched your hand tremble. You curled it into a fist.

"I know what they used to do to people in places like this."

He hesitated. "Yeah. So do I."

That made you look at him, sharply. Your eyes searched his face like you were looking for something — confirmation, maybe. Or blame.

“I’m fine,” you said flatly.

You weren’t.

You walked out before he could answer.

By the time you reached sublevel four, the strain had begun to show. Your movements were still precise, still efficient, but your silence had changed. It was no longer distant — it was fraying. The hallways here were tighter, choked by hanging wires and broken piping. A deep hum came from somewhere beneath your feet, like something massive sleeping just out of reach.

This level had been designed to trigger your memories, not Chuuya’s.

The lights here cast long shadows, and every few feet, you passed rooms with viewing windows — frosted glass, impossible to see through, but lined with the impression of figures just beyond the veil. Speakers whispered garbled voices: fragmented cries, medical reports, and sharp orders. A blood-stained clipboard had been left in one of the observation rooms.

You stopped when you saw it.

Chuuya said your name quietly, but you didn’t turn.

Instead, you reached for the door handle.

“Don’t,” he said, suddenly closer, fingers brushing your wrist.

“I need to see.”

“There’s nothing behind it.”

You pulled away and opened the door.

Inside, the room was sterile white. Empty beds. A cracked mirror. Chains on the walls. And a single, scrawled message on the far wall — your name etched into the plaster, as if dug by fingernails.

It wasn’t real.

You weren’t supposed to believe it was.

But Chuuya saw your body stiffen, your breath catching in your throat.

“That’s not—”

“Did you know about this?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

You turned to him, slowly, and for the first time since the night you almost kissed, your expression broke.

“You knew.”

He looked down. "I made it."

The silence was deafening.

You stepped back like he’d struck you. The pain didn’t show on your face — it never did — but it radiated from you like heat from an open wound.

“Why?”

“Because you’re destroying yourself,” he said, his voice rising. “You won’t talk to me. You won’t look at me. You’ve been throwing yourself into missions like you want to die, and I—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish.

You shoved past him and stormed down the hallway, breath ragged, and he followed you.

You reached the end of the corridor, stopped, leaned against the wall with both hands and finally — finally — let yourself breathe like it hurt. Like it took everything not to collapse.

He approached slowly.

“I don’t care if you hate me,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if you never speak to me again. But I needed to know you could still feel something. Because watching you try to erase yourself piece by piece is worse than anything you could say to me.”

Your fingers curled against the wall.

“I couldn’t face you after that night,” you whispered. “Because I wanted it too much. And I knew if I let myself have it, I’d never survive losing it.”

You turned then, finally meeting his eyes.

“And I don’t know who I am when I’m not trying to survive.”

He stared at you.

Then he walked forward and cupped your face gently in both hands.

“You don’t have to know who you are right now,” he said. “You just have to let yourself be.”

You didn’t cry. Not fully. But the sheen in your eyes was enough. Your forehead touched his shoulder. His arms came around you.

And in that moment, the fake facility, the lies, the mission — it all fell away.

There was only the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, and the quiet way he whispered, “You’re not alone.”

The hallway was dim, lit only by the fading orange of dusk spilling through tall, dust-streaked windows. Chuuya hadn't meant to linger, but something kept him rooted just beyond the corner. The low hum of voices floated toward him, carried by still air that felt heavier than it should've.

"You know it had to be done," Mori's voice — measured, amused as ever — echoed lightly.

"That doesn't mean it was right," you replied, quiet but steady. "You took it from me. Gave it to him without telling either of us."

Chuuya froze.

There was something brittle in your voice, something old and splintered, like a scar that never healed properly. And Mori, unfazed, replied, "You wouldn't have survived the transfer. And Arahabaki—" a pause, deliberate, cruel in its composure, "— was always better suited to a body that could endure destruction."

A beat of silence. Then you spoke again, softer. "It was mine."

It struck Chuuya harder than he expected. The words, the tone — not resentment, not even anger. Just a quiet acknowledgment of something lost. Something taken. Something that lived now inside him.

He stepped back before he could hear more, heart a strange thunder in his ears.

It all made sense now — the way you'd reacted to the fake mission. The way your body had locked up at the mention of containment, of being caged like something dangerous. The way you’d looked at him that night with devastation half-hidden behind that steel mask you always wore. He thought you were reliving his pain. But you were reliving your own.

Arahabaki had once been inside you.

No wonder you fought like you belonged in the sky. No wonder you moved with the kind of grace that had always felt eerily familiar. Midair combat wasn’t just a skill for you — it was instinct.

And you never said a word.

Not once.

Even after that night in the alley, when you’d clutched your fists and trembled, even after you’d told him he didn’t understand. You’d looked him in the eyes and said nothing, let him believe it was guilt that wrecked you, not recognition.

He wasn’t angry. He couldn’t be. Not really.

But, it hurt.

It hurt more than he thought it would, because for all the silence between you, for all the tension and the pushing and pulling and near-kisses, he thought you trusted him. He thought you were letting him in. And maybe you were. But you kept this — this foundational, life-altering truth — buried like a weapon too dangerous to ever be drawn.

And he didn’t know if it was to protect you, or to protect him.

You were alone when he found you, back on the rooftop of the old mission staging house. The wind was light, and dusk had fallen hard, painting the sky in shadows and violet bruises. Your arms rested against the rusted railing, eyes cast to the city below.

Chuuya didn’t announce himself. Just stepped up beside you and let the silence fill in the spaces where accusation could’ve lived.

"You knew, didn’t you?" he said finally, voice low.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t look at him. "So you heard."

He nodded slowly, then added, "I didn’t want to."

You exhaled, and something in that sound made his chest ache. Resignation. Regret. A thousand things you weren’t saying.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because it wouldn’t have changed anything," you said, still not facing him.

"It would’ve changed everything," he shot back, voice sharper now, because the ache had turned to fire. "You think I wouldn't understand? That I couldn’t handle the truth?"

"No," you snapped. "I think you’ve handled enough. I think you already live with the burden of something that never should’ve been forced into you. I didn’t want to be another scar."

"That wasn’t your choice to make."

At last, you looked at him. Eyes unreadable, jaw tight. "You don’t get to be the only one who protects people, Chuuya."

Silence stretched between you again, crackling with something electric and dangerous. Chuuya’s fists clenched at his sides.

"So all this time, all those nights you looked at me like I meant something to you — you were just trying to protect me?"

You opened your mouth, hesitated, then said, "You have what was mine. I watched you fly with it. I fought beside you and felt it in the air like it remembered me. And I—"

Your voice broke. You looked away again, suddenly cold. "Maybe I hated you for it. Maybe I hated you because I knew I never should’ve let it go."

But Chuuya heard it. That tremor. That sharp, false edge trying to cover up something else — something warmer, sadder.

"Bullshit," he whispered.

You tensed.

"You don’t hate me. You’re just scared. You’re scared of what this means. Of what we are. You’re scared of feeling anything at all, because the second you do, it’s real and real things can break."

"You don’t know me."

"I do."

The tension pulsed between you, undeniable now. Your breathing had quickened. His eyes hadn’t left your face— not since the moment he saw it crumple just slightly.

"Say it," he murmured, leaning in. "Say you don’t feel it too."

You didn’t answer.

He reached out, one gloved hand brushing your cheek — barely there, feather-light. You didn’t pull away.

He felt your breath stutter.

His fingers lingered, then slid down to trace your jaw. You were trembling now, just barely, but you didn’t move. Didn’t stop him.

And that was all he needed.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rough either. It was desperate — torn from weeks, months of unspoken words and restrained touches and glances that said too much and not enough. You didn’t kiss him back at first, frozen by the flood of sensation.

But then something gave.

Your fingers curled into the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer, and your mouth opened against his like you’d been waiting for this as long as he had. The tension that had clung to you like armor cracked wide, and Chuuya drank in every second of it.

The wind whipped around you, but neither of you noticed. The city below faded, and time slowed, and all that existed was heat, and breath, and you.

When you finally broke apart, your forehead pressed against his, your hands still clinging to his chest, your voice was ragged.

"This doesn’t change anything."

Chuuya smiled softly, eyes half-lidded. "It changes everything."

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

And he knew then — despite every wall you built, every push and pull and lie you used to hide behind — your heart had finally spoken.

And it had said his name.

But now, standing here alone again, you let the storm rise in your chest.

At first, you tell yourself it’s because of the power. That Arahabaki was all you ever knew, and when it was taken, it left you hollow. That the only reason you ever looked at Chuuya was because he had what you’d lost. That every glance, every lurch of your chest, was nothing more than phantom pain echoing through a connection long severed.

But it’s a lie.

You know it.

Because what you felt that night when he kissed you— what you still feel now just thinking about it — wasn’t tied to Arahabaki. It wasn’t tied to gravity or power or past lives. It was him.

It was the way he looked at you like you weren’t just someone strong. Like you weren’t just someone who survived.

It was how his voice changed when he said your name. How he never flinched when you were at your worst. How he never let go, no matter how hard you pushed.

You remember the weight of his hands on you, firm and grounding, like gravity made soft.

And maybe that’s what it always was.

You’ve spent your entire life resisting pull. Fighting every force that tried to tether you to something that could be taken. That could die. That could hurt.

You ran from it. Built walls from it. Let anger fill the void where love should’ve been.

And still, he found his way in, you let him and that terrified you more than anything.

Because Chuuya wasn’t gravity. He wasn’t a chain. He didn’t hold you down; he lifted you.

He fought beside you not because he had to, but because he chose to. Again and again, even when you gave him nothing in return. Even when all you offered was cold glances and short answers and carefully placed distance.

He stayed.

You look down at your hands now —bloodless, bruised, but still shaking. You remember how they looked after your last mission together, trembling from exhaustion, from fear. From feeling too much.

He took your hands that night. Held them gently. Like they weren’t weapons. Like they weren’t tools of destruction. Like they were just yours.

And he said you looked beautiful, even with blood on your skin.

He saw you. You. Not the vessel. Not the failure. Not the ghost of something that once burned brighter than it should. He saw you, and he stayed. And somewhere in that realization — quiet and slow — you understand the truth you’ve been running from since the day you watched him rise into the sky with your power.

You’re not in love with Arahabaki — the gravity.

You’re in love with Chuuya.

You’re in love with the way he carries the weight of the world like it’s nothing. With the way he softens only when he thinks no one’s watching. With the way his eyes light up when you call him by name, even if you never say what you mean.

You’re in love with someone who made you feel again. Who cracked through the surface of a heart you thought had long gone numb.

And now, you’re scared. Not of losing him. But of what it means to stay.

Because staying means surrendering to the fall.

And after a lifetime of resisting gravity, of pretending you could survive alone, you finally understand; that this was never about fighting the sky — it was about letting go.

And with Chuuya, you don’t fall. You rise —

Against the Gravity.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd fics #bsd fanfic #[❤️; niko’s oneshots]#chuuya x reader #bungo stray dogs chuuya #bsd chuuya #bungou stray dogs chuuya #bsd nakahara #nakahara chuuya x reader

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brie-is-cheesy · 4 months ago

Text

I love you... Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.

Pairing: Sylus × Reader

Word count: 1679 or 1.6k words

Warnings: slight angst to smut and a little fluff, fingering, oral sex(fem receiving), dry humping(sort of), Sylus is shot, reader is not mc

Your head snapped to your phone as it started vibrating violently.

“Hello?” Pressing ‘accept,’ you brought the device to your ear.

“Y/N…” A familiar drawl on the other side caused you to sigh.

You rolled your eyes. “Fuck off.”

“C’mon, N/n. I promise this is the last time,” he said, but you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“That’s what you said the last three times. And I’m busy,” you stated but grabbed your keys anyway.

“I need you.” His breath was ragged, and you clenched your fists—and hung up.

Before you knew it, you were locking your door and making your way to the basement of your apartment building. Climbing atop your green-accented motorcycle, you twisted the key, put on your helmet, and were on your way.

You kicked down the door to the warehouse, eyes searching as you stormed through. The location tracker showed you were only a few meters from the target.

His white hair came into view, and you released a breath you weren’t aware you were holding. Kneeling down at his side, you started patting different parts of his body.

“Ah,” he winced lightly as your hand brushed against his abdomen.

You pressed your left palm flat against the bullet wound as your other hand dug around in your purse, desperately searching for the first-aid kit you carried with you.

This was a common occurrence between the two of you—something that was pretty much a given for the best friend and confidant of the leader of Onychinus. It had grown exponentially recently. Ever since he met her.

Cute, kind, and brave. The holy trinity. MC. But you could only describe her as a naïve, immature fool who had only ever caused you more trouble since entering your best friend’s life—and, by extension, yours.

MC was the last person you would think to be involved with the most dangerous gang in the N109 area. The two of you were vastly different. Seriously, it was uncanny. You, with your bare, bloody knuckles, short temper, and even shorter dresses. And her, with her hunter academy training, top-of-the-line education, and proper uniform.

You and MC were undoubtedly complete and total opposites. The only thing you had in common was, well, Sylus. As you bandaged him up, you started looking around for her, expecting to find her sprawled out on the floor clinging to her weapon dearly—or already passed out.

Whatever the case, you’d end up fixing her up as always. Because that was what you did, wasn’t it? You were strong, capable, and reliable. These were the reasons Sylus held you in such high regard.

Unlike her, you didn’t effortlessly win hearts simply by existing. Your beauty was a weapon in itself—sharp features and blood-red lips to go with his leather jackets and most likely bruised self.

“Hello? You there? Y/N. Ow.” His sudden hiss of pain brought you back to reality.

“Hurry up and move.” You stood up, extending a hand and pulling him up with little to no effort. You started walking in the other direction. Sylus’ warm hand enveloped your wrist, and you turned around—only to come face to face with him, noses mere inches apart.

“At least look at me.” His tone was cool, but his pleading eyes betrayed his true feelings.

“Where is she?” you said, your lips pursed as they often were in matters regarding the hunter.

“Where’s who?” he asked, his hand sliding down just a bit to hold your equally calloused one.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“…She had to go back home,” he said, sounding defeated.

“In the middle of a fight?” You scoffed.

“Yeah.” He gritted his teeth.

“So let me get this straight. You ignored all my warnings and proceeded to go after someone who then left you alone to fight at the very least three S-rank wanderers all on your own.” You raised your eyebrows, traces of wrath bubbling beneath your calm demeanor.

“Y/N, I know I fucked up. I should have listened to you. Can you skip the lecture, just this once?” he implored.

“Fine,” you relented.

You searched his face for any signs of distress, and upon finding no significant amount of it, decided he must’ve been feeling better. You brought a hand up to trace the outline of the freshly acquired wound on his cheekbone.

“I’m okay,” he assured you.

“I know.” You brought your hand back to rest at your side once more.

“You aren’t mad?” There was a hint of suspicion in his voice.

You shook your head, the sound of something rustling nearby enough for the two of you to rush out of the warehouse. Once you made it back to his house, you made your way to the bedroom.

He took a shower, and you resorted to finding the clothes you’d left behind the last time you were here, which was just last week. Right before Miss Hunter had barreled her way into your lives once more, leaving destruction in her wake—which you would end up having to fix.

You lay on the bed with your eyes closed, trying to fall asleep, and felt something warm slip in behind you. His arms snaked around your waist, and he pressed a kiss to your neck.

“Go away,” you grumbled.

“Can’t do that, darling.” He nuzzled into your bare shoulder.

“Really? Because, if I recall correctly, you had no qualms doing exactly that when she was the one asking.” You shifted and turned around to face him.

“I’m sorry.” He kissed the tip of your nose.

“Sorry isn’t gonna cut it this time.” You bit the inside of your cheek, resolve slowly cracking as his hands traveled to your breasts, kneading them just how he knew you liked it.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” he said, lingering water droplets falling from the ends of his hair onto the dark sheets.

“You won’t talk to her,” you stated.

“I won’t,” he mumbled against your skin. “I love you.”

“I love you, Y/N. More than anything.” His eyes bore into your soul as if seeing right through you. You gulped.

Your breath hitched in your throat. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

“I love you too,” you whispered.

That was all the confirmation he needed to smash his lips into yours, as he’d done several times before. But for some reason, this time felt different. And so you kissed him back—just as passionately.

His hands made their way to your hips, one slipping beneath the waistband of your pajamas. You called out his name lightly as the pads of his fingers made contact with your sensitive clit. You hummed.

He slid your bottoms off, repositioning himself at the base of the bed and pulling your closer by your thighs. You moaned as he licked a stripe up your cunt.

He had always made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered to him. Perhaps that was why even as he slipped two fingers in without so much as a warning, your couldn’t find it in yourself to berate him any further.

He sucked on your clit in a way that—paired with the pace he had set with his fingers—had you seeing stars. You were getting impossibly close, the familiar coil tightening in your stomach.

You came with a cry of his name—letting out a small moan at the sight of him licking his fingers clean. He came up to kiss you, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. God, the things he did to you.

While making out once again, you felt something hard poking you, which prompted you to roll your hips against his.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” he groaned.

“Pretty sure I do the exact opposite of that most days. Need I remind you there is still a gaping hole in you?” you chided.

“I have to apologise somehow.” He said, as if he had no choice.

If you didn’t know him as well as you did, you would’ve have been convinced his hands were tied. The only one who could free him of the burden that was your eternal debt being you yourself.

You flipped the two of you—now being on top of him—and gyrated your hips with an ample amount of pressure. You were careful so as not to hurt him, or risk the bandages getting loose.

“Come on, you can do better than that.” He grinned, though a particularly hard thrust from you shut him up effectively.

You increased the pace, his clothed dick rubbed deliciously against your puffy clit. You moaned as he grabbed your hips and further ground your hips into his.

“Sylus!” Your head fell on his shoulder, breath coming out in ragged puffs.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He bucked his hips up, successfully leading you and himself to orgasm.

Your soaked pussy clenched around nothing and you gushed all over his branded sweatpants. He followed a second later—painting the insides of his pants white.

You both panted but stayed like that for a while—your head in the crook of his neck, and his right hand tangled in your hair. Eventually, you went to get a wet washcloth, helping him clean up.

You laid back down as he put on a fresh pair of pants and tossed his stained ones in the hamper. He followed after you, pulling you into a hug.

“I love you,” he whispered in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Mhm.” You flicked his nose.

“Say it back!” He gasped dramatically.

“Fine, you big baby.” You cracked a smile. “I love you.”

The blanket draped over you both offered much-appreciated warmth, but even that couldn’t compare to the sheer amount of body heat Sylus was radiating.

Even if sometimes he acted like a complete idiot, he was your idiot. And nothing would ever change that.

With that thought, you drifted off in his arms, lips lightly stretched in a contented smile.

A/n: Had the idea yesterday. Pulled an all-nighter and wrote this in one go,, I need to go to sleep now.

You can find more of my works here 🩷🩷

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