#evidence based practise

[theonottsbxtch]

EL COQUETO | FC43

an: welcome back as we write about my n.1 pookie, i've got some more works planned for him BUT i've just gotten to france so imma be very busy rip, based off of this request

summary: when franco catches feelings for a journalist who is persuaded he doesn't really want her.

wc: 7.6k

The paddock was alive with energy, buzzing with the hum of engines and the chatter of the press as they swarmed around the new driver. She watched him move through the crowd with ease, a slight swagger in his step and a dazzling smile that had already made him the focus of every camera. He was the story of the weekend: Franco Colapinto, the unexpected mid-season replacement, here to shake up the grid with his flashy driving style—and, evidently, his unapologetic charm.

He caught sight of her, raised an eyebrow in recognition, and made a beeline toward her with the confidence of someone who knew he’d be welcome, even if he hadn’t been invited.

“Hola,” he greeted, his voice carrying a thick, rolling Spanish accent that seemed to coat every word in warmth. “You must be my next question of the day. They warned me about the best journalist here—of course, I was told to behave.”

She gave him a practised smile, cool but polite. “Franco, welcome to the team. How are you feeling about joining mid-season?”

His eyes sparkled, unfazed by the businesslike tone. “How am I feeling?” He leaned in just slightly, as though sharing a secret. “Well, right now, very lucky. They said I’d get tough questions, but they didn’t say the interviewer would be… distracting.”

She fought the urge to look away, just barely managing to keep her composure. “So you feel ready for the pressure, then?” she asked, refocusing, though the tiniest hint of a blush warmed her cheeks.

“For the track? Yes, I am prepared to race anyone.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on her a beat too long. “For the interviews? That remains to be seen. Perhaps you can teach me how to handle that part, sí?”

She could sense her colleagues nearby, some watching with open amusement as they caught his flirtatious energy. Franco was as smooth as they came, that much was certain. But she wouldn’t be the one to crack first.

“I’m sure you’ll learn quickly,” she said, tilting her head, her voice steady, though her heart raced. “Now, back to the race. What are your goals for this weekend?”

His grin broadened, but he played along. “Goals for the weekend,” he echoed thoughtfully, shifting back into the question. “Win a few hearts, break a few records—no particular order.” He winked, and she felt a laugh bubble up before she stifled it, opting instead for a brisk nod.

“Right. Well, I hope you’re ready for the competition,” she managed.

He shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. “With you here, qué competencia?”

She gave him a pointed look, resisting the smile tugging at her lips. “You know, charm doesn’t score you points on the track.”

“Ah, no?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Then I suppose I’ll have to win the hard way.”

Just then, a flash of cameras went off around them, the media eating up every angle of Franco’s arrival. He seemed entirely unfazed, even performing slightly for the flashes. The crowd around them surged with questions about his plans, about what his first practice would look like, about his last season in Formula 2. But Franco’s attention was still locked on her, and he hadn’t missed a beat.

“So,” he said, with that soft smile of his, “do you think I’ll be able to charm Formula One, or will they be immune to my Argentian ways?”

She gave him a dry smile. “You might have your work cut out for you. It’s not a stroll through Argentina, after all.”

He laughed at that, clearly enjoying her wit. “You’re tough,” he said, a touch of admiration sneaking into his voice. “I can see why you’re the best.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t distract me from the questions, Franco.”

“No? Not even if I try very, very hard?” he asked, drawing out the words with a grin. It was ridiculous, really—the way he leaned into every word, the way he seemed to shine in the spotlight. But there was something endearing about it too, something that felt… unexpectedly genuine.

“Not even then,” she replied, her tone light but steady. “Let’s talk strategy. What’s your focus for your first race?”

He sighed, shifting slightly but keeping that glint in his eye. “Fine, I’ll behave,” he said with a sigh, straightening up to answer. “My focus is simple: get the car under me, push it to its limits, and aim for a strong finish. Maybe even a few surprise overtakes. I’ve been itching to get back on the track.”

It was the most serious answer he’d given yet, and she noted the shift in his voice—a hint of intensity breaking through the smooth, easy charm.

“And your teammate?” she pressed, sensing she’d found the thread to pull him out of his flirtatious veneer. “Are you prepared for the rivalry?”

Franco’s expression turned thoughtful for a moment, a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. “My teammate…” He paused, glancing away briefly before meeting her gaze again. “He’s William’s best. I’ll learn from him, give him the respect he deserves. But I didn’t come here to play second.”

She watched as someone next to her scribbled down his answer, though her mind wandered slightly, wondering at the complexity beneath his charm.

“Good to hear,” she said, offering a small nod. “We’ll all be watching to see if you live up to that confidence.”

“I live up to my promises,” he replied smoothly. Then he leaned in one last time, lowering his voice just for her. “One of them being to get at least one smile from you by the end of the weekend. I’ll start with that goal.”

Before she could reply, he gave a casual wave to the crowd, moving on to the next journalist as though he hadn’t just made her heart skip a beat with his easy, disarming confidence. She watched him go, flustered despite herself.

One thing was certain: Franco Colapinto was going to be a story.

When the time came, the race had barely begun, but her eyes were already glued to the screen, following the sleek white-and-blue car with Franco’s number emblazoned on the front. Despite her best efforts to stay neutral, to approach this like any other weekend, there was something magnetic about watching him. Franco Colapinto, the audacious rookie, who’d barely spent a week with the team and had taken to the grid without a single day of training in an F1 car.

From the start, it was clear he was playing it differently. He didn’t charge forward recklessly like other rookies might have, eager to prove themselves. Instead, Franco took a few cautious laps, feeling out the car, testing its responses. She noticed how his style evolved lap by lap, each one more aggressive, his moves sharper. He was adapting, learning the car right there in the thick of the race.

As the race progressed, he began to gain ground. Corner after corner, he squeezed every ounce of performance from his machine, edging closer to the pack with each lap. By mid-race, he was overtaking the backmarkers, slipping past seasoned drivers who had years on him, and the commentators were buzzing.

She caught herself smiling, feeling a strange, almost foolish pride as she watched. The memory of his easy, arrogant grin flashed in her mind, his voice low and teasing: “Do you think I’ll charm Formula One?” She’d laughed it off, but he had something special, didn’t he? That hunger for the track, the sheer nerve to go head-to-head with anyone in his way.

Then, as if her thoughts had summoned trouble, the camera cut to his car—a close-up on his visor as he fought for P12. Her heart caught as he made a daring move, threading his car through a razor-thin gap into the next turn. It was reckless, and yet somehow—somehow—he made it stick.

“P12!” The radio crackled through his team radio, their voice as surprised as she felt. For a rookie with zero F1 experience, it was practically a victory.

She exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The chequered flag fell, and Franco’s car slowed down, his voice breaking through the team radio with a triumphant laugh, half-sighing, half-cheering in disbelief at his own result.

When she saw him back in the paddock, she managed to slip past the swarm of journalists waiting to pounce, positioning herself where he’d inevitably cross her path. She didn’t want to admit how much she wanted to hear his version of the race firsthand, to see if the adrenaline still sparkled in his eyes the way it had behind the visor.

When he finally caught sight of her, his face lit up. “Ah, my toughest questioner returns,” he said, the grin wide as he raked a hand through his hair, still tousled from the helmet. “So? Impressed?”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her expression composed. “Not bad for a first race,” she said, voice calm but betraying the slightest hint of a smile. “Though I have to say, you took some pretty risky moves out there.”

Franco laughed, that low, familiar chuckle that could disarm anyone. “You sound like my engineer. But I had to make it interesting, didn’t I?” His gaze softened slightly, the playfulness ebbing for a moment. “I did better than you expected, maybe?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, leaning in just a bit. “I wouldn’t let it go to your head, though.”

He feigned a wince. “Ah, so I’ll have to work harder to impress you, then.”

With that, she couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. “Perhaps,” she said, voice softer. “But you’ve made a start.”

She followed the rest of the press corps into the media pen, her notebook in hand, watching as Franco slipped into his role with practised ease. The other drivers, still catching their breath, answered questions in measured tones, clearly exhausted. But Franco was… well, Franco. He leaned back against the barrier, relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips as he answered questions, some about his lack of training, others about his shockingly high finish.

She hung back at first, observing him as he effortlessly charmed each journalist in turn, flashing that disarming grin and making even the toughest questions seem like casual conversation. But when his eyes caught hers across the small crowd, he subtly waved her forward, his grin widening.

“Ah, finally,” he said, his tone playful as she approached. “I was starting to think you were hiding from me.” The other journalists shot her curious glances, some smirking at Franco’s obvious interest.

She managed to keep her expression neutral, clearing her throat and lifting her voice to a professional tone. “Franco, congratulations on P12. Quite a debut.”

“Gracias, cariño,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t think I could do it.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly take the most traditional route,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You had us all on the edge of our seats with those overtakes.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice to just above a murmur, his gaze fixed on hers. “I thought about what you said. ‘Charm doesn’t score points.’ So I had to give you something else to smile about.”

She could feel her cheeks warm under his steady gaze, and she fought to keep her expression cool. “Don’t flatter yourself, Franco. I’m just here to report the facts.”

“Hmm,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, the fact is, I went from P20 to P12 on my first day. But somehow, I think I still haven’t impressed the person who matters most.”

“The person who—?” She trailed off, exasperated. “Franco, you were the story today.”

“Was I?” he asked, the innocent tone entirely ruined by the mischief in his eyes. “Because if I’m the story, you’re the reason it’s a good one.”

Before she could protest, he glanced over her shoulder at the next journalist, nodding politely. Then, in a flash, he was back to her, clearly undeterred. “When can we continue our interview?”

She forced herself to keep her composure. “I think you’ve given me more than enough material for one day.”

“A pity.” He shook his head, though his grin was unmistakable. “Then maybe next time, you’ll be a little more impressed.”

She watched him walk away, shoulders loose and steps casual as he moved from one group of reporters to the next, answering their questions with the same easy confidence he’d shown with her. She could still feel the heat of his gaze, the lingering effect of his words making her pulse quicken.

“Wow.” The journalist next to her, a seasoned reporter with a wry smile, gave her a knowing look. “You okay there? He has that effect, doesn’t he?”

She blinked, quickly snapping out of her daze, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “I—yeah, I don’t know what’s going on,” she muttered, shaking her head, trying to compose herself. But she could still hear his words ringing in her ears, his playful teasing, the warmth in his gaze. “The person who matters most.”

“Oh, I think I do.” The other journalist smirked, nodding in Franco’s direction as he laughed and clapped a fellow driver on the shoulder. “It seems Franco over here has a slight crush.”

She scoffed, though it came out more flustered than she’d intended. “Franco has a crush on every woman he talks to. It’s his… thing since he got here.”

The journalist raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Maybe so, but I’ve watched him all day and that was different.”

Her colleague’s words only made her cheeks grow warmer. Was it that obvious? She was used to managing tough interviews, unflappable under pressure, and here she was, thrown off by a driver who hadn’t even been in Formula 1 for a full week. But somehow, Franco’s charm wasn’t just some casual game to him; it felt more… intense. And he’d directed every bit of that intensity straight at her.

The journalist chuckled. “Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the attention—it’s not every day a rookie looks at you like you’re the finish line.”

She glanced away, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. She didn’t want to admit it, not to her colleague, and definitely not to herself, but there was something in the way he’d looked at her, like she was more than just another journalist, more than just one of the many people crowding his spotlight.

“Well, let’s hope he stays focused on the real finish line,” she replied, aiming for a casual tone that didn’t quite land. But she couldn’t deny it—Franco Colapinto was becoming more than just the story of the weekend. He was starting to feel like her story, too.

Later that evening, she sat in her hotel room, trying to unwind from the chaos of race day. The lights of the city glimmered outside her window, but her mind was still caught on Franco—his effortless charm, that maddening smirk, the way he’d singled her out, even with half the media pen watching. It was absurd, really. She’d covered far bigger stories, spoken with veteran champions, and yet one rookie had managed to leave her feeling more flustered than she’d care to admit.

With a sigh, she scrolled through her phone, halfheartedly catching up on messages, until a notification popped up that made her heart skip.

Francolpainto has sent you a message.

She hesitated, a mix of curiosity and nerves swirling in her stomach as she opened it. The message was simple, casual—like he hadn’t already spent the whole day keeping her off balance.

Franco: Hola! Are you at the hotel?

Before she could talk herself out of it, she typed a quick reply.

Her: Yes, I am.

The response came almost immediately.

Franco: Perfect! I’m downstairs in the lounge. Come have dinner with me?

She stared at the screen, her mind racing. It was tempting—she’d be lying to herself if she said it wasn’t. But she knew his type all too well, didn’t she? The charming new driver who flirted with every journalist, every fan, anyone who would listen. She could already imagine him saying the exact same things to another reporter tomorrow.

No, she couldn’t let herself get pulled in. Not by someone who was probably just looking for a bit of attention.

Her: Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Long day.

She set the phone down, hoping that would be the end of it, but a new message came through almost instantly.

Franco: Too bad. I was hoping I’d finally get a smile out of you without a hundred cameras around.

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t deny the small flutter his words sent through her. He was persistent, that was for sure.

Her: You’re very determined, Franco. But I have to ask—do you make this invitation to all the journalists?

A pause, just a few seconds longer than his usual quick responses. Then, his reply appeared, simple and direct.

Franco: No, just the one who keeps me on my toes.

Her: Pity, this one isn’t intrested.

She set her phone down after typing that, ignoring the little thrill that shot through her when he messaged her again almost immediately. Franco’s charm was undeniably effective, but she wasn’t about to let herself become just another name on his roster of admirers. He’d have to do a lot more than offer a casual dinner invite if he wanted her attention.

Franco: Really? You’re going to turn me down just like that?

She smirked at the screen. Of course he wasn’t used to hearing “no.”

Her: Really. I’ve seen you in action today, Franco. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to keep you company.

A longer pause this time, as if her words had taken him off-guard. When he replied, his tone was more thoughtful.

Franco: That’s not what I meant. Today was… different. I don’t want to go to dinner with just anyone. I want to go with you.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to stay firm. She typed a quick reply, keeping it casual.

Her: Nice try. But I’ve seen the way you charm everyone you talk to. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want me to believe that.

A few minutes passed, and she wondered if maybe he’d let it go. But just as she was about to put her phone down, another message appeared.

Franco: Okay. Fair enough. How about this: tomorrow, after practice, let me show you what a real date looks like. No crowds, no cameras. Just you and me.

She hesitated, feeling the pull of curiosity mingled with doubt. She knew he could be as persistent as he was charming, and there was something intriguing about his willingness to push past her refusal.

Her: Why should I believe this isn’t just a game to you?

His response came quickly this time, almost earnest.

Franco: Because no one else makes me want to try this hard. I’m not playing around here, cariño. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.

She smiled, a little thrill rushing through her. For the first time, he seemed genuinely off-balance, unsure, and she couldn’t help but enjoy it.

Her: We’ll see if you mean that. Good luck tomorrow, Franco.

Franco: Gracias. And just so you know… I’m not giving up that easily.

The following week, she found herself in the bustling paddock of the Baku, her eyes catching sight of Franco’s car parked in the paddock. She had to admit, he’d stayed true to his word since their last exchange, staying out of her messages—though his lingering glances and smiles across the paddock hadn’t exactly disappeared. If anything, he seemed more determined, more focused. It was all part of his act, she reminded herself. And yet, there was something undeniably thrilling about it.

She was busy gathering notes when she felt a familiar presence beside her. Franco had sidled up, hands tucked into the pockets of his team jacket, his easygoing grin making her pulse quicken in spite of herself.

“Back to cheer me on, sí?” he asked, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

She held back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “I’m here to cover the race, Franco. Your cheering section is back there.” She nodded to the growing crowd of fans waving his name on signs with Argentinan flags just a few metres away.

He laughed, the sound warm and rich. “They’re great, sure, but I was looking for one particular fan. The one who told me I’d have to work harder if I wanted to impress her.”

She raised an eyebrow, stepping out of earshot of the nearest camera. “Oh, you remember that, do you?”

“Every word,” he said, his gaze steady. “I thought about it all week.”

A small thrill ran through her, though she kept her voice steady and her tone cool. “Well, if you’re serious, you’ll have to do better than last week’s P12. Otherwise, it just looks like more talk.”

His expression shifted, his easy grin giving way to a flash of determination. “If it’s a higher position you want,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “then I’ll get it. Just keep watching.”

She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll be watching, Colapinto. Don’t disappoint me.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that felt genuine, earnest. “I don’t plan to,” he murmured, stepping back with a wink before heading toward his car.

As he disappeared into the garage, her heart raced. Franco Colapinto, the rookie charmer, was setting out to prove himself to her. And, as much as she hated to admit it, she was looking forward to seeing if he could keep his promise.

She sat in the media centre, eyes locked on the screen as the race unfolded. Franco’s car was easy to spot, weaving its way through the pack with a precision she hadn’t expected. He was starting further up this time, P18, but it was still a long shot to even think he’d break into the top ten. Yet as the laps ticked by, he held his ground, pushing, clawing his way forward with a tenacity that had everyone watching in awe.

“Impressive for a rookie,” she overheard another journalist mutter, and she felt a strange pang of pride.

Halfway through the race, Franco made a daring overtake, squeezing past two midfield drivers into P10. She sat forward, barely breathing. He wasn’t just hanging on—he was gaining, going after every single opportunity on the track with a fierceness she hadn’t seen before.

He’d promised her he’d finish higher than last week, and she’d thought it was just talk, maybe a little playful charm. But here he was, proving her wrong lap by lap.

By the time he made it to P9, she was leaning forward in her seat, clutching her notebook tightly. And then, with a bold move on the final few laps, he passed another driver, slipping into P8. Her heart raced as she watched him hold his ground, fending off the competition, determined to keep the position he’d fought so hard for. The chequered flag dropped, and Franco crossed the line in P8.

She exhaled, a rush of surprise and admiration flooding through her. She’d known he was talented, of course—he wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise. But this? Climbing ten positions in a single race, all for a chance to prove himself to her? It was more than she’d expected.

As the race ended, she moved through the paddock, her mind whirling. Franco Colapinto, the charming rookie who flirted with everyone, had just delivered one of the most impressive drives of the day. For her. And she wasn’t sure if she was more impressed with his skill or his determination to keep his word.

She barely had a chance to catch her breath before she was back in the paddock, microphone in hand, ready to take on the post-race interviews. As she waited for Franco, she replayed his climb through the ranks in her mind—his nerve, his timing, the way he’d handled himself on the track. It wasn’t just impressive; it was astonishing. And as much as she tried to shake it off, she couldn’t ignore the small thrill that ran through her at the thought that he’d done it, in part, for her.

Finally, Franco appeared, still in his race suit his face glistening with the sheen of hard work. There was a slight glimmer of triumph in his eyes as he spotted her, a grin spreading across his face. He walked over, ignoring the other cameras and reporters, his gaze focused squarely on her.

She raised her microphone, keeping her expression as neutral as she could. “Franco Colapinto, P8—your second race in Formula 1, and already a massive improvement from last week. Can you walk us through it?”

He took a quick breath, then leaned in, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Well, you know, someone told me I had to get higher than P12 if I wanted to impress them,” he said, his tone light but his gaze steady on hers. “So I did it for them. Great motivation.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she forced herself to stay focused. She could feel the eyes of the other journalists and team members on them, her colleagues probably smirking at his obvious attempt to fluster her, but she managed to hold her ground.

“Impressive,” she said, keeping her voice level. “And this ‘motivation’—I assume it’s the same one who’s kept you on your toes all week?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, unabashed. “Absolutely. Turns out, when someone challenges me, I take it seriously.” He shifted his stance, his gaze softening just a fraction. “And if they ask, I’ll do it again.”

A few people around them chuckled, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. This wasn’t the usual post-race banter, and he didn’t seem interested in giving anyone the typical driver answers. He was speaking to her as if they were alone, and for a brief moment, she almost forgot the cameras.

“Well, whatever you’re doing,” she replied, finally letting a small smile slip, “it seems to be working. P8 is no small feat.”

He tilted his head, as if studying her. “Then maybe next week, you’ll set the bar even higher for me?” His voice was low, just enough for her to hear.

She felt her resolve waver slightly, but managed to maintain her professionalism. “We’ll see, Colapinto. For now, let’s just focus on how you plan to keep this up.”

He chuckled, shifting his grip on his helmet. “Oh, I think I have all the motivation I need right here.” With one last grin and a wink, he turned to greet the other journalists, leaving her to process what was easily the most disarming post-race interview she’d ever conducted.

Later that night, she was back in her hotel room, unwinding with a cup of tea, trying to shake off the lingering thrill of Franco’s performance—and his audacity in the post-race interview. She still couldn’t believe how he’d shamelessly directed half of his answers at her, leaving her just as off-balance as he had on the track. But as much as she tried to dismiss it, her thoughts kept circling back to his determination, his promise that he’d push harder just because she’d challenged him.

Her phone buzzed with a message, and she glanced down to see it was from the William’s Instagram Account.

Team Rep: Hey, what’s your room number?

She frowned for a moment, surprised by the casualness of the message. But teams occasionally followed up with journalists for clarifications or comments, especially after high-profile performances like Franco’s. Assuming they needed to drop off some post-race press notes or team statements, she quickly typed back her room number.

Her: Room 914.

Team Rep: Perfect. Thanks.

Not even a minute later, she heard a quiet knock on her door. She glanced at the time, wondering if the team rep had come by himself. But when she opened the door, the hallway was empty. Instead, resting on the floor in front of her was a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers—vibrant, unruly, and charmingly imperfect, wrapped with a small card slipped between the stems.

Her pulse quickened. She didn’t have to check the note to know exactly who had left them.

Still, curiosity got the best of her, and she crouched down, carefully lifting the bouquet to pull the card free.

“To my motivation: thank you for the push. Let’s raise the stakes again soon. — F.

A soft, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She felt the warmth creeping up her cheeks, aware that Franco Colapinto had managed to surprise her again. It was a move so bold, so unexpected—and, somehow, more genuine than any casual dinner invitation could have been.

She sighed, shaking her head but unable to fight the smile any longer. As she placed the flowers on the table, their vibrant petals catching the soft light, she couldn’t help but wonder what Franco would pull next to prove himself. Because one thing was certain: he wasn’t giving up. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to.

She couldn’t resist. Picking up her phone, she sent a quick message, keeping it light, casual.

Her: Cute.

It didn’t take long for his response to pop up.

Franco: Oh? You find me cute?

She rolled her eyes, though her heart skipped a beat as she typed back.

Her: No, the flowers were a cute move.

A beat passed, and then came his reply, playful but edged with a hint of something more.

Franco: Well, then… would you let the guy behind the cute move take you out for dinner?

She hesitated, fingers hovering over her phone. She knew what this looked like—a line blurred between work and something personal, maybe too personal. And for him, a rookie who’d just broken into the sport, one misstep could easily become a distraction he couldn’t afford. It wasn’t just her reputation, but his too, and the stakes felt higher than either of them probably realised.

Her: I don’t know, Franco. There’s too much on the line.

A pause, longer than his usual quick responses, and for a moment she thought maybe he’d let it go. Then his reply came through, brief and simple.

Franco: Okay.

She stared at the word, an unexpected pang of disappointment catching her off guard. Franco, usually so persistent, so bold, had accepted her hesitation without a fight. But as much as she wanted to push away her own reservations, she knew she was right. Still, the thought of him backing off now left her feeling… unbalanced.

Setting the phone down, she let out a sigh, glancing over at the flowers resting on her table. A small part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, she’d made the wrong choice.

Four weeks later, they were back at the track, Austin, the usual energy humming through the paddock as teams and drivers prepared for the weekend ahead. She found herself scanning the garages, a little spark of nerves in her chest that had nothing to do with work. Franco had kept his distance over the past few weeks—well, as much distance as someone like him could manage. He was still his playful, charismatic self with the press, charming everyone in sight, but there was something different. He hadn’t followed up on his dinner invitation, hadn’t tried to push beyond her boundaries. She told herself it was for the best. Still, a small part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been too cautious.

Just then, she spotted him near the team’s garage, leaning against the wall in his race suit around his hips, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up, a grin breaking across his face as if no time had passed. She felt a little of that old thrill in her chest as he walked over.

“Hola, stranger,” he greeted, hands tucked into his pockets of his team jacket, his voice as warm and casual as ever. “Miss me?”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “You were just here four weeks ago, Colapinto. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, giving her that familiar, playful look. “Four weeks is a long time, don’t you think?”

She shook her head, feeling a bit of the tension from the past month melt away. Whatever her own doubts, Franco hadn’t let her brush-off change him—he was still here, as charming and persistent as ever. And somehow, that lifted a weight off her shoulders.

“Have you been behaving?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or should I be prepared for more unexpected flower deliveries?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, his eyes flashing with that spark she was growing dangerously used to. “Depends. You miss them?”

She laughed softly, looking down to avoid letting him see her smile. “I’d hardly admit that if I did.”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Good thing I’m a patient man, then. Because I’m not done yet.” There was a softness to his tone, a hint of something genuine beneath his usual confidence, and it made her heart skip a beat.

Despite herself, she found comfort in his persistence, in his way of toeing the line between serious and playful without putting any pressure on her. For all his charm, he hadn’t crossed any lines. He was waiting, leaving the door open if she ever wanted to step through.

As he turned to head back toward his car, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her a wink. “You know where to find me if you change your mind, cariño. I’ll be around.”

And with that, he disappeared into the garage, leaving her standing there with a soft smile, feeling just a little lighter, a little braver.

She found herself glued to the screen as the race unfolded, Franco’s car darting through the pack with all the finesse and raw determination she’d come to recognise in him. Starting from P17, he had a long climb ahead of him, and as the laps ticked down, he kept gaining ground, his timing sharp, his decisions bold. He was relentless, working his way through the grid with an intensity that kept her at the edge of her seat.

By the halfway mark, he was already up to P12, and she could feel the anticipation building among the journalists and crew around her. Franco wasn’t just driving; he was fighting for every single position, taking advantage of each moment with an almost calculated risk. And he was doing it with the confidence that had both frustrated and charmed her from the start.

Then, in the final laps, with a daring overtake on the inside line, he claimed P10. A top ten finish. It was almost too perfect—his words from the last race echoing in her mind as he crossed the line: “If they ask, I’ll do it again.”

The paddock was buzzing with excitement as she made her way toward the media pen, preparing herself for the post-race interview. She tried to tamp down the flutter of nerves, reminding herself that he’d been charming his way through interviews with her for weeks now. But there was something different this time, a spark of pride mingled with her excitement, and she couldn’t wait to see him walk in.

When he finally appeared, the smile on his face was brighter than she’d ever seen. Still in his race suit, a towel on his head, he strode over to her with that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. She raised her microphone, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“Franco Colapinto,” she began, her own smile betraying just a hint of the thrill she felt. “P10 from P17—congratulations. Tell us, how did you manage such an impressive climb?”

He grinned, leaning casually into the microphone. “Well, you know me. I like a good challenge,” he said, his gaze holding hers for a second longer than necessary. “And I couldn’t let down the one person who told me I had to keep improving.”

The implication wasn’t lost on anyone listening, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She rolled her eyes slightly, playing it off as best she could. “Seems like you’re making a habit of climbing positions to impress,” she replied, keeping her tone light.

Franco’s smile softened, turning almost genuine. “For some things,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “it’s worth the effort.”

She swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, but managed to pull herself together, keeping the interview rolling. “Well, you’ve certainly earned that P10. What’s the plan for next time? Any more surprise performances in store?”

“Oh, definitely,” he replied, flashing her a grin. “But let’s say I’ll aim higher than P10 next time. If someone out there is willing to set a new challenge for me, I’ll be ready.” His words hung in the air, a subtle invitation that made her heart skip a beat.

She couldn’t hold back her smile as she wrapped up the interview, his gaze lingering on her with that same unspoken promise. And as she watched him walk away, her heart raced with the thrill of what might come next, realising that maybe—just maybe—she was ready to see where this challenge would lead.

As Franco walked away, she felt the lingering warmth of his gaze, that same thrill coursing through her that she’d tried so hard to brush off. But now, it seemed, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. The interview had felt like more than just a casual exchange; his words, his look—there was something real beneath the flirtation, something she found herself wanting to chase.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of post-race coverage and media duties, but her thoughts kept drifting back to him, to the way his eyes had held hers, steady and genuine, as he’d promised to aim even higher. It was only when she caught herself looking around the paddock, almost instinctively, that she realised she was seeking him out. By then, her professional caution had faded, replaced by something far less reasonable but far more enticing.

She knew she was violating so many unspoken rules as she made her way around the paddock, ducking out of the more crowded paths and slipping past the occasional lingering crew member. A pang of guilt buzzed at the back of her mind, but it was no match for the magnetic pull drawing her toward his driver’s room.

She stopped outside the door, exhaling a shaky breath as her pulse raced with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The hallway was quiet, the sounds of the bustling paddock fading away. Before she could second-guess herself, she raised her hand and knocked softly.

The door opened, and there he was, in a grey tracksuit and plain black top, his expression shifting from surprise to that warm, familiar smile that had always managed to disarm her.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “I didn’t expect my motivation to show up in person.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding her smile. “I figured I’d come to make sure you’re planning to keep your word. That climb to P10 wasn’t exactly a small feat.”

His smile softened, and he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in. As the door clicked shut behind them, the noise and pressures of the paddock slipped away, leaving just the two of them. The look he gave her—warm, unguarded, and almost vulnerable—made her heart skip a beat.

She’d broken so many of her own rules just to get here, but in this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a single one.

Taking a moment to look around, she noticed his bags were packed and ready for the triple header and that there was nowhere to sit.

She sat on the edge of his bed, trying to look at ease despite the heat rising in her cheeks. Franco stood in front of her, close enough that her knees brushed his legs. The room felt charged with his presence, the quiet intensity in his gaze making it impossible to look away.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmured, leaning down a bit. The way his dark eyes lingered on her, sweeping over her face and holding her gaze, sent a rush of warmth through her.

She felt a smile tugging at her lips, trying to keep her voice steady. “Figured I’d make sure you’re holding up after all that hard work.”

He chuckled, his voice low, with just a hint of playfulness. “Oh, I’m holding up just fine.” He reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, letting his thumb linger just a moment too long against her skin. “In fact, I think I’m doing better than fine.”

Her cheeks flushed even deeper, but she held his gaze, determined not to let him throw her off-balance—at least not completely. “You know,” she said, trying to match his tone, “you don’t have to turn everything into a line, Colapinto.”

Franco tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Only with you, cariño.”

She let out a soft laugh, her heartbeat picking up as he moved closer, until he was standing right between her legs. She felt his fingers trace gently along her jawline, his thumb tilting her chin up so she was looking directly into his eyes.

“Not used to being flirted with, cariño?” he asked softly, his voice smooth and teasing.

She swallowed, feeling her blush deepen as her usual composure slipped. “No… not like this.”

“Shame,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her cheek as his eyes searched hers, warm and intent. His voice softened, and the playfulness gave way to something more genuine. “Because I’m just getting started.”

She felt her breath hitch, her pulse racing as his words sank in, leaving her both disarmed and impossibly drawn in. And in that moment, she realised that every wall she’d put up around him was slipping away, piece by piece.

For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, the air between them thick with anticipation. Then, she noticed the small silver chain dangling from his neck, glinting faintly against the fabric of his black top, and without thinking, she reached up, wrapping her fingers around it gently.

Franco’s gaze flickered in surprise, his breath catching as she tugged on the chain, pulling him just close enough that their faces were inches apart. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, and the intensity of his gaze sent a thrill through her that made her heart pound. His hands settled on either side of her hips as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the charged silence.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his. The kiss was tentative at first, soft and exploratory, but the warmth in his response was immediate. His hand slid up her back, pulling her closer, and she felt his fingers tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss, his touch gentle yet confident.

She didn’t realise how tightly she was gripping his chain until she felt his hand cover hers, his thumb tracing lightly over her knuckles as if to say, I’m here.

When they finally parted, both of them slightly breathless, Franco looked at her, hand caressing her cheek, his smile soft and real, devoid of his usual playfulness. He looked at her with a quiet intensity that made her stomach flip.

“You know," he started, his voice dipping into that smooth, charming tone, “I thought I never had a chance with you. You made me work for every single look, every smile…” He shook his head, his hand still resting against her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her jaw. “I was convinced you’d never actually let me get this close.”

She felt a warm, amused smile tugging at her lips as she listened to him, his words genuine but tinged with that familiar, playful charm. Watching him, her heart surged with an undeniable impulse, one she didn’t want to ignore any longer. In one fluid motion, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down, pressing her lips to his again with a fierce, unrestrained intensity that sent sparks through her.

Franco’s surprise melted instantly, his hands slipping from her cheek to either side of her hips, matching her passion. The kiss deepened, turning slower, almost reverent, as if neither of them wanted the moment to end. She could feel his pulse racing under her hands, his warmth overwhelming in the most exhilarating way.

Without breaking the kiss, she leaned back, drawing him down with her onto the bed. She felt his weight settle gently over her, his hands bracing on either side of her as he kissed her with a hunger that felt both new and inevitable. When he finally pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering over hers, his voice was breathless, a bit dazed.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his fingers tracing down her arm as he held her gaze, a vulnerable softness there she hadn’t seen before.

“Good,” she whispered back, her own voice unsteady, feeling as though her walls were completely gone now. “Because I don’t plan on making it easy for you.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned down, his mouth finding hers again with an eagerness that left them both completely lost in each other, as if the rest of the world had faded away.

Maybe he was worth the wait.

the end.

[nobodyinfart]

Is your love as unrequited as you think? Or does the team hide more than you think?

Maybe you’re just a lower rank soldier or just lack the confidence,, but you don’t believe that a love with the main characters of the task force would be possible, even in your daydreams as a hopeless romantic.

Johnny’s achievements are nothing to be humble about, being the youngest candidate to pass the selections process and being deemed a demolitions expert are ever praiseworthy. His cheeky demeanour makes even the quietest soldiers crack a smile, and lights up the base unlike any other. Maybe that’s why you code him as Sunshine in your journals,, scrawling affirmations of adoration between the margins. Coded lines of love decorated your many notebooks, all sealed within the depths of your cabinet to never see the light of day. Of course, you’d know it’s too selfish of you to ever confess, since there is no possible chance. Maybe you would change your mind if you ever caught a glance of how Soap casts his first look at you to see if you laughed at one of his corny jokes. Definitely making notes on what kind of jokes make you smile the brightest, obviously.

Although understated, Gaz is obviously brawns and beauty. Like, was it really necessary for him to have the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen? You can barely focus, line of sight often slipping down to his lips before moving them back up just to feign ignorance. You saw him as an aspiration at first, viewing his top place on the SAS selection rankings to be a goal to achieve. It wasn’t long for that awe to morph into something more affectionate. Dangerous territory, too dangerous that you decide to bury yourself in your training. Trying to snap yourself out of that lovesick daze, you push yourself to your own limits in the process. Using that pain to distract yourself, you definitely don’t notice Gaz’s worried gaze when you head towards the training grounds once again, his concern evident when he realises your hands are still bruised from the previous day. He’ll have to sneak some ointment into your gym bag again, somehow.

Ghost, who doesn’t know him? The stoic Lieutenant in the task force, prime of his trade in ambush and stealth. It’s tough to even get familiar with him, let alone be in a relationship with the lieutenant. Respecting his quiet demeanour, you have always kept your distance as a form of respect; never pushing more than what you know he can handle. A secret is that you always keep his tea bags in stock, replenishing when stocks go low. Simon hides a secret of his own; sometimes gripping the standard military knife you normally practise with to gauge your hand size,, just for an accurate daydream of how your hands would fit in his own. Would your fingers lace with his just as well as he imagines? Don’t tell anyone, but Simon has been staring at you long enough for Soap to notice, who knew Ghost could be so distracted?

Honestly, Price is the one you have to be the most cautious about. Out of everyone in the force, he is the most observant thanks to his expertise in the military field. Rugged and charming, it is not hard at all for Price to get your attention. His gravely chuckle lights a fire in your stomach, you desperately wishing to be the cause of it someday. Yet, a love between a Captain and his subordinate remains unfeasible on all sorts of levels, especially one as devoted to his job as John Price. Even if your love is impossible, you always try to make his life easier; doing paperwork with both speed and detail. Often, his heart softens when he sees a light peeking from under the door of your office, hoping for an opportunity to get to know the angel who files their reports perfectly. No matter how much he shouldn’t, he sincerely hopes to find a chance to make himself a stable placement in your life soon enough.

[the-joy-of-knowledge]

How to expand your vocabulary (in an enjoyable way).

Self-Awareness

If you find yourself struggling to find the appropriate words to express yourself ,then you need to learn more words. If you are reading this article or you find the title interesting, then you are closer than you thought. You are simply self aware. Self awareness is the first step to muster the courage to pursue the art of language and communication. It dawned on me that I was verbally malnourished when I could barely find the words to describe the character I read in a novel. "So what was he like?" My curious friends will ask and all I could say was "he had a troubled childhood and it was evident in his lack of self-control." The sound of that description even troubled me. I knew there was more to his character, but I restricted by my literary scarcity. I still struggle with this but I am making daily efforts to improve. This article will be prescriptive and descriptive.

Execution

Read books, I mean read actively. I read books and I atke pride in it but I am a severely passive reader. I barely engage with the story, the character, or the author's attempt to challenge my prejudice or affinity for the character. My reading goal was to read as many books as possible, quantity over quality. By quality, I mean quality of my reading, not the books per se. Now, I read differently (and I only started this a month ago), I read prudently, making stops anytime I encounter an unfamiliar word. I include that in my vocabulary list on my Notes app. after about 10 words or so. I immediately find each words synonyms, two per word; one easy, one difficult. For example, Decrepit (derelict, neglected).

Use Chat GPT to create sentences for you in different context and practice with that.

3. Find ways to include your new learned words in your own way. If you work a 9-5, it may be helpful to customize your prompt to business/professional context, to be more applicable to you. But most importantly, create your own sentence structure. If you have a meeting, prep for it by using the words your learned, take notes as a guide to help you effectively convey your ideas. I learned "impetuously" recently and during a meeting with my manager she asked me to access myself based on my strength and weaknesses. I responded with "I tend to impetuously accept projects without understanding the deliverables and I end up being overwhelmed with the expectations." My point it make sure you use the context of your everyday life. If you are a humanities major, you might approach this differently.

4. Make it enjoyable. Think of each new word as a specific dollar amount. Then create a "verbal bank," the more words your learn the richer you become. Ecah word for me is valued at $50. I earn $25 extra if I can use it effectively in a conversation. It you learn 10 new words a week, you have made yourself $500. Deposit that into your verbal bank!

5. Record yourself saying this words. Try to actively recall them but through a conversation. Do 1-minute tests. Record yourself describing your day, giving a presentation etc Notice with words flow naturally, if you like go back to your vocabulary list and test yourself. by creating sentences.

6. Expand your reading. Well, I did say to read books and I would suggest to go beyond. Read articles (very well written ones) and when not reading, actively listen to podcasts and pay attention to how the host convey their ideas. You would notice that good writing or speech is not necessarily peppered with difficult words. Good writers is simple to understand because the authors make diffiuclt topics or esoteric topics digestible.

Emulatate & Practise

You simply just have to emulate. Copy the style & syntax of people you admire or respect for their speech or writing. Keep practising. It is a choice to improve or not. Don't hold yourself back. I am practising by writing as well and I have barely scratched the surface and I am sure you can tell by my writing. It is not sophisticated but I do hope to improve and you can to.

Excite yourself

You will come to find yourself smiling when you read a text with words no longer foreign to you. Words that were once distant and strange will eventually become a part of you. That is the best feeling ever, it's exciting.

[blackstarlineage]

The Harm of Physical Discipline on Black Children: A Garveyite Perspective on Abuse, Colonial Trauma, and the Need for New Approaches to Parenting

From a Garveyite perspective, which champions self-determination, empowerment, and the uplifting of Black people globally, the physical discipline of Black children—often normalized in many communities—is a direct result of colonial conditioning, intergenerational trauma, and an internalized acceptance of oppressive tactics. This form of discipline, though widely practised, ultimately hinders the development of strong, confident, and independent-minded Black youth who can lead the charge toward liberation.

This analysis will explore why physical discipline is a legacy of slavery and colonial rule, why it contradicts Garveyite principles of Black self-empowerment, and why alternative methods rooted in respect, understanding, and cultural restoration are necessary.

1. The Colonial Roots of Physical Discipline in Black Communities

Many Black families defend beatings, whoopings, and corporal punishment as “tradition,” but in reality, this practice is a remnant of colonial rule and slavery rather than a cultural legacy of African societies.

Fact: Pre-colonial African societies relied on communal discipline, verbal correction, and rites of passage to instil values in children—not beatings inspired by slave masters.

Example: During the Transatlantic Slave Trade, slave owners brutally whipped and beat enslaved Africans to instil obedience through fear. This method of control was later internalized and passed down through generations.

Example: Colonial governments in Africa and the Caribbean used severe physical punishments to enforce European laws on Black populations, reinforcing a hierarchy of control based on violence.

Garveyite Takeaway: If beating children was an effective and righteous method of discipline, it would have empowered Black people under slavery rather than kept them in a state of fear and submission. If it did not liberate us from white rule, why should it be used to prepare our children for liberation?

2. The Contradiction of Physical Discipline and Black Empowerment

Marcus Garvey’s teachings emphasized the need for strong, independent-thinking, and self-disciplined Black individuals to lead the charge for global African liberation. Physical discipline directly contradicts this vision in several ways:

How Physical Discipline Weakens Black Children Instead of Strengthening Them:

1. It Instills Fear, Not Critical Thinking:

A child who is beaten does not learn why their actions were wrong—they only learn to fear punishment.

Fear-based discipline leads to obedient followers, not revolutionary leaders.

2. It Damages Self-Worth and Identity:

Black children who are frequently hit may internalize self-hatred and associate discipline with violence instead of wisdom.

How can we tell Black children they are kings and queens while treating them like enslaved people?

3. It Perpetuates the Cycle of Oppression

Many Black parents justify beatings by saying:

“I do this so the police won’t have to.”

This statement is an admission that corporal punishment is a tool of white supremacy, used to “prepare” Black children for life under oppression instead of preparing them for liberation.

Example: Malcolm X, Huey P. Newton, and Marcus Garvey were not obedient, fearful children—they were defiant, critical thinkers who challenged the status quo. We need leaders, not people conditioned, to obey authority without question.

Garveyite Takeaway: We must stop preparing our children for submission to oppression and start raising them to become liberators and builders of Black power.

3. The Psychological and Emotional Damage of Physical Discipline

The Scientific and Psychological Evidence Against Beating Black Children

Numerous studies confirm that physical punishment leads to negative long-term effects rather than producing disciplined, successful adults.

Research has shown that children who experience corporal punishment are more likely to:

Develop low self-esteem

Exhibit aggressive behaviour in relationships and society

Struggle with mental health issues like depression and anxiety

Be less likely to challenge authority, even when that authority is unjust

Example: Many Black adults defend beatings by saying, “I was whooped as a child, and I turned out fine.” However, if we examine how much internalized trauma, anger, and distrust exist within the Black community, it’s clear that we did not “turn out fine.”

Garveyite Takeaway: A truly free and empowered people do not need to rule their children through fear—they lead them through wisdom, cultural education, and self-determination.

4. The Double Standard: Black Children vs. White Children

One of the most dangerous consequences of normalizing corporal punishment in Black households is that it prepares Black children to accept violence as normal, while white children are often raised with nurturing and encouragement.

How This Affects the Black Community in the Long Run

White children grow up being told they can achieve anything—Black children are often told they need to be beaten into obedience.

White children grow up to become bosses, entrepreneurs, and leaders—Black children, conditioned through fear, are often expected to follow rules instead of challenge them.

The system punishes Black children more harshly in schools, knowing their own parents won’t fight back against abusive authority.

Example: Black children are three times more likely to be suspended or expelled from school than white children for the same behavior—yet Black parents still tell their children to be quiet, obey, and never challenge authority.

Garveyite Takeaway: Beating Black children does not protect them—it only weakens them while their white counterparts are being raised to dominate the world.

5. A Better Approach: How to Raise Black Children for Power and Liberation

If physical discipline is a product of oppression, then the solution is to return to African-centered parenting methods that build strong, confident, and intelligent Black youth.

Garveyite Alternatives to Physical Discipline:

1. Restoring African Values of Communal Discipline

In African societies, elders disciplined through community correction and mentorship, not through beatings.

Teaching, storytelling, and cultural reinforcement were the primary methods of guidance.

2. Rites of Passage Programs

Black children need structured rites of passage to transition into adulthood, teaching them responsibility, self-discipline, and leadership.

3. Building Self-Discipline Instead of Fear

Encourage critical thinking and accountability instead of forcing obedience.

Teach children to analyze their actions and take responsibility without violence.

4. Lead by Example

Many Black children experience hypocrisy from parents who demand respect but show none.

Children learn from watching—if they see strong, disciplined, and intelligent parents, they will embody those traits.

Example: The Nation of Islam emphasizes self-discipline, structured education, and accountability over beatings, producing many strong, disciplined leaders.

Garveyite Takeaway: We need Black children who think critically, move strategically, and act boldly. This will never be achieved through fear-based parenting.

Conclusion: Breaking the Chains of Slave Discipline

The physical discipline of Black children is not cultural—it is a practice forced onto us through colonial rule and slavery. If we are to build a strong and liberated race, we must break the cycle and return to African-centered, Garveyite principles of discipline through empowerment, knowledge, and cultural restoration.

Final Thought

Marcus Garvey did not build the UNIA by beating his followers into submission—he inspired them through discipline, knowledge, and leadership. If we want strong Black leaders in the future, we must raise children who are strong in mind, not just fearful of punishment.

[hello-summ3r]

reader, who is part of task force 141 is wrongly accused of being a traitor. but for some reason, despite all the torture they endured, they still forgive them.

hi guys :D im still quite new to tumblr and this is my first fic im gonna be starting. i have written before on ao3, wattpad, notes (for practise), a failed unfinished book so hopefully this will go well!

writers block may happen at some point because im kinda planning for it to be a series, if not, just a one-part fic. chances are, i wont have the energy to proof-read so if there are mistakes, please dont mind it :)

i got this idea from @ghostslittlegf . i have reblogged the post that they made that gave me the inspiration. <3

anyways, enough rambling, enjoy! <33

!tw! : t0rture, mentions of g0re, abvse, swearing, foul language, manipulation

part 1

it wasn't you. not your fault.

days pass, and all sense of time was lost for you. you don't know how long you have been bound to this chair for, and the same nauseating scent of old blood and soil was not making it any better.

the task force placed you in a holding cell underground. the entire place was empty; it was just you, and the chilling, hollow echoes of whatever slight movement you bore from the tight knots gnawing at your wrists and ankles. your skin was blistering from the constant friction of the jagged ropes and stinging. fear was eating you alive, consuming more and more of you as each day passed. hell, it felt like an eternity down here.

the task force, the previous week, had encountered a leak in information that meant the entire team was put under danger. they were sure it was someone within the base, as nobody else would just have access to such private information.

one day, you were just in the gym training when a few men took you aside, captain price at their heels. his eyes were dark and you could see levels of anger rising inside him. you were confused, obviously. had you done anything wrong? no, you hadn't. the next thing you knew, you were here. bound and restricted.

but you didn't do anything?

"you will tell us the truth, is that clear?" price spat as he bent down to meet your eye-level. behind him were 3 other people with pistols in their hand, loaded. you couldn't make out their faces as it was dimly lit.

"truth? what do you mean?" you question, utterly confused and a little scared of this situation. your eyes dart around the cell. you've never been down here before, and everything seems so foreign. the walls were slightly cracked, the large bricks uneven in placement. moss grew from the cracks, and the stench of wet soil creeped into your nose. it was cold and damp, and disgusting. these were the holding cells you never wanted to go down into, yet here you were, forced to be in one as a prisoner.

"dont play dumb." price sneered, his face closer to yours. you backed away instinctively, looking away to avoid his gaze.

"i really don't know what you mean..." you reply with some thought whilst slightly shaking your head, trying to make sense of this whole situation. price grabs at the arm-rests of the chair with some force. it startles you but you listen to him carefully.

"we know you betrayed us. that information that got leaked? yeah, well now the entire base is in danger. we're sabotaged, all because one little birdie decided to run their traitor mouths to enemy bases." he says, sing-songingly on the last part.

your eyes widen a little at such an accusation. never would you even think of betraying the task force. they were like family to you, and the accusation sickened you deeply. even the thought was sickening. "what? you're accusing me? but why!? what's your evidence?" you desperately pry for answers. all this was so sudden.

"oh, evidence? there's plenty of evidence, sweetheart." he replies, a sarcastic and irritated chuckle woven into his speech. he stands back up and looks back at the men behind him. he nods and they walk towards you.

"what? price...what are they doing?" you cry, your voice shaking and unstable out of fear. you watch as one walks behind you, the other two standing in front on either side. price walks away, pulling the cell door open and leaving.

"price? price! captain!" you yell, but no-one answers other than your screams that reverberate emptily off the cold, damp stone.

you wake to the sound of your cell door sliding open. it slams forcefully when it reaches the other side, which jolts you back into your senses. you blink away your exhaustion and look up at the dark figure that walks towards you. you try make out their face, and distinguish them as simon.

"simon...is that you?" you weakly mutter. your body was on the edge of breaking from the week-long physical and mental torture you had to endure.

he doesn't say anything and just walks towards you. his demeanor seemed calm and stoic but you knew what was about to happen. you took a deep breath to the best of your ability, your ribs hurting in the process, as you anticipated what he was going to do to you.

"listen, we've been a'this for a week now. you still refuse to tell us the truth. we've been too gentle with you. now, tell us the truth. or else i'll 'ave to resort to more...brutal ways." he stared at you, his gaze of pure rage that he managed to keep controlled.

"i'm innocent...i truly have nothing to say." you mumble, knowing it wasn't going to change anything.

suddenly, you feel the brute force of simon's fist against your cheek. you go limp at the pain of the punch, but you bite back tears.

"tell. me. the. truth." he demands, his voice becoming more stern and loud.

"i really don't have anything...i promise you the evidence against me are forged, and the accusations are false!" you whine, voice breaking.

another punch.

"i forgive you all for this...once you find out i'm truly innocent." you mumble with a sob in your voice, a warm, twitching smile on your face as tears brim in your eyes.

simon's eyes only narrow at you.

"i don't give a shit for whatever trickery you're pulling right now. i want the truth! so spit it out!" he demands again, just below a yell. you look away as you try contain your tears from the pain.

"i wont hesitate you batter you right now. i won't go easy like i did before, just a harsh hit here and there. tell the truth! the truth!" he yells this time, but you stay silent. your lip quivers as you try think of what to say, as you truly had no 'truth' to confess. you're not the traitor, you're innocent.

another hard blow hits your face, then another, and another. the abuse slowly turns into a result of his anger. simon had his denials, but the evidence changed his mind immediately. he was mad, infuriated that you betrayed the entire team, or at least, he thought.

"i'll forgive you, i promise." you choke under your breaking breath, trickles of blood running down from your nose and mouth.

"the truth!" he yells again before delivering another hit.

"i'll forgive you all...no matter what."

[miryum]

"The Crime Scene"

Summary: Detective!Jason Todd x detective!Reader based on Jake and Amy’s relationship

Series Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of violence (but nothing descriptive), guns and other police stuff

Series Masterlist

Y/n stood by an apartment door that was blocked off by police tape, scrolling through her pictures. She and Jason had officially been dating for three weeks, and in her opinion, it was going great. Two nights ago they had another date which consisted of going to the State Fair. Y/n had insisted that they get the famous cookies (“They’re a staple of the fair, Jaybird! It wouldn’t be the State Fair without diabetes!”), ride the giant slide (“Darling, I’m an adult male with a full-time job. As much as I wanna make you happy, I’m not riding- oh my god, oh my god … Okay, can we go again?”), and go on the skyride. The day had ended with a camera roll full of Jason and Y/n pictures, Y/n’s favourite being Jason going through the children’s faux farm where kids had to collect small packages and do chores akin to farming. They followed a dirt path and collected plastic apples, packets of corn, and swaths of real sheep wool. At the end, they cashed it all in for an ice cream sandwich. Luckily, Y/n had been able to snag a picture of Jason in a tiny apron and holding a wicker basket. His mouth was downturned, but he waited patiently in line for his promised ice cream sandwich. 

“Hey. Sorry I'm late,” Cass said and Y/n looked up. “The coffee guy was…”

Y/n choked on her spit. “Assaulting your head?  What is going on up there?” She referenced Cass’ hairstyle. Instead of her loose pixie-cut, Cass’ hair was ironed straight in a tight bob.

“Is it bad?” Cass grimaced.

“Before I answer that question,” Y/n said, “do you currently have a knife on you?”

“Yes, several.” 

“Then I love it.” Y/n gave her a thumbs up. “It really... I mean, it’s hair. You look like Edna from The Incredibles. I'm sorry, don't stab me.” She shielded her face with her arms.

“My girlfriend, Harper, is going through beauty school. This week they’re doing hairstyles,” Cass explained. “She’s practising on me.”

“You’re still with Harper?!” Y/n giggled. “Geez, I love her! Uh, don’t take this the wrong way, but… is she passing?”

“Honestly, I don't know.”

“Well, let's get into this murder.” Y/n rubbed her hands together gleefully. “I'm hoping it's a dope one.” She flung open the door and ducked under the police tape. When she saw the apartment, she froze and her eyes widened in appreciation. “Mamma Mia. That's a bloody pizza pie.” She was referring to the scene before her, the floor smeared with blood in long lines, evidence markers covering every other metre, and the photographer was just finishing up. 

“Detectives,” a detective named Al Kelly greeted them. “The Roomba was running when we got here. It smeared blood across the entire apartment.”

Cass smirked and turned to Y/n. “Is this dope enough for you?”

“It's a bloody robot, Cain.” Y/n grinned. “It's clearly a good start, but it's gonna take more than that to be certified as totally dope. Who's the victim?”

“Name is Steven Carlyle,” Kelly said.

Y/n hummed and shook her head. “Kind of a boring name. Not super dope.”

“He was a psychologist,” Kelly continued. 

“Okay, a sharp turn away from dopeness, but who found the body?”

“His boss called the cops when he didn't show up to work, so he was found by Officer Fields.”

“Officer Fields?” Y/n whined. “You are seriously undoping this. Do you have anything else for me? Al?”

“The apartment was locked from the inside?” Kelly offered, wondering what Y/n wanted to hear. 

“Mysterious. Dope,” Y/n nodded along. 

“The alarm system was still armed.”

“Dope, dope, dope, dope. So hard to solve.” Y/n’s mouth dropped open appreciatively.

Cass asked, “any surveillance cameras?”

“Oh, yeah. Tons of them, but we checked them. No one was seen going in or out. Whoever did this was a ghost.” Al handed Cass a case file and she started flitting through it.

“Yes!” Y/n exclaimed. “A ghost! I officially declare this case ‘dope!’” She turned towards the apartment. “I love the first walkthrough of a crime scene. It's kind of like arriving at summer camp, except the lake is full of blood and your bunk mate is dead.” She paused before ambling through the room. “I think I may be bad at metaphors.”

Cass held up an interview transcript. “So after Carlyle comes home from work, the only person who even approaches his doorway is a delivery guy?”

“Yeah, but he never enters the apartment.”

Y/n gasped and pointed to an evidence marker. “Hey, Cass. Check it out. Triple digies!” The evidence marker displayed one-hundred and eighteen. “There's so much evidence, we hit triple digies!”

“Cool,” Cass commented.

“Very cool indeed,” Y/n agreed. “But you know what's not cool? Carlyle ordered his dinner from House of Lettuce. There's no way this guy knew he was gonna die! No one would want lettuce as their last meal. For example, my last meal... is gonna be any candy I get my hands on,” she shoved her hands in her pockets and extracted a pack of M&Ms.

“You just keep those in your pocket?” Cass pushed back a smile.

“We face death every day,” Y/n pointed out. “I gotta be prepared to go out on my own terms.”

“I can't even think about eating,” Cass gagged. “It smells like Tim’s armpits after he’s refused to go home for four days and is running on coffee.”

“When have you smelled Tim’s armpits…” Y/n trailed off.

A heavy set man with a thick moustache saddled up to them and said, “that's the heat wave. It speeds up the body decomp. I guess you could say this mystery is straight outta decomp......ton.”

“No.” Y/n rejected the attempted pun. “Who are you?”

“Angel Rojas. I'm running CSI and forensics.” The man took a sip of his coffee. 

“If the heat is causing the smell, why don't we just turn on the air conditioning?” Y/n asked.

Rojas shook his head immediately. “That kind of air flow is gonna kick up all kinds of dust particles. That AC stays off, which means the odour in here? Only gonna get worse.” He dug a small clip out of his pocket and shoved it on his nose. “Pro tip: plug your noses. Had this bad boy custom-made to fit these sweet nosters.”

“Are you trying to abbreviate ‘nostrils’?” Y/n stared at Rojas, completely bamboozled.

“In CSI, we don't try. We do, son.”

“Son? I mean, transgender people are great, but that’s not how I identify, thank you very much.” She shot Rojas a pair of finger guns before saying, “well, it's been sort of okay meeting you. We're gonna turn our backs and ignore you now.” She and Cass loyally turned their backs. 

“Hey, Y/n/n,” Cass smirked. “You know what it's time for?”

“I sure do! Y/n and Cass’ first impressions!”

Cass pointed to blood patterns on the wall. “Cast-off pattern on the far wall suggests upward knife slices. Y/n?”

Y/n knelt down next to Carlyle’s body. “Wounds on the vic's back means he didn't see the killer coming. Oof. Cass, my dearest?”

Cass shook her head and continued, “laptop, wallet, keys all in plain sight. No sign of forced entry. Doesn't connote a robbery. L/n?”

“But it does connote that our killer was waiting for Carlyle in the apartment.” She hesitated and asked, “did I just use the word ‘connote’ correctly?”

“You did.”

Y/n grinned. “Great. I’m just super smart. Please text Tim and tell him to suck it and that I am amazing and he should love me. Also, tell Jason that I’m the smarter one in the relationship and that even though he reads all the time, I am superior.”

“I’m not doing that.”

A voice frantically cried from the hallway, “I'm his mother! Let me in!”

Y/n grimaced and her jaw tensed. “Rock-paper-scissors for who has to talk to the vic's mom.”

“Deal.” The pair slammed their fists into their open palms and Y/n glared at Cass as the former held up paper and Cass showed two fingers to indicate scissors. 

“It's a game of chance. How the hell do you always win?” Y/n groaned loudly.

“You always pick paper,” Cass said.

“That is not true,” Y/n scoffed. “Here, go again.” Y/n flattened her palm as paper and Cass held up scissors. “One more time. Alright, one more time. One more time. One more time. One more time.” Y/n kept holding up paper and Cass easily beat her every time with scissors. “Alright, one more time. One more time. God, this reverse psychology is a bust!” Y/n sighed and stepped outside to the hallway. “Ma'am?” she found Carlyle’s mother and smiled softly. “I'm Detective L/n. This is Detective Cain. I'm so sorry for your loss.”

“Please tell me whatever you can. Nobody will tell me anything,” Carlyle’s mother, Amy, begged.

“I really wish that I could, but we're just starting our investigation,” Y/n explained. “Now, is there anyone you can think of that would want to hurt your son?”

“No! Everybody loved Stevie. I don't know why this happened! Please, you have to find who did this.”

“We're doing everything we can,” Y/n reassured her.

“Promise me,” Amy pleaded slowly, staring helplessly at Y/n, “you'll find who did this.”

Cass stepped in and frowned, “ma'am, we can't promise-”

“Promise me!” Amy placed a hand on Y/n’s forearm and tears started forming in her eyes. “Stevie was my whole world. I'm a single mom… or, was a single mom.” She sniffed and wiped at her eyes.

Y/n took a breath and nodded. “I promise you.”

Cass falsely grinned at Amy, who was thanking Y/n profusely, and shoved Y/n back into the rotting apartment. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?”

“Um, exsqueeze me?” Y/n crossed her arms, offended.

“Did you really just full-on promise a victim's family member we would solve a crime? You broke the number one rule of dealing with a victim's family member. What were you thinking?”

Y/n shrugged and muttered, “I don't know. She reminded me of my mom, okay? A single mother crying in the hallway? Those are some of my frequent childhood memories.”

Cass sighed and rubbed her temples, speaking more softly, “dude, you never make a promise, because if we don't solve this, you've given her false hope, and that is way worse.”

“Normally, I would totally agree with you, but we're going to solve this case. We have so much evidence. We hit triple digies! We'll interview his friends, neighbours, and coworkers. Come on. We got this!”

“Alright, fine. But you have to deal with her if we can’t solve it.”

“Okay.”

“My goodness.” Y/n placed a hand over her heart and raised her brows in Cass’ direction. “Did Mother Gothel finally let you out of the tower?”

Cass’s hair had been lengthened significantly by hair extensions that fell down to her waist. “What?” Cass squinted at her.

“It was a Tangled burn,” Y/n explained. “Jason and I had a Disney marathon last weekend.”

“Cool, but no. Harper’s learning how to weave in hair extensions. Anyway, I talked to the neighbours. Our vic had a party three nights before the murder. I talked to everyone on the guest list. They all have alibis, so I got nothing. How did your interviews go?”

Y/n sucked in a harsh breath. “Not great. I talked to his coworkers, friends, and family. No one had a motive. Everyone loved him. The dumb jerk. RIP,” she added quickly, waving a hand around in a bad rendition of crossing herself.

“Did you promise any of them that you'd find the killer?” Cass asked, glaring at Y/n.

Y/n stared at Cass for a tense moment before admitting, “yes, his aunt. She also reminded me of my mom. Her name was Y/m/n!”

“Y/n!” Cass reprimanded. 

“Look, it's gonna be fine. This apartment is full of forensic evidence! There is no way that CSI hasn't found something. I have never been more confident in my entire-” she threw open the door and groaned as the smell immediately blasted her. “I can taste the smell. Ugh. You shouldn't be able to taste smells.”

“That's the heat cookin' the blood rot right out of the floorboards.” Rojas sauntered up to them. “Set scent to simmer. Serve over rice.”

Cass gazed uncomfortably at him before saying, “just so you know, Rojas, we're not responding positively to you as a person. Maybe just give us an update on the labs.”

“Copy that. The victim was stabbed 30 times. Coroner puts the time of death between six p.m. and seven-thirty p.m. Sunday night.”

“Okay, and how many DNA matches did you find?” Y/n asked.

“None.”

“What about hair?”

“None.”

“Fingerprints?”

“None,” Rojas repeated. “I have no matches of anything on any criminal databases whatsoever.”

Cass turned to Y/n. “Still feeling good about your promise, L/n?”

“Still feeling good about that haircut, Cousin It? I’m sorry, I’m a little frustrated right now but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I love you, Cass.” Y/n took a breath after her quick speech and said, “Rojas, how did you guys not find anything? You had fifteen people in here.”

“First of all, you sound so ignorant right now. I had fourteen guys here.” He scoffed. ”Like I'd ever get approval for fifteen guys. That's insane. Second of all, don't worry, we found something good. We tested the blood. This blood splatter belongs to the victim, this to a second individual, and that to a third.”

“Oh, hells, yes. We might have some perp blood in here. This is huge! Cass, we’re gonna solve this case!” She high-fived Cass and a couple mornings later, she stood outside the apartment, and greeted her friend, “ah, good morning, Prince Harry.” Cass’ hair was a brilliant, stark red.

“You seem particularly chipper this morning,” Cass remarked.

”Indeed I am,” Y/n agreed. “Because I finally tracked down the guy who delivered our vic his final meal and, in so doing, maybe saw the other two guys who bled all over this apartment.”

“We don't know there were three people in the apartment,” Cass reminded her friend.

“Delivery guy,” a cop introduced Y/n and Cass to a young, thin man dressed in a work uniform.

“Hello, sir,” Y/n smiled kindly and shook the delivery boy’s hand. ”We'd like to ask you a couple of questions.”

The delivery boy, who must’ve been no older than twenty-five, looked around at all the uniforms and equipment there. He nervously admitted, “okay, look, I ate a couple fries out of the bag, but everybody does that.”

Y/n shook her head, fingers tucked in belt loops. “That's not why you're here.”

“Oh, shit,” Max, the delivery boy, looked petrified. “Is this about weed?” he asked quietly, like it was a secret.

Y/n’s brows shot up and asked, “should it be?”

“No?”

“You delivered food to the guy in this apartment at six-forty p.m. on Sunday,” Cass cut in. “And within the hour, he was murdered.”

“What? How? That's horrible!” Max cried.

“Did you see anything suspicious?”

“No,” Max said. “But I didn't go inside. The guy came to the door. I just gave him the food.”

“And did you see or hear anyone else in the apartment?” Y/n crossed her arms.

“No, just that one guy. He ordered, uh, three beetroot zucchini wraps,” Max stuttered.

Y/n grimaced dramatically. “Three disgusting wraps. Three disgusting bloodstains. I knew it. There were three people in there.”

Cass stepped forward. “Would you be willing to go inside and let us know if anything looks different to you?”

“Yeah. Sure, that's fine. I don't care,” Max agreed as Y/n began to open the apartment door. Max stepped in and took one look around before screaming out, “why would you show this to me? Oh, I'm too high to see this.” He gagged and his eyes fell on the fishbowl which had bloodstains on the glass. “There's blood on the fish! On the fish!”

Y/n turned to Cass and said quietly, “I always forget how weirdly numb to horrific things we are. Do you think it affects the relationships we build with others?”

“Oh, for sure,” Cass agreed, nodding stoically as Max continued wailing.

“Oh.”

Cass placed a hand on Max’s back, who was currently bent over, retching up air. “You must have seen something. You delivered the food at six-forty, and sometime before seven-thirty, Carlyle was stabbed to death.”

“Stop saying ‘stabbed!’” Max pleaded. “What I saw here forever changed me. My heart is still pounding!”

“Wait. Carlyle was wearing a smartwatch, right?” Y/n asked, whirling around to the evidence marker that stood by Carlyle’s phone. “Those things track your heart rate. If we look at his phone, we can see the exact moment his heart stopped beating. Here we go.” She opened the phone. “Activities app. And... boom! His heart rate dropped to zero at exactly six-oh-three.”

Cass’ brows furrowed and she muttered, “the food wasn't even ordered until six-sixteen, which means…”

Both detectives exclaimed, “the killer ordered the food!”

Max, who was sitting in fetal position, yelled out, “oh, god. Did I talk to a murderer?!”

“Y/n,” Cass ignored Max. “This guy saw the perp. We have to get him in front of a sketch artist.”

“Oh, yeah. I'm feeling it now, Cass.” She bounced up on the balls of her feet. “At this time tomorrow, we're gonna know exactly what our killer looks like!”

“We have no idea what our killer looks like,” Cass said the following day, bags under eyes.

“Well, that's not totally true.” Y/n shuffled through sketch renderings. “We now know that the killer might look like Sebastian Stan, Winona Ryder, or Bilbo Baggins.”

“The delivery guy kept starting over. Apparently, he's always high.” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, man. Our big break turned into nothing.”

A voice sounded from the end of the hallway. “Detectives,” Captain Wayne strode up to them, cap under his arm.

“Ah! Captain,” Y/n plastered a grin on her face. “Did you come down here to take a look at the two best detectives you've ever worked with in action?”

“The two best detectives I've ever worked with are Prince and Pennyworth,” Wayne said immediately.

“Oh.” Y/n nodded once and stared at Wayne. “You never mentioned them before.”

“They were excellent,” Wayne replied. “I'm here because Major Crimes wants the case. I was hoping to tell them you have some leads. I overheard you mention a Bill Bo-Baggins. Should we bring him in?”

Y/n stifled a chuckle. “Well, as much as I would love to meet him, he is not a suspect.”

“Okay, so who is?”

Y/n swallowed and said, “at this time? No one. But... we are currently investigating no leads.” She drew her lips in and waited for the disappointment.

“So you have nothing,” Wayne restated.

Cass glared at Y/n. “Not nothing. L/n made a new best friend. The vic's mom. She promised her she'd solve the case.”

Wayne pursed his lips. “That's a rookie mistake.”

Y/n held up her hands defensively. “Okay. Fine. Maybe I'm not Pierce and Pennyweather.”

“Prince and Pennyworth,” Wayne corrected. “And they would've remembered your name after one mention.”

“Because we're memorable, and they're not.” Y/n held up a hand to Cass for a high-five. “Turned it around.” Cass shook her head and Y/n dropped her hand, continuing, “alright, look, Captain. Cain and I are gonna solve this case. The answer is in this room.” She gestured around to the bloody apartment. “We just have to focus and let the room speak to us.” She shouted out to the open house, “isn't that right, room?”

“When you talk to the room,” Wayne deadpanned, “I lose even more confidence in you.”

“Why?” Y/n shrugged then turned to beg her Capitan, “can you please just buy us some more time? Sir, I feel like we've earned this.”

Wayne sighed heavily and conceded, “work fast.”

Y/n shot him a thumbs up and beamed. “Got it.” She turned back to the apartment and rubbed her hands together. She said to Cass, “okay. Let's look at the scene like we're seeing it for the first time with fresh eyes.” She jumped to the floor, next to where Carlyle’s body used to lay. “Vic was face down.”

Cass stood in the kitchen, analysing the blood on the wall. “Cast-off splatter suggests upward knife slices.”

“No signs of forced entry. Laptop, wallet, keys were all there,” Y/n said, staring at the desk where all the items lay.

“Doesn't connote a robbery,” Cass finished.

“Wait a minute. Have we said this already?” Y/n looked around. “Are we having the exact same conversation?”

“Yep.”

“Cool.” Y/n’s jaw twitched. “Moving on. Windows and doors locked from the inside. Nobody in or out.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Think, think, think... oh!” She snapped her fingers and her head whipped upward to focus on the ceiling. “The upstairs neighbour and his best friend drilled through the ceiling, murdered Carlyle, bled all over the apartment, then climbed back up and sealed the hole behind them!”

Rojas spoke up from behind them. “Negative, we would have found construction debris and microscopic paint fibres. The only thing that needs patching... is that theory.”

Y/n waved him away. “Okay. New idea. We're gonna get inside the mind of the killer. We eat the veggie wraps!” She opened the days old food container and unwrapped the veggie wraps. A shiver ran up her spine as she took in the disgusting looking food. “Here we go,” she hesitantly took a bite of the wrap and immediately gagged. “Oh, this sick bastard,” she groaned. “Oh, man. This is one twisted motherfucker. Oh, the beets are raw. This guy is demented, Cass!” She harshly swallowed down the food before throwing away the rest of the veggie wrap, glaring at it. “How can someone stomach that…?”

A week later, Y/n stood in the middle of the room and held her arms out wide.“Okay. All we have to do is figure out what kind of person can walk by cameras without being seen. Someone camouflaged as a wall.” She glanced around, squinting at the walls, as if she could find the person.

“Unlikely,” Cass said.

“Harry Potter and his invisibility cloak,” Y/n said proudly.

Cass pointed out, “Not a real person.”

“Well, uh, how do you know, Cain? Have you searched all of Britain for a magical castle? I didn’t think so.”

A couple days later, Y/n sat on the kitchen counter, legs crossed and wearing a tank top and pyjama shorts. She suddenly gasped loudly and waved her hands around. “My god, Cain, come here. Look at the blood spatter. Do you see what I see?”

Cass walked over from the bedroom and wondered, “Uh, blood?”

“I think I just made a connection,” Y/n said. “The number three is everywhere. Three people. Three types of blood. And guess what the tax was on the veggie wraps? Three dollars and nineteen cents, but if you ignore the nineteen, then it's three!” she cried out.

Cass shook her head. “Okay. You've officially lost your mind.”

Y/n jumped off the counter and hissed, “what? Who told you that? Was it room?”

“No. It's the fact that you think the room has a voice and also you're working in your PJs!”

“To beat the heat, Cass!” Y/n shouted. “To beat the heat! If we can't turn on the AC, this isn’t crazy, it's just smart.”

Cass took a deep breath and said quietly, “Y/n, I gave the case to Major Crimes.”

“What?” Y/n’s lips parted in disbelief. “Cass, y-you can't do that. I promised Amy.”

“Yeah, and now you can't let it go,” Cass argued. She opened the apartment door and a group of men in uniforms and windbreakers entered. “The scene's yours, guys. I'm sorry, Y/n/n,” she said softly. “It's over.”

Y/n scoffed and marched out. “Okay, fine! I'll leave. Come on, room!” she called out to the apartment.

“You left your pants,” Cass said loudly.

“I don't care!” Y/n shouted back.

Cass slid into the briefing room, noticing Y/n who was crouched on the floor. “Hey, Y/n?”

Y/n popped up and gasped. “Ah! Hello, Cassandra, my coworker and dearest friend.”

Cass shoved her hands into her pockets. “Look, I know you're mad at me, but I only gave away that case to help you. You were acting like a lunatic.”

Y/n placed a bottle of ketchup on one of the tables. “Don't even worry about it. You were totally right. I was in too deep, and honestly, I feel so free not having to work that case anymore, so thank you.” She didn’t know what to do, so she gave Cass an awkward little bow.

Cass smiled, relieved. “Cool, you're welcome. Uh, what's up with all the ketchup?”

“It's, um… for my hot dog.” Y/n nodded slowly. She began to push Cass out of the room. “Anyways, this has been a great chat, but I better get back to my hot dog.”

Cass frowned and pushed past her and froze at the sight of Stephanie who was laying on the floor, covered in ketchup. “Oh, wow.” Cass said slowly, eyes wide.

“There's nothing crazy about this, sister,” Y/n said. “It's the crime scene!” She pointed to the differently arranged tables in the briefing room. “There’s the stove, the kitchen island, blood,” she splattered some more ketchup on a table. “And of course, the body,” she flourished towards Steph.

“Hi, Cass!” Steph waved at her friend. “I'm the body.”

“You gave away my case, but guess what?” She let out a ‘boo-yah’ and held up two fingers. “I spent two months in that apartment. I can recreate it in my sleep.”

“Have you slept?” Cass crossed her arms.

“No,” Y/n said.

Dick walked into the room and looked around, shocked at the mess. “What the hell is going on here?!”

“Y/n’s gone insane because she promised the victim's mom she'd solve her son's murder,” Cass explained.

Dick placed his hands on his hips, disappointed. “Seriously? You never promise a victim's relative anything.” He took a breath and commanded, “clean it up and get out. You've lost your mind,” he decided.

“That's not true!” Y/n retorted. “I'm solving this.”

“Hey, sweetheart?” Jason placed a comforting hand on Y/n’s back. He had gotten a concerning text from Cass that had persuaded Jason to stop by Y/n’s apartment during his lunch break. He had originally knocked on the door, but when she didn’t answer, he had used the key she gave him for emergencies. 

Y/n jumped at the contact and whirled around, eyes bloodshot and the bags under her eyes were darker than ever. “Jason? When did you get here?” Before her sat the blueprints of Carlyle’s apartment.

Jason’s eyes widened at her appearance before his expression softened sadly. “Oh, darling, how much sleep have you gotten?”

“Uh… when was Monday?”

“Four days ago,” Jason answered gently. “Come on,” he gently helped her out of her chair and led her to the bedroom. “Can we get some rest?” Y/n nodded reluctantly and allowed him to tuck her into bed. “I’m just gonna stay here to make sure you get sleep well,” Jason whispered. 

“Okay…” Y/n soon fell asleep, a small smile tugging on Jason’s lips. He returned to Y/n’s living room and sat down on the couch, turning the TV on, making sure the volume was low so as to not disturb her. 

However, an hour or so later, Jason heard some rustling from Y/n’s room. Worried, he crept to Y/n’s room and peered in. When he saw what his girlfriend was doing, he sighed heavily. “Y/n, my darling, please go to sleep.” 

Y/n was using the blueprints as a blanket, reading over them intently, eyes blurry and exhausted. “Never,” she muttered. Jason took the blueprints away from her before typing a text message on his phone.

That afternoon, Cass stopped by Y/n’s apartment. She was greeted by Jason who led her inside and motioned to the bathroom. Y/n was sitting in the tub, cuddled in a blanket, and muttering to herself. Cass sighed and knelt down next to the bathtub. “L/n,” she said. “So, I can see how much this case means to you. I was thinking that maybe I could help you solve it.”

Y/n glanced up and the blanket fell off her shoulders. Jason came up behind her and rewrapped the blanket around her. “Really?” she asked. “But I thought Major Crimes just labelled it a cold case.”

“They did,” Cass confirmed. “But clearly, you’re not gonna let it go. And hey, if they’re out of the way, then we can take all the credit ourselves.” She smirked loosely and Y/n beamed.

The detective leapt out of the bath and wrapped her arms around her friend. “Thank you, Cass!” 

The following afternoon, Y/n and Cass arrived at Carlyle’s apartment. “That's weird,” Cass hummed. “The police tape's already gone.”

“Oh, yeah, Major Crimes released the scene yesterday.” The pair walked into the apartment as Y/n said, “but I'm sure they haven't had time to clean up the evidence…” she trailed off, looking at the perfectly spotless rooms.

“Oh, shit, they emptied the place out.” Cass said. “Nothing left in here. I can't believe this is how it ends.”

“Yeah. Is it weird that I miss the smell?” Y/n’s lips turned up in a reminiscing smile. “Wait a minute, do you hear that?” Her head tilted to the side as she tried to figure out if the soft humming noise was coming from the apartment, or if she really was crazy and it was all in her head. “I've spent six hundred hours in this room, and I have never heard that sound.”

“It's because the air conditioning's never been turned on. It's coming from that vent,” Cass pointed to a large vent in the wall.

Y/n immediately took out a swiss army knife and unscrewed the bolts. She faithfully got down on her hands and knees and crawled into the huge vent. “I don't see anything,” she called back to Cass. “Wait, there's a bend. Oh, my god.” She came across a pack of plastic water bottles and some empty chip bags. “There's food and water in here!”

Half an hour later, Cass and Y/n stood in the precinct, Cass’ laptop propped open in front of them. Cass said, “we never saw the killer leave this apartment because he never left. But he couldn't have survived in there for months. That's insane.”

“He wasn't back there for months,” Y/n explained. “He just waited for the body to be discovered and then snuck out sometime after that.”

“But this place was crawling with cops.”

“Which is exactly what he wanted,” Y/n scratched at her nose. “He snuck out dressed like a cop.”

“Even if he had a uniform, somebody would've recognized him,” Cass said, thinking logically. In order for them to figure this case out, there couldn’t be any holes in the story.

“Not if his face was covered.”

“By a Hazmat suit!” Cass’ mouth fell open. “The CSI guys! Rojas said he had fourteen techs, but didn't you count fifteen?”

“I did count fifteen!” Y/n exclaimed loudly. “My maths was right! Suck it, Mrs. Wilson! She was my Algebra two teacher. She was actually very sweet. She believed in me.” Cass shot her a look and Y/n remembered, “oh. Yeah. Here's the security footage. Play the tape.” Cass pressed play and Y/n narrated along to the video, “okay, so there's us arriving. Alright…. Wait. Go back.” She pointed to the one guy on the screen. “Look at this guy. All the other techs are wearing their little booties, but he's not. Follow that guy.”

“Where's the footage from the grocery across the street?” Cass muttered to herself, pulling up the camera logs.

“We have that?” Y/n asked, astonished. “That is so crazy. We’re under surveillance at all times. I'm sure it's fine and it won't backfire and ruin society.” She shook her head, ridding herself of the thoughts. “Zoom in on his face. Hm… that man isn’t CSI. But he is about to say… CS-bye.” She grinned at her pun and announced, “okay, Cass. You know what it's time for!”

The friends high-fived each other and said, “Cass and Y/n’s final impressions!”

“The dude’s a hit man. He snuck into the apartment during the party several nights earlier, hid in the vent for three days, then emerged and murdered Carlyle. Y/n?”

Y/n took over and added, “he then spilled bags of blood that he stole from a blood bank all over the floor and turned on the victim's Roomba to make the crime scene as messy as possible. Cass?”

“The messy scene meant there'd be extra crime techs, allowing the perp to sneak out in a Hazmat suit, which records show he bought online. Two weeks before the crime was committed. My only question, who was behind all this?”

Two days later, a man by the name of Warren Lawford (“Really? That’s the most ironic name ever!”) sat in the interrogation room and said, “I was hired by a depressed grocer.”

“Wow.” Y/n muttered. “Dopeness taking a late hit here, but we still got you! See you at the sentencing, peace, and we're out!” She held up a peace sign before she and Cass swept out of the room, looking smug. 

Amy waited for them outside, face contorting into relief when Cass explained that Lawford was pleading guilty. “Oh, thank god. But why did he kill Stevie? Was he doing something bad?”

“Not at all,” Y/n reassured her. “Steve dropped one of his clients that was too emotionally attached to him and the client went kinda crazy and issued a hit on him.”

“Well, is anybody going after him?”

“If they're not, then I will. I promise you,” Y/n said softly.

Amy’s eyes filled with tears and she spread her arms open. “Come here,” she sniffed, wrapping Y/n in a big hug, electing a squeak from the detective.

“Why are you promising her?” Cass mouthed to Y/n from out of Amy’s line of sight.

“I can't help myself!” Y/n whispered harshly.

“Goodbye, detectives,” Amy grinned before exiting the precinct.

“Take care,” Y/n called after the woman. 

“I gotta say,” Cass huffed a chuckle. “We would not have solved that case if you hadn't gotten involved emotionally.”

“Think we'd be better cops if we did that all the time?” Y/n asked.

“Absolutely not, never again.”

“Yeah, it was a total nightmare.”

[warnersister]

By the Book of Leviticus

Alfie Solomons x Jewish!reader

->Alfie while his wife is practicing niddah

niddah - “Biblically based in the Torah, these laws, also referred to as niddah, have developed into an intricate and detailed set of laws that prevent a menstruating woman from having sexual relations with her husband both during her menstrual cycle and for a period of seven 'white days' following”

Click here for the request

You and Alfie slept in separate beds pushed together to make one. Alfie wasn’t fussed but it was as per your request, and he’d cut his own ear off and eat it if you merely asked. Two days before your monthly practise begins, you would push the two adjust slightly, so the two mattresses were no longer touching and hence; no longer any risk of succumbing to any late-night desperations that were so easily achievable.

Alfie strolled into the house with Cyril, hearing scuffling and scraping upstairs and quirking an eyebrow; eyes flicking over to the calendar and there it was: clearly marked in red pen ‘two days’, followed by five days scribbled out in the same red, then several crossed neatly with a pencil. Alfie hummed as his lips kissed his teeth with a tut. That’s why you’d been a bit agitated the past few days.

While practicing Jewish religions, Alfie was a lawless man who only used to turn to God at his darkest hour, breaking down to his Rabbi and shaking when that recent job was just that tad too delicate. Until he met you. Sincere, pure, religion. You were complete oxymorons of each other. Hot ice: shivering in the summer. You completely juxtaposed Alfie and it made him feel whole: holy, even. And it didn’t take long for your religious ways to start rubbing off on him. You weren’t completely blind sighted by the ways of God, but you were raised to practise in such ways and that was what you were going to do.

Alfie never argued when it came to judaism. You tell him what you’re up too, he steps back and lets you do what you need to do. When you’d first started seeing each other, he’d invited you back home after a lovely meal by the docks. You’d sheepishly agree and linked arms with the larger man, allowing yourself to take some of his weight to ease the ever growing pain of his sciatica.

When nearing his house he’d cheekily took his arm you were holding and wrapped it around your waist, leaning down to kiss you to which you instinctively lurched back in response. Alfie pulled away, hurt clearly evident in his eyes but you were quick to speak. “I practise being a niddah, Alf.” You say quickly and his eyes softened in understanding. “I’m sorry I should’ve told you sooner and god do I want to kiss you but I can’t, and” he stopped you by planting a kiss on the top of your head and smiling down to you. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, treacle. I understand. We’ll do everything or nothing when you’re ready.”

And after two years, a marriage certificate and abiding in the same home, he’d become accustomed to the monthly abstinence. Alfie let a tired Cyril march over to his bed and lazily plop down, eyes drooping as he silently moaned at Alfie for moving him. Alfie removed his coat, his shoes and his hat before moving up the stairs to you.

He leant against the doorframe as you’d victoriously placed the bed where it reiteratively sat every month, resting your hands on your hips to admire the handiwork you’d done without the assistance of your big strong Alfie who usually insisted on rolling up his sleeves and shifting it for you.

“See you don’t need me then, do ya treacle? Don’t need your old Alfie. Just an old bag in the wind, hmm?” He grunted, trying to seem unimpressed but couldn’t surprise the smile tugging at his lips when you pivoted to meet him, hurrying over and kissing him sweetly. “I’ll always need you, Alfie.” He smiled down at you. “Has it started yet?” He asked, head motioning over to your bed. You shook your head in response. “Not yet, tomorrow or the day after.” “Great” Alfie threw you over his shoulder and you yelped in surprise, carrying you over to the best and climbing on top of you. “Can have you one last time.” “What happened to the sciatica?” You teased, and he shook his head, already working on the zip of your skirt. “Hush now, darlin”

He loved making love to you before the practise of niddah, enough so you’d remember and carry a loving lisp until the day after it had finished so he was able to do it all over again. During niddah however, Alfie was completely respectful. Doing minimal, yet lovable touches reminding you he was still there. He’d make you breakfast and kiss the top of your head, hugging you close. He’d sit before bed and brush your hair gently. Regardless of his sciatica, he’d carry you through the threshold of the bedroom and to your own bed and tuck you in, telling you “a woman working as hard as yourself right now shouldn’t lift a finger.”

Sure, he’d get antsy at some point. But he’d never tell you that, instead humming a song to you and swaying you gently as he gritted his jaw and glare into the calendar, counting the days which seemed to prologue. But Alfie wouldn’t change it for the world.

And on that evening, when he’d walk back in with Cyril - cursing under his breath as a downpour had caught them by surprise half way. Mood dampened until he heard the all familiar screeching up stairs, beds reconnecting and he smiled, barely able to get his shoes and boots off and adrenaline easing the sciatic pain for a moment, half of his clothes off by the time he got up the stairs. Rushing into the bedroom, and pushing you gently but meaningfully onto the bed as you’d giggle as he’d devour you, a man starved.

Yeah, Alfie didn’t mind this life at all.

[niloksilverart]

I had this floating around in my WIPs from when I was trying to draw fanart of my own fanfic: Hashirama's legacy, where Tsunade finds out that Tenzo exists when she comes back to Konoha, and I decided to finally clean up/finish it so it will stop haunting me haha!

A small snippet from the scene this is based on:

A sharp knock echoed through the room.

“Enter,” Tsunade called out without looking up from another report. The door creaked open, and a figure stepped in, ANBU mask in hand.

They knelt, the movement precise and practised. Tsunade rolled her eyes. "I didn’t call for an ANBU. Stand at attention," she said flatly.

He hesitated, uncertain. Still, he rose to his feet and clipped the mask to his belt, awaiting her instructions.

"So, Yamato? Or do you prefer Tenzo?" Tsunade inquired, her gaze steady.

He looked momentarily surprised before his expression settled into a carefully neutral mask. "Either is fine," he replied dutifully.

"I didn’t ask which was ‘fine’," she snapped, “I asked what do I call you?” she should have known he’d be a bit of a door-mat with how he was fine being used as a tool.

"Tenzo," he admitted after a pause. “I don’t dislike ‘Yamato,’ but mostly just the council and Lord Third ever called me that."

"Very well, Tenzo," Tsunade began, setting the mission scroll to one side, trying for casual yet probing. “I have called you here for a mission but I also have some questions if you don’t mind.”

“I am at your service, Lady Tsunade.”

“Good.” she couldn’t help teasing, “How come I’m only now hearing about someone who has my grandfather’s wood release? I didn’t think there were any other Senju left to acquire it naturally.”

Tenzo’s demeanour remained composed, but Tsunade detected a flicker of discomfort cross his face, like it just dawned on him that she was the granddaughter of the First Hokage. She smirks as she knows exactly how he got the ability now, but she wants to hear it from the horse's mouth so she could gather enough evidence to get something to stick to Danzo to oust him from the council.

[renlyslittlerose]

Kinktober Day 25 - Prosthetics Play / Prostate Massage

For @unspuncreature ~ 🎉

Good Vibrations - 2,176 Rating: E Contents: Established Relationship / Explicit Sexual Content / Prostate Massage / Prostate Milking / Anal Fingering / Fingerfucking / Anakin Skywalker Has a Prosthetic Arm / Prosthetic Play / Anal Play / Vibrating Fingers Oh My!

---

Anakin teased Obi-Wan’s hole with the pad of his finger, inorganic metal pressed against the warmth of organic flesh. Tilting his head to the side he kept his focus on Obi-Wan’s expression as he gently pushed his finger inside, earning himself the most precious of sounds and a beautiful expression. Obi-Wan tensed slightly before relaxing, the knot on his throat bobbing as he swallowed, his lips parted in a silent sigh as Anakin eased in until his knuckle pressed against Obi-Wan’s rim.

It was only one finger, and yet Obi-Wan accepted it as if it were something more; as if he were holding all of Anakin inside of him, precious and protected.

“Feeling better?” Anakin asked quietly as he curled his finger and stroked Obi-Wan’s prostate with practised ease.

He’d come to Anakin in the middle of the day, bags under his eyes and his brows furrowed, a familiar tension to his body that had crept in at the start of the war and refused to leave. When Anakin had suggested they return to their shared quarters for a few hours and Obi-Wan was more than keen to follow, a weary sigh falling past his lips as brushed past Anakin on the way to their room.

An offering of a slow prostate massage had been all it took to get Obi-Wan on his back, naked as the day he was born, cock semi-hard between his legs as he gratefully accepted Anakin’s supposed altruistic suggestion.

Little did Obi-Wan know, Anakin’s suggestion wasn’t entirely out of altruism. In fact, Anakin was subjecting him to some mild experimentation.

“Getting there,” Obi-Wan replied. He slid his hands down his parted thighs, shifting his hips slightly on top of the pillow to allow Anakin a better vantage point. Anakin’s gaze dipped down to look at his finger deep inside Obi-Wan, the pink rim of his entrance wrapped tight around the black metal of his mechno-finger. “How come you make me feel so precious down there with just a look?”

Anakin glanced back up to lock eyes with Obi-Wan. He was smiling, admiration evident in his gaze. The sight of it curled up inside Anakin, smouldering like a fire deep in his guts, warming him up and making his cock harden. He gripped himself with his flesh hand, playing with the ridging along the head, moaning softly as Obi-Wan’s gaze only intensified.

“You’re precious everywhere, Master,” Anakin said, voice already tense. He’d have to spring his trap soon if he wanted to test it out before he came. “The curve of your lips when you smile and when you grimace, the pattern of freckles along your shoulders and down your spine, the soft skin along your thighs that bruises so easily…” He watched as Obi-Wan’s hand curled against the meat of his thigh, fingers digging into the skin as if to prove the point. “Not to mention your cock - thick and heavy and always so wet for me.”

“But my hole,” Obi-Wan murmured. He groaned when Anakin slipped a second finger in, hips lifting to push the pair in as deep as they could go in one swift motion. He was hot around the unbending metal. “You’re particularly obsessed with my hole.”

Moaning again Anakin curled his fingers and pushed the heel of his hand against Obi-Wan’s taint, shoving into his prostate with his fingers while applying steady pressure with his palm. Obi-Wan dug his fingers in further, little bruises pink and red blossoming out across his milky thigh. With his free hand he dragged it up his stomach, through the smattering of hair along his belly and further to his chest before he began playing with one nipple.

“It’s because this part of you is mine,” Anakin said. He gripped the base of his cock and held, willing himself to hold out even as Obi-Wan licked his fingers and went back to tweaking his nipple, chest arching up into his touch as his cock leaked against his stomach. “Only I’m allowed to be inside you like this, Master. Only I get to touch you here, fuck you here, kiss you here. It’s mine.”

Obi-Wan let out a low groan and finally broke eye contact, lids fluttering closed as he tossed his head back into the pillows and ground down on Anakin’s hand. His blush deepened, and Anakin could feel a flicker of shame in their bond that flared whenever Anakin became too bold in his speech. The scent of his sex filled the air, thick and dense in the back of Anakin’s throat, the familiarity of it making Anakin’s cock leak profusely, stringy seed coating his knuckles and the palm of his hand.

His attention rested on Obi-Wan’s cock as it remained untouched between his legs. It was thick and ridged, foreskin pulled back to show the red, swollen head. The sight made spit pool up in Anakin’s mouth, and he leaned over to drop a trail of it down on to Obi-Wan’s length, earning himself an uncharacteristically loud moan.

As much as it shamed him, Anakin knew Obi-Wan liked when he did those sorts of things to him; spit in his mouth, held his cock as he pissed, licked his hole as Anakin begged him to let him inside.

“More,” Obi-Wan demanded.

Excitement and nervousness roiled up in Anakin then as the request rang through the muggy space. He’d almost forgotten about the experiment until just now, Obi-Wan’s body, the scent of him and the sound and the sight of him, tearing down Anakin’s walls until he could barely think let alone carry out a plan.

Pulling his hand out Anakin eyed the small button he’d fitted on to the base of his wrist. He’d been experimenting with the wiring the other day, seeing if he could increase or decrease the sensitivity output. Instead he’d found he could make his hand vibrate. Quite a lot, if he wanted, or just a soft little buzz that felt pleasant against the base of his neck or along his lips.

Or between his legs as he fucked himself with his fingers, trousers barely pulled down and cock already hard as he desperately rode through his orgasm on the floor of his room.

But he needed another test subject, and he was certain Obi-Wan would respect his need for further samples.

“Obi-Wan…” Anakin said softly, fluttering his lashes as he looked up at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan quirked a brow and smiled lazily at Anakin, already blissed out. Good. “What is it, darling?”

“So I was experimenting with my hand the other day,” he said idly. Slipping three fingers inside of Obi-Wan’s eager hole, Anakin waited for Obi-Wan to adjust before he asked in his most innocent of voices: “I was wondering if I could show you what I came up with…”

“Show me how?” Obi-Wan asked, his body tensing slightly as Anakin started moving his fingers in and out like a cock.

“Well, more like… demonstrate…”

Hesitation flicked across his eyes, but it fluttered away when Anakin pushed into his prostate once more, golden fingertips smooth and warm against his core. “I suppose…”

Anakin grinned and pushed the button with his flesh hand. He’d set the vibration to a steady beat, a few buzzes of sharper power coursing through every once in a while. When he’d tried the vibrations on himself the first time it had been too strong, but through some intense trial and error he’d reached this setting - deep and yet still gentle, sending little pinpricks of pleasure all over his body and straight into his cock.

Evidently it had the same effect on Obi-Wan.

“Force!” Obi-Wan cried out as his back arched and his hips shifted, body jerking away before he slammed himself back down, as if he were both running away and toward the sensation. He dug his heels into the bed, his hole tightening around Anakin’s fingers, his cock pulsing between his legs as he gripped the sheets and stared up at Anakin with a mixture of surprise and arousal. “W-what the fuck?”

Laughter spilled from Anakin’s lips, Obi-Wan’s use of the word ‘fuck’ a pleasant surprise.

“Feel good?” he asked.

He kept his fingers deep inside Obi-Wan but didn’t touch his prostate, instead letting him get used to the vibrations as they were. Anakin could almost feel Obi-Wan’s body as if it were his own, memories of how it felt when he’d done it to himself still fresh. He almost wished he had two mechno-hands so he could fuck himself again as he pleasured Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan started to relax slightly, though his hips were still twitching, his hands still dug deep into the bedding as though it were the only thing keeping him planted on the bed. Surprise started to give way to full arousal, his tongue slipping out to wet his bottom lip. A wet moan slipped past his lips, breathless and sweet, before he finally spoke.

“Move your fingers a bit,” he panted out.

He let out another strangled moan as Anakin started finger-fucking him again. His hand continued to vibrate, low pulses mixed with sharp little spikes that made Obi-Wan whimper desperately, body tensing before relaxing. His cock leaked profusely between his legs, bouncing every once in a while when Anakin brushed his prostate, coaxing him into a deeper state of relaxation. Chest heaving with each laboured breath Obi-Wan kept his grip on the sheets, his nipples pink and pert, chest hair covered in beads of sweat that Anakin leaned down to lick up.

The position made Anakin’s cock rest against the back of his arm and the pulses of it carried through to him perfectly. Unable to hold back he started thrusting against his arm, grinding his cock against the smooth, vibrating metal as he continued to finger-fuck Obi-Wan, shoving his fingers against Obi-Wan’s prostate, moaning around his peck as he sucked on his nipple and bit the muscle.

Obi-Wan gripped the back of Anakin’s head and tugged at his curls, his touch not unkind but still strong, the sensation of his hair being pulled sending further sparks of pleasure through his body. He continued to kiss and suck Obi-Wan’s nipple, nose pressed against his skin as he huffed against him, hips twitching as vibrations pulsed through his length and deep into Obi-Wan.

“D-did you try this on yourself b-before subjecting me to this?” Obi-Wan panted out, voice oddly breathless.

Anakin liked the sound of it.

Lifting his head he stared down at Obi-Wan, biting his bottom lip as he soaked in the sight. Obi-Wan’s eyes were heavy-lidded and clouded with lust, his cheeks pink with exertion and arousal, nostrils flared, lips parted as he sucked back greedy mouthfuls of air. His beard was streaked with dried spit, a mix of both Anakin’s and his own, and Anakin ducked back down to lick into his mouth, messing him up further as he continued to pleasure them both.

“I did,” he mumbled against Obi-Wan’s lips. “I came so fast I barely had time to get my cock out of my pants.”

Obi-Wan groaned and sucked on Anakin’s tongue, his arms wrapping tight around him, holding him close. Anakin could feel Obi-Wan’s impending orgasm along with his own, the familiar dragging sensation mixing with the pulse of his hand. Curling his fingers he focused the vibration on Obi-Wan's prostate, stroking the nub before pushing in as if to brand Obi-Wan’s insides with the shape of his fingertips.

Moaning into Anakin’s mouth, Obi-Wan tensed before he came untouched, cock pulsing against his belly, thick ribbons of come coating him and Anakin. With a whimper Anakin came as well, the sounds Obi-Wan was making pulling him down into the abyss, their kiss messy and uncoordinated. Once they were both done Anakin dragged himself away and slipped his hand out from Obi-Wan. Turning off the vibration, he rested his hand on his lap and stared down at Obi-Wan, admiring his mess.

“Do all your experiments end in orgasms?” Obi-Wan asked after a time.

Anakn shrugged and idly played with his come that streaked across the black and gold metal. He was already dreading having to clean his arm later. “I can usually find an excuse to come.”

“Well next time I see you head off to work on something in your room, I’ll know to leave you well enough alone.”

Smiling, Anakin collapsed on the bed next to Obi-Wan. “Or you could come and be my test subject.”

“I think I much prefer to be the second one to have a go. But I’ll watch you as you experiment on yourself.”

Anakin held out his hand for Obi-Wan to shake. “Deal.”

[djarins-cyare]

✨Questions Tag Game✨

Thanks for tagging me @burntheedges 🩵

Of course I’m going to add GIFs and images. Did anyone really expect me to post something without visual aids??

[photos are my own (apart from the one immediately below, which is from here), and unless otherwise credited, GIFs were made by me during office hours when I was supposed to be working… 🤫]

Do you make your own bed?

Not in terms of making it look all neat and tucked in, no. But that’s because I’m a teensy bit of a germaphobe, and humans naturally sweat at night, which means you must leave your mattress uncovered for a while after you get up to ensure it airs. So, for most of the day (because I forget to straighten it up), my bed just looks like this:

(Just for fun, how many Mandalorians can you spot in the pic?)

Favourite number?

It’s always been 2, and my reasoning used to be that all good things come in pairs. But having discovered my autism in recent years, I’ve come to realise it probably more likely represents the maximum number of people I’m most comfortable interacting with at any one time. So it’s a manageable number. It’s also an even number. And it’s a prime number (in fact it's the only even prime number). It’s a pretty number – it has a nice curved top and a solid, sturdy base. It stops 1 from being lonely, so it’s a kind number.

Is this a weird answer? All of these are really logical reasons to me!

[GIF found here]

What’s your job?

It’s become so specialised that I no longer have a job title, but I started as a legal PA for one of the senior partners at a Legal 500 law firm in London. I flirted with the idea of qualifying as a solicitor but realised there was no way in hell I’d be comfortable standing up in court and speaking in front of lots of people (and I work in the criminal law department so not keen on casually chatting to criminals either). Instead, I decided to become The Person Who Knows Everything.

So now I write briefs to Counsel, proofs of evidence, funding applications; I analyse evidence, conduct legal research, advise the solicitors on their cases; I train paralegals and admin staff; I do a load of data analysis and make pretty spreadsheets for the bosses; and I manage the firm’s IT needs because I can do computer stuff too. I’m basically their go-to girl for anything that seems complicated or time-consuming… and I don’t have to wear a stupid wig in court.

And the best part is, during Covid lockdown, I demonstrated I can do 100% of my job from home, so I was allowed to move 150 miles away, and I now only have to visit my office two days a month! 🙌🏻

Downside: the arduous and random nature of the job means I’m never up to date and always very tired.

If you could go back to school, would you?

My original plan after getting my undergrad degree was to do a Masters and PhD and become an academic, but I put all that on hold for my (now ex) husband so he could finish his PhD and first postdoc. I’m very glad I never went back, though, because I realise that academia is not the place for me… see above comment about not being able to stand up and talk in court to understand why standing up and talking in a lecture hall would be equally nerve-wracking for me. So, no, I’m content with my current level of schooling.

Honestly, university was more about learning how to ‘adult’ properly than obtaining any useful knowledge on the course anyway (she says, routinely using concepts learnt on her fiction writing modules when crafting Mando fics).

Can you parallel park?

Yup. Narrow roads and a lack of parking spaces in the UK kind of make it a non-optional skill here.

That said, I do sometimes see people desperately trying to line themselves up to get into a space and making an absolute farce out of it, so I guess maybe some people here think it’s optional, but I’d rather not have that kind of stress, so I practised until I could do it easily.

[original GIF found here and then cropped]

Do you think aliens are real?

The way this is phrased… do I think they’re real? Like, do I think the grey ones with big black eyes are anally probing residents in certain sections of North America on a regular basis? Hmm, no. Too many episodes of The X-Files. I mean, Fox Mulder: yum, but I really Don’t Want To Believe, thanks.

But, I remain open to the idea that alien life has evolved elsewhere in the known universe. It’s inconceivably huge, after all. There’s nowhere near enough data to prove (or even speculate) either way – just look at the Drake equation, which has been used to both ‘prove’ and ‘disprove’ the possibility – so I’ll reserve any kind of judgment until some real evidence appears.

Can you drive a manual car?

Yeah, of course. It’s the standard driving test in the UK and allows you to drive both automatic and manual – you actually have to specifically ask to learn only automatic if you decide you can’t handle gears. And, like, it’s all muscle memory, so it’s really not as hard as people think once you’re used to it. I tried to drive an automatic a few years back and found myself involuntarily shadow-shifting the gears!

[original GIF found here and then trimmed for length]

What’s your guilty pleasure?

Mostly, I don’t feel guilty about indulging in pleasures these days. I used to be really affected by social pressures (back before I discovered my autism and still felt like I had to ‘mask’ and fit in), so I used to feel guilty talking about my hyperfixations, but now I couldn’t care less. I shall consume them endlessly and unselfconsciously. It’s very liberating.

Any phobias?

I suppose the answer is sharks, which has no sensible basis for being a phobia because I’ve never had any real encounters to make me fearful (thank fuck!). In fact, I walked through the shark tunnel at SeaWorld just fine as a 7-year-old. Unless that planted some kind of seed of terror, I don’t know. Not sure when it really took hold, but I can’t even look at photos these days. It’s their damn teeth. Someone’s going to have to give me a tooth report on Gladiator II before I can go see it.

The hell if I’m gonna put a photo (or God forbid a GIF) of a shark here, so, umm…

Favourite childhood sport?

Two answers: (1) Football (AKA soccer). I played for a girl’s team when I was about 11, but it was only because the boy I liked was into football. I couldn’t give a shit about it these days, and I don’t think I ever really liked it – I was just ‘masking’, as I did for most of my childhood, but I convinced myself I loved it.

(2) Karate, which I decided all by myself that I fancied doing, then found I was actually quite good at it and excelled at it for a while. But I was 9, and they decided I was so good that I should go and join the adult class (age 14 and up), which I hated, so I quit.

[GIF is one I already had saved from Reddit a while ago, but I can't find the source anymore, so sorry for not crediting the maker]

Do you talk to yourself?

Sometimes, but not often. I live alone, so I occasionally just need to exercise my vocal cords lol. It also depends on what mood I’m in. On an average day, no, I don’t really feel the need to fill the silence, but if I’m excited/animated/annoyed in some way, I might say stuff aloud. Basically, if I’m inclined to utter curse words for any reason, I’ll probably use other words aloud too.

[GIF found here]

Tattoos?

I only have one right now, but I plan to increase that number someday. See photo below; I used to have chameleons as pets and got this tattooed near my right hip when I turned thirty to commemorate them. It’s really small.

I would like to get a phrase in Mando’a inked on me somewhere, probably “Kaysh meg miit’gaana, oyacyi”, which means “she* who writes, remains” [*substitute chosen pronoun – Mando’a doesn’t distinguish genders], and is a Mandalorian proverb teaching that you can live forever if you leave behind written words. I have it engraved on my iPad.

Favourite colour?

Very much the blue (with a hint of green) end of the colour spectrum. For something soft, duck egg blue, or for something bold, teal. See the colour of the titles in this post.

I also like the colours of hyperspace and would happily snuggle up with Din in the cockpit.

Do you like puzzles?

Yeah, I guess. I don’t dislike them. But I don’t really do them much. In terms of the crossword/sodoku/brain teaser sort, I might choose to do them in specific settings, like on vacation when I inevitably need to offer my brain something different than whatever book I’m binge-reading.

In terms of the jigsaw type, I have short phases of thinking, “Ooh, that’ll be fun!”, trying to do one, getting bored, and then forcing myself to finish. Last time that happened was Covid lockdown. Took me a year! Though, to be fair, it was one of these bastards…

Okay, I’m done. I realise I’m very late to the party, and a lot of people have already done this one, so sorry if you’ve already participated. No pressure (and no need to illustrate with gifs and images, I just can’t help myself)… 🩵

@604to647 @beefrobeefcal @d4rm4nd4 @feral-ferrule @gracieheartspedro

@joelslegalwhre @littlemisspascal @magpiepills @penvisions @quicksilvermad

@secretelephanttattoo @studioghibelli @syd-djarin @the-mandawhor1an @zaddymandalorian

[survivethejive]

Starting Heathenry is a ritual-focused online course which will furnish you with the knowledge and confidence to practise the Heathen religion alone or with others, making wise decisions about worship based on reliable historical evidence. The course teaches you how to construct Heathen prayers for yourself, not according to the established rites of any modern group, but according to what historical sources show.

Starting Heathenry assumes you are interested in Germanic paganism, know about the gods and myths, and want to begin practising this religion, but require guidance on how to do so. It is based on a micro-learning structure which is proven to improve knowledge retention by 18-80% in students compared to other learning methods. The 10 lessons include over 50 videos, and quizzes to access from your phone or computer.

Access more than 5 hours of learning material bit by bit, as you please. A modern method of learning about an ancient religion.

Your path to knowing the gods through ritual starts here

[freeuselandonorris]

as someone who’s not interested in sex beyond fiction, non-sexual kink sounds v interesting. pls share any thoughts/experiences if u want to!

hope you’re doing better xx

heyyy! sorry this has taken me an age to get to <3

so i don't have a huuuge amount of experience w non-sexual kink but i have definitely done some of it - the first time i went to a kink club (torture garden) i had one of the house doms tie me up and beat me black and blue and there was zero sexual touching involved and i kept most of my clothes on and it was still one of the most incredible experiences of my life. kink is/can be such an intense sensory experience and it can be a really great way of being physically intimate with someone in a way that isn't sexual.

there are also a lot of different ways you could approach non-sexual kink depending on what flavour of kink you go for. there are plenty of 'mental' kinks (for instance, dominance and submission can be entirely mental/verbal) and the appeal of it can be sexual but it can also be simply about getting outside of your head, playing with control and power dynamics, introducing secular ritual and devotional aspects into a relationship... whatever you want!

similarly, there are more physical kinks that lend themselves extremely well to non-sexual play. rope and shibari is a good one, because a lot of it is about establishing a meditative flow state (both on the part of the rigger as they tie complicated knots and the bottom as they're held in place) and can easily be done fully-clothed. a lot of rope jams and workshops prohibit nudity and play (although there are definitely plenty that don't!). i've also just done quite a bit of rope with friends, as a fun way to show off our respective skills and demonstrate some cool stuff!

impact and pain play is another one that's often used as part of a sex scene but absolutely doesn't have to be. quite often when i ask to bottom for a heavy impact scene it's because i want the sensory overwhelm of pain and the way it shuts my brain up. often it does lead to sex or some kind of orgasm but it's not the goal of the scene.

to me this is one of the great joys of kink - it gives an expansiveness to what's possible during sex, yes, but it also gives you other options for experiencing intimacy and altered headstates entirely outside of sex. and the good thing is that many kinky people (at least the ones who are well-informed and who care about consent practises) are already pretty good at communicating their preferences and exploring alternatives to sex together, and also the kinky community has a lot of crossover with the LGBTQIA+ community, so i'd like to hope (although this is def not based on any personal evidence) that it would be easier to negotiate a non-sexual play partnership 🤞

[covid-safer-hotties]

Why has COVID been so much worse this summer? The health belief model has the answer - Published Sept 2, 2024

A great article in The Conversation by Steven Kahn

If you think COVID-19 was suddenly in the news a lot over the summer, you’re probably right.

Throughout August, outlets in both Canada and the United States ran headlines about high COVID levels, the summer surge of cases, timing of booster shots and reviving the use of face masks.

As numerous athletes tested positive for COVID at the Olympics in Paris, news outlets reminded Canadians that COVID is still a threat, and that summer cold symptoms might in fact be COVID.

The list of COVID news stories could go on and on, but what many experts seem to agree on is that this surge is a pretty big deal. In fact, Ashish Jha, dean of the Brown University School of Public Health predicts this wave might be the biggest summer surge since the virus started, according to an article in CNN.

Why COVID is surging now? But why is the biggest surge occurring now, after health experts declared the end of the global health emergency over a year ago?

My research team at Royal Roads University studied how to share evidence-based health information during the COVID-19 pandemic, collecting interview, survey and experimental data between 2020 and 2023. We developed a framework that employed the health belief model for understanding why people may choose to act on health promoting behaviours — like adopting masks and vaccines during a pandemic.

Looking at the news about this latest surge, I think the health belief model can help people understand why our biggest summer surge has specifically occurred after the pandemic stage of the virus has been declared long over.

The health belief model The health belief model helps public health practitioners and doctors understand what motivates people to adopt a positive health action (like quitting smoking or exercising), or act to reduce exposure to a negative health event (like getting a flu vaccine or practising safer sex).

This model tells us that the likelihood of a person taking action towards a particular health outcome depends on the person’s perception of the risk of the negative health outcome to themselves personally, and also their perception of the benefit of the risk reducing behaviour. People also need to feel like they have the ability to take the necessary action, and that the action will be effective.

Adopting the health belief model in practice means that public health communicators and the media need to illuminate both the risk of the negative health outcome, and the benefits and effectiveness of the risk reducing behaviours that will help people avoid the health danger. Both of these elements have been lacking since the end of the global emergency declaration for COVID-19.

Health belief and the summer of COVID The reason I think we’re seeing such a surge now is because people don’t believe COVID is a risk, and they also don’t understand how getting vaccinations beyond the initial vaccine series from a few years ago would protect them now.

When public health officials communicated the end to the global emergency stage of COVID, they unwittingly gave the public the impression that the danger was over. This decreased perceived risk and, with it, the likelihood that people would engage in regular vaccination, mask wearing and hand washing.

Furthermore, Health Canada no longer keeps or reports the latest COVID numbers, which means that many people have no real idea of the relative risk to themselves for gathering in public spaces, making them less likely to take precautions and more likely to pass on the virus.

Reporting on COVID in the media has not helped matters. While the dangers of new variants began to be reported as early as May of this year, the reporting on the spread of the virus didn’t really start to pick up until Olympians started collapsing after events.

This is the biggest summer wave because people are under-vaccinated and have stopped taking other precautions like distancing or wearing masks. And the reasons why we’re not taking these important risk-reduction behaviours is because many of us believe that COVID is over, or, if not over, that it’s not a big deal.

But long COVID is still a risk and as of mid-August, the Public Health Agency of Canada reported over four million COVID cases in Canada. It’s not “just the flu” either, as with this summer surge, the World Health Organization also reports increases in hospitalizations.

COVID is not the emergency it once was, but it’s still a health threat, and we’d be wise to reduce our risk of getting it. That’s why public health communicators should re-integrate strategies that employ the health belief model to remind people that they are at risk, they can do something to reduce that risk and they will be better off for it.

[aperture8]

BG3 - Digital Characterbook

I will start with the result of the MBTI. I had to use a translator because my English is terrible and there was so much text :D

It's a wip because I'm still trying to put the different parts of the puzzle together...

The Myers-Briggs test was developed by Katharine Briggs and her daughter Isabel Myers, both lay psychologists. The test is based on the psychological type theory developed and published by the Swiss psychoanalyst Carl Gustav Jung in the 1920s. Jung differentiated between extroverted and introverted types. The Myers Briggs test, which is frequently used in the USA for personnel selection, picks up on these characteristics and supplements them. The test uses a questionnaire to determine whether an ‘applicant’ is more introverted or extroverted. If the result were an ‘ENTJ’, which stands for a mixture of the personality factors extraversion, intuition, thinking and judgement, then this would supposedly be a born leader: they are decisive and good at recognising and correcting inefficient processes.

Don't forget the MBTI has a lack of validity and is most likely so popular because of the Barnum effect; As with horoscopes, the description of the type is kept vague and flattering so that everyone recognises themselves. I used the MBTI and the Enneagram System just for fun to describe Ardreyth's personality. You really shouldn't take this kind of test serious.

The Result:

INJT - The Architect

I-INTROVISION

or you could say: solitude as a kind of protection. Ardreyth's introversion manifests itself not only in her tendency to seclusion. Withdrawal or complete isolation brings with it a certain strategic advantage in order to be able to analyse undisturbed (focusing on intuitive thinking (N)). For example, Ardreyth likes to practise at night and alone, not only to recapitulate the fighting mistakes of the day's training session, but also to develop new fighting techniques independently of Callimar. She keeps these secret from the other students and never presents them publicly (knowledge is seen as power that is accumulated and not shared). Ardreyth favours strategic thinking and rational decision making, withdrawing from chaotic or emotional contexts to calmly explore patterns, risks and solutions. Her introversion reinforces her emotional distance even from Callimar, who is the only one she trusts conditionally.

N-INTUITION

Her strength in this area comes from her ability to recognise hidden patterns and develop long-term strategies that others miss. Ardreyth notices the secret rebelliousness of a young priestess against the Mother Matron, who is secretly defiling the offerings to Lolth. Instead of exposing her, she skilfully draws attention to an older rival by manipulating the evidence. In the long run, the young priestess proves more useful to her. Years later, she uses this priestess to sabotage a ritual that would have posed a threat to House Mizzrym.

T-THINKING

Ardreyth's decisions are based on cool rationality, even if they are morally questionable. Emotions are deliberately suppressed in order to achieve her goals. Her thinking is not characterised by coldness of feeling, but rather a survival strategy in Drow society. Every decision is a strategic move in her quest for power and autonomy. She does not shy away from sacrificing lives in order to obtain valuable information and destroy relationships in order to strengthen or weaken existing systems.

J-JUDGING

Ardreyth's "judgments" act like a kind of armor in an unpredictable world. Through their tendency to plan, document, and systematically control everything down to the smallest detail, they transform chaos, threat, and ignorance into strength, influence, and security. Their gift lies in taming the uncontrollable. INJTs dislike chaos, not out of fear, but because it seems inefficient. Ardreyth's control becomes a tool to save time and energy; they use it to impose their will on others, but it also serves as a shield that conceals their vulnerability. The tragedy here is that the more perfect her plans are, the tighter the shackles are, she becomes a slave to her own systems.

Ardreyth could be described as a clever strategist who, over the years, has become very good at playing the drowish power poker… but this strategic talent also isolates her. As an INJT, she doesn't think much of Lolth's willfulness… but her quest for control clashes with her DU heritage, which drives her to impulsive violence.These strategies could actually free her if she would learn to trust herself and not just her plans.

Next part will be the Enneagram

[tree-of-blue-squirrel]

Limbus company Ennagram

reading up on enneagram I find it pretty compelling to slot the sinners into to get their motivations and stuff so let´s go and assign different types of brokenness to them

Three clusters

There are 12 playable sinners, which would neatly split into three subgroups in accordance with enneagram types - I am taking the LocalScriptMan interpretation of Enneagram here, supplementing with information from other sources as needed (at th time of writing this, he has three more types to make videos on).

Head/fear cluster (5,6,7) - issues of existential dread, fear Heart/shame cluster (2,3,4) - issues of love and self worth Body/anger cluster (8,9,1) - issues of handling anger and boundaries

Going off of the Sinners´ vibes, they can be neatly places into three categories:

head cluster - Faust, Ishmael, Don Quixote, Outis

Faust slots into a fear cluster very seamlesly. She is pretty much a stereotypical 5, obsesse with hoarding all th knowledge so she is prepared for anything. The moment she loses it though ? Fear.

Ishmael similalry is very much fear based, to the point it being her kneejerk reaction to goign to the Lake. She does push through and become very angry, but that is basically her response to being put into situation she can´t run away from. Pretty solid 6 if you ask me.

Don is as close to a 7 as one can get. True, she does come close to being an 8 and perhaps her alt form is an 8 but base Don ? She runs away from her true self and her entire arc is most likely about confronting the uncomfortable truth of who and what she is.

Outis, as far as the cluster goes, is the least obvious. I originally had her slotted into a body cluster, but is later became clearer that she is more of a fear type that shoves is all under the rug and pretends to be tough (as evident her reactions in Railway 4 and TkT, which are so far some of the most breakown moments for her that lets her persona slip away, although briefly). Slotting her as a type 5 was not my first choice, however she does share the same sort of fear of being incompetent and in dire situations substitutes it be planning for every possible route, strategising her way out (didn´t work out much in canto 5, because she seems to have more theory than practise with sailing the Lake, being outmatched by Ishmael´s experience very early on in that journey)

heart cluster - Rodion, Hong Lu, Gregor, Meursault

Rodya is a type 4 and I WILL fight anyone on this who is going to disagree. She quite literally takes her shame of being inadequate and builds a shielding persona of unflappability ala Tyrion Lannister. She is obsessed with being original and unique, while disregarding her own actual identity because of it. When stressed, she dips into 2´s complex of being Unlovable (the Unloving is literally the name of her canto for crying out loud).

Compare that to Hong Lu. Poster child of Facade if there ever was one, deluding everyone including himself... but really just himself because his mask is slowly slipping as he talks about how his family treats him. He is frequently speaking of value and worth, in his Liu id even likening himself to a fancy tea. Very thematic, very type 3.

The most expressive of the shame squad as number 2, Gregor literally cannot hide his dislike for his bug arm as much as he tries to. Very obviously hates himself and thinks himself unlikeable because... well, bug arm. That lashes out randomly. He wants to break free from its influence, which is likely why he so often tries to connect to others by cracking jokes and being relatable AF in general.

Speaking of making others like you - there is Gregor, and then there is Meursault who just straight up gave up trying. If you don´t like him as he is, well, that´s that and this is this. Meursault just doesn´t give a flying fuck anymore, or at least tries to present as such. In th single moment of feeling something else than ennui, Meursault´s EGO briefly changes affinity from pride to gloom. Though I am not 100% on this, souns very much like type 2, a Gregor who just gave up trying to be friendly.

body cluster - Heathcliff, Sinclair, Yi Sang, Ryoshu

Heathcliff and angry - the two inseparable things. His ego briefly took on the wrath affinity, the angriest of the affinities. But anger isn´t the only thing he has. As type 1, he deems himself the main problem, to the point of one of his selves going on a killing spree across the multiverse, instead of talking to the woman he loves and face rejection. All because he resents her family and the place they grew up in. Try as he might, all Heathcliffs long for the one perfect timeline where Heathcliff and Cathy are happy together. But they are their own biggest enemy because emotional stability is one thing that pretty much every Heathcliff struggles with.

Sinclair doesn´t look like an anger type at first glance. He is cowardly, fearful wet cat that barely manages to face off against Kromer. That being said, he does have a bit of a psychological break during his canto, resulting in Don literally punching sense back into him. Sinclair´s actions in his canto are likewise motivated by anger, which is why in my eyes he is an 8. Very much vengeance themed canto and hey, Kromer is Lust themed creature, which just so happens to be 8´s biggest vice. Sinclair´s arc also deals wth loss of innocence, which is conveniently the corresponding virtue of type 8. It just fits.

Speaking of fitting, Yi Sang is type 9. Which is sloth on sloth on sloth. Inaction and refusal of self-assertion, striving to be whole again after being broken into pieces... I wonder where I seen that... (FLY BROKEN WINGS, I KNOW YOU ARE STILL WITH MEEEEEE...)

Ryoshu was a tricky one. Mostly because she fits into multiple spots pretty well. Also, we are yet to really see her have an emotional break. That being said, so far, when she expresses any emotion that isn´t her own flavor of masochistic craze, it is anger. And not just surface anger, but anger that runs in parallel with her familial attachments (see MotWe with the lines spoken by Cassetti). However, the boundaries do strike me as something that Ryoshu will have to confront in her canto, because it was her going beyond her own boundaries and following art orders in her source material as the artist who.... let things burn for the sake of art. I don´t actually know whether to slot her as an 8 or 1. Either would work in terms of placement, but personally, an 8 has a bit more kick to it and would mesh nicely with Ryoshu and Sinclair being so much on the same wave. (which also makes her a Wolverine type if LocalScriptMan is anything to go by which I personally think is fun af)

[dailyanarchistposts]

I.4.14 What about the person who will not work?

Anarchism is based on voluntary labour. If people do not desire to work then they cannot (must not) be forced to by means of physical coercion. This makes some wonder what happens if someone refuses to work in a libertarian society.

In terms of a mutualist or collectivist anarchy, this question is easy to answer for goods are distributed according to work done and so if people do not work then they are left dependent on the charity of those who do (exceptions for the young, old and ill would apply, of course).

So this question is directed towards communist-anarchists, with many people arguing that communism is impossible because people simply would not work unless they get paid. This ignores the many people who do volunteer work (often in addition to their “real jobs”). It also ignores those who spend their time contributing to projects they are interested in (such as fan journals) which would be considered work in other contexts. A classic example of this is the internet, particularly webpages like Wikipedia and software projects like php. Then there is the activity of the pro-capitalists themselves, often fanatical anti-communists (which they almost always equate to Stalinism), who spend their free time working on wikipedia, newsgroups, webpages and journals explaining how communism could not work because people would never voluntarily contribute to society! It is one of the great ironies of life that those who hate communism the most often, by their actions, prove its viability.

So, communist-anarchists argue, in a society based on self-managed work in pleasant surroundings and a reduction of the working week to a minimum, there would be few people who refuse to do any kind of productive activity. The question arises of what to do with those (a small minority, to be sure) who refuse to work.

On this question there is some disagreement. Some anarchists argue that the lazy should not be deprived of the means of life. Social pressure, they argue, would ensure those who take from, but do not contribute, to the community to listen to their conscience and start producing for the community that supports them. If this did not happen, then the person who refused to contribute would be asked to leave (freedom of association means the freedom not to associate). As Kropotkin argued;

“First of all, is it not evident that if a society, founded on the principle of free work, were really menaced by loafers, it could protect itself without the authoritarian organisation we have nowadays, and without having recourse to wagedom [i.e., payment by deeds]? “Let us take a group of volunteers, combining for some particular enterprise. Having its success at heart, they all work with a will, save one of the associates, who is frequently absent from his post … some day the comrade who imperils their enterprise will be told: ‘Friend, we should like to work with you; but as you are often absent from your post, and you do your work negligently, we must part. Go and find other comrades who will put up with your indifference!’ “This is so natural that it is practised everywhere, even nowadays, in all industries … [I]f [a worker] does his work badly, if he hinders his comrades by his laziness or other defects, if he is quarrelsome, there is an end of it; he is compelled to leave the workshop. “Authoritarians pretend that it is the almighty employer and his overseers who maintain regularity and quality of work in factories. In reality … it is the factory itself, the workmen [and women] who see to the good quality of the work.” [The Conquest of Bread, pp. 152–3]

Most anarchists agree with Camillo Berneri when he argued that anarchism should be based upon “no compulsion to work, but no duty towards those who do not want to work.” [“The Problem of Work”, pp. 59–82, Why Work?, Vernon Richards (ed.), p. 74] This means that an anarchist society will not continue to feed, clothe, house someone who can produce but refuses to. Anarchists have had enough of the wealthy under capitalism consuming but not producing and do not see why they should support a new group of parasites after the revolution.

Obviously, there is a difference between not wanting to work and being unable to work. The sick, children, the old, pregnant women and so on will be looked after in libertarian communism. As child rearing would be considered “work” along with other more obviously economic tasks, mothers and fathers will not have to leave their children unattended and work to make ends meet. Instead, consideration will be given to the needs of both parents and children as well as the creation of community nurseries and child care centres.

We have to stress here that an anarchist society will not deny anyone the means of life. This would violate the voluntary labour which is at the heart of all schools of anarchism. Unlike capitalism, the means of life will not be monopolised by any group — including the commune. This means that someone who does not wish to join a commune or who does not pull their weight within a commune and are expelled or choose to leave will have access to the means of making a living.

We stated that we stress this fact as many supporters of capitalism seem to be unable to understand this point (or prefer to ignore it and so misrepresent the anarchist position). In an anarchist society, no one will be forced to join a commune simply because they do not have access to the means of production and/or land required to work alone. Unlike capitalism, where access to these essentials of life is dependent on buying access to them from the capitalist class (and so, effectively, denied to the vast majority), an anarchist society will ensure that all have access and have a real choice between living in a commune and working independently. This access is based on the fundamental difference between possession and property — the commune possesses as much land as it needs, as do non-members. The resources used by them are subject to the usual possession rationale — they possess it only as long as they use it and cannot bar others using it if they do not (i.e., it is not property).

Thus an anarchist commune remains a voluntary association and ensures the end of all forms of domination. The member of the commune has the choice of working as part of a community, giving according to their abilities and taking according to their needs (or some other means of organising production and consumption such as equal income or receiving labour notes, and so on), or working independently and so free of communal benefits as well as any commitments (bar those associated with using communal resources such as roads and so on).

So, in most, if not all, anarchist communities, individuals have two options, either they can join a commune and work together as equals, or they can work as an individual or independent co-operative and exchange the product of their labour with others. If an individual joins a commune and does not carry their weight, even after their fellow workers ask them to, then that person will possibly be expelled and given enough land, tools or means of production to work alone. Of course, if a person is depressed, run down or otherwise finding it hard to join in communal responsibilities then their friends and fellow workers would do everything in their power to help and be flexible in their approach to the problem. What method a community would use would depend on what people in that community thought was best.

However, most social anarchists think that the problem of people trying not to work would be a very minor one in a free society. This is because productive activity is part of human life and an essential way to express oneself. With work being voluntary and self-managed, it will become like current day hobbies and many people work harder at their hobbies than they do at “real” work (this FAQ can be considered as an example of this!). How long this takes to organise fully is, of course, unknown but one of the most important tasks of a free society will be to ensure work is transformed and the burden of what remains is shared in order to reduce toil to a minimum.

It is the nature of employment under capitalism, the hierarchical nature of its workplace, that makes it “work” instead of pleasure. Work need not be a part of the day that we wish would end. It is not work that people hate. Rather it is over-work, in unpleasant circumstances and under the control of others that people hate. Reduce the hours of labour, improve the working conditions and place the work under self-management and work will stop being a hated thing. All these will help ensure that only an idiot would desire to work alone for, as Malatesta argued, the “individual who wished to supply his own material needs by working alone would be the slave of his labours.” [The Anarchist Revolution, p. 15]

So, enlightened self-interest would secure the voluntary labour and egalitarian distribution anarchists favour in the vast majority of the population. The parasitism associated with capitalism would be a thing of the past. Thus the problem of the “lazy” person fails to understand the nature of humanity nor the revolutionising effects of freedom on the nature and content of work.