#attribute query

[myjondaleh]

Seri Bluff: Menguasai QGIS Desktop 3.34.x LTR.

Dapatkan harga Video Tutorial "Seri Bluff: Menguasai QGIS Desktop 3.34.x LTR" hanya Rp. 99.000,- ( Harga asli Rp. 279.000). Hanya berlaku 5 hari sampai 21/02/2025

[junimuchlismustafa]

Data survey lapangan dalam UTM dapat di kelola dengan baik menggunakan QGIS.

Data tabular survey lapangan yang di lengkapi dengan titik koordinat UTM zone 47 N dapat di plot ke atas aplikasi QGIS dimana sebaran data ini akan tampil dan memudahkan dalam analisis spasial, pemodelan spasial dan pengambilan keputusan. Dapatkan video tutorialnya disini:

[jcmarchi]

Chrome 133 Goodies

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/chrome-133-goodies/

Chrome 133 Goodies

I often wonder what it’s like working for the Chrome team. You must get issued some sort of government-level security clearance for the latest browser builds that grants you permission to bash on them ahead of everyone else and come up with these rad demos showing off the latest features. No, I’m, not jealous, why are you asking?

Totally unrelated, did you see the release notes for Chrome 133? It’s currently in beta, but the Chrome team has been publishing a slew of new articles with pretty incredible demos that are tough to ignore. I figured I’d round those up in one place.

attr() for the masses!

We’ve been able to use HTML attributes in CSS for some time now, but it’s been relegated to the content property and only parsed strings.

<h1 data-color="orange">Some text</h1>

h1::before content: ' (Color: ' attr(data-color) ') ';

Bramus demonstrates how we can now use it on any CSS property, including custom properties, in Chrome 133. So, for example, we can take the attribute’s value and put it to use on the element’s color property:

h1 color: attr(data-color type(<color>), #fff)

This is a trite example, of course. But it helps illustrate that there are three moving pieces here:

the attribute (data-color)

the type (type(<color>))

the fallback value (#fff)

We make up the attribute. It’s nice to have a wildcard we can insert into the markup and hook into for styling. The type() is a new deal that helps CSS know what sort of value it’s working with. If we had been working with a numeric value instead, we could ditch that in favor of something less verbose. For example, let’s say we’re using an attribute for the element’s font size:

<div data-size="20">Some text</div>

Now we can hook into the data-size attribute and use the assigned value to set the element’s font-size property, based in px units:

h1 color: attr(data-size px, 16);

The fallback value is optional and might not be necessary depending on your use case.

This is a mind-blowing one. If you’ve ever wanted a way to style a sticky element when it’s in a “stuck” state, then you already know how cool it is to have something like this. Adam Argyle takes the classic pattern of an alphabetical list and applies styles to the letter heading when it sticks to the top of the viewport. The same is true of elements with scroll snapping and elements that are scrolling containers.

In other words, we can style elements when they are “stuck”, when they are “snapped”, and when they are “scrollable”.

Quick little example that you’ll want to open in a Chromium browser:

The general idea (and that’s all I know for now) is that we register a container… you know, a container that we can query. We give that container a container-type that is set to the type of scrolling we’re working with. In this case, we’re working with sticky positioning where the element “sticks” to the top of the page.

.sticky-nav container-type: scroll-state;

A container can’t query itself, so that basically has to be a wrapper around the element we want to stick. Menus are a little funny because we have the <nav> element and usually stuff it with an unordered list of links. So, our <nav> can be the container we query since we’re effectively sticking an unordered list to the top of the page.

<nav class="sticky-nav"> <ul> <li><a href="#">Home</a></li> <li><a href="#">About</a></li> <li><a href="#">Blog</a></li> </ul> </nav>

We can put the sticky logic directly on the <nav> since it’s technically holding what gets stuck:

.sticky-nav container-type: scroll-state; /* set a scroll container query */ position: sticky; /* set sticky positioning */ top: 0; /* stick to the top of the page */

I supposed we could use the container shorthand if we were working with multiple containers and needed to distinguish one from another with a container-name. Either way, now that we’ve defined a container, we can query it using @container! In this case, we declare the type of container we’re querying:

@container scroll-state()

And we tell it the state we’re looking for:

@container scroll-state(stuck: top) {

If we were working with a sticky footer instead of a menu, then we could say stuck: bottom instead. But the kicker is that once the <nav> element sticks to the top, we get to apply styles to it in the @container block, like so:

.sticky-nav border-radius: 12px; container-type: scroll-state; position: sticky; top: 0; /* When the nav is in a "stuck" state */ @container scroll-state(stuck: top) border-radius: 0; box-shadow: 0 3px 10px hsl(0 0 0 / .25); width: 100%;

It seems to work when nesting other selectors in there. So, for example, we can change the links in the menu when the navigation is in its stuck state:

.sticky-nav /* Same as before */ a color: #000; font-size: 1rem; /* When the nav is in a "stuck" state */ @container scroll-state(stuck: top) /* Same as before */ a color: orangered; font-size: 1.5rem;

So, yeah. As I was saying, it must be pretty cool to be on the Chrome developer team and get ahead of stuff like this, as it’s released. Big ol’ thanks to Bramus and Adam for consistently cluing us in on what’s new and doing the great work it takes to come up with such amazing demos to show things off.

[txttletale]

Saw a tweet that said something around:

"cannot emphasize enough how horrid chatgpt is, y'all. it's depleting our global power & water supply, stopping us from thinking or writing critically, plagiarizing human artists. today's students are worried they won't have jobs because of AI tools. this isn't a world we deserve"

I've seen some of your AI posts and they seem nuanced, but how would you respond do this? Cause it seems fairly-on point and like the crux of most worries. Sorry if this is a troublesome ask, just trying to learn so any input would be appreciated.

i would simply respond that almost none of that is true.

'depleting the global power and water supply'

something i've seen making the roudns on tumblr is that chatgpt queries use 3 watt-hours per query. wow, that sounds like a lot, especially with all the articles emphasizing that this is ten times as much as google search. let's check some other very common power uses:

running a microwave for ten minutes is 133 watt-hours

gaming on your ps5 for an hour is 200 watt-hours

watching an hour of netflix is 800 watt-hours

and those are just domestic consumer electricty uses!

a single streetlight's typical operation 1.2 kilowatt-hours a day (or 1200 watt-hours)

a digital billboard being on for an hour is 4.7 kilowatt-hours (or 4700 watt-hours)

i think i've proved my point, so let's move on to the bigger picture: there are estimates that AI is going to cause datacenters to double or even triple in power consumption in the next year or two! damn that sounds scary. hey, how significant as a percentage of global power consumption are datecenters?

1-1.5%.

ah. well. nevertheless!

what about that water? yeah, datacenters use a lot of water for cooling. 1.7 billion gallons (microsoft's usage figure for 2021) is a lot of water! of course, when you look at those huge and scary numbers, there's some important context missing. it's not like that water is shipped to venus: some of it is evaporated and the rest is generally recycled in cooling towers. also, not all of the water used is potable--some datacenters cool themselves with filtered wastewater.

most importantly, this number is for all data centers. there's no good way to separate the 'AI' out for that, except to make educated guesses based on power consumption and percentage changes. that water figure isn't all attributable to AI, plenty of it is necessary to simply run regular web servers.

but sure, just taking that number in isolation, i think we can all broadly agree that it's bad that, for example, people are being asked to reduce their household water usage while google waltzes in and takes billions of gallons from those same public reservoirs.

but again, let's put this in perspective: in 2017, coca cola used 289 billion liters of water--that's 7 billion gallons! bayer (formerly monsanto) in 2018 used 124 million cubic meters--that's 32 billion gallons!

so, like. yeah, AI uses electricity, and water, to do a bunch of stuff that is basically silly and frivolous, and that is broadly speaking, as someone who likes living on a planet that is less than 30% on fire, bad. but if you look at the overall numbers involved it is a miniscule drop in the ocean! it is a functional irrelevance! it is not in any way 'depleting' anything!

'stopping us from thinking or writing critically'

this is the same old reactionary canard we hear over and over again in different forms. when was this mythic golden age when everyone was thinking and writing critically? surely we have all heard these same complaints about tiktok, about phones, about the internet itself? if we had been around a few hundred years earlier, we could have heard that "The free access which many young people have to romances, novels, and plays has poisoned the mind and corrupted the morals of many a promising youth."

it is a reactionary narrative of societal degeneration with no basis in anything. yes, it is very funny that laywers have lost the bar for trusting chatgpt to cite cases for them. but if you think that chatgpt somehow prevented them from thinking critically about its output, you're accusing the tail of wagging the dog.

nobody who says shit like "oh wow chatgpt can write every novel and movie now. yiou can just ask chatgpt to give you opinions and ideas and then use them its so great" was, like, sitting in the symposium debating the nature of the sublime before chatgpt released. there is no 'decay', there is no 'decline'. you should be suspicious of those narratives wherever you see them, especially if you are inclined to agree!

plagiarizing human artists

nah. i've been over this ad infinitum--nothing 'AI art' does could be considered plagiarism without a definition so preposterously expansive that it would curtail huge swathes of human creative expression.

AI art models do not contain or reproduce any images. the result of them being trained on images is a very very complex statistical model that contains a lot of large-scale statistical data about all those images put together (and no data about any of those individual images).

to draw a very tortured comparison, imagine you had a great idea for how to make the next Great American Painting. you loaded up a big file of every norman rockwell painting, and you made a gigantic excel spreadsheet. in this spreadsheet you noticed how regularly elements recurred: in each cell you would have something like "naturalistic lighting" or "sexually unawakened farmers" and the % of times it appears in his paintings. from this, you then drew links between these cells--what % of paintings containing sexually unawakened farmers also contained naturalistic lighting? what % also contained a white guy?

then, if you told someone else with moderately competent skill at painting to use your excel spreadsheet to generate a Great American Painting, you would likely end up with something that is recognizably similar to a Norman Rockwell painting: but any charge of 'plagiarism' would be absolutely fucking absurd!

this is a gross oversimplification, of course, but it is much closer to how AI art works than the 'collage machine' description most people who are all het up about plagiarism talk about--and if it were a collage machine, it would still not be plagiarising because collages aren't plagiarism.

(for a better and smarter explanation of the process from soneone who actually understands it check out this great twitter thread by @reachartwork)

today's students are worried they won't have jobs because of AI tools

i mean, this is true! AI tools are definitely going to destroy livelihoods. they will increase productivty for skilled writers and artists who learn to use them, which will immiserate those jobs--they will outright replace a lot of artists and writers for whom quality is not actually important to the work they do (this has already essentially happened to the SEO slop website industry and is in the process of happening to stock images).

jobs in, for example, product support are being cut for chatgpt. and that sucks for everyone involved. but this isn't some unique evil of chatgpt or machine learning, this is just the effect that technological innovation has on industries under capitalism!

there are plenty of innovations that wiped out other job sectors overnight. the camera was disastrous for portrait artists. the spinning jenny was famously disastrous for the hand-textile workers from which the luddites drew their ranks. retail work was hit hard by self-checkout machines. this is the shape of every single innovation that can increase productivity, as marx explains in wage labour and capital:

“The greater division of labour enables one labourer to accomplish the work of five, 10, or 20 labourers; it therefore increases competition among the labourers fivefold, tenfold, or twentyfold. The labourers compete not only by selling themselves one cheaper than the other, but also by one doing the work of five, 10, or 20; and they are forced to compete in this manner by the division of labour, which is introduced and steadily improved by capital. Furthermore, to the same degree in which the division of labour increases, is the labour simplified. The special skill of the labourer becomes worthless. He becomes transformed into a simple monotonous force of production, with neither physical nor mental elasticity. His work becomes accessible to all; therefore competitors press upon him from all sides. Moreover, it must be remembered that the more simple, the more easily learned the work is, so much the less is its cost to production, the expense of its acquisition, and so much the lower must the wages sink – for, like the price of any other commodity, they are determined by the cost of production. Therefore, in the same manner in which labour becomes more unsatisfactory, more repulsive, do competition increase and wages decrease”

this is the process by which every technological advancement is used to increase the domination of the owning class over the working class. not due to some inherent flaw or malice of the technology itself, but due to the material realtions of production.

so again the overarching point is that none of this is uniquely symptomatic of AI art or whatever ever most recent technological innovation. it is symptomatic of capitalism. we remember the luddites primarily for failing and not accomplishing anything of meaning.

if you think it's bad that this new technology is being used with no consideration for the planet, for social good, for the flourishing of human beings, then i agree with you! but then your problem shouldn't be with the technology--it should be with the economic system under which its use is controlled and dictated by the bourgeoisie.

[enhaven]

all night | pjs (m.)

pairing ⇢ jay x reader

genre/au ⇢ fluff, smut, established relationship

wc & rating ⇢ 2k+ | 18+ (minors gtfo)

summary ⇢ all Jongseong wanted was to put you to sleep but you're more than awake to play along with his melodies.

warnings ⇢ cursing • unprotected sex • riding • handjob • fellatio • pet names • praise kink kinda? • aftercare

song ⇢ i love you 3000 - stephanie poetri

a/n: happy national boyfriend day to my main man! i didn't realize that i had an est. rel wip whipped last feb lmao. it's been sitting in my drafts for too long so might as well ^^

the dim lights and the strums of guitar strings are lulling you to sleep.

that's what Jay's been hoping to accomplish anyway after noticing you getting fussy as soon as you arrived earlier. it happens when you’re very tired so he'd love for you to sleep right away after dinner.

now you're plastered on your shared bed, brows scrunching as you try to make yourself comfortable. you look so adorable, just like when you complain about how bright it is every time the lights are on due to your sensitive eyes. 

it's a good thing Jay knows just what you need. he turns off some lights but leaves a lamp on so he can still see around the room. walking towards his closet, he grabs his guitar from the inside which you didn't notice. then he sits beside your lying form before placing the body of the guitar on his propped leg. 

smiling at your sleepy state, Jay starts tuning the guitar, some random melody already emerging in his mind to play for you. he made it a goal to himself to help you sleep after finding out that it didn't come to you easily.

.

the sound of your boyfriend plucking the strings was making you sleepy until you looked up at him. the sight made you gasp inwardly, the sleepiness leaving your mind as you watched Jay playing his guitar.

he's always been gorgeous but the silhouette of his face looks so defined from your line of vision. the few loose strands of his hair provided some extra flair with his shadow that you'd love to sketch sometime.

but seriously, how the fuck is he this beautiful even with the lights are low?

"baby can you sing for me?" you ask him softly which brings his attention to you. the request made Jay pause in playing, his face now slightly confused which is so cute.

"sing? but i thought you were sleepy that's why i'm playing"

and this is why you fell in love with him. not because of his physical attributes but of his thoughtfulness and how sweet he is. your heart swells that he's trying to help you sleep this way. you’ve been more than grateful that he became a part in your life.

"i wanna hear your voice" you sluggishly reply, burying yourself further in the comforter while your legs nuzzle the huge pillow between your thighs.

since Jay loves you so much, he accepts your request. he chooses to sing an acoustic version of a song that you often play in the background when cuddling him sometimes.

he thought this was it, that you'll finally fall asleep but you’ve started humming along instead, adding harmonies to the song which he didn't really mind since he loves hearing you sing.

"baby" he paused his singing but not playing so it served as an instrumental to your melodies.

"hmmm?" you feigned ignorance with your eyes closed as your hand started to caress his thigh, syncing it with his strumming.

"what are you tryna do?" he queries though he knows what you're doing. if that small quirk in your lips should tell Jay otherwise. your eyes are back on his face when he nudges you, a wolfish smile forming on your lips as your hand creeps closer to his upper inner thigh.

it's out of nowhere but your man's too fucking fine and you're getting horny just by watching him playing his guitar. you can't be blamed for that though, anyone would be if they were in your place.

"can i actually suck you off?" you asked, looking at him sheepishly with those puppy eyes that he couldn't possibly say no to. even without those, he'd say yes, wanting to give you whatever you want.

"come 'ere" he beckons you with one hand after placing his precious guitar by his side. it's at a safe distance thanks to your boyfriend's spacious bed so you have nothing to worry about but still. it's one of his collections, an expensive one so you don't want your clumsiness to damage it. but even if that were to happen, he wouldn't mind really. he can always get it repaired or buy a new one instead.

carefully crawling closer to Jay's lap, you place an arm on the mattress to support your upper body. he's surprisingly hard when you start palming his clothed length, squeezing it briefly which earned a small groan from him.

"oh you are so cute" you giggle, doing it again to watch his reaction.

"don't tease" he huffs, a small pout on his lips.

you might not be able to see his face clearly this far but you know he's struggling to contain his moans. he's fisting the bedsheet so you pull down the hem of his sweats at once, happy to hear the sigh of relief escaping his lips.

his rigid cock slaps against his clothed tummy and you're salivating to have it in your mouth. pumping his dick for a bit, you eventually lowered your head to wrap your lips around its tip. you're thinking of teasing him like you always do but not tonight, it's you who wants his cock in every way possible.

you feel one of Jay's hands on your head once you take him all in, petting your hair and it prompts you to swallow him deeper until his tip hits the back of your throat.

"fuck i love your mouth" his deep groans are sending shivers through you, moaning around his dick which drives Jay insane. he gathers your hair while you continue to suck him off, bucking his hips up when you hollow your cheeks. he didn't mean to but he can't help it, you're just too good at this.

reaching the back of your nape, he pulls you closer as your hand pumps the rest of him that you couldn't fit in your mouth. the warmth of your mouth is pushing him closer to his orgasm but you release his dick all of a sudden, causing a small whimper that he didn't plan on making.

“shhh” you smile teasingly at Jay and he curses, moaning louder when your tongue starts licking the undersides of his cock down to the base.

although it was you who initially started this, he's the one desperate to fuck you right now. he’s been wanting to cum but he tries to hold it back, preferring to do so inside you.

“can you fuck me baby?” he rasps, his hand patting down your head as he closes his eyes. you look too hot sucking him off that he might burst his nut on your face, not like he didn't before but he's craving for your pussy this time.

“m’kay” another giggle escapes you after hearing Jay's request. you did plan on fucking him and you were excited as soon as he let you suck him but you didn’t think he’d beg first tonight.

lifting yourself up from the bed, you took the rest of your clothes off. nothing much since you were just wearing a loose shirt and matching thin sweats along with your underwear.

“these fucking tits” you hear Jay mumble quietly as he reaches for your bare breasts. one thing he loves secretly is how you’re always braless once you’re home. it's easier for him to play with them with his hands or mouth.

a needy moan escapes you when he pinches your nipples before you scramble to straddle him. he proceeds to rid his shirt as well, pulling off his sweats completely so now you’re both completely naked.

looking at each other fondly and you really couldn't stop your intrusive thoughts from coming out.

“you’re so fine what the hell how did i get so lucky”

you say softly as you start grinding against his slick cock, cupping his face with both your hands and you can feel his skin warming up at your words. he averts his eyes from yours once he sees that pretty smile on your face.

"i'm lucky to have you too baby" he responds before his hands hoist you up, grabbing his cock to align it in your soaking entrance.

“are you blushing? awe-ahh..”

yes, Jay is and he has no idea how you can even see it with this dim lighting and your uneven vision. he knew you were gonna tease him like you always and he usually doesn't mind. it's just that all he can think of right now is your pussy, fucking it a lot until you're all spent.

he hasn’t prepped you with his fingers but you love the stretch each time your pussy takes his cock. at first, he was hesitant since he’s always wanted to make sure you’re always ready before sex but you're determined and eventually, you managed to convince him.

“tight..fuck, i’ll never get used to this ugh” he hisses, spewing more praises at how good you feel around him and you’re leaving kisses around his handsome face in return.

“i think i can move now baby” you reassure him, circling your hips to test the waters.

his hands are on your waist, his grip tightening when you start bouncing on him.

"g-gorgeous.." he whispers. "you're so gorgeous my love" he adds quietly and you clenched around him as a result. watching your boyfriend struggle to hold himself because of you boosts your confidence.

the way he reacts to everything that you do encourages you to do it more, wanting to see how good you make him feel.

"j-jongseong.."

it's taking a toll on your legs but you can feel Jay so deep that it's overpowering it. he can feel it though, your waning energy so he sits up before laying you gently on your back without removing himself from you.

"fuck baby, i'm close" he speeds his thrusts once he feels your legs tighten around his waist.

"close, close, mhmm" you're slurring your words, dazedly looking at Jay that he falters in his pace. you're too pretty like this, sprawled under him while he's making you feel so good. there's nothing in this world that makes him happy aside from this.

it pushes him to reach his peak, filling you up like you always wanted.

"you good babe?" he prods, stroking your warm cheeks with the back of his fingers.

"yea..so good.." you're breathless when you respond but your boyfriend's looking at you lovingly. the subtle thrusts of his hips soothe your walls despite the sensitivity, always have been when you're both riding your high.

his deep chuckle reverberates in sync with your heavy breathing, whining when he pulls out of you. he urges you to stand up so you both can clean up at the bathroom, and comply reluctantly. being the caring person that he is, Jay solely cleans you up first even when you keep fighting him off.

you're clearly sleepy now so he helps you in putting on a fresh set of clothes. the entire time that he briefly left you, he was changing the sheets and put your clothes to the laundry so you'd be ready to sleep as soon as you're done.

lying down, you nuzzle the comforter while waiting for your boyfriend to join you in bed. you're dead tired though but he's still in the washroom so you're gonna close your eyes for a bit.

"i love you" you call out to him, the sleep waving over you but you're trying to stay conscious.

"i love you too baby" he responds as he finishes up, eager to join you since sleep's coming to him as well. however, when he came out of the door, he finds you already sleeping.

jay didn’t mean to fuck you to exhaustion but watching you sleep soundly tugs his heart a little. you finally look peaceful unlike the weariness in your face that you tried to hide earlier. all because of him and he's more than happy to do it again, anything for the person he loves the most.

.

e/n: it's been ages lmao and i realized i had this last min 💀. summer and september were so busy for me and i tried writing whenever i can. but now it's October and i'll be more busy? (i go out/party almost every day/week when i'm not working) so i'm gonna focus on my Halloween/scary fics since yk i can only post them this month.

[bits-and-babs]

✦ 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍 ✦

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader (delta) | smut, 18+ | 4.1k

summary: you, soap and gaz make a silly bet at ghost's expense for an invaluable prize.

cw: mw3 spoiler free. 141 ridiculousness, humour, attempts to remove the mask resulting in life threatening (not really) injury, mild exhibitionism if you squint, very talkative ghost, 'interrogation' wink wink, unprotected p in v sex, reference to f receiving oral.

ghost mlist | main mlist | taglist

"Y'know, I'm sure as shit that L.t's got brown hair," Soap pipes up in the middle of the silence that had settled inside the safe house. 

The members of Task Force 141 glance up one by one, querying eyes cast Soap's way as the guesstimated observation hangs in the air. It's louder than chopper blades, thudding against your skull and roaring in your ears as you attempt to recall the information you have on Ghost, what little physical attributes you can attribute to him. Each time, you hit a brick wall. The only image conjured in your minds-eye is the black voids of the mask's eyes and the piercing amber of his irises. 

The wind howls outside, battering the windows with Wyoming snow and creeping in through the cracks in the panes. It makes a yowling sound as it slips through the crevices, carrying your memories of Ghost's appearance with it. He truly was like an apparition, there one moment, then gone altogether. 

Gaz's brows crease in the middle, little crevices in the skin showing his mind working over the sentence. 

"He doesn't," he eventually retorts, eyebrow cocked while shaking his head, "He's blonde." 

"What makes you say that?" Price scoffs at his colleague's certainty, "You ever seen his face?"

The silence that follows makes the Captain chuckle. A wordless 'that's what I thought'. 

"You willin' to bet on that?" Soap pushes Gaz with a lopsided smirk. There it is, that ridiculous playfulness that the Scotsman continuously let slip over coms. Simon had once reprimanded him for how it would get him killed– you were almost certain if he continued down this path in particular, he'd be in a box by daylight.

"I am," Gaz counters thoughtlessly, a smug lilt to his tone as he leans the crown of his head back against the rotting wooden wall, "He's got blonde eyelashes. He's gonna have blonde hair."

"What're ya gettin' so close tae him for?" Soap grins wide, loading the new ammunition and hitting a bullseye on the first shot, "You been snoggin' him or somethin'?"

"Lads," Price warns. It's only one word, but it says a lot; 'he'll have your head.' All of you know Simon 'Ghost' Riley well enough to know it's not a joke. Seen enough of the mangled bodies he left behind to know it wouldn't be clean, either. More like he'd hack your skull from your neck, picking out the dullest blade that'd struggle to slot between vertebrae.  

"Bets on, then," Soap continues, white teeth gleaming in the low light, "First to confirm gets the honour of shootin' Hassan between the eyes." 

It's like throwing a match at a body doused in diesel. 

                           ✰

The parameters of this wager are as follows... First: the competition is between you, Soap and Gaz. Price was ruled automatically exempt the moment he admitted he had, indeed, seen Ghost's face. It was a revelation that caused quite a storm- and a promise from Gaz of £100 if he'd tell.

The Captain, quite frankly, told him where to stick it. 

Second: None of you could just ask Ghost himself. That was boring; no fun in that. 

Thirdly, there are no other rules. Acquire the information by any means necessary to claim victory. Perhaps this rule should have been revised- because to say that 141's tactics for getting Ghost to reveal his face were a little unorthodox is an understatement of the highest order. 

Despite his hulking frame, Ghost is like a cunning fox, cognizant of even the slightest changes in energy and hypervigilant of those approaching. The midnight void of his grease paint that frames his eyesockets contrasts the whites of his eyes as they dart back and forth between you all. He appears to have noted the devious scheming, practically hearing the cogs turning in your heads the moment he returned from his watch. Something is amiss, and you know Ghost knows it. 

He says nothing. 

Day One; the grumpy, black-clad special ops soldier sits back in his seat as he crosses his arms over his vast chest, cautiously observing the minute movements the three of you made. He'd bristled when Gaz stood from the sofa simply to enter another room, poised and ready to pounce at whatever fuckery the younger soldier would attempt. 

"Hey, L.t.," Soap's drawl cuts through the humorously tense atmosphere in the room, and you brace yourself for his master plan. "When was the last time ye got a haircut?"

Ghost hesitates. Waits a beat. The silence stretches almost uncomfortably until he answers, thick, bassy voice almost booming in the box room. "What're you playin' at, Johnny?"

Soap shrugs his shoulders, exuding complete nonchalance as he settles into the seat across the table from the hulking mass of man. "Just wondered if the mask ever came off. How do you cut your hair?"

Amusement ripples through you in the sound of a chuckle, both men glancing your way. Ghost peers at you, suspicion pooling thick in his pupils. 

"Shave it," Ghost rumbles bluntly, with an air of finality that leaves no room for argument or for Soap to encourage him to try something stupid like curtain bangs or, God forbid, a mohawk. 

You can't help but grin from ear to ear as you watch the Scotsman's shoulders slump in defeat, already waving a white flag upon seeing how unwilling Ghost is to play whatever stupid game you're all partaking in. Even you can't deny the anxiety that prickles across your nerve endings when you see the way Ghost's biceps flex beneath the camo fabric of his uniform, primed for action. 

When Ghost's aqua irises slide to you, your shoulders shrug comically, putting on the performance of your life to appear as though you had no idea what Johnny was up to. You see the way Ghost's blacked-out eyelids squint in suspicion. He doesn't believe you, but doesn't say as much. 

Day Three and the polite, roundabout tactics had been discarded in favour of the nuclear option. Gaz had tried ambushing Ghost in the shower, opening the door without knocking as if pretending he didn't know the Lieutenant was in there. The door slammed so quickly into his head that an egg had been steadily growing on his forehead for the past hour and a half, blood seeping from his almost certainly broken nose. 

"You'll stay out next time, Bravo 2-6, if you know what's good for you," Ghost had growled through the crack in the door before shutting it with a click of the lock. 

Holding his face and slinking away, mortally wounded, Gaz uttered a humiliated 'Yes, lieutenant'. 

Soap, clearly not having learnt from poor Gaz, decided that the next best option was a trip, so to speak. Executing a ludicrously overexaggerated stumble, Johnny reached out to grab Ghost's mask to 'steady himself' and ultimately drag it from his superior's head. 

Ghost had leapt from his seat with a roar, threatening to send Sergeant MacTavish back to Scotland in a box with the Saltire draped across the lid. The standoff only settled upon Captain Price's barked orders to stand down or hang up the uniform. 

By Day Six, Ghost had bruised your opponent's egos enough that neither Soap nor Gaz dared attempt to peek beneath the mask again. They look at you like you're absolutely bonkers when you finally announce it's your turn to try and tame the beast. 

"Yer fuckin' mad, hen," Johnny grumbled, watching you observe Ghost from across the room. He'd settled on a chair in the corner of the room, ensuring no one could sneak up on him. "You can't seriously be plannin' on-"

"I want Hassan," you shrug, a smile playing on your lips. Though, at this rate, you couldn't care less about the terrorist and the honour of dispatching him. No, Ghost had made this ridiculous game far more competitive than needed, and you planned to win.

"Have fun," Gaz scoffed bitterly, still icing the blotchy green and purple bruise that had welted on his forehead as a medal of dis-honour. You hadn't exactly helped the healing process, poking it harshly with the pad of your thumb as you laughed at his mortifying misfortune. 

You wait patiently for Ghost to move, like a stake out on a mission. Lying in plain sight in a ghillie suit, a sniper rifle pointed right between his eyes and your finger on a hairpin trigger. You wait for him to break, for exhaustion to creep in. Thankfully, you don't have to wait long. The Lieutenant rises from his chair, announcing to 141 that he's headed to bed. 

A quiet mumble of 'goodnight' from each member grants him leave, and Ghost walks out of the room without further word. You waste no time in hurrying to your feet. 

"Are you gonna...-" Soap winces when you stand, trailing off when you start after Ghost, not allowing either of your colleagues to talk you out of this suicide mission. 

Though, the moment you turn the corner, you wish you had. Ghost's broad frame practically fills the narrow hallway like someone had plucked Everest from Nepal and shoved its hulking mass into a matchbox. He's ginormous, his usually silent footsteps causing the aged, rotting wood beneath the soles of his boots to creak with the weight he applies when he turns to face you. 

The dark hallway obscures Ghost's skull-face mask, but a glittering reflection of the golden light bleeding from the bulb in the living room area flickers across the wet surface of his eyes as he observes you. You can't allow the weighty pressure of his stare to phase you if you're to push ahead with your plan- so you step forward, swallowing down the nerves that Ghost's attention inevitably dredges up. 

"Lieutenant, sir," you address him smoothly, voice low as you gaze up at him through your lashes. Ghost's eyebrow arches in response, noting your somewhat suggestive behaviour. "Permission to spea-"

"I'm hopin' you'll tell me what you're all up to," his eyes spear your nerve as he interrupts you, "They're not lettin' up, but I'll get it outta you one way or another." 

"What... Did you have in mind?" You chance, heart slamming up against your chest when you realise just how obvious you're being. It's dangerous- you hadn't planned to be so forward. The idea that he'd be able to read your flirting so soon set off mortars in your veins. 

There's a pause. It dizzies you, throwing your previously sturdy confidence off kilter when Ghost tilts his masked head slightly. He's turning it over in his mind, considering the past few days' events. Then, he turns everything on its side. 

"I know what you're doing," he speaks suddenly, the rich baritone of his voice ricocheting off the walls and ringing in your ears like he's just discharged a round of ammo with each syllable. You jerk upright, standing to attention. 

"I don't know what you m-"

"You want the mask off," he interrupts you again, cutting your pathetic excuse short as he steps forward. It's ridiculous, the sheer size of him as he looms over you. "You lot made a bet."

Another beat. Ghost waits for a response, an admission of guilt. It feels like he's cornered you; every answer that springs to mind is incriminating. You know he can see your rueful expression, wide-eyed and panicked by the ease with which he puts you on the ropes. 

"Was this your plan?" He murmurs, reaching to grasp your chin. His palm settles on the hollow of your jaw, fingers fanning out across the bone. "Get me into bed and see if I'll take it off?"

Trembling in his hold, you whimper as Ghost's thumb stretches across to trace the curve of your lip. It follows the delicate arc, lining the shape of your mouth and trailing the dip of your cupid's bow. 

"'M sorry," you mumble weakly, cheeks hot beneath his touch. Again, you fold beneath the intensity of those honeyed irises. It's a miracle your knees don't buckle when he pushes the pad of his thumb just past your lips, so that it brushes the edges of your teeth. 

"That was your plan. Y'can still give it a try, love. But..." he hums, his voice throaty and quiet and settling in the pit of your stomach. It's embarrassing, the ease with which he figures you out, but his words drip over you, easy and warm, and all you can focus on is the slip of his thumb as he presses the pad against the flat of your tongue. 

"The mask stays on." 

Ghost’s insistence makes you giggle sheepishly and your stomach flip in dread, like a child caught with its hand down a bear trap. Despite the lewdness of him pushing his thumb past your lips, you know that he’s being serious, deathly so. You nod clumsily in recognition of his executive order, and Ghost gently taps the skin of your cheek with his free hand, the soft slap of his palm against your flesh standing your hair on end.

“Go.”

The word hangs in the air for a moment, weighing heavily in the claustrophobic space of the small hallway. It takes a moment for your mind, rendered utterly useless by Ghost’s imposing presence, to understand exactly what he’s implying. Only when he removes his thumb from your mouth to shove you forward towards a bedroom door does his intention become clear.

Oh. Oh!

Scrambling to force your feet forward, they practically float across the threshold of the bedroom door. You can feel Ghost looming just behind you, can practically feel the heat radiating from his chest warming the expanse of your back. Fingers clasp over your shoulder, practically swallow the curved flesh, and shove you back against the bedroom wall.

The force of impact winds you, the air expelled from your lungs swallowed down by Ghost’s lips bearing heavily down upon your own. He’d ripped the mask upwards, the hem of the ski-mask balanced across the bridge of his nose. Simon’s tongue licks into your mouth– intrudes upon the space like he’s kicking down a door, like he’s swallowing the breath he’d expelled from you with his heavy hand. 

Once the dazed dizziness dissipates, you moan in relief at finally getting what you wanted. Ghost’s gigantic paw takes hold of your jaw in a firm grip to fit his mouth perfectly against your own, his swirling fingerprints indenting in the soft flesh there in a mottled bruise. The soft pine he coaxes from you bleeds past your open mouth despite your attempt to suppress the frankly pathetic noise. 

Fuck it, this was worth it– all of it was worth it. The fear of getting it wrong, the anxiety of being caught, the panic that Simon could turn you away… All of it seeps into the darkness in the corners of the room when your superior drags his tongue across your lower lip. It’s though he’s relishing in the taste of the aftershocks of the arousal he sparks between your legs, the dopamine that rushes through you.

“Was this your plan?” Ghost grunts, grasping ahold of the scruff of your neck. Gasping weakly, you’re almost certain your eyes roll back in your head when he uses his harsh grip to steer you towards the bed. “Get me out of my fuckin’ mind so I don’t notice you takin’ off the mask?”

“That’s–” you huff, rendered breathless by Ghost’s intruding tongue, “That’s not it–”

Your pitiful attempt to excuse yourself is made useless when Ghost practically launches you onto the mattress of his bed, the rusted metal frame screaming under the sudden weight of your body. 

“No?” he queries, the usual boom of authority in his voice replaced by something that sounds far more like goading amusement as he places the hefty weight of his palm against your sternum, holding you down and thwarting any attempt to escape. 

He needn’t worry. The last thing you wanted was to leave. 

“Tell you what,” he muses in that smug tone you always hear over the comms, his free hand quick to grasp at the leather of his belt. The buckle clinks in the quiet as he works his fingers over it, “We’ll run through this mission, yeh? See if you can complete your objective, Delta?”

Your retort, or lack thereof, dies in your throat when Ghost pushes his crotch into your own. If it weren’t for the yelp of bliss that the Lieutenant had to smother with his palm, you’d hear the way he’d practically purred when he dragged his cock against you. 

“C’mon then. Try it,” he urged. 

It’s pointless, his mock-support. You just desperately reach for the waistband of his khaki uniform trousers, cockdrunk from the tease of its shape against you. Even in the low light, you can see Ghost’s scarred lips, the way they stretch into a smirk at your desperation. 

“Abandoning mission, Sergeant?” He asks you, unzipping his trousers. “Price’ll be disappointed to know this is all it takes for Delta to go AWOL.”

“Shut up,” you moan into the cold air of the cabin. You can see your breath. “Shut up and fuck me.”

When Simon removed himself from his trousers, making some glib comment about you being demanding, you marvel at the size of him. Girthy, swollen, the ruddy tip leaks precum down the arch of his cock and traces the pulsing veins. He’s rock hard and throbbing, framed by a thatch of pubic hair. 

Fumbling with your own trousers, you awkwardly try to remove them given Simon’s weighty palm still pins you down by your sternum. He watches, a glint in his eye in the low light that would almost embarrass you if you weren’t so focused on the task at hand. 

“What was the prize?” 

“H-Huh?” you stall, mind fried by Ghost’s unexpected line of enquiry. He picks up where you left off, violently yanking your trousers down your thighs and pushing your panties aside to expose your glistening cunt to his prying eyes. 

“What. Was. The. Prize?”

You hesitate for a moment, feeling Ghost’s fingers press against the inside of your thighs as he probes this unexplored territory of you. His touch skirts the areas you want him most, teasing and goading you for more information. “H-Hassa-ahh!”

You barely manage the first syllable of your answer before Simon rests the arch of his cock against your slick pussy lips. His body jerks slightly at the heat of your swollen cunt, the ease with which he can slide himself through your drenched sex. 

“You got to kill Hassan?” he asked for confirmation, his voice unwavering. You wonder how he manages to stay so steady– you’re coming apart at the seams, trembling as the head of his cock bumps your clit clumsily. 

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes rolling back as he continues his laboured, steady torture. His free hand settles on your hip, arching your pelvis up slightly to meet his own. You grind your hips upward against his cock, and Simon expels a soft scoff from lungs, those piercing eyes settled on your contorting expression. 

“Mhmm,” he hums, rolling his hips again. This time it’s even slower, teasing. “A temptin’ reward–” 

Simon is interrupted by the moan that splits your lips when he drags the length of his cock heavily against your clit. It sparks arousal deep in your abdomen, clings to the inside of your thighs wetly. 

Perhaps the disturbance is one transgression too many tonight, because Simon grasps your hips so hard that you are forced to stop gliding over the length of his cock. You pine in protest, but you choke on the pitiful sound when Ghost suddenly plunges his cock inside of you. It spears you open, breaks you apart, and you find your back arching desperately against the mattress. 

The palm that had rooted itself to your sternum flies up to clasp against your mouth, smothering the shriek of bliss that threatened to expose your extracurricular activities to the rest of your squad. You sob through your teeth beneath his life line, tears welling in your eyes as you feel him stretch your walls open to make room for his intrusion. 

You can’t help yourself. You need something to grasp onto, and opt for his wrist above your face. Digging your nails into the inked flesh there, you watch as the pain sparks something dark and twisted in Simon’s pupils, his azure irises swallowed by the expanding blackness.

He likes it. You can tell. His cock arches up inside of you, pushing deep and rocking against something earth shattering inside of you. Damp with sweat already, the skin of his wrist ripples as he tightens his grip on your face, refusing to withdraw from your pussy walls and instead opting for sharp, shallow thrusts that push you up the mattress with each connection of your hips. 

“Fuck,” he spits, using his tight grasp to pull you back towards him. It’s obliterating you, ripping you apart and pushing all your pieces back together in a mangled, jumbled mess. You whimper as you suffer through his brutal pace, marvelling at how good it feels when he consistently spears your g-spot. 

“When would you have done it?” Simon asks you, a little breathless now as he chases the high that begins to build at the edges of your body, tingling and pulsing. 

“Shut up–” you beg him, the low rasp of his voice launching you towards that pleasure that threatens to consume you. Jerking your hips up to meet his, your body mindlessly reacts to the sound of his timbre. 

“Oh, no,” he chuckles, shaking his half masked face. There’s a silver laden scar that stretches across the base of his chin. It matches the one that splits his upper lip to the base of his nose, the ski mask hovering tantalisingly over the bridge. “When?” 

The seriousness of his tone makes your thighs quiver when paired with the sharp thrust he punctuates his question with. Years of training in maintaining a cover-story while a hostage are blown to bits as though Ghost has launched a mortar at your resolve, because suddenly all your state secrets are spilling out of you quicker than you can shove the incriminating words back into your traitor mouth. 

“I’d– Hagh… I’d do it j-just as you’re cummin–hhah!”

“And spoil my fun?” Ghost hums, that heavy timbre licking up your spine and sparking viscous embers at the base of your spine, “Anyone ever told you that you’re very fuckin’ selfish, Delta?” 

You’d offer a witty comment, but Ghost’s angled his hips just right, and your jaw is falling loose to let out a panicked whimper. 

“There it is, shit. Look at you, Sargeant. Fuckin’, you’re so tight–” 

You’re like a slip knot, tightening around him further with each knock of your g-spot with Simon’s ridiculously large cock-head. Prickling tears of bliss threaten to spill over the edge of your waterline, continuing to sting even when you shut your eyes. You’re shaking, trembling beneath his rocking hips as you mewl his name. 

“S-Simon! Fuck–”

Wild, wet squelches of Simon sinking into your soaked cunt echo in your skull as he ramps up his violent thrusts, the springs of his mattress screaming an unmistakable rhythm to anyone walking by. He doesn’t seem to care now though, his eyes zeroed in on your expression like he’s stalking a victim with his sniper scope. Aiming for complete obliteration. 

“C’mon Can feel you squeezin’ round me,” he murmurs, the steady tone he’d offered earlier shuddering slightly as you squeeze impossibly tight around him, coil threatening to snap, “You’re so close, Delta. C’mon, paint my cock an’ I’ll eat you out with my cum in you–” 

                           ✰

“He’s blonde.” 

Gawping jaws drop to the floor at your very simple observation, Soap’s eyes nearly rolling across the uneven, rotten floorboards after falling out of his skull. You can’t help the smug smile that threatens to tug at the edge of your lips, especially given the sensation of Ghost’s eyes boring holes into the back of your skull. 

The awe only worsens when Price gives a subtle nod of confirmation from the corner of the darkened room, crowning you the winner of this utterly ridiculous joust. 

“How do you know?” Gary is as shaken as Soap by the confidence with which you’d offered your final answer, in disbelief as to how you could have possibly obtained it without being maimed, given the egg on his forehead was still throbbing despite days of icing it with the snow from outside the safehouse.

“His pubes are. I assume the curtains match the drapes,” you shrug dismissively. 

The sheer incredulity that flashes across Johnny’s face is utterly hilarious. The smirk that had been threatening to break finally cracks across your lips at the confirmation of your victory. Ghost’s eyes appear to have lazered through your skull, singing brain matter with the ferocity of his scowl. Frankly, you couldn’t care less– you can see it in your mind's eye; the gorgeous contrast of a blood-red crosshair settling across Hassan’s forehead, the weight of the trigger beneath your finger as you pull it back.

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

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[elumish]

For my book database project, because of how I've been doing it so far, the vast majority of what I have robust plot/trope tagging on is romance.

For fantasy or sci fi what sort of plot attributes or tropes would you likely look for, to find books either to read or to query?

[literaticat]

Hi Jenn. Can I ask you some info about “cozy” mysteries? I’m part of a writers group and recently shared some details about the plot of my novel and others in the group keep throwing around this term in relation to my book. Thing is I’m not sure if what I’ve written is a cozy mystery. I mean, it sort of is but also not. It’s a murder mystery and it’s set in a cozy UK village but it’s also kind of dark, with themes dealing with grief and thriller elements. I’m also querying UK agents to start with before I query US ones and while it looks like the term is maybe international I’m also wondering if it’s more US than UK? My comps are Agatha Christie, esp her Poirot novels which I see some saying online are cozy and others saying aren’t cozy, plus modern authors like Graham Norton and Tom Hindle. I know I can ask some of this in my group but I’m embarrassed to as I don’t know if I’ve written a cozy or not or given it’s kind of darker, if I’ve just written a murder mystery. I know this isn’t your area but if you could help me I’d really appreciate it, thank you.

With the caveats that I don't rep adult mysteries, I don't really read adult mysteries, I don't know anything about the market for adult mysteries in the US *or* the UK, nor what terminology is in use for the UK since I am not in the UK? Uh. Sure.

In my opinion, there are four main attributes for a proper cozy.

A cozy mystery must:

Feature an amateur sleuth. In other words -- the main character's JOB is not to solve crimes -- they are not a cop or P.I. or FBI agent or forensic pathologist or whatever. They may be a reporter or a novelist or a little old lady who happens to have a passion for puzzles -- they may be a kooky barista or bookstore owner or chef or something totally not-crime related!

Have a charming setting. By that I mean, warm, cute, safe-feeling -- say, a village/hamlet/vicarage called Button-on-Twee with a delightfully quirky cast of characters. The kind of place you want to take a weekend vacation to. (Not all villages/small towns are like that. Plenty of REAL small towns are in fact impoverished and bleak -- that wouldn't be the case in a cozy small town). It doesn't HAVE to be a village, it could be something like a hotel, vacation resort, or on a large yacht or something -- as long as it's charming/lovely. If it is set in a city, it would be like a pocket-neighborhood within a city. Like, maybe there's a darling B&B and a brownstone full of chatty neighbors and pets on a street that has a kindly greengrocer and a bookstore etc -- and we stay in that little corner of town, far away from skyscrapers and dangerous bits. It would be much harder, IMO, for a cozy to be set on like, a remote and isolated desert planet or farm in the middle of nowhere with no neighbors or something -- those things are not cozy!

Be "clean" -- ie, no explicit sex or grisly violence on page. Obvs there may be romance/relationships, love/kissing, etc if you want, but it will be closed-door, ie, the actual uh... graphic bonking stuff may be implied but will not be shown. Obvs there may be murders, but think, like, the level of violence on Murder She Wrote -- MAYBE we see an assailant whack somebody on the head or something like that -- but when bodies are shown, they are rather discreetly presented, or are discovered off-screen. They aren't showing twisted bodies or guts and gore and maggots in eyes and whatnot, yanno?

Be comforting and satisfying. Like, idk, it's just a vibe. Though there may be murder and light mayhem and delving into some of the darker parts of the human psyche (after all, MURDER, hello!) -- and the reader may certainly experience SUSPENSE (how will our hero get out of this jam?!) -- they will not experience TERROR. The reader knows they are in good hands and that the problems will be satisfyingly resolved and the main character will be OK at the end. They should come away from the book feeling satisfied, with a smile, not upset or stressed out.

If your book ticks ALL of those boxes, you can deffo call it a cozy.

If it ticks 3/4, like, it's sorta borderline 4, as long as the vibe is still comforting, it still could potentially be a cozy, but at the end of the day: If you don't think it's cozy, that's fine. Just... don't call it cozy then! Call it a mystery and then describe it and put the comps and let people come to their own conclusions.

(FWIW, Miss Marple is an amateur sleuth whose books are mostly set in a small town or vacation destinations -- Hercule Poirot is a former cop and professional detective whose books are set all over the map, literally. So by my definition, Poirot books are not cozies. Marple books might be -- but I haven't read them, so IDK about the vibe!)

[heartfullofleeches]

everytime i see the name v you can be assured that i am going to butt in.

honestly, v is definitely the type to hire a hitman just because he got in an argument with someone. sure, he could deal with it by himself — but he is a lazy bum and has his... "priorities".

v meeting up with the hitman and immediately his jaw falls off. the most he was expecting is a bald man in shades and a suit, not an incarnate of a divine being!

v watching hitman aim their sniper on the victim — he can't help but observe the focus in your eyes and the steadiness and precision of your hand near the trigger. he praises the beauty of your hands, and unfortunately, his mind got to wandering. thinking about how your hands would feel on his cock — would you focus on his cock like you focus the aim on your targets? would you stroke his cock with absolute precision?

he's put out of his state when he hears a 'bang!' and flinches.

"the job is done, mr. vince."

"could you... do me next?"

"..."

This is bullshit.

If he knew he had to go outside to have that bastard killed, he would've just done it himself.

V drums his fingers against the dinner table - eyes scanning the venue for anyone that might fit his imagined description of the person he's looking for. Rugged, shaven head, nice suit and tie - maybe a few visible scars from their line of work. While there a number of suits in a fine establishment, they were just the run of the mill rich assholes he'd grown accusation to through his life.

Sweat beading down his neck, V pulls at his collar. He hadn't even dressed up for his grandmother's funeral a year ago and now here he was in a nice button up and slacks for a complete stranger - and it isn't even for a date. If the waitress came by again to check if he was ready to order his tie would be an easy ticket out of here without the embarrassment of walking out looking like a dateless loser. He can already hear them laughing whichever way this goes. Frustrated, V folds his arms, shutting his eyes as tries to blend with the background of the uncomfortable booth he sat in. Maybe if he keeps them closed long enough when they open he'll be back at home - or dead. Either is an acceptable option at this point.

"Excuse me-"

V shoots up from his seat as warm breath fans his ear. The voice, no louder than a whisper, sends a chill down his spine as it flows from the lips of its speaker like smooth honey. A far cry from the unpleasantly sweet tone that waitress threw on to hide her thinly veiled annoyance at seeing V still hogging an empty table. He looks up at the looming figure at his table side - jaw slack as his eyes adjust to the light that envelopes them.

"I don't mean to interrupt whatever it is you are doing, but would you happen to be a Mr. Vincent Carbone?"

V's mouth opens like the jaws of a dying animal fighting for its final breath. The person before him was dressed in date casual clothing. He stares at their exposed collar from the lower cut of their shirt and toned muscles from their sleeves. He rubs at his eyes. This... couldn't be them. He had to be looking at a model. V's standards were pretty low his own admission, but from the way they carried themselves down to their physical attributes proved they were way out of his league.

"Yes... um, that's me... Just Vince is fine."

They tighten their lips with a small nod. V makes a note of how soft they look compared to his own chapped skin. He follows their every move as they sit down in their seat across from him - wasting no time as they pull a black folder from the brief case brought with them. He watches as their calloused fingertips turn each page - pondering what they might feel like around his-

"So - are you this guys secretary or....."

V flinches as their eyes snap up at him - emotionless face plagued by a hint of annoyance at his query. "I can assure you I do all of my work by myself, Mr. Carbone.... From the information you've given me, it appears you have had a fued with this person for quite some time despite numerous attempts to block and/or have them removed from the group of individuals you play games with, and wish to escalate matters further."

Breathing through their teeth, they shut the folder - placing it flat on the table. "Had I not done my research into your person, I'd consider this whole thing."

V feels tightness in the crotch of his slacks at the use of that word. Mr. Carbone. He's been referred to as such before, but the way it rolls off their tongue- V picks up his glass of water and fits it to his lips, trembling hands spilling the cool liquid all over his white shirt.

"R....research... You... know about me?"

"Yes. It's common for me to look into the backgrounds of all my clients. Make sure they have the funds to pay for my services and take note of what I can take as collateral if anything comes up. I know for certain you've got the cash, but the rest is still up in the air."

V swallows hard. "I already had the records of our conversation scrubbed and it's not like we talked much anyway... I don't trust cops much either."

Amused, the hitman's expression shifts from its blank slate for the first time as they offer him a small smile. "Good boy...."

V slaps a hand over his mouth to stiffle the whimper that almost slips out. The hitman retrieves a small flip phone from their briefcase and slides it across the table.

"From now on you will contact me from this device only. We will discuss how what methods you prefer in due time. Do you remember what else we talked about when we spoke over the phone?"

"Yea.... Half up front, half went it's done." V pulls a crumbled envelope from his pocket and hands it to them - savoring the brief moment of contact between his sweaty hands and the heat of their skin through their gloves. They count the bills briefly before sliding it into their back pocket. What V wouldn't do to be that piece of paper.

"I look forward to working with you, Sir. Something tells me we'll be hearing a lot from each other in the future."

".....you promise?"

[cowboygenesis]

7: bang goes something | din djarin x reader

part 7 of the "brown eyes" series: masterlist | buy me a coffee?

pairing: din djarin x reader chapter warnings: none. word count: 6.1k series summary: din settles on the distant planet of lazure prime while seeking a safe-haven for his son. unbeknownst to him, the choice leads him to unforeseen threats—and a deeper connection he never thought possible. notes: blessings to everyone who waited the three-or-so months for an update. i'm happy to say that i have finally planned out all three arcs of this story, meaning i (hopefully) won't get so writer's-blocked down the line. chapter's a bit shorter this time, but i hope you enjoy it nontheless. and happy easter if you celebrate!

The wind musses your face and twists your locks. When you breathe in, the soft, fragrant air settles in your lungs, filling you with a trickling warmth. Your front suddenly feels too warm, so you shift your body and rest on your belly. When you kick your feet in the air, the tall grass tickles your ankles.

“Comfortable?” you hear a modulated query from behind, making you roll your eyes with a wide, cherry-kissed smile.

You peek up through your lashes, the golden grass swaying lazily around you. Din stands a few steps away, his broad silhouette dark against the azure sky, one gloved hand resting on his hip while the other cradles a bundle of rosemaron. The thick branches taper at the top, resting against his pauldron.

“Very,” you hum, stretching your arms in front of you with a luxurious sigh. The warmth of the earth seeps into your skin, making you feel boneless and content with your dearth of work. “This was a great idea. My idea, actually.”

Din huffs, tilting his helmet just so. “Your idea was to cook Chou-Shou for dinner.”

“That’s still happening,” you shrug, lazily rubbing your calves together. “I’m just gathering my ener—”

“—Which requires work.” He interrupts firmly, nudging toward the bundle of herbs for emphasis. “So far, all you’ve done is nap and pet the kid.”

You grin, cheek smushed into the crook of your elbow as you gaze up at him with narrowed eyes. “It’s called making the most of this gorgeous weather, Mando . ”

“I’d rather eat.”

You snicker lightly, but when you glance up again, he’s still watching you with that impatient mein. The leisurely warmth in your chest flickers into something muted, face going lax as you admire the beskar statue above.

After your inexplicable cantina escapade and whatever came after, you’ve been staggering on the verge of folly. The Mandalorian stayed silent for days, and you couldn’t bring yourself to reach out. The strange moment of intimacy you shared felt like a divot in the fabric of reality or a blip in the system, and one you weren’t ready to quite peg as authentic.

Today, you woke up with a strange welling in your chest. As if your heart had known before your eyes did, Mando showed up at your door with a steady knock, the kid cradled in his hand, when you opened the door with bated breath.

Momentarily, you attributed the tingling of your skin that night to alcohol. But there you were, sober as a judge, prickling with that same warmth as the mercenary hovered over you with his tilted helmet.

“You know,” you muse, plucking at some dry patch of grass, “you don’t have to stand around like a warden. There’s plenty of space.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but after a beat, you hear a familiar clink of beskar shifting. Then, without much ceremony, he lowers himself onto the flattened grass beside you. The scent of leather and metal fills your nose, and you study his helmet briefly before craning your neck toward the sky.

The sun sits high in the wispy clouds, smiling down at you with her soft rays and pooling against the red apples of your cheeks.

For a moment, everything is quiet. Somewhere in the distance, Grogu coos happily, likely stuffing his tiny face with whatever berries he’s found while on his lonesome. The sun and breeze are kind to you.

You pluck a blade of grass and twirl it between your fingers, watching the green pigment spread over your thumb. “Nice, isn’t it?”

Din exhales a quiet static through the modulator. His knee knocks lightly against yours as he shifts to place the bundle away, but you can’t help but knock it back with a soft chuckle.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and while you don’t hear a smile in his tone, you hope you’re watching the clouds roll by together. “Not bad.”

You celebrate your small victory with a grin, extending your arm into the sky. The bright light heats the skin of your palm, flickering through your digits. You feel his eyes on you, inspecting closely, and when you flit your gaze toward his helmet, he doesn’t recoil. You wonder if he’s comfortable under all that armor, basking in the sun, or cooking from the inside.

“You okay?” you question suddenly, tilting your head to face him haphazardly.

The slight cant of the helmet makes it clear he wasn’t expecting the question. A long, comfortable pause stretches between you, the grass sways gently around your bodies as the sun keeps shining overhead. His visor lingers on your face, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve said something wrong.

“I’m used to it.”

His voice is low and wavering on thoughtful, like no one had ever asked before, or ever cared to try.

You hum softly, turning your gaze back to the sky, fingers wiggling through the warm sunlight.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” you murmur, the corner of your lip curling with mischief as Din repositions. His body squares toward yours, the gleam of his broad chest flickering with a broken reflection of your curious features.

“Yeah.” He finally expresses with the briefest nod, shoulders dropping like the admission cost him a part of his decorum. “I’m hot.”

You blink, and your head tips toward him again, catching the faintest movement of his helmet as if he’s watching you from beneath the dark glass to gauge your reaction. It’s something he’s done since you’ve met, yet recently, the gazes began to linger.

Your lips twitch, and you bite back a sly grin. In a perfect, non-consequential world, you’d tell him to undress for the sake of relief, shred all that armor and sit with you in all your human glory. You remembered seeing glimpses of his skin that one time and wondering how he kept so sun-kissed, stashed away from fresh air so many hours per day. You imagined hotter evenings on the Crest, him and the baby sat close as the setting sun illuminated their faces.

“Figures.”

His gloved hand shifts at your side, moving slow and steady through the soft ground below. His fingertips press lightly into the flattened grass, toying with the longer blades. Seeing such an unemotional giant mindlessly fidget throws you into a strange, awe-inspired joy.

“You worried about me?” Din asks suddenly, facing you with his visor. The rays reflect against the brilliant metal, forcing you to squint with a half-smile.

Your throat tightens, but you nod, eyes pivoting toward the sky. “Maybe.”

His fist bunches into the soil, tensing and untensing before you can read him. You catch him turning away in your peripheral, his shoulders rising with the softest exhale.

“Don’t,” he murmurs through the modulator. “I can take it.”

You laugh without facing him, cheek smushed tightly against your kneecap. For a beat, you sit there in silence, reveling in the trickling heat as Grogu briefly croaks somewhere behind you. It’s times like this you think the crib to be a blessing, keeping the little one sheltered in cool shadow while your skin scorches.

You turn, dropping a hand onto the ground below. You face Din with tightened lips, urging his gaze to pivot toward you smoothly.

“What’s on your mind, then?” you question softly, fueled with swirling, earthly energy.

Din sits lax, watching you for a beat. You raise a teasing brow, quickly flipping back to your stomach and resting your chin in the stout muscle of your palm. A flock of bone-white birds passes over the horizon, squawking in tandem with your confused hum as the man shifts his hand.

Your smile slowly drops as he withdraws something brilliant from his palm, glittering in the soft rays of light streaming from above.

You study the familiar shape of his blaster, the sleek, elegant edges betraying its true nature—cold, merciless, violent . You’re more at ease here in the field, but that blunt, cascading fear still grips your throat and stomach, stalking you since your moment in Din’s armory.

Lips pressed together tightly, you glance up at him with knitted brows. “Must we?”

“You wanted this,” he replies smoothly, hand flexing around the barrel. He’s offering you his weapon, and it feels like thunder cutting through this beautiful, sunny day.

You sigh, sitting up on your flank and matching Din’s gaze. The blaster watches you from your peripheral, shooting shards of light into your eyes like a taunt. A part of you wants to prove it wrong, while the other recoils with the knowledge of what could happen.

Din’s right, you wanted this. You wanted to learn, to shoot, and above all, be brave and face the vicious ghost of your past. It bares its teeth at you now, standing over your shoulder like a looming shadow while you toy with your bottom lip.

Even in your fear-driven trance, you catch your companion shifting to one knee before effortlessly rising to his full height. Craning your neck to match his gaze, your eyes narrow in the piercing brightness.

He extends his free arm, tone patient and unwavering. “Come on.”

The wind stirs the tall grass around you, mussing your sweat-slick neck and urging you forward. Your hand hesitantly rises, and before you can gauge the distance, Din’s grip tightens around your palm. He pulls you up with gentle ease, his gloved hand holding you for a beat longer while you adjust your strained legs.

“Thanks,” you smile while he nods in acknowledgment.

You catch Din’s arm shifting at his side, and your eyes flicker towards the blaster again. The silver gleams softly as he extends it toward you, making you swallow thickly.

You raise your hand instinctively, and somehow the weapon feels smaller than you remember. It’s not this intimidating, monstrous thing you battled with last time, instead sitting in the mercenary’s hand with seemingly no weight to at all.

“There,” he nods, gently pushing the handle into your waiting palms before you can change your mind. The surface cools your heated digits, making them curl through the trigger guard despite the hammering of your heart.

You swallow again, eyes flickering to the familiar visor. Din watches you with characteristic patience, still and tranquil as you adjust to the weapon.

The soft, warm breeze picks up, tousling your skirts and making the tall grass cascade in brilliant waves across the field and rustling with a thousand different whispers. You think some of them are low and cruel, mocking you for the shaking of your limbs.

Din observes your body language, and you don’t doubt he’s got your fear all figured out. You realize his hand is still on yours, beskar-clad knuckles brushing your palm close around the padded handle. He holds them there for a beat like an emergency tether.

You inhale deeply to combat the bile rising to your throat, bleary-eyed as the Mandalorian finally withdraws his touch. Without it, you feel anchorless; the weight of the pistol flares your mind with a memory of its recoil and what came right after.

You shudder, but the exhale you breathe is determined. The storm that’s plagued your mind is not something you’re willing to succumb to today.

You tighten your lips and squeeze your palm around the handle. It feels large in your hand, so you slowly tilt the pistol around, feeling its weight and admiring the meticulous craftsmanship.

“Now,” Din acknowledges, watching you accustom nervously. “Finger off the trigger.”

You jolt with a spark of horror when you realize you’ve been tensing, hard . With a nervous smile, you quickly adjust your grip and sigh. “Sorry.”

He nods, taking a short step forward and placing his hands over yours again. You tighten your lips as he adjusts your grip with short, meticulous movements. “Hold it firm, but not too tight. You’ll have better control if your hand isn’t locked up.”

You try to control your grip and let the weight settle into your hands, but you’re in a losing battle with your frayed nerves. You’re suddenly feeling hot in your linen dress, the pistol sits so heavy in your hand and when you think back to—

Din shifts closer, his arm brushing against yours. “Breathe.”

You do as you’re told. With a long, deep exhale, you feel your lungs expand, fingers going lax against the metal. You focus on the coolness, letting it sink into your skin before nodding toward your coach.

He waits until your shoulders ease before looking toward the horizon. You follow the trajectory of his nod, catching a thin treeline beyond the shadow of a large boulder.

“See those trees over there?” he questions, urging you to squint your eyes. One of the trunks is visibly thicker, standing strong amidst a sea of willows.

“Mhm.”

He takes a pause, turning toward you smoothly. His helmet tilts ever so slightly, studying your expression. You wonder if you look as terrified as you feel.

“Think you can hit it?”

“ What? No! Or—maybe, I —” You snap your gaze to his visor incredulously, lips ajar with the trembling of your fingers. Even without seeing his face, you know he’s not toying with you. This is a legitimate request, and you’re being made the unfortunate target of it. “I don’t know.”

He tilts his helmet, but remains patient. His arms rest at his sides, rising and falling with the steadiness of his breath.

“I think you can.”

You want to argue, but the finality of his tone puts your adrenaline into overdrive. Your mind floods with unwanted memories and insecurities you never knew existed.

The Mandalorian entrusted his weapon to you, not ever knowing more than your favorite dish or how you liked your caf done. In reality, as far as he was aware, you could have just —you could have just made it all up. After all, all you were was a woman with a sob story, living your life like it owed you mercy. All the months spent under cruel rule, working for people who killed in cold blood, until you became a cog in their vicious —

The gun is suddenly weightless as your arms swing up, aiming toward the treeline with furrowed brows. As the trigger gives in under the pressure of your digits, the bullet cracks from the barrel with a zap and your own, pained cry.

The bright-red laser arrives at the treeline, burning into the thick wood. The dull sound echoes through the field, urging a flock of ducks out of the shrubbery.

You stagger back a half-step, the kick of the blaster sending a sting through your wrists. Your breath is uneven and shaky, but beneath it all, your stomach flips at the non-accurate burn spot lining a trunk you weren’t aiming for at all.

Before you can process your thrumming body, Din is already moving. His steps are measured as he closes the distance, hands rising before you can think to drop the blaster.

"You're pulling," he murmurs, voice a low hum beneath his helmet.

You blink up at him, heart still hammering as he reaches for you. He doesn’t hesitate, just presses closer. You exhale sharply as he steps behind you, the sudden heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of your summer dress.

His hands find your arms first, adjusting your elbows with careful touches. "Don’t fight the recoil. Let it move through you.”

Your breath hitches as he moves lower, snaking his arms around your waist. His gloved hand presses lightly against your belly, just above your navel. The cool leather sinks into the warmth of your skin, making your muscles jump with surprise and unlikely pleasure.

"Here," he instructs, voice impossibly close as he leans over your shoulder. "Breathe deep. Feel it here."

You obey on instinct, inhaling deeply through your nose. His hand rises with your breath, slow and controlled as it settles just below your ribs, where he presses. The breaths you’ve been taking feel pale and shallow in comparison to the gust that overtakes you now.

“Good.” His voice is softer now, a tightness lacing the edges as his fingers linger below bone. “Keep your weight forward.”

The other hand settles at your hip, fingers flexing slightly as he tilts you into the stance he wants. His grip is firm but not aloof, letting his hips collide with yours for a beat as your pelvis is pushed forward.

Your stomach clenches, but you do as he says, grounding yourself into the earth beneath your boots.

"Better," he mutters, his head tilting, and you can almost feel his gaze trailing over you. The visor lingers, but you can’t bring yourself to look back with the heat lining your cheeks at such an oddly compromising position.

Your throat runs dry, the hammering of your pulse reaching the apex of your thighs. You know it’s inappropriate—even perverted —but the sensation of his hard, armored front pressing into the softness of your back makes you want to mewl. If you moved just an inch, you think you could feel him pressing against your ass. Somehow, the fear scorching your gut only amplifies the craving.

You wet your lips, swallowing thickly as the thoughts briefly plague your focus. "I don’t think I can hit it.”

Din hums and his fingers tighten ever so slightly at your hip. You think it’s just your overreactive mind, but for a second, you swear his thumb traces the threaded hem of your skirt. “You can.”

Your eyelashes flutter, lip caught between your teeth as your hands tighten around the blaster. The doubt still lingers, but it no longer threatens to choke you.

Din’s breath is warm against the side of your neck when he speaks again, teetering on a whisper. “Try again.”

You breathe deeply again, letting the air leave your lungs in one smooth exhale as you strengthen your leg muscles. Another inhale, then exhale. You raise the pistol, balancing its weight with both palms. The metal is still heated from your last shot, scalding your skin when you lock eyes on your wooden target.

“Breathe,” Din commands again over your shoulder. His helmet hovers just over your clavicle, revealing the dark T of his visor in your peripheral.

You slow your breathing again, letting it settle in your belly that bursts with excited fireworks. Your shoulders tense against his, leaning against him slightly for support.

The man hums through the modulator, acknowledging your surrender.

“Ready?”

You’re flustered, aching, and bleary-eyed, yet the soft trickle of his words comes to you like a mantra.

You nod briskly, placing your hand over the slim trigger.

The Mandalorian breathes slowly through the modulator, splaying his hands over your stomach. You follow, feeling the pressure of his hands against your lower abdomen. Your breath catches.

“Fire.”

Click.

A bright light zaps through the warm air, sizzling the molecules around it. It smooths through the atmosphere at record speed, making your ears buzz with adrenaline.

Din tenses around your midsection. Energy ripples through the air. You both watch with held breath as it veers off, striking a tree, but far from the center. It scorches bark, too high and way to the right.

Din exhales sharply, the sound rasping out of his helmet. His hands stay steady. You purse your lips.

“Again,” he says, a little stiffer now as his grip loosens.

You adjust your stance. He doesn't reposition your hands this time, letting you veer through the thrum without the guidance you so desperately require.

“Breathe in,” he commands smoothly, and you inhale without a beat in between.

“Now.”

Click.

This time, the bolt doesn't even hit the tree. It zips somewhere behind it, disappearing into the underbrush with a pitiful spark that makes your throat hum with something between a groan and a sigh. The two of you stand there in silence as a flock of birds rises from the treeline, startled by your attempt.

You heave slowly, eyes wide and glittering with frustration. There’s a sudden, deafening silence between you and Din. You wonder if the modulator filters out the sound of his breath, because for a moment, you swear you can hear it hitch.

As the thrum of heartbeat reaches your ears, you wiggle against him with a soft hum. Din, on the other hand, stays put against you like a statue, firm grip persevering against the dip in your waist. You hear him mutter something under his breath, and when you stay silent, his tone grows audible.

“Maker,” he rasps, verging on a contemplative sigh as you move away from him.

“What?” you ask, turning halfway toward him. There’s a bite to your voice you didn’t expect, sharpened by the heat in your chest at failing something you inexplicably imagined to come to you naturally. Everyone and their kriffing mother owned a blaster in this galaxy, and it was somehow you born incapable of firing straight.

Din exhales, slow and tight. His hands fall from your waist at last, gloves brushing against your hips before leaving you cold.

“You flinch every time,” he says ungently, rubbing a gloved palm against the flat of his helmet. “Doesn’t matter if you breathe or aim right. You move before the shot’s even fired.”

“I’m trying, ” you snap, stepping back. A soft breeze ripples through the glade, cooling your neck. “Not everyone was raised with a blaster strapped to their back, you know.”

“I’m not asking for perfection,” he says, helm tilting with a spread of his arms. “You’re tensing up too early. You’re not listening.”

You blink at him, stunned. It's the first time you’ve heard him raise his voice, even by a margin, and it’s not cold, but it’s definitely annoyed, and momentarily, you forget yourself.

You stare down at the blaster on the ground, the surgical gleam of beskar contrasting so pitifully with the brilliant green. “I am listening.”

Din scoffs, yet you don’t catch the jerk of his shoulders. You think he’s not being humorous, but genuinely frustrated with your futile attempts, and at this point, you’re not sure which option would be the lesser evil.

“You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

Your mouth drops open. You don’t even know why it bothers you so much. Maybe because it’s the first time he’s looked at you like you’re more problem than a potential, or because you’ve never failed in front of him before.

And if it wasn’t such a pivotal moment in your life, you would have let it slide.

But something tender and knotted snaps in you, something that you’ve tried very hard to keep buried all this time.

This wasn’t just about the damn blaster. It was about memory: the way your fingers still twitch when you hear the sound of one discharging too close, or the phantom weight of a weapon you once had no choice but to carry close.

You feel heat rise up your neck, your jaw tightening as you clench your hands into fists at your sides.

“You think I’m not trying?” you ask, and your voice is low when it comes. “I don’t need you to act like I’m a burden just because I didn’t grow up learning how to shoot at every problem in my path.”

Din doesn’t answer immediately. His visor remains trained on you, inscrutable, and yet you feel the weight of his gaze like a judgment. Not cruel, but stern, and it’s enough to send you reeling.

“I’m not saying you’re a burden,” he replies eventually, “but you can’t afford to be reckless. Not with a weapon in your hands.”

It lands like a slap, not because he’s being unkind, but because he’s telling you the exact truth you’ve been fearing. And it feels, for a moment, like you’re a teenager again, being told what to do by someone who never really saw you.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your foundlings,” you mutter, arms folding tight across your chest like a shield.

Din steps forward like a silent command, sizing you up with something completely unwelcome.

“Then don’t act like one.”

Your heart lurches. You hate that a part of you, deep and guarded, is tempted to explain why this is so hard for you, to tell him about the last time you held a blaster and what it meant. What it took. What it cost.

But you can’t, or at least, not yet. Maker knows it could cost you everything you’ve worked so hard to gain so far. Din’s trust and favor included.

So instead, you lash out with the only defense you know. Defiance.

“Yeah, well,” you scoff, your iron grip on the pistol loosening. Within seconds, you hear the dull thud of metal against soil as you size the man up with a furrowed brow. “Maybe if you were a better teacher—”

He turns toward you sharply. You feel it like a jolt of static, burning through you like a quiet warning. You’ve never had the nerve to talk back to him like this, and he knows it.

“Careful,” he rasps, voice low and treacherous as he steps closer to dwarf your anger-shaken figure.

And for the first time since you met him, you really feel the aura of undisputed authority dripping off his frame. The strength, the confidence, and the danger of a bounty hunter. A weapon. A man carved from silence and danger, with hands that could break you in half had he ever chosen to.

Your heart kicks up against your ribs, wild like a drumbeat in your chest as he sizes you up with that dark visor of his. Your breath drops to your stomach, loud and echoing. He takes a measured step forward.

Deep in your soul, you know he won’t hurt you. It’s more than trust or a hunch, you just inexpressably understand that he could never mean you any harm.

And yet you react like clockwork, rabbit-hearted and adrenaline-stricken when you inexplicably choose survival.

You turn on your heel and bolt down the glade, legs pumping before you can even register your decision. The wind cuts against your cheeks, breath catching harshly in your throat as tall grass whips your shins and tugs at your skirts. Behind you, you hear nothing at first, just the rush of blood to your ears and the whisper of your name inside your head.

But then, a quiet thumping emerges from behind. Footsteps that are quick, heavy, and inescapably gaining on you.

You laugh in partial panic, glancing over your shoulder to spot a bright gleam. It’s all you can register before your brain screams at you to keep going.

“Maker,” you gasp out, half-giddy and half-terrified as your legs carry you through the thickening fields. Your lungs burn, muscles already aching, but there’s no time to care when you hear the sound of armor crashing through the brush behind you like a storm.

You dart between low-hanging branches, twisting your body to avoid being caught by the brambles. The glade stretches ahead in golden light, sun dipping lower and setting fire to the field in hues of amber and rose. Your boots slip against loose dirt as you crest a low hill, nearly eating grass as you scramble down the other side, heart slamming against your ribs like a creature.

Behind you, the sound grows louder, and in a burst of manic chuckles, you realize this is more than a light-hearted chase. He’s hunting you.

“Shit,” you whisper through a breathless laugh, nearly tripping over your own feet as you burst into a clearing framed with tall, swaying reeds. You whip around trees, zigzagging like it’ll make a difference.

But the truth strikes you like a thunderclap. In a delirious, adrenaline-driven moment, you realize you want him to catch you.

The thought is primal, and ridiculous and exhilarating , sending heat straight to your chest and through your belly. It sparks something you don’t understand but don’t have time to unpack, because when you look back again—

He’s right there.

His silhouette crests the edge of the hill behind you like a shadow, a wall of beskar and black fabric moving far too fast for someone so heavily armored. You yelp, a real one this time, pushing your legs to move faster against the soft soil and grass below.

A sharp twist through a thicket, and you nearly stumble, but then his hand snaps around your wrist—or waist, you can’t be certain.

Your momentum yanks him forward, and both of you go down in a chaotic tangle of limbs and heat, crashing through the tall grass with a muffled grunt. The earth rises up to meet you, soft and sun-warmed, as you land flat on your back with the wind knocked from your lungs.

And then he’s above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other pinning your wrists gently but firmly to your chest.

Your heart thunders with something animalistic. Your pulse roars in your ears as he looms over you, helm tilted down like a predator who’s just caught its prey in a death trap. Though you know no death will come from this.

For a breathless moment, neither of you speaks.

Heavy breath filters through the vocoder, his legs straddling yours, knees braced on either side like he's caging you in. You blink up at him, eyes wide and mouth parted. Every nerve in your body sings his name.

The light filters through the canopy above him, catching on the curve of his helmet, the dull shine of metal against the dusky sky above. Your chest heaves against the pressure of his hold, and his fingers flex slightly at your pulse.

You don’t say anything, don’t flinch, or squirm, or push him off. You look at him, eyes soft and skin dewy from the chase, acting like he wasn’t anything more than a man below that hunk of metal. It’s what you believed.

Then he shifts just slightly, his hand dropping from your wrist to your waist. His fingers settle there, just above the hem of your skirt, letting the warmth of leather seep into you slowly as you let your liberated arms fall to either side of your head.

He’s panting. You can hear it through the vocoder, shallow but shaken, making his chest rise with every strained breath. And while you’re breathing that much harder, it almost strikes pride into you, making a Mandalorian sweat.

Slowly, a smirk tugs at your lips.

“You always breathe this hard after a light jog?” you murmur, voice airy and faux-sweet as you gather the breath in your lungs.

You feel him tense, the modulator clicking as he exhales something clipped. He shifts slightly, yet the weight of his body over yours impresses you, almost, carrying such a heavy weight just to straddle you for a second longer.

“You’re the one who ran,” he mutters, his voice verging on surprise like he’d just hunted down a rare species. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I didn’t think you were that fast,” you shoot back, breath still uneven beneath him. “Should’ve known.”

You make a show of fluttering your lashes, which earns you a pointed shift in his weight, just enough to make you feel the strength in his frame but never enough to hurt or intimidate.

His hand eases off your wrists, but he doesn’t move to get up. You feel his visor shift briefly, eyeing you from head to toe. You bet you’re messy, hair tangled like a nest and clothes so disheveled it’d feel uncouth in front of anybody else, but somehow you doubt he’d ever mind.

“Why aren’t you scared of me?” he asks finally, voice taut and sharp like you managed to genuinely stump him with your antics. Your supposed bravery.

You blink at him slowly, licking a slow line over your lips as you watch the leaves above him rustle with an oncoming wind.

You didn’t have a clear, palpable answer for him. A part of you thought your comfort around the bounty hunter could have been a simple lapse of judgment, or otherwise a very poor act of desperation on your part. Or you just knew he was good, and it didn’t have to be any harder than that.

And you’ve known danger before. You’ve known what it feels like to be in a room with someone capable of hurting, or even killing. You knew Din had killed before, but it felt different. There was not a crumb of malevolance in his energy.

“You don’t touch me like you mean me harm.”

His fingers twitch, and you feel them brush against the soft skin just beneath your ribs. It’s only now that you realize that your linen top has hiked up your belly, revealing a line of sweat-slick skin.

Something shifts behind the helmet. You can’t see his face, but somehow you know his expression has changed, like your words have hit something fleshy and tender inside of him without trying too hard. And oh, how desperately you wish you could see his eyes right now, narrowing or widening or something in between, looking at you with something you didn’t have a name for yet.

“You’re a strange girl,” he says, almost like a sigh. A tired, fond thing that settles between your lungs like a little prayer you’d recite in bed for weeks from now.

You grin, flashing a row of teeth like the vulnerability doesn’t scare you. For a moment, you think that’s what fear might be to you, anyway.

“But you always follow.”

His hand lingers against your flank for a second that stretches into forever, teasing the skin softly and playfully. His movements are deliberate, but he still stutters.

Finally, he shifts back, rising to his feet with a quiet grunt, and he offers you his hand like he didn’t just chase you down like a wolf and cage you to the dirt. You take it, and he pulls you up in one firm motion, the heat of his glove lingering even after he lets go. Quickly, too quickly.

You’re brushing grass off your skirt when you feel a sudden, unexpected tug at your hair, not painful, but enough to tousle and startle. Like a dog or wolf, nipping your flank for attention. You gasp and spin around with a yelp, clutching the ends of your hair like he’s just committed war.

He’s already walking away, silhouette burnished in gold, the last of the sunlight glinting off the beskar plating of his shoulders. Calm as a man who didn’t just commit an act of softness against you.

“Hey!” you call, more amused than mad.

“Dinner’s waiting,” he says over his shoulder, and you don’t hear a smile in his voice, but it can’t stop you from imagining it.

“You are insufferable, ” you mutter, trailing after him with a smile so wide you think you could swallow up the whole world with it. You chase after him, brushing the hair from your face where it’s been playfully mussed. And when you catch up, you walk close, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm, and neither of you moves away out of something other than fear.

The glade behind you hums with the memory of the chase and its tautness, but here, between you, the air is easy. You walk together like you’ve always walked together, like this was always going to be the end of that run: a breathless finish and an unspoken truce. It’s all you could ask for now.

The fields are quiet now, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the shake of grass that sways in your wake. His footsteps are heavy beside yours, and yours are just a touch lighter, keeping pace with the gentle giant like you’re his keeper. You giggle quietly at the image and let it linger in the air between you without so much as an explanation.

“You hungry?” you ask after a moment. It comes out softer than you meant it to, but you think that it was meant to be spoken that way.

“Starving.”

You glance up at him with a sympathetic smile, watching his visor meet you. “Me too.”

He doesn’t reply, but after a few steps, his hand brushes yours. Not to grab or hold, Maker forbid, just a peaceful, delicate graze of the knuckles. Checking to see if you’re still there, with him.

You don’t pull away. Your fingers tease his for just a second, feeling the rough seams of leather and imagining the real skin beneath.

And when the flicker of sunset catches the edge of his helmet, you think you see his head tilt, just slightly, like he’s looking at you again.

And this time, inexplicably, you feel his smile.

[myjondaleh]

Seri Bluff: Menguasai ArcGIS Desktop 10.8.2.

Dapatkan harga Video Tutorial "Seri Bluff: Menguasai ArcGIS Desktop 10.8.2" hanya Rp. 99.000,- ( Harga asli Rp. 279.000). Hanya berlaku 5 hari sampai 21/02/2025.

[junimuchlismustafa]

Field survey data can be managed well using ArcGIS PRO 3. Field survey tabular data equipped with coordinate points can be plotted onto the ArcGIS PRO 3 application where the distribution of this data will appear and facilitate spatial analysis, spatial modeling and decision making. Get the video tutorial here:

[stjohnstarling]

Full text of article as follows:

Tumblr and Wordpress are preparing to sell user data to Midjourney and OpenAI, according to a source with internal knowledge about the deals and internal documentation referring to the deals. 

The exact types of data from each platform going to each company are not spelled out in documentation we’ve reviewed, but internal communications reviewed by 404 Media make clear that deals between Automattic, the platforms’ parent company, and OpenAI and Midjourney are imminent.

The internal documentation details a messy and controversial process within Tumblr itself. One internal post made by Cyle Gage, a product manager at Tumblr, states that a query made to prepare data for OpenAI and Midjourney compiled a huge number of user posts that it wasn’t supposed to. It is not clear from Gage’s post whether this data has already been sent to OpenAI and Midjourney, or whether Gage was detailing a process for scrubbing the data before it was to be sent. 

Gage wrote: 

“the way the data was queried for the initial data dump to Midjourney/OpenAI means we compiled a list of all tumblr’s public post content between 2014 and 2023, but also unfortunately it included, and should not have included:

private posts on public blogs

posts on deleted or suspended blogs

unanswered asks (normally these are not public until they’re answered)

private answers (these only show up to the receiver and are not public)

posts that are marked ‘explicit’ / NSFW / ‘mature’ by our more modern standards (this may not be a big deal, I don’t know)

content from premium partner blogs (special brand blogs like Apple’s former music blog, for example, who spent money with us on an ad campaign) that may have creative that doesn’t belong to us, and we don’t have the rights to share with this-parties; this one is kinda unknown to me, what deals are in place historically and what they should prevent us from doing.”

Gage’s post makes clear that engineers are working on compiling a list of post IDs that should not have been included, and that password-protected posts, DMs, and media flagged as CSAM and other community guidelines violations were not included.

Automattic plans to launch a new setting on Wednesday that will allow users to opt-out of data sharing with third parties, including AI companies, according to the source, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, and internal documents. A new FAQ section we reviewed is titled “What happens when you opt out?” states that “If you opt out from the start, we will block crawlers from accessing your content by adding your site on a disallowed list. If you change your mind later, we also plan to update any partners about people who newly opt-out and ask that their content be removed from past sources and future training.” 

404 Media has asked Automattic how it accidentally compiled data that it shouldn’t share, and whether any of that content was shared with OpenAI. 404 Media asked Automattic about an imminent deal with Midjourney last week but did not hear back then, either. Instead of answering direct questions about these deals and the compiling of user data, Automattic sent a statement, which it posted publicly after this story was published, titled "Protecting User Choice." In it, Automattic promises that it's blocked AI crawlers from scraping its sites. The statement says, "We are also working directly with select AI companies as long as their plans align with what our community cares about: attribution, opt-outs, and control. Our partnerships will respect all opt-out settings. We also plan to take that a step further and regularly update any partners about people who newly opt out and ask that their content be removed from past sources and future training."

Another internal document shows that, on February 23, an employee asked in a staff-only thread, “Do we have assurances that if a user opts out of their data being shared with third parties that our existing data partners will be notified of such a change and remove their data?”

Andrew Spittle, Automattic’s head of AI replied: “We will notify existing partners on a regular basis about anyone who's opted out since the last time we provided a list. I want this to be an ongoing process where we regularly advocate for past content to be excluded based on current preferences. We will ask that content be deleted and removed from any future training runs. I believepartners will honor this based on our conversations with them to this point. I don't think they gain much overall by retaining it.” Automattic did not respond to a question from 404 Media about whether it could guarantee that people who opt out will have their data deleted retroactively.

News about a deal between Tumblr and Midjourney has been rumored and speculated about on Tumblr for the last week. Someone claiming to be a former Tumblr employee announced in a Tumblr blog post that the platform was working on a deal with Midjourney, and the rumor made it onto Blind, an app for verified employees of companies to anonymously discuss their jobs. 404 Media has seen the Blind posts, in which what seems like an Automattic employee says, “I'm not sure why some of you are getting worked up or worried about this. It's totally legal, and sharing it publicly is perfectly fine since it's right there in the terms & conditions. So, go ahead and spread the word as much as you can with your friends and tech journalists, it's totally fine.”

Separately, 404 Media viewed a public, now-deleted post by Gage, the product manager, where he said that he was deleting all of his images off of Tumblr, and would be putting them on his personal website. A still-live postsays, “i've deleted my photography from tumblr and will be moving it slowly but surely over to cylegage.com, which i'm building into a photography portfolio that i can control end-to-end.” At one point last week, his personal website had a specific note stating that he did not consent to AI scraping of his images. Gage’s original post has been deleted, and his website is now a blank page that just reads “Cyle.” Gage did not respond to a request for comment from 404 Media. 

Several online platforms have made similar deals with AI companies recently, including Reddit, which entered into an AI content licensing deal with Google and said in its SEC filing last week that it’s “in the early stages of monetizing [its] user base” by training AI on users’ posts. Last year, Shutterstock signed a six year deal with OpenAI to provide training data.

OpenAI and Midjourney did not respond to requests for comment. 

Updated 4:05 p.m. EST with a statement from Automattic.

[doodle-pops]

My Sweet Kitty

Námo x reader

A/N: My first ever fluffy Námo fic since I post a bunch of headcanons for him. I know I don’t write much for the Ainur in terms of fics (apart from Eönwë), so I hope this can be a start.

Warnings: none, fluff, humour

Words: 1.1k

Synopsis: You attempt to convince Námo of his feline qualities.

“You know, for someone who has a dog, you radiate a feline persona.”

Your words lingered in the air, suspended like taut strings on the brink of snapping, as you awaited a reaction from your solitary audience. Abruptly, Námo turned his head sharply, his gaze ready to unleash a torrent of his pent–up irritation in response to your comment about his personality. While he had grown accustomed to his siblings’ jibes and prods, ever since love happened to him, this peculiar emotion he sensed in your words struck him deep. It nestled in his chest, a discomfort that resonated in his ears, a subtle insinuation that his persona was unappealing.

His gaze bore into you, his expression a canvas painted with a myriad of unsaid thoughts, as you chuckled and affectionately patted his dog’s head. Watching as your laughter unfurled as you sat on the floor for reasons unknown, he couldn’t help but perceive a certain angelic quality about you. Yet, the ache in his heart remained, uncertain whether your words were intended as an insult or a compliment.

“What,” he began, pausing to draw in a deep breath before continuing, “do you precisely imply by labelling me a ‘cat person’ instead of a ‘dog person’?” His viridian eyes remained fixed on you, the intensity of his gaze drilling into your consciousness, as he awaited your laughter to subside and for you to respond to his pressing query.

Clutching your stomach, consumed by laughter, you were lost in a fit of reliving the scene repeatedly, momentarily forgetting his looming question. Even his dog, Gorgumoth, seemed captivated, nestled beside you, basking in the ripples of your amusement and the gentle head pats he received amidst the spectacle. It took five minutes of Námo’s impatient staring and his unwavering scrutiny for you to regain your composure, wiping a tear away before offering another comment. “Oh, dear, if only you could have witnessed your expression—the way your head whipped around, I could have sworn it was on the verge of snapping!”

Unimpressed by the lack of attention and cheerfulness in your response, Námo made another attempt to seek an answer to his inquiry. “Care to elaborate on the meaning of your statement?”

“Oh?” Your surprise was palpable, as his insistence on uncovering the concealed truths behind your words caught you off guard. Typically, he would have rolled his eyes or showcased his exasperation at your whimsical antics; after all, your hyperactive and eccentric nature stood in stark contrast to his reserved demeanour. “Well, um, it essentially signifies that your persona bears resemblance to the behaviour of a cat. Interestingly, people who exhibit such traits are often inclined to prefer cats over dogs due to the shared attributes.”

Námo’s gaze remained fixed on you, his viridian eyes still piercing with curiosity and a hint of annoyance. Your explanation seemed to have made some sense to him, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. His dog, still enjoying the attention you were providing, nuzzled closer to you as if to endorse your presence.

“So, you’re saying that my behaviour resembles that of a cat?” Námo inquired, his tone slightly incredulous.

You nodded, your laughter finally subsiding as you caught your breath. “Yes, that’s the gist of it. Cats are often seen as more independent, aloof, and sometimes a bit mysterious. And, well, you do have some of those traits.”

Námo’s expression didn’t change much, though you could detect a flicker of introspection in his eyes. He seemed to be mulling over your words, possibly reflecting on how he came across to others. “I suppose I can see the similarities,” he admitted reluctantly.

You grinned, glad that he was taking it in stride. “It’s not a bad thing, you know. Cats are also elegant, and intelligent, and they have a certain air of mystery that’s quite intriguing.”

His lips twitched ever so slightly, hinting at a small, rare smile. “You have a way of turning a potentially insulting statement into something...intriguing.”

“That’s my special talent,” you said with a wink. “But don’t take it too seriously dear. It was just a playful observation.”

Námo’s demeanour seemed to soften as he leaned back, his dog now fully sprawled out beside you. “I’ll keep that in mind. And for the record, I do appreciate both cats and dogs for their unique qualities.”

You chuckled. “Good to know. So, do you think you’re more of a cat person now?”

He rolled his eyes, but the hint of amusement in them was hard to miss. “Let’s not push it.”

“Aw, come on now Námo! There’s no harm in being considered as a cat,” you playfully whined as you removed yourself off the floor and strolled over to where he sat, draping yourself all over his shoulders. Lifting your finger to bump his nose, you grinned before kissing the tip and chuckled as he lazily blinked like a cat. “You know, cats are also known for saying, ‘I love you’ when they blink slowly. Tell me, was that a confession?”

Throwing you an exasperated look that screamed ‘Don’t push it,’ he unconsciously inched his head closer to your lips. It was a routine habit of his: deny enjoying or wanting kisses while pushing his head in for more. He was indeed your feline. “I have no idea what you speak of,” he softly muttered, still inching his head closer and staring at your lips.

“You’re not as smooth as you consider yourself to be, Námo.” You chuckled. “You’re displaying all the qualities of a kitty right now—so needy for a kiss.”

Your statement was the worst thing you could say to ruin the moment, and his head jerked away from your lips, facing front. Recomposing himself after the accidental slip–up, he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and picked up his quill to resume his writing, as though nothing transpired between you two moments ago. He was indeed a kitten, getting all bashful and ignoring one’s presence after a confrontation. But you couldn’t resist dipping your head in to land a kiss on his cheek despite his low grumblings about you distracting him.

Leaning in, you whispered near his ear, “You’re more adorable than you realise.”

Námo’s cheeks flushed, and he coughed softly, clearing his throat as if to regain his composure. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

You grinned mischievously. “It’s part of my charm. And who knows, maybe one day you’ll embrace your inner cat entirely.”

He glanced at you, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “You’re pushing it.”

Masterlist

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[kimyoonmiauthor]

Better Novel Scrivener Template

BTW, If you liked the Settings Template, this has that plus more...

The Current Novel Template is out of date, the templates aren't really doing much for you. And the variety of icons is rather thin. I set out to fix this.

The template as a whole is PG-13 as the Character Template mentions "dangerous" things like "Kinks" and "Safe Words" OMG. I know. So terrible. So if you don't want to explain those things to anyone underage, don't download it.

As I am NB, and generally queer otherwise, I have included things like Sexual Orientation, Romantic Orientation and a whole load of things to think about when building CHARACTER, SETTING, WORLDBUILDING. I included things that people often forget by using my Uni and College knowledge.

Please, please read the "Read Me First" file if you want to avoid having to load missing icons. I give instructions.

In case you still opened it despite my warnings or it doesn't work, you'll have to load in the icons manually. In which case this is a reference:

The New Icons are: Domestic Products, Imported Goods, Exported Goods, Laws, and Social Stratification. I added extra icons for Weapons and Warfare in case you're not writing Fantasy. Laser Guns and a Historical Pistol.

I did my best to make it CULTURALLY NEUTRAL. If you want them specific, you're on your own.

I also added if you'd like to load them

All these Icons to the folder so You can finally color code your manuscripts to your heart's content. (My unending frustration with Scrivener).

I added an SVG file so if there is an exact shade I missed on the Spiral Notebook Colors or the Hardcover Books, you can add it.

The Composition Notebook file isn't included as it contains a pattern. However, I made pains to make sure it matches real life colors that exist in Composition Notebooks. You wanted the Settings Template? There are 2. One for City/Towns. One general one.

Zero Organization or Clue on Querying or Self pubbing?

I put up Organization Folders for you.

Here are the Templates you get. Everything is beefed up for you. I spent forever on these Templates and testing them. I also cued Styles to them so it's easy to change the colors. If you want to change something, as the About document says, turn on invisibles.

The Default Styles aren't useless anymore.

If you need a more Definitive Guide, I also made one in the file:

Download the Scrivener Template. It is a ZIP FILE Win Zip or other Zip app should be able to handle it.

Warning: Direct Download https://www.kimyoonmi.com/BetterNovelScrivenerTemplate.zip If you want to Skip the Template completely, but are wishing to add the Icons to your Scrivener:

https://www.kimyoonmi.com/ScrivenerIcons.zip

This template itself is not for sale or profit nor are the icons. Also don’t be the person that lies that says you made it. It’s a Creative Commons License Attribution, Noncommercial, No Derivatives by Yoonmi Kim 2024. You may change it for personal use only. Any problems can be addressed directly to me at https://www.kimyoonmiauthor.com. If you would like to translate this into other languages, let me know.

Don't be the ass that tries to sell my hard work, 'cause really, it's free. And I spent a lot of pains and time to make sure it's free and easy to use with a lot of subtle UX. Edit: I added even more stuff to the newest version.

Yes, a Pets Sketch, a Fauna Species Sketch a Flora Species Sketch, there is Literature added to the list of Art (I forgot it. lol I thought the mistake was silly, but yeah.)

And I added a Medicine Section with an icon to the technology section. There are two native icons already for Medicine--syringe and pill, but I kind of felt it didn't always give the feel of fantasy, so I made a Mortar and Pestle from scratch to add, but if you're doing sci-fi or contemporary, etc you can change to the syringe or pill.

I added explainers as well for the items to the guide.

Why?

'Cause. I would love to be able to see people put more thought into their worlds/worldbuilding, even if it doesn't show up. Maybe it won't be only horses for animals as pets. Or an occasional dog. Haha. Having a gay dog like Robin Williams would be great.

[schraubd]

What Will Be the Democratic Party's Anti-Incumbent Keyes Number?

Way back in 2005 (20 years ago(!)) the blogosphere discovered the "Crazification Factor" of 27% -- the baseline percentage of Americans who will take an action for reasons that defy any rational explanation whatsoever. The background came in a discussion of President George W. Bush's cratering approval numbers, and a query as to how low they might go, and it's still fun to read to this day: John: Hey, Bush is now at 37% approval. I feel much less like Kevin McCarthy screaming in traffic. But I wonder what his base is -- Tyrone: 27%. John: ... you said that immediately, and with some authority. Tyrone: Obama vs. Alan Keyes. Keyes was from out of state, so you can eliminate any established political base; both candidates were black, so you can factor out racism; and Keyes was plainly, obviously, completely crazy. Batshit crazy. Head-trauma crazy. But 27% of the population of Illinois voted for him. They put party identification, personal prejudice, whatever ahead of rational judgement. Hell, even like 5% of Democrats voted for him. That's crazy behaviour. I think you have to assume a 27% Crazification Factor in any population. For this reason, the "Crazification Factor" is also known as the "Keyes Number". And though undoubtedly the product of significant cherry-picking, it was fun in the years that followed to find other crazy propositions that clustered around 27% support. I was thinking about this nugget of blogger history upon reading about an announced primary challenge against incumbent Rep. Jan Schakowsky (D-IL) by progressive influencer Kat Abughazaleh. The announced basis for the challenge is general discontent with Democratic leadership and the "gerontocracy" not being aggressive enough in fighting the Trump administration. But the problem is that nobody -- not even Abughazaleh -- can point to any problems on that front for Schakowsky, specifically. Abughazaleh herself agrees that Schakowsky has been a good Democrat! Beyond that, Abughazaleh has never held elected office, has no significant political experience, is from out-of-state (she voted in DC last election), and doesn't live in Schakowsky's district. In terms of traditional bases of support, Abughazaleh has literally nothing going for her other than "I am not a long-standing incumbent Democrat." To be clear, I'm not saying one would have to be crazy to vote for Abughazaleh. Rather, what made the Keyes Factor notable was that the Keyes/Obama race helpfully isolated out every possible reason one might vote for a candidate aside from "I'm attracted to the crazy." Likewise, I'm pointing out that if Abughazaleh does end up facing off against Schakowsky (and the latter hasn't decided if she's seeking reelection), any support the latter gets will be purely, 100% attributable to people voting entirely on the basis of generalized anti-incumbent/anti-established Democrat rage, untethered either to any particular vices of the incumbent or any particular virtues of the challenger. It will, in other words, provide a useful baseline for seeing how powerful this sentiment is amongst the Democratic electorate, because it is a race that is uniquely free of other confounding variables.  This race will not be like George Latimer beating Jamaal Bowman (an especially well-established challenger taking out a somewhat wounded incumbent, with clear ideological differences), or AOC beating Joe Crowley (a uniquely talented challenger ousting an incumbent asleep at the wheel). Here, the only impetus that might push a voter to pick Abughazaleh over Schakowsky is "Schakowsky is an old, long-tenured incumbent, and I don't like that." That's clearly a sentiment that has no small amount of force amongst Democrats right now -- but is it enough to actually win a race? I don't think it is. My guess, assuming a head-to-head matchup between Schakowsky and Abughazaleh? I think the latter will end up pulling around 27%. We'll see if I'm right. via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/fuq140i