#prevention over detection

[rosielindy]

Moving to Peoria… best decision ever. I have many passions but only one related to my career. It’s been 41 years since I started as a young woman working as a “junior programmer” and I’ve thought of changing careers many times. I shifted focus 12 years ago so I could have a greater influence on teams building quality into software.

After a few failed attempts to achieve this goal, mostly due to lack of support from leaders and peers, I find myself being asked if I’d like to help my current project team build a framework for built-in quality. The request is coming from our project sponsor and supported by leadership, without knowing it’s a passion project for me.

To say I’m excited is an understatement. After all these years I never imagined I’d be so energized about my work. 💗💗💗💗

[mementheomori]

hyde as a cancerous entity btw. hyde as something that once was jekyll, that technically still is jekyll down to its dna, that grows and spreads and overtakes and changes and eventually destroys every part of the very organism it was created from. is this anything

[faxxmodem]

tbh without eric matthews being a bog-standard shitty cop like. nothing that happened in the course of the saw movies would have happened

if he doesn't frame amanda on drug charges then she never goes to prison, never becomes addicted, never pushes cecil to go through with the robbery that ends in jill's miscarriage

john's terminal cancer is inevitable but without gideons death he has his family and he has a reason to persevere. probably still a classist bootstrappy kind of guy, probably still resentful of those that he thinks don't appreciate their lives, probably not the leader of a small torture cult

and i don't say this to strip amanda or anyone else in the universe of responsibility for their actions, just to appreciate how this reflects the ways the carceral system can radically derail someone's life and create entire networks of suffering

[dreamof-butterfly]

I haven’t gotten around to playing p3p femc yet (probably gonna do that with some friends over the summer) but I’ve figured out what the Fortune arcana slinks/confidant have in common and I am SO curious to see what that means for Ryoji

[lucalicatteart]

-- Poorly Constructed Enchanted Tool --

A small tool carved from a fruit tree seed. Energy to power the enchantment has seemingly run-out long ago, and the method of recharging is unknown - but, based on the appearance, it's very likely that this was once used for detecting magic. Usually, looking through the glass center would highlight areas of higher magical energy concentration present in the viewer's environment, even if they were otherwise obscured to the naked eye. While this form of enchantment itself is highly advanced, the craftsmanship of the item is far less neat or complex than what might be typically seen in similar devices. It may have been made as part of training/practice, or as a hasty replacement for a previous tool that had broken.

[inkskinned]

i have chronic pain. i am neurodivergent. i understand - deeply - the allure of a "quick fix" like AI. i also just grew up in a different time. we have been warned about this.

15 entire years ago i heard about this. in my forensics class in high school, we watched a documentary about how AI-based "crime solving" software was inevitably biased against people of color.

my teacher stressed that AI is like a book: when someone writes it, some part of the author will remain within the result. the internet existed but not as loudly at that point - we didn't know that AI would be able to teach itself off already-biased Reddit threads. i googled it: yes, this bias is still happening. yes, it's just as bad if not worse.

i can't actually stop you. if you wanna use ChatGPT to slide through your classes, that's on you. it's your money and it's your time. you will spend none of it thinking, you will learn nothing, and, in college, you will piss away hundreds of thousands of dollars. you will stand at the podium having done nothing, accomplished nothing. a cold and bitter pyrrhic victory.

i'm not even sure students actually read the essays or summaries or emails they have ChatGPT pump out. i think it just flows over them and they use the first answer they get. my brother teaches engineering - he recently got fifty-three copies of almost-the-exact-same lab reports. no one had even changed the wording.

and yes: AI itself (as a concept and practice) isn't always evil. there's AI that can help detect cancer, for example. and yet: when i ask my students if they'd be okay with a doctor that learned from AI, many of them balk. it is one thing if they don't read their engineering textbook or if they don't write the critical-thinking essay. it's another when it starts to affect them. they know it's wrong for AI to broad-spectrum deny insurance claims, but they swear their use of AI is different.

there's a strange desire to sort of divorce real-world AI malpractice over "personal use". for example, is it moral to use AI to write your cover letters? cover letters are essentially only templates, and besides: AI is going to be reading your job app, so isn't it kind of fair?

i recently found out that people use AI as a romantic or sexual partner. it seems like teenagers particularly enjoy this connection, and this is one of those "sticky" moments as a teacher. honestly - you can roast me for this - but if it was an actually-safe AI, i think teenagers exploring their sexuality with a fake partner is amazing. it prevents them from making permanent mistakes, it can teach them about their bodies and their desires, and it can help their confidence. but the problem is that it's not safe. there isn't a well-educated, sensitive AI specifically to help teens explore their hormones. it's just internet-fed cycle. who knows what they're learning. who knows what misinformation they're getting.

the most common pushback i get involves therapy. none of us have access to the therapist of our dreams - it's expensive, elusive, and involves an annoying amount of insurance claims. someone once asked me: are you going to be mad when AI saves someone's life?

therapists are not just trained on the book, they're trained on patient management and helping you see things you don't see yourself. part of it will involve discomfort. i don't know that AI is ever going to be able to analyze the words you feed it and answer with a mind towards the "whole person" writing those words. but also - if it keeps/kept you alive, i'm not a purist. i've done terrible things to myself when i was at rock bottom. in an emergency, we kind of forgive the seatbelt for leaving bruises. it's just that chat shouldn't be your only form of self-care and recovery.

and i worry that the influence chat has is expanding. more and more i see people use chat for the smallest, most easily-navigated situations. and i can't like, make you worry about that in your own life. i often think about how easy it was for social media to take over all my time - how i can't have a tiktok because i spend hours on it. i don't want that to happen with chat. i want to enjoy thinking. i want to enjoy writing. i want to be here. i've already really been struggling to put the phone down. this feels like another way to get you to pick the phone up.

the other day, i was frustrated by a book i was reading. it's far in the series and is about a character i resent. i googled if i had to read it, or if it was one of those "in between" books that don't actually affect the plot (you know, one of those ".5" books). someone said something that really stuck with me - theoretically you're reading this series for enjoyment, so while you don't actually have to read it, one would assume you want to read it.

i am watching a generation of people learn they don't have to read the thing in their hand. and it is kind of a strange sort of doom that comes over me: i read because it's genuinely fun. i learn because even though it's hard, it feels good. i try because it makes me happy to try. and i'm watching a generation of people all lay down and say: but i don't want to try.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Microsoft has quietly implemented a policy blocking employee emails containing the words “Palestine,” “Gaza,” or “genocide” on its internal Exchange servers, according to No Azure for Apartheid, a group of pro-Palestine Microsoft employees. The automated filter, which silently prevents such emails from reaching recipients was first detected on Wednesday—just after Microsoft’s Build developer conference faced repeated disruptions by the activist group. Microsoft has been rocked by internal dissent over its collaboration with the Israeli military and government amid the ongoing assault on Gaza. The company has faced disruptions to its events, including protests from employees over its provision of cloud services and other critical infrastructure used by the Israeli military. Now, the company appears to be tightening its grip on internal discourse. The terms “Israel” and “P4lestine” do not trigger a block, the group said. Microsoft did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

[...]

Just days after the October 7, 2023 attack and the start of Israeli offensive in Gaza, Microsoft started pitching to the Israeli military, anticipating major military spending. Over the next few months, Israeli military became one of Microsoft’s top 500 global customers.

22 May 2025

[ganesh85465]

WP Engine is a well-known managed WordPress hosting provider.

It offers a range of features and services tailored specifically for WordPress websites, making it a popular choice among businesses, bloggers, and developers who seek reliable, high-performance hosting solutions.

[holeforzenin]

Tw - Katsuki is soo mean, rough sex, degradation n manhandling. Not proofread!

One thing about Katsuki, he's an impatient man, that's for sure. There wasn’t any “Katsuki can i try to ride you” or “pleaseee just let me do it by myself” none of that. He had enough of your shit.

He tsks mockingly, a derisive sound escaping his lips the moment his keen eyes detect that the rhythm of your alluring ass that’s bouncing on his cock becoming duller and slower. He's so fucking disappointed in himself for even giving you the chance to try and ride him.

How dumb.

What a waste of time.

He quickly grabs both of your supple asscheeks, his strong hands creating a sense of urgency as he firmly squeezes them, preventing you from moving away. He impatiently starts thrusting his hips up into you, entering you in one complete motion. The sudden force of his entire length, which you weren't even able to fit by yourself, invading your little pussy so easily made you squirm to quickly get a hold of his broad shoulders to steady yourself because you knew how fucking crazy he was when it came to with manhandling.

His crimson-red eyes locked onto your contouring features, swallowing up your adorable reactions with pure joy. He just loves bullying you like this. Katsuki was a wonderful partner, devoted, wealthy, and maybe not the most mature, but he was unquestionably aware of right from wrong when it comes to relationships. The only thing is, he’s just so so cruel and vulgar to you sometimes, especially during sex. Bakugou always had a huge ego and prideful personality so you can't say you were surprised before tangling yourself up with him.

When the early morning light streamed through the window, his routine began before even taking a bite of the breakfast you made, pumping your warm cunny full of cum before heading off to fulfill his manly responsibilities as a pro-hero. "Better keep my cum buried in this pussy, you got it?" he commanded sternly, his warm breath fanning against the delicate skin of your neck as you mewled at the harsh way the edge of the dinner table was digging into your poor abdomen. Crossing your thighs together so you could avoid any spillage of his sperm because you know he’d check when you go deliver his home-cooked lunch at his agency later in the day. And if you make one wrong move, you’ll be limping your way out of his agency.

Whether you like it or not, katsuki will always be mean when he’s fucking you. It’s a part of him, you’ve known that just by the way he acted. Always had an feisty attitude and angry issues with everyone around him but the difference is you fucking loved it, and of course he knew that, that’s why he indulges in it and constantly reminds you every single time how much of a horny little cock-whore you are, pussy slobbering uncontrollably all over his pretty cock like a nasty slut. The rim of your hole clinging onto his dick as if your life depended on it. It hasn’t even been five second since he walked through the door from work, still clad in his hero costume before his hard dick is nestled in his housewife's warm, runny sex.

Your pink panties slackly pulled to the side, revealing your tight hole for his vicious assault as he ruthlessly positioned himself to take advantage of your vulnerable state.

His gears and pants rubbing against the smooth flesh of your thighs, harshly marking it red. Poor Katsuki he couldn’t save a civilian from a villain attack today and now he’s so frustrated and mad so what better way to vent than abusing his pretty housewife’s comforting cunt? :(

“Tight fucking pussy, yer creaming all over me already. Bet you were thinking about my cock splitting you open the entire day, weren’t you princess?” He laughed tauntingly, his angry cock curving right into your g-spot making your toes curl in the air as his strong, big hands held an astonishingly tight grip on your waist to keep you off the floor while you bent over his marble counter. You always found it so sexy when Katsuki showed off his strength to you, after all, he’s one of the most strongest pro-heroes so of course he’d be unbelievably strong. You went crazy over it.

“Sukii– m’gonna fuck! Cum” you cried out, tears streaming down your eyes as his fat cock delved deeper into your core, repeatedly hitting your sweet spot over and over again, sending you into a daze as you lose your mind. “No, you fucking slut�� always being such a greedy bitch. You’re not cumming until I’m ready to fill you up, ya hear me?” his tone was so serious, it sent shivers down your spine.

You quickly gripped the edge of the counter. Your soft, plush ass bouncing back against his hard pelvis with each forceful thrust. God, he loved the sight so much, he licked his lips at the delicious sight of the creamy mess you were creating, completely coating him and his balls with your juices. It made his cock throb against your walls at the lewd way your quirkless pussy was rightfully swallowing him in.

“Katsuki I–“ you stammered, struggling to find your words as fear washed over you. Your hole fluttered around him, you were seeing white at this point. Your inner muscles involuntarily clasped tightly around his length. You couldn’t help it, his cock was just so fucking long and thick, and well he knew how to skillfully use it that it made you become undone within five minutes. Your eyes bulged open with fear as the streaming white liquid from your cunt spattered onto his cock and thighs and onto his expensive marble floor. The action didn’t go unnoticed by him resulting in him quickly placing you down on the slick floor and violently smacking your fleshy ass, making it recoil against his touch as he groaned. “God, you’re such a dumb fucking slut, what did I tell you? Can’t even understand simple instructions that I give you”.

He swiftly extracted his cock from your soaked pussy and hoisted you over his huge shoulder before making his way to your shared bedroom. You cried out as your cunt twitched in anticipation as echoes of his firm, resounding spanks on your bruised ass reverberated through the room with each step he took, “M’gonna teach you a fucking lesson, better make sure this is the last time you fucking disobey me”.

[yoonjae20]

Danny deeply distrusts the Justice League

Based on the wonderful @saltymarshmall0w 's prompt.

I really feel like they aren't enough fanfics or prompts where Danny dislikes the Justice League — and continues to dislike them even after everything (Anti-Ecto Acts) is revealed and taken care of. (Or maybe I'm not looking in the right places — if you guys have any recommendations put them in the Tags or Comments!)

Read on ao3. Masterpost

After many years Danny has finally retired — sure he had to leave everything he loved and that was familiar to him behind for it, but it was worth it. He had a small little house that was his own, he would water his plants every morning and make small talk with his neighbors. Everything was fine. 

Everything turns not so fine, when there’s a sudden knock on his door. Expecting it to be one of his neighbors — for example needing eggs or flour (a neighbor’s kid had needed eggs to bake one of her parents a cake and Danny had been more than willing to spare the few she needed) — he opens the door without a second thought.

Only to almost immediately want to close it again. 

Because that’s the Justice League standing in front of his door. And that can mean nothing good.

Before Danny can slam the door closed, Superman‘s shoe slides in between the door frame, blocking his escape. The smile the man shoots him is probably meant to be reassuring, but the only thing Danny feels is dread. 

To most civilians the Justice League is seen as a beacon of hope — but to Danny? He knows the bitter truth. When he needed them the most they turned his back on him before chasing him across half the globe calling him a villain without even hearing his side of the story. They handed him over the GIW for Ancient’s Sake. He would have died if it weren’t for Tucker and Sam. (He may not have scars to show for it but he can still feel his chest burn when he thinks back to it.) Not that they can remember that though. He still doesn’t trust them. 

“You are Danny Fenton, correct?” Superman asks and Danny stiffens. 

Fenton — not Nightingale like he has changed his surname into to escape his parents influence and leave everything behind. 

“Yes,” he says warily — seeing no point in lying. Considering Batman is lingering behind Superman the Detective would figure it out instantly. 

“And you used to be Amity’s Park’s vigilante Phantom?”

Danny grips the door frame, knuckles white. What’s their point? Are they trying to intimidate him?

“Yes,” he grits out. 

“We were told that you are the one we should seek out in matters involving Ghosts and the Infinite Realms,” Superman continues, but Danny doesn’t let him finish.

“I’m retired,” he interrupts. “Find someone else.”  

“There’s a world-ending event,” Superman says like that would convince Danny. Like Danny hadn’t lived though so many of them — had to prevent them from happening without anyone’s help every single time. Guilt-tripping much? “Even if you don’t want to fight — we need you as an advisor.”

Danny snorts, shaking his head. 

“Go take up the matter with the Justice League Dark then.” 

Danny moves to close the door, but still Superman’s foot doesn’t budge. He could probably brute-force his way through this — but Danny’s tired and he’s not in the mood to explain to his neighbors why his door is broken and he needs to do repairs.

He glares at them and to his surprise Superman actually takes a step back — but still not enough to be able to close the door. 

Danny hasn’t transformed into Phantom since he left Amity Park. Had kept that part of himself locked away — would have separated his Ghost Self from himself if he didn’t know he would be selfish for that. Had ignored his Obsession even if it screamed at him — had pushed it away in his Human Form even if it muted all the colors around him and it meant that every breath was a painful wheeze.

Faced with this situation he almost wants to break the promise he made to himself — but he can’t.

There is no GIW anymore —  Danny had made sure of that. He had wiped all of their files and his parents published research with the help of Technus. He had dismantled both portals to the Ghost Zone and made sure no one would be able to replicate it. But Danny also knows the Justice League — knows how much Superman’s punches hurt, how it feels to get mind controlled — they could overpower him in an instant if he twitched as much as into the wrong direction.  

He really doesn’t have a choice here, doesn’t he? If he doesn’t go out of his free will — they will force him with any means necessary, of that much he is sure. 

His gaze trails to his neighbor’s house and the swing in their backyard. And if they are right and he turns them away — is he sure he won’t feel any guilt if something happens that he could have prevented? Sometimes Danny really hates his Martyr Complex. 

Danny sighs, defeated.

“What do you need my help for?”

They had liked their new neighbor despite the fact that he barely left his house other than to water his plants. They had known that the young man was sickly. He looked like death wormed him over and was weak on his feet— his ice-blue eyes dull. His smile barely held any warmth in it.

Still they invited them over after he had given their daughter eggs to bake the cake for their birthday. They learned that he was kind and had escaped to their small village to live a quiet life. 

When the young man came to tell them that he would be out of town for a few days and to please water his plants if they could, they were worried.

“Are you sure that you are fine, son?” they asked and touched the man’s forehead — but it was icily cold like the rest of their skin had always been. “You look even paler than usual.”

The young man had only given them a half-hearted smile and affirmed them that he was fine

Their daughter's excited steps had hurried behind them and she tugged on their pants after the man had left. 

“Was that Uncle Danny?” the girl asked. “Can I play with him?”

They gave their daughter a weak smile. 

“Uncle Danny is busy for a few days,” they explained. “Later, okay? How about you draw him a picture while we wait for him to come back? So he has something to look forward to?” 

Their daughter nodded and raced back to the living room, searching for supplies, while they continued looking out of the window. They can’t help but have a bad feeling about this.  

It’s unnerving how quiet the young man is. 

There are no easy smiles, sassy quips and puns like from the few shaky phone videos they had pulled from the internet about Phantom. 

He’s meticulous. Probably even more than Batman — and that is a statement. There had been a deep mistrust in the eyes when they had located him and asked him to help them. It’s evident in every step he makes. He double-, even triple-checks every single evidence, every single sentence, every single word they say. 

Nothing is left unturned as he works the way though the situation like if he is dealing with a case. He never stops moving, always doing something — reading through heavy leather-bound books or through their reports. His heart rate is so slow that Clark sometimes wonders if the boy is still breathing at all. 

When the young man had asked them if they spoke to the leader regarding the war declaration and the reasons behind them, he had clicked his tongue when they told him no.

He hadn’t let anyone help him when he drew out the summoning cycle — it looked even more intricate and complicated than they had seen from Zatanna or Constantine. When he had spoken the words for the spell,  his words had sounded ancient and undescribable — hushed whispers following every single word. He clasped his hands and only opened his eyes when he spoke the last word, his eyes burning a deep green. 

The cycle goes up in green fire before a form appears — Clark recognizes the Ghost from the declaration. 

The man’s cold gaze sweeps over the Justice League before it stops on Phantom. He smirks, bowing his head slightly.

“I greet the Prince of the Infinite Realms.”

“Cut the crap Fright Knight,” Phantom's voice is steel-hard. “We both know I refused that position.”

The man tilts his head but nods.

“Very well,” he says. “I greet Phantom, savior of the Infinite Realms.”

Phantom grits his teeth like he wants to refuse that title too before he shakes his head. He gestures to the Justice League.

“Explain.”

“We are just paying back what has been done to us,” Fright Knight claims. “Vita brevis, ars longa, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile.”

“Life is short, art is long, opportunity fleeting, experiment treacherous, judgment difficult,” Diana translates for them. 

“I see the Daughter of the Queen of the Amazons knows her arts,” the man’s voice has a hint of mockery. “Humanum genus est avidum nimis auricularum. Ignorantia legis non excusat:”

Diana’s eyebrows knit together as she listens. 

“Mankind is too greedy for lies. Ignorance of the law does not excuse,” her voice is almost a whisper. 

“I would have thought you would know of this Phantom,” Fright Knight addresses the young man again. “But now seeing your state, you probably didn’t feel the call for the announcement either. Is there a reason why you are starving yourself?”

Phantom doesn’t meet any of their eyes as he answers.

“That is unimportant to this situation.”

Fright Knight’s lips twitch back into a grin. 

“If the savior of the Infinite Dreams claims so, then I have no choice but to accept it.” He turns back to the Justice League. “Si vis pacem, para bellum.”

“If you want peace, prepare for war.”

“When have we been ignorant?” Batman finally steps in. 

Fright Knight huffs out a dark laugh.

“When has mankind not been ignorant?” Fright Knight questions. “When your government captured my brethren and tortured them, where were you? When they declared us as non-sentient and staged war against us, where were you? When they threatened to destroy our home, where were you?”

The man’s eyes seem to burn as he repeats himself.

“Where were you?”

Clark and the rest of the League are shocked to silence. 

“Now that the danger has passed, why should we just forgive you? Why should we forget?” Fright Knight continues. “If we are not worthy enough to be counted towards mankind that means we just have to rewrite the rules. And since we were never given the chance to negotiate, that means by force.”

“The Meta-Protection Acts-” 

“Only count towards those that are alive.” Fright Knight interrupts Batman. “After all, how can the dead feel any emotions such as pain? I’m sure if you ask your government they will hand you a lot of pretty reports on the biased experiments that prove so.” 

“But that’s-” Clark starts but Fright Knight doesn’t let him finish.

“Despicable? When has that ever stopped mankind?” Fright Knight asks. “We can talk if there isn't a law that states that we can be eradicated without any consequences.”

Before either of them can stop him, Fright Knight swishes his cape made out of purple fire and disappears. Clark faintly asks himself if that is how other people feel when Batman does that in front of their noses. 

Seeing no other option the entire League turns back to Phantom who hasn’t said a single word since the Ghost went on his tirade.

“Phantom-” Batman tries, but the young man’s eyes burn with so much hate that the normally stoic man stocks in his words. 

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Phantom seethes. “You heard him. Now finally do your jobs right for once.”

Then he leaves the room without a single glance back.

Clark gulps as they look at each other.

“I feel like we made a mistake.”

When the news declares the Anti-Ecto Acts as abolished, Danny feels nothing but exhaustion. The Justice League barely managed to avoid a large-scale — and very justified war. 

Danny leans back tiredly on his sofa. His eyes trail to the drawing his neighbor’s daughter had given him and the first genuine smile in months graces his lips.

“What I don’t do for mankind,” he sighs before he closes his eyes. 

[batboyblog]

Things Biden and the Democrats did, this week #16

April 26-May 3 2024

President Biden announced $3 billion to help replace lead pipes in the drinking water system. Millions of Americans get their drinking water through lead pipes, which are toxic, no level of lead exposure is safe. This problem disproportionately affects people of color and low income communities. This first investment of a planned $15 billion will replace 1.7 million lead pipe lines. The Biden Administration plans to replace all lead pipes in the country by the end of the decade.

President Biden canceled the student debt of 317,000 former students of a fraudulent for-profit college system. The Art Institutes was a for-profit system of dozens of schools offering degrees in video-game design and other arts. After years of legal troubles around misleading students and falsifying data the last AI schools closed abruptly without warning in September last year. This adds to the $29 billion in debt for 1.7 borrowers who wee mislead and defrauded by their schools which the Biden Administration has done, and a total debt relief for 4.6 million borrowers so far under Biden.

President Biden expanded two California national monuments protecting thousands of acres of land. The two national monuments are the San Gabriel Mountains National Monument and the Berryessa Snow Mountain National Monument, which are being expanded by 120,000 acres. The new protections cover lands of cultural and religious importance to a number of California based native communities. This expansion was first proposed by then Senator Kamala Harris in 2018 as part of a wide ranging plan to expand and protect public land in California. This expansion is part of the Administration's goals to protect, conserve, and restore at least 30 percent of U.S. lands and waters by 2030.

The Department of Transportation announced new rules that will require car manufacturers to install automatic braking systems in new cars. Starting in 2029 all new cars will be required to have systems to detect pedestrians and automatically apply the breaks in an emergency. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration projects this new rule will save 360 lives every year and prevent at least 24,000 injuries annually.

The IRS announced plans to ramp up audits on the wealthiest Americans. The IRS plans on increasing its audit rate on taxpayers who make over $10 million a year. After decades of Republicans in Congress cutting IRS funding to protect wealthy tax cheats the Biden Administration passed $80 billion for tougher enforcement on the wealthy. The IRS has been able to collect just in one year $500 Million in undisputed but unpaid back taxes from wealthy households, and shows a rise of $31 billion from audits in the 2023 tax year. The IRS also announced its free direct file pilot program was a smashing success. The program allowed tax payers across 12 states to file directly for free with the IRS over the internet. The IRS announced that 140,000 tax payers were able to use it over their target of 100,000, they estimated it saved $5.6 million in tax prep fees, over 90% of users were happy with the webpage and reported it quicker and easier than companies like H&R Block. the IRS plans to bring direct file nationwide next year.

The Department of Interior announced plans for new off shore wind power. The two new sites, off the coast of Oregon and in the Gulf of Maine, would together generate 18 gigawatts of totally clean energy, enough to power 6 million homes.

The Biden Administration announced new rules to finally allow DACA recipients to be covered by Obamacare. Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) is an Obama era policy that allows people brought to the United States as children without legal status to remain and to legally work. However for years DACA recipients have not been able to get health coverage through the Obamacare Health Care Marketplace. This rule change will bring health coverage to at least 100,000 uninsured people.

The Department of Health and Human Services finalized rules that require LGBTQ+ and Intersex minors in the foster care system be placed in supportive and affirming homes.

The Senate confirmed Georgia Alexakis to a life time federal judgeship in Illinois. This brings the total number of federal judges appointed by President Biden to 194. For the first time in history the majority of a President's nominees to the federal bench have not been white men.

[reasonsforhope]

Article

"Every year, over 350,000 women die from cervical cancer and another 660,000 are diagnosed. [Note: Plus trans men and other trans people with a cervix.] As a consequence, children are orphaned, families impoverished and communities diminished by the loss of mothers, wives, daughters and sisters. 

And yet, unlike most other cancers, almost all these cases and deaths can be averted. We have powerful vaccines that can prevent infection with the human papillomavirus (HPV) that causes cervical cancer; we have diagnostics to detect it early; and we have treatments for those it strikes. With these tools, cervical cancer can not only be stopped; it could become the first cancer to be eliminated. Some high-income countries are already close to elimination, meaning fewer than four cases per 100,000 women.

But in many low- and middle-income countries, these tools are still not available, which is why 94% of cervical cancer deaths occur in those countries. 

In 2018, WHO launched a global call to action to eliminate cervical cancer, which was followed in 2020 by the adoption by all 194 WHO Member States of a Global Strategy to Accelerate the Elimination of Cervical Cancer as a Public Health Problem. The strategy calls for countries to achieve three targets by 2030: 90% of girls fully immunised against HPV; 70% of women receiving timely screening; and 90% of those found with precancer or cancer accessing treatment.

These targets are not just aspirational, they are achievable, even in low- and middle-income countries.  Bhutan has already reached the targets, the first to do so in the South-East Asia region. 

Since introducing the HPV vaccine in 2011, Rwanda has reached vaccine coverage of 90%, and today announced its national goal to reach the 90-70-90 targets three years ahead of schedule, by 2027. Already, in two districts – Gicumbi and Karongi – Rwanda is meeting those goals. Nigeria, which introduced the HPV vaccine in October last year [2023], has already vaccinated 12.3 million girls.  

We have the tools and the opportunity to eliminate cervical cancer. 

Since WHO issued the global call to action in 2018, more than 60 countries have introduced the HPV vaccine into their immunisation programmes, bringing the total to 144 countries that are routinely protecting girls from cervical cancer in later life. With scientific advances, we can now prevent cervical cancer with just a single dose, which 60 countries are now doing.  

The largest provider of HPV vaccines to low- and middle-income countries is Gavi, the Vaccine Alliance, which plans to vaccinate 120 million children between now and 2030. But this plan requires that investments in health are sustained. We are also counting on manufacturers to confirm and honour their commitments to provide HPV vaccines to low- and middle-income countries in the coming years, to avoid the supply constraints that held back progress in the past.

But we cannot rely on vaccines alone. The impact of the rapid scale-up in vaccinating girls now will not be seen for decades, when they reach the adult years when cervical cancer typically appears. To save lives now, we must match the increase  in vaccination with increases in screening and treatment. 

Decades ago, as more women gained access to pap smears in developed countries, the mortality associated with cervical cancer dropped rapidly. Today, even better tests are available. Over 60 countries now include high-performance HPV tests as part of their screening programs. Women can even collect their own samples for HPV testing, removing more barriers to life-saving services. In Australia – which is on track to become one of the first countries in the world to achieve elimination – more than a quarter of all screening tests are now done this way...

Several countries are also investigating the use of artificial intelligence to enhance the accuracy of screening in resource-limited settings. When women are found with precancerous lesions, many are now treated with portable battery-powered devices, which can be operated in remote locations."

-via The Telegraph, November 18, 2024. Article written by Dr Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus, Director-General of the World Health Organization (WHO).

[gay-dorito-dust]

‘Have you seen Bob?’ Yelena asked as she poked her head into the kitchen.

You frowned. ‘No, why?’

Yelena sighed. ‘He’s not in his room and nobody has seen him anywhere and it’s obvious he hasn’t gone out of the tower, that much is clear.’ She didn’t know how it was possible for a man like Bob to easily evade detection like he has now, she had originally hoped that you had seen him, seeing as how you and him tended to be joint at the hip from the moment you met but seeing as you haven’t Yelena found her options having become even more limited then before.

You hummed in agreement with her as you added. ‘And the tower is ridiculous with all of it’s floors, so he could literally be in any one of them and we wouldn’t know where to start. It could take us hours or even days at best and I’m not even trying to exaggerate.’ You tried to rack your own brain in hopes of coming up with an answer to lead Yelena elsewhere, and also hope that you’re acting skills were enough to fool her as you did in fact know where Bob was and weren’t planning on letting anyone know where he was just yet for a very good reason.

Yelena sighs. ‘I’ve checked over all the floors with the system and it said that he’s on this very floor, but yet when I asked where it wouldn’t tell me as if said it’s been asked specifically not to tell anyone.’ She adds and you tried not to let your facade slip as you made a face of confusion, all the while trying to discreetly hide the two mugs of steaming chamomile tea just behind you that you were fully intending to take back to your room before the blonde assassin caught a glimpse of you.

‘That’s very strange,’ you trailed off before clapping your hands together, ‘but I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for you and let you know when and if I see him, he can’t have gone far Yelena I know he wouldn’t and he knows that too.’ Yelena started at you for a while, getting a good read of you from her stance in the doorway and getting this feeling that you were hiding something from her, but she couldn’t quite figure out what it was as you were acting in a way that made it seem that you were as just none the wiser as the rest of them. So she decided to give you a bit of leniency and said ‘okay’ before leaving to continue her search.

Once you heard her footsteps fade down the hall and waited even more so until they faded completely into obscurity to then grab the two mugs of tea behind you, making your way out of the kitchen and towards your bedroom with hurried steps before opening the door and smiling when you saw that Bob was where you last left him; sitting on your bed as he played with the mint coloured axolotl plush with a small smile gracing his lips.

‘What took you so long?’ He asked, setting aside the plush as he moved from your bed to take one of the mugs of tea from your hand, cupping it between his larger, sweater covered ones as he blew on it before taking a tiny sip and making a noise of content as his eyes closed briefly.

Bob had been having trouble sleeping recently and you had offered up your room to be his safe haven when he finds that he couldn’t sleep in his own room, where you’d talk about anything and everything until you both feel asleep in the others presence, this situation has happened so often that you’ve made the Tower system prevent anyone but you from knowing where he was in hopes of letting him have some privacy from the likes of Ava, John, Alexei and Yelena. You loved your team but they were a nosy and overbearing bunch that you knew would overwhelm an poor sleep deprived, nightmare riddled Bob who just wanted to shut off his mind and be allowed to sleep in peace.

‘Let’s just say your frequent nightly escapades to my room might have caused Yelena to think that you’ve been disappearing to god knows where in the tower.’ You replied as Bob looked as though he wanted to hide away in the depths of his sweater, never to be seen again as his face burned red like cherry tomatoes and his eyes showed embarrassment.

‘I knew this wasn’t going to go unnoticed sooner or later, the others are bound to catch on.’ He says as he takes another sip of the tea in hopes of its calming properties would smooth his nerves, but it did little compared to your reassuring hand on his arm and soft smile that brought him back to reality on more occasions then not.

‘It’s fine sweetheart, I’d gladly get in trouble for hoarding you away in my room so selfishly.’ You joked halfheartedly before adding in a serious tone. ‘You deserve rest and I wasn’t about to let the others hound you for wanting something so simple as sleep, you deserve it so I’m more then willing for the choice words I’ll get for lying to Yelena sooner or later,’ you squeezed his forearm, ‘but for now let’s enjoy our teas before Alexei starts singing and demanding that we all eat breakfast together okay?’

‘Okay.’ Bob says softly with a smile as you and him return to your bed, the mint coloured axolotl sitting in between you both as you had your mugs of tea in relative peace, only ever trading conversation when Bob asked about certain things within your room, with you responding by going in depth about how important they were to you. It was what you wanted in the mornings within the Watchtower, moments where you get to have Bob selfishly and he got to have a couple of hours with you before everyone else does, smiling happily as a comforting silence then followed afterwards.

Only for you and Bob to have somehow found the silence a little too comforting as you both fell asleep once more with the mint axolotl squished between you both, your mugs sat side by side on the bedside table with matching smiles upon your faces, just as the morning truly began with Alexei loudly demanding that everyone was needed in the kitchen to start your day as a family as he walked down the hallway; compelled bypassing your room without stopping to see why you and Bob were cuddled cutely and tightly together.

[bitterrfruit]

clingfilm [1]

serial killer / detective ghoap x forensic pathologist reader cw: dubcon. free use. graphic depiction of a corpse. smut. 18+ only [masterlist]

The first body was discovered on the eighth of September, propped up at a bus stop in the outer suburbs of Whitfell. Found by a drunken teenager on his way home from the pub. 

You got the phone call from the detective inspector in the ultra-black hours of the morning. The time of night where not even the waxing moon hung in the sky, its habits as sibylline as any nightcrawler lurking red-eyed at that hour. Yourself included. 

Not alone, though. You had found yourself a lurker, one that would arrive unannounced in the pitch black and disappear before the sun broke over the low-rise city skyline. Exactly what you needed. If he were any more of a fixture in your life, you would have grown to loathe him. You were like that with everybody; you could handle people in doses — fixed, controlled, prescribed doses — and beyond that their very presence became as abrasive as sandpaper. Fork-on-plate grating enough to make your ears bleed. 

It was a defense mechanism. That’s what all the pseudo-analytical armchair psychologists would tell you, anyway. Something you could work to overcome, like it was a problem in the first place. That you just needed to become one with yourself, and the right person would slot into your life like a jigsaw piece. 

Tommy slotted in just fine, for now. 

A little wonky, one of those unsolvable pieces that you had to squish in, in itself an indication that it didn’t belong where you had put it — but it would suffice. Having the hole filled was satisfying enough. Looked more complete when you took a step back. 

He was uncanny, not quite all there. Offbeat in a way you were drawn to. 

There wasn’t much to him. He simply offered his cock to you when you wanted it, and he didn’t burden you with the social obligations of a well-adjusted man. No wine and dining, no meeting the parents, no cooking breakfast. He told you very little, and you liked that about him. 

You knew his name was Tommy, that he was from Manchester, and that he was a lorry driver for some packing or logistics company — you learned that when you first met him at the petrol station checkout. Knew that he’d be gone for weeks at a time driving up and down the island, only visiting Leeds for a quick fuck and a cigarette, and he’d be gone again. You knew he served in the special forces in his twenties and was discharged due to injury, and you only discovered that because you mindlessly asked him about a scar on his back. You knew his tattoos apparently didn’t mean anything and he got them to piss off his dad when he was eighteen. 

He arrived at your flat just after three in the morning. 

You had been growing roots into the sunken cushion of your sofa when he knocked on your door,  television playing a box set of Grey’s Anatomy with the volume two notches above mute. You knew it was him, he always knocked the same way — two hard knocks with the back of his knuckles, a third too much effort. Loud enough to startle you. Ever impatient. 

You opened your door with a twist of the handle (rarely bolted it, a careless habit). Greeted him in your oversized t-shirt, with no underwear on and your legs unshaven. You weren’t expecting him, but you knew he paid no mind. He’d sink his cock in showered or otherwise. Simple man. 

He stood cladded in his rough canvas work jacket, day-old sweat embedded in his stubbled cheeks, cropped wheaten hair scruffed up and pointy. Greasepaint creased in the wrinkles of his sockets, once said it prevented sun blindness during his long hours on the road. Pinched a lambent cigarette between his scarred lips, amber glow catching a glint in his brown eyes. 

Took up the whole doorframe, fucking behemoth that he was. The jacket made his goliath shoulders even bulkier, such a thing somehow possible.

“You smell good,” is all he said, as he pushed forward into your flat and swung the door shut behind him. Voice as hoarse as ever, the growl of an old dog, cords shrivelled by cigarettes and dragged raw over gravel.  

“You don’t,” you answered frankly, turning to sit back on the sofa. You had unfinished business with a rum and diet coke that you left dripping on the coffee table. “Smell like petrol.” 

He huffed, vaguely amused, hasn’t stopped you before remaining unspoken. He shucked off his jacket and dumped it on your cluttered kitchen counter, a grimy wifebeater the only layer underneath it. Came to sit next to you on the couch and landed in it with a grunt. The old springs sank deep under the weight of him and his sheer gravity pulled you in his direction. 

You got down one sip of your drink before he scooped you up — with two dinner-plate hands on either divot of your waist you were swiftly lodged in his lap, ass nestled against him as though you were made to fit. He had your legs hooked over his, thighs wedged open, and you got a little splash of spiked coke down your front in the motion. You leaned forward to set the drink down on the coffee table, before he reeled you back in. 

He was a taker, Tommy. Liked to pick you up and plonk you down as he wished, and didn’t like a fuss. He wasn’t rough about it, at least. He was a utilitarian, simply preferred convenience. 

Fine by you. You were a pedant in most facets of your life — needed a tight grip of everything, always, or else you’d implode like a dying star. Some might have called you a control freak, under their breath and behind the cover of your inattention. 

Not with sex, though. Sex was the only act wherein you could willingly relinquish all control. It was liberating, in a way — the ability to shut your brain off, cantankerous as it was, and for once let another person pull your bullied strings.

Tommy never checked, never asked. Sometimes he’d fuck you and leave without a word exchanged. 

A wide hand bunched up the bottom of your t-shirt, pulling it up to your belly, and the other bent up and over your shoulder — he hucked up a lump of saliva into his salty fingers, and smeared it against your spread pussy with little fanfare. He was generous with his fingers, sometimes, at least well practiced — began by pushing a thick middle finger inside you, hooking and raking it against your outward wall, kneading into the gummy flesh below your bladder because you told him once that it felt good that way. 

The rough heel of his palm grinded against your clitoris as his fingers coaxed your cunt to drool for him, a little harsher than would be most comfortable, but you would never say so. Telling him to do anything would defeat the purpose. 

Once he got you warmed up, it didn’t matter. When your clit blushed under his attention, pink and alert, he’d redirect his focus. Would drag his finger out of you, coated in your watery slick, and paint stripes with it over your pulsing bead. Up, down, up, down. Nothing fancy, but you liked consistency — he’d expose your clit from under its hood with every upward stroke, the calloused pad of his finger directly touching the raw nerves would make you twitch. His fingertip would travel back downward every odd moment, scooping up more of your syrup before returning to its job. 

Before long you were panting, sweat beading on the nape of your neck, and your head rocked back over his shoulder. The television was rendered nothing more than a lightshow in the dark sitting room, bouncing blue and white off the walls and ceiling. His iron-hard length pressed into your lower back, straining against the fly of his jeans, and he bucked his hips to make certain you could feel it. You could. 

You enjoyed it when he dragged it out. When he had nowhere to be, so took his time. It wasn’t uncommon for him to rush, to fuck you hard and hurried and leave before your pussy was even warm. Whenever he was gone for a long while, though, he’d savour every minute. The longer he was gone, the more you looked forward to his double-knock on your door. 

With the way he was indulging tonight, you’d have thought he had been gone for two months. 

You saw him last week. 

When you came on his fingers with a breathless whine, your thighs strained desperately to clamp shut around his hand, but he kept them jammed open — even readjusting his own legs to open you wider. Selfish. He candidly relished in the pained sobs you would let out when he persisted in vexing your sated clit, once the nerves in its peak were cloyed and inflamed. Sometimes he’d press it like a button, or pinch it tight between his fingers, just to hear you yelp in the shock. You felt his grin when he did it.

His turn, then. With a forearm hooked around your waist, cutting into your belly, he lifted you — reached underneath your bottom with a wet hand and tore down his fly, tugging out his cock and holding it upright like a sword, fist around the hilt. 

He gracelessly impaled you on him without warning, yanking you downward onto his lap and making you squeal like a cat with its tail stepped on. Far from the first time you had been speared on him, but you never grew accustomed to the size of it — it stretched you open and burrowed itself among your organs, taking up so much space you could hardly breathe around it, became an organ of your own. Even with your doctorate you failed to imagine how your bowels could rearrange themselves to fit him. 

With arms like boa constrictors coiled around your belly, fingers boring into the flesh of your waist, he raised you up and tugged you down again — it was as though you weighed nothing to him, he could lift you up and down like a doll without toil. Fucked you like he was jerking himself off with your body. 

“Only good cunt,” he grunted deeply into the back of your neck, where his teeth grazed your skin. So low that you felt it rattle in your chest, as though he thought you could not hear it. “No wonder.” 

The shit he said was always gibberish. Uttered as low as a secret, always referring to something he never made you privy to. You never bothered asking. You just liked the sound of his voice. 

“Wan’ another one?” He asked roughly, as a pair of fingers creeped over your mound and resituated themselves at the crux of your pussy. Almost gibberish, but you understood quite clearly this time. 

“Yes please,” you softly purred, a little breath. 

Hearing your obsequiousness aloud was always painfully shrill. Such a needy little sycophant the moment a cock was inside you. Embarrassment would settle heavy and thick later, once you were alone, and the thrumming heat twisted up in your core had unwinded. 

He touched you differently with his right hand — left-handed, you supposed — would smear circles over your clit with the palps of his fingers, lazy and imprecise. Used the rutting of his pelvis to guide his motion, as he hammered into your cervix with the thick head of his cock. You’d be sore later. 

As he sped himself up, blindly chasing the acme of his own pleasure like a dog after bone, and you chewed on your lip like meat— 

Your phone rang. 

Glowed bright white from where it sat on the couch beside you, the piercingly loud marimba of the ringtone as jarring as a smack to the cheek.  You blinked over your shoulder to look at it.

D.I. MacTavish. 

You never saved his contact, but you knew the number by heart. Could determine the caller the moment you saw the incoming call on your screen. Very rarely came with good news.

Expecting that Tommy would snap at you for being distracted by it, you shut your eyes again and turned away, focused on his busy fingers and the cock in your guts — but, to your shock, he slowed. 

“Better get that,” he grumbled. 

You groaned childishly, the back of your head knocking against his collarbone as you slumped back into him. “I don’t want to.” 

“Pick it up,” he said rigidly. 

Short-fused man that he was. Request better be followed by action in the first instance, or he’d ignite quicker than a match in petrol. Never got physical with you, at least. He’d just grit his teeth and leave in a huff. 

You all but mumbled fine as you leaned over to grab the phone from the cushion next to you, but with a tug he kept your hips riveted to his lap, and his cock skewered in you to the root. 

There was something deeply depraved about picking up the phone to speak to the detective while being fucked by another man, but you didn’t think too much of it in your come-drunk haze. You wanted to avoid the inevitable fit of rage that would erupt if you made a fuss. Hoped for a short conversation. 

“Hello?” 

You weren’t very good at phone calls. Not well versed in the formalities. You silently waited for him to elucidate the reason for his bothering you at such a ludicrous hour — but, given the shared nature of your professions, you could hazard a guess. Doubly inappropriate that you had a dick inside you, in that case. 

“Did I wake ye?” 

Been a while since you heard that voice. A month, at least. It made your chest a little warm to hear it, lilted and deep as it was, even through the tinny phone speaker. 

“No, I—” You hiccuped as Tommy moved his hips, and his cock raked pointedly against your constricting walls. You felt his hot breathing against the nape of your neck and tried to ignore it. “—I’m just watching telly. Something happen?” 

“A body’s been found in south Whitfell,” he said bluntly. 

Not a friendly call. You reached back and patted Tommy on the shoulder, implicitly telling him to stop moving as though you couldn’t feel him. You could keep it together if he stayed still and let you breathe steadily. 

“Do - do you need me there tonight?” You asked, voice stiff, struggling to sound at ease while you were stuffed full. 

“I’d love a visit,” he said, and you couldn’t tell whether any humour was webbed in his tone. “Need ye to take a look in situ.” 

As you opened your mouth to speak, Tommy brusquely bucked his hips, and his stone-hard cock pummelled into the plug of your womb brutally enough to force a piercing squeak from your throat. 

That was enough to make you angry. It flared hot in your belly and made your jaw clench up, and you twisted your spine to spitefully jab him below his collarbone, holding your breath when his cock mashed against your organs. 

He was smirking vindictively, pupils blown wide, ravenous as a shark. You hadn’t taken him for an exhibitionist, but with the context of the phone call painfully clear, you weren’t going to let him use this as the opportunity to explore it. 

You unhooked a leg to get yourself off of him, and his grin dropped from his face so abruptly it was as though you had flipped a switch. 

Cold dread needled down the back of your neck. 

His huge hands kept you bolted to his lap, cock grinding into you as if to spite you. 

It dawned on you then the precedent you had set — allowing him unfettered ingress to your body and not once disputing mid-act. He had the size and strength to keep you pinned to him for as long as he wished to; a fact that would normally excite you, that now only frightened you. 

Only when you scowled at him with enough ire to turn him to stone, smacked him on the chest and again attempted to get off, did he finally and reluctantly acquiesce. His glower was gelid, venomous, and his disdainful fingers clawed over your thighs as you stood yourself up. His slick cock tugged out of you and landed against his hirsute stomach, leaving a wet patch on the white cotton of his wife-beater. In any other situation you’d mourn the emptiness. 

You brought the phone back to your ear with a clear of your throat, as you timidly wandered away from the couch towards your bedroom. 

“Must get excited when a cadaver shows up, MacTavish,” you said coyly, flustered, wiping an errant hair from your forehead. “Gives you an excuse to see me.”

A beleaguered sigh grumbled through the phone. “That’s no’ funny.” 

Johnny’s gallows humour was a quirk of his you enjoyed, even though he routinely used it to get a rise out of you while you did the work they paid you for. So, his uncharacteristic severity made clear that there would be no such persiflage this time. You didn’t know how to act toward him when he was serious. It made your skin itch. 

“Sorry,” you said awkwardly into the phone, through teeth. Well rehearsed. He left a silence harsher than nails on a chalkboard before you brought yourself to speak again. “S’it look like a homicide?” 

“Body was sitting at a bus stop. Young lad spotted it,” he replied stiffly. It didn’t sound like him. “It’s — it’s wrapped in clingfilm.” 

“Oh,” you hummed. That was new. “Kid didn’t see anyone?” 

“Nobody,” he answered. “He hasn’t been much use, though. Lad was steamin’. ” 

You rummaged around in your chest-of-drawers as he spoke, phone wedged between your shoulder and cheek. Shoved your bare legs into your jeans once you found them, and stuffed some changes of clothes into your Nike gym bag. Homicides always necessitated an overnight stay. 

“Any decomp?” You asked clinically, “might have been dead a while. Soft tissue intact?”

“Dunno, Bones. I didnae look that close. That’s your job.” 

You always cringed a little when he called you that. He decided it was your nickname upon first meeting you, and persisted even after you told him that television’s beloved Bones was a forensic anthropologist and not a forensic pathologist. The difference was lost on him. Expressing any displeasure only made the name stick. 

Still, it was evident something had gotten under the detective’s skin. It made you viscerally uneasy, and he wasn’t even in the room with you to give you that toothy look of heavy-browed discomfort. 

The human mind was an enigma to you. A labyrinth of dark hallways and trapdoors. You always found yourself turning the wrong corner and hitting a dead end, or losing your footing and tumbling into a spike pit. Your own mind no exception. 

Bodies were much easier. You knew what there was to be found and exactly where to look for it. Skin, flesh, organs, bones, teeth. No constituent variance between one person and another, no discrepancies to account for. 

Saying the right thing was a more difficult undertaking than autopsying a corpse.

“Everything alright, detective?” You felt obliged to ask, when the silence stretched too long, and your ears began to ring. 

A long sigh. His muteness only endured, but he finally spoke after a pruritic pause. “Sorry. I’m — just — s’good to hear yer voice.” 

You bit down on nothing as you marched out of your room and towards the door to your flat, only to find it ajar and the sitting room utterly empty. Glancing around for a moment, you checked for Tommy — not in your bathroom, not in the kitchen — just gone. Must have stormed out in a temper. For the best. 

“Didn’t answer my question,” you said edgily, as you grabbed your keys from the table by the door. 

“I’m fine, bonnie,” he grunted. “When’re ye getting here?” 

You stuffed your feet into your boots, yanked your long black coat from the rack by the front door.

“I’m on the way,” you said. 

The drive to Whitfell would normally have taken around two hours, but you drove a steady five miles an hour over the limit, and got there ten minutes sooner. Cumbria Constabulary could just as well find a pathologist in their own region — you were sure there would be at least one — but they had an affinity for calling on you at wild hours, likely because you never refused. Not to mention the hardly vocational reasons their detective inspector had for liking you. 

The roads were dead empty that early in the morning, just after four. The asphalt was glossy with autumn dew and reflected the odd streetlight in stripes. Mostly empty motorway and rural hills between there and Leeds, but the pseudo-city you headed to had a decent population that was only expanding, and the sprawl of freshly built flat-pack condos proliferated beyond its borders every year. 

By the time you arrived at the scene it had been cordoned off with tape, the suburban street blocked by four flashing patrol vehicles, a CID van, and the mobile morgue. A few night-robed slipper-wearing bystanders hovered around the barricade, too sleepy to be a bother but curiosity compelling them to get out of bed and poke their noses around at the drama outside their houses. 

A plethora of crime scene investigators pottered about, taking photos and lifting prints and swabbing surfaces, the odd constable there to oversee it and write their aimless notes. Screens of grey canvas had been propped up around the scene, shielding the cadaver from your sight and that of the bystanders, but the floodlights within projected the shadows of every CI working behind it like a puppet show.

The detective spotted your car as you pulled in to park, immediately sauntering towards you and squinting in the glow of your headlights. Thick mohawk cresting his skull as scruffy and unprofessional as ever, he stood dead still with his hands in the pockets of his black duffle coat as you killed the engine. He wore his authority like a nice jacket, standing tall and brandishing it proudly, a fact you always found amusingly juxtaposed to his boyishly crude character. 

You flashed your warrant card at an approaching officer as you got out of the car, and they left you be without a word. 

“Got ‘ere quick,” he called to greet you, and you shoved your card back into your pocket as you walked over to him. 

“Sounded serious,” you answered bluntly, perplexed by his surprise. 

He nodded, lips in a line. “Sorry if I was a wee bit blunt,” he said grimly, wintry grey eyes as piercing as you remember, even under the dim orange glow of the streetlight above him. “Bit shaken up, I s’pose.”

“Doesn’t sound like you, Johnny,” you teased, quirk in your brow as you leaned slightly to the side to see past him. 

“I’m no’ made o’ stone,” he gibed, finally baring his pointed teeth with a grin, silver-capped canine glinting in the light of the street lamp. “It’s no’ nice to look at, I’ll tell ye that.”

“I’m sure,” you said. 

“Get on yer gear,” he told you. “Come take a look. Need yer noggin on this one.”

You gave him a nod and hurried around your car, popping open the boot and digging around the rubbish for the PPE kit that was a permanent fixture among your belongings. Climbed into disposable white coveralls and smoothed down the velcro-close front, tugged a pair of fresh teal latex gloves from their cardboard box and bullied your hands into the floppy rubber, plucking the band around your wrist to ensure a good seal. Three-ply mask, shoe covers, palm-sized notebook in tow. 

Returning to the detective, he flicked his head towards the scene, and you followed him at the heel like a duckling. Your heart fluttered high in your chest, buzzing a keen anticipation that always swelled inside you whenever a homicide was in question. Likely inappropriate. Not a secret you’d share. 

“There she is,” he grumbled, far more sombre now that the cadaver was in his immediate line of sight. He sniffed, held the back of his hand under his nose as if to stifle a retch. 

She indeed. A woman, quite clearly, sitting upright on the bench under the bus shelter, across the road from a quaint little play park. A double layer of clingfilm wrapped snugly around the body from head to toe — meticulously done, each limb individually swathed, the plastic corset-tight around the waist. Dark nipples were visible through the glossy film, breasts squished flat by the tautness of the plastic. The head was less visible, face only determinable up close — bandaged up by multiple layers of film, turned greenish in the thickness, nose and eyes smushed up underneath it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, and for the moment that was all you could muster. 

Johnny nodded. “Aye,” he agreed morosely. “No’ somethin’ ye see everyday.”

“Have any of the CIs touched the plastic?” You asked resolutely, focus already needle-pointed and honed in. “Taken any off, moved it at all?” 

“No’ that I know of,” he said. 

You grunted irefully. “Well, they better not have. You need to keep a better eye on them, detective. If they pissed around with—”

“They’re well trained, doc.” He said, more pointedly, and you sensed that he was gently chiding you for assuming their idiocy. The subsequent chagrin made you shrivel up like a prune. 

“How long since it was discovered?” You asked dispassionately, changing the subject.

“‘Bout two hours,” he answered. “Lad said he called triple one straight away once he found it.” 

“Mh,” you considered aloud, crouching down beside the bench. Clicked your pen and flipped open your notebook. 

Your eyes scoured every inch of the corpse — legs, knees, feet, genitals, stomach, ribs, arms, hands — anything that was visible without having to touch or shift it from its position, you made a note of. 

Contusions visible on: right hip, right shoulder, left side of neck, left clavicle. Blood (?) present on the inside of the clingfilm, around stomach and throat areas. Partial lividity (?) on outer left thigh and arm. Pocking/marbling (?) visible on: both thighs, lower stomach, chest, both arms, left foot. 

Positioning — sat upright, neutral positioning. Hands flat on thighs above knees. Head leaning slightly to the left, otherwise neck neutral. Legs spread at ~30°, feet flat on ground. No shoes. Evidently nude beneath clingfilm. Hair apparently intact, tied up. Eyes open. 

“You’ll have to get your team to analyse the clingfilm,” you muttered flatly, more a spoken thought than a directed statement. 

“Huh?” Johnny queried, right behind you. He liked to watch you while you worked. Surveyed like a hawk every anomaly you pointed at, every note you made in your book. Always overly curious about your movements. 

“The plastic,” you repeated, glancing up at him over your shoulder. “Get your team to look at it. The brand, or something — it just, it doesn’t look like the stuff you’d get from Tesco, does it?” 

“Don’t it?” 

“No, it’s — it’s thicker, see? It looks sturdier. Here, look.” 

Johnny pursed his lips. “Dinnae need to get any closer, hen.” 

A knit pulled in your brow. “You’re being weird,” you said, the irony of your comment not lost on you. “It’s just a body. You’ve probably seen more of them than I have.” 

“Callin’ me old?” He chided, an uneasy smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, dimpling his cheek. 

“No, I mean—” You quickly corrected yourself, panicked that you had insulted him. “From, you know. Being a soldier, or whatever.” 

“Ah,” he nodded. “I ken. This is hardly like that, though, eh? Dinnae see anything as fucken’ horrific as this out there. This is — ah. S’like a horror movie. I don’ like horror movies.” 

You smiled at that. “Little wuss,” you murmured impishly. 

“What d’ye think, then?” He asked. 

“Of horror movies?” 

“Of the fucken’ body, Bones, Jesus.” 

You nodded tightly. “Oh, uh—” you looked back at your notebook, “hard to say without taking off the wrapping. But it looks like it was taken from somewhere else and put here recently. Tonight.” 

“Mh,” he warily hummed. “How can ye tell?” 

“Um—” You bite your words, wrangling them into a comprehensible sentence opposed to unintelligible medical jargon. “There’s blood pooling, on the left side, which suggests it was initially on its side post-mortem. But it’s, it’s not fully settled. I’ll have to look more closely in the lab.” 

“Anythin’ else?” 

Your eyes raked over the cadaver in front of you, new notes buzzing in the air around you like insects. “It’s pretty intact. Hardly any decomposition. Doesn’t really smell, does it?” 

“Cannae say I’ve sniffed it.” 

You snorted. “Well, there’s — oh.” 

“What?” 

Stare hitched on something you hadn’t noticed while you were focusing on the flesh beneath the plastic — water. 

Little puddles underneath where the cadaver sat, pooled around its feet. Then you observed droplets, mostly evaporated but what was left trickled in rills down the thighs and chest, atop the plastic. 

“It’s wet.” 

Johnny chuffed, disquieted. “S’it leaking?”

“No—” You leaned closer, squinting, and laid the back of your gloved hand against the body’s belly. Frigid cold. “I think it’s freshly thawed.” 

“Shite,” he grunted, visibly perturbed. He was sharp, the detective, and the realisation of renewed urgency was quick to settle. “Alright, let’s rush ‘er to the fridge then.” 

You’d have liked more time to assess the body in situ, but MacTavish wasn’t wrong to want it in storage as soon as possible. The more quickly the body was able to thaw, the more posthumous changes might disturb the secrets it retained from its murder. You stepped back from the bench as the detective whistled over some hazmat-clad drones to bag and tag the cadaver and haul it into the mobile morgue. 

You began your shed — pulled off your mask, plucked off your gloves, took down the hood of your PPE suit and let it puddle around your neck. Let out a breath of relief once the most abrasive layers were peeled from you. 

“Y’want me to do the post tonight?” You asked impassively, when Johnny returned his attention to you. 

His eyes were solemn, overcast, and he stiffly shook his head. “Nae, hen. Save it for the morn, eh?’” 

“You sure?” You puzzled, frowning, “I should do it now. Now that it’s not frozen, it might—”

“Och, stop,” he dismissed. “Not havin’ ye look over a body like that if you’re knackered. Yer notes will all be gibberish.” 

A curl twisted in your lips. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just have a RedBull.” 

“No,” he said. “Tha’ one’s an order.” 

“You can’t order me to do anything, detective,” you jeered. “I’m not a cop.” 

He let loose a wide grin. “I can do what I damn well please.” 

You snickered, rubbing the heel of your palm into an eye — only after he mentioned it did your exhaustion make itself known. It pulled on you like sinking stones, made your legs heavy as lead. The sun was probably not far from rising, and you hadn’t yet slept a wink. Had been far from a relaxing night, in fact. 

“Fine,” you grumbled. “I’ll be at the lab in the morning. Or, y’know, in a couple hours.” 

He nodded, the buck of his head a salute. 

“Will ye crash at ma bit?” He asked, kept his hoarse voice low, as if a secret. 

Would be far from the first time you’d have stayed at his flat. He invited you every time you were forced to stay the night near the lab, though the first few offers you had modestly declined. 

When you finally capitulated it innocently started with you on his couch, but that only lasted a night. It was only a formality, really, to even pretend that you would sleep in his sitting room — by the next night he had skulked down the stairs and approached you in the dark, allowing you just enough time to squeak his name in shock, before he pulled you by the ankle and buried his mouth in your pussy through the loose leg of your little sleep shorts. 

For a while, it was something of a tradition. You’d park in his driveway, put on your pyjamas out of courtesy, dither about whether it was improper, before he inevitably had his cock in you and you were knocked out in his bed. Forced to comb it all out and appear unfrazzled when you arrived at the lab the following morning. 

In recent months, though, your visits became fewer and further between — MacTavish’s department had proved somehow too effective, and homicides had become atypically scarce. You could acknowledge the senselessness of bemoaning that the detective was too good at his job, but in some petulant way you held it against him. It meant your paths only crossed once a month, if that, when you were called in.

You had been withholding yourself from him, for the last few visits. Motivation eluded even yourself. Perhaps out of spite, or shame, or an inexplicably renewed concern about the appropriateness of the trysts while you were ostensibly in the city to investigate a murder. Maybe you just couldn’t get past the notion that you had been busy fucking another man, saddled with the certainty that he would not be pleased if you were to tell him, even if you couldn’t sympathise with the jealousy. 

“Not tonight,” you answered, and he looked like you had just kicked a puppy. 

“Why not?” He all but moaned, reaching his burly hand toward you and brushing your jaw with his thumb. You suddenly felt like people were watching. “We don’t have t’do anythin’, bonnie. We can just sleep.” 

You almost snickered at that, because you knew how vastly unlikely that would be. Instead you gave him a pleasant smile and a noncommittal shrug, hoping he’d leave it at that. 

He didn’t. “Are ye mad at me?” 

His hand was on your shoulder, then, at the crook of your neck. Johnny was like you, in that way — had to have his hands on you, craved the tangible like a carnivore craves meat, ever-chasing the succor of touch. 

“No, Johnny, I’m not mad at you,” you said mildly, through a placid smile.

“Y’sure?” He asked. “Y’been prickly, lately. Have I done somethin’ tae upset ye?”

“I’m always prickly,” you muttered, now defensive, broke your eyes away from his interrogative glare to look at the asphalt of the footpath beneath you. 

“Aye, ‘n ye ken I like yer prickles,” he said with a smirk.

“I’m sorry,” you huffed. “I’m just gonna get a room at the Travelodge.” 

“You’re avoidin’ me,” he said edgily, hooking his hands onto his hips.

Possessive brute he was. Yet another reason you’d avoid revealing your escapades to him, even though he had absolutely no right to claim you as his own nor to bemoan your sexual habits. 

“I’m not,” you said. “It’s not my fault we’re hardly ever in the same city.” 

“Got another fella, do ye?” 

Your brows pulled tight. “No. I don’t.” 

It wasn’t in your nature to lie, and you weren’t good at it. It didn’t help that the detective’s entire being was built to hunt for the truth, he could scent a lie like a bloodhound could a fugitive. His brows were low and hard and cast a shadow over his eyes, dimples deep in his carved cheeks as he chewed on your fib. 

“He do it for you?” He asked derisively, jealousy thick as tar lacquered every word. 

“Stop it, Johnny,” you sternly implored, shrinking into yourself like a snail. “I’m just here to do my job.” 

“Mh,” he mumbled, contempt in his throat. “Prefer the company of dead bodies, do ye?”

You pouted unwittingly. “Don’t be mean.” 

He let out a huff of potent disappointment, wiped down his cheeks with a wide, stiff hand. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he said gingerly, hand returning to you with a brush of your cheek, a sweep of your hair behind your ear. You never begrudged his touchiness, it made your skin tingly. “I just miss ye, s’all.” 

You bristled when he said that, irrationally. He missed your cunt, that was what he meant. He missed you warming his bed. More likely, he didn’t miss you at all. He’d call you in more frequently if he did, wouldn’t he?

“I know,” you said, hands in your pockets. “I’ll see you tomorrow, though.” 

��Alright, hen,” he said with a nod, hand retreating. “See y’in the morn.” 

The snippy receptionist at the Travelodge managed to check you into a room on the first floor of the three-storey building, built in the eighties with those hideous chocolate-square bricks. The room itself was without frills, a double bed with teal and brown sheets, a little bench with a kettle on it and one wrinkly teabag remaining in the rack. The bathroom fixtures were all yellow-faded with specs of green mould stuck under the caulking at the edges. A nice view of the parking lot out your window, when you peeled back the sheer polyester curtains to have a look. 

It was a precarious decision to have a bath as sleepy as you were, but you were all sticky after a half-fuck and the excitement of a fresh homicide. You lay in the water for half an hour, made use of the little bottles of budget soap that sat in the shower caddy. 

Once you were done you dried yourself off with the provided towel and left it scrunched up over the rail, and you climbed into the crisply-made bed stark naked — you forsook pyjamas when you could, because they twisted up tight when you tossed and turned and you found it maddeningly overstimulating. Checked your phone before you went to sleep, and you had a text from Tommy; another number you hadn’t saved, but you hadn’t memorised that one yet. Only realised it was him when you opened the messages and saw the older one before it. 

23/08 02:21: Need some cunt. 

08/09 05:03: You gone? 

You didn’t reply. 

The sun had risen just before eight, and you woke up with it. A short and spasmodic sleep, more of a nap than a true slumber. You came awake on a gulp of air with sweat on your nape and your arm dead asleep. It was limp and heavy when you pulled yourself out of bed and got yourself ready for a day at the lab. 

You poured yourself a black coffee from the instant machine once you got there — a subterranean wing of Whitfell General Hospital, inconveniently situated a ten-minute drive from the police headquarters. Everything in there was rubbery, wrapped in linoleum and vinyl, crisp white or speckled teal. Far less flash than the crime labs you were used to in Leeds. Block fluorescents lined every corridor and the hum always made you twitchy, despite your years of experience underneath them. You always had earplugs in while you were working to escape it. 

The reek of rubbing alcohol and hospital-grade hand soap permeated every surface of the wing, and it made your nostrils flare. The smell of challenge. One that always had your heart fluttering with an admittedly twisted exhilaration — especially today, knowing how many secrets were wrapped up in that body, you were itching to read whatever stories it had to tell. 

You greeted Jenny, the lab assistant, as you elbowed through the swing door into the mortuary, and she waited for you by the unmanned reception. Wiry wee girl that she was, riddled with neuroses that even you found unreasonable. 

“Sleep in this morning, doctor?” She asked with a thin smile, and you wondered how long she had been waiting there for you. Her lime-green coffee mug was just about empty.

“Yep,” you grunted, sweeping the lanyard she had left for you off the reception counter and hanging it around your neck. “You made a start?” 

She shook her head as she gestured for you to follow her. “No, ‘course not. Not allowed to start without you.” 

“Mh.” You took a pacifying sip of coffee from your foam cup. 

“I have prepared everything, though,” she said curtly, marching ahead of you, scrubs billowing with her haste. “The tools are all laid out and I have the chiller on extra cold. I also requested some scissors specifically for the clingfilm.” 

“Fabulous,” you said wryly. 

The first door into the lab was something of an airlock, a vestibule with a window into the autopsy room, providing room to cover yourself in PPE from head to toe and take a deep breath before you made your way in. You wore casual clothes under the crunchy blue tyvek suit — same pair of jeans as yesterday, and a woolly sweater to keep yourself warm under the blisteringly cold aircon in the sealed laboratory. Layers on layers — two pairs of cloves on each hand, shoe covers, sleeved plastic apron atop the coveralls, N95 respirator, face shield, a cap to cover your hair. You were fastidious about it; every inch covered, protected, sealed up. 

You swallowed a breath as you entered the lab, anticipating the familiar stench of death and formaldehyde — hit instead with only bleach and the faint smell of raw meat. 

The plastic mummy lay flat on the steel dissection table in the centre of the room, gleaming under the blinding overhead lamps above it. 

Surreal to look at. 

You had seen and cut up many corpses in your profession and studies prior — never one presented like this, awaiting being opened like a gift at Christmas. It looked like a practice doll until you approached it, and the human parts became plainly visible through the shiny film. 

You had Jenny assist you in carefully slicing through the plastic wrap, peeling it back as gingerly as possible, exceedingly careful not to nick the skin. The plastic stuck firm to the epidermis, moist underneath, and it made a foul gooey noise as you peeled it away. Even once the seal was broken, the odour of decomposition was not nearly as fetid as you were used to; almost as if it were a fresh death, but your gut told you that it was far from. 

Unwrapping the head was a morbid ordeal. The face was milk pale, the bulb of its nose coal-black with frostbite, the skin both stodgy wet and shrivelled in texture. From her features you’d have guessed the woman was in her forties. 

What your eyes pinned to, though, was the perfectly round hole in the centre of the forehead. You could look through it and see straight down to the shiny steel underneath. Precise but not clean, skin and flesh feathered out from the orifice. 

Gunshot. FIred cleanly from the back of the head, you guessed, but you’d need to roll the body over to confirm. 

Once the plastic was finally removed entirely — which took almost two hours — the rest of the autopsy was fairly routine. With all of her quirks, one thing Jenny was exceptionally good at was taking note of everything you uttered aloud. You could say a single word and she could translate it into a meaningful report. You dictated everything as you found it. 

Interrupted lividity on left side. Cadaver was left on left side for <1 hours prior to freezing. More recent posterior lividity, consistent with storage positioning post-thawing. 

Severe cell damage from crystallisation, major damage (pocking, marbling on epidermis) consistent with being frozen >2 weeks. Digestive tract empty, suggestive of a lack of food intake for 24-48 hours prior to death. 

Major contusions on: ribs (left - blunt force damage to ribs 4, 5, 6, consistent with tip of shoe - possible kick to ribs), medial back (blunt force - crushing injury? Possible stomping, consistent with shoe sole size 12.5-13). 

Ligature marks on neck and throat, and both wrists (wide restraint - possibly tape/duct tape). Petechiae present around eyes, cheeks, mouth. Consistent with asphyxiation, non-lethal. 

No evidence of sexual activity or genital trauma ante-mortem. No evidence of defensive wounds. 

Gunshot wound centre cranium, external bevelling anterior. Significant internal bevelling posterior, consistent with weapon fired against back of head, suggestive of execution — “Yes, Jenny, write that down.” — bullet wound ~1cm in diameter, consistent 9mm semi-automatic pistol. GSR present in neural tissue, no bullet present. Clean entry/exit. 

Toxicology results pending. DNA analysis pending. 

Estimated PMI: <1 hours prior to freezing, 3 or more weeks since death. 

Cause of death: Gunshot wound to the head. 

Manner of death: Homicide. 

Jenny obsequiously aided you in suturing up the large Y-shaped incision you had made to open up the chest cavity, punctilious as she was. It was always a little disappointing to return a body to the fridge unidentified and with no next-of-kin. Nobody to relay the details to, no curiosity to assuage. 

You liked to do a final comb-over once the assistant had left the room to make copies of the preliminary autopsy report — Jane Doe, case number: 0187 — if only to quell the writhing inquisitiveness that permanently riddled you. 

You checked the hands, checked every crease and line, noted the colour of nail polish: berry-red, chipped at the free edge. The soles of the feet: clean, hardly calloused, no running through mud. No tattoos, only the earlobes pierced, no earrings. Teeth square-straight — braces as a teenager, no doubt — freshly cleaned aside from the discolouration of decay, likely a recent appointment at the dental hygienist before death. 

Only as you peered into the open mouth, squinting in focus, did you spot something abnormal — a scratch mark, on the inside of a molar, previously hidden by a fat grey tongue. The powdery ivory enamel was stark white where it had been carved into, clearly inscribed post-mortem. Maybe even moments before the body was dumped at the bus stop. 

You frantically scoured the lab for a mirror, anything reflective; came up short with a small steel tray, but it was smooth enough to see a blurry reflection. Furiously tore out your notebook, and immediately scribbled down what you saw when you tucked the tray behind the teeth and tilted it to the right angle.  

Mandibular teeth: #20 - R, #17 - O, #19 - U Maxillary teeth: #13 - S

The killer had left a message. 

Who for?

It took D.I. MacTavish less than seven minutes to get to the lab. You imagined he screamed through the traffic on his siren-bedecked motorbike many miles per hour over the limit. He came thundering down the corridor and you heard his approach before you saw it – you were disrobing in the antechamber, dumping all of your disposable PPE into the biohazard bins, washing your ungloved hands with antiseptic soap in the large steel sink. 

He bulldozed in through the push-door, panting like a dog, clad in a sweaty grey button-up with his black holsters around his shoulders, secured with a strap across his chest. Carried unease in his eyes and his blazer in a fist. 

“Show me,” was all he said, ragged and impolite. 

It was poor practice to re-enter the autopsy room without your PPE on — you made the detective put on some latex gloves and a respirator, at least, as you allowed him inside to look more closely at the body. He stuck an imprudent thumb behind the teeth on the lower jaw, hooking it open to widen the mouth as he peered within. 

“What the fuck,” he muttered, under breath, evidently disturbed by what he saw — you wanted to say told you so, but held your tongue. “R, U… what is that, O?”

“There are four,” you explained impersonally, “R, O, and U on the bottom, and S on the top.” 

“What,” he said, stopping to think. “Sour?” 

“Yeah, could be.” 

“Y’don’t think so.” 

“No,” you gritted, “can you get your finger out of there now?” 

He nodded, pulling his hand from the mouth and standing straight, gesturing for the two of you to leave the room. Lucky that Jenny wasn’t there to reprimand the both of you. You waited with your arms crossed, leaning against the double-glazed window into the lab, watching as Johnny plucked off his gloves and dumped them in the rubbish along with his mask. He raked up his sleeves with a grunt and began washing his hands in the sink. 

“We got more comin’, don’t we,” he said grimly, back to you. 

“More letters?” 

“Bodies, hen,” he clarified. 

You swallowed a shaky breath, the air suddenly harsher on your throat. “Yes,” you uttered cautiously. “I think so.” 

A mutter, “Christ.” 

“Yep,” you said. “I’ll grab you a copy of the report.” 

“Gimme the spark notes, please,” he grunted, already exasperated — he turned to face you, leaning on the sink, and he wore that worn-out look he always did at the end of a long day (eyes heavy, jaw tight), despite the fact it was only half-three in the afternoon. “I’ll read the lot with the team later.” 

You let out a tight breath as you considered which details to give him. 

“Well, the victim was a middle-aged woman,” you started, “I’d say late forties. Wealthy, too.” 

He nodded. “Cause and manner?”

“Definitely a homicide, but that wasn’t really in question,” you started. “She was shot in the back of the head, I reckon with a nine-millimetre. It — it seems like it was an execution. Like the killer had the victim face down and pressed the barrel against the skull before firing.”

“Clean freak?” 

“Maybe,” you shrugged. “Certainly would lend an explanation to the clingfilm and the freezing.” 

“Mh,” he thought aloud. “So he has ‘em in cold storage. Why’s he only dumpin’ them now?” 

“He?” You asked, a quirk in your brow, and he suddenly looked agitated. 

“Not a rogue assumption,” he argued. “S’always a man, with this shite.”

A smirk tugged at your lips. “S’pose so,” you admitted. “I’m guessing they — he — has something to say, right? Leaving messages in the teeth — that’s zodiac shit.” 

“Sour,” he repeated, lost in thought. “What else.” 

“The victim was asphyxiated, but the ligatures around the throat are pretty minor compared to the airway damage. My guess is suffocation with plastic, given our guy’s affinity for it. Victim was alive when she was shot, though — maybe he suffocated her to subdue her.” 

He was in front of you, now, hands hooked on his hips, tip of his thumb anxiously rubbing his brow. 

“Fuckin’ animal,” he huffed. 

“We’ve swabbed all over for DNA,” you said, some clinical effort to comfort him. “He’ll have left something behind.” 

“He better ‘ave,” he said, looking briefly at his shoes, and his unease radiated from him, made your mouth taste like metal. 

“You alright?” You asked, less gently than you had intended. 

“I’m fine,” he said, vaguely defensive. 

He eyed you for a moment, sharp silver rings with their pin-prick pupils inspecting your face as though analysing the minutia of your features. You shuffled uncomfortably, looking at your fingernails to evade them. 

“What’re ye doin’ for dinner?” He asked, more warmly, and the whiplash made you cock your head back in disbelief.

“What?” 

“Y’heard me,” he said. 

“I’m—” you stammered, bewildered. “I haven’t thought about it yet.” 

“Grab a bite with me,” he said with the sternness of an order. “We can sit down somewhere. Have a real chat.” 

“Johnny, that—” you groaned, “that doesn’t seem like a good idea.” 

“For fuck’s sake, bonnie,” he barked, and you flinched at his sudden intensity. Not quite aggression but certainly encroaching on it. 

“What?” You growled, recoiling, back pressed against the window behind you. 

“I’m sick of it. Y’been fucken’ cold to me, and I haven’t done nothin’ to deserve it.” 

“I’m not — I’ve not been cold.” 

“No?” He snapped, “y’wont even look me in the eye for more than a damn second! Last time y’didn’t even say good-bye when ye left.” 

Riled annoyance flushed high on your cheeks, thrummed in your temples as you curled your tongue in search of a retaliation. 

“We’re not — there’s nothing here, Johnny. I don’t owe you anything. You can’t — you can’t expect me to worship you.” 

“Worship me?” He asked incredulously, “I don’t need ye tae worship me, hen, Christ — yer just so fucken’ icy I can’t focus on anythin’ at all when yer here. Like i’m walkin’ on eggshells everywhere I go.” 

“If I’m that distracting then you should find another pathologist,” you spat. You didn’t have a bone of de-escalation in your body; made entirely of kindle that took far more energy to snuff out than to ignite. 

He wiped down his face with white-knuckled hands, eyes rolling into the back of his head in pure frustration. Sometimes you simply enjoyed riling him up, but this time you only sought to get him to leave you alone.

“Yer bein’ cruel,” he grumbled, and you could hear the swelling anger roiling in his throat. 

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you hissed. “If you need to let off some steam so badly go stick your dick in someone else.”

His eyes turned dark, you watched his pupils distend right before you. 

“Don’t want someone else,” he murmured coarsely. 

 You gritted your teeth. “That’s too b—”

Cut off by a gasp as his body suddenly rammed against you, he used his weight to smother your disputes as a needy hand grasped at the button of your jeans, tugging and wriggling it vigorously to break it loose. 

“Johnny—” You belted, throat plugging up in the shock. 

You swung back a hand and threw it viciously into his cheek with a bullet-loud slap — but aside from the white-hot handprint you left on his face, he was utterly unperturbed. He deftly seized your assailing hand by the wrist and grappled it tightly, wrangled the other one while you were distracted and pinned it to your chest with a fist.

You balked as he yanked your right hand towards him, planting his mouth in your palm; his breath was blistering hot, made your hand all clammy as he pressed his slovenly lips into the hollow. 

“Miss ye,” he grumbled into your skin, wetting your palm with his tongue, no doubt it tasted like latex and soap. Didn’t seem to faze him, as he slid the tip of his tongue between the valley of two fingers, before taking your pinky finger in his mouth. Wet, and warm, enveloped it hole — the rough texture of his taste buds on the pad of your finger made your hairs stand on end, needle-sharp tingles down trickled your spine. 

“God’s sake, Johnny,” you breathed, dyspneic; tried to wriggle free the hand he had riveted to your sternum, but he only secured his grip of you. “This is — n-not here.”

“Don’ care,” he muttered, after releasing your finger from his maw; dragged his mouth hastily down your wrist, then your forearm, catching in the knit of your sweater. Found purchase once it reached skin again, took your febrile neck between his teeth and suckled there, basely relishing in the saltiness of your sweat. 

“John — please,” you chirped, when he bit your thickest tendon, and you felt your scruples begin to melt like butter. “I’ll go to d-dinner with you, just — this is so—”

His messy lips were on your jaw, then, but he never made his way to kiss you; as if kissing you on the mouth was too intimate, too severe a violation to commit, more so than anywhere else on your body he could have planted his mouth. 

“After,” he mumbled into your cheek, and his hands sunk to the button of your jeans, undoing it with a pop. Kept you wedged against the window into the autopsy room with his hips against you, gargantuan mass nearly squeezing the air from your lungs in an effort to keep you still. 

“Made me wait too long, bonnie,” he slurred, mouth on your collarbone, most of your exposed skin now wet with the marks of his saliva — hardly kisses, tastes instead. “Look what y’done to me.”

“I wasn’t…” you faltered, breathless, as he dropped to his knees hard enough that you winced at the thought of his kneecaps hitting the solid floor. 

The sound of your fly being torn down was harsh, ear-piercing; you squeaked in panic when he took the undone waistband of your jeans in his fists and yanked gracelessly them down your hips, dexterously taking your underwear with them. 

Hadn’t even shimmied them to your thighs before he keeled forward and took your cunt in his mouth, lapping at the seam of you like a dog on water, planting mushy kisses at the top of your slit as though greeting a lost lover.

Your protests turned to liquor on your tongue, inebriating — your head spun with it, ceding every modicum of agency to his charge, the responsibility now his to orchestrate you, the onus on him to steer you. He knew you well, the detective, could read you like the pages of a book. Knew how rarely you’d give, only hoping he’d take. 

And take he did, fucking glutton that he was — ate you like an animal, hardly even trying to prevent his sharp teeth from grazing your labia as he sucked your clitoris into his mouth, laving it with the voraciousness of a hound starved — suckling down your slick and letting it run down his chin, smear over his mouth and cheeks, eager to drown himself in you — you could only sputter and mewl in surrender, skull donging against the hollow glass of the window behind you as your head rocked back from your shoulders. 

“Johnny—” You hiccupped, aimless, hurling his name into the overcrowded air of the stuffy vestibule as though hoping it would stick to something. Your hands clawed at the veneered sill of the interior window, scraping off the polyurethane, you could feel the shards under your fingernails. 

Your clit burned under his tongue, pebbled and swollen and throbbing like a heartbeat — slithering rapture coiled up tight in the base of you, made your vision blurry and your mouth wet — on a cry you came, it ricocheted out from your perfervid clit in shockwaves that turned your vision white, and you did your best to stifle your cloying noises with a fleshy palm between your teeth. 

Legs went weak with it, nearly buckling if not for the hands that held you up by the hips, and he finished his meal with a gentle swipe of your anguished clit, flat tongue. 

Not like Tommy, he didn’t mock you for your orgasm, didn’t chortle and torment you with pokes or pinches just to make you squeal. Johnny was grateful for it, reverent, took his time to breathe in the heat of your rapture directly from its source, exhaling cool air on your glowing pussy as if to comfort it.

“Ah, fucken’ needed that,” he vented, panting, forehead on your belly. “Ma perfect kitty, mh, couldn’t wait any longer, bonnie.” 

You thought he might bring himself to stand, pull up your trousers for you, perhaps apologise for the incursion in a place as depravedly inappropriate as this — but, he didn’t. He instead tore your jeans down your thighs with unhampered haste, past your knees, hoisting up your ankle to yank the pant leg from your foot. 

That was all he needed, evidently, once your legs were no longer tethered by your trousers; he stood up and had you by the thighs in an effortless ascent, adroitly hooking your legs around his waist and wedging you against the window. His fist tore at his belt, and it clinkled as he unbuckled it — followed the flick of a button, the zip of a fly. 

“You’re a degenerate, Johnny,” you puffed, with a whine, and he all but chuckled at you. 

“M’just a man,” he grunted, cock unsheathed in a blink, you felt it smear against your sodden pussy and saturate his shaft with your needy syrup. “Y’won’t let me take y’out, won’t let me call ye, won’t let me—”

Bitten off by a groan as he nestled the blunt head between your folds, broke through your entrance without pause — sunk deep as he fell against you, and you bleated as he split you open — he was thicker than Tommy, the girth a painful shock every time you let him in, and you didn’t believe your cunt could ever be inured to the stretch, it could only rip itself to fit him. 

“—Fuck ye,” he groused, low voice breaking as he sealed his lips to your neck. “Christ, bonnie—”

You only whimpered, turned stupid, as you hung your arms over his shoulders and clawed at his back, nails catching in the stiff straps of the holster that cladded his scapulae. Herculean shoulders worked facilely to hold you up, thick and straining against the thin cotton of his shirt. His thrusts were steady, hard, bounced you up and down against the glass — your sweater rode up with every rut, until your bare back smeared against the cold window, you felt it grow damp with the condensation of your sweat. 

“Feel tha’, hen?” He growled, the resonance of his ragged voice wracking through you like a quake. “Fucken’ made for me, eh? Perfect fit—” 

So greedy, insatiable, he fucked you with a simmering rage, one that had been bubbling under the surface and whose temperature had only risen with every visit you turned him down — one, two, three months since you last let him inside, figuratively and literally — and he let you know of his spite, fucked you with the ferocity of a man boiled over, you worried that he’d push you through the window and the shards would cut you to pieces. 

You bit down on little cries with each rut, the upward curve in his cock had his rigid head battering your bladder from inside you to the point of ache, and it turned you pudding soft — all defiance siphoned from you, pooling around the base of his cock until it went foamy in his bed of trimmed dark hair. 

He groaned, feverish and needy, and you knew what that sound portended. 

“Agh — fuck, can I—”

Come inside you went swallowed, because he was too close, and he wouldn’t have had time to pull out if you were to say no. 

His teeth chewed reverently at your shoulder and he moaned into your skin, bucking in, to the hilt, ruts turning erratic and volatile. His cock jolted hard within your constricting walls when he finally reached his climax — spurting scalding hot come into the depths of your cunt until you were glutted with it, filling you up to the fornices, and you could almost taste its brine on your tongue. 

A slow whimper leaked out from behind your teeth, perhaps a moan of relief, now that he was hopefully surfeited — he slumped into you with a puff of air, kissed your shoulder where he had bitten you, chased a final thrust to squeeze out every drop. 

“Been too long,” he purred, winded, humid with sweat. “Dinnae make me wait like that again, eh?”

“M’sorry,” you slurred, fucked drunk, brain knocked against your skull one too many times in the last twenty-four hours for it to make much sense of what had happened. 

You felt stuffy, filled up to the ears with come and confusion, and you wanted nothing more than to climb out of the corpse-ridden basement he had just fucked you in and take a breath of real air. 

He slipped his cock out of you once it had marginally softened, and a glub of come oozed out of your cunt and dribbled down your thigh. You groaned as you bent down to put your jeans back on — but to your surprise, he helped you. Took your foot (sneaker still on) and fed it through the leg of your underwear, then your trousers, pulled them up both your legs with a shimmy, fixed them over your hips. 

Even did your button back up for you, pulled up your zip fly as if he was undoing the damage he had done. 

“There, hen,” he said gently, petting your cheek as if to praise you. “All better.” 

In your stupor you could only be grateful. “Thank you.” 

“Will y’come get a bite with me, now?” 

You were dizzy. You needed to put Jane Doe back in the fridge. You needed to give him a copy of your pathology report. You needed to send the toxicology samples to the forensics lab. 

Maybe you could leave it all for Jenny. 

“Okay,” you said. 

[harunayuuka2060]

*Ace and Epel were thinking of ways to get MC to notice them.*

*Meanwhile, Azul and Ortho noticed something odd: the sky darkened into a deep red hue, and the air thinned just slightly—not enough to hinder breathing.*

Ortho: Azul...

Azul: ...

Azul: Ace! Epel!

Ace and Epel: *turned their heads at him*

Ace: *yells* What do you want, Azul-senpai?

Azul: You’ve got five minutes to get their attention! If you fail, we’re out of here—no matter what!

Epel: Eh?! Five minutes?!

Ortho: Azul, if my hypothesis is accurate, is MC responsible for this place's deterioration?

Azul: Yes. Why maintain a place that reeks of death? Though I must admit, their continued hesitation is… surprising.

Ortho: ...

Ortho: Is it possible… the Prefect cares about our safety?

Azul: ...

Ace: Okay, great. So we only have five minutes—no, four.

Epel: ...

Epel: Should we start hitting them?

Ace: Are you crazy?! Do you want to get swatted like a fly?!

Epel: At least it's better than any idea you will have!

Ace: You don't know that!

Epel: Do you want me to list all the stupid things you did in Heartslabyul?

Ace: You're from Pomefiore! How would you even know?!

Epel: Deuce told me!

Ace: That snitch—

*A soft chuckle rumbled from MC, startling the boys perched on their lap. They lowered their massive head, eyes finally focusing on them with deliberate gentleness.*

MC: Ace... Epel...

Ace and Epel: YEESSS!!! WE DID IT!!!

*Relief washed over Ortho and Azul as Ace and Epel succeeded. Yet despite their victory, the eerie atmosphere lingered—unnatural and heavy. Still, it bought them precious time. Exchanging a glance, the pair stepped forward to approach MC.*

Silver: Everyone! Azul and his group are back!

Sebek: Ace! What took so long?!

Ace: Shut up! We got news!

Epel: MC has another unique magic, and we need to stop them from awakening it!

Leona: What?

Sebek: *shocked expression* Another... unique magic?

Azul: Ortho documented the essential elements of our discussion with them.

Ortho: Everybody! Please listen!

MC: I see the others couldn't persuade you to leave.

Azul: Had that been an option?

MC: Yes.

Azul: ...

Ace: Hey, but why do you want us to leave? We're here to help you, you know?

Epel: Yeah! Everyone's here!

MC: *their face darkened* You don't understand. We're doing everything we can to prevent loss of life.

Ortho: Huh? What do you mean by that, Prefect?

MC: A dangerous magic is about to awaken.

Azul: What does it do?

MC: …A mirror that dictates its own reality. Not even its caster will be able to control it.

Everyone: !!!

Vil: Then what's the use of collecting these mirror shards?!

Azul, Ace, Ortho, and Epel: ...

Azul: Yes, about that - they said we can't take chances with any more reflections. When we see one, we should destroy it.

Kalim: B-But why?!

Azul: Though we stumbled upon benevolent reflections this time, they cautioned that far more malicious ones await us.

Jamil: Even if you say that, isn't our mission to ease their doubts?

Jack: Right, and we're supposed to choose.

Ortho: I detected no deception from the reflection we encountered, so I'm confident they were telling the truth.

Leona: Okay then, did they give you the mirror shard?

Azul: ...

Ace, Ortho, and Epel: ...

Leona: Azul.

Ace: They said they didn't have one.

Leona: And you believed them?

Ace: ...

Epel: Well... They said it would be useless anyway...

Ortho: I agree. After all, the one we met was a giant merfolk.

Everyone: ...

"That giant was no fun. How could they warn them like that? *giggles*"

[celestiamour]

Ever since squid game s1&s2 wi hajoon character😩 I even saw a clip of his back 💀ok im getting side tracked😭so may I please request a smut with junho x fem reader where he’s stressed trying to find his brother but his wife or gf is there for him to keep him calm. It could literally be any plot😭 just need Jun Ho

ft. hwang jun-ho x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ eating you out after a long stressful day┊0.7k words

setting: season 1, before the 33rd games contains: smut!! dom jun-ho & sub reader┊oral fixation, receiving oral, overstimulation, mentioned nipple play & marking, established relationship

➤ author's note: i need this so bad, the new year depression is hitting and i’m so lonely

being a police detective is insanely stressful on levels he couldn’t even begin to explain, even more so when it’s a case related to him personally. ever since his brother went missing, he’s been relentless in his pursuit to find him, searching for even the tiniest clues that may help push the dead end he’s been stuck at for so long. he comes back a little bit later each night with less and less energy, crashing out on the couch and fall asleep to stop the raging headache from considering all of the possible things that could have happened. 

he still makes an effort to be there for you though, taking time out of his busy schedule to take you out on at least one date per week, not just to remind you that he loves you even with how busy he is, but for him to relax too. there’s nothing better than being comfortable and able to turn off the gears constantly turning in his brain in the company of someone he adores so much, and returning home to rest in your warm embrace is akin to heaven for his troubled mind. 

sometimes he likes to shut his brain down entirely when having sex with you and just thoughtlessly do his own thing. it’s almost therapeutic for him, even though you’re the victim of his ministrations and find your body suffering from too much pleasure (if it’s even a thing, he draws a thin line that makes you wonder).

like he is right now, hands spreading the inside of your thighs with a tight grip to prevent them from closing and his mouth laser-focused on what’s in between.

“i-it’s too much,” you whined, trying to push him away for a second of relief yet making no real attempt to do so, limbs slacking after a mere second of effort. perspiration had covered your skin in a thin sheen, shining under the light of the ceiling fixture and drawing attention to his previous actions: marks from constant sucking and biting into your soft flesh all over your neck and chest area. 

he simply hummed in response, the vibrations sending pleasure straight to your clit and making your whimper, not really listening to you. there weren’t really any thoughts in his head at the moment, only trying to pull another orgasm from your spent body to taste more of your addicting nectar and listen to your cries that sounded like the song of an angel.

you originally wanted to pay him attention before yourself, taking the edge off the perpetual stress he was going through with his climax, yet this was all he wanted to do, sucking on your clit like it was candy until the neighbors knew his name. there was no real skill or technique behind his movements, just pure unadulterated passion and lust as he pulled you even closer than you thought possible with an increased pace of fucking you with his tongue. 

it felt so suffocatingly hot, taking another breath only to let out another pitched moan in a vicious cycle. you didn’t know where to put your hands, alternating from the bedsheets to your oversized t-shirt stolen from his before finally tangling your fingers in his dark locks and tugging which caused him to groan in response. he finally opened his eyes and met your half-lidded ones, but he did not stop his assault on your engorged pearl. truthfully, the sight of you as such a blissed-out mess was almost enough to make him cum untouched, and he’s not even certain if he didn’t.

the familiar feeling of an orgasm washes over you, the intensity of it being your third tonight making your back arch off the mattress and your toes curl with a pitiful gasp. still, jun-ho’s lips stayed latched onto your abused pussy, lapping up all of your arousal like a damn dog until you were all cleaned up with nothing but his spit slicking your folds. you whimpered when he finally let go only to part your swollen hypersensitive cunt with his finger, admiring how it quivered and clenched around nothing begging for more.

it was going to be a long night, but it’s worth it if he gets the satisfaction of carrying you out of bed the next day due to your shaking legs and he finally wakes up with a clear head for once.