#Command Center Application

[dunebells]

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[mindfulldsliving]

Hearken, O Ye People: A Call to Repent and Return to the Lord

“Hearken, O ye people” isn’t just an invitation—it’s a command from the Lord. Doctrine and Covenants 1 is His call to review our hearts, repent, and recommit to His covenant. Given as the preface to the revelations of this dispensation, this section emphasizes the urgency of listening to His voice and aligning our lives with His will. It’s not just for the early Saints; it’s for all of us today.…

[wordsofwhimsy]

【Ｏｐｐｏｓｉｔｅｓ　

Ａｔｔｒａｃｔ】 - Part Four

PLEASE go check out @gods-banshee - when I tell you their work is fucking TOP TIER uuugghhh

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: Violence

Tags: Fluff, slice of life, just a smidgen of angst

Word Count: 1,941

Chapter Synopsis: Mark doesn’t show up for school the next day, while you consider a future beyond high school. When Mark does finally show back up, his bruises tell a story of their own.

a/n: shout out to y’all in the notes of the last part – you gave me such great ideas!! i actually had a different part written out for this but i’m gonna push that release out til tomorrow. i really think this chapter helps to set the stage for their relationship :’)

Part Three

You didn’t see Mark at school the next day. And as much as you tried to pretend it didn’t bother you, it did.

The disappointment settled heavy in your chest like fog that just wouldn’t burn off. You kept catching yourself glancing toward the doors, the hallways, your usual meeting spots. But they stayed empty. He just… wasn’t there.

Classes dragged on longer than should’ve been humanly possible. Even the clock seemed to be taunting you, ticking slower than usual. The only saving grace—if you could call it that—was the strange silence that had wrapped itself around you like armor. People kept their distance. No teasing in the hallways, no snide little comments. Just side-eyes and wide berths and whispers you couldn’t quite catch.

You had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t your sparkling personality that earned you space—more like the memory of Mark’s hand dropping like Thor’s hammer onto a linebacker’s shoulder hard enough to make him crumple like a wet paper bag.

Not that you were complaining.

Still, the day kept dragging. And when a surprise seminar got tacked onto your schedule—something about “college readiness” and “your future starts now!”—you barely resisted the urge to put your head down and sleep through it.

You’d never really thought about college before.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go. It just hadn’t ever felt like an option. People in movies talked about it like it was a rite of passage, like it was supposed to be the most transformative, definitive part of your early twenties. Dorms, roommates, late-night study sessions, falling asleep in a library somewhere.

It all sounded surreal. Like a dream someone else had told you about, but you weren’t sure you were meant to have yourself.

But as you sat in that seminar, blinking up at the slideshow and half-listening to the counselor talk about application deadlines and majors and “broadening your horizons,” something settled in your chest. A decision, soft but certain.

You were going to apply. Somehow. Some way.

Even if the whole thing felt impossible, even if it was scary and new and overwhelming—you wanted it. A fresh start. A future.

You tried your best to focus for the rest of the day. Really, you did. But your mind kept wandering, drifting like a feather on the ocean. Every few minutes, your thoughts would flick back to Mark.

Where was he?

Was he okay?

You shook yourself out of it. Again. Again.

Meanwhile, at the GDA...

The air in the Pentagon was thick with smoke and something metallic—blood, maybe. Shattered lights flickered overhead, casting the ruined command floor in sharp, jarring strobes. Debris littered the ground. Reanimen corpses sparked and sputtered where they'd fallen, still leaking that strange green fluid.

Cecil stood at the center of it all, shoulders tight beneath his coat, one hand pressing against the gash on his ribs. He didn’t flinch as Mark hovered down through the ruined ceiling, boots crunching against shattered tile.

“Well,” Cecil rasped, “that was one hell of a tantrum.”

Mark didn’t respond.

He stood there, heaving slightly, his breathing uneven like he’d run miles with his lungs half-full. Scratches marred his arms and face—half-healed already—but his hands were still clenched into fists, blood crusted over his knuckles. His jaw was locked tight, eyes burning. Not glowing. Not flaring.

Just burning.

Cecil kept a hand near his belt, where a small device blinked faintly. From the corners of the room, GDA agents remained out of sight, stationed in high places and behind blast-proof barriers. Every single one of them armed. Every single one of them ready.

Mark noticed.

He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the shadows like he could see straight through the concrete.

“Really?” he said, his voice low. Flat. “You brought guns?”

Cecil didn’t blink. “Precaution. After what you just pulled, I think we’ve earned the right to be cautious.”

Mark’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “You think any of them could stop me?”

“I think some of them could slow you down.”

That laugh came again—but quieter this time. Darker. He stepped forward once. Just once. The walls didn’t shake, but they felt like they should have.

“I’m not here to talk about them.”

Cecil narrowed his eyes. “Then why are you here, son?” Mark’s mouth twitched.

“You think you’re so clever,” he muttered, taking another step. “Sitting in your tower. Watching everything. Pulling strings.”

“We’ve been over this,” Cecil said evenly. “You don’t like how we operate, take it up with the board.” Mark didn’t answer. Instead, in one sudden, brutal movement, he lunged—faster than any of the agents could react—and grabbed Cecil by the throat.

In a blink, he had him hoisted off the ground.

Cecil choked, boots dangling inches above the tile. The blinking device at his belt sparked once, then fizzled. He managed to keep a steady look on his face—despite the strain.

“You’re gonna tell me,” Mark said through gritted teeth, “why you were testing her.”

Cecil’s brow furrowed. “Testing who—?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I don’t know who—”

“[Y/N].” The name cracked through the air like thunder. And just like that, Cecil went still. Mark’s grip tightened.

“She was a kid,” Mark snapped, voice rising. “She was a kid who liked cartoons and stupid cereal and playing pretend in the backyard, and you—you sons of bitches—you treated her like a lab rat.”

Cecil managed a rasping breath. “We… weren’t trying to hurt her. We thought she had potential. We were trying to help.”

Mark’s eyes flared for just a second—gold light bleeding through.

“Help?” he spat. “You call shoving needles in her spine and tracking her every move help?”

“She was different,” Cecil said, more quietly now. “We needed to understand how. What she was capable of.”

“She was capable of being a child,” Mark growled. “And you took that away from her.” There was a beat of silence. No one moved. Cecil looked down at him—at the sheer rage coiled in Mark’s expression, every muscle tense and shaking—and said nothing.

That silence was all Mark needed.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, voice quieter now. “You’re going to forget she exists. No files. No cameras. No missions. You don’t watch her. You don’t talk about her. You don’t think about her.”

Cecil didn’t reply. Mark dropped him like dead weight.

The older man crumpled slightly, coughing once as he straightened himself up, hand pressed to his ribs again. Mark didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t need one.

He just looked up, and with a deafening crack, shot straight through the ceiling—leaving a second, even larger hole in the roof as he vanished into the sky.

No one followed. No one even moved. Because the message had been loud and clear.

Don’t touch her.

Not unless they wanted to deal with him again.

—

When Mark got home, it was late.

Not just in the way the sky had gone pitch-dark—but late in his bones, in the aching behind his eyes and the coppery taste of blood at the back of his tongue. He landed harder than he meant to, boots scuffing the roof before he dropped onto the balcony and slid the glass door open with more force than necessary.

The house was mostly dark. Quiet, save for the low hum of a baseball game playing from the living room.

He stepped inside and winced at the effort. His suit was torn at the hem, his side throbbed where one of the Reanimen had landed a lucky hit, and he was pretty sure something in his shoulder was out of place. Again.

Nolan didn’t turn around when he heard him. Just kept his eyes on the TV, one arm draped along the back of the couch. The volume was low, the commentator’s voice barely audible.

Mark stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. “You look like hell,” Nolan said finally, voice neutral. Mark didn’t answer. He didn’t really have anything to say.

There was a beat of silence.

“Stay home tomorrow,” his dad added, not looking at him. “You’re not gonna learn anything at school with broken ribs.”

Mark’s jaw clenched. “They’re not broken.”

“Sure,” Nolan said, still not turning around. “Rest anyway.”

Mark didn’t say another word. He just walked past the couch, trudging toward the stairs like someone wading through thick mud.

The last thing he saw before his head disappeared up the landing was his dad—sitting quietly, face lined with something tired. Something almost sad.

He never asked what happened.

Two days later, Mark was back at school. You spotted him the moment you stepped into the courtyard—partially because he was sitting on your usual bench, and partially because he looked like he’d been hit by a train.

Twice.

You stopped mid-step, eyes widening. “Mark?”

He glanced up from his phone, and the second he saw you, his whole face softened. Just a little.

“Hey,” he said, like it was normal. Like his cheek wasn’t bruised, like there wasn’t a thin healing cut curling down the side of his jaw.

You rushed over, immediately crouching down in front of him, your bag slipping off your shoulder. “What happened to you?!”

Mark shifted, like he hadn’t expected that to be the first thing out of your mouth. “It’s nothing. I just—got into a fight.”

You blinked. “With what, a lawnmower?”

He cracked a tired grin. “No, but that’s a good guess.”

You frowned, reaching up without thinking to brush your fingers near the edge of one of the bruises. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t meet your eyes either.

“Are you okay?” You said, voice quiet.

““Totally fine,” he said, too quickly. “Just had a… bad day.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Y’know, I might be pretty socially inept, but even I can tell you’re avoiding the subject.”

Mark froze, just slightly.

“But that’s okay,” you added quickly, voice softening. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m just…” Your smile returned, smaller this time. “I’m just glad you’re here now.”

That landed harder than anything else. He looked at you then—really looked at you—and for a second, you could almost see the gears in his head grinding to a halt. Like he didn’t know what to do with the fact that you weren’t mad. That you cared without demanding answers.

The silence hung for a beat.

Then you reached into your bag, pulling out a Tupperware container and holding it out to him.

He blinked. “What’s that?”

“Lunch,” you said. “I made too much. Well—actually, I didn’t. But I’m guessing you didn’t bring your own, and I can’t subject you to that horrible cafeteria slop.”

Mark stared at the container. Then at you. “You made this?”

You gave a tiny, sheepish shrug. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s just rice and tofu. Pesto helped.”

Mark exhaled a laugh through his nose and took the container from your hands like it might break if he grabbed it too hard. “…Thanks.”

You smiled. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t tried it.”

He looked down at it for a moment, then back at you, something unreadable in his gaze. The bruise on his cheek was turning an ugly yellow at the edges. The cut was almost gone.

But the weight in his shoulders? That was still there.

Still—when you sat beside him, close enough that your knees touched, some of that weight seemed to lift.

Not all of it.

But enough.

———————

Part Five

———————

Taglist! @maddyb-rapps | @sweet-3-whispers | @moradogreen | @rayaaa4444 | @luvvcharxo | @byteme05 | @rivalriotrenegade | @1abi

[tvseries-writings]

Life at Westview

Agathario x reader

Prompt: Y/n is a resident at Westview Hospital, and her heart is stolen by the Chief of Neurosurgery, Agatha Harkness, and her wife, the Chief of Trauma, Rio Vidal.

You had always seen the emergency room as a battlefield, where whoever ran the fastest and secured the weapons was the victor. As the chief resident, you had quickly confirmed that impression of the trench you ventured into every day.

You think back to your first day in hell, and a small smile curls your lips. Although, come to think of it, you hadn’t smiled at all that day.

⸻⸻flashback⸻⸻

Four years earlier, after endless months of grueling study, among the many hospitals that had accepted your application for residency, you had chosen Westview Hospital. The only hospital in the state with the highest number of female department heads; since your first year in medical school, you had heard about the brilliance of the Chief of Neurosurgery, Agatha Harkness, and the incredible—albeit bizarre and almost crazy—surgeries of the Chief of Trauma, Rio Vidal. You didn’t know it yet, but those two great surgeons you had only heard about would soon capture your heart.

On the first day of your residency, you had entered the hospital with your college roommate and close friend, Wanda. One of those people who have the extraordinary ability to make you feel safe even when you’re on the brink of panic. Wanda had always had that gift: calm in the midst of the storm. That day, you looked into each other’s eyes with the same determination and fear mixed with excitement that had accompanied you throughout your university years. As soon as you crossed the threshold of the Westview Hospital emergency room, you were hit by an overwhelming wave of sounds, smells, and images that almost stunned you. Nurses shouting orders, patients on stretchers moaning, doctors running through the corridors like soldiers on a battlefield. That sensation of organized chaos immediately put you on alert: you had truly entered the trenches.

You headed to the locker rooms, then donned your first lab coat with the Westview Hospital logo emblazoned on the chest. Your heart started pounding wildly, and Wanda reassuringly squeezed your forearm before dragging you toward the emergency room. You were the last of the residents to arrive, and as soon as you stepped into the circle of terrified students, the stunning woman at the center turned toward you. She smiled—a mischievous and dangerously alluring smile; her hair was pulled back in a meticulously messy low bun, with two or three strands rebelliously escaping. Her gaze focused on Wanda and then on you; those brown eyes penetrated your soul deeply and scrutinized you so intensely that time seemed to stand still for a few seconds. She was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen.

“Welcome to hell, residents. I’m Dr. Vidal, Chief of Trauma, and I’m pleased to welcome you to the first day of what will be the six toughest and most beautiful years of your life. The emergency room is your battlefield, and I am your commander; what I say, you do. No objections. And remember, residents: Medicine is a marathon, not a suicide mission.”

Her gaze lingered on each of you and then settled on you.

“What’s your name?”

The question caught you off guard; those magnetic eyes had drawn closer, and a cocky, magnetic smirk curled her lips.

“Y/n, Dr. Vidal.”

“Well, Dr. Y/n, tardiness is unacceptable in matters of life and death.”

The chief scrutinized you once more, ran her tongue over her lower lip, and tucked the pen she had been playing with into her bun. It was at that moment you noticed the wedding ring on her finger.

That ring chilled your blood. It made the moment even more destabilizing. A forbidden desire, born even before any real contact, already marked as impossible. One look was enough to understand that behind Dr. Vidal’s mischievous smile lay something forbidden. Something you should have rationally avoided.

It wasn’t just her bold beauty. It was her authority, the way she moved the world around her, as if she commanded it with a mere nod. And it was the only gaze that, from the very first day, made you feel seen.

You lowered your gaze to escape that vortex, but it was already too late. Dr. Rio Vidal had elegantly marked you; you had become her prey, and when your first day as a resident officially began, medicine was the last thing on your mind.

“Well, now that we’ve introduced ourselves… follow my lead, recruits.”

With a fluid, almost theatrical movement, Dr. Vidal turned on her heels and began walking briskly toward the beating heart of the emergency room. Wanda gave you a look that said, “Did you see that too?” and you, still with a racing heart, merely nodded silently.

The orientation tour was anything but a true orientation. Rio spoke quickly, never slowing down, pointing out rooms, departments, emergency exits, and names of nurses and doctors that already seemed like a jumble of indistinct sounds. With each step, your lab coat seemed to tighten, your breathing shorter. Arriving in front of Operating Room No. 3, Dr. Vidal stopped abruptly.

“If you want to be doctors to hear ‘thank you,’ go into pediatrics. In here, there are no thank-yous. Only trembling hands, adrenaline, and blood. Lots of blood.”

That phrase echoed in your mind for the rest of the day. You had already heard how tough and unforgiving life in the emergency room was, but no description could have truly prepared you for what you were about to experience. Every passing minute, reality became clearer, rawer, and more ruthless. You stayed glued to Dr. Vidal’s determined steps, desperately trying to keep pace while mentally noting every detail. You couldn’t afford to fail—not in front of her.

That afternoon, the first real test came without warning. A stretcher rushed down the corridor; a young man was covered in blood, his arm in an unnatural position, and his eyes vacant. You froze for a moment, paralyzed by the gruesome scene.

“Y/n, time to wake up!” Vidal’s tone was as sharp as a blade, but that jolt was enough to bring you back to reality. You quickly moved beside her, listening intently to her concise instructions as she managed the situation with unshakable authority. The chaos of the operating room suddenly transformed into a perfect symphony. Despite the blood, despite the screams, Rio’s calm and authoritative voice guided every movement, every decision with absolute precision. And you, by her side, immediately understood why everyone respected her so much. It wasn’t just skill; it was pure magnetism. It was the ability to control chaos like a conductor with a perfect symphony.

When it was all over, and the patient was taken to intensive care, you felt your legs slightly give way. Rio Vidal gave you a probing look, then, unexpectedly, touched your arm with a hand that seemed too gentle compared to the strength she had just demonstrated.

“It’s never easy the first time. Breathe.”

Her tone was soft, a caress you didn’t expect. You looked up and met her gaze again, which was now different—less sharp, more understanding. You felt your heart skip a beat and nodded slowly, unable to speak. When Vidal turned to fill out the report, Wanda immediately joined you.

“God, Y/n, are you okay?”

You gave her a weak smile, finally catching your breath.

“I think so. Or at least I will be.”

“Well, we have to be, right?” Wanda replied with a brave smile, squeezing your hand. “We have no choice.”

And she was right. That day, you understood something fundamental: the emergency room wasn’t just a battle against time and death. It was a battle with yourself, with your fears, with your personal limits.

But, above all, you realized that your heart was already lost in a battle you hadn’t even begun to fight: that forbidden, silent, and inevitable attraction to Rio Vidal—a desire that threatened to overwhelm you like an unstoppable tide.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You met the Chief of Neurosurgery at Westview Hospital only three weeks later; after 21 days of poor sleep, excessive caffeine, stolen glances, suppressed laughter, and long conversations with Dr. Rio Vidal, you finally met her wife. Ironic, considering you had ignored the ring she wore for a full twenty-one days, and then fate reminded you that whatever was happening between you and Rio was absolutely wrong. Or at least, that’s what you believed at first.

“Y/n, Maximoff, pleased to have you in Neurosurgery. I know you’ve expressed interest in this spectacular branch of medicine, but be warned: in this department, we don’t fight to suture quickly and prevent people from bleeding out. This is emergency medicine, yes, but above all, it’s precision medicine—practically divine. A few millimeters, and the patient dies. We don’t joke with the most important organ in the human body. It’s not for everyone, and I expect your all. Is that clear?”

You remember the knot in your stomach, the anxiety that gripped you upon hearing those words, but even stronger was the magnetic attraction you had felt exactly twenty-one days earlier. Once again, your heart was captivated, divided in two between Rio Vidal and Agatha Harkness. And then, while your heart yearned for that meticulous, icy, calculating, passionate, and mysterious woman, whose eyes were fire beneath the surface, the chief spoke again.

“We’ve taken an oath, but that doesn’t mean we have to self-destruct to keep it. Medicine is a marathon, not a suicide mission.”

At that phrase, your heart practically stopped, and the dots in your mind finally connected. Same phrase, two women, two rings, two exceptional surgeons, and two damn impossible loves.

⸻⸻⸻⸻

From that day on, every moment spent at Westview Hospital became a continuous challenge. Not only against time or death but especially against yourself. Every stolen glance, every accidental touch, every word spoken by Drs. Vidal and Harkness became an invisible scar you carried within—a mark that constantly reminded you of what you couldn’t have.

In the following months, you did your best to suppress those feelings, focusing your soul and body on your work. Yet, it seemed impossible to escape the gravity of Rio Vidal and Agatha Harkness. They were like two bright and irresistible stars that continually threatened to make you lose your way. When you were with Rio, it was as if an invisible current constantly drew you toward each other—a magnetic tension you both pretended to ignore but was always present. With Agatha, however, the situation was more complex: it was a dark and refined charm, made of silent glances and measured words that made you feel fragile and safe at the same time.

Wanda, of course, had sensed everything. She was your anchor, your lifeline in that stormy sea. She never asked explicit questions, but her eyes spoke clearly: she knew, understood, and silently supported you. You were grateful for her reassuring presence, but deep down, you knew that battle had to be fought alone.

One night, after an exhausting shift, you were alone in the doctors’ lounge. You tried to find solace in a cup of coffee, but your hands trembled so violently that the cup slipped from your fingers and shattered on the floor. Hot liquid spread across the tiles, but you couldn’t even react. Your heart was pounding too fast, too unevenly. Dizziness hit you with such force that, when you tried to stand and call for help, your knees gave out.

You barely managed to brace yourself against the wall, your forehead slick with sweat, breathing in short, shallow gasps. The sounds around you faded, muffled and distant, and in the midst of that disorienting fog, you heard familiar footsteps approaching, and the soft creak of the door opening.

“Y/n?”

Agatha Harkness appeared in your line of sight. Her usually composed, glacial face was tight with worry. In a flash, the Chief of Neurosurgery knelt beside you; her fingers wrapped around your wrist, steady and precise as she checked your pulse.

“Did you hit your head? Dizziness? Did you faint?”

You couldn’t answer, not right away. Not with the ringing in your ears distorting every word from her lips. Agatha scanned the room. Her eyes landed first on the spilled coffee, then on the dark circles under your eyes, and finally on the realization—how your body had grown thinner, more fragile over the past weeks… and how she hadn’t noticed.

“Y/n, look at me. You’re okay. Breathe.”

You tried—God, you tried. Your body ached to obey her every command, and yet, every breath felt too shallow, too strained. Agatha gently lifted your chin with her free hand—the other still pressing firmly to your wrist, feeling every beat. Her brow furrowed with focus and tension.

She stood suddenly, grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, and helped you sip it slowly. Despite the haze in your head, you noticed her fingers trembling and her gaze burning with concern. For a woman always so poised, so precise—she was holding your wrist too tightly, looking at you with far too much emotion for just a mentor. Everything about her betrayed a deeper feeling. Something dangerous.

Surprisingly, the water helped more than you expected. Slowly, your mind cleared, and the room stopped spinning.

“I-I’m okay,” you whispered.

“Gosh, you’re a mirror of who I was ten years ago… You’re not invincible, Y/n. None of us are. This time you got lucky, but next time… it might not end the same.”

Her voice trembled—not a reprimand, but something far more painful. In her eyes, there was worry. Real, sharp worry. And guilt. She looked like someone who had just barely saved something she hadn’t even realized she could lose.

“I’d like to have a word with whoever authorized a nearly 50-hour shift. You can’t go on like this. Your body gave out. You collapsed. You need rest. And don’t tell me you’re fine—I know when someone’s running on fumes. I’ve been there. And I’ve fought with stubborn women before. Just know that Rio—”

You didn’t let her finish.

Maybe it was the dizziness, the sleepless nights, or the raw vulnerability of that moment, but your lips brushed hers—softly, tentatively. She didn’t respond at first. Panic swept through you like wildfire. You started to pull away, heart hammering, until—

Agatha kissed you back.

It wasn’t frantic, but slow, calculated, and impossibly tender. The kind of kiss that says I know this is wrong, but I’ve thought about it for far too long to stop now.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered against your lips. “Not here.”

You nodded. And then your eyes locked.

“Agatha, I… Rio—”

“I know. I know… she feels the same.”

And in that moment, everything changed.

You tried to stand, but your legs still hadn’t recovered. If it hadn’t been for Agatha, you would’ve collapsed again.

“Easy,” she said softly. “Your heart rate’s still elevated, and you look like you haven’t slept in a week. You need to lie down.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Agatha silenced you with a look.

“If not for yourself, then for us. And for the patients who depend on you. I think you just shaved five years off my life tonight.”

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—you let go, not of your feelings, but of the war you’d been waging alone. Because someone, somewhere in that hospital, had finally seen past the surgeon’s mask. And chosen you.

Heyy, what do u think about it? I’ll probably continue this but idk. Thanks for reading and have a great day!

Taglist: @blackhill2245 @foggytidalwavefun @sevnheaven @budoxinha @lighthousekiller @m456300 @blitzar-3 @idontknownemore @lesbianbabe @speedup500 @differentranchempathfestival @mebeingthatbitch @jemilyswife @yuleni18 @darkstar225 @whyamihere2673 @your-my-mission @finca-lotr @coollemonsaresour @nuianced-tck-enby @fishlikestuff @ktstwice @idontknowhowtogay @liladoesfanfics @maria-403 @razorscooteer

[adafruit]

🎄💾🗓️ Day 9: Retrocomputing Advent Calendar - The Apple Lisa 🎄💾🗓️

The Apple Lisa, introduced on January 19, 1983, was a pioneering personal computer notable for its graphical user interface (GUI) and mouse input, a big departure from text-based command-line interfaces. Featured a Motorola 68000 CPU running at 5 MHz, 1 MB of RAM (expandable to 2 MB), and a 12-inch monochrome display with a resolution of 720×364 pixels. The system initially included dual 5.25-inch "Twiggy" floppy drives, later replaced by a single 3.5-inch Sony floppy drive in the Lisa 2 model. An optional 5 or 10 MB external ProFile hard drive provided more storage.

The Lisa's price of $9,995 (equivalent to approximately $30,600 in 2023) and performance issues held back its commercial success; sales were estimated at about 10,000 units.

It introduced advanced concepts such as memory protection and a document-oriented workflow, which influenced future Apple products and personal computing.

The Lisa's legacy had a huge impact on Apple computers, specifically the Macintosh line, which adopted and refined many of its features. While the Lisa was not exactly a commercial success, its contributions to the evolution of user-friendly computing interfaces are widely recognized in computing history.

These screen pictures come from Adafruit fan Philip " It still boots up from the Twiggy hard drive and runs. It also has a complete Pascal Development System." …"mine is a Lisa 2 with the 3.5” floppy and the 5 MB hard disk. In addition all of the unsold Lisa machines reached an ignominious end."

What end was that? From the Verge -

In September 1989, according to a news article, Apple buried about 2,700 unsold Lisa computers in Logan, Utah at a very closely guarded garbage dump. The Lisa was released in 1983, and it was Apple’s first stab at a truly modern, graphically driven computer: it had a mouse, windows, icons, menus, and other things we’ve all come to expect from “user-friendly” desktops. It had those features a full year before the release of the Macintosh.

Article, and video…

Check out the Apple Lisa page on Wikipedia

, the Computer History's article -

and the National Museum of American History – Behring center -

Have first computer memories? Post’em up in the comments, or post yours on socialz’ and tag them #firstcomputer #retrocomputing – See you back here tomorrow!

[the-californicationist]

Guile & Guilt (Ch. 07)

Soap/Reader

TW: sex

MDNI/18+

AO3 LINK

I'm so sorry for the wait!! I hope this long chap made up for it. I really appreciate all the comments and reblogs. It really keeps me going. The next chapter is gonna be rough. Hope you're ready for it. I'm not!

CHRISTMAS EVE

The lecture hall slowly began to fill with graduate students and professors. A gaggle of undergrads huddled to the side with their notebooks, surely attending by someone else’s command and not of their own volition. They were all dressed in various layers of warmth. Anoraks and sweaters rustled and stretched in the cloth seats, the odd peacoat was hung carefully over the edge of a chair. It was nice to have a small crowd, but you were sure everyone had somewhere better to be. The only people that would show up to the long-standing tradition of a Christmas Eve colloquium were the die-hard academics and those desperately needing extra credit in their year-long lab classes.

You liked this lecture room the best. The big arching stadium seating made you feel like a surgeon in her theatre, carving up your poems and displaying their abnormalities, arguing in favor of their spectacular forms, illustrating your skills with grace and ease. It was all well and good not to be the patient on the table. Today’s victim would be Sonnet 91. 

The projector light blinded you in an unnatural blue, making you turn away from its lens, and you pretended to busy yourself with your notes as you waited for it to warm up. You shuffled the papers again, and you had a sip of water. Just fidgeting. If you stopped moving, you’d think about him, and you didn’t want to think about him. 

He’d gotten your message from Gaz, that much was clear. You knew because you started receiving sunrise texts again — just the pictures, though — and when he needed to go out on a mission, you’d get your little promises. You sent him back what you received. If he sent a sunrise picture, you returned it with your own. If he said that he promised, you said it, too. You wanted him to call. You wanted to drag it out, to gut it like a fish, to see all the entrails of your feelings and the bloody evidence of your battle to be together, all of its innards smeared across a cutting board, sterile and measurable. 

But, for some reason, you couldn’t do it. You tried to type out what you’d wanted to say, but none of it made sense. It was all just begging and pleading and wishing for things you couldn’t have. So, you stopped. You kept up the replies. You matched his energy. It wasn’t until he sent you a screenshot of his flight itinerary that you started to realize the other shoe was dropping on you very soon. 

He was supposed to fly in sometime this very afternoon, but it wouldn’t be only him. You’d heard from Pidge that his whole team was coming with him, eager to meet her and Hamish, apparently. You didn’t know what emotion you felt about that, but its anonymity didn’t stop you from feeling it. 

You’d sent him back a Google Maps screenshot of your apartment, since he was supposed to be your ride up to Old Kilpatrick, and he sent you back the thumbs up emoji. 

It was embarrassing to you that the slight change in send-reply patterning made your heart race. You felt like your brain could benefit from a hard reset, like an iPhone that had chosen to get stuck on the same application, unable to move forward to the next task. 

So, you’d tried to put him out of your mind. When your labmate begged you to take her place at this colloquium, you jumped at the chance. A presentation would take up so much time and energy; surely it would cure you of your obsessive behavior. Unfortunately, Sonnet 91 felt all too timely. 

You watched it populate the screen, the first four lines occupying the cold, unembellished center of your slide, professionally stark:  

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;

You wondered where your glory would come from, if you ever had any. Then, as if to answer your question, the hall door opened and he walked through it, carefully propping it open behind him and letting his three enormous friends through. Johnny was freshly shaven, and his mohawk was back, trimmed on the sides and groomed to stand in a tall, brown shock. You could see the prominent scar on the side of his head, a sharp cross where the hair could no longer grow. 

There was an observable air of confidence to his movements, as if this was his hundredth colloquium, as if he attended them every week. His surety silenced you, and you stood staring, rapt. 

He met your eyes. The bright, glassy blues found you, set in a pleased way, fully at peace. It was the face made when something lost had been found, when a gift was unwrapped. A knowing gleam. 

If you didn’t start talking, people were going to ask you if you were alright. So, you introduced yourself, shakily but smoothing it out as you went,

“Good evening, and thank you for joining us at the 2023 Christmas Eve Colloquium tonight. I love this tradition, and I really appreciate you all being here. If you didn’t get the, uh… the handouts,” you pushed the stack across the desk toward the undergrads who all crowded around them like seagulls with an old French fry, “Okay...”

You pointed up to the sprawling slide,

“In looking at Sonnet 91, most would argue that it is a confession of love. But, it is a tentative one, at best. The speaker claims that despite whatever glory others may have, his glory is found in his lover. We don’t learn until the couplet that his affections are at risk of not being returned.”

You flipped the slide, showing the next four lines:

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:But these particulars are not my measure,All these I better in one general best.

It was all very simple. This was an easy sonnet, and there was no real mystery, but as you came to the end, you tried to reiterate your thoughts quickly, feeling the pressure to let people get on with their lives,

“The speaker makes quite a substantial claim here, so much so that the audience may be led to believe that he is being intentionally facetious, especially if one were to consider the content of Sonnet 92.”

“No,” a deep voice from high in the back protested, “I mean, I think I disagree with you, lass.”

The whole room woke up. Everyone turned quietly in their seats, generating a symphony of creaking and rustling of chairs and coats, craning their necks to look at Johnny who, for some reason, had stood up in his aisle.

“Oh, how so?” You said politely, trying to be deferential. 

It was more than a little uncomfortable in the room. No one ever asked questions during the colloquium, even though that was its intended purpose, and certainly no one ever stood up when they asked it. Everyone usually just allowed the speaker to drone on and on about whatever topic they were into that week, and there would be polite applause at the end so you could all go home early. Ironically, Johnny had committed an act of rebellion a mere five minutes into your talk. 

“Well,” he crossed his huge arms over his chest, shoving his muscles against each other. Amongst the mostly lithe, soft-bodied academic crowd, he and his friends looked out of place. He raised his voice, sending it arching down to you like an arrow, “I’m pretty sure he’s genuine. Look at the next four lines.”

He pointed to the glowing screen. You sighed, flipping slides.

Thy love is better than high birth to me,Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,Of more delight than hawks and horses be;And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:

“Look, bonnie,” Johnny chuckled, “I dunno about you, but if I’m boastin’ about a wee hen who’s more than all that — more than wealth, more than all men’s pride? She must actually be somethin’ to boast about.”

You countered, trying to get the talk back under your control, flipping to the next slide: 

Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst takeAll this away, and me most wretched make.

“Then what of his lamentation in the couplet?” You asked pointedly, listening to the sounds of creaking chairs again as everyone turned back to look at you as you responded, “Surely he has some reason to doubt this uniquely prideful love.”

Johnny shrugged,

“He doesnae doubt the love; his life cannae be separated from his love. Love is all there is. Ye ken it from Sonnet 92 when he asks: But what’s so blessed-fair that knows no blot?”

You smiled, slowly, knowingly, and then finished the couplet for him,

“Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.”

You were aware of the implication you were wielding like a knife down there in your theatre, staining your hands and hurling your scalpel at him, accusing him through verse of the same sin you’d thrown in his face the last time you spoke to him: of being false, of betraying Pidge. 

Johnny shifted his weight, frustrated, but standing his ground,

“It’s not… he doesnae think it’s false, hen. Tha’s not it.”

Were you still arguing about the poem? You couldn’t tell. His face had become serious and a little pleading. So, you responded in verse since it would fit the conversation either way, 

“How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow, if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.”

“And I would bloody eat it anyway, thief. False or no.”

There was an awkward silence and then a short, if a bit unsettled, polite applause. People began to shuffle out, standing, stretching, and chatting with each other as they made their way back into the hallway. A few of your labmates waved at you, and a friend from your cohort wished you a happy Christmas. 

Johnny sauntered down the stairs toward you, leaving his friends lounging in their seats, and as he came closer and closer, you felt like you were the one on the slab of your own theatre, open and vulnerable to the empty room, fully at the mercy of your operator. 

You thought he might pause, that he may stop walking and stand a few paces away, ready to talk things out, but he didn’t. He didn’t even slow his pace. Johnny grabbed you around your jaw with his enormous hand, his wide palm hot against your chin, and he pulled you into him, your lips sliding into his, pressing together like the last piece of a puzzle, completing a picture. 

His body was so warm as you crashed into his arms, and he held you down, pinning you like you would fall away from him if he let go. You couldn’t do much else other than submit to his strength; you didn’t want to do much else. You grabbed him around his waist, feeling him through the thin cotton of his shirt, tumbling into him as he forced your mouth to take his tongue. 

Johnny let go of a low moan, a sigh that couldn’t escape, and the hand that had been holding your face was now fisting your hair and running thick fingers through your soft strands. 

He pulled back without warning, gasping as he whispered to you, speaking with his forehead resting on yours and his eyes pinched closed,

“Did you mean it, what you told Gaz? Am I right? Is this right?”

You took a deep breath, smelling his soap and his cologne, the scent of his skin so familiar to you it seemed like home. His eyes remained closed, and he wore a mask of pain, holding himself back from truly letting go. You nodded, whispering back to him,

“You were right.”

Then, his eyes shot open, finding yours immediately, looking back and forth to peer into both of them at once, searching for even the slightest hint of deception,

“Are you fallin’ for me, mèirleach? ‘Cause I’m… I cannae go halfway. I’m in, or I’m out.”

“I’m in,” you smiled, laughing a little at your confession. He kissed you again, softly petting your hair, holding you close. But, you paused and looked up at him with a warning glare in your eye, “But, look, she cannot know. Maybe after the wedding, but… she cannot find out.”

“She won’t,” he was smiling back at you, making it look like it would be on his face forever, “I’m a professional spy, lass, or did you forget my wee entourage back there.”

He nodded up to his friends. The captain was asleep with his hat over his eyes, snoring in long, regular rhythms. Ghost was using a datapad, staring intently at the screen, and Gaz was using two hands on his cell phone, tapping vigorously, engrossed in some sort of game.

Johnny whistled, quick and shrill. The men stirred, peering down at him and making their way toward you. When they reached the bottom, they all towered over you, ready for polite introductions.

“John,” the scruffy, bearded one shook your hand first. His fingers were dangerously strong, and it shocked you to feel it against your own palm.

A young man was next. You knew it was Gaz, but you hadn’t seen a photo of him yet.

“I’m Kyle,” he smiled. He was even nicer in person, “We texted, before.”

You nodded, smiling back, and introducing yourself.

Then, it was the big one.

“Simon,” the tall blond shook your hand for a brief moment, just enough to squeeze and release. 

“It’s really nice to meet you all,” you said, “I’m glad you made it for the holiday.”

“We try to stick together ‘round this time of year,” Price explained, but you weren’t sure you fully understood his meaning. You just smiled and nodded. 

“You ready to head out?” Johnny asked you.

“Yeah, just need to head back to my place and get my bag.”

“Alright, hen,” Johnny smiled, “Lead the way.”

You led them up and out of the building and into the cold night air. Your apartment was only a short walk from this side of campus, so you decided to forego the bus ride. 

Johnny had your hand clasped in his so tightly that you wondered if he was alright. You looked up at him, and he smiled. You didn’t know how to say all the things you wanted to say, so you just commented on the most obvious one first,

“Where did you learn Sonnet 91? Or 92 and 93 for that matter?”

Gaz interrupted you, turning his head to talk over his shoulder as you walked behind him,

“Bloody stuck in his Kindle for months, he was. I think he read them all, and then he read them all to us. We’ve had more of the Bard than fuckin’ Lizzy the first.”

You gasped and made a face at Johnny, waiting for him to answer for his actions. He just shrugged, his cheeks flushed either from the embarrassment or the cold. 

Price walked up beside him and knocked him a bit on his shoulder, ribbing him along with Gaz,

“Especially that one. What number?”

“Fuckin’ 145,” Ghost groaned.

Then, in unison, the three soldiers all started reciting it aloud, their voices sing-song and purposefully annoying, 

“Those lips that Love’s own hand did make breathed forth the sound that said “I hate” to me that languished for her sake…”

Johnny shoved Gaz back to the front of the group with his free hand, laughing it off,

“Alright, alright, you bastards. I may have read it two or three times…”

“Two or three hundred, Sergeant,” Price rolled his eyes. 

You grinned up at Johnny, humming your pleasure,

“Wow! I’m impressed. Didn’t know you were such a Shakespeare fan.”

Gaz scoffed, 

“It’s not the poems he’s a fan of!”

Price smacked him on his arm, stopping Gaz from being too mean in his playfulness, aware that Johnny had his limits of what he would allow to be said in front of you.

“Mmm,” you answered noncommittally, squeezing Johnny’s hand as it held yours, clutching at you like the end of a rope, holding you like an anchor to his hull.

As you made it to your apartment, you pointed to the small coffee shop on the corner of your block,

“Do you wanna wait somewhere warm? I’ll only be a minute.”

Price snorted, grinning as if he had just remembered a private joke, 

“Go help her with her bags, Sergeant. C’mon, lads.”

The trio left you together, and Johnny waited for you to open the door to the lobby. You buzzed in and waited for the elevator in the quiet foyer. 

He was silent the whole ride up to your floor. You thought he’d have more to say, especially after just getting back from a tour. You wondered what was keeping him so quiet. 

You jiggled your key into the lock and pushed your way inside. Marlowe was on the futon, lounging in her favorite position, but when she saw the strange man in her house, she bristled and fled beneath your bed. 

“Marlowe,” Johnny said, recognizing her. 

“Yeah,” you smiled, grabbing your vitamins from the kitchen cabinet to put in your bag, “Sorry, she’s afraid of strangers.”

“It’s alright, hen. I love your place. Look at that view. You can see the river and everything. That’s class.”

He was being polite. Johnny was way too big for your apartment. With him in the space, it felt like you may as well have lived in a tent. It was such close quarters that you spent most of the time edging around him to get to your stuff. 

“Can I…?” He was pointing down at your bed, asking to sit. 

Recognizing your rudeness, you nodded,

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Can I get you a water or something? Tea?”

“No, I’m good,” he sat and smiled, still looking around the space, taking it in. To be fair, there wasn’t much to see.

You continued to pack, trying to hurry knowing his friends were downstairs waiting for you. 

“Okay, toothbrush… I think I’m all set. Are you ready?”

“No,” he was looking down at the floor, and his tone was so soft that it made you stop your packing whirlwind to listen to him. 

The silence deepened between you, and you tried to be patient. Neither of you dared to move, but he met your eyes. 

“What is it, Johnny?” You asked, still waiting. 

He stood and walked the half step it took to stand before you. His huge shoulders blocked out the light, and you could tell he was chewing on his words, working them over and over to make sure they were right. 

“I need to know…” he said quietly, running his fingers through your hair again, “I need to know if you are havin’ any doubts about this, lass. I dinnae want to pressure you, and I know I shouldnae be asking you to lie to her, but I need you, mèirleach. I need to know you’re not still havin’ doubts about the way I feel about you.”

Were you? You weren’t sure. You knew he cared about you, and you didn’t have any evidence that he was playing you, but Pidge’s warning still raged in the back of your mind. 

You sighed,

“I don’t doubt that you have feelings for me.”

“But, you think they willnae last?”

“I don’t know, but I want to find out. It’s just hard to have confidence in a secret.”

He furrowed his brow,

“I’d call her and tell her now, if you’d let me. You wanna wait, hen. And I’m fine with that. I am. But, how am I supposed to show you who I am when I’m not supposed to be showin’ you anything at all?”

You didn’t know what to say to him, and it made you feel discouraged. Maybe you were wrong. Perhaps you should have kept your promise after all, and this was just too complicated. 

Johnny watched the guilt spread across your face and chased you down with his eyes, his tone laced with dark suggestion,

“Unless you want me to show you now, thief.”

You did. You wanted him to show you everything he was. And, you understood what he was asking you for. The nerves between your legs pulsed, and blood rushed down your arms, excited for whatever he was threatening you with. You wanted him to fuck you right here in your apartment. But, you hesitated, very aware that if you said yes, if you let him show you what he wanted you to see, you wouldn’t be able to come back from that. The guilt would eat you alive. 

“Your… friends…” you picked at the zipper of his thick coat, stepping close enough to him that you could feel his heat radiating from inside the fleece lining of it. 

“My friends can wait, thief. I can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

The same way a bear trap snapped shut, its teeth digging into the writhing flesh of the creature inside its metal maw, that was how he caught you in that moment. You looked up at him, eyes wide and expectant, and you were greeted with a hunter’s smile. He knew he had you, and he went for the kill, putting you out of your misery. His arms wrapped around your body as he kissed you with a high fever, moving from your mouth to your neck as quickly as he could, devouring your soft flesh there, nipping and sucking at you frenzied and harsh. All of his gentle reservedness was gone, pushed aside in favor of sating his wild craving. 

You were on the bed in a second, your back flat, pressed into the mattress by his heavy weight. He didn’t readjust. He allowed his body to pin you down, crushing you beneath him. You tried to rid him of his jacket; there were so many layers between you, and you were eager for there to be none. 

He helped you, shucking off his coat and shirt layers quickly before returning to your mouth and throat, breathlessly panting as he kissed and licked your throat. His chest was bare to you then, and the cold metal of his tags stung your chest as they jingled out of his clothes, falling onto you like two silver coins. You rubbed his body down, pressing into the muscles of his neck and back, feeling them jerk and lunge as he moved above you. He kissed your mouth again, moaning through his nose. 

Then, he was peeling you apart, taking your clothes and tossing them away, pulling off the tissue from a coveted gift. Johnny didn’t even take time to pause at your bra; he just yanked it over your head with the rest of your clothes, unceremoniously. While you were sucking on his tongue and kissing down the scruff of his jaw, you heard his boots thump onto the floor, one after the other. 

All that remained between you were your slacks and his jeans, and he was forced to leave your mouth to deal with the barriers. He made his way to your breasts, sucking on them hungrily, but not playing. He was done playing with you, it seemed. 

He popped the button on your pants and tucked both of his hands into the waistband, grabbing your panties along with it, and ripped them down your legs with a deep grunt. You were naked, and the denim of his jeans raked against your sensitive skin. He was grinding his body against you as you were trapped beneath him, and you felt his hips rock back and forth as he rubbed his cock against your core, trying to use the friction inside of his jeans to find some pleasure, returning to your nipples to lick them into stiff peaks. 

You wrapped your legs around his hips, your thighs halfway between the skin of his ribs and the bite of his belt, letting him thrust against you. 

“Johnny,” you whispered, “Take them off.”

“Not yet, hen.”

You moaned, feeling his crotch pressing hard against yours, but not being able to find any sort of consistency in the texture. 

“Why not?” You asked and begged at the same time.

“Because…” He kissed his way down your belly, settling his face between your thighs, “As soon as I do, I’m gonna fuck you, mèirleach. And I’ve not tasted you, yet.”

His mouth was wet and hot and just what you wanted. Johnny ate you like he was on a mission. There was no careful exploration like the first time. It felt like he was eating you to satisfy his own craving, and your enjoyment was merely a fringe benefit. 

You keened as loudly as you dared, crying out for him as he lapped at your folds, hunting down your flavor. 

Then, he began to speak to you as he sucked on your clit, pausing to say his words before returning to his font to swallow more of you down into his throat. 

“Do y’know how long I’ve waited for this, hen?”

Suck, lick, kiss…

“How many nights…”

Suck.

“...in the sand…”

Lick.

“...in the bloody dark…”

Kiss.

“...waiting to have you in my mouth like this.”

Lick. Lick. Liiiickkkk…

“Oh, fuck, Johnny!” You bit down on the back of your hand, reeling from the pressure building in your center, feeling chills on your arms and chest, “Please…”

“And when Gaz told me…”

Suck.

“...I didnae believe him.”

Lick.

“But, I wanted to. I wanted to believe…”

Kiss.

“...that you were really mine…” 

Suuuuckkkk.

“...mo mèirleach…” 

Liiickkkk.

“...mo ghràdh.” 

You started to come, your hips vaulting into his strong jaws, and his eyes found yours, bright and clear, staring at you, watching you fall apart in his mouth. At the last moment, just before you fell over the peak, he wrenched his eyes shut and sucked even harder, yanking you into a furious, crashing orgasm. 

Then, desperately scrambling to taste the result, he thrust his tongue deep into your hole, his entire mouth suctioned to your pussy, reaping his soaking reward. 

“Johnny,” you sobbed, overwhelmed by the power you felt growing inside of you, bursting across your body like hundreds of little fireworks.

He was back up by your face in a moment, cradling you and kissing you with your come smeared all over his lips and cheeks,

“Shh, shh… it’s alright, lass. I know what you need. It’s what I need, too.”

You heard his zipper and watched him slide out of his jeans, kicking his socks off with them, naked with you once more, and now with full intent. His cock was drooling onto your belly, the precome leaving long, sticky trails as his swollen shaft traced its way up and down through your folds. Johnny’s cock was so hard that it felt like a warm, iron pipe was pressing into you, threatening and dangerous. 

You must have worn the concern on your face because he chuckled down at you, kissing your forehead sweetly as he humped himself against you,

“Too much for you, thief?”

You let your hands meet in the middle, holding his dick with one on top of the other, effectively jacking him off as he thrust forward and back, wetting him with his own lubrication, and you watched him throw his head back in sharp need. You smiled up at him,

“Not yet.”

“Jesus Christ,” he paused, holding his position, poised like a viper. Then, he looked down at you, suddenly serene, “Do you need a condom?”

“No, do you?”

“Fuck, no,” he said, and he immediately sank his head into your softness, melting into you with a slick slide, trusting you implicitly, believing you like a disciple. 

Your body hadn’t experienced a cock as thick and as hard as his. It wasn’t uncomfortably long, but its upward curve was particularly cruel. It was built to torture the soft pleasure-ladden spot inside of your walls, dragging across it as he fit himself inside of you. It took a few thrusts until you felt his hilt, but you were wet enough that your pussy didn’t need much coaxing. He was sighing above you, audibly and full of relief, his face bent and twisted in a perfect torment. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck… thief, holy fuck. Oh, Christ. I cannae… oh…”

His thrusts were audible. Flesh pounded into flesh, and the wet noises coming from you seemed unreal. Each and every time he entered you, pressing through you and molding you to his shape, you felt sparks of bliss within your belly, expectant and eager. 

“Johnny… it feels so good. You feel…” 

“You alright, mo ghràdh? Do you… mmmph, fuck… do you need me to slow down?”

You imagined what that would be like, and your pussy railed against it, feral and wanton, fighting any semblance of gentility with sharpened teeth and greedy claws. 

“No, please… don’t.” you kissed his cheek as he lay his head into your shoulder, deep in concentration, rolling in his passion.

Your kiss made him turn to face you, kissing your mouth so softly, with loose, relaxed lips, gently sliding his cheek across yours like a huge cat, rubbing himself all over you. He didn’t stop, but he spoke to you darkly, 

“I’ll do whatever you want, lass. Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“This,” you sighed, moaning as another wave of pleasure made you clench down around him, gripping him from within you with a fluttering squeeze, “You. Just you, mo chridhe.”

You tested out the nickname you’d used before, hoping to encourage him. You may as well have poured kerosene on a fire. He narrowed his eyes at you in disbelief, obviously hearing it and using it like war paint, covering his body in it, staining himself in it, changing himself from the inside out to fit its definition. He lay his head next to yours as he worked his cock within you, grunting through gritted teeth with each heavy thrust. His body started to tremble, shaking with his need to come, and the low, long whine that came from his throat made it sound like he was boiling over with blinding pleasure. 

He took both of his arms and crossed them behind your back, grasping your shoulders from behind in a painfully tight hold. Then, pressed to his chest, he lifted you, settling you in his lap in the lotus position, keeping his cock sheathed deep inside of you. You grabbed onto his neck instinctively, holding him like a lifeline, rocking your hips into him to chase that friction. 

Johnny sighed, pressing his forehead to yours, 

“Yes, yes, yes, thief. Take it. Fuck yourself on me, hen. Use me. I wanna feel you come, mèirleach…” 

He begged so sweetly, and you were happy to oblige. You used his shoulders to brace yourself while you pushed your body down onto him, spearing yourself over and over. At this new angle, his cockhead hit your g-spot every single goddamn time, and you were dizzy from his menacing shape. He snaked his hand between you to press on your clit, not even rubbing it but applying force, giving you something to grind against. The combination of his hand and his cock and his growling whines of struggling for control were enough to do the trick, and you saw white behind your eyes as you fell into a chaotic, plunging orgasm once again. 

“Fuuuuckkkk…” He groaned loudly, his voice turning vicious, “You are mine.”

Your body fell back to the bed and he shoved your legs onto one of his shoulders, fucking you as deep as he could go, stretching you as he did, throwing himself into you as you came down from your high. He was shouting, curses and praises, all in a filthy, animalistic snarl. Johnny just kept repeating the same phrase in a cultish chant, mindless and recursive, completely beyond himself, past reality. 

“You’re mine, thief. Mine.”

As he came, he searched for your eyes, staring into them, showing you his elation. You ran a hand across his scalp, your fingernails dragging through his mohawk, and you saw the whites of his eyes as he rolled them back into his head involuntarily. You held onto his hair and gave it a little pressure, holding his skull in your hands as he filled you with his spent pleasure, his cock throbbing, pulsing rope after rope of hot come into your belly, frothing and foaming around the base of his shaft as he fucked you through it. 

20 MINUTES LATER

You were so worried that his friends would make some sort of comment. As you walked back to the coffee shop, tucked under his heavy arm, you prepared for the playful banter and the jeering. His mohawk was destroyed, and you were both glowing with a sheen of sweat, matching in your states. You knew that they knew. You could also tell that Johnny was bracing himself for the worst, steeling his resolve before entering the cafe. And you thought you would get, at the very least, some mention of how long it had taken to get your bags. But, when you made it to the coffee shop, they didn’t say a word. They smiled, and although they smiled knowingly, there was more affection in it than mischief. It shocked you. After all the ribbing from before, to have none now seemed like some kind of gift. When Johnny realized they were going to let him keep his prize for himself, uncontested, he began to glow with pride as much as pleasure. 

The ride was not quiet, though. All of their stories from Urzikstan and its many dangers started to come out. Price told you about how Gaz and Ghost were almost incinerated in a cobalt mine, and Johnny was showing off his newest badge - a retro SAS pin Price had given him for rescuing the other two from said mine. The blue wings and the motto surrounded a bright sword.

“Who dares, wins?” You asked, trying to see the words in the dark backseat. 

Ghost, who had needed to sit in the front with Johnny because of his height, nodded, taking the pin back from you to admire it.

“Well deserved,” Price commented beside you. 

“Sounds like it,” you agreed. 

Johnny had been so sweet to you after his ferocious lovemaking, you thought all the medals in the world might not be enough to thank the man. No one had ever been so kind nor so attentive. Most of the time, you and whatever lad would clean up separately, maybe watch a show or two and then say your goodbyes. Not Johnny. He spent most of his time admiring your body, making sure you were intact and unharmed. Then, after covering you up with your softest throw, he came back with a hot towel and cleaned you up meticulously. He lay beside you until you felt good enough to get dressed, and still as you were putting your hair up, he made you a tea and finished packing your bag with the things you’d forgotten; your vitamins on the counter and your phone charger. 

When you came out of the bathroom, he had stripped your sheets and put them in the hamper, and Marlowe’s food timer had been set. Her litter box was clean, and the automated litter keeper was reset. You wondered fleetingly if he had wiped down the counters as well. 

The drive felt shorter than usual, especially since your thoughts were on other things. But, when you pulled into Old Kilpatrick, Johnny spoke up to the whole car,

“Look, no one says a fuckin’ thing about us to my sister. To anyone, alright? She’ll find out when she’s bloody meant to.”

The men agreed to keep quiet, but Gaz mouthed off beside you, 

“Sure we can keep a secret, Soap, but what about you? I wouldn’t give you a medal for impulse control, mate.”

Johnny eyed him in the rear-view mirror with a stern glare,

“Aye, but then that’s my problem, you daft bastard.”

 Gaz rolled his eyes, grinning all the while. 

By the time you’d arrived, the only open spot to sleep was a big pallet on the floor of the living room. Hamish was the only one awake to welcome you, and he set you up with pillows and blankets to camp out like a row of sardines. 

“Hey, lass,” Hamish told you, “Go sleep with Pigeon. She’d murder me for leaving you on the ground.”

He looked worn out, and although you didn’t mind sleeping on the floor, you didn’t have any real reason to insist. So, you hugged all the boys good night, making sure not to take too long on Johnny’s turn, and retreated to your post. 

Pidge was snoring softly as you entered the room, and you got ready for bed as quietly as you could, plugging in your phone to the nightstand. It buzzed, and you saw his message flash up on the screen:

Mo Chridhe: miss you 

You: i miss you too

Mo Chridhe: im still in a wee shock

You: why

Mo Chridhe: you. cannae believe youre mine

You: i am. and youre mine johnny mactavish.

Mo Chridhe: promise

You: promise

CHRISTMAS MORNING

Waking up with Johnny and sitting around the tree together with your coffee was every bit like Christmas morning as when you were a child. Instead of presents, you were content to sit as close to him as you dared, pretending to be making room for others by finding spots on the floor beside the gifts and stockings. 

All together, it was Johnny, his three soldiers, you, Pidge, Hamish, Hamish’s mum and dad, and Roger. Rodger had crashed on the couch last night, the Hamiltons had taken Johnny’s room, and now you were all crowded up in the small den, passing gifts around and chatting as you opened your presents. There weren’t many, but it was enough to feel like a holiday. 

Roger got the Playstation he’d been begging for from his brother, and his parents had bought him the games. Pidge had given Johnny a new set of headphones since his had melted in the cobalt mining fire. She also got him a pound of her shortbread cookies, which he was stuffing into his mouth with absolute abandon. He’d bought her a tea set off her wedding registry, and Hamish had landed a very aggressive knife from him. The professor was already being given a tutorial by Captain Price, and you tried not to laugh as he practiced stabbing the air with him in the kitchen. Price was scary when he did it, but Hamish looked downright silly. 

“Okay, alright. My turn. Here,” you gave out your cards to everyone in attendance, but pulled out a box for Pidge. 

“What did you do! I told you not to, hen. I am going to give you a laldy, and you’d deserve it!” She hugged you around the neck and jiggled the box. 

Satisfied with the rattle, she tore into the paper and gingerly lifted off the lid. Inside, she saw the MacTavish tartan, woven into a full shawl, embroidered with a tiny pigeon in the corner, just for her. She inspected it with wonder, her breath fully stolen away. 

“Did you… You made this? Are you doin’ your weavin’ again, babe? I thought you gave it up.”

You shrugged,

“I found a reason to give it one last shot.”

Pidge started to cry real, honest tears, and she reached out for you, clutching the shawl to her chest, sobbing, 

“Thank you, hen. Thank you so much. After they buried mum in hers, and I didn’t… I couldn’t touch it anymore, I just…”

You held her and rocked her back and forth, smiling at her outpouring of love,

“I know, babe. I remember you saying so. But, now you’ve got one of your own.”

For a moment, you stole a glance at Johnny. The whole room was a little moved by your gesture, but he looked… unwell. He was standing behind everyone, and you were the only one looking at him. His hand was clasped over his mouth, and he had tears coming from his eyes, unblinking, letting them roll down his cheeks one after the other, staring at you, frozen in place. He was so unsettled that, for a moment, you thought you’d made some error. But, as Pidge recovered, so did he, and he wiped his face to return to normal; putting on a mask of an expression, hiding whatever he had just shown you. 

“You’re the best damn friend I’ve ever had, hen. And I love you. Dearly.”

“I love you too, Pidge.”

“Here, here, open mine! It’s not as braw as all tha’ you did, but still.”

You were handed a gift bag, and you peeked inside. You found a book of poetry with some incredible illustrations inside, and a charm necklace with a silver boar hanging from it. 

“It’s our wee clan beastie. You may as well be a MacTavish by now, hen. So, I thought you should have it.”

You smiled, letting her put it on you. Then, you hugged her tight, 

“You don’t know what that means to me, Pidge.”

Pidge laughed through dried tears, still emotional,

“Ha! Says you, miss weaver. Honestly.”

You let her gush over it a little more before you retreated back to your position beside Johnny. You pulled out the four smaller boxes from your bag and handed them to the soldiers, indiscriminately since they were all alike. 

“What did you do, thief?” Johnny’s voice was low, and he was grinning up at you, staring at you through those dark lashes.

“Open them,” you urged him. 

They did, and one by one they all pulled out small compasses, made with built-in flint strikers, hanging from tied paracord. It was the most tactical practical thing you could find on such short notice, but they all seemed pleased. Gaz shook it at Price, 

“This would’ve been bloody helpful in South Tobraka!”

You laughed, 

“Well, I’m sure it’s a little too low-tech for you, but Merry Christmas anyway.”

“It’s bloody perfect,” Gaz smiled, clapping you on the back. Ghost nodded, and Price hooked it to his lanyard without questioning it. 

Johnny bent over to whisper to you as discreetly as he could, 

“Gotta sneak off to give you mine, lass.”

You smacked him on the arm, whispering back, watching Pidge like a hawk as you did so to make sure she couldn’t see you,

“Don’t be naughty.”

Johnny laughed, 

“No, no. I’m serious.”

“Alright!” Hamish clapped his hands, causing you to jump out of your skin, “Who’s ready for crackers?”

CHRISTMAS NIGHT

You and Johnny were curled up on the couch with a steaming cup of sweet wassail, scrolling through the photos you’d taken that night. You popped two crackers together, pulling out your paper crowns, your gold and his blue, snapping selfies and reading the jokes to each other. Everyone was in their crowns by the end of the night, and while Price smoked cigars on the porch with Gaz and Ghost, Pidge and Hamish had driven his parents and brother home. 

You were finally alone after having such a full house, and your gift for him was burning a hole in your bag. You were dying to give it to him, but he beat you to the punch.

“Alright, mèirleach, are you ready for your wee gift? It’s probably gonna earn me extra PT for a few months, but it’s worth it.”

“Why?” You asked, setting your cup down on the end table and turning your body towards him. 

“‘Cause I’m not even supposed to have these off-duty, much less hand them over to my American lassie.”

Johnny dug into the neckline of his shirt and pulled out the dog tags that you had encountered last night when he took you to bed. The coin jangled on the chain as he pulled it over his head, and like a medal for an award you had not won, he looped it behind your neck, letting the coin fall between your breasts, still warm from his body and now warm from yours. 

You pulled it up to read its stamp, staring at the words:

O POS 2073521 MACTAVISH SAS RC

“Wanted you to have it, lass. A wee piece of me to keep safe, if you will.”

It was hard to know why you started crying, but you felt the searing tears fall down your cheeks as you stared at the tag. His blood type was what started it all, and you began to imagine all of the times that this thin coin would have warranted such a label. 

“It’s alright, mèirleach, if you dinnae —”

“No,” you raised your hand to his face, closing your other hand around the coin and pulling it in to your chest, eager to keep it safe just as he had asked, “Thank you, Johnny. I love it.”

He turned his face toward your hand as you caressed his scruffy jaw, and kissed your palm, holding your hand with his so you couldn’t escape. 

“I got you something, too. But, it’s small, and now I’m afraid you won’t have anything to hang it on.”

You dug in your bag and pulled out a small cardboard box with a thin red string tied around it. There was no card, there was no name printed on it, but he knew it was him nonetheless. He took it from you, almost snatching it, excited and surprised, not waiting for it to be given. 

“Thief! You didnae have to do that,” he was grinning, and his eyes gleamed, full of sudden joy. 

You’d found an old locket at the charity shop, and your gift had fit inside perfectly. When he opened the clasp, he froze. You’d use a scrap of the shawl that you’d woven for Pidge and cut a little circle from it, embroidering a tiny map of Scotland over the threads, planting a little red heart over what was almost Glasgow. 

“Mo mèirleach…”

“Mo chridhe.”

As soon as you said his name, his eyes found yours and he leaned in to kiss you, clutching the locket in his fist, tight, tight, tight. 

BEFORE DAWN

That night, in his bed, smelling his oranges and cloves, his scent filling your nose, covering you with his sheets, you lay buried in his chest where his tags used to lie, your cheek now warming the skin beneath. You imagined the compasses that dangled from the four sets of keys strewn across the kitchen counter. You thought about the shawl that was wrapped around his sister as she slept in her bed. Holding his locket in your hand, you ran your fingertips over its tartan, borne of the same threads as hers. You wondered about tomorrow, and the day after that, and the year ahead of you, and you felt a tightness in your own chest as you considered the timeline stretching out before you, woven from the choices you and your lover had made together. It was as if you had altered fate’s plan somehow, shunning your intended path and forging one of your own making. What future had you created? Did you have the guile to craft the right course? You held his hand, his fingers laced between yours, and whichever way you went, you hoped that he would be braving it with you.

[dunebells]

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[cyberstudious]

Free Resources for Learning Cybersecurity

I created this post for the Studyblr Masterpost Jam, check out the tag for more cool masterposts from folks in the studyblr community!

Free Online Courses

Linux Foundation Cybersecurity Courses - many of their beginner/introductory courses are free

Professor Messer's Security+ Course - a great intro to cybersecurity, gave me the skills to pass my Security+ exam

Khan Academy Cryptography - solid foundations for understanding the math behind encryption

ISC2's new entry level cert & training CC is free, although for a limited time

Linux Journey - learn Linux, the command line, and basic networking

Free CTFs & Ways to Practice

What is a CTF? - HackTheBox isn't a free platform, but this is a good article explaining what a CTF is and how to approach it

OverTheWire Bandit - practice your Linux skills

PicoCTF - this one already ran this year but their website has plenty of resources

Microcorruption - binary exploitation challenges

Hacker101 - web security CTF

Cryptopals Cryptography Challenges

Nightmare - binary exploitation & reverse engineering challenges

Cybersecurity News: follow what's happening in the industry

KrebsOnSecurity - security & cybercrime news, investigative journalism

SANS StormCast - daily 5-minute security news podcast

SANS Internet Storm Center - security blog posts

Cisco Talos blog - security news, threat intelligence & malware investigations

Schneier on Security - security & society

Black Hills Information Security webcasts

Darknet Diaries podcast

Other Free Resources

Trail of Bits's CTF Field Guide

PicoCTF Resources and Practice

SANS Cheat Sheets - all areas of security & tech

OWASP Cheat Sheets - application security & web attacks

LaurieWired's YouTube channel - high-quality videos on low-level tech

LiveOverflow's YouTube channel - binary exploitation

SANS Webinars

Cybersecurity Certifications Roadmap

Cybersecurity Job Supply and Demand Map (for the U.S.)

EFF's Surveillance Self-Defense - guides for how to protect yourself online

Don't Forget the Library!

If you have access to a public or school library, check out their technical books and see what they have to offer. O'Reilly and No Starch Press are my favorite publishers for technical and cybersecurity books, but be on the lookout for study guides for the Security+ and other certifications - these will give you a good introduction to the basics. I wrote more about cybersecurity books in yesterday's masterpost.

[jmdbjk]

BTS Military enlistment thoughts...

These are my thoughts and opinions. Information is out there if you seek it yourself. Nothing has been confirmed by any of the members or the company.

News media says Korean male citizens Kim Namjoon, Kim Taehyung, Park Jimin and Jeon Jungkook will be enlisting soon: Dec. 11 for the first two and Dec. 12 for the latter pair.

And that Jimin and Jungkook seem to have chosen the companion enlistment option. Yes, "option" because they could have chosen to go in separately.

Koreans who are familiar with how this all works, have tried to explain the process. From what I understand, the companion option allows them to serve their entire enlistment together.

They weren't forced and this wasn't their only option for enlistment. They chose this themselves for a reason, for personal reasons, that none of us can know because we aren't them.

Many speculate but NO ONE KNOWS their reasons!

According to various sources, they will be at the same training center as Jin. There are many groups doing ongoing training there. But I don't believe they will be in the same company that Jin serves as assistant trainer. Credible sources say that Jin's unit at the training center is not accepting recruits on Dec. 12 which is the supposed date that Jimin and Jungkook will enter the military but we don't know for sure. But being at the same training center would allow them to see each other when they have time.

This reunion:

We won't know for sure until it actually happens.

Many are throwing around wild speculation regarding the fact Jimin and Jungkook are the only two with tattoos and therefore had fewer options. But they aren't. All the members have tattoos now. The Korean military needs all the manpower they can get, they aren't excluding men with tattoos, they are just limiting the situations they can serve.

The options are limited (and only slightly) for them because very visible tattoos, especially on the arms and hands, would allow them to be identified too easily. This is a consideration and criteria that is regulated in militaries and law enforcement around the world and is not isolated to Korea. Criminals are identified by their tattoos. Military personnel can also be identified by visible tattoos. In a situation where it is imperative that enlisted remain anonymous, hand tattoos would be a dead giveaway for identification. I'm sure there are other reasons for no tattoos allowed in certain assignments.

The application process began months ago and is the same process all Korean male citizens would go through to be approved for the companion program.

No one is really discussing Tae and Namjoon, everyone is going batshit crazy over Jimin and Jungkook. Let them do their service in the manner they wish. None of you have any say-so in it so shut up.

No one is capable of or even wants to step back and consider the big picture which is more telling.

Regarding Tae and Namjoon, I would venture to say that after basic training, its possible Namjoon will serve in some capacity with the Defense Ministry's Agency for KIA Recovery & Identification which he was named ambassador for earlier this year. That office is located in Seoul I believe. The fact he is well-known publicly and he can speak English would enhance his success in an assignment of this sort. This agency recovers those who lost their lives in action during the Korean War in which American soldiers also perished.

Recovering those KIA happens near or in the DMZ.

IF the hearsay about where Jimin and Jungkook might be assigned after training has any truth, they are supposedly headed to this area as they also perform minesweeping when searching for KIA remains. Again, none of this is confirmed, I am just employing critical thinking...

Tae supposedly has chosen the Special Task Force of the Army's Capital Defense Command. That seems like it implies he'll remain within Seoul during his enlistment.

It's all speculation, but I think these men carefully considered their options and the ramifications. None of this was done on a whim, from Namjoon's ambassadorship and the possibilities of it, to Jimin and Jungkook's companion enlistment and why they chose that option, NONE OF IT WAS DONE WITHOUT CAREFUL CONSIDERATION. They had to apply MONTHS ago for the options they were allowed to choose. They are not the only men in Korea enlisting this year, there are tens of thousands of others.

No one is considering, IF Namjoon is in Seoul during his enlistment, he would have something in common with Tae. And Yoongi. And Jin will be discharged in June, Hobi will be discharged in October... the implications, the connections... their target is 2025. Nothing is a coincidence. They can't be working while enlisted, however reuniting briefly with friends over dinner and drinks is allowed... what they talk about during their get togethers is none of our business.

ALL THAT BEING SAID... Hybe did a tremendous job this past summer with the 10th anniversary Festa celebration, involving various municipality governments, procuring large corporate sponsors and communicating to news media in the almost month long series of events. They elevated the general public's awareness of BTS's impact and therefore instilled value and pride for their continued success.

No military commander would want anything to happen to the members while under their watch.

NOTHING IS A COINCIDENCE.

P.S.: The idiots sending in emails to the Defense Ministry are hurting EVERYONE. The level of lunacy knows no bounds with certain people. They suffer from a pathological psychosis. Don't engage, don't acknowledge.

[sandraharissa]

To me the core theme of arcane is this specific type of conflict that repeats over and over again in all the main aspects of the story that centers around 'sibling relationships'.

Starting with the two cities. We have Piltover and the bad side of Piltover. Technically they're supposed to be one and the same but one is the 'golden privileged child' while the other is disadvantaged and needs to rely on the rich side of Piltover for support, they can't do it by themselves. And then the rich side of Piltover fails in its duties of taking care of/protecting/supporting/whatever the poorer side and a split happens. Zaun is created and it becomes so dangerous and volatile, it becomes a menace and an active threat to itself/the outside and there's no going back. It's the monster Piltover created and even tho the Undercity suffered unfairly at this point it has become so monstrous there may be no improvement/redemption for it.

And obvs that's the exact same thing that happens with Vander/Silco and Vi/Jinx. However it's also imo completely applicable to Jayce/Viktor and even Heimer/Singed. Jayce and Viktor will only reach their break-up era in future seasons but it's a given this will happen but I know I obvs need to explain the Heimer/Singed example.

Based on what we know about them Heimer is just naturally immortal/long-living, how lucky for him, and completely lacks any ability to relate to beings who from his perspective live short life-spans. Meanwhile Singed is just a human and on top of that he had a 10yo child who died from some kind of disease(maybe?). Currently he is obsessed with discovering immortality: experimenting on ppl, mutating them, resurrecting corpses etc. possibly in an attempt to find a way to heal/resurrect his daughter. And we know him and Heimer were partners and that Heimer didn't help him and threw him out of the university or smth for his research. So the exact same dynamic as the other pairs.

So notice how we've got the cities, and then each city has its storyline, and each storyline has a pair of protags who reflect the conflict between the cities, and then each pair also has the pair that preceded them which also reflects the same conflict. In Zaun all these connections are about family ties: brothers, sisters, fathers/daughters, with inherited political/social roles like the Piltover sympathizer and criminal/revolutionary. Meanwhile Piltover storyline connections are about 'progress': science buddies, mentors and students, with Jayce succeeding Heimer as the barely-scientist-moreso-a-politician and Singed/Viktor being mad scientists. We've even got zaunite 'older siblings' associating with Piltover and piltovan 'younger siblings' being from/associating with Zaun.

Just really nice parallels all around.

But I actually have an honorable mention to add here at the end lol.

Mylo and Claggor. Obvs they don't quite fit cos they never develop into this kinda dynamic and they were never meant to but I can't help but notice the similarities. Claggor being the pure hearted hero archetype, looking like Vander, naturally good fighter, seemingly lacking insecurities, seems like the 'second in command' after Vi (second best with the fighting machine, Vander speaks to him second to get info about what happened), meanwhile Mylo giving off 3rd child vibes, full of insecurities and needing to prove himself, physically looks like a stick bug, a bit of a bully, "weird" lock-picking talents that he struggles with and isn't respected for (like Singed/Viktor's science, Powder's bombs or Silco's dream) that are actually super useful and impressive (like he could have been robbing millions from Piltover banks if he got adopted by Silco instead lol).

[floridagirlboy]

i like to imagine florida is the inverse of the phrase "it's easy, it's not rocket science!". he can, in fact, understand rocket science perfectly fine. he wrote a thesis once, believe it or not (nobody believes it). aerospace is his jam. marine science? yeah, pretty good at that. he cannot, however, understand (although not limited to):

gender

the law

consequences of his actions

what are appropriate things to say in a conversation

how to not voice every little thought he has

basic math (if not in regard to anything he's interested in, or it's something that he has to do)

basic reading (if not in regard to anything he's interested in, or it's something that he has to do)

that no matter how much she coos at the honey badger it will still maul her

he can't just give an IOU to the IRS instead of paying his taxes

jail is actually a real place that people go to

how to stay on topic

"fuck it, we ball" is not applicable to a natural disaster

the hurricane will not avoid him even if he "asks nicely"

the hurricane will not hit him even if he "asks nicely"

not everyone understands the complex inner machinations of his mind and his reasons for doing bizarre things

why tomatoes are fruits and not vegetables

why starfruit is not a shape named after a color

they don't always have to be the center of attention

some things are not meant to be eaten

the alligators will not listen to her every command nevermind, apparently they can do that

[francies-fold]

Gertrude and Georgie (bonded)

2 years | Domestic Shorthair | Spayed | UTD

📍St John’s County, FL

Adoption Fee: $50 (pair)

Gertrude and Georgie are a pair of sisters ready for adoption. Due to their close bond, they MUST stay together.

We welcomed the sisters in 2023, making them our longest foster residents. I’ve never met cats with a tighter bond. Never apart for long, they spend their time cuddling, grooming, and playing, chasing each other through the house and up cat trees at top speed. Both know their names and come when called, especially Gertrude, who retrieves her sister on command if properly motivated. For these girls, everything in life is an opportunity for fun, and perhaps a bit of mischief too. They have a special fondness for attacking the sheets while you try to make the bed. If you are looking for a pair of cats that will always remain kittens at heart, please consider opening your home to these sweet sisters.

Gertrude gets along well with the other animals in our home. Georgie tolerates our dog and the other cats; while both would do well in a multi-pet household, they’d thrive being the center of your attention. They are high-energy cats that benefit from daily exercise through active play. They are bonded and MUST be kept together. Please keep these in mind when considering adoption.

If you’re interested in adopting Georgie and Gertrude, please visit the link in our bio to fill out an application. Other foster cats in our care can be found on our pages. If you’d like to support our work, please check the link in our bio. Thank you!

[dailyplanetmetropolis]

New Titan Spotted!

May 22nd, 2025

Written By: Piera Landen

It seems that the Titans have gained yet another member! The new member was spotted earlier today with Cyborg and Starfire in New York, saving people from a burning building and stopping a heist of US Navy-repurposed Atlantean Technology by Orca. However, this new Titan appears to be a hopefully-reformed old enemy of the Titans: Vanadia!

Two months ago, Titans Tower was attacked in the middle of the night by an android who, as Donna Troy, Wonder Girl, explained at the time “had the powers of every Titan. She had a version of my lasso, Starfire’s beams, Cyborg’s arm blasts, and everything else. Vanadia was like our own Amazo.”

Vanadia was created by the supervillain inventor Dr. T.O. Morrow, then working at STAR Labs as part of a villain reformation program, in their Post-Human Project. She was a victim of human experimentation that granted her the superpowers of the Titans, before having her brain implanted into a cybernetic body upon her early death. Her case was brought to light by Cyborg after the attack, and supported with files he took from the STAR Labs databases. Dr. Morrow has since been placed in prison again, and STAR Labs faced large fines, governmental sanctions, and a review of all their ongoing projects.

But despite the attention given to her case, Vanadia was still dead, destroyed by the Titan Raven in her attack on their tower. Her family held a private funeral, attended by the Titans, and reportedly buried an empty casket.

However, apparently Vanadia wasn’t lost forever. Earlier today, she was spotted saving families from the fire of a heavily populated apartment building in the middle of Washington Heights with Starfire and Cyborg. The latter two appeared to be supervising Vanadia’s first outings after her mysterious return to life. Together, the trio saved 58 inhabitants of the building, including all of the pets inside.

Starfire hands a rescued kitten to his thankful owner. (Image Credit: Rino Torcull, Daily Planet)

After the fire, the trio stopped an attack by the gang Whale’s Enders, led by Orca, on the U.S. Naval Combat Capabilities Development Command Research Center (COMDEV). This center is dedicated to repurposing Atlantean technology and making it effective in military applications on the surface.

Orca and her crew attempted to steal ten suits of retrofitted Atlantean power armor, designed to house one person each and give them a collection of high-tech weaponry. If the suits were successfully stolen, “we would be facing a national security disaster of the worst kind,” Dr. Jesse Finley, director of the project, stated. Vanadia interrupted the arrest, first battling Orca directly before seizing control of the power armor with her apparent ability to control machinery.

New Titan Vanadia controls the power armor stolen by Orca, forcing her to surrender. (Image Credit: Rino Torcull, Daily Planet)

Unfortunately, Vanadia’s seizing of the machines apparently affected Cyborg as well. Starfire was forced to catch her fellow Titan and make Vanadia stop, as Cyborg had fallen from the sky. Later, in a post on WayneSky, Donna Troy informed everyone that Cyborg had made a full recovery. 

The Titans leader also explained that Vanadia had been under the team’s custody and was reactivated and had Dr. Morrow’s manipulative programming removed by them, in order to give her another chance at life. “Vanadia may have a spotty past, but she is now a fully welcomed member of our team,” she stated. “We will be working to train her in being an effective superhero, so please keep an open mind. We’re very glad for her assistance.”

Hopefully Vanadia will continue to operate on the Titans for a long time, proving to everyone that sometimes, villains can be reformed. We wish her the best of luck!

Subscribe to the Daily Planet Tumblr Page for more stories like these!

[berrypass-de-murdler]

S-42, Murder in the Mountains

Back!

I gotta do better at pushing through

I'm going on a trip soon, but I'll still try to write the best I can <3

DON'T READ THE EPISODES WITHOUT READING THE BOOKS!!

Logico had sent out many job applications to earn cash for a Hollywood home. Unfortunately, the only one that came through was shoveling coal in Drakonia. 

LOGICO: One must suffer for stardom…

So he travels overseas for the very first time. It would be exhilarating if he didn’t have so much on his mind right now.

The continent of Drakonia is just as bleak as he’s heard it described. Before the coal mine lies a great eagle, commanding troops. This must be Major Red. 

LOGICO: E-Excuse me. I’m Logico, here for the coal-shoveling… thing…?  RED: You. I do not wish to pay you for shoveling coal. It was a RUSE!  LOGICO: Delightful. RED: I heard you were a detective for the mainland… I have a murder for you.

He glances over at his lieutenant. Logico sighs and grumbles. Red storms to his next-best soldier.

RED: One more into the breach. WOLVERINE: …Why only once?  RED: DO AS YOU ARE COMMANDED.

The animal snorts and panders on all fours towards a stock of dynamite. But everyone freezes when a pigeon flies overhead!

WOMAN: IRON TSAR!!!

Everyone tucks to the ground, and Logico does too out of impulse. A bomb explodes! 

LOGICO: What’s going on? WOMAN: Why would we have to tell you?! LOGICO: IT WOULD BE HELPFUL!!

A ram falls on the ground in front of Logico.

BIGHORN SHEEP: No luck, Boss…  RED: Fantastic. I was trying to save my energy. 

Logico is having immense difficulty concentrating on the murder when everything is happening around him (and he secretly yearns to know the context). So he closes his eye, and tries to center himself. 

BIGHORN SHEEP: Who’s this kid?? RED: He’s here to get rid of the body. Use the booklet! 

It’s hard to tune out the noise. But instead, Logico tries to focus on memories… walking through the hallways of college, next to someone in particular… feeling the unspoken connection. He envisions the stars he saw on his first night back home - somehow, remembering the exact placement of everything, like a photograph. Certain stars appear brighter in his head, forming a picture… and it helps him solve the case! He jumps up.

LOGICO: You didn’t need me to solve that murder! YOU committed it!

The soldiers gasp.

RED: Yes, I killed my own lieutenant! Do you know why??

He clutches the human head in his talons and digs deep.

RED: Because if you stop following my orders, if you stop believing in the power of the Red Army… this will happen to you ALL!!

His soldiers kneel down in submission.

BIGHORN SHEEP: We’ll do whatever you say. Promise. WOMAN: Y-yeah yeah.

Red lumbers to the wolverine.

RED: I’m putting you in charge.

Logico gives up on finding a paying job in this mess. There must be better options.

The end!

A young Lead <3

The power of Goat Lord compels you!

See you next time murdlers!

support my quest here!

[thevividgreenmoss]

Pakistan is not Palestine, it is a distinction so obvious that it would seem unnecessary to even bother making but yet must be made again and again by sophists who delight in finding excuses to give less of a shit about unprovoked Muslim death. But we will indulge the sophists and we will further extend torturous analogies to the Middle East as that remains one of the most useful analytical shortcuts to hand wave away the loss of innocent life, to reassure yourself that it was as much the victim's fault as the perpetrator's, if not more so, that even when the other side aggresses and initiates we really in some way must have deserved it, we must have been asking for it. Operation Sindoor.

But yes. Pakistan is not Palestine, if want to make crude comparisons between the Subcontinent and the Middle East, Pakistan would probably historically be closer to a cross between Egypt after Nasser's death and Iran post Islamic Revolution. Kashmir however, would most undoubtedly be Palestine, although certainly still nowhere close to Palestine in 2025 maybe something more like Palestine in 1936 but also 1960 but also a little bit 2025. This is a comparison that has been made frequently over the years by Kashmiris and by Palestinians. India is very much to Kashmir as Israel is to Palestine and it is very much to South Asia what Israel is to the Middle East. This is a comparison that has been made frequently over the years by both Kashmiris and Palestinians, by both Hindu Nationalists and Zionists. The genocidal exterminationist consensus is even more saturated throughout the Israeli state and civil society than the Indian, but the consensus remains nonetheless hegemonic even in the latter as evidenced by the fact that every major political party in the country left right and center closed ranks around the fascist RSS/BJP government in displays of vulgar national chauvinism following Operation Sindoor. Sindoor referring to the ceremonial application of red dye by a groom on his bride's forehead. Might as well have named it Operation Settler Expansionist Rapetime. As if the deep and deepening ties between Modi and Netanyahu weren't indication enough, as if the massive arms sales and labour transfer arrangements between the two countries weren't enough. As if repeatedly and deliberately hitting civilian targets day after day, which so far even the wretched pieces of shit running the Pakistani armed forces have refrained from doing in return. This is an army whose high command consists of some of the most cartoonishoy evil motherfuckers in the world, every one of their offices soaked with the blood of their own people, of countless Afghans, Bengalis, Balochs easily one of the most counterrevolutionary armies in the third world came to power through a literal (Biden administration backed) military coup three years ago the latest in their regularly scheduled election abrogations and even they've displayed more caution and regard for human life this week than the democratically elected Hindutva government like what the fuck does that say to you.

And now as day after day this pointlessly goes on I continue to see drones and shells striking residential neighborhoods and civilian centers in every part of the country where I was born, in the city where I was born where my family settled almost two centuries ago upon exile from Kashmir itself, each day attacks on every city where I still have family, above all in Kashmir itself and I see people still equivocate. I see people wring their hands and offer up mealy mouthed each side is just as much to blame bullshit and I am never surprised as I have lost my capacity for surprise at the world's indifference I have lost and lost and lost but Insha'Allah I will not lose my vision and I will see where you all stand and I will never forget those with more strength than I have left may be able to but I will never forget and I will not lose mercy and I will not lose sincerity as we have learned steadfastness from Kashmir and we have learned steadfastness from Palestine we have learned to hold on as we let go but I will still never forget where you stand and I will keep you in my sights. If only to remember that you're a fucking idiot that can't be trusted and even if you come to be trustworthy I fear you might not cease to be a fucking idiot and that's worth remembering. I stare at reports of drones falling and choke and my vision blurs and I will feel no relief even if morning brings news that everyone I love through personal contact made it through the night I will feel no relief because I will be incapable of forgetting that someone else woke up to find someone they love did not make it through the night and there are so few of us to truly mourn our dead in a world that in large part will never give a shit. After all they were asking for it.

[dunebells]

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