#Kernel Mode

[diagnozabam]

Microsoft Învinuiește UE pentru Ecranul Albastru al Morții cauzat de Bug-ul Antivirus CrowdStrike

Potrivit unui purtător de cuvânt al Microsoft, legislația Uniunii Europene (UE) a jucat un rol semnificativ în cea mai mare defecțiune IT din istoria modernă, care a blocat milioane de PC-uri Windows cu infamul ecran albastru al morții (BSOD). Aceasta a apărut după o actualizare defectuoasă a software-ului antivirus furnizat de partenerul CrowdStrike. Într-un interviu pentru The Wall Street…

[textpostsofananon]

>be me

>using laptop

>try and watch a movie on jellyfin

>KERNEL_MODE_HEAP_CORRUPTION

>mfw.jpg

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 24

"What is this place?" Manon asked Glennis as she found the crone polishing the handle of a gold-bound broom beside the fire. Two others lay on a cloak nearby. Menial work for the witch in charge of this camp.

"This is an ancient camp-one of the oldest we claim." Glennis's knobbed fingers flew over the broom handle. "Each of the seven Great Hearths has a fire here, as do many others." Indeed, there were far more than seven in the camp. "It was a gathering place for us after the war, and since then, it had become a place to usher in some of our younger witches to adulthood. It is a rite we've developed over the years—to send them into the deep wilds for a few weeks to hunt and survive with only their brooms and a knife. We remain here while they do so."

Manon asked quietly, "Do you know what our initiation rite is?"

Glennis's face tightened. "I do. We all do." Which hearth had the witch she'd killed at age sixteen belonged to?

"You're not a cold person."

He arched a brow. "Is that your professional opinion?"

Manon studied him. "You can descend to those levels when you are angry, when your friends are threatened. But you are not cold, not at heart. I've seen men who are, and you are not."

"Neither are you," he said a bit quietly.

The wrong thing to say.

Manon stiffened, her chin lifting. "I am one hundred seventeen years old," she said flatly. "I have spent the majority of that time killing. Don't convince yourself that the events of the past few months have erased that."

"Keep telling yourself that." He doubted anyone had ever spoken to her that baldly-relished that he now did, and kept his throat intact.

She snarled in his face. "You're a fool if you believe the fact that I am their queen wipes away the truth that I have killed scores of Crochans."

"That fact will always remain. It's how you make it count now that matters."

Make it count. Aelin had said as much back in those initial days after he'd been freed of the collar. He tried not to wonder whether the icy bite of Wyrdstone would soon clamp around his neck once more.

"I am not a softhearted Crochan. I will never be, even if I wear their crown of stars."

He'd heard the whispers about that crown amongst the Crochans this week-about whether it would be found at last. Rhiannon Crochan's crown of stars, stolen from her dying body by Baba Yellowlegs herself. Where it had gone after Aelin had killed the Matron, Dorian had not the faintest idea. If it had stayed with that strange carnival she'd traveled with, it could be anywhere. Could have been sold for quick coin.

Manon went on, "If that is what the Crochans expect me to become before they join in this war, then I will let them venture to Eyllwe tomorrow alone."

"Is it so bad, to care?" The gods knew he'd been struggling to do so himself.

"I don't know how to," she growled.

Ridiculous. An outright lie. Perhaps it was because of the high likelihood that he'd be collared again at Morath, perhaps it was because he was a king who'd left his kingdom in an enemy's grip, but Dorian found himself saying, "You do care. You know it, too. It's what makes you so damn scared of all this."

Her golden eyes raged, but she said nothing.

"Caring doesn't make you weak," he offered.

"Then why don't you heed your own advice?"

"I care." His temper rose to meet hers. And he decided to hell with it-decided to let go of that leash he'd put on himself. Let go of that restraint. "I care about more than I should. I even care about you."

Another wrong thing to say.

Manon stood—as high as the tent would allow. "Then you're a fool." She shoved on her boots and stomped into the frigid night.

I even care about you.

Manon scowled as she turned in her sleep, wedged between Asterin and Sorrel. Only hours remained until they were to move out—to head to Eyllwe and whatever force might be waiting to ally with the Crochans. And in need of help.

Caring doesn't make you weak.

The king was a fool. Little more than a boy.

What did he know of anything?

Still the words burrowed under her skin, her bones. Is it so bad, to care?

She didn't know. Didn't want to know.

[blackmoreops]

Comparative review of best #WiFi Adapters with monitor mode and packet injection capabilities for #KaliLinux for real-world.

[ccorinthian]

I’m slipping between so many modes so rapidly these days I’m just waiting for my whole os to crash

[sugar-petals]

I feel like dramatic classics get done dirty a lot of times. Most of the recommendations are always boring “tailered chic” styles, which would be good for certain work recommendations, but even in my job as an accountant, I don’t have to dress that formally. I don’t even dress for my type bc DCs always keep getting recommended the same boring stuff. I’m more of a casual/street style girly myself.

david kibbe would probably say, "if you can, my elegant dramatic classic lady... go all out... and if you're already an accountant... embody it!" (or something like that) what i would say, and i want to challenge the `what's appropriate for what´ dogma and kibbe recommendation pressure with it:

wanting to dress a way > having to dress a way.

if street style and casual are your thing, maintain it! DC elements can be infused into that. sharp shoulders, tone in tone, geometric shoes. not to mention vintage thrifts, it's a goldmine for gamines and classics. menswear thrifting is perfect for cool DC streetstyle.

also, remember that classic clothes look boring on every other type but classics — and in and of themselves, on the hanger, do feel like the same aesthetic over and over: unless one copies jackie o's actually interesting DC wardrobe. although the "US first lady" trope is... yeah. and who can realistically wear that daily. i prefer kibbe's new DC type epithet ("haute powerhouse"), it's a great name actually.

handy 2025 kibbe type name update chart:

soft gamine's new name is a little too much, soft natural is too limited to magazines here, "deco dynamo" sounds too hilarious for the intimidating dramatic, some new names are missing, but yeah. okay, the old names were more to the point, i can't be the only one? of course, kibbe's TR bias: still "femme fatale". it's the only name that didn't change 😂 i love it. snark aside:

diva/divo chic, spitfire, girl/guy next door, free spirit, dreamspinner, femme/homme fatale, those were right on the money. though, the new ones only settled in on reddit so far, i haven't seen the larger kibbesphere call FN the "nonchalant showstopper" (awkward wording). i hope we maintain the old version, i don't get why he rebranded it all with extra french words.

note how the names used to refer to chic aka style, now it's much more personal identity based. irresistable, belle, elegante, etc. interesting how he goes with the times. "tailored chic" actually gave a pragmatic impression how to dress DC, but at least now you know where the good ole 'DC = bespoke stereotype' comes from. which has its kernel of truth, but names always generalize.

refurbishing DC as a haute couture type is cool actually, which removes some of its office dust. so, the high fashion reference does elevate it to a new level beyond basic tailoring. yes... vaguely classist and aristocratic from kibbe. he always wanted classic and dramatic to be the superior expensive regal hyperfashion categories™ lmao, nothing new, but maybe dupes can help us regular degular kibbe practicioners, and the idea counts.

haute mode -> more options than typical bespoke!

(^to be fair, the movie is more about FG vs FN and literal sweatshops)

meanwhile: in my opinion, it's actually pure classic that is the most highly restricted category, as symmetry and simplicity "need to be maintained always", phew. i wouldn't wanna be a classic dresser myself. dramatic classic still has the benefit of stealing ideas from the dramatic type due to their undercurrent. i think that's where a more refreshing, edgy twist can enter.

chart source

[brainddeadd]

Popcorn and Panic

You knew agreeing to a horror movie marathon with the New Jersey Devils was a bad idea. It was bad enough when they dragged you to a haunted house last week. But tonight? Tonight is shaping up to be another level of chaos.

Jack Hughes, Nico Hischier, Luke Hughes, and Dawson Mercer are sprawled across the couches and bean bags in Jack and Luke’s apartment. You’re squished in between Jack and Nico on the couch—your unofficial "designated protector" seats—because apparently, you’re still the team’s baby.

“Okay, first movie is The Conjuring,” Luke announces, aiming the remote at the TV with a grin. “Everyone good with that?”

“Nope,” you say instantly.

Jack laughs, pulling the popcorn bowl onto his lap. “Too bad, Y/N. You’re in this with us now.”

You glare at him half-heartedly. “When did I lose veto power?”

“When you joined the team,” Dawson replies, already stuffing his face with candy.

Nico pats your shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t worry. If it gets too scary, you can hide behind me.” He says it with such sincerity that it makes everyone burst out laughing.

The lights go out, the movie begins, and you feel the first tendrils of dread settle over the room. Five minutes in, and it’s already too quiet, the suspense building like a ticking bomb.

Suddenly, a loud knock from the movie makes everyone jump.

“Holy shit!” Jack exclaims, nearly dumping the popcorn everywhere. “This was a mistake.”

You snort. “Told you.”

As the movie progresses, the tension in the room is palpable. Jack keeps glancing at you, clearly waiting for you to freak out, but you remain composed—mostly to spite him. Luke, on the other hand, is gripping a throw pillow like it’s a lifeline.

Then, the first jump scare hits—a ghost appearing out of nowhere.

“Nope!” Dawson yelps, pulling his hoodie over his head like it will somehow shield him. “I hate this. I hate everything about this.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Dawson, it’s just a movie.”

“Just a movie?” he gasps dramatically. “This is psychological torture.”

Halfway through the film, the room smells like a mix of buttered popcorn, candy, and pure panic. Nico has gone into full “dad mode,” sitting up straight like he’s ready to protect everyone if a demon somehow comes through the screen. You find it adorable.

Another jump scare makes Jack fling the popcorn bowl in the air, sending kernels flying everywhere.

“Jack!” Luke groans, brushing popcorn out of his hair.

“I panicked!” Jack defends himself, though he’s clearly more amused than sorry.

You laugh so hard you nearly fall off the couch. “I thought I was supposed to be the scared one?”

“We’re switching roles tonight,” Jack says with a grin, kicking your foot playfully.

When the movie finally ends, everyone lets out a collective sigh of relief.

“One down, three to go,” Luke announces cheerfully.

“Three?” Dawson looks horrified. “I thought this was just a one movie thing!”

Nico shrugs with a small smile. “We said marathon. That’s kind of the point.”

Dawson groans dramatically, collapsing into his bean bag like a defeated warrior. “I’m not gonna survive this.”

The next film on the list is Hereditary—which, as it turns out, is an even worse idea. Less than ten minutes in, the eerie music alone is enough to send everyone spiraling into full-blown panic mode.

At one point, Luke throws his blanket over his head. “Tell me when it’s over!” he whimpers.

Jack is practically curled into a ball beside you, clutching your arm. “Y/N, why aren’t you freaking out?”

You smirk, loving every second of this. “Because this is way more entertaining than the actual movie.”

By the time Hereditary ends, everyone is thoroughly traumatized.

“Who the hell chose that one?” Dawson demands, glaring at Luke.

“It was highly rated!” Luke protests, though even he looks like he regrets it.

Nico shakes his head, standing up and stretching. “We’re taking a snack break. I need to walk this off.”

In the kitchen, Jack leans against the counter, arms folded across his chest as he watches you with an amused expression. “You’re a lot tougher than I thought.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why? Because I didn’t scream at a movie?”

He grins. “Nah, because you’re still here.”

Back in the living room, Luke puts on Scream—a classic, but at least a bit less traumatizing than the previous choices. Or so you thought.

The phone rings in the movie, and as if on cue, Jack’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He jumps a solid foot off the couch, nearly dropping it.

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaims, glaring at the screen.

You and Dawson dissolve into laughter, tears streaming down your face. “You’re hopeless, Jack.”

By the end of the marathon, everyone is half-asleep, sprawled out across the furniture. Luke is snoring lightly from his bean bag, and Dawson is draped over the arm of the couch like a ragdoll.

Jack nudges you with his elbow. “So, what’d you think? Best team bonding night ever?”

You smile, glancing around at your chaotic, overprotective teammates. “Absolutely.”

And honestly? You wouldn’t trade nights like this for anything.

[mesetacadre]

(Different anon to the one who asked the original question)

Can you elaborate on this part of your post or give reading recs?

"The student, housing, queer, etc. movements will have varying importance depending on time and place, will be more or less permeable to communist positions, and it'll be more or less useful to participate in them. But the worker's movement, whose mobilizations always have a direct relation with the mode of production and capitalism's prime contradiction, should at all times be the focus of any pretension of revolutionary work."

I've been interested in this for a while, but I don't have enough knowledge to have a fully-fledged opinion. I just know I dislike the common "we shouldn't get involved with feminism/trans rights/[insert 'controversial' issue of the time] because it distracts from the worker's movement" or alternative "divides the working class" I hear on social media. I do not think the party needs to be involved in every space, and that sometimes we can even build alliances without dedicating our few and precious resources to work in certain movements, but I think the party lines do need to be defined and its members as well versed as possible in dialectical materialism to reach the appropriate conclusions. The issue is, knowing where to intervene and where to remain on the sideline seems a very complicated decision that some parties seem to base purely on "what are people talking about right now" and that also seems like an error, though I struggle to define how.

I'm not saying that those issues are distracting or unimportant, I'm describing the workers shift. The worker's movement must be a priority and the spine of a CP's work, because it's the closeness that it achieves with the working class at the whirlwind of class struggle that allows a party to actually exert a vanguard role. It's the recognition of the proletariat as the revolutionary class, the class that capitalism itself places as the bourgeoisie's undertaker because of its position in the capitalist mode of production.

Having said this, there are many more ways, or fronts, in which capitalism keeps the working class subjugated, and yes, divided. However saying that those other fronts divide the working class does not mean that they should be ignored, waved away as unimportant, on the contrary. It necessarily concludes that, if your goal is the unity of the working class in a single party, then the work in those fronts should be focused in that sense. Not abandon them, but also participate in these fronts just like a CP can participate in a worker-aristocratic union, to promote through the consistent allyship that only a consistent class position can bring the view of these structural oppressions through a class lens. Talk and fight for the struggle of gay, trans, migrant, women workers, because it is only by eliminating the infiltration of bourgeois demands in these movements that they can ever achieve liberation. If bourgeoisie feminism divides the working class across gender, then the only way to mend that division is to make feminist movements be hegemonically proletarian in class content through the intervention of the CP, not to completely abandon the fight against structural mysogyny.

So while I do agree with you that these phrases (divide the working class, it's a distraction, less important, etc) are generally said by reactionary workerists, I think they're taking a kernel of truth to form a lazy excuse for their prejudice. Marxism understands capitalism in its totality, starting from the abstract to work towards the most concrete, that is, complete, understanding of the mechanisms and relations of capitalism. Recognizing that these movements don't directly deal with the core of the mode of production should not mean disregarding them, it should mean engaging with them with the purview that the structures of oppression they fight are still important for capitalism's continued existence, and that therefore, can only really be removed by destroying the mode of production itself.

So I'd say that the criteria for a party's engagement with these questions should be to aspire to work for the proletariat's hegemony in all of them, and working towards that through prioritization without ever losing sight of the workers shift, because that's what gives the engagement in those other fronts any purpose. Looking at Europe, which what the text you quoted is dealing with, and also the context I know best, I think the priority fronts are migrant workers, working women, and trans workers, because the first two's oppression has a direct relevance to the current form of production in Europe, and because all three form the main avenues of attack against our class that reactionaries take.

The entire 9th issue of the International Communist Review deals with placing workers at the center of communist organizing (though I can't vow for what every participating party says or implies about these other fronts), and I've also talked more about how rejecting the centrality of work has come about in the historical CPs.

[wolftails-funkin-arts]

Shebert's wife and two other OCs I randomly thought of-

(From left to right)

Ali (or Almond Brown)

Cis woman (she/her)

A barn owl

Married to Shebert

She's into crocheting and crafting in her spare time

She lives on a snowy mountain with her husband

She's a survivor in the horror timeline as she was able to get away from Blackhat but it's unknown where she is now

Sound concept:

In normal mode, she would be a melody and her sound would be a pan flute, in sync with Mr. Tree and Tunner

In horror mode, her sound stays the same but it's very fast paced as she's panicking, probably in sync with Simon

Mik (or Anchor Gray)

Bigender (he/she)

An anthromorphic microphone

His name is pronounced like "mike" with a silent e or "mic" but with a k

He has echolalia as he has a habit of repeating others' words or sounds

In the horror timeline, he got his neck snapped and beheaded by Blackhat, as well as breaking his head and body

Sound concept:

In normal mode, he's either an effect or a voice, since he mimics a reverb, he slightly copies some parts of Mr. Fun Computer's song, being "Hello!", "..some fun..", "with us..", "Come on!", "..in this fun time!"

In the horror timeline, his sound would be electric sparks in sync with during the parts when Mr. Fun Computer glitches out while singing

Popper

Trans man (he/him)

An anthromorphic popcorn machine

He can take off the lid on his head and he still able to empty out the popcorn in him

His head is made of glass, so he had to be extremely careful when he falls

In the horror timeline, Blackhat made the popcorn popped repeatedly in his head, making it break

What made him actually die is inhaling all the smoke from the burnt popcorn and suffocating from it- Just don't eat the popcorn, it ain't good ._.

Sound concept:

In normal mode, he's a beat- Obviously, his sound would be the sound of popcorn kernels popping

In horror mode, his sound stays the same but the popping of the kernels sound more like a gunshot, kinda like Raddy

[autolenaphilia]

I got a Steam Deck last year, and it’s such a great machine. It’s obviously inspired by Nintendo Switch, but it’s a lot better than a Switch.

The most important part is that it runs PC games. It’s fundamentally a Linux gaming PC in the form of a handheld console. There are a lot more games available than any console and and PC games both on Steam and GOG are a lot cheaper than console ones. You can get old or indie games for as cheap as 1-3 euro during sales. It’s a tremendous advantage for the deck over its console competitors.

And while the obvious intent of the deck is to get more people to buy games from Steam, it isn’t a walled garden at all. The deck launches into Steam when you boot it up, but you can go into desktop mode, and then it functions as a normal PC running a Linux distro. From there you can install Lutris or Heroic Games Launcher, and use it to easily install games you bought from GOG and Itch.io.

You can also do things like use the official dock or an unofficial usb-c hub to hook the deck up to a monitor, mouse and keyboard to use it as a desktop PC. Or you can hook it up to a tv to use it as home console.

The hardware is also a lot more powerful than a switch, the demanding triple-a games it can play is actually impressive. Although this comes with the natural disadvantage that it’s bulkier too. Putting more powerful PC parts demands more space for them. The deck is not something I bring with me outside. But then again I didn’t even do that with the 3DS, which was actually of a practical size to do that. The deck is portable enough that I can comfortably play lying in bed, which is how I always used my handheld consoles. So it’s perfect for me, but maybe not if you want to play it on the bus or something. It can probably be a fun addition to your luggage on longer trips though.

Of course, as mentioned, the Steam Deck uses Linux. This has both advantages and disadvantages. The main advantage is that it allows Valve to customize the operating system to make it fit with the machine it’s running on. The Deck’s SteamOS feels really well-integrated into the hardware, like how a proper console OS should be like. It’s not that dissimilar to how Sony used FreeBSD to make Playstation’s OS. Windows would not allow for this amount of customization and would not integrate as well.

And the open source nature of most Linux development allows Valve and the user to use existing open-source Linux software to their advantage. For example, the desktop mode is largely not a Valve creation, it’s an existing desktop environment for Linux, KDE Plasma. Yet it extends what the user can do with the deck to a great extent, like for installing non-steam games.

The main disadvantage to the Deck using Linux is that most PC games are built for Windows and don’t run natively under Linux. To run games built for Windows, the Deck has to run it through Proton, a compatibility layer which is Valve’s own gaming-focused version of Wine. Wine/Proton is far from perfect, sometimes games require extensive tinkering to work, or only run with serious issues, or don’t run at all, no matter what you do. Sometimes a game not working with Wine due to some random but serious issue that comes naturally from running a Windows executable on a Linux system via a compatibility layer. Sometimes it’s due to things like a multiplayer’s game anti-cheat system requiring access to the Windows kernel, and it will block a Linux pc from running the game because it has no Windows kernel.

This is however not as big a problem as it might otherwise be. Most games work, more or less. Valve has put a lot of work and money into both their own Proton and the Wine project as a whole, and they work a lot better than they did 10 years ago. Many run perfectly out of the box, because they are native, or play nice with Proton. Some require mere minor tinkering, like using a different version of Proton. And I generally don’t play multiplayer games, or if I do they don’t have draconian anti-cheats, so the games that are blocked because of anti-cheat are no big loss to me. The Steam Deck not running Fortnite is a plus in my book.

And we shouldn’t forget the Steam Deck verified system. Basically Valve employees check if the game runs out of the box with no issues on the Deck. They get a verified rating if they work with no issue, including both proton compatibility but also things like the controls working nice and the text being legible on the deck’s small screen. They also get a “playable” rating if the game runs to an acceptable standard but with tinkering required or other minor issues.

This is a good system. If you dislike tinkering, you can just buy and play games on steam with a verified rating, and the deck will work like a normal console for you, but with a lot cheaper games. It’s a good way to get people used to consoles into PC gaming, which is probably the point of the Deck.

And if you want more than deck verified games from Steam on the Deck, you are given the freedom to do it. I’ve gotten officially non-supported steam games to run on the deck by installing and using proton-GE and I’ve installed and played games from GOG.

The Steam Deck is really how a Linux PC for the common people should work. An easy and slick experience for casual users, but freedom and customization given to those that want it.

[nova885]

A deep-dive into Nessian’s relationship

There’s this dissonance between Nesta and Cassian. It’s felt keenly throughout Nesta’s indoctrination healing arc, but it also seeps into the very foundation of their relationship.

~~~

Cassian values the physical approach most when it comes to practically everything. His ‘love’ language is corporeal, shown through lusting over Nesta’s emaciated body sex. But even then, the sex isn’t gentle. There is no aftercare. He makes a remark that would seem funny only to someone like him, right before he leaves Nesta behind after a most traumatic event.

~~~

When it comes to helping Nesta find her strength, he disregards her already existing ones. Maybe out of ignorance, obliviousness or because he doesn’t view them as worth pursuing. Her sharp intellect, her steel mind, her discernment, her courtier’s tongue, her education - they’re all dismissed.

Instead, Cassian forces Nesta down a path that she herself acknowledges isn’t the only way. It’s simply the one path he happens to know, that is the most convenient… and physical.

~~~

When it comes to Nesta asserting her boundaries lashing out, Cassian never actually questions the why beyond a surface level, if at all. Instead he pushes more rough sex, physical training and food intake control onto her in reply.

The mind can’t be healed through strictly physical approaches.

But how can Cassian help Nesta in a non-physical way when he doesn’t know her very essence, her core values, the full extent of her childhood trauma? To be loved is to be seen. The worst part is that he never bothers to learn.

~~~

Cassian never sits down simply to keep Nesta company, without demanding anything in return. No sex, no mission, no forced conversation. Just silent company, if that’s what she needs, to show her she’s not alone.

He never puts in the time or effort to make Nesta feel safe enough to open up about her past. And no, asking insensitive, blunt questions that trigger her, only to snap at her reaction in return - that’s not the sort of conversation any traumatized person needs.

When you feel that your approach is insensitive and triggering, you don’t snap back at the person. You adjust to their pace. You don’t smash their head against a wall repeatedly in order to try and break said wall down. If you truly care and wish to help, that is. Does he care more about ‘fixing’ and moulding her than he does about the actual person that is Nesta, with everything that makes her her?

And yet, with Nesta and Cassian there is no meeting her half-way. No compromising. No approaching matters on her terms.

Cassian decides on Nesta’s behalf that he takes in stride all of her discomfort and pain, if it means he gets his way. That is a deeply worrying attitude to have in a relationship toward your partner.

~~~

Nesta has never been in control of her own life. People and things keep happening to her, keeping her firmly trapped in survivor mode. There has never been time to assert boundaries, none that aren’t immediately broken anyway. There has been no hand that would guide her rather than harm her.

So Cassian and the IC taking that very fragile control Nesta has finally managed to acquire, in a way that is so abrupt - that can easily feel violating to a survivor like Nesta - is a big deal, to an extent they can’t comprehend.

~~~

Cassian refuses to change his ways. He refuses to self-reflect and admit to himself that his mindset and his approaches are the problem. That his boundary-pushing is triggering. That his abuse tough love is causing Nesta to spiral mentally.

He so graciously ‘accepts’ Nesta’s apology about hurting his feelings with her rejection. When in reality he was the one to follow her home after she expressed multiple times that she wanted to be left alone. Once again not taking no for an answer (🚩). When in reality he was the one to scream at her in public.

After the blatant physical and emotional abuse that was the hike, he treats her with a kernel of kindness only after she breaks down and expresses her devastation about hurting people (informing her own sister about the on-going reproductive abuse). He lets her shift the blame entirely onto herself when in reality it’s his lord and savior Rhysand’s fault, that Cassian was willingly complicit in. And then he immediately resorts to sex. Again.

Those instances show that he gladly lets Nesta believe she is in the wrong, when objectively she isn’t. He accepts her apologies instead of offering a much-needed one of his own. With that sort of behavior, Cassian contributes to Nesta’s self-destructive, spiraling thoughts that lead her to believe he is too good for her. Even when she outright tells him that she doesn’t deserve him, he doesn’t correct her.

This is toxic, not healthy. It doesn’t matter if it stems from obliviousness or intentional manipulation. Both reasonings are bad enough at this point.

~~~

Some relationships are more physical than others, which is okay, but it seems like in Nessian’s case they’re overcompensating for the lack of emotional connection with physical connection. Take away the sex and 90% of their relationship goes with it.

Nesta and Cassian’s issues are rooted in a lack of understanding and effective communication. There is no conscious effort, none of the emotional depth that is crucial in order for them to comprehend each other’s feelings and thought processes in a sufficient amount for an actual relationship.

How tiring does it get, having to spend a lifetime translating your soul? Especially when said lifetime spans over centuries?

[amyfarbright]

Sonic 1 Mega CD Port

(download here)

(if you think this is cool, consider helping me find work/money <3)

Welcome to the Next Level!

NOTE: I'm aware of issues regarding audio playback and transitioning between zones, and intend to push an update once the contest judging period is over. In the meantime, you can use level select (Up Down Left Right A + Start at title screen) to explore the game.

At the 1992 Consumer Electronics Show, a teaser for a Mega CD version of Sonic 1 was shown within a sizzle reel. No Mega CD version of Sonic 1 was ever produced, and this footage is almost everything we know about this project, but it's extremely likely that this idea is what morphed into the separate game Sonic CD, the only Sonic game officially released for the console.

In 2006, Stealth released the Sonic for MegaCD tech demo, marking the first time any substantial effort was made to bring another Sonic game to the console. It contained the title screens and first levels of Sonic 1 and 2, with three playable characters. In the following years, he would build on the ideas in that demo further, eventually reaching a point where his setup accommodated a Mega CD version of a rom hack called Sonic Megamix.

For a long time, this rom hack was the only way to experience Sonic 1's levels, and was the closest you could get to playing the original game on your Mega CD...

until now.

This is a port of the original Sonic the Hedgehog (revision 1, mostly) to the Sega Mega CD (running in Mode 2/off a CD). Not a mere one-zone demo, not affected by an original hack's mechanics, this is a full playable Sonic game running on the Mega CD, with the source fully available, and with the intent of enhancing the game with the extra hardware.

I started this project about a month and a half ago to enter into the annual Sonic Hacking Contest. This was done as both a learning experience for myself to learn new hardware (I was already familiar with programming for Mega Drive, but wanted to explore its addons), and as an example others can learn from.

This has been tested with BlastEm, Fusion, Gens, and on real hardware using a Mega Everdrive Pro.

Features:

Expanded Sound.

The Mega CD comes with a chip supporting PCM playback for up to 8 channels, complementing the 10 sound channels already in the Mega Drive. This port leverages that by moving playback of drum samples to a custom PCM sound driver running on the Mega CD CPU.

Because drums no longer need to play on the Mega Drive hardware, an extra sound channel was added in the main sound driver to allow for more sound effects to play without cutting out channels of the music.

Unfortunately, I was not able to get CD audio playback fully implemented in time for the initial release. Most of the pieces are there though, and I intend to add it in a future update.

An open-source Mega CD game. The scene for Mega CD has grown significantly over time, and over the years there has been new homebrew and hacks of other games, but not nearly as much done with the blue guy this contest is about. This port aims to change that; this is a full game running on Mega CD, with source code and development history available for browsing right now. Code for the kernel programs to load and run the game from disk is written in mostly C using the megadev toolchain. Rom hackers and developers more familiar with the Mega Drive standalone can use the code repository as an example of how to bring more full-fledged MD projects over to Mega CD with as few changes as possible.

Other features:

Custom loading screen while files are loaded from CD

Modified title screen, to remind you that this is indeed utilizing Mega CD hardware

Various bugfixes applied (for those familiar with Sonic Retro's Sonic 1 disassembly, FixBugs is turned on)

Much smoother special stage. The movement of objects making up the maze was unlocked, and the walls now display with 128 degrees of rotation (up from 16).

Even though I started this project to have something for the contest, I'm incredibly happy with what's been done so far, and I intend to work on it further after the contest to add more features. I consider this the beginning of a goodbright future for Sonic games and hacks on Mega CD.

Note: Debug mode and sound test have not been fixed to accommodate for the code that has been moved around. Try at your own risk!

Credits

Main developer: Amy Farbright

Playtesting and bug reporting: The Let's Talk About Sonic Discord

Special thanks: @fiffle, @milly, @crepe

Code used/referenced:

drojaazu's megadev toolchain

Devon's partial Sonic CD disassembly

SCHG How-to Guide

tversteeg's Rust implementation of rotsprite

Graphics used:

CD graphic on title screen: Sega Multimedia Studio, converted from sprites ripped by Mister Man

[taubenmaedchens]

''There is a gap that for ever separates the phantasmatic kernel of the subject's being from the more superficial modes of his or her symbolic or imaginary identifications. It is never possible for me to fully assume (in the sense of symbolic integration) the phantasmatic kernel of my being: when I venture too close, what occurs is what Lacan calls the aphanisis (the self-obliteration) of the subject: the subject loses his/her symbolic consistency, it disintegrates. And perhaps the forced actualization in social reality itself of the phantasmatic kernel of my being is the worst, most humiliating kind of violence, a violence that undermines the very basis of my identity (of my self-image).''

[eightyonekilograms]

Very interesting iPhone vulnerability just dropped. Like most big current 0-days, this one requires chaining together many different vulnerabilities in order to be successful, but what makes this one different is that part of the exploit involves an undocumented hardware feature. Long story short: after boot is complete, all the code (as opposed to data) portions of kernel memory are made unwriteable even by the kernel itself, and this is enforced not in software but in hardware by the memory controller, so in theory it's immune to compromises of the OS. But if you write to a magic region of I/O-mapped memory together with a specific key, it bypasses this protection.

Now, what's very interesting is that this feature is not publicly documented anywhere. The researches say it might have been intended for debugging firmware, but that's only a guess. The fact that it needs a key seems to indicate that Apple probably knows about it internally and put in weak anti-exploit countermeasures, but again, we cannot be sure. So there are several different possibilities here:

Whoever made this exploit found it with brute-force exploration. That's not impossible, but the fact that you need to know the exact IOMM address and a key makes it unlikely.

The feature is known to Apple, which leads to three sub-possibilities: i) they were hacked and the exploit technique was exfiltrated, ii) somebody has a man on the inside who leaked it or iii) they were ordered to put this backdoor there by the Powers That Be.

The feature is not known to Apple and was put there by their chip vendors, and they were the ones who were either hacked, infiltrated, or coerced.

Final note: the entry point of the exploit was, once again, iMessage attachments, so if you have an iDevice and you're worried about stuff like this, AIUI Lockdown Mode would make you immune.

[techav]

On Major Milestones

I left off previously with init immediately crashing when trying to run NetBSD on Wrap030, my 68030 homebrew computer. I was completely lost and didn't know where to start looking. The error code it gave, 11, didn't tell me much.

Until now, most error codes I've gotten have been defined in kernel errno.h, which has 11 defined as:

EDEADLK 11 /* Resource deadlock avoided */

That … also isn't helpful. I'm still not entirely sure what that means, but since this is process 1 we're dealing with, I didn't think it was relevant.

Finally, I was able to find someone who had encountered the same error six years ago. Helpful soul [Martin] explained the exact cause of the error, how to fix it, and why the kernel errno didn't line up:

I'm running a NetBSD live disk on a laptop as a test host, so I mounted my disk on it and spent some time with mknod adding the essential device nodes, referencing the "majors" file for my arch. Sure enough, on next boot it skipped right past the point it had been panicking. It worked for a bit then finally printed on the console:

Enter pathname o

Enter pathname of what? The machine appeared frozen. Nothing further printed, and it responded to no input.

I was afraid this would happen. That string is 16 characters. The 16C55x UART chips I'm using have a 16-byte buffer. The system is hung up waiting for the UART to interrupt to indicate it has finished transmitting everything in its buffer.

There's just one problem — I don't have any serial interrupts wired.

I have a confession to make. Until a few weeks ago when I got my timer working, I hadn't really worked with hardware interrupts before. So between a limited understanding of how to use them effectively and limited board space, I had omitted the interrupt signals from my 8-port serial card. This was now a Problem, and I was going to have to find a solution.

I had a few options:

Force the com driver to 8250 mode so it doesn't try to use the buffers

Use my timer interrupt to check status bits on the UARTs and fake the interrupts

Deadbug an interrupt handler onto my serial card

Respin the serial card

Option 4 would've been expensive and risked passing my deadline. I wasn't sure option 1 would even help. And option 3 would have been difficult and error-prone. I decided option 2 would be the way to go so I set about researching how to accomplish it

I spent a few hours digging through the com driver. In the process I found softintr(9), a native NetBSD software interrupt process that looked like just the thing I needed. Digging in a little deeper, I realized that the com driver was already using softintr. And then I realized all it needed to do polled mode serial ports instead of interrupt-driven was to set a single variable, sc_poll_ticks, before initializing the driver. It's such a simple thing, but it's not really documented anywhere I could find, so the only way to know it was even an option was to spend hours studying the code.

With that in place, I recompiled my kernel and tried again.

It was asking for a shell. This is promising. I accepted the default shell, /bin/sh, and waited a moment. It printed a single #.

I had a shell prompt.

I typed in the first thing that came to mind, echo "hellorld" (thanks, [Usagi]). It responded:

hellorld

and printed another # prompt.

I had a working shell.

This is a major milestone. I have a modern operating system kernel loaded and running on my homebrew computer, and I have a functional root shell. I can navigate disk directories and run commands and programs.

But only as root, and only on this one console. I have seven other serial ports I want terminals on, and I certainly don't want them all running as root.

What it's running here is single-user mode. It is just the kernel and a few core services, somewhat analogous to Safe Mode in Windows. It's a fall-back for setting up or repairing a system. It's not quite the full operating system just yet.

Getting the rest of the operating system up and running is going to be a significant task, on par with getting just the kernel running. Setting up a working Unix system from scratch is not easy. It requires a lot of detailed knowledge of the various programs and libraries and config files scattered across the disk. For a sense of scale, the AT&T Unix System V manual was over 1100 pages, plus an 800 page programmer's guide and a handful of other manuals … and that was 40 years ago. That's a lot of specialized knowledge that I don't really have.

But still, this is something I've wanted to do for years and after countless hours of work, I finally have a glimpse of what it can look like. I have a lot to learn and a lot of work to do yet, but I'm certain I can figure it out.

I'm still hoping I can get this running multi-user on all those terminals in time for VCF Southwest in June. The show is just a few weeks away and I have a lot of work to do.

[leejenowrld]

can we see what certain holidays (like Christmas) look like for our fav cutesy families?

christmas — family love (this is very long) about 8k words

early morning—just y/n, jeno, junie, and serin the house wakes in hush-blue light, christmas tree twinkling like it kept watch all night. junie is first down the hallway, footie-pajama feet shh shh shh against the floor, bunny clutched high like he’s on a secret mission. he pauses at the living-room doorway, eyes going saucer-round when he spots the cookie plate—three crumbs, one sleigh-boot print of cocoa powder, and a note tucked under a half-drunk glass of milk. “he came,” he whispers, breath fogging the air with awe. serin barrels into him, curls bouncing, matching red-and-green jammies flashing candy-cane stripes. she sees the stockings—overstuffed, bulging with ribbons and bursts into a giggle that sounds like bells. jeno appears, hair rumpled, voice still sleep-rough as he scoops them both up at once: “merry christmas, bubbas.” the note rustles; y/n reads aloud in her quiet-morning voice, santa thanking them for the cookies, promising to feed the extra carrot to rudolph. junie and serin clap, cheeks pink, bouncing in their daddy’s arms like two impatient popcorn kernels.

presents and pancakes they open stockings first—slow, savoring. every tiny gift is greeted with a gasp: junie’s dinosaur socks, serin’s glitter lip balm (“for my sparkly kisses!”). jeno pretends to be shocked by every chocolate coin; y/n slides a tiny envelope into his hand with a smile that says later. afterward, the kitchen turns into a pancake carnival. jeno flips them high, junie dusts “snow” (powdered sugar) over the stack, serin squeezes too much strawberry syrup until it looks like a candy-factory accident. y/n nurses a mug of peppermint cocoa, leaning against the counter, watching her three loves spin around the stove like planets in a warm, maple-scented orbit.

grand entrance—mark & areum, chaeun in tow around four, the front door bangs open: mark in reindeer antlers, areum trailing tinsel like a comet, and little chaeun toddling behind in a onesie patterned with twinkling fairylights. “santa got lost in my neighborhood,” mark announces, dumping four more presents beneath the tree. chaeun toddles straight to serin, and the two girls disappear behind a stack of gift boxes, whisper-plotting. mark high-fives junie, then flops onto the rug with jeno, comparing which of them can wiggle their socked toes faster. y/n and areum disappear into the kitchen, conspiratorial and giggly, sneaking spoonfuls of fudge while plotting the afternoon cocoa bar.

wave two—jaemin & haeun jaemin arrives next, a sleepy-eyed haeun wrapped around his torso like a baby koala. she peeks out, spots the tree, and her face erupts into a grin. “bright ghosts!” she declares (lanterns, light strings—everything twinkles like friendly ghosts to her). y/n whisks the toddler into her arms, covering her cheeks with peppermint-flavored kisses. jaemin trades sleepy nods with jeno—long night, same dad-mode exhaustion—then both grin when they hear their girls squeal from under the tree, now “decorating” junie with stray tinsel.

wild arrival—karina, chenle, ningning, donghyuck, shotaro, ryujin mid-morning turns into a carnival: chenle’s laugh precedes him down the walkway, donghyuck belts off-key carols, ningning rocks a sequin santa hat. karina sweeps in with a three-tier dessert box (“i baked half, bought half—guess which?”). shotaro does a slow-motion snow-angel on the welcome mat (no snow—he’s improvising). ryujin carries an enormous basket labeled emergency cozy—extra slippers, fuzzy blankets, and peppermint lip balm for everyone. suddenly the house feels like a snow-globe someone shook on purpose: laughter ricochets, wrapping paper flies, chenle’s “deluxe cocoa bar” erupts on the counter—whipped cream towers, crushed candy cane, glittery marshmallows.

grandparents’ glow—irene, doyoung, seulgi last come the calm anchors: irene in winter-white cashmere, doyoung carefully balancing a tureen of his famous cinnamon stew, seulgi with a stack of vintage christmas vinyls. “santa’s favorite mixtape,” she winks. junie darts straight to irene, presenting a scribbled card that says love you grandma like hot chocolate. irene’s laughter is a fireplace. doyoung kneels to greet serin and chaeun, accepting their glitter-glue bracelets like priceless jewels. seulgi cues up the record player; the first crackle of let it snow turns the living room into a movie scene.

afternoon slow-down—movies & nap piles paper snowflakes drift from the ceiling (courtesy of ryujin and ningning’s stealth redecorating). the polar express flickers on the tv; toddlers pile onto a mountain of pillows. ha-eun curls into jaemin’s chest, thumb in mouth, while serin sleepily taps her mama’s cheek, murmuring, “train going choo.” junie tries valiantly to stay awake, dino socks twitching, but soon droops against jeno’s shoulder. the grown-ups sprawl in cozy heaps—shotaro on the floor with a blanket cape, mark and areum sharing one giant armchair, chenle half-dozing under twinkle lights. the house smells of cinnamon stew, peppermint, and warm pine. outside, dusk settles lavender-blue, but inside is all lamp-lit gold.

golden-hour gratitude y/n slips into the kitchen to slice the dessert box: karina’s red-velvet cookies, ningning’s glittery brownie bites. jeno pads in, junie drowsy-heavy on his hip, and kisses her temple. “look,” he whispers, nodding toward the living room—every friend, every baby, every laugh tucked under one roof. it’s a snapshot they’ll keep forever: grandparents trading stories by the fire, friends singing off-key, toddlers curled like puzzle pieces on the rug. y/n steals a marshmallow, pops it into junie’s mouth; he giggles half-asleep, sticky-sweet. outside, the first star pricks the sky. inside, someone starts humming silent night. for one bright breath, time feels gentle—every heartbeat in perfect, peppermint-scented harmony.

late-night board games — peppermint chaos & victory dances hours after dessert is reduced to crumbs and cocoa mugs lie empty, chenle slaps a vintage candy land box onto the coffee table with a flourish. “junie, you ready to defend your title?” he crows, wiggling his eyebrows. jeno grins sleepily from the floor, serin curled in his lap like a kitten, still clutching her glitter-glue bracelet. mark insists on playing teams: y/n and serin versus jaemin and haeun, while donghyuck narrates every move like an olympic commentator. pieces hop across gumdrop paths; ningning jingles a sleigh-bell whenever someone lands on queen frostine. chaeun dozes against areum’s shoulder, waking just long enough to place a single orange card with triumphant glee. when junie draws the coveted rainbow trail and rockets to the finish, chenle howls, collapses backward in mock defeat, and junie launches into a wobbly dino victory dance, socks sliding, jeno’s applause the loudest in the room. irene captures it on her phone, and doyoung high-fives anyone within reach. under twinkle lights, the game stretches into laughter and playful bickering until eye-rubs and yawns cue round two: charades. shotaro’s exaggerated reindeer prance has everyone doubled over; seulgi guesses it in two seconds, then hands him a blanket cape for bonus flair. midnight creeps in unnoticed, wrapped in giggles and peppermint-sticky fingers.

sleepy car-rides home — twinkle streets & hush hummed lullabies eventually doors click, coats rustle, and the front walk glows with farewell hugs. irene and doyoung bundle chaeun into their car seat, breath clouding in the cold night air as they softly hum silver bells. chenle buckles a near-comatose ningning into the backseat, her sequin santa hat slumped over one eye; he snaps a photo for blackmail later. karina drives ryujin and shotaro, backseat already a blanket nest—shotaro fast asleep mid-thank-you sentence, ryujin leaning her head on his shoulder, the emergency cozy basket now a footrest. mark tucks a yawning haeun beside jaemin, whispers “sweet dreams, bright ghost,” and closes the door. the convoy of cars eases down streets still lined with fairy lights, engines low, dashboards aglow. inside each vehicle, the world hushes to soft radio carols and murmured good-nights. toddlers slump against seat belts, half-smiling in dreams; grown-ups trade sleepy nods, windows fogged with warmth. the whole city seems to breathe in sync—a long exhale of holiday peace, houses passing like slow-moving lanterns.

moments with the cousins the afternoon after christmas, the house still smells of cinnamon and pine, and the cousin chaos begins in earnest. junie and chaeun decide that every pillow in the house is now construction material; they haul them into the hallway, stacking a wobbling, giggly fort. serin toddles after them with armfuls of spare blankets, calling, “more cozy!” while haeun drags her bunny by one ear, determined to be the official fort-door guard. inside the finished masterpiece—glittery string-lights stolen from the tree, two flashlights, and one bowl of gummy bears—junie solemnly announces, “this is the cousin kingdom,” and they all dissolve into baby giggles that echo down the hall.

later, karina slips into the kitchen and whispers a plan to y/n: mini gingerbread houses. dough and frosting fly everywhere, but no one minds. junie carefully pipes crooked frosting shingles while chaeun places a gumdrop chimney, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth. serin decides her house needs “snow,” up-ending an entire bowl of powdered sugar, creating a blizzard that makes everyone sneeze and laugh. haeun’s “house” is more pile than cottage; she proudly taps the side and proclaims, “it’s a yummy mountain!” jeno lifts her onto the counter to admire the sugary summit, and she beams like she’s just built a skyscraper.

grandpa doyoung corrals the whole crew to the backyard when a lazy drift of snow starts falling. tiny boots and mismatched mittens stomp out trails while mark and shotaro rig a laundry-basket sleigh. junie climbs in first, hauling serin to sit behind him, and together they shout, “goooo!” as chenle and donghyuck give them a gentle push, the basket skimming over the dusting of snow. chaeun and haeun squeal on the sidelines, waiting their turn; haeun claps so hard her mittens almost fly off. ryujin captures slow-motion videos while ningning adds glitter stickers to every helmet—safety and sparkle.

inside again, the cousins pile onto the couch for a movie marathon: paddington, then the grinch, then frozen for the hundredth time because serin insists she must practice her “let it go” performance. junie acts out every line beside her, chaeun belts the chorus half a beat late, and haeun twirls until she’s dizzy, crashing into jaemin’s lap with a delighted squeak. jeno records it all, zooming in on frosting-smeared cheeks and jelly-stained pajamas. he sends the clip to the family chat; irene replies with a string of heart emojis, and seulgi promises hot cocoa for round four.

as night creeps in, y/n spreads out a quilt by the tree for cousin camp-out. pillows become islands; the babies hop from one to another, chanting “lava, lava!” until they collapse in a tangled heap—junie’s arm around serin, chaeun’s head on haeun’s tummy, all four lulled by the twinkle lights and the faint crackle of the fire. in the hush before sleep truly claims them, junie murmurs, “best christmas ever,” and the others nod, eyes fluttering. grown-ups tiptoe past, hearts swelling at the sight: a cousin constellation, bundled in blankets, breathing soft and slow beneath a flickering galaxy of tree lights—a perfect little universe of bubbas, love, and endless, giggly wonder.

additional scene: chaeun and serin the front door closes with a thud and the whole house seems to shimmer—mark’s booming laugh still bouncing in the hallway, areum shaking tinsel from her hair, but all eyes are on tiny chaeun, twinkle-light onesie glowing as she beams and claps. serin nearly levitates from the rug, feet flying, curls bouncing as she sprints across the floor. “chaeu! sissy! you here! you here!” she squeals, arms flung open, giggle-breathless. chaeun, still hugging her bunny, lets out a little happy shriek—“serwy!”—and launches into her sissy’s arms. they spin, tangled, till they collapse in a giggle heap beneath the tree, cheeks pressed together, both wriggling with that fizzy excitement only christmas brings.

serin grabs chaeun’s hand and leads her behind the tallest stack of boxes, their own secret world. “wanna play sissy game?” serin whispers, eyes wide, voice hushed. chaeun nods, bunny’s ear waggling. “pwesent hide ‘n seek?” chaeun suggests, bubbly. “you close eyes, i hide, you find!” they take turns, one squishing into the pillow pile while the other counts, always peeking, always laughing. after three rounds, they both give up and collapse together, legs tangled, giggling so loud the grown-ups pause in the kitchen to peek.

serin pulls out a lumpy tissue-wrapped bundle. “for you, sissy! i pick myself,” she announces with pride, handing it over. chaeun’s hands shake as she peels it open—a sparkly pink hairclip shaped like a butterfly, and a handful of jelly bracelets. her eyes go huge. “fo’ me?” she whispers, voice soft as snow. “yes, yes! you my sparkly bubba!” serin cries. chaeun throws her arms around serin’s neck, peppering her with baby kisses, squealing, “thank you, sissy! lub you, lub you, lub you!” then it’s chaeun’s turn; she shyly pushes her own small box into serin’s lap. “open open!” she chants, feet kicking with excitement. serin rips the paper—inside, a little beaded necklace with a wobbly “s” charm and a tiny plastic star. “me!” she shouts, slipping it on. “look, chaeu, me ‘n you match!” the hug attack is immediate: they wrap each other up, little arms squeezing, shrieking “huggy sissy! kissy sissy!” until they topple over, rolling across the rug. chaeun blows a raspberry on serin’s cheek; serin returns fire, both giggling so hard they barely breathe.

one last kiss attack, and their flailing feet send a soft gold bauble tumbling off the tree. both freeze, eyes huge, hands over mouths. “oopsie!” they chorus, then dissolve again into bubbles of laughter, snuggled in their matching jammies under the twinkle lights, knowing this moment—sticky, giggly, wild—is their very best christmas magic.

scene of christmas morning at jeno and yn’s —

the morning breaks softly, as if the whole world’s wrapped in cotton and gentle hush, the first gray-blue light leaking under the curtains and pooling on the thick winter rug. you’re already awake, barely—eyes puffy, throat still sweet with sleep, one arm curled tight around jeno’s waist as you both drowse beneath the heavy quilt. you’re so warm it almost hurts to move, but somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaks, and then a breathless, squeaky whisper—“daddy… is it time? is it really, really christmas?”—slides right under the door, close enough to tickle your ears.

jeno groans softly, stretching just as junie clambers up onto the bed in a tangle of reindeer pajamas and wild bedhead, the kind of look that only belongs to little boys who have barely slept all night out of pure anticipation. his cheeks are bright, eyes huge, mouth already forming an impatient, sticky grin. “mama, you awake? is santa still here?” he whispers, crawling into the space between you and jeno, arms flung over both of you, pressing his cold feet against your thigh. serin isn’t far behind—she toddles in, her bunny clutched by the ears, hair tied in three different, lopsided pigtails, little voice already at full whine. “mamaaaaa, where’s my stocking? where’s my big, big candy cane?” she wiggles in next to junie, wriggling under the blanket with a practiced ease, their bodies so small and warm you swear you can feel their heartbeats pressed to your ribs.

for a moment you all just lie there, breathing in the smell of peppermint and sleep, listening to the wind rattle soft snow against the window. jeno kisses your temple, sleepy and smiling, and you know without looking that his hand is already tracing lazy circles on junie’s back. you run your thumb over serin’s round cheek, her lashes damp with the last of a dream. there’s no rush—just the velvet, bubbling hush of christmas morning before the rest of the world is allowed to begin. you pretend for a few more seconds that you might all fall back asleep like this, a messy knot of pajamas and tangled hair and old, worn-out love.

but then serin bursts up, face shining, “mama, go, go! santa cookies! presents! come on!” and junie is out from under the covers in a flash, scampering down the hall, his feet slapping against the hardwood as he yells, “come on, come on! before the cookies are gone!” jeno rolls his eyes, laughs, and drags himself out of bed, scooping serin up and throwing her over his shoulder as she giggles and shrieks, “i’m the christmas princess!” you follow, pulling your own red-striped pajamas straight, pausing in the hall just to watch the scene spill out in slow, golden motion.

the living room is still shadowed, every surface dusted in soft, pale light and the gentle glow of twinkling fairy lights you strung up the night before, their bulbs blinking slow and dreamy along the window. the tree is a riot of color and childhood—junie’s clumsy popcorn garland, serin’s glitter-glued pinecone, the big felt star they insisted on putting up all by themselves (with jeno holding them high and you snapping photos, laughing so hard you almost missed the moment). at the base, presents pile in mismatched paper, some wrapped with far too much tape, others boasting crooked bows tied by little hands, the tags wobbly with wonky letters: “to mama, love junie,” “for daddy, from serin.” milk stains the rim of santa’s mug, a single half-eaten cookie on the plate, and a trail of silver glitter—jeno’s handiwork—marks santa’s “footprints” through the room, proof enough for any wide-eyed bubba heart.

serin is first to the stockings, yanking hers free and nearly tipping the hooks off the mantle, squealing with triumph. “look, look! mama, candy!” she shouts, half the contents spilling onto the carpet as she dives into a pile of sweets and stickers and the tiniest stuffed penguin you’ve ever seen. junie is slower, mouth round with awe as he discovers a toy car tucked into the toe, then a book with a shiny blue ribbon—“it’s for you, so we can read together, mama!” he beams, all dimples and pride, and launches himself at you for a sticky, peppermint kiss. jeno sits back, one arm draped across your shoulder, serin in his lap and giggling, his other hand reaching for your coffee mug, the scene so simple and bright you want to press it between the pages of your memory and never let it fade.

the next hour is a happy blur of wrapping paper, wild giggles, and the sacred chaos of family—serin insisting on opening every present with her teeth, junie shrieking over a remote-control train, jeno narrating each new discovery like a game show host, you trying and failing to record every second on your phone because your hands are too busy being held. you sip coffee from a chipped mug, feet tangled with little socks and tiny toes, warm and a little overwhelmed and perfectly, perfectly content.

when the initial storm settles, you pile onto the sofa, legs tangled under sherpa blankets, the tree twinkling and music humming soft in the background. jeno is a fortress—junie on one side, serin sprawled across his chest, both clutching their new treasures. you fit in the curve of his arm, the four of you a seamless knot of limbs and laughter. “movie time?” you ask, and both kids erupt into shouts—“home alone!” “no, elf!” “frozen!”—and jeno just grins, flipping through the options until everyone is giggling too hard to care.

junie snuggles under your chin, hair still smelling like last night’s bath, murmuring about santa’s reindeer and what he’ll wish for next year. serin finds her thumb, drifts off for a few minutes, her cheek pressed to jeno’s heart. you tuck the blanket up to their chins, your palm resting over both their chests, feeling the wild, soft flutter of contentment that only comes from loving something this small and this much.

you make cocoa with way too many marshmallows, giggling as serin spills half hers on the table, and let the kids “help” with cinnamon rolls, which means flour in their hair, on the counter, in your coffee, everywhere but the actual bowl. jeno kisses the tip of your nose as you laugh, arms sneaking around your waist, while junie pipes, “mama, are you happy?” and you answer honestly, voice thick, “the happiest, bubba.” by late morning, the house glows warm, the kitchen full of sweet cinnamon air, and the tree gleams with bits of ribbon and bauble. the four of you curl up together, heads touching, feet tangled, hearts loud and safe. you look at your babies, cheeks rosy, eyes soft with that dreamy holiday light, and think: this is what it means to be home.

christmas at mark and areum’s —

the bedroom is still wrapped in hush-grey dawn when the door creaks on its hinges and a tiny bundle of curls and footie pajamas slips inside. chaeun shuffles across the rug, bunny clutched in one hand, the other rubbing sleep from her eyes. she pauses at the edge of the quilt, barely breathing; the room smells of pine and vanilla candle wax, leftover glow from the tree downstairs pulsing faintly down the hallway. mark stirs first—drowsy, hair flattened on one side—feeling that unmistakable tug on the blanket. “dada,” comes the whisper, soft as falling snow, “is now christmas?” he opens one eye, sees the wobbling anticipation in his daughter’s face, and nudges areum awake with the gentlest elbow. areum rolls over, blink-sleepy but instantly smiling, whispering, “good morning, snowdrop.” chaos flickers in chaeun’s grin; she flaps a hand, unable to contain the fizzing energy. “sanna come? presents downstairs? we go peek?” her voice hiccups on the last word, a giggle sneaking through.

mark stretches an arm across the mattress, welcoming her into the warm pocket between him and areum. she clambers up, bunny trailing behind like a sleepy comet, and wedges herself under the quilt. the hush of blankets, mama’s cocoa breath, and daddy’s wood-smoke skin tuck around her. “dada, i hear hooves,” she whispers, eyes huge. mark pretends to listen, tilting his head. “i think i heard a jing-jing bell,” he murmurs back, and chaeun gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth. areum brushes stray curls from their daughter’s forehead, pressing a kiss that smells like lavender night cream. “shall we check if santa left footprints?” chaeun’s whole body becomes a wiggle of agreement. “we check now! but—” she pauses, plucking at her pajama sleeve, “i wanna wear matchy pj with mama ‘n dada.” areum laughs, rolling out of bed to fetch the tiny bundle of red-and-cream striped pajamas folded on the dresser.

the room glows peach as the lamps flick on. mark carries chaeun to the mirror, balancing her on his hip while areum peels off her night shirt, sliding her arms into the new top. the fabric is butter-soft cotton, candy-cane stripes running in cheerful spirals. the buttons are tiny gingerbread men, each one smiling. chaeun gasps at the buttons, tracing one with a fingertip. “gingie-bread!” she squeaks. matching pants come next, the cuffs printed with dancing snowflakes. areum tugs them up over teddy-bear socks, kissing each wiggly toe as it disappears into red stretch cotton. at the last button, chaeun looks up, eyes shining. “i same-same like mama ‘n dada.” mark taps her nose. “triplet squad.” she giggles, pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek, then another to her mother’s. “fank you, mama. fank you, dada.”

down the hallway, the faint glow of tree lights grows brighter. mark flicks on no lamps, letting the fairy hues guide them: green through the doorway, red across the landing, blue pooling on the stairs like spilled magic. chaeun’s little hands tighten around each of theirs. “shhh,” she breathes, “sanna maybe still here.” she half-tiptoes, half-skips, bunny’s ear brushing each step. the living room blazes alive at the bottom—tree glittering in jewel tones, stockings bulging, and in the middle of the rug a frothy mountain of wrapped surprises. but what makes chaeun gasp is the half-empty cookie plate and a candy-cane striped straw in an upturned glass of milk, a smear of white foam still clinging to the rim. “he drinked it!” she squeals, spinning once, arms flung wide.

areum settles onto the couch, patting the cushion beside her; mark kneels by the tree, retrieving the first stocking—chaEUN stitched in silver thread, a glittering star dotting the e. “this one’s heavy,” he teases, handing it over. chaeun hugs it to her chest, eyes saucer-big. she peels at the felt snowflake clipped to the cuff, tipping the stocking upside down so treasures tumble: a plush penguin lip-balm, a roll of strawberry candies (“strawb’ies!” she gasps), a sparkly slinky, and a tiny music box that twinkles jingle bells when she winds it. last comes a slim rectangle wrapped in silver paper. she rips it open to reveal a mini photo-flip book—pictures of her and her parents across the year: spring puddle jumps, summer beach selfies, autumn pumpkin smears. her mouth quivers; she blinks fast, overwhelmed. “fank you,” she whispers, clutching the book like treasure. “is us happy.”

areum’s stocking holds matching gingerbread-man earrings (mark’s doing), and mark’s reveals a hand-painted mug—the handle a candy cane curl, the words super snuggle dad painted in serin-style glitter. chaeun kicks her heels in delight. “dada mug!” she chirps, planting a marshmallow-sticky kiss on his nose. mark pretends the glitter makes him sneeze, and she collapses in giggles.

present time is a whirl of crinkling paper. chaeun’s first gift: a plush unicorn rocking horse, mane woven with pastel ribbons. she circles it like it might fly away, eyes shining moon-bright. “mine?” she breathes, almost too soft to hear. mark nods, and suddenly her face crumples—joy so fierce it tips into tears. “fank you, mama, fank you, dada, love it sooo much,” she sobs, wrapping her arms around the unicorn’s neck, tears dampening its glitter horn. areum sweeps her close, rocking her gently. “happy tears are good tears, snowdrop.” chaeun nods, hiccupping giggles between sniffles, peppering the unicorn’s mane with kisses.

she opens a box of watercolor pens next, squealing, “paint rainbows!” then a tiny apron with chef chaeun embroidered across the front—mark’s grin nearly splits his face. “pancake partner for life,” he declares. “pamps!” she echoes. each gift earns whispered thanks and a kiss to whichever parent handed it over. between every two presents, she pauses, bunny in one hand, new treasure in the other, simply savoring.

mark and areum exchange their own gifts: a leather-bound sketchbook for mark, filled with pressed wildflowers from the hikes they took together, and a brass locket for areum, inside two tiny photos—one of their wedding day, one of newborn chaeun nuzzled beneath areum’s chin. chaeun watches the moment, rocking on her unicorn, humming off-key carols. when areum’s eyes mist, chaeun dismounts to pat her cheek. “mama happy?” she asks, eyes earnest. “so happy,” areum whispers. “then i happy,” chaeun replies, nodding once, as if settling the universe.

breakfast is cinnamon-vanilla french toast, powdered sugar drifting like snow. chaeun insists on dusting each slice herself, explosion clouds filling the air. mark pretends to sneeze, every time; she cackles louder with each “achoo.” afterward, they curl on the couch under a plaid throw. paddington plays low on the tv, but half the time chaeun’s attention drifts to turning pages of her photo book, naming each memory: “beach day, daddy sandcastle. mama splash me.” her voice slows with drowsy sweetness. she climbs onto mark’s lap, nestles her head under his chin, and whispers, “dada, i lub you snow much.” her words slur on love; tiny fingers toy with the edge of his shirt. her eyelids flutter—content, safe, wholly loved. across the couch, areum stretches, ankle brushing mark’s. she meets his gaze over their daughter’s sleepy curls—soft gratitude in every quiet heartbeat. somewhere outside, carols drift from a neighbor’s radio, but in here it’s just slow breathing, peppermint-warm hush, and the softest miracle of all: one small girl, wrapped in stripes to match her parents, dreaming bright dreams beneath the twinkle of christmas light.

after breakfast, chaeun is still trailing powdered sugar across the floor, bunny hugged in one arm, her little cheeks sticky and shining. mark lifts her into his lap as areum finds the remote. “movie time, snowdrop?” areum asks, tickling her belly until giggles burst out. chaeun squeals, legs kicking, head thrown back with those wild, bubbling laughs that only a two-year-old can manage. “moobie! i want da bear! paddon bear!” her words slur together, soft and round. mark grins, “paddington it is, bubba,” and the opening credits light the room blue and gold.

curled between her mama and daddy, chaeun sinks into their warmth, bunny squished between her knees. she points at the screen every time paddington appears, whispering, “look, mama, he gots hat! i want red hat!” areum smooths her hair and promises, “next christmas, you’ll have your own.” chaeun grins, dimples deep, then looks up and plants a sloppy, sugar-sweet kiss on her mama’s chin. “fank you, mama,” she whispers, and her voice is featherlight. “love you big much.”

as the movie rolls, chaeun’s attention bounces—sometimes she recites whole lines in that lilting, tiny voice, sometimes she twists to kiss mark’s cheek or pokes at his shirt, humming, “dada, i snuggle you?” he just smiles, folding her close, letting her feel the slow rhythm of his breathing. her fingers are always reaching—stroking areum’s sleeve, clutching mark’s thumb, gentle as a butterfly. when paddington chases marmalade, chaeun lets out the happiest squeal, bouncing, “bubby bear funny! he go go go!” her laugh rises, a sweet, glassy trill, so pure it makes both her parents smile at each other over her head.

when the credits roll, the living room is warm and golden, but chaeun’s feet are already pattering toward the window, nose pressed to the glass. “mama! dada! snow comin’! see? see!” outside, flurries have started to drift, slow and lacy. she turns, wild with hope. “can i go snow, pwease? pwease? want play!” areum laughs, “let’s get you bundled, my silly cloud.”

they suit her up like a dream: pink puffer coat with fluffy ears on the hood, tiny white mittens with rainbow stripes, boots that squeak when she walks, and a purple scarf that wraps three times around her neck. she’s a marshmallow in motion, cheeks blushed, curls squished flat by her hood. “look, i big girl!” she crows, turning in a clumsy circle. “chaeu ready!”

outside, she barrels through the yard on chubby legs, leaving zigzag trails in the snow. mark shows her how to catch flakes on her tongue. “like this, bubba,” he says, tilting his head back and sticking his tongue out. chaeun copies, mouth wide, snowflakes landing and melting instantly. “mm! i taste snow, dada!” she shouts, clapping mittened hands. then she makes snowballs—sort of. mostly she just squishes handfuls of slush, giggling when mark pretends to be “hit” and falls over dramatically, yelping, “ahh! you got me, snow queen!” she shrieks with delight, falling down beside him, rolling and giggling, bunny forgotten by the porch.

areum lifts her, dusts snow from her coat, kisses her cold nose. “what’s your favorite, baby?” she whispers. chaeun thinks for a long, slow moment, watching her mittened hand make a star in the snow. then: “all of it. mama. dada. thank you for my best kriss-muss. lub you lub you!” she plants a wet kiss on areum’s cheek, then another on mark’s, her eyes shining. “wanna stay here wif you fowever,” she sighs, snuggling between them, pink cheeks glowing. they hug her close, laughter and love swirling like the snow. inside the house, the fire crackles, and chaeun’s laughter weaves through it all—pure, soft, the warmest sound in a world made bright for her.