#benefits of Google Maps

[bloggerkey]

Google Maps Kya hai | Google Maps in Hindi

Google Maps का उपयोग हर दिन करोड़ों लोग अपने दैनिक कामों में करते हैं। चाहे यात्रा करनी हो, किसी नए स्थान के बारे में जानना हो, या अपने नजदीकी व्यवसायों के बारे में जानकारी चाहिए हो, Google Maps हर प्रकार की जानकारी एक क्लिक में उपलब्ध कराता है। यह लेख आपको गूगल मैप के फीचर्स, इसके उपयोग के तरीके, इसकी तकनीकी पहलुओं और इसके फायदे व नुकसान के बारे में विस्तार से जानकारी देगा। 1. Google Maps क्या…

[toytulini]

insane how ppl casually bring up their families or significant others or whatever tracking their location via life360 or whatever else like its just normal and then if I'm weirded out by how creepy that is on multiple levels im the insane luddite or whatever

[ballvalveinahmedabad]

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[b1asho]

Wof ocs: land-dwelling seawing and grounded skywing (aka Kelp and Osprey). It’s not like they Can’t swim or fly, but it’s a lot harder for them than the average joe.

I don’t have a whole lot of plot for them; they mostly just travel together avoiding the active battlegrounds and maybe help escort an ailing Mudwing kid to her family at some point. Par for the course with my ocs, they’re both losers. They initially only really hang out together for the mutual benefits: Osprey is intimidating enough to ward off most bandits by looks alone and has a more realistic approach to setting goals and general direction (filling in a leadership role and balancing out Kelp’s lack of a backbone or stranger danger sense and curbing her absurd fantasies ) while Kelp knows a little more about *how* to actually get things done and has a better approximation of people skills (filling in Osprey’s considerable gaps in knowledge about anything that’s not farm animals or military tactics and balancing out his aggressively distrustful demeanor that prevents him from asking for help. She’s also the one who can talk their way into and out of situations) they eventually figure out they’re a good team and more or less hang around each other

Right now I think the two are somewhere on the coast near the Diamond spray delta????(google map of Pyrrhia idk)

Some general info related to what’s on the page:

Every tribe has a lot of regional variety in terms of physical appearance. For skywings, the northern ones are the most populous and have united the other major aeries under the goal of pushing for imperial expansion on the side of burn. Northern skywings have the most dimorphism between males and females as well as the brightest colors out of the skywing region types (females have a very distinct reddish orange coloring while males have duller browns and yellows, as opposed to ospreys group where it’s switched to darker brown f vs lighter brown m) This is because they have the most unbalanced parental care system, where the male raises the chicks alone while the female leaves. No matter the type of physical difference, the social separation is ever present and more or less as extreme (completely matriarchal). An aerie is a nesting area for a group of related individuals, where there is one dominant female, a pool of married-in males (one is chosen every season to be the matriarchs pair), some other female subordinates, and the matriarchs kids (including some adult males). Females are leaders, hunters, and providers while the males do menial labor or domestic, and craft tasks. Among all skywing ethnicities, there are cases of males being born with female coloring or vice versa. Males with female coloring do not have a place in society according to their rules, since they look like a female but can’t lay eggs (meaning they are ‘broken’ in the eyes of their peers. They can’t even participate in making eggs because that would look gay and I’m deciding that theyre homophobic for fun/because of the sanctity they put on the hetero-ness of their everything). They’d normally just be driven out in bigger northern aeries, but Osprey is an exception because of his slightly different culture and because his group needed every worker they could get to survive on their land (he was kinda just treated like a defective female that has to work with the males. Not fun). A female with male coloring is more tolerated ONLY if they stay celibate and out of the way of the “real” females (often, they are just put in all-female homes as an attendant). Ospreys aerie was a small and rural one that practiced subsistence herding/hunting, so it wasn’t hard for a northern recruiter to strong-arm them with a little military coercion and cash into giving up their eligible youths for the draft. He didn’t really feel a particularly strong bond with any of his family group due to their previously described sentiments towards his condition, but it’s still a blow to the ego to know that they sold him off to die for not even one iron ingot. He got lucky with the force he was taken into (they got bronze swords and leather armor, which is more than some other skywing soldiers) but not so lucky with the area he was sent to (Sandwing ambush). After being badly wounded and finding out he was the only survivor, he fled rather than going back to a northern base and has been evading capture (and execution) since. The lack of depth perception/decreased vision in general means he can seriously mess up landing and taking off in crowded areas like a forest, and can’t do a lot of complicated maneuvers anymore. Despite already being jaded and cynical at his big teen age, he’s not really equipped to be on his own at all and has been thrown off the deep end in terms of experiencing the world for the first time.

Seawings live in pods of family members and some outsiders. Unlike other dragons, they are actually led by a pair-bonded male and female rather than it being a female-led harem type thing. This pair are the bulls, and they’re bigger than everyone else because of hormones (they’re the only reproductive members. This is enforced to varying degrees between pods, some larger more organized ones even have legislation about it. Homosexual activity is encouraged to prevent threats to the bulls (aka new kids or a new mating pair). Through interacting with other tribes, some of the more powerful “superpods” made up of multiple family lines have adopted a more female-dominant system where there are still physically distinct bulls but only the female does any governing. For trade and other stuff, too, pods will normally only send their female members since no one else would respect a male. Kelps pod was a mid-sized one that was technically a part of another super pod’s domain, but they only really interacted through some resource taxes and occasional new laws being delivered. Kelp was on the bottom rung of the social ladder and chafed a lot with her pod because of her general weirdness and lack of strong allegiance to her bull (her mother). She still feels sentiment towards them because they raised her, but was never able to fit in. The superpod they were under was allied with blister, making their territory a target for mudwings and skywings. Eventually, Kelp’s pod was affected by this when an ongoing battle between the superpod’s troops and some mudwings spilled into their land. The superpod forces lost and Kelps home was looted, in the process she was burned and separated from the others. For about a week she hung around tending to her own wounds to see if her pod would regroup somewhere, but eventually left to find a real doctor (trying not to think about the implications of them not coming back) it’s been about a month since then, and she has somehow been stumbling by using her craft skills. Shes been robbed several times and has only gotten away with her life thanks to the good ol tail slap+ massive seal teeth jaw strength combo (other than that all her health problems are 100x worse because she’s on land most of the time to avoid Mudwing-patrolled rivers and the hostility of other pods.) She’s never been outside her pods range before and the world is not so great, but she has a positive outlook (some might even say a foolishly optimistic one).

[sweetmesquite]

so the "mav maybe getting a medal of honor for the events of tg:m" thing has stuck in my brain. namely the fact that moh recipients get a lot of additional honors and benefits. things like a boost to pensions and retirement pay. things like invitations to presidential inaugurations AND inaugural balls. things like members of uniformed services being encouraged to salute, regardless of whether the person outranks the moh recipient. (i would pay money to see cain, with gritted teeth, saluting maverick because he was peer pressured to, but that's not the point of this post)

it also affords things like a custom license plate in certain states. california offers that, and california also waives all fees associated with ONE vehicle for that individual. (it also explicitly states that one plate may be kept as an heirloom so bradley gets to keep it)

something else to keep in mind is that a number of military cemeteries have a parking spot reserved for moh recipients. i'm uncertain if the national cemetery in san diego has one and am currently a very long ways too far to check and google maps is not helping me, but i'd like to think it does.

so. i'd like to paint y'all a picture.

fort rosencrans national cemetery in san diego. it's early evening on a gorgeous, clear day in late summer. there's a breeze blowing in from the ocean. in a very specific parking spot -marked with a gold plaque- there's a kawasaki bike resting on its kickstand. any passers-by would notice it has a very uncommon plate affixed to the back. its owner is a ways off; he's here to visit two of his best friends.

he leaves a quarter and a dime when he's done.

[carry-on-my-wayward-butt]

genuinely curious, what’s wrong with coco melon?

firstable:

i'm not gonna get up on my high horse because i am a tablet parent after all. i can't afford daycare and she's not old enough for a voucher, and i have a lot of schoolwork to do during the day. i frequently rely on her tablet to keep her out of my hair but i rigorously vet her main sources of entertainment (pbskids 🔛🔝), i let some things slide for convenience (blippi, google maps for some fucking reason) and i'm stricter on others (cocomelon, games with ads).

anyway,

cocomelon is like heroin for baby brains. it's extremely engaging for babies because it's so stimulating, but it's overstimulating. the meat of the content is also a net 0. like sure your kid is occupied and having a good time, but for literally no benefit to them whatsoever(beyond maybe memorizing song lyrics. and the songs fuckin suck). it's PURELY attention entertainment. at least blippi has educational stuff going on. imo that's why cocomelon kids are Like That.

disclaimer: all of the information i have on cocomelon is from first hand experience during my 2020-2021 pregnancy (for aforementioned vetting), and second and third hand from 2021-onward. if it has changed or improved since then, my opinion does not change because it is, above all, ugly as fuck.

[cippicat]

AC characters Modern AU

What kind of jobs would do the assassin's creed characters in the modern days?

Desmond would continue his bartendering.

Layla Hassan would be an architect. She wants to be like Indiana Jones.

Altair would be an historic. He would wrote books about historical facts that people doesn't know.

Malik woulb be a cartographer. He would fly around the world to create accurate maps for his app (let's be real Google Maps sucks).

Maria would be a self defense teacher. She would teach women how to defend themselves.

Ezio, and his brother Federico would work in the family company. Ezio would take care of the franchise around Italy, China and Turkey. His associates (his protèges) abroad are Yusuf Tazim and Shao Jun.

Petruccio would be a vet specialised in birds care.

Claudia would open a fashion agency.

Both Giovanni and Maria Auditore would be retired in Montereggioni (with Uncle Mario).

Edward Kenway would be retired, but when he was young he owned a bar, The Jackdaw, in the heart of London with his best friend Edward Tatch. With his wife, Tessa Kenway (a stay at home mum), they would work as volunteers at the dog rescue center. Edward's ex wife Caroline Scott would live abroad, and work in human resources.

Jennifer Scott would work with Claudia Auditore in the fashion agency. She would open a franchise of Claudia's company in London, and another franchise in New York (much to her brother annoyance).

Haytham Kenway would be an economics teacher at the New York University. His wife Ziio would be a lawyer for the Native American rights. Their son Connor Kenway would be a forest ranger. His parents are starting to ask him for grandchildren.

Aveline de Grandpré and Elise de la Serre would be fashion stylists. Elise had a relationship with Arno but broke up because it didn't work.

Shay Cormac and Liam O'brien would work as seafarers. They would co-operate with Greenpeace. Shay is married with a son he had when he was very young. He named his son after his two godfathers Liam and George Monroe (much to Liam's displeasure). Shay doesn't know yet but he is going to be a grandfather before 50.

Hope Jensen would work as a flying attendant.

Arno Dorian would open a café littéraire near Montmartre. He has a son, Léon. His father Charles Dorian, and his godfather Pierre Bellec would be in politics. They would co-operate with François de la Serre against Germain, and Chevalier (everyone hates Chevalier).

Jacob Frye would open his own pub, The Rooks, with his brother in law. Like Arno he is a single father. Jacob and Arno have friends with benefits friendship. Evie Frye would work at the university library . Their father, Ethan Frye would work as a literature teacher at the Cambridge University. Since he is close to retirement he often spends time playing with his grandson Emmett.

Bayek and his wife Aya would work at the Cairo's museum as curators.

Kassandra, and her brother Alexios would work in their mom's tourism agency in Athens.

Eivor Varinsdottir would work as a freelance photographer around the world, and will publish her photos in some publications in England. Sometimes she will ask Shay a ride on the Morrigan to photograph the whales.

Juno and Minerva would be software engineers. Persephone and her husband Hades would open a funeral parolours. Poseidon would open a swimming school. Jupiter would be retired with Loki and Havi.

[me-writes-prompts]

More underrated tropes>>>

(Tag me!!! Also, Let me know if you have any more tropes that I should add to this list!!)

By @me-writes-prompts

Low energy x way too much energy

Tired college student x overachiever who never shuts up

Buff x more buff

"Is this what people call a date?" x "We're literally trying to murder each other right now."

Unbelievably depressed funny x unbelievably depressed serious

Can kill you x will actually kill you

Book lover x coffee lover

Needs google maps everywhere they go x has traveled so much that they know every place

Undercover agent x police officer whose stuck with them

Procrastinates and binges netflix x "Productivity is everything"

"Uh huh, we're not buying any more pints of ice cream." x "What? Whyyyy, we've only got like 5 of my favorite flavours! We have a long way to go, love."

Has the best puppy eyes x gets attacked by the said puppy eyes

"we're just friends-" x "with benefits."

Night owl x early bird

Loves to receive gifts x loves to give them gifts<333333

Loves red x hates red

Gym beast x shy painter

[definitelynotshouting]

Hi I’m obsesseddddd with your hunger au and after reading the lore doc and the fic I have a couple questions if you don’t mind

Ok first off this isn’t really a question and more like a “huh wouldn’t that be fucked up” thought but uhhhh. So og grian was pretty much trapped in a box and constantly watched while the larva developed right. Did the watchers ever feed off him? Bc I imagine being trapped and just waiting to die wouldn’t be great for your emotional state. Or would they not since he is hosting the larva and that point so they can’t/wont feed on a host? Oh also you said that he made the deal to become a watcher while under duress. I imagine that duress could easily be heightened by some hungry watchers. And having your brain lightly fried would probably make you more susceptible to agreeing to a fucked up situation

And for my second question I was curious how aware the general populace/the hermits are of watchers?? Like are they a known thing and ppl just aren’t sure how they work or what. Because the rescue group had to puzzle out that grian was benefiting from their suffering in some way, but pearl seemed to have some idea of what grian was with the whole “eating our brains” bit so I’m curious what levels of knowledge they’re operating with here

Anyways thanks for reading my silly little thoughts on your amazing au!! It’s so fun I’m having such a good time with the horrible things happening

Im so glad you like the fic, anon!! :DD im always so touched when people tell me they enjoyed it enough to read the lore behind it-- gods ive gotta update that, there are a sizeable amount of newer asks i havent added to it yet, plus my beloved friend @/corvidaearts made a proper carrd for it on my birthday that i plan on replacing the google doc with!!! Just, uh, as soon as i add aforementioned posts dkcjsjdjfj

That would be super fucked up if they fed on him while he was trapped, OUGHHHH.... id say in canon probably not, because feeding off of one Player is really really dangerous for them, and Grian was now a host for their experiment to see if they could bring their population back up. If anything, nobody touched or interacted with him beyond the bare minimum it took to keep him safe from any potential respawns, and it was likely only the colony elders who even had direct access to him in the first place. THAT BEING SAID..... GODS THATS FUCKED UP I LOVE IT. And, well, i suppose one Watcher did feed on him.. which was Grian himself, as he emerged from his Player cocoon. Player!Grian's final moments of agony and terror were amplified to the max as his Watcher-self's very first meal, and that haunts Grian a lot late at night if he lets himself think about it

The duress he was placed under to become a host in the first place involved a significant amount of heightened emotional leverage though, thats for sure. One of these days i need to map out how exactly that went down, but i know that it involved an offer that was not actually an offer, several lies through omission, intimidation tactics that spanned the entirety of Evo in the first place, and using Grian's own fear-- both of them, and for his friends-- against him. Real fucked up situation all around 😔😔😔😔

General populace does not know much if anything about the Watchers!! The Watchers are, aside from this one colony, pretty much extinct; even before that, they relied quite a lot on camouflage and secrecy to keep their presence from being discovered, both by their prey and by the Seekers that hunted them.

Some very very old Players might know whispers of information-- rumors from the tail end of a game of telephone, as it were. And there are for sure a few individuals here and there who know of them due to personal experience (including the entire Evo crew, which was ofc a special case), but because Player information is not centralized in any capacity in this universe, the vast majority of Players have zero knowledge that Watchers even exist, let alone what they do and how they feed.

Pearl, with her previous knowledge and experience with Watchers and how they operated while involved with the Evo server, made some really good educated guesses about how Grian works and what's going on with him. And ofc everyone on Hermitcraft, plus all the lifers, knows that Grian at the very least can manipulate Player emotions to an extreme degree-- putting those context clues together, you can piece together quite a few connections. She doesn't have the full picture, but at this point in time she's basically figured out a good chunk of it. The rest will have to come from Grian himself >:]

[shiftingwithmars]

Anti-Ai people: Omg, Ai is so evil!! It has no benefits whatsoever!! It’s not at all helpful!! I would never use it, ewww!!!

Also anti-Ai people: Uses Siri, Grammarly, smartwatches, canva, autocorrect, Alexa, social media, Google maps, npc’s from video games, video games in general, literally over half of the apps on the device they’re using to type an angry response to this post on.

[mariacallous]

Russia—and China—had seemed to benefit from the Houthis’ attacks on shipping in the Red Sea because the militia spared their ships. But it turns out that Moscow has been more than a passive beneficiary. As the Wall Street Journal recently reported, Russia has been providing the Houthis with targeting data for their attacks. Now that Russia has crossed this red line of actively aiding attacks on Western shipping, other hostile states may start sharing military-grade data with proxies of their choice.

One of the U.N. Security Council’s five permanent members is actively supporting attacks on global shipping. It’s a stark violation of the maritime rules, which grant merchant vessels the freedom and right to sail not only on the high seas but also through other countries’ waters and through internationally recognized straits without having to fear, let alone experience, acts of aggression.

The Houthis, you’ll remember, began their campaign against merchant vessels in the Red Sea last November, when they struck a string of vessels linked to Israel, supposedly in support of the people of Gaza. When the United States and Britain, and then the European Union, intervened in support of shipping in the Red Sea by sending naval vessels to protect merchant ships (of all nationalities), the group began attacking ships linked to these countries, too.

And so it has continued. Each month, the group launches a handful of attacks against ships in the Red Sea. Mostly, the Western naval vessels manage to thwart the attacks, but several merchant ships have been struck, and two of them have sunk. But bar a Russian shadow vessel struck—probably accidentally—this May, Russian and Chinese vessels have been spared.

The group has been so successful thanks to missiles and sophisticated drones provided by Iran. Having high-performance weaponry, though, brings little benefit if one strikes the wrong target, and the Houthis lack the technology that would allow them to discern a ship’s coordinates. That’s where, it has now emerged, Russia has turned out to be a most useful ally.

Russian coordinates have thus helped the Houthis keep up their attacks even as Western naval vessels have been trying to foil them. “Targeting covers a wide range of complexity,” said Duncan Potts, a retired vice admiral in the U.K. Royal Navy. “Hitting a static target on land can be as easy as using information on Google Maps. At the other extreme, you have mobile entities like ships at sea. Hitting them requires much higher-grade, precise, real-time targeting data that uses information from different sources. Such targeting is quite complicated even for Western navies.”

Since ships are mobile, the targeting data typically needs real-time information. Though details of the data provided by the Russians are naturally unavailable, it’s highly likely that real-time data is included. Either way, Potts said, “this development is certainly significant and notable, but it doesn’t surprise me.”

The fact that Russia is giving the Houthis specific information about vessels’ exact presence in the Red Sea is making this strategic waterway even more dangerous for Western-linked ships. “If you’re a Western-linked merchant ship traveling through the Red Sea with whatever naval escort is available, you’ll not be signaling your position by using AIS [automatic identification systems, a maritime GPS],” said Nils Christian Wang, a retired rear admiral and former chief of the Danish Navy. “That means the Houthis would struggle to know what ships are arriving and where they are, so this data would be extremely useful.” (Western naval forces in the Red Sea escort vessels regardless of their flag registration and country of ownership.)

It’s not exactly clear what kind of targeting data the Russians have been providing. “The Russians might help the Houthis get the right maritime picture to make sure they don’t hit Russian ships, but they may also be providing data to help the Houthis hit Western targets,” Wang said. “It’s one thing to give data to help protect your own ships, another to give them data that help them attack Western ships.”

Either way, the group’s attacks have already caused a dramatic drop in traffic in the Red Sea and the Suez Canal to the north. Between May 2023 and this May, traffic through the Suez Canal plummeted by 64.3 percent, the Egyptian newspaper Al-Mal reported. The number of ships transiting the canal monthly dropped from 2,396 in May 2023 to 1,111 this May.

Most Western-linked vessels instead sail around the Cape of Good Hope, but this entails an additional 10-12 days’ sailing and a 50 percent cost increase. Only a small number of Western shipping lines and insurers still dare to send their vessels through the Suez Canal and the Red Sea—but Western naval vessels have to remain there to provide some degree of order. In recent months, the Houthis have been attacking these ships, too.

Russia’s provision of targeting data may be followed by yet more support for the Houthis. According to Disruptive Industries (DI), a U.K. technology company that specializes in the closed-source discovery of global risks, there is extensive and unseen Russian activity in Houthi-held parts of Yemen, and there has been for some time. (Full disclosure: I’m a member of DI’s advisory board.)

Sharing targeting data is directly participating in a conflict. That’s why Western nations have refrained from sharing targeting data with Ukraine, a nation defending itself against an invader. In September, Russian President Vladimir Putin himself weighed in on the issue. Western approval for the use of Western-provided long-range missiles that could strike Russia would mean involvement in the conflict because Western military personnel would have to provide the targeting data. “It is a question of deciding whether or not NATO countries are directly involved in a military conflict,” Putin told Russian state television.

By that point, Russia was already sharing targeting data with the Houthis.

“The Houthis’ attacks are certainly in line with Russia’s desire to remove the world’s focus from Ukraine,” Wang said. “One almost gets the suspicion that this is part of a manuscript. It’s so much in Russia’s interest to have these attacks happen.”

Now that the Kremlin has crossed this red line in the Red Sea without being punished for it, it may decide to share targeting data with other nonstate outfits. So may other regimes. Imagine, say, a Chinese-linked militant group in Myanmar or Indonesia targeting merchant vessels in nearby waters aided by targeting data from the People’s Liberation Army Navy. Western governments, shipping companies, and underwriters will need to pay close attention.

For now, the continuing strikes against Western vessels present a massive risk for Western-linked merchant vessels in the Red Sea and the Western naval vessels that are there to protect shipping. And the discovery that Russia is providing targeting data could convince the few remaining Western shipping lines still sending vessels through the Red Sea to give up on it (and the Suez Canal) altogether. One of the oldest routes of modern shipping could be abandoned—until Russia and the Houthis are bought to heel.

[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.

[peonyb]

hello peonyb. i read an ask, where someone mentioned, that dark marked ones would make good interrogators and light marked ones would be good healers/oracles with no connections to the clergy. that let to my 2 questions:

1.) since both dark and light marked ones seem valuable to the crown, do those ones get secret benefits from "anonymous sponsor"? like scholarships or early promotions? ==> if not in the present days, maybe in the past?

2.) do dark/light marked ones have some kind of reputation in the eyes of the public/enemies/other marked ones? for example: if dark marked ones are known to be interrogators of the crown, would people stop their private conversations as soon as one walks pass them? or would there be rumors in military camps like "beware of the dark ones, they eat your souls and then you will walk eternally as a soulless husk". ==> again, if not in the present days, maybe in the past?

i hope, its clear what i mean. im always worried that im not able to explain it clear enough. thank you for your answer

3.) ive read that you need to have 20 strength to be (somewhat) successfull during the "attack venali"-scene. how are you able to reach that? i know that the "mapping out the mountains"-hobby gives you +5 strength.

4.) similar question, but this time later in the game. at some point Mc´s history teacher asks them something about their own kingdom. in my case i was only able to choose the "worst" option. i assume that with higher intellect you could unlock the other ones. once again: how can you increase intellect & what are the thresholds for unlocking the other options?

5.) this is not really a question. so whenever i have to choose a body type or a dress in an IF i usually google for an example of that, simply to be able to imagine my character better. when i googled for the other body types, i was able to find examples, but not when i searched for "shapely". could you maybe explain how a shapely body look like?

6.) im sure that the game explains this at some point, so i probably missed it, but what are the differences between a guardian and a mage of the same affinity? can they use the same spells?

_________________________

Hey! I couldn’t respond to your other ask so I added it to this one.

(1) Sorta kind’ve lol. The Crown’s councilors get directly involved and are aware of every light and dark affinity that enters the Golden Academy and monitor them over the years. Depending on where their specialities lie (light in precog or healing, dark in offense or subtle espionage), specific counselors vie amongst one another for them to get integrated into their pillar. They don’t need to entice the person when they have no choice in the matter.

Unlike other graduates, light/dark affinities aren’t sent offers that they can stress over and make a pros and cons list in their consideration. They’re told where they’re going as the choice has already been made for them. The one positive side is that the position will always be a prestigious one that they’ve been hand picked for. The only exception is if they don’t do well in the Golden Academy. Like Dean Ofarus. They were too easy going and lazy for their purposes lol.

(2) “They eat your souls,” hahaha. Fortunately there’s nothing like that in spaces that frequently see Marked! It’s as Velrose said, Navaarians are taught that every affinity is a gift from Brakkus meant to serve the people. Dark affinities are not automatically cruel just as light affinities are not automatically saintly. They’re more complex than that. And amongst other Marked, the two are generally envied. Some may think they have a golden ticket to the best occupations. Now, in really small villages with unmarked who rarely if ever interact with Marked, there will probably be some misguided opinions.

(3) You have to be a Guardian (+10) and you have to work with your father on the farm (+10) in your spare time. It wouldn’t be possible to breach their shield otherwise. Venali may be young at the time, but they’re still a second generation mage that regularly trains their magic!

(4) The first choice is open, the second is (>=10) and (>=20) though 20 is the max. Mage gets a (+10) and reading as your activity gets (+5). I can’t remember where the last narrative (+5) is, but one of the market potions gives (+5) as well.

(5) For me, I view shapely as in between average and curvy. Like, a full and defined shape. I’ll add photos under the cut.

(6) A Guardian’s magic is internal and a Mage’s external. Guardians best use their magic through conduction. They can exert their magic into anything they touch whether that’s a fire Guardian incinerating anything or anyone they touch or a water Guardian (honorable mention Welling) using their magic to prevent them and another from getting wet from the rain. They use conducting swords (and now daggers) to enhance the range of that magic.

Mages summon their magic outside of themselves which means they have to see what they wish to target. Their magic is harder to call because while Guardians can simply push it out, Mages have to meticulously maintain their focus to sustain it away from themselves. A fire Mage couldn’t incinerate someone with a touch, they would have to manifest their magic and direct it towards a target. Because they use their magic so differently, their spells aren’t quite the same!

[sophia-zofia]

WHY TARGET ELBIT? Every hour, we receive thoughtful, well-aimed suggestions or inquiries about alternate targets for direct action: political offices, Embassies, NGOs, other weapons companies, intersections, etc., all of which have clear ties to the Zionist occupation of Palestine, and the ongoing genocide in Gaza. It is right and just to rebel and act boldly in all places and moments, with all tactics, without a doubt. The more chaos ensues in the halls and courtyards of the normalizers and genocidaires, the better. But focus in targeting, from a strategic perspective, is the most effective route, which is why our campaign is singularly focused on Elbit Systems, Israel’s *largest* weapons producer.

Palestine Action US has been given the privilege of carrying the banner of one of the Western world’s most successful grassroots direct action campaigns. Palestine Action UK, founded over three years ago by a Palestinian-Iraqi woman, has successfully shut down two of Elbit’s UK locations, permanently, and got HSBC to divest from Elbit. Their pressure has escalated over the years into a constant, relentless campaign, to the point where we see disruptions at Elbit in the UK nearly every day. Since October 7th, that pressure has only grown, and also exploded into the US, Canada, Australia, and everywhere Elbit is headquartered. In that time, while other weapons firms’ profits have skyrocketed, Elbit shares have taken a nosedive.

If one wishes to help build a city, one must first build a house, so others might see how it was built. Like other historic campaigns which have isolated the enablers of injustice, we start with Elbit, we shut down their operations, and we strike fear in the hearts of their staff and their investors. Once Elbit Systems of America has been vanquished, we will have a replicable model for targeted direct action, which might be used to target every single conspirator in the occupation of Palestine and the subjugation of the colonized world. Further, we absolutely uphold the necessity of mass demonstrations, marches, and softer forms of direct action. These are all elements of the elaborate tapestry of resistance, but marching alone isn’t enough. Thousands have been arrested in the US for civil disobedience since Oct 7; most of these arrests have been purely symbolic. Imagine if these bodies were blockading arms shipments, dismantling weapons companies, and actually threatening capital.

Power has shown it doesn’t move, even when millions have taken the streets, unless their profits are directly affected, or ruling class fear abounds. Beware of those who wish to co-opt the language of Direct Action for the benefit of their own opportunism and brand-building. Beware of “Shut it Down,” actions which are little more than theatrical performances, meant to contain the revolutionary instinct. For those who don’t live near a primary Elbit Systems location, there ARE targets near you. Bank of New York Mellon is Elbit System’s primary investor, along with being the fiscal sponsor for the Friends of the IDF, a non-profit which allows US citizens to materially support the Zionist Occupation Army. We have officially put Bank of New York Mellon on notice as a target of Palestine Action, and they are in major cities across the country and across the globe. Use this map to find Elbit Systems or Bank of New York Mellon locations near you, connect with Palestine Action US, and build an affinity group today.

Together, we become ungovernable, Together, we defeat the Zionist beast, beginning with Elbit Systems.

[writingquestionsanswered]

So whilst I know you're not a therapist or psychologist, but you're a damn good writer with great advice; what can I do to tackle this? Could I know your own process? When you develop a plot and get to a part that needs something new - what do you actually do? How do you brainstorm effectively and... trust your decisions? I think my issue is a combo of autism (like going down a research rabbit hole just for shopping new things...) but also feeling distrustful because of past bad choices... 2/2

My Plotting Process

I think part one got eaten by the Tumblr goblins, because I couldn't find it anywhere. Unless I already answered part one and it isn't obviously related to this one, but I'll do my best here. :)

Just as there are people who can hop into the car with no map and no planning, and just drive across the country to some destination, there are writers who can sit down without an outline or plan, and write a story that somehow manages to hit all the requisite plot points. I'm not that person, in either case. I used Google Maps today to get to a place less than two miles from my house that I've been to twenty times, because I wasn't 100% sure exactly where it was or where I needed to turn for it. I'm the same way with writing. It doesn't matter how many novels I write, I still need the damn map. That's why I always outline and use various story structures as reference, according to feels right for the story I want to tell.

For people who are ND like you and me, and for other people prone to falling down rabbit holes, outlines have the added benefit of keeping you on track. If you're following a road map that tells you to stay on this road for two miles and turn left at the intersection, you're much less likely to turn down random roads and end up inadvertently exploring hidden neighborhoods and back country lanes. Outlines work the same way. If you know exactly what scene you're writing, what's going to happen in that scene and why, and what major plot point it fulfills or helps build toward, you're not going to get lost along the way.

So, when I get a story idea, the first thing I do is write out an exhaustive beginning to end summary with everything I know. Then, I look at Save the Cat! and start plotting out the story according to the plot points. Quite often, when I get to a plot hole, I can fill it out based on the previous or upcoming plot point. If not, I'll start looking at other story structures to see if that jogs something loose. Sometimes I'll realize that structure just works better for the story I'm trying to tell, and I'll replot the whole thing according to that structure. I might plot my story using three or four different structures or a combination of a few before I settle on one that works for the story. Once I have the structure hammered out, I start making a list of necessary scenes to encapsulate, build-up to, or ramp down from the various plot points. Once I have my scene list, I write out a beginning to end scene summary for each scene so I know what has to happen. I think about things like conflict of the scene, how it begins, what happens in the middle, and how it ends. I think about the character's goal in the scene, and how the scene builds upon the scene before it and leads up to the scene after it. And, with my scene list in hand, I'm usually good to start writing. If I hit things that don't quite work out or need more fleshing out, I might refer to other story structures, or I might even write out my scenes on scene cards and see if moving things around makes a difference. The important rule is I never let myself feel limited by the structure I'm using or have created. I know it's just there as a guide, and it's okay to stray from it if need be. I always follow my gut, and knowing when to trust my gut is just something I've learned over many, many years of writing. You'll get there, too, but you have to take calculated risks before you can build up that sort of trust with yourself.

I hope that answers your question well enough! ♥

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for scaring a facebook scammer?

so theres this scam that goes around on facebook marketplace a lot where a person acts like they are gonna help people get a free government phone. there are government programs where you can apply for a free phone or phone bill but you need really personal info to apply like social security numbers (because stuff like Social Security and other welfare benefits is one of the things that can get you approved). well my last job was phone based and i was basically phone tech support half the time so I have talked to people personally who get scammed by these people and it made me mad.

So i decided to try and waste one of these scammers time on facebook. at first i was just acting like i wasnt tech savvy (giving a fake email address instead of home address when asked) but i got this idea. this person had their legal name attached to this scam post and it wasn’t hacked in any way. so i googled their full name and what city was listed on their profile. voter record websites show peoples addresses in some states and i hoped this scammer wasnt ignorant enough to attach their real fucking name to a scam listing.

Yeah so I found their address. I had no intention to post it anywhere but I thought to myself, what if I sent them their own home address when they ask me for one? so I did. and they stopped responding UNTIL i gave them a negative review on fb saying they are a scammer. suddenly they got super pushy and mean and starting asking me info about their own house. “what cars are outside, my maps arent working” and all that bullshit. so i look up their address on maps and describe the cars outside on google map satellite signal. at this point i know they’re just seeing how much I know about them (and everything was accessible with a google search so no hacking stuff here) and eventually they stop responding when i guessed wrong if they had their sibling living with them.

honestly i prolly didnt need to keep going after the first address and after i gave them a fake review but i fully just wanted to scare them away from scamming people. i’ve talked to older people personally and they legitimately deactivate everything and get a flip phone when they get scammed because of how terrified they are. i dont regret it but i wonder if it was unethical or just not productive to try and waste her time and at least give me the ability to give her a review saying shes a scammer. AITA?

What are these acronyms?