#digital time clock software

[enhaflixer]

campus crush!sunghoon x f!reader

stats class. keep ur glasses on when u fuck me. statistical analysis with ur tongue. thats abt it. sunghoon word porn ngl ENHA HARD HOURS (kinda) 18+ MDNI

-

You're late. Again.

The digital clock on your phone reads 3:10 PM as you sprint across campus, your backpack bouncing against your spine with each step. Statistics seminar started ten minutes ago, and Professor Clarke has definitely noticed your absence by now. Not that it's unusual—you've made it a habit to burst through those doors at exactly ten minutes past, a whirlwind of apologies and bright smiles.

"Sorry, sorry!" you announce as you push open the computer lab door, slightly out of breath.

Twenty pairs of eyes swivel toward you, but Professor Clarke doesn't even look up from his laptop at the front of the room.

"How kind of you to join us," he says dryly. "We were just assigning semester project partners."

You flash him your most charming smile as you slide into an empty seat. "Perfect timing then."

A few people laugh. You've mastered the art of diffusing tension with humor, of making your tardiness seem like a quirky character trait rather than a genuine inability to manage time. It's gotten you this far in university.

"As I was saying," Professor Clarke continues, "this statistical analysis project will count for forty percent of your grade. You and your assigned partner will select a dataset, develop a hypothesis, and use STATA to analyze your findings." He gestures to the complex statistical software displayed on the projector screen—the same software that has been giving you nightmares since week one.

You glance around the room, hoping you'll be paired with Olivia or Zara—friends who wouldn't mind carrying the team if necessary. But when Professor Clarke reads off, "Sunghoon Park and..." followed by your name, your heart does something unexpected.

It skips.

You've noticed him before—it's hard not to. He always sits in the same spot three rows from the front, always arrives fifteen minutes early, always has his notebook open at the exact moment class begins.

What you haven't fully appreciated until now, as you turn to locate him in the room, is just how devastatingly handsome he is. His dark eyes find yours immediately behind stylish wire-rimmed glasses that give him an irresistible intellectual appeal. One corner of his perfectly shaped mouth lifts in the smallest acknowledgment, and a strand of black hair falls across his forehead when he nods at you. The combination of his reserved demeanor and model-worthy looks creates an effect that makes your stomach flip. He's the definition of a hot nerd—the kind that makes you temporarily forget about statistical analysis altogether and wonder what he'd look like with those glasses slightly askew, his usually perfect hair disheveled.

After partnering announcements finish, Professor Clarke instructs everyone to move next to their assigned partners to discuss project ideas.

You gather your things and make your way to Sunghoon's station, dropping into the chair beside him with dramatic flair.

"Fair warning," you say brightly, "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with this software. Like, none. Zero. Statistical analysis to me is deciding which café has the shortest queue."

You expect a sigh or a look of disappointment—it's what most serious students do when they realize they've been paired with you. Instead, Sunghoon's expression softens.

"It's okay," he says quietly, his voice carrying just a hint of an accent. "I'm... not an expert either."

"But you always look so focused during class," you say, gesturing to his immaculate notes.

He shrugs, the movement slight and controlled. "I write everything down. Doesn't mean I understand it all."

When he opens the STATA program and navigates through a few screens with apparent ease, you lean closer.

"Okay, so you're being modest. You definitely know more than I do."

"Barely," he admits, and you catch the faintest hint of a smile—not the polite one from before, but something genuine that makes you want to see it again. "I just know how to make it look like I know what I'm doing."

"That's an important life skill," you laugh, pulling your chair closer to see his screen better. "So what kind of data are we analyzing? Please say something fun like ice cream consumption versus happiness levels."

Sunghoon doesn't laugh, but his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. "Actually," he says, "we can choose almost anything that interests us."

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours. "See? We're going to be great partners. I bring the wild ideas, you bring the common sense."

"Is that what they call it?" he asks, and there's a hint of playfulness in his voice that catches you off guard.

"What would you call it?" you challenge.

He considers for a moment, adjusting his glasses with a single finger pushed against the bridge. The gesture shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Survival instinct."

You laugh, genuinely surprised. "So I'm dangerous?"

"No," he says, turning slightly to face you better. "Statistical software is dangerous. You're..." he pauses, seeming to search for the right word, "unpredictable."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one." The quiet confidence in his voice sends a small thrill through you.

Professor Clarke clears his throat at the front of the room. "I expect project proposals by the end of next week. Choose your dataset carefully—it will determine the scope of your entire project."

You glance at the clock. Only fifteen minutes of class remain.

"So, partner," you say, lowering your voice as Professor Clarke continues, "when should we meet to figure this out? I promise I'll try not to be ten minutes late."

Sunghoon's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Would you actually show up if I said 8 AM at the library?"

"Now you're just testing me," you whisper back.

"Coffee shop after class on Thursday?" he suggests instead, his voice equally quiet. "The one behind the science building?"

"Beans & Books? You've got good taste." You nod approvingly. "I practically live there between classes."

"I know," he says, then immediately looks as if he wishes he could take it back.

"You know?" You raise an eyebrow, intrigued and slightly pleased.

A faint color appears high on his cheekbones. "I've seen you there. You always order something different and then type furiously on your laptop."

The fact that he's noticed you before, observed your habits even, gives you a little flutter of satisfaction. "And what do you order, Sunghoon Park? Let me guess—plain black coffee, no sugar."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Close. Earl Grey tea."

"Of course," you nod sagely. "Sophisticated."

When class ends, you gather your things slowly, suddenly reluctant to leave. Sunghoon stands, slinging his messenger bag across his chest in one smooth motion.

"Thursday, then," he says, as if confirming an important business meeting.

"It's a date," you reply with deliberate casualness, watching his reaction.

His expression remains mostly neutral, but you don't miss the quick blink, the slight pause before he nods. "For statistics," he clarifies, but the slight upturn of his lips betrays him.

"For statistics," you agree solemnly, though you're already wondering what other subjects you might explore together.

The coffee shop meeting goes surprisingly well. What you expected to be an hour of awkward dataset discussions turns into three hours of conversation that meanders far beyond statistics. Sunghoon, it turns out, has layers beneath his reserved exterior—he plays piano, reads philosophy for fun, and has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard and makes you laugh harder than you have in weeks.

By the end of the evening, you've not only selected your dataset (coffee consumption versus academic performance—your suggestion, which he surprisingly agreed to), but you've also learned that his stammer appears when he's either nervous or passionate about a topic. You find both instances equally endearing.

When Friday's class rolls around, something shifts. You arrive only five minutes late (progress), and the space beside Sunghoon, which is usually empty, now seems to be waiting for you. You slide into the seat and he glances up from his notebook, the corner of his mouth lifting in that subtle way that's becoming familiar.

"You're almost on time," he says quietly, amusement in his eyes.

"Don't get used to it," you reply, but there's no bite to your words.

Throughout the class, your awareness of him is heightened—the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, how his fingers tap thoughtfully against the desk when Professor Clarke asks a difficult question, the scent of his cologne when he leans closer to point something out on your screen.

After class, you find yourself hesitating as you pack up your things, watching as he meticulously organizes his notes.

"So," you begin, aiming for casual, "I was thinking... we should probably meet again this weekend to work on the project." You pause. "My roommate's gone for the weekend. We could use my dorm? Fewer distractions than the coffee shop."

Sunghoon looks up, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nods. "That would be... efficient."

You laugh at his choice of words. "Very statistical of you."

"I meant—" he starts, a hint of that stammer appearing.

"I know what you meant," you interrupt, grinning. "Saturday at four?"

He nods, adjusting his glasses. "I'll bring the data analysis. You bring the coffee."

"Deal."

Saturday arrives, and for the first time in your university career, you spend thirty minutes tidying your room before a study session. You tell yourself it's just basic courtesy, not because you care what Sunghoon thinks of your living space.

At precisely four o'clock, there's a knock at your door. Punctual as always.

You open it to find Sunghoon standing there in jeans and a simple button-down shirt, his laptop bag slung across his body. He's swapped his usual wire-frames for slightly thicker black glasses that somehow make him look even more attractive—scholarly but with an edge.

"You're making me look bad with this punctuality thing," you say by way of greeting, stepping aside to let him in.

"Sorry?" he offers, clearly unsure if he's actually done something wrong.

You laugh. "I'm joking. Come in."

Your dorm room is standard—bed, desk, small seating area with a loveseat and coffee table—but you've made it yours with art on the walls and plants on every available surface. Sunghoon takes it all in with curious eyes.

"I like your space," he says, and it sounds genuine.

"Thanks. Where should we set up? Desk or coffee table?"

"Either is fine," he says, that formal politeness still present even after your hours in the coffee shop.

You end up at the coffee table, sitting side by side on the loveseat, laptops open. For an hour, you actually make progress on the project. Sunghoon explains correlations in a way that finally makes sense, and you discover you have a talent for visualizing data in creative ways that makes his eyes light up with approval.

But as the afternoon wears on, the small space means your shoulders keep brushing, your knees occasionally touch, and each point of contact feels increasingly deliberate. When you reach for your coffee at the same moment he reaches for his tea, your hands collide, and neither of you pulls away immediately.

"Sorry," you both say at once, and then laugh.

"Great minds," you add, but you're distracted by how his eyes look behind those glasses, warm and focused entirely on you.

At some point, you shift positions, both of you turning toward each other to discuss a particularly complicated aspect of your analysis. Your knees are definitely touching now, and the loveseat suddenly seems much smaller than it did an hour ago.

"So if we compare these variables..." he's saying, but you're watching his mouth form the words more than listening to their meaning.

"Hmm?" you say, forcing your attention back to the screen.

He turns to look at you fully, and you realize how close your faces are. "You're not listening," he says, but there's no accusation in his voice.

"I'm distracted," you admit.

"By statistics?"

"By you."

The words hang in the air between you. Sunghoon blinks, his expression shifting from confusion to something more intense. He swallows visibly, and you watch the movement in his throat.

"I'm... distracting?" he asks, his voice lower than before.

"Extremely." Your eyes lock on his glasses, the way they frame his dark eyes, how they complete his devastatingly attractive intellectual look. "Especially with these on."

His eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. "The glasses?"

"God, yes," you breathe, moving closer. "You have no idea how fucking hot you look in them."

A flush spreads across his cheeks, but there's a new confidence in the way he holds your gaze. Without warning, he pulls you forward into a kiss that has nothing of his usual restraint. His laptop slides forgotten to the coffee table as you shift closer, and then somehow you're straddling his lap, your hands on either side of his face as you deepen the kiss.

When you break apart to breathe, his glasses are slightly askew. You straighten them gently, then run your fingers through his usually immaculate hair, deliberately messing it up while keeping the glasses perfectly in place.

"You're so sexy," you murmur against his mouth. "I've been thinking about this since the first day we were paired up."

His hands find your hips, holding you firmly against him. "I find that... statistically improbable," he manages, but his breathing is as uneven as yours.

"I'll show you improbable," you whisper, grinding down deliberately. His glasses fog slightly from the heat between you, and the sight sends a thrill through your body. "So fucking hot," you repeat, unable to stop yourself.

His hands slide beneath your shirt, exploring with a surprising boldness that makes you gasp. "We should—" he starts, breathing heavily.

“Yes,” you agree, already pulling him up from the loveseat, walking backwards toward your bed while keeping his mouth on yours. “The project can definitely wait.”

You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you, careful not to knock his glasses off as he hovers above you. They’ve fogged again from the heat between your bodies, and something about that sight—this controlled, precise man coming undone while still looking every bit the hot intellectual—pushes you past any remaining hesitation.

“Leave them on,” you insist when he reaches to remove his glasses. “Please.”

His lips curve into a smile that’s nothing like his usual restrained expressions—this one is knowing, almost wicked. “If that’s what you want,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your neck.

“It’s definitely what I want,” you gasp as his teeth graze your skin. “Along with… everything else.”

There’s a playful air to each touch, a slow building of tension as you both start to peel away layers. You tug at the hem of his shirt first, sliding it up inch by tantalizing inch until he lifts his arms to help you pull it off. He returns the favor by slipping a hand under your blouse, fingertips teasing over your ribs. Every time he tries to hasten the pace, you grin and slow him down, dragging the fabric just a bit more before letting it fall away, leaving him momentarily breathless. The sound he makes—caught somewhere between a groan and a laugh—sends a thrill through you.

Time seems to blur as clothing is discarded piece by piece, inhibitions falling away with each new revelation of skin. The afternoon sunlight filters through your curtains, casting everything in a warm glow.

At some point, you find yourself above him, both of you completely bare except for his glasses, which have somehow remained perfectly in place despite everything. You pause for a moment, taking in the sight of him beneath you—all lean muscle and flushed skin, those wire-rimmed glasses still perched on his nose, slightly fogged from the heat between your bodies.

“You’re staring,” he whispers, a vulnerability in his voice despite the intimate position.

“Can you blame me?” You lean down, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, then another, and another, each one growing more insistent. “God, look at you.”

His hands find your hips, steadying you as you continue to kiss him, his glasses occasionally bumping against your face in a way that only heightens your desire. There's something impossibly erotic about him being completely naked except for those glasses—the contrast between his exposed body and that one remnant of his studious, put-together appearance.

"You're so fucking sexy," you breathe against his mouth. "How does anyone focus in that statistics class with you sitting there looking like this?"

He laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your lips. "I could ask you the same question."

Your kisses become more urgent, your bodies moving together with increasing need. The heat between you builds with each touch, each whispered encouragement. Sunghoon's usually careful movements grow bolder, more instinctive, as your hands explore each other's bodies. His glasses, still perfectly perched on his nose, begin to fog at the edges first—just a light mist that catches the dim light of your room. But as your passion intensifies, as your breathing grows more ragged and synchronized, the lenses cloud completely.

When you pull back to look at him, you can't help but laugh softly at the sight—this brilliantly composed man now completely blinded by the evidence of your shared desire, those glasses that make him look so irresistibly intellectual now rendered useless by the heat radiating between your bodies. To your surprise, he laughs too—not the polite chuckle you've heard in class or the soft amusement from your coffee shop conversations, but a genuine, uninhibited sound that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him. It's rich and warm and completely unguarded.

"I can't see a thing," he admits, his voice husky with desire and amusement. His hands find your face despite his temporary blindness, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with unexpected precision. "But I don't need to see to know exactly where you are."

"Is that so?" you challenge, your breath catching as his fingers trail down your neck, across your collarbone, mapping you with deliberate attention.

"I've been studying you," he murmurs, his touch making you shiver despite the heat between you. "Memorizing. Analyzing patterns." His hands continue their exploration, finding every sensitive spot with remarkable accuracy. "It's very... statistical."

You laugh against his mouth. "Only you could make statistics sound sexy."

Through the fogged lenses, you can just barely make out how his eyes darken at your words. "I have other statistical terms I could demonstrate," he offers, surprising you again with his boldness. His accent becomes slightly more pronounced when he's like this—another detail you've grown to cherish.

"Show me," you whisper, and he does—his hands and mouth conducting a thorough analysis of cause and effect, of stimuli and response, until you're clutching at his shoulders and gasping his name. All while those fogged-up glasses remain perfectly in place, the final vestige of his composed exterior while everything else between you unravels into glorious chaos.

You’re already bare beneath him, skin flushed from teasing and anticipation, but the only thing still clinging to his body—those damn glasses—make it so much worse. Or better. Definitely better.

Sunghoon hovers over you, gaze dark behind the lenses, lips swollen and slightly parted as he takes in the sight of you. You should be embarrassed at how wanton you must look, legs spread for him, body already trembling, but he’s the one who looks wrecked. His composure is gone, shattered somewhere between the desperate kisses and the way you dragged your nails down his back.

His lips quirk. “Still want me to leave them on?”

“Don’t even think about taking them off.”

His smile turns wicked, and then he’s moving—kissing, sucking, trailing his mouth down your body with purpose. His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider, and then he’s right there—close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath against you, the heat of it making your stomach clench.

He doesn’t start slow. No teasing, no light flicks of his tongue just to test the waters. Sunghoon eats you like he’s been starving for this, like he’s been waiting for the moment he could taste you, drown in you. His tongue is hot and relentless, curling against you just right, pressing where you need him most, sending shockwaves through every nerve in your body.

But what really undoes you is the feeling of his glasses pressing against your inner thighs, the cold metal contrasting with the heat of his mouth. Every time he moves, every time he adjusts his angle, the frames shift against your skin—slightly rough, slightly smooth, a reminder of exactly who is between your legs and how absolutely ruined he’s making you.

You fist the sheets, hips jerking up into his mouth, but he pins you down effortlessly, a strong arm wrapped around your thigh to keep you exactly where he wants you. He groans when you tug at his hair, the vibrations shooting through you, making you gasp his name.

“Fuck, Sunghoon—”

His response is a low hum against your clit, and your whole body shakes. You feel the damp heat of his breath, the slick slide of his tongue, but more than anything, you feel the weight of those goddamn glasses as they drag along your skin, fogging up even more, smudging against your inner thigh every time he moves deeper, harder, sloppier.

The sheer filth of it makes you clench around nothing.

Sunghoon notices, because of course he does—because he’s been studying you this whole time, memorizing what makes you gasp, what makes your thighs tremble around his head. And he’s smug about it, too, because when he pulls back just enough to glance up at you, lips glistening, glasses just barely slipping down his nose, he smirks.

“You like that, don’t you?” His voice is raspy, breathless, wrecked.

You don’t even try to deny it. “Yes—God, yes, don’t stop.”

Sunghoon’s smirk deepens, and he doesn’t make you beg for it. He dives right back in, tongue flicking, sucking, his grip on your thighs tightening as you lose yourself completely. The drag of his glasses, the precise way he adjusts his angle to push you higher, the way he groans into you like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are—it’s too much.

The coil in your stomach snaps hard, pleasure crashing over you so intensely that you barely realize you’re pulling at his hair, moaning his name like a prayer, like you might fall apart completely if he stops.

Sunghoon doesn’t stop. Not right away. He works you through the aftershocks, his tongue slow, methodical, lazy in a way that makes you shudder from overstimulation. Only when your body twitches beneath him does he finally pull away, chin glistening, glasses fucking ruined.

You’re still gasping when he crawls back up your body, hovering over you, his mouth right there, his glasses so close you can see the way they’re fogged-up and smudged with sweat.

When you finally collapse beside each other, spent and satisfied, his glasses are askew once more. You reach over to straighten them, and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"So," you say, when you've caught your breath, "should we tell Professor Clarke we've found an interesting correlation to study?"

Sunghoon laughs, the sound free and unrestrained in a way you hadn't heard before today. "I don't think this is what he had in mind for the assignment."

"His loss," you murmur, snuggling closer. "I'd say our statistical analysis was very... thorough."

"We should probably actually work on the project at some point," he says, but makes no move to get up.

"Tomorrow," you promise, running a finger along his jawline. "I think we need to collect more data first."

His eyebrow raises above the rim of his glasses. "For the sake of academic integrity?"

"Absolutely," you agree solemnly, before dissolving into laughter.

The statistics of probability have never been so compelling.

-

Over the next few weeks, your statistics class takes on an entirely new dimension. What was once your least favorite part of the week has become the highlight—not because you've suddenly developed a passion for data analysis, but because of the subtle dance that unfolds between you and Sunghoon twice a week in that computer lab.

The Monday after your "study session," you arrive to class five minutes early—a personal record. Sunghoon is already there, of course, and the moment he sees you, his ears turn slightly pink. When you slide into the seat next to him, now officially your spot, he gives you a small smile that feels like a secret.

"You're early," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

"I had motivation," you reply, letting your knee brush against his under the desk.

His eyes flicker to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to his notebook. "I hope it wasn't just for... statistical analysis."

"Depends on how you define statistics," you whisper just as Professor Clarke calls the class to order.

Throughout the lecture, you're acutely aware of every movement Sunghoon makes—how he adjusts his glasses when he's thinking, the precise way he takes notes, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking. Halfway through class, you deliberately drop your pen between you. When you both reach for it, your fingers touch, and he doesn't pull away. Instead, he hooks his pinky finger over yours for just a moment before handing you the pen. The small gesture sends a flutter through your chest.

After class, you walk together to the coffee shop without needing to discuss it. Somehow, it's already become your routine.

"How's the dataset compilation going?" he asks as you find a small table in the corner.

"That's what you want to talk about right now? Really?" You raise an eyebrow.

A faint smile plays at his lips. "We do have a project due in three weeks."

"Always so responsible," you sigh dramatically, but there's fondness in your voice. "It's going fine. I've got the coffee consumption survey data from about fifty students so far."

He nods approvingly. "That's a decent sample size for our purposes."

When your drinks arrive—his Earl Grey and your excessively complicated latte—you notice something different about him. He's still quiet, still thoughtful, but there's a new ease to his movements, a softness around his eyes when he looks at you.

"What?" he asks, catching you studying him.

"Nothing," you say, then reconsider. "Actually, not nothing. You seem... different."

He takes a sip of his tea, considering. "I feel different," he admits after a moment. "With you."

The simple sincerity of his words catches you off guard. For all your flirtatious confidence, his straightforward honesty disarms you completely.

"Good different?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy.

"Very good different," he confirms, and beneath the table, his foot rests against yours. Not by accident.

By the third week, you've fallen into patterns that blend the academic with the intimate. Your Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are devoted to actual project work—usually in the library where the public setting keeps you reasonably focused. 

Your Saturday “study sessions” in your dorm room are significantly less productive in the statistical sense, though you joke that you’re certainly collecting plenty of data on other variables.

Sunghoon rolls his eyes every time you say it, but you know he loves it—loves how eager, how shameless you are when it comes to him. Because every time you spread your legs for him, every time you drag him into another compromising position, he never tells you no.

Case Study #1: The Textbooks

It starts with an innocent enough setup—Sunghoon sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against your bed, flipping through a statistics textbook while you sit across from him, pretending to study. But it’s boring. He looks too good in his glasses, sleeves rolled up, the slightest furrow in his brow as he concentrates. And before you even realize you’re moving, you’re crawling into his lap, straddling him right there on top of the book.

He barely has time to exhale your name before you sink down onto him, making both of you groan.

The hardcover digs into your knees, the pages creasing beneath you, but you couldn’t care less. Sunghoon is buried inside you, stretching you open, warm and deep and perfect, and the only data you’re analyzing is how his breath stutters when you roll your hips just right.

“Fuck, you’re unreal—” he pants, hands gripping your waist, watching you through the slightly fogged lenses of his glasses as you use him, ride him slow, grind on him like you want to ruin him.

You do. You want to wreck him just as much as he’s wrecking you. The friction, the delicious drag, the way his hands squeeze your hips to urge you to go faster, harder—it all shreds your self-control.

By the time you both come undone, gasping and clinging to each other, the textbook beneath you is thoroughly creased, sticky, ruined. Neither of you even bother looking at it.

Case Study #2: The Desk Chair

Another Saturday, another useless attempt at studying.

Sunghoon’s seated at your desk this time, one leg lazily spread, hand bracing his forehead as he tries to focus. But you’re kneeling between his legs, and the moment you reach for his zipper, his entire body tenses.

“You’re insatiable.”

“And?” You tug his pants down just enough to free him, palming his length, watching him harden in your hand as his breathing turns shallow.

He leans back, exhaling sharply when your lips part and you take him deep. His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as you swirl your tongue around him, tease him, make him fall apart.

His glasses slip down his nose as he watches you, half-lidded and dazed, jaw slack as you take him deeper, sucking, hollowing your cheeks, making obscene little noises that drive him insane.

He trembles when he finally spills down your throat, groaning your name, head thrown back against the chair.

And the moment he catches his breath, he drags you into his lap, flips you onto the desk, and fucks you stupid.

Case Study #3: Against the Window

Another week. Another “study session.” Another location.

This time, you find yourself pressed against the glass of your dorm window, palms splayed, breath fogging the pane as Sunghoon pounds into you from behind.

The curtains are open.

You don’t know if anyone can see—if someone walking by on the street below can look up and spot your bare body, the lewd way you’re bent over, Sunghoon’s hands gripping your hips as he drives into you with punishing force.

But you don’t care.

All you care about is the way he grunts into your ear, his glasses slightly askew, one hand slipping down to rub your clit, making you jerk and gasp his name as pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave.

“Keep your eyes open,” he growls, voice thick with lust, dragging his lips along your shoulder. “Look outside. Look at what a mess you are.”

Case Study #4: The Shower

It’s late, and you should be asleep. But instead, you’re pressed up against the tiled wall of your tiny dorm shower, water scalding hot, steam curling around you as Sunghoon lifts you up, holds you against him, and fucks you slow, deep.

His glasses are gone, finally.

They’d fogged up the moment he stepped into the shower, and the second you’d made a joke about it, he’d taken them off and set them on the sink. But you don’t miss them too much—not when his mouth is on your throat, sucking bruises into your wet skin, not when his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you in place as he rolls his hips into you with exquisite precision.

You come twice before you finally stumble out of the shower, exhausted, dripping, completely spent.

And the moment you walk back into your dorm room, still naked, Sunghoon picks up his glasses, slides them back on, and gives you a look that tells you he’s nowhere near finished with you.

Case Study #5: The Floor (Again, Because You Can’t Stop)

At this point, you don’t even make it to the bed.

You’re both desperate, panting, **clawing at each other like you can’t stand the idea of being apart for another second.**The moment Sunghoon pushes you onto the floor, you’re already wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him down, gasping when he fills you in one smooth thrust.

It’s fast, dirty, messy.

He grits out your name, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open as he slams into you, pace brutal, relentless. The carpet burns on your back will be worth it.

He loses his glasses at some point, but you don’t even notice—you’re too busy coming apart beneath him, clawing at his back, moaning his name like you’ll never get enough of him.

Maybe you won’t.

Because the second you catch your breath, still tangled up in him, you’re already thinking about where you’ll fuck next.

What surprises you most is how much you enjoy both versions of your time together. The project, which should be tedious, becomes engaging through Sunghoon's perspective. He has a way of finding patterns in chaos that makes even the driest data seem fascinating. And through your influence, he's learning to approach problems more creatively, to see beyond the rigid frameworks he's always relied on.

"What if we visualize it this way instead?" you suggest one Tuesday, sketching a completely unorthodox chart on the margin of his meticulously organized notes.

His initial reaction is skepticism—you can see it in the slight furrow of his brow—but he considers it longer than he would have three weeks ago.

"It's unconventional," he says finally.

"But?"

"But it might actually work better for presenting the correlation," he concedes, and the smile you give him is so bright it makes the student at the next table look over.

In class, Professor Clarke notices the change in both of you. Your questions become more insightful, Sunghoon's responses more animated. When you present your initial findings mid-semester, the professor actually seems impressed by your unusual approach to visualization.

"An interesting methodology," he comments, adjusting his own glasses in a way that reminds you of Sunghoon. "Unorthodox, but effective."

You beam at Sunghoon, who ducks his head slightly but can't hide his pleased expression.

After class, he catches your hand as you're packing up—a gesture he would never have initiated before.

"We make a good team," he says quietly.

"The best," you agree, squeezing his fingers before reluctantly letting go. Public displays still make him slightly uncomfortable, and you respect his boundaries.

-

It's during a rainy Friday evening in your dorm room, six weeks into your relationship (though neither of you has officially labeled it as such), that something shifts again.

You're sprawled on your bed with your laptop, Sunghoon sitting at your desk reviewing your latest statistical findings, his glasses reflecting the blue light of the screen. Classical music plays softly from his phone—another new development. He's been gradually introducing you to his favorite composers, and you've found you actually enjoy the background music while working.

"Your scatterplot is missing a data point," he says, turning to look at you.

"Mmm, probably deleted it accidentally," you reply, not looking up from your position. "Is it important?"

"All data points are important," he says, but there's amusement in his voice rather than criticism.

You roll onto your back, laptop balanced on your stomach. "That sounds like something that would be on a statistics department t-shirt. 'All data points matter.'"

He laughs—a sound that's become less rare but no less thrilling to hear. "I'd wear it."

"Of course you would," you tease. "With your glasses and a pocket protector."

He makes a face at you. "I don't own a pocket protector."

"Yet," you add with a grin.

He shakes his head, turning back to the screen, but you catch the smile he tries to hide. After a moment, he speaks again without looking at you.

"My parents want to meet you."

You sit up so quickly your laptop nearly slides off your stomach. "What?"

Now he turns, his expression a mixture of nervousness and something softer. "I mentioned you during our weekly call. Multiple times, apparently. My mother... noticed."

"You talk about me to your parents?" You can't keep the pleased surprise from your voice.

He adjusts his glasses, a gesture you now recognize as his tell when he's feeling vulnerable. "It seems I do."

"What do you tell them?" You set your laptop aside, giving him your full attention.

"That you're brilliant in ways I'm not. That you see solutions I miss." He pauses. "That you make statistics class the best part of my week."

Your heart does that skipping thing it did the first day Professor Clarke paired you together, only stronger now.

"Sunghoon Park," you say softly, "are you saying I'm statistically significant to you?"

His expression turns serious, though his eyes remain gentle. "With a p-value approaching zero," he replies, and though it's phrased as a joke, his tone makes it clear it's anything but.

In statistics, a p-value approaching zero indicates an extremely high likelihood that an observed effect is real and not due to chance. It's the closest thing to certainty that statistics allows.

You cross the room to where he sits, gently taking his face between your hands. His glasses are slightly smudged, and you resist the urge to clean them, focusing instead on the eyes behind them.

"So," you say, "when do I meet these parents who raised such a statistically significant nerd?"

He laughs, pulling you into his lap in a move that would have seemed impossibly bold from him just weeks ago. "They're visiting next weekend. Dinner on Saturday?"

"I'm there," you promise, sealing it with a kiss.

-

The day of your semester project presentation arrives with an unexpected lack of anxiety. You're prepared—more prepared than you've been for any academic presentation in your life. Partly because the subject has actually become interesting to you, but mostly because working on it meant spending hours with Sunghoon.

You stand beside him at the front of the class, watching him explain your methodology with a confidence that wasn't there at the beginning of the semester. His voice is still quiet, still measured, but there's a strength behind it now, an assurance that comes from truly understanding his material. When he gestures to your creative visualization on the screen, there's a hint of pride in his voice that makes your chest warm.

When it's your turn to present, you catch him watching you with undisguised admiration. You explain the correlations you found between different types of coffee consumption and various academic performance metrics, throwing in jokes that make the class laugh and complex statistical terms that make Professor Clarke nod approvingly.

"And in conclusion," you finish, "we found that while caffeine consumption generally correlates with improved academic performance up to a point, the type of environment in which the coffee is consumed may be an equally significant factor."

"Furthermore," Sunghoon adds, stepping forward to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder, "we discovered that the companionship variable—whether students studied alone or with others—showed the strongest positive correlation with both satisfaction and performance outcomes."

His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, and you know he's not just talking about the data anymore.

When Professor Clarke gives your presentation an A and commends your "complementary analytical approaches," you resist the urge to high-five Sunghoon in front of everyone. Instead, you wait until you're outside the building, then throw your arms around him in celebration.

To your surprise, he lifts you slightly off the ground in his enthusiasm, spinning once before setting you down, his face flushed with excitement and mild embarrassment at his own uncharacteristic display.

"We did it," he says, adjusting his glasses which were knocked askew by your hug.

"Was there ever any doubt?" you reply, reaching up to straighten them properly. "We're statistically significant, remember?"

His smile softens, and right there on the path outside the statistics building, with students streaming past on their way to other classes, he kisses you without hesitation or self-consciousness.

"What was that for?" you ask when he pulls away, delighted but surprised by the public display.

"I've been collecting data," he says, his eyes crinkling behind those glasses you've grown to love, "and I've formed a hypothesis."

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow. "And what hypothesis is that, Mr. Park?"

He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as you begin walking toward the coffee shop that's become your place.

"That I'm in love with you," he says simply. "And unlike most statistical conclusions, I'm one hundred percent certain."

You stop walking, turning to face him fully. "That's a bold statistical claim. Absolute certainty is rare in your field."

"I have compelling evidence," he counters, and the confidence in his voice, so different from the hesitant student you met months ago, makes your heart race.

"I might need to review your data," you tease, though your voice catches slightly.

"Extensive observation over time," he begins, stepping closer. "Consistent results across multiple variables. Reproducible effects." His voice drops lower. "Significant positive impact on all quality-of-life metrics."

"Very scientific," you murmur, your hands finding their way to his chest.

"I thought so," he agrees, his eyes serious despite the playful exchange. "So my conclusion stands."

You rise on your tiptoes, pressing your forehead to his. "Well, as someone who's conducted a parallel study, I can confirm your findings. The evidence suggests I'm in love with you too."

His smile, rare and full, lights up his entire face. "Independently verified results. The best kind."

“Should we celebrate this breakthrough with coffee?” you suggest, already knowing his answer.

“I was thinking maybe we skip the coffee today,” he says, surprising you again. “I have other hypotheses I’d like to test.”

“Professor Clarke would be shocked at your dedication to statistical research,” you laugh, letting him lead you in the direction of your dorm instead of the coffee shop.

“Some variables,” he says with newfound confidence, “are worth studying in depth.”

You lean in close, pressing your lips right against the shell of his ear, and whisper the kind of filth that would make even the most shameless person blush.

“Then why don’t you pin me down the second we walk through that door, shove your face between my legs, and eat me so fucking good I forget my own name? And when I can’t take anymore, you’ll flip me over and fuck me like you’re trying to imprint yourself inside me—deep, rough, until I’m crying and drooling on the sheets, too dumb to do anything but take it.”

Sunghoon stops breathing.

You feel the exact moment your words hit him—his entire body locks up, his grip on your wrist tightens, his jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear his teeth grind.

His glasses fog immediately.

A strangled noise escapes him, something between a curse and a choked groan, and then he’s moving.

Not just moving—dragging you, fast, purposeful, like a man on a mission.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, voice wrecked, dangerous, and it sends a thrill straight through you.

By the time you reach your dorm, he’s already reaching for the door handle, barely keeping himself together, and the second it clicks shut behind you—

You know he’s about to make good on every single word you just whispered.

That, by any metric, was statistically significant indeed.

-

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @naurwayyyyy @bloomiize @zzhengyu @annybah @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4 @starniras @wonuziex

[adafruit]

🎄💾🗓️ Day 11: Retrocomputing Advent Calendar - The SEL 840A🎄💾🗓️

Systems Engineering Laboratories (SEL) introduced the SEL 840A in 1965. This is a deep cut folks, buckle in. It was designed as a high-performance, 24-bit general-purpose digital computer, particularly well-suited for scientific and industrial real-time applications.

Notable for using silicon monolithic integrated circuits and a modular architecture. Supported advanced computation with features like concurrent floating-point arithmetic via an optional Extended Arithmetic Unit (EAU), which allowed independent arithmetic processing in single or double precision. With a core memory cycle time of 1.75 microseconds and a capacity of up to 32,768 directly addressable words, the SEL 840A had impressive computational speed and versatility for its time.

Its instruction set covered arithmetic operations, branching, and program control. The computer had fairly robust I/O capabilities, supporting up to 128 input/output units and optional block transfer control for high-speed data movement. SEL 840A had real-time applications, such as data acquisition, industrial automation, and control systems, with features like multi-level priority interrupts and a real-time clock with millisecond resolution.

Software support included a FORTRAN IV compiler, mnemonic assembler, and a library of scientific subroutines, making it accessible for scientific and engineering use. The operator’s console provided immediate access to registers, control functions, and user interaction! Designed to be maintained, its modular design had serviceability you do often not see today, with swing-out circuit pages and accessible test points.

And here's a personal… personal computer history from Adafruit team member, Dan…

== The first computer I used was an SEL-840A, PDF:

I learned Fortran on it in eight grade, in 1970. It was at Oak Ridge National Laboratory, where my parents worked, and was used to take data from cyclotron experiments and perform calculations. I later patched the Fortran compiler on it to take single-quoted strings, like 'HELLO', in Fortran FORMAT statements, instead of having to use Hollerith counts, like 5HHELLO.

In 1971-1972, in high school, I used a PDP-10 (model KA10) timesharing system, run by BOCES LIRICS on Long Island, NY, while we were there for one year on an exchange.

This is the front panel of the actual computer I used. I worked at the computer center in the summer. I know the fellow in the picture: he was an older high school student at the time.

The first "personal" computers I used were Xerox Alto, Xerox Dorado, Xerox Dandelion (Xerox Star 8010), Apple Lisa, and Apple Mac, and an original IBM PC. Later I used DEC VAXstations.

Dan kinda wins the first computer contest if there was one… Have first computer memories? Post’em up in the comments, or post yours on socialz’ and tag them #firstcomputer #retrocomputing – See you back here tomorrow!

[clowningaroundmars]

morales twins hcs

i'm absolutely in love with the idea of miles42 and miles1610 being twins, i'm so glad most of the fandom has basically adopted 42 lmao

some of my own twins headcanons, just random stuff to add onto other ppls hcs ive seen:

☆ 42 loves his mamí absolutely but def acts the most like his dad, and haaaates when anyone points it out. it's the most obvious when 42 gets mad, he sounds EXACTLY like his father then lol

☆ in fact, the twins polar opposite personalities is probs bc 1610 takes after his mom's temperament more, while 42 is as stoic, stubborn and slightly dorky as his dad is

☆ whenever the boys made each other cry (by accident or otherwise) they did the typical little kid thing and tried immediately comforting the other. now that they're older 1610 handles his emotions better and is mature when talking about them, but 42 is the one who comforts 1610 more often

more below ↓

☆ as well as staying on top of his academics, 42 also plays basketball and trains in a couple martial arts studios after school. 1610 is taller than 42 bc of the spider bite but 42 has always been slightly bigger and more muscular than 1610 since he's the athlete. whenever the family attends 42's boxing matches, jeff gets an overwhelming sense of deja vu from back when he attended his own brother's matches before

☆ they both got thru school p okay, not many incidents of bullying mostly bc if anyone did try, 42 would put a stop to that nonsense immediately. 42 loves his bro with his whole heart and was glad to pick a fight with anyone who gave him any trouble at all. the whole neighborhood knew it too bc the only person allowed to bully 1610 is 42 himself!

☆ in fact, 42 doesn't win the lottery to enter visions in the first place, which saddened both brothers when they found out. so because they're at separate schools now, 42 makes sure his twin knows that if any fuckery is afoot at visions that he'd be more than happy to roll up and dogwalk any fool who tries it. 1610 laughs him off but knows his bro has got his back for sure

☆ 42 likes to pretend 1610 is the nerdy one, but they are both very big anime and manga nerds. every time they hit up any bookstore, they both make a beeline for the manga section and argue over who's gonna read the newest one first (they have to share cuz those books cost some moneeyyyy, man)

☆ 1610 and 42 love their uncle to pieces, OFC. they both pick up separate traits from him, even. 42 was inspired to start martial arts and boxing from watching videos on old digital cameras that aaron hung onto thru the years. they were of a much younger aaron back in his boxing days, when his family went to his matches and recorded them from the seats. 1610 was inspired to pick up graffiti and then even started doodling in notebooks bc of aaron

☆ 1610 is def the social butterfly and easily the most popular kid on the block by virtue of how friendly and outgoing he is. 42 is more introverted and keeps a small circle of friends, but everyone is cool with him nonetheless since they fuck with his twin bro

☆ since 42 stays at home the most (lol he a homebody) he picks up cooking much better than 1610 thanks to him staying in the kitchen to help his mom make dinner while they watch telenovelas together. 42 also knows how to dance bachata and salsa much better than 1610 too

☆ both twins love physics and math but 42 is more hardware-inclined. 1610 is about software, data, and formulas. 42 is good at taking things apart, putting things together, building and engineering. he kinda takes after his uncle aaron that way, and drove his parents nuts as a lil kid when he got his hands on radios, computers, clocks, etc

☆ 1610 loves softer brighter music like JID, steve lacy, smino, frank ocean, kid cudi, post malone, and nujabes. 42 is always bumping harder shit like pop smoke, waka flocka, zillakami, three 6 mafia, benny the butcher and some oldies like paul wall, wu tang clan, biggie smalls, MF DOOM and big KRIT. they tease each other's music tastes a lot since they're polar opposites in almost every way

☆ they actually have a shared playlist where they add new music they like (probs on some e-1610 spotify or soundcloud equivalent since everything is slightly skewed on e-1610 tbh). both of them check it periodically, and 42 is the more frequent contributor

☆ they both make art but 1610 is the artsier kid for sure. 42 doodles occasionally but he's not as enthusiastic about it as his twin is. they both go around the city tagging walls whenever they have any free time, though. 1610 loves colors, expressive styles and is good at coming up with cool ways to draw text. 42's lines, accuracy and technical skill can never be beat

☆ 1610 has superpowers, sure, but his fighting skills are trash! 42 was always the scrappy one, not 1610, so he shows his twin how to properly throw punches and other useful fighting knowledge. it def comes in handy in the future

☆ jeff loves his sons to death but he often finds himself butting heads the most with 42 since they're so similar, it kinda drives them both nuts. it def gets worse once aaron starts gossiping abt what jeff used to be like when they were kids, giving 42 plenty of ammo. they love each other but their relationship is just as complicated as it is between jeff and 1610, and 42 would be lying if he said he wasn't affected by the rift between his dad and uncle himself

☆ the minute the twins turn 16, 42 goes out and gets his drivers license on the first try (computer quiz AND road test aced) and rubs it in 1610's face almost constantly. 1610 likes to throw back that there's no parking space for another car on their block, so he can't even get his own car even if he wanted to anyways

☆ whenever the boys really fight, the whole city seems to know. they squabble a lot obvi, they're brothers. but the very few times they've given each other the silent treatment like for real, everyone in the family tries to get them to make up since it's unsettling to see two peas in a pod be so hostile with each other

☆ and since they've always been attached at the hip, 1610 being enrolled into visions felt. weird. everyone thought 1610 was gonna take it the hardest but surprisingly 42 had a harder time adjusting since he always saw his bro in the hallways at school, and was so used to him knowing the latest gossip of anybody in their grade. without 1610 around as often, 42 becomes even more withdrawn than usual

rio looks up from the pot suddenly, glancing at the time. dinner was almost ready and she… hadn't seen not hide nor tail of her son this evening. he returned home from school a couple hours earlier, choosing to skip going to his boxing class to shut himself in his room.

fine. teenagers can be moody sometimes and rio would rather keep her moody son at home where she can keep an eye on him, rather than worry about what he's getting up to on the streets.

strange thing is, though... rio hadn't heard a single noise come out of that room all night. 42 usually liked to have at least some music playing, maybe video game noises out of his nintendo... oh, what was it called again? whatever, that nintendo thing he played on sometimes.

rio placed the lid on the pot and lowered the flame a bit before making her way over to her twin sons' bedroom door, hesitating a bit when she noticed no light was filtering out from the bottom either. okay... that was weird, too. neither of her sons ever went to bed before dinner. ever.

the one time rio dared to try and send her sons to bed without dinner years ago-- as punishment for fighting right there in the kitchen that time-- both twins hollered so loud they got concerned knocks on their front door from various different neighbors. never again, rio remembered thinking that time.

now, the bedroom door stands oddly quiet and completely hollow without any signs of life behind it. rio knocked anyways, hoping against hope itself that 42 didn't go ahead and sneak out of the house without her knowledge. if he did sneak out, he's grounded for 3 months, rio thinks to herself mostly as reassurance. she nervously picks at a nail and strains to hear anything behind the wood.

she thinks she hears a groan and decides to try her luck by slowly opening the door. hopefully he's not in there... y'know, doing teenage boy things, either. dios mío.

rio swings the door open to...

...a completely pitch-black room, save for the sliver of streetlight filtering in past a crack in the window curtains and casting an eerie yellow glow on anything it could touch. it is cold, and also deathly quiet.

rio is shocked.

she walks over to the right side of the room where 42's bed is pushed up against the corner, next to the windows. on that bed lies a big lump, buried under several layers of blankets. the lump stirs.

rio crosses her arms. "mijo, mi amor. are you sleeping? …pero qué te pasa, papí?"¹

42 rolls onto his back and glares sleepily at his concerned mother standing at his bedside. it's dark in the room, but rio's face is illuminated by the living room lights pouring in from the open door. she's wearing a tilted smile, but coupled with the worry lines on her forehead, it isn't fooling anyone.

42 slowly closes his eyes, chin still under the covers, and lets out the most world-weary sigh rio has ever heard coming out of someone as young as him. if it weren't coming from her own son, she might have even laughed.

she immediately sits down, lifting the cover off of 42's chin to check his temperature all over his face. he tries to wriggle away.

"maaaaaa, stop..." he grumbles, trying to pull the covers up higher over his head. "'m not sick, mamí, forreal… chill."

rio leans on a hand. "¿si no 'ta enfermó pues qué es?² what's wrong?"

42 doesn't answer for a bit and rio exhales through her nose. " 'moré, what are you doing in this pitch-black room all by yourself? no light, no music, no nothing. what's wrong? you look like you're on a death bed!"

42 finally opens his eyes again, and blinks a few times as he says, "nothing, ma. seriously, i'm just... tired. that's all. i'm fine."

"you don't look 'fine' 42, you look like 2 seconds away from flatlining."

another sigh from the boy. rio rolls her eyes and places her hand on his forehead again, then strokes his cheek.

"is it 1610? hmm?" rio asks 42. she asks so unbelievably gently, as if by only mentioning his brother's name she would shatter something in the room. a mirror or something.

42's heart clenches at the love and care his mother is showing around this particular topic. it was true, and he couldn't even deny it. having 1610 in the house less and less every week, not seeing him in the hallways at their local high school, receiving sparser and shorter replies to his texts... it was all building up in his chest and the dam was pretty close to bursting. especially now as his mom was lovingly stroking his cheek as she checked in with him. how embarassing. rio wouldn't see him cry, not right now. he closed his eyes and willed the tears away, for her sake.

miraculously, 42's voice didn't crack or waver when he said, "yeah. yeah, i miss 'im."

rio crooned something saccharine in spanish and placed a kiss on her son's forehead. she saw right through his cold tough guy act, as expected. with how much of a mama's boy 42 was, it would've been impossible not to. they spent way too much time together for her to miss how he dragged his feet getting ready for school in the mornings, how he's been skipping martial arts and basketball practice more often lately, and how unenthusiastic he's been in general.

rio chuckles as she lays her cheek on 42's forehead for a second before sitting back up. "ay, bendito. 42, you know your brother is just down a few blocks from here. why don't you go visit him soon?"

42 shuffles under the covers. he's unsure if he should even admit this, but he proceeds anyways. "uhm. he's not answering my texts lately, so." he feels strangely guilty about this, like he just snitched on his twin somehow even though he has no reason to suspect that at all.

rio sighs and looks off into the distance, bracing herself for what she's about to say. she looks back down. "yeah. i know. he doesn't answer mine, either. i was hoping he was talking to you, but... well. "

something in 42 stirs a bit. "i bet he thinks he's in some fancy private school, around rich kids, now he's too good for us," it's a weak attempt at a joke, but rio smiles down at him anyways.

"don't worry. the second he gets home this weekend, he's on house arrest. okay? he's gonna be chained to you the whoooole time. and i'm keepin' watch."

it's not much, but 42 still takes that little bit of hope and holds it gently in his mind.

"the second he walks through that door, i'm tackling him. i don't care." 42 smiles at the thought.

rio laughs, kisses his forehead again and stands up. "dinner is almost ready, by the way." she gives him a look. "you better eat with me tonight, because your brother is at school and your dad is doing overtime tonight. okay? okay."

42 sighs deeply to wake himself up a bit more as he sits up and scratches at his durag. "yeah, yeah. 'm comin', ma!"

¹ "but what is going on with you, papí?" (papí being a common term of affection for a boy in spanish, it doesn't always mean "dad" lol)

² "if you're not sick, then what is it?"

☆ until they get "too old" for halloween, the morales twins ALWAYS wear matching costumes. every year. every single year, no matter what. what they usually end up wearing changes every year and they aaaaaalways argue over it, of course. notable costumes so far: batman and superman (age 13), two ninja turtles (age 9) (im thinking mikey and donatello bc of personality but lbr rio most likely forbade either of them to be leonardo bc the twins would deadass get into a fist fight over it), tom and jerry (age 2), mario and luigi (age 7), woody and buzz (age 5), peter pan and captain hook (age 10), and-- rio's favorite-- thing 1 and thing 2 (age 4)

☆ 42 was surprisingly always very popular with the girls at school. in middle school, 1610 was the geeky one with braces and acne. 42 got off relatively easy in that regard and as a result was labeled "a heartbreaker" from the jump, which annoyed him. he has no interest in dating whatsoever and swore to never get into a relationship before graduating high school. he's got his mom and brother to take care of and he's going places after high school, damnit! 1610 on the other hand is a huge romantic and has a crush on a new person almost every year of school, easily

☆ the literal second 1610 set foot in the house after his spider bite, 42 was all over him asking a million questions since they both have that supernatural twintuition, and 42 sussed him out immediately. 1610 obviously had to come clean and tell his brother he was spiderman just like he told ganke, otherwise he was never gonna be able to change into his spider suit at home (plus they share a room, so. there's that)

1610 didn't even get to close their bedroom door all the way before his twin leaped up from his own bed and stalked over.

"óye, bro. what's up? what happened at visions?" 42 circled his brother, squinty-eyed in the exact same way their mom is when she's suspicious. 1610 dropped his bag next to his bed and plopped down on his sheets, trying to put some distance between them.

"uhhhh what're you talkin' about?" he tries casually, and immediately regrets it.

"uhhhhh what're you talkin' about?" 42 mocks. "don't play dumb with me. you KNOW what i'm talkin' about, stupid. first, you answer, like, none of my texts ever. then dad comes home sayin' you never let him talk face-to-face when he visited you a couple days ago. mamí has been texting and calling you nonstop, no answer either. you are a brand new person now, huh? qué te pasa, yo?"

1610 hunched his shoulders as he got up and slumped over to his desk. he was quietly weighing his options, nervously rearranging papers and sketches on the wooden table, wondering how he was going to break it to his brother that he was--

"lemme guess. you have superpowers now," 42 says easily. he crosses his arms triumphantly when big round amber eyes suddenly turn up to his face.

1610 searches his face for any hint of a joke. no... no way. did his brother just...?

"you're playin' with me. no way. how did you--?"

42's eyes widen. "wait, are you being deadass right now?" he threw his head back and crowed with laughter. "that was just a guess!"

1610 leaped forward and pushed his hand onto 42's mouth, shutting him up. "heeyyy hey hey hey hey shhhhh, man. damn, could you possibly be any louder? look," he took his twin by the shoulders and gave him a slight shake, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "mom and dad can never know anything about this. okay? anything. not a word, you understand?"

42 pushes his brother off. "ok-ay man, cool it. i promise. we can shake on it, even."

wordlessly, they did their super secret handshake they came up with and perfected in the 4th grade in lieu of hooking their pinkies together. it was the morales shake, a move that binds them to secrecy and keeping promises til death. this was serious business. 1610 relaxes a bit once they're done.

"... okay. and i mean it, pencil braids. if you even breathe a word about this, or even think about--!"

"if you don't just tell me already, goddamn."

with a meaningful look thrown at his brother's way, 1610 raises an arm silently. 42 looks back expectantly.

1610 shoots a web up. he jumps up, using the web as a bungee rope to help him flip and land feet-first onto the ceiling. once his sneakers touch their ceiling, he stands up... upside-down. he stares at his brother and his brother stares back, mouth agape.

"niiiiiiice," 42 leans back and grins up at his twin brother, spiderman.

☆ 1610 is glad he has someone besides ganke to talk to about spiderman stuff, though. his brother listens way more attentively than his roommate anyways, and even tries to help sometimes esp when 1610 needs a quick distraction so he can switch from spiderman back into his regular clothes before the parents notice

☆ 42 is surprisingly cool abt his twin bro being spiderman, actually. even when they're texting 42 is careful not to imply 1610 is spiderman, and often calls stuff in to the police station if 1610 webs anyone up and lets him know. he also gets very good at bandaging up wounds quickly

☆ 42 is a hardass on the outside and contains his emotions much better than his twin, but he's kinda different around his family, since he loves them a lot. he jokes around a lot with them, esp around 1610. they also love pranking their parents, and are p creative at coming up with ways to make everyone laugh

☆ i personally picture 42's personality being sort of like huey's from the boondocks, especially around other adults. he becomes withdrawn and speaks very clearly and directly, and is very shy around strangers. some ppl mistake that as him having an attitude problem but his friends and family know better. only difference between huey and 42 is that 42 isn't nearly as woke lmfao

☆ meanwhile, 1610 becomes a motormouth around strangers and is quick to hug and kiss random family members at family reunions. as a lil kid, he'd always be the one up at the counter ordering for the both of them and chatting with the cashiers, or bus drivers, or whoever. as he gets older and used to the spiderman thing, he chats and jokes with randoms a lil less. he has to save the good material for when the mask is on

☆ 42 is a better writer than he is an artist, actually. he has notebooks filled with poetry and lyrics he scribbles down on post-it notes just to stick them in there for safekeeping. he's also been working on a sci-fi story since he was in 6th grade in absolute secrecy; he doesn't want a single soul to see it. he'd be mortified if anyone saw the nerdy shit he comes up with

☆ even tho 1610 has never fought anyone or been scrappy with anyone else, he's very good at wrestling and dodging punches thanks to his brother.

☆ 42 is the more fashion-inclined twin, even tho they're both sneakerheads. 42 just pays more attention to accessories, the fit of his clothing, how to pair the right shoes with the right jacket. 1610 throws on anything comfortable and calls it a day, and it gets even worse after he becomes spiderman. 42 clowns his brother SO HARD after he finds him wearing yellow sweatpants with an oversized red adidas hoodie and a green puffer jacket once (it was when 1610 came home from fighting a shapeshifting lizard that tried to take over cypress hills. the sweatpants were on backwards)

☆ 1610's sense of humor is geeky and he always tries too hard with his quips and jokes. he usually gets "secondhand embarrassment" chuckles from ppl. 42's style of comedy is a mix of dry humor and unintentionally being funny. this dude will say something clever with the straightest face ever and have the ENTIRE room in stitches without even meaning to

☆ just to nail home how different they are, even tho they share a room, you can tell EXACTLY which half of their room begins and ends. 1610's half is cluttered, vibrant, covered in posters and action figures, collages and trinkets on every available surface. 42's is as clean as a hospital room, and he ALWAYS makes his bed every morning. 42 has a poster or 2 hung up but he's not much for decorating in general. he's more into alphabetizing his bookshelf and looking for more efficient storage to put under his bed

☆ when jeff looks at his sons, he sees aaron and himself and sometimes it scares him. when the boys were around 12 (the Evil Year) he made SURE to sign them up for camp trips that summer and keep them close together as much as possible. he hates to see his boys drift apart at all and is the 1st one to call it out if he sees it. he just doesn't want his boys to end up like he and his brother did…

☆ … and then other times? it genuinely makes him feel a combination of irritation and also fondness bc sometimes 1610 and 42 really really remind him of aaron and himself, esp when they were young. ESPECIALLY when they argue. in every playful slap on the shoulder, every arbitrary competition started out of nowhere, every sleepy brother slowly sliding onto the other's shoulder during nighttime car rides, he sees it. he sees them, and then he sees his past. and with every little difference between the boys slowly cracking open like a chasm with each passing day, sometimes he thinks he can even see his future.

☆ 42 is cool or whatever but i also hc he's kinda… weird sometimes. it gets worse when his twin bro goes off to visions, he keeps staring at walls while sitting in dark rooms and eating at weird hours of the day. rio caught him fast asleep practically hanging off the window sill one night, and another time jeff found him having an entire conversation with a brick wall once while on patrol. 42 refuses to answer any questions

☆ after 1610 gets into visions, becomes spiderman, tells his parents abt his plans to go to princeton, etc... 42 eventually starts feeling a type of way (a jealous way…) their parents also seem to pay attention to 1610 more whenever he's home just to add insult to injury. he knows he's not supposed to, but he often finds himself thinking about the prowler gloves and schematics aaron left behind. he managed to grab them and hide them in a gym bag one day while helping his parents clear out aaron's apartment. the tech currently lives under his bed…

[ms-demeanor]

hiya! i love your posts on tech & the way you phrase things is so easy to understand. i'm curious if you'd be willing to talk more about turning off location data-- is is better than nothing to do that and then turn it back on for maps, or at that point does it not matter? & do you have any tips for relying less on digital maps?

I think it's worthwhile to turn it off completely and then if you have to use a mapping tool, turn it on just for that and turn it off when you're at your destination. That doesn't completely erase a phone's ability to track your location (it's still getting cell tower pings) but it's better than letting every nosy app on your phone know where you are all the time, which you should assume every app wants to do by default.

Honestly one of the ways I rely less on digital maps is by using somewhat different digital maps! OsmAnd is an open-source mapping app (that has some problems, ngl) that I can use both with location turned off and on. If I don't want to deal with the funky search on the app I can search a route in my browser and either screenshot directions or simply look at the map and get an idea of where I'm going.

Personally, I drove *a lot* before mapping software was ubiquitous and my advice to relying on it less is to do that; go places without using mapping software and try to find your way around. Look up locations ahead of time either on a paper map or in your browser and figure out which way streets go and where freeway exits are and which numbers are going to be on the left or the right side of the street at your destination. Once you get into the habit of looking up directions and following them step by step instead of having a phone give them to you in real time, it becomes a lot easier to follow directions. Once you're more used to looking at maps, you'll find that it's a lot easier than it used to be to plan most of a route on your own. Once you've gotten pretty familiar with an area you'll find that you need directions for a lot less of your journey than you used to, and that you will likely be able to navigate the area you're comfortable with without a map.

Now, that's not universally true - some people have significant problems with cardinal directions and map reading the same way that I have left-right confusion and can't read clocks; it happens, not everyone can do everything. But by trying to do it at least a little bit sometimes you're likely to be a lot more comfortable in situations where you *can't* use a map, like if your phone dies or if there's an emergency that takes out the data network.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

January 1, 2025

Heather Cox Richardson

Jan 01, 2025

Twenty-five years ago today, Americans—along with the rest of the world—woke up to a new century date…and to the discovery that the years of work computer programmers had put in to stop what was known as the Y2K bug from crashing airplanes, shutting down hospitals, and making payments systems inoperable had worked.

When programmers began their work with the first wave of commercial computers in the 1960s, computer memory was expensive, so they used a two-digit format for dates, using just the years in the century, rather than using the four digits that would be necessary otherwise—78, for example, rather than 1978. This worked fine until the century changed.

As the turn of the twenty-first century approached, computer engineers realized that computers might interpret 00 as 1900 rather than 2000 or fail to recognize it at all, causing programs that, by then, handled routine maintenance, safety checks, transportation, finance, and so on, to fail. According to scholar Olivia Bosch, governments recognized that government services, as well as security and the law, could be disrupted by the glitch. They knew that the public must have confidence that world systems would survive, and the United States and the United Kingdom, where at the time computers were more widespread than they were elsewhere, emphasized transparency about how governments, companies, and programmers were handling the problem. They backed the World Bank and the United Nations in their work to help developing countries fix their own Y2K issues.

Meanwhile, people who were already worried about the coming of a new century began to fear that the end of the world was coming. In late 1996, evangelical Christian believers saw the Virgin Mary in the windows of an office building near Clearwater, Florida, and some thought the image was a sign of the end times. Leaders fed that fear, some appearing to hope that the secular government they hated would fall, some appreciating the profit to be made from their warnings. Popular televangelist Pat Robertson ran headlines like “The Year 2000—A Date with Disaster.”

Fears reached far beyond the evangelical community. Newspaper tabloids ran headlines that convinced some worried people to start stockpiling food and preparing for societal collapse: “JANUARY 1, 2000: THE DAY THE EARTH WILL STAND STILL!” one tabloid read. “ALL BANKS WILL FAIL. FOOD SUPPLIES WILL BE DEPLETED! ELECTRICITY WILL BE CUT OFF! THE STOCK MARKET WILL CRASH! VEHICLES USING COMPUTER CHIPS WILL STOP DEAD! TELEPHONES WILL CEASE TO FUNCTION! DOMINO EFFECT WILL CAUSE A WORLDWIDE DEPRESSION!”

In fact, the fix turned out to be simple—programmers developed updated systems that recognized a four-digit date—but implementing it meant that hardware and software had to be adjusted to become Y2K compliant, and they had to be ready by midnight on December 31, 1999. Technology teams worked for years, racing to meet the deadline at a cost that researchers estimate to have been $300–$600 billion. The head of the Federal Aviation Administration at the time, Jane Garvey, told NPR in 1998 that the air traffic control system had twenty-three million lines of code that had to be fixed.

President Bill Clinton’s 1999 budget had described fixing the Y2K bug as “the single largest technology management challenge in history,” but on December 14 of that year, President Bill Clinton announced that according to the Office of Management and Budget, 99.9% of the government's mission-critical computer systems were ready for 2000. In May 1997, only 21% had been ready. “[W]e have done our job, we have met the deadline, and we have done it well below cost projections,” Clinton said.

Indeed, the fix worked. Despite the dark warnings, the programmers had done their job, and the clocks changed with little disruption. “2000,” the Wilmington, Delaware, News Journal’s headline read. “World rejoices; Y2K bug is quiet.”

Crises get a lot of attention, but the quiet work of fixing them gets less. And if that work ends the crisis that got all the attention, the success itself makes people think there was never a crisis to begin with. In the aftermath of the Y2K problem, people began to treat it as a joke, but as technology forecaster Paul Saffo emphasized, “The Y2K crisis didn’t happen precisely because people started preparing for it over a decade in advance. And the general public who was busy stocking up on supplies and stuff just didn’t have a sense that the programmers were on the job.”

As of midnight last night, a five-year contract ended that had allowed Russia to export natural gas to Europe by way of a pipeline running through Ukraine. Ukraine president Volodymyr Zelensky warned that he would not renew the contract, which permitted more than $6 billion a year to flow to cash-strapped Russia. European governments said they had plenty of time to prepare and that they have found alternative sources to meet the needs of their people.

Today, President Joe Biden issued a statement marking the day that the new, lower cap on seniors’ out-of-pocket spending on prescription drugs goes into effect. The Inflation Reduction Act, negotiated over two years and passed with Democratic votes alone, enabled the government to negotiate with pharmaceutical companies over drug prices and phased in out-of-pocket spending caps for seniors. In 2024 the cap was $3,400; it’s now $2,000.

As we launch ourselves into 2025, one of the key issues of the new year will be whether Americans care that the U.S. government does the hard, slow work of governing and, if it does, who benefits.

Happy New Year, everyone.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[mahamid110]

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[poisonedprose]

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑-𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒. ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 - taglist

IN WHICH, leon is giving his all and trying so hard to save your relationship after the tragic incident but you have given up all hope on everything, including yourself. you've let yourself go, pretending like your actions have zero consequences, fighting with leon in the early mornings, making up with sex, and then doing it all again. doesn't it get exhausting making the bed?

WARNINGS, iii. 1.3k, mentions of hangover, suggestive(?), reader is going through it, curse words, reader does shady things with carlos

The once warm bed was cold when you woke up. Nothing by your side except the disheveled blanket from your peaceful sleep. The digital clock blinked the time, but it was too blurry for you to read what it said. The curtains were closed now, maybe Leon had closed them. Your head knocked in pain, a hangover surely plaguing your fatigued body. The brisk air nipped at your exposed skin as you slipped out of bed.

The floor was even colder, quickly padding over to the carpeted area just in front of the wardrobe. You forage around the unkempt clothes, pulling out a button down shirt that surely belonged to Leon. It hung over your shoulders as you buttoned just 3 or 4 of the buttons, too lazy to do the rest. You grabbed a random pair of underwear, slipping them on carelessly. Really everything was careless about your appearance as of late.

You stumbled into the kitchen, fiending for some coffee and a couple Advil pills to subside the pounding in your head. Sluggishly, you prepared your coffee, in time that you don't particularly remember, but you had your hot coffee now, so who cared? You swallowed the pills with ease, something you've gotten good at over these past few months. You looked around, sighing with defeat when you didn't see a note from Leon letting you know when or if he'd be home tonight.

Leaning against the counter and feeling sorry for yourself had became part of your daily morning routine. Of course, all while drinking the coffee that you don't even really like all that much. You rarely finish the sweet ecru colored beverage, leaving it in the microwave for Leon to finish when he inevitably comes home. Though recently, you've been worrying that maybe Leon's return home is inevitable.

All these thoughts plague your mind as the sweet coffee begins to make your teeth rot. You lost count how much sugar you poured into the small mug after the 5th spoonful. Leon always scolded you for wasting so much sugar into your drinks that you don't even finish. Wouldn't it just be common sense to add less sugar so you don't get a toothache or perhaps a tummy ache?

You often wondered where you would be without Leon. Maybe you'd be better off without the golden retriever of a man. But then again, you'd have no one if it weren't for Leon. Boyfriends and friends came and go, never having a sure best friend to confide everything in. It seemed you were damned to be cursed to be forever alone, that was until Leon came along. Could you even call your boyfriend your best friend or was that too cheesy?

The coffee swirled in the cup from your shaky hands, the headache taking far too long to dissipate although it had only been 15 minutes at most. Sourly, you leave the mug, that was still half full with liquid, on the counter. You pad across the floor until you reach the bedroom. Searching the rumpled sheets for any sign of your phone. You couldn't remember where you had left it. Had you even taken it home?

With no luck, you begin your expedition around the house. With only minutes of searching, you located it to be on the coffee table. One tap to the screen, your wallpaper lighting up to show a picture of you and Leon. A small smile lighting up your face when you saw the way Leon looked at you in the photo. But that sudden smile disappeared just as quickly as it came when there were no notifications to be read. Unless you count the software update available notification from the settings app.

You never understood why it irked you when you had no missed calls or texts, it was nothing new. Never a friend who cared enough to make sure you didn't die on the way home or to ask how you slept and what your plans for the day were. Acquaintances were easily mistaken as friends. Your headache only seemed to get worse as you worked yourself up despite the medication you'd taken to make it feel better.

You unlock your phone, your fingers moving in a muscle memory to put in the passcode. The green phone call app seemed harder to find this time but nevertheless you found it. Clicking on it and calling the one person you knew would answer. 1 ring, 2 rings, 3 rings. "Sorry this call could not be forwarded." The robotic voice informed you. He hung up on you...? Thoughts began to spiral as you tried to remember if anything you said last night might have caused Leon to finally leave you for good.

"Driving. Call you later." A text popped up on your screen from the man who used to rather lose his left arm than ignore you. You wanted to say you were shocked but part of you knew this day was coming. You don't bother responding, knowing he probably won't even read it. You wanted to talk to somebody, as desperate as it seemed. Without thinking, you begin typing a number into the keypad section, listening to each beep of the button with guilt growing with each press.

"What's up?" The voice echoed through the phone with only half a ring. A sigh emitted from your lips, partly relief and partly guilt. "Carlos, hey, are you busy?" You asked with a quiet voice like if someone were to hear you'd get in trouble, and fuck, you just might. "Busy? Not really." He sounded chill and relaxed, far from the way you sounded. You knew it was wrong, that you shouldn't be talking with your ex boyfriend.

But without anymore thinking, your lips began moving. Asking him how his day was and what he was doing later. It didn't matter what you said, you just wanted to talk to someone. Someone who you knew once loved you like he loved the sun. I guess Carlos and Leon had that in common. Having once loved you.

"Did you sleep well?" You asked, toeing the line between friendship and something more. He laughed and it was a sound that you indefinitely missed. "You sound like a clingy girlfriend." Carlos responded, not far off from the way you remembered him. "Can I not care if you slept well?" You rebutted, but the nervousness of the fact you were acting like a clingy girlfriend towards him was evident in your voice.

"You're cute when you care." You heart stops at his coquettish tone. "You think?" You return the ludicrous gesture. The flirtatiousness in your voice seemed taboo, but really you knew it was. "I do." You seemed to be clawing at something that doesn't exists anymore. You try to remind yourself of Leon but it does no good. The only memories you can find of him are the ones where he's yelling at you, with no good reason. Carlos had never done that, why had you broken up again?

A voice of a woman was heard over the phone, shouting something along the lines of 'I'm home, where are you?' and all at once you remembered why you broke up with him. "Who's that?" You inquired quickly and you could hear his mutters of profanity. "Shit, I'm sorry." He muttered, speaking like a child who just got caught and was about to be grounded.

"Just hang up and pretend this didn't happen." You sound annoyed now, the feelings of brief infatuation dissipating much unlike your headache. "Wait, c'mon. She doesn't mind." He tried to protest with weak confidence. "I'm sure she doesn't. Goodbye, Carlos." You didn't wait for a response, angrily hanging up the phone, placing it quite loudly onto the coffee table. You stand from the couch, fingers rubbing your temples with disappointment. In Carlos, in yourself.

You decide you need the rest of the coffee, turning around swiftly to return to the kitchen. But you're met with Leon, a faltering look on his face and a bouquet of flowers drooping in his hand. "Leon..." You muttered, regret taking over every ounce of your body more than it already had. His face was filled with hurt, a look you'd rarely seen, even with how much arguing you two had done recently.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎┊ㅤㅤ🩻 ㅤㅤ ﾟㅤㅤ ┊‎‏‏‎@ginswife @catsareawesomek @valsthea @mememgx @nuo-444 @hermizery @bearieio @coqvttes @kennedysbabygirl

[psiroller]

youre like the pam to my jim (preview)

im on my office romcom au bullshit folks. itll be a oneshot and basically pwp but here's the lead in to wet ur whistle.

dunmeshi/chilaios/dom!laios/eventual bdsm club shenanigans/2.2K

cw: blue collar blues, language, not so unresolved sexual tension, questionable workplace romance between a superior (chilchuck) and his subordinate (laios). this is not used for leverage (laios is actually the dom in this scenario, inverting the power imbalance) but i thought id mention it. they keep it professional on the clock (USUALLY)

Though he’d rocked up to the office less than an hour ago, Chilchuck’s workday had already run long. All the printers had gone offline, and he had to spend a few hours troubleshooting with Kuro how to get them operational; there had been a software update, apparently, that rendered the very outdated inter-office network unusable. Of course, this meant an hour on the phone with the district manager trying to get their network updated to the company-wide standard, something that had been blown off for a year and a half; the way she reacted to his request, Chil might as well have asked her for her firstborn. All he could get for his trouble was a tepid “I’ll look into it”. This meant running around handing out USB sticks like holiday cards so his employees could get something done, and lots of lines at the printers into the foreseeable future, and naturally their budget for office supplies had been cut, so it all came out of his pocket.

The whole department was behind on their calls, but Chilchuck fought back the urge to go around crabbing at people to catch up. It served him well, as Marcille approached him in the afternoon and informed him that the phone lines were down, and the voice mailbox wasn’t functioning, and there were angry customers on the line. Another call to Kuro, who was really stretching the limits of his contract, and it turns out that the phones had also been pushed a software update that made them incompatible with the inter-office network, and they would have to take every call in two rings or they would be automatically parked on a line that no longer existed and be summarily hung up on.

Mr. Tims announced he would be taking a lunch. He blasted a cigarette in the parking lot and returned to his desk to sulk, face in hands, dreaming of days when their lines were all directly connected and they didn’t have to go through the song and dance of software updates, firmware updates, network security updates, OS updates, wireless headsets, broken wireless headsets, lost wireless headsets and keycards and lost keycards and broken keycards and daily performance numbers and corrective action reports and work smartphones with keylogging software in them and mouse movement monitoring and—

Chilchuck went back to work. He used his personal cell to call up the DM and informed her of the raging clusterfuck that had become his department—and probably the whole branch—now that the office network was effectively obsolete. She sounded on the verge of tears—apparently her other branches had also fallen victim to the endless onward march of the digital millennium, and she was at her wit’s end trying to fix them all at once. Every stress-deadened neuron in his withering brain proclaimed: serves you right. If you had fixed this when I first asked, we’d all be stressed out at the usual operating baseline. He wished her the best and hung up. He stared blankly at his desktop calendar, seeing that the next district meeting was in three days. His vision briefly fuzzed over and he fantasized about leaping onto the table and screaming, just screaming until his throat was raw and his face was purple and they had to have the orc from the main branch’s operational compliance department drag him out.

 Chilchuck went for coffee. He was risking time theft, but his DM had bigger problems, and there wasn’t much he could do. The frantic calling died down, Marcille having performed some kind of forbidden ritual to pacify their frothing customer base. During his walkaround he saw most of the floor taking calls, even folks who normally ducked phone duty, so she must have gone around recruiting people to her cause. Chilchuck made a note of that; he’d have to compensate her somehow for taking on what should have been his job.

Laios, however, was nowhere to be seen. This rankled Chilchuck; Laios rarely missed a day except for the handful of times Chilchuck had to send him home for being deathly ill, so of course the day he had to miss, there was catastrophe. His cubicle was empty, he wasn’t in the break room, he wasn’t in the parking lot putting out an engine fire on his piece of shit motorcycle, not at the watercooler. Nothing. He checked with Marcille if he’d called out, and she quirked an eyebrow up at him.

“No? He’s in the server room, with Kuro.”

“Kuro?”

“Yeah, he said he went to help.”

Mr. Tims ground his teeth. “That’s not his—I’ll go talk to him.”

Marcille smirked. “Sure you will.”

Chilchuck glowered at her, but Marcille faced his evil eye with insufferable smugness. He remembered all too soon that she saved his ass this morning, and he had to close his open mouth and walk away.

“We’re even now,” he growled.

“Nope! Still getting that Starbucks gift card!”

She was right, but he wouldn’t be admitting it. Chilchuck stormed out of his department and down the hall, sliding smoothly into a closing elevator with a few other disgruntled employees, taking a frankly infuriating number of stops at basically every floor until he could ride it all the way down into the basement. When the doors parted, hot, stuffy air flooded in. Chilchuck winced and loosened his tie and waistcoat as he stalked the rows of servers, the heat only getting worse the longer he lingered, until he found Kuro kneeling with his arms in the guts of the worst cable management imaginable, Laios helping him separate out the lines to keep track of each spaghettified clump of wires.

“Chil!” Laios said, getting a growl from Kuro that probably meant be quiet in Western Kobold. “Oh, uh, sorry. Mr. Tims! How is it up there?”

“Bad,” Chilchuck ground out. “Of course. We could really use a hand with the calls up there, you know.”

“Oh, are the lines working again?”

“Enough to receive them, but not enough to park them, so it’s a disaster for customer satisfaction,” Chilchuck said, trying to manage his volume. “So what are you doing down here? I don’t recall you being in IT.”

Laios slopped some sweat off the back of his neck with the palm of his equally sweaty hand. His dragon-patterned tie had been loosened enough to nearly slip off his neck, just enough to stay in code, and he’d tucked the end of it into his pocket to keep it out of the way, having forgotten his clip again. The heat in their dilapidated, poorly ventilated server room made his business casual button-up cling nicely to the curves of his chest and solid core, the one bright point in Chilchuck’s day so far.

“Oh, well, I wasn’t getting anywhere with my work… I mostly had a bunch of bills to print and mail out today, so naturally that was going nowhere. I had my personal USB on me, so I tried to get it done manually, but Namari was hogging it for her shipment printouts because apparently their system is kaput in the warehouse… and when I checked again everyone was using it. Some of the newer printer models don’t come with USB ports, so some of the more up-to-date departments were mooching off ours.”

“I thought the lines seemed a little excessive,” Chilchuck grumped. “I don’t think I’ve seen those things used more rigorously than they have been today.”

“Yup, that’s why. So I caught Kuro running between the floors trying to troubleshoot his latest Band-Aid fix, so I’ve been doing all the stuff that doesn’t require a tech degree, heh.”

“Laios okay with software,” Kuro chimed in. “Break hardware.”

“Yeah,” Laios said with a frown. “But the part was replaceable!” He beamed, cutting off a lecture. “Good thing Kuro hangs onto spare parts.”

Chilchuck’s eyes narrowed, and he turned to the real IT technician of the pair. “Is he actually helping, Kuro? Or are you humoring him?”

“Nice to have extra hands.” His tail wagged loosely, bushing the cuffs of his slacks. “He runs up to other floors. Checks employee access and network strength in offices. Saves time.”

“Alright then. Keep up the good work.” Chilchuck met Laios’ eye. Laios winked at him. Chilchuck blushed and ignored him, heels clacking on the cheap linoleum as he walked away.

Chilchuck hopped on call duty, having found everyone in their place and doing what all could be done. His customer service voice got a workout that left him feeling tense and jittery, every call opening with a frustrated sigh or straight up yelling. After a few quick resolutions and a handful of longer, 20–30-minute stretches of troubleshooting and over-the-phone customer cocksucking, the landline made a happy little beep, the flashing lights next to every line dying out one by one as they were parked. A dialogue box popped up on his PC: Connected to HP-5669964.

“Hey, Chil!”

Laios strode into Chilchuck’s office, startling his boss for a second as he rounded the desk in a few long strides. A big hand clapped down on Chil’s shoulder, jostling his arm and spilling coffee on the crisp collar of his shirt. Chilchuck grimaced.

“What.”

“We fixed it!”

Chilchuck eyed Laios suspiciously and set his mug down.

“How the hell did you…?”

“Don’t get too excited, it’s a temporary fix,” Laios chuckled. “But we narrowed down the problem to some kinda software incompatibility. Shuro rolled back the servers to an earlier restore point, so it’s like the update never happened! Of course, the update’s going to get forced on us again once the clock rolls over, but we can just do that tomorrow, too. If you want, I can come in early to-“

Mr. Tims raised a finger. “No. We’ll take care of it tomorrow when we usually punch in. Not everyone’s a morning person like you, Laios. It’s going to be 10 AM before anyone’s awake enough to do any work, so that’ll cover the time it takes for the servers to spin up.”

Laios leaned forward on the desk, hanging over Chilchuck’s high-backed ergonomic chair, one he had to shill out for himself. “What?” Chilchuck hissed, glowering up at him.

“I’m not hearing a ‘thank you’.”

Chilchuck scoffed. “For doing your job? You’re not doing this just for me. You’re being paid.”

Laios’s cupped Chilchuck’s cheek, hand engulfing half his face, which flushed and burned in Laios’ palm.

“Watch it, Touden,” he growled, arms crossed. Laios’ thumb stroked his cheekbone; Chilchuck didn’t swat him away. “We’re both on the clock.”

“Chil,” Laios said, in that honey-sweet tone that meant Chilchuck was about to be nagged. “You’re burnt out.”

Chilchuck blinked up at him, dark eyes shadowed by dark rings that Laios traced, up to his subtle, deepening crow’s feet. “Huh? No I’m not. This has just been a frustrating—” Laios’ fingers pushed into Chilchuck’s hair, shaking it out, raking blunt nails against his scalp. “—day. I’m not… you don’t have to…” He slumped into Laios’ big, warm palm, calloused but gentle in handling him. “… what was the question again?”

Laios chuckled. “Nothing. I got it handled.”

Chilchuck snapped back into reality and bit into the meat of Laios’ thumb to try to get him to unhandle it. Laios took it like a champ, pulling his hand out of Chilchuck’s mouth and cradling the whole of Chilchuck’s head in his palm, raking it back and forth, mussing up his hair, which Chilchuck reached up to fight off; his arms disobeyed him, flopping around like limp noodles until he gave up and relaxed into it.

“I can see you through your office windows, y’know. You looked like you weren’t having a great time. So I figured I’d help take care of it, ease your mind a little.” Laios’ smile had a sad quirk to it. “You look a little pale. You didn’t have cigarettes for lunch again, did you?”

Chilchuck grimaced. “None of your business.”

Laios sighed. “That’s a yes.”

“It’s just a rough week, Laios,” Chilchuck said. “I’ll be alright.”

Laios’ hand trailed down, framing Chilchuck’s chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re coming home with me tonight,” Laios said, meeting Chilchuck’s eyes with that relentless force, gold boring into him. Sometimes Chilchuck wondered if Laios’ eyes ever got dry; he hardly ever blinked.  “We’re getting food into you, and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, we’re going to the club to work some of that tension out of you. Understood?”

Chilchuck’s pupils blew wide. His thick eyebrows pinched and he grimaced, unable to look away. Laios’ body curled over him, blocking out the office, the noise, the chaos. Chilchuck sighed, dropped his arms into his lap, and let Laios carry the weight of his skull.

“Oh, right,” Chilchuck realized, his eyes bright. “It’s Friday.”

Laios grinned and patted Chil’s cheek. “See? The fact that you forgot means you’re burned out. See you at six.”

Chilchuck threw paperclips at Laios until he left his office. At 6 PM, they met up on top of the hood of Chilchuck’s old Mustang; his tongue tasted like black coffee. Laios smiled, making it hard to kiss him deeply; Chilchuck got impatient and started biting. Marcille speedwalked past the car and neither of them noticed or cared.

[unpluggedfinancial]

Bitcoin’s Energy Usage: The Most Misunderstood Innovation in Human History

They say Bitcoin is boiling the oceans. That it’s an environmental villain. That its energy use is unjustifiable.

But what if the real crime isn't the energy Bitcoin uses, but the narrative built to demonize it? What if Bitcoin isn’t the problem... but the blueprint for the solution?

Let’s talk truth. Let’s rip apart the lazy headlines and go deeper. Because beneath the noise is a revolution most people still don’t understand.

Bitcoin uses energy. So does everything that matters.

The media loves to compare Bitcoin to Visa or PayPal, painting it as inefficient or unsustainable. But that’s like comparing a flashlight to the sun. Visa runs on the rails of a trusted, centralized system. Bitcoin is the rail. It’s the whole damn thing—a self-contained, decentralized monetary system that operates without permission, politics, or backroom deals.

Its energy use isn’t a bug. It’s the bedrock. Proof-of-Work ties digital value to physical reality. It makes Bitcoin incorruptible. You can’t fake a Bitcoin. You can’t conjure it with a keystroke. You earn it by anchoring to the laws of thermodynamics. It’s not "magic internet money" – it’s physics-backed truth in a world of fiat fiction.

Meanwhile, the traditional financial system gets a free pass. Nobody counts the fuel burned by fleets of armored trucks hauling cash. Or the skyscrapers lit 24/7. Or the servers running endless transactions across thousands of banks, hedge funds, and central banks. No one questions the carbon footprint of the military-industrial complex that keeps the petrodollar on life support.

Bitcoin replaces all that bloat with software. With math. With consensus instead of coercion. It doesn’t require tanks to back it up. It doesn’t need to spy on you to enforce rules. It just runs. Borderless. Permissionless. Unstoppable.

But here’s where things get interesting.

Bitcoin mining isn’t just not bad for the environment. It could be the greatest tool we’ve ever had for energy innovation.

Across the globe, Bitcoin miners are setting up shop where energy is cheap, stranded, or wasted. Remote hydro in the mountains. Natural gas flares in oil fields. Oversupplied wind farms with nowhere to send excess power. Miners turn this lost energy into economic value. They act as a buyer of last resort—a pressure release valve for unstable grids and a reason to build more renewables.

This isn’t hypothetical. It’s happening right now. In Texas, Bitcoin miners are helping stabilize the grid. In parts of Africa, they're jumpstarting economic activity by creating demand where there was none. This is not an energy hog. This is a global infrastructure upgrade wrapped in code.

So why the backlash?

Because Bitcoin exposes the rot. It shines a light on the inefficiency, the fragility, and the waste embedded in the old system. It asks uncomfortable questions. It refuses to play by the rules of fiat gatekeepers. And that scares people.

It forces us to confront the truth: that energy isn’t the problem. Corruption is. Misaligned incentives are. And Bitcoin is the first monetary network in human history that rewards transparency, efficiency, and truth.

We’re witnessing the dawn of a new era—one where money is no longer a tool for control, but a tool for freedom. One where energy isn’t rationed by bureaucracy, but unleashed by innovation.

Bitcoin’s energy use isn’t a moral failing. It’s the cost of freedom. The cost of opting out. The cost of building something better.

We’ve misunderstood the most important innovation of our time.

But the block clock keeps ticking. And history has a way of proving the truth.

Tick tock. Next block.

Take Action Towards Financial Independence

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bc1qpn98s4gtlvy686jne0sr8ccvfaxz646kk2tl8lu38zz4dvyyvflqgddylk

[clockmotorskit]

Clock Parts

Maximizing Capability of Clock Motors

Clock parts motors regulate the timekeeping and other useful habits of wrist watches. In today's world, clock electric motors (or "movements" in the trade) are digitally powered, and a quartz crystal is the timing source, vibrating at a high frequency and producing a train of pulses, their count proportional for elapsed time. Hence, we have a contemporary way of maintaining time, equivalent in look from the older mechanical clocks; however, the modern movement runs mainly in software, allowing for extra attributes, some unique and uncommon, to be applied reasonably quickly, specifically when compared to their mechanical relatives.

Conventional clock electric motors were mechanically designed and built, the only feasible approach. A coiled spring or hanging weight supplied possible energy, which in turn was exchanged kinetic energy by causing a flywheel to turn. Pendulums and escapements managed the regularity of turning, resulting in a constant tick-tock at an accurately fine-tuned pace of one secondly.

But the mechanical structures had difficult and large parts, which restricted their capacities and made it difficult to adjust them to prolonged or cutting-edge layouts. For this reason, once it was uncovered that by subjecting a quartz crystal to a voltage decrease causes it to resonate and give off pulses at an exact rate, the tables were set for switching from a mechanical technique to a digital one for keeping time. The schedule of digital memory additionally facilitated the change to an extra electronic operation.

Artisans of the past produced wrist watches that exhibited striking effects, yet the effort was complex, painstaking, and involved innovative mechanical couplings to get the impacts to be in sync with temporal events. And, thus effort became less and less cost-efficient, it declined eventually into a lost art. However, the contemporary programmable clock electric motor makes it very easy to imitate these historic impacts and also to attain greater ones.

Naturally, digital clocks (which are digital) offer a different user interface and extend the ordinary period (when whatever resets) by tracking the moon stage, the weekday, and the full day. However something is shed in this all-digital user interface, and the motors we describe here are essentially analog (moving hands, typical dial, and so on), though with some solid-state wiring. And yet they can duplicate the treasure wrist watches.

The quartz crystal pulse-train is so accurate that timing is near specific, and simple community brings the speed to the world of secs and minutes. In addition, it is straightforward to extend the size of the reset period by expanding its trigger moment. Place additional details on the dial and include one more hand to aim at that details, and the days of the week or the dates of the month are revealed as well as normal time.

It is additionally as simple for the watch to show the existing level of the trend. This is also a periodic phenomenon, however based on the lunar cycle of 1 day and 50 mins. You can locate clock motors that execute this function, either as a standalone piece or incorporated with common timekeeping.

However you can likewise get movements that track changes in the weather (barometric pressure, humidity, or temperature). These modifications are not routine, so the crystal is not the source of the details displayed; rather, sensors take regular measurements, and their values are exchanged a relative position along a range. The traditional dial and hands are replaced with a single hand that rotates backward and forward over the range printed in an arc along the area.

There are still more features that we could review, such as constant sweep useds, chimes, different cosmetic pendulums, and high-torque versions that allow one build structures 3 feet throughout in diameter. But our area is used up. The reader should now have the essentials and the understanding for making best use of the functionality of clock electric motors.

[indoormessageboard]

Warehouse Buzzer System

How Electronic Message Boards Assist In Updating

Electronic message boards are fairly prevalent today, and their usage seems to be proliferating. Message boards in electronic kind properly interact swiftly upgraded company memoranda, final timetable modifications, and marketing, three fairly various applications providing one an idea of the breadth that this medium has gotten to. Herein we explore the phenomenon both generally and in regards to the power released when incorporated with an integrated clock system.

Electronic message boards derive from a lengthy background of open-air communication making use of indicators, billboards, marquees, and so on. Trick attributes were the layouts utilized and the feedback time for updating info. The most usual style entailed drawing on comprehensive personality collections, containing letters, numbers, and spelling, to create words, hanging them from hooks or resting them on wooden slats.

Posts were changed by hand, and updates were thus irregular. In time, updating was improved and somewhat automated using electronic control, such as seen with old baseball park scoreboards.

However, there was still the danger of lacking specific characters and being rendered unable to display all words in your message. This problem was addressed when the dot matrix selection was created, which stood for any type of character (in any type of typeface)-- also graphics-- with a rectangular pattern of on-or-off dots. These could be published on paper, yet a lot more effective was to present them in grids of light bulbs or on a screen.

Mapping formulas converted text into ranges of dots virtually instantaneously, and while drivers entered on a console, messages scrolled across the screen in essentially live. This system still required manual work, however the display screen tool was much easier to read, new, and updatable in a matter of moments. Whence the birth of electronic message boards that utilized light bulbs as the dots, or pixels.

Early light bulbs were incandescent, and were really the only choice; nonetheless, they had brief life-spans and prone to failing from shock. By the millenium, light producing diodes (LED) were a fully grown innovation and available in several shades, including white. Additionally, they outlived incandescent light bulbs by approximately 50 times, were not so breakable, and rapidly came to be the recommended part for message boards.

In time developers got extra creative with the tool and wanted to have more than one "on" shade to deal with. LEDs can fulfill this desire with their 3-in-1 mix of the 3 primary colors to synthesize white light; by choosing different sub-combinations you can obtain 7 various shades.

At some point, upgrading had to transition out of its humble manual origins. Now, textual info can be gotten in real time or gotten from data sources, and software is utilized to map the information right into matrices of (color-coded) dots that get buffered and presented quickly, effortlessly, and effortlessly. Graphics can be incorporated if they are mapped in advance.

Therefore, the modern digital boards are essentially automated, though there are provisions for bypassing scheduled programs with brand-new content in emergencies. Synchronous timekeeping systems manage everything.

An intriguing advancement is the integration of sound signals with the visual information being displayed on a sign in either textual or visual kind. It is popular that a close coordination of both kinds of sensuous stimulations has a tendency to get the message throughout many successfully. It's not a combination of both elements into tune, yet rather the use of sounds (bells, tones, whistles) as focus grabbers to change emphasis of the target market to what the board is showing, whether it be information or other timely information. synchronized clocks for hospitals

The world has actually expanded tired with fixed messaging in regards to both web content and style. Things need to be vibrant to sign up, and this needs constant educational updates. With this article we have seen exactly how electronic message boards promote updating.

[digitalclockparts]

The Parts for a Clock: Analog or Digital?

The parts for a clock comprise what one might anticipate, specifically, dial, clock hands, and movement (motor), plus possibly numerous devices. These clock parts nowadays run online, rather than mechanically, meaning generally that the activity is developed around a quartz crystal and powered electrically. But an additional difference can be drawn, that between analog and digital discussion.

Parts for an analog clock that show time are the well-known hour and min hands revolving clockwise while superimposed above a printed dial. Their digital equivalents employ 7-segment numerical displays, which are carried out using LEDs, and thus combine hands and dial right into a unified presentation. In this post we discover the comparison in between these sorts of parts.

For example, to order analog dials, one must learn a number of choices. The numerals on the face may be Arabic or Roman-- or, possibly, simply place-holder icons-- and numerous alternatives are given for the background color of the dial. There are fewer shade options for hands, though a considerable variety of design options.

The typical clock movements were analog just and made up a host of analog parts. The potential power of a hanging weight or coiled spring was exchanged kinetic energy forcibly a flywheel to rotate, and a pendulum-escapement combo gave timing guideline. Gears networked with each other computed proper proportions for positioning each hand.

The modern-day motion is digital, with a reverberating quartz crystal providing power using vibrating pulses. Community of pulse matters (in software) returns timing details for tracking secs, mins, and hours. Nonetheless, display screen of this information can be done electronically or in analog.

To an informal viewer, making use of analog parts managed by a digital motion actually looks no various than the old mechanical clocks (except that it may not be as cumbersome). However the 7-segment screen quickly signifies the use of digital parts.

The two modes of operation can vary in terms of timing precision. The Swiss are recognized for generating clocks with very precise precision making use of the conventional (analog) mechanical movements, though these gadgets were detailed and complicated, and the cost got on the high side. The digital mode involves quartz crystals that have exact regularities, yet subdividing down to the minutes/seconds range can shed some precision; also, quantizing noise tends to sneak in to restrict electronic motion accuracy.

In picking clock parts in today's globe, one starts with the screen, which is either the conventional analog dial and hands, or the digital 7-segment alternative. For the last, choose an activity created to deal with it; after that choose various devices offered, such as radio, alarm clock, automatic changes for daylight savings adjustments, or novelty noises. You fit to be given a choice in between a 12-hour cycle and 24-hour one, along with various ways to show month, day, and year.

If, on the other hand, the need is for the standard tableau of revolving hands placed over a dial, one orders the parts (hands, dial, and movement) independently of each other. (It is likewise possible to order a set or insert, saving some labor and decision-making but giving up complete stylistic control.) The set of choices is rather wide, not just in regards to design and dimension, but additionally in regards to special uniqueness and increased attribute sets.

For example, analog movements use a means to track altering tide level. The novelty of playing chimes on the hour or quarter-hour gives one a choice of popular songs or even of composing your very own. Cosmetic (not really contributing to timekeeping) pendulums and various other novelty parts supply nostalgia and charm.

The reader is encouraged to explore vendors' sites to see the variety of choices to clockmakers. Whether one delights in constructing things from scratch or would certainly favor to accelerate the process with inserts or kits, this occupation or thing can be enjoyable and fulfilling. Answer for on your own the inquiry of whether the parts for your clock must be analog or digital.

[lilahlovesyou]

Socially isolated boss who steals your dna and makes a digital copy of you for his own pleasure.

Your a hard working girl who just got hired at her new job at a gaming company, good hours, high pay. What more could you ask for? You find yourself adapting nicely, making friends, excelling at your position. The only problem is... your boss. Hes just always lurking. Always finding ways to interject awkwardly into conversations. Its hard not feel bad for the guy, hes rich but i guess money cant buy friends.

You try to make him feel welcome, like he can trust you, but god does he make it hard. The other day you were having a civil conversation, something about new softwares, not too personal. You look down and see his hard on?? Who gets hard talkimg about fucking computers?? Not even that hes just so condescending when you do get a bit personal. Making jokes about how you should be at home instead of a job like this or how you should work on your appearance for work. Its all just so weird.

But anyway, after finishing this long day of work you cant finish your sandwich and coffee and end up throwing it away in the small trash can on your desk, the custodian will deal with it. You clock out and say goodbye to your boss who seemed like he wasnt even working just lingering.

Little did you know, that the second you walked out that door he went straight to your trashcan, finding what he seemed to think was basically gold.

.

.

.

You open your eyes to a room??? This isnt your room. You dont know where you are and you certainly dont know why your wearing a pj set that isnt yours.

You get up, scared but also assessing the situation, your not hurt and you can move just fine. You tip toe out of the bedroom to the rest of the house and its.. gorgeous?? Like everything you would ever want it to be. You take the time to realize the bedroom was just as beautiful and the questions in your mind keep multiplying by the minute.

Suddenly the lights start flickering slowly and turn on almost all by themselves, as if the house was "powering on". You realize that suddenly someone is opening a door. Scared you duck behind a corner as this voice calls your name. It sounds familiar, but also not?? You peek out and you see your boss? But much more handsome, as if he had gone through some minor surgeries and an overrall glow up.

"Oh thank god, i was worried there was a glitch or something". What? He's talking nonsense as your scared because youve been fucking kidnapped. "Where am i, why did you bring me here" honestly very obvious questions on your part, but your scared and whos to blame you? He doesn't answer and just stares. Theres something insidious about the way he looks at you, something almost terrifyingly loving.

"Goodness, did you not read the note??" He pauses almost trying to properly align his words. "You... your not real". You scoff and almost giggle. Because what is this lunatic even talking about? Bitch of course im fucking real, but before you can reply he continues. "I took your dna. Your not actually here this is a digital copy of you.. and my god im so glad it worked this perfectly " i mean he must be absolutely insane.? Thats not possible and it cant be true you have all your memories, your emotions, your values, everything that makes you.. you.

Hes said enough. You make a mad dash for the front door, almost tripping down the stairs. It opens, relieved you run out the front porch only to be stopped? The second you reach the end point of the front yard.. its like.. a digital screen?? No. This cannot be real, this is a prank or a dream! Yes its just a crazy dream and your gonna wake up soon.

You blink and your infront of your boss again. No. This isnt happening to you, your too smart, too cautious, too-

"Its okay, you'll adjust. There's nowhere for you to go anyway"

And there isnt. Youve tried and tried, only to end up back in his arms. Your real self clueless of the hell happening to you

Guys this is the first time i try to write any type of imagine please be nice😣 also pls leave constructive criticism id love to know your thoughts and opinions!!

[sarasa-cat]

GYWO'25 : January Review

Generally happy with my progress at reestablishing a regular writing habit. This year for GeYourWordsOut, I decided to go with the "days worked" challenge rather than word count. Days worked better captures what I desire to do -- reestablish a sustainable habit -- whereas word count can always be made up via a few days of mad banging.

Also, days worked frees me up from trying to figure out how to count words, which is just far too complex in my process (too many different projects, too many different ways/software/systems/notebooks in which I interact with my projects). I can create a rough estimate of words produced this past month, but it isn't a useful metric *UNTIL* those words go into a manuscript.

My goal for January was 15 days of writing & recorded writing support activities for 20+ minutes per day.

Across multiple fiction projects and one (hopefully only one) nonfiction project, I logged 17 days of engaging in my writing habit and quite a few of those days resulted in substantial effort captured in Obsidian or digitally handwritten in one of my digital notebooks.

This was a huge win for me because I wasn't sure how I would fit writing into January, given that first week of January was the tail end of a family vacation and most of the rest of January involved me spending a lot of time in museums doing research (which actually allowed me a lot of peace and quite for taking breaks to handwrite in my digital notebook inside museums so it was a big win!).

Despite being in four different cities, three different time zones, three different nations, and dealing with a final long haul internal-clock/jet laggish disruption, I feel that January was a big win.

During that time I managed to come up with the big conflicts and big moments in the plot arc for one of my WIPs (orig). That was a huge relief because it had been lacking coherence for a long while and needed moments of inspiration to make it work. Hopefully it continues working!

If, during a daily session, I typed or hand wrote at least one page of well-thought out research notes, THAT also counted as a writing session.

Character development and character notes that required at least 20 minutes of near-continuous banging on my keyboard? That's a writing session.

Same for plot arc notes etc.

Obviously, any kind of draft text no matter how rough counts during a writing session.

Well--- on to February!

[gonzalez756]

12 Advantages and Disadvantages of ECommerce | Imagency Media

The rapid growth of eCommerce has transformed the way businesses operate, bringing both remarkable advantages and notable challenges. Understanding these can help businesses leverage eCommerce to its fullest potential or address its drawbacks effectively. Let’s dive into 12 key advantages and disadvantages of eCommerce.

Advantages of eCommerce

Global Reach eCommerce breaks down geographical barriers, allowing businesses to reach customers worldwide. This expansive reach helps businesses tap into new markets and grow their customer base beyond local limitations.

Lower Operational Costs Running an online store can be significantly cheaper than maintaining a physical storefront. Costs like rent, utilities, and staffing are greatly reduced, allowing businesses to reinvest savings into marketing and product development.

24/7 Availability Unlike traditional stores, eCommerce sites operate round the clock. This availability caters to customers in different time zones, providing a seamless shopping experience anytime, anywhere.

Personalization and Customer Experience eCommerce platforms can gather data on customer behavior, preferences, and purchase history, allowing businesses to offer personalized recommendations and improve the overall shopping experience.

Easy Scaling and Growth Scaling an online business is much simpler than expanding a brick-and-mortar store. Adding new products or services, targeting new demographics, and adjusting to market demands can be done quickly and efficiently.

Enhanced Marketing Opportunities Digital marketing strategies such as social media advertising, email marketing, and SEO are particularly effective for eCommerce. These channels allow businesses to target specific audiences and track results in real-time.

Disadvantages of eCommerce

Lack of Personal Touch Despite technological advances, online shopping often lacks the personal interaction found in physical stores. This absence of human touch can make it harder to build customer loyalty.

Security and Privacy Concerns With the rise in cybercrime, protecting customer data is a major concern for eCommerce businesses. Ensuring robust security measures is critical but can be costly and complex.

Dependence on Technology eCommerce heavily relies on technology, including websites, payment gateways, and software. Technical glitches, downtime, or slow-loading pages can lead to lost sales and damage to the brand’s reputation.

High Competition and Price Wars The ease of starting an online store has led to increased competition, making it difficult for smaller businesses to stand out. Price wars are common, often squeezing profit margins.

Shipping and Logistics Challenges While eCommerce allows businesses to reach a global audience, shipping products efficiently can be complex and costly. Issues like delayed deliveries, high shipping fees, and logistics mishaps can affect customer satisfaction.

Difficulty in Handling Returns and Refunds Returns are more prevalent in eCommerce, especially in fashion and electronics sectors. Handling returns and refunds can be costly and time-consuming, often eroding profit margins.

Conclusion

eCommerce offers vast opportunities for growth, flexibility, and global reach, but it also comes with challenges that businesses must address. By understanding these advantages and disadvantages, companies can better strategize and create a seamless, customer-friendly eCommerce experience.

Contact us

Imagency Media can help you navigate the eCommerce landscape, providing expert insights and tailored solutions to maximize your online success.