#kernel testing

[specbee-c-s]

How to Write Your First Test Case Using PHPUnit & Kernel in Drupal

Confused about whether to opt for PHPUnit or Kernel testing in your Drupal project? Our article simplifies the choice and guides you through their effective implementation!

[blackmoreops]

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

[dwn049]

#going through it

does a gay little pose

[seumyo]

pregnancy cravings with miya atsumu.

Pregnancy cravings never really made sense to Atsumu. Then again, he never got to the part of anatomy and physiology when he was studying physical therapy before he decided to go pro as a volleyball player.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t supportive; no, he prided himself on being a great husband. And now, with you, his wife, pregnant with your first child, he was determined to be the most supportive, loving, and accommodating partner ever.

Nothing was going to stand in his way—not distance, not logic, and certainly not impossible cravings.

It started simple. Like it always did.

You wanted a specific pastry from a bakery on the other side of Japan? Done. He booked the fastest delivery service he could find, and when that wasn’t an option, he flew there himself, picked it up, and brought it back.

Talk about rich.

Homemade food? Good thing Osamu had drilled the basics of cooking into him, though he still got yelled at by his twin when he accidentally burned rice. But hey, effort counted, right?

Then, the cravings started getting weird.

You’re sitting on the couch with a blanket over your lap when you look up at him with serious eyes. “I want Osamu’s cooking.”

Atsumu blinked. “Alright, I can ask him—”

“But I don’t want to eat it. You eat it.”

He frowned, confused.

“Huh? Ya want me to eat ‘Samu’s cookin’?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Atsumu scratched his head, wondering if this was some kind of test. “And that’s gonna make ya feel better?”

“Yes.”

“… Even if ya don’ eat it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Atsumu blinked. “That doesn’t make no sense.”

“Atsumu, please don’t question me.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Osamu. “Oi, ‘Samu, I need ya to cook somethin’—no, not for [Name]—for me.” There was silence on the other end before Osamu sighed heavily and reluctantly agreed.

That night, Atsumu sat at the dining table, stuffing his face with his brother’s food while you sat across from him, smiling in satisfaction as you watched. Osamu just did his part as a supportive brother for his twin.

The next day was even worse.

“A seedless mango,” you murmured, rubbing your belly.

...

“A what?”

“A seedless mango. I want it.”

“… [Name], sweetheart, baby, I love ya, but that don’t exist.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I want it.”

Atsumu groaned. “Where am I gonna get a seedless mango?”

“Figure it out, please?”

He spent hours searching online, calling fruit vendors, and even asking Osamu if his suppliers had some secret black market seedless mango (Osamu asked him if a volleyball that was going 120 km/h hit his head).

No luck.

In the end, Atsumu cut up a normal mango, carefully removed every trace of the seed, and handed it to you with a hopeful grin.

You took one look at it and frowned.

“It’s not the same.”

Atsumu wanted to cry.

-

“I need you to wear a face mask.”

Atsumu blinked at you from your bed. “Huh? Why?”

You huffed quietly, fidgeting with the sheets. “Because your face is annoying.”

Atsumu gasped, hand clutching his chest. “My face?! The one ya love so much?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya vowed to look at forever in sickness and in health?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya called ‘beautiful’ when I asked ya if I was hotter than ‘Samu?!”

“I love you, but right now, your face is irritating me.”

Atsumu stared, utterly betrayed, before sighing in defeat. He got up, went to the closet, grabbed one of the disposable masks he’d bought during flu season, and put it on.

“There. Happy now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Very.”

Atsumu flopped onto the bed with a groan, pulling the blanket over himself. As he lay there, sulking, you scooted closer and rested your head on his chest.

“I love you, you know that?” you murmured.

He grumbled. “Ya sure? Feels like ya hate me sometimes.”

You chuckled. “No, I love you. My hormones just don’t.”

He sighed. “Yer so lucky I love ya more than life.”

“I know. Pregnancy is so weird.”

And the worst has yet to come.

-

Atsumu should be asleep by now, but no, he had to be individually popping popcorn. One kernel at a time, as per your request.

He initially told you, “Yer kiddin’.”

You were not.

And that was how Atsumu found himself in the kitchen at three in the morning, painstakingly popping one kernel at a time in a tiny pan. Every time he accidentally popped more than one, you, who were sitting on a stool with your hands on your belly, would click your tongue disapprovingly.

“You put in two, Atsumu.”

“This is torture,” he grumbled, but he kept going.

-

“I want ice cream,” you said.

Atsumu perked up. “Oh, easy. What flavor?”

“I don’t know.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Uh… okay. I can get a few different kinds?”

“I need to taste them all.”

Atsumu frowned. “Like… all the flavors?”

“Yes.”

“… Babe, there are like fifty flavors at the ice cream shop.”

You nodded. “And I need to taste all of them before I decide which one I want.”

Atsumu let out a long, suffering sigh, but being the devoted husband he was, he marched straight to the ice cream parlor and ordered a ridiculous amount of sample cups. The poor employee stared at him in disbelief.

“You… want every flavor?”

“Yeah.”

“Every single one?”

“Yeah.”

“Sir, that’s—”

“My wife is pregnant, and if I don’t do this, I might not make it to the end of the week.”

The employee, upon hearing this, immediately started getting to work.

When Atsumu got home, you took one spoonful of each, nodded, and, after going through every single cup, announced:

“I don’t want ice cream anymore.”

Atsumu fell to his knees. Defeated.

-

“I need you to stand in the corner for a while.”

Atsumu looked up from his phone, confused. “Huh?”

“The corner. Stand there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like you should.”

Atsumu squinted. “Babe, are ya makin’ me into a damn decoration?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Atsumu sighed but did it anyway. He stood in the corner of your living room for a full ten minutes while you sat on the couch, happily watching TV. At some point, Osamu FaceTimed him, took one look at the scene, and hung up.

-

The next day, you called him while he was at practice, which was rare in itself because you did just leave messages whenever you knew he was practicing.

“Babe,” you said in a tone that made his stomach drop.

“… Yeah?”

“I need you to bring me a cheeseburger.”

He let out a relieved laugh, wiping the sweat off his brow. “That’s easy! I’ll grab ya one on my way ho—“

“But replace the buns with pancakes.”

Atsumu froze. “Come again?”

“You heard me.”

“I dunno if I did, sweetheart.”

“Pancakes. Instead of buns. Oh, and I want honey to go with it.”

Atsumu nearly dropped his phone.

“Yer messin’ with me.”

“I’m really not.”

And you weren’t. That evening, he stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the precision of a professional chef before assembling the most unholy creation he’d ever laid eyes on—a cheeseburger with pancake buns, honey drizzled over the meat.

You took a bite and hummed softly. “Oh my god, this is better than sex.”

Atsumu, who had spent hours perfecting his technique in the bedroom, felt personally offended by that.

-

“Atsumu,” you murmur. “I need you to switch sides of the bed with me.”

He sighed. “No.”

“Atsumu.”

“[Name], baby, darlin’—I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because my side is closer to the door in case of an intruder.”

You chuckled quietly. “Tsumu, please. I need to sleep on that side.”

Atsumu stared at you, conflicted. He had never—not once—slept on the other side. It was unnatural. Wrong. It went against the very foundations of your marriage.

But you were looking at him with those tired, hormonal, pleading eyes. And he was sure you’d tell him you could barely see your feet now and often experience heartburn, all because of his unborn baby.

With a heavy sigh, Atsumu switched sides with you.

“You’re a good husband,” you whispered, patting his cheek.

Atsumu, lying in the unfamiliar position, staring at the wrong wall, whispered, “I’m a broken man.”

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[goyardgoyangi]

movie night with best friend! ino takuma

mdni (18+), read with discretion

You and best friend! ino takuma are sprawled on the couch, legs tangled beneath a shared blanket, bowls of popcorn and snacks scattered across the coffee table. The soft blue glow of the TV washes over you both as the credits for Fifty Shades of Grey roll, ending what was supposed to be an unserious pick for movie night.

It really did start as a joke— a dumb movie playing in the background while you talked shit and vented about your CS lab. Neither of you thought you’d actually watch it. But somehow, you did. And somehow, it was… weirdly entertaining?

Not because it was good. But because it was so bad.

“Can you believe some divorced middle-aged women are really into this shit?” Ino snorts, tossing popcorn into his mouth, nearly choking on a laugh. “Shit lighting and cold-ass metal handcuffs? That’s the fantasy?”

“You know,” you mutter, flicking a kernel of popcorn at him, “if divorced middle-aged women are really into this, they’re freakier than I thought.”

“Don’t forget the damn ice cube. Man acted like he invented temperature.”

You laugh, leaning your head back. “This whole movie is just two hours of annoyingly soft BDSM. Honestly, the pacing was worse than our lecture slides.”

That gets him going. “Oh my god, not the 48-slide presentation on recursion.”

You groan. “No, worse. That one time we spent four hours trying to debug a group project just for the TA to say ‘did you try running it in the terminal again?’ Like yeah, that would totally fix a segmentation fault.”

Ino barks a laugh, nudging your leg with his knee. “You’re still mad about that, huh?”

“Bro. He said we had a logic error, then gave us a 2.1 like it was a favor.”

You both dissolve into giggles. But then, somewhere between the laughter and the low hum of the TV, there’s a shift.

A glance. A silence.

“That ice cube scene had me questioning my entire existence,” you say, voice low, teasing. “You actually believe it’s that good?”

Ino tilts his head at you. “You tryna test it?”

You lift a shoulder, casual. “I mean… the takeout’s not coming for another 40 minutes. We could… experiment. In the name of science.”

He stares at you for a beat, a smirk playing on his lips. “What kind of science? ‘Cause our track record’s mostly just us suffering through broken code and pretending we don’t want to drop the class.”

You lean in slightly, your smile edged with something a little more daring now. “Exactly. We deserve to test a hypothesis that doesn’t end in existential dread.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “So you wanna see if an ice cube can actually make someone— what? Cum?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just curious if divorced middle-aged women are full of shit or not.”

Ino pauses, his eyes flicking from your face to your mouth, then back. “Strictly for academic purposes?”

You nod solemnly. “Peer-reviewed results.”

He laughs under his breath, standing up and stretching. “Alright. One ice cube.”

You both agree, giggling like kids daring each other to jump off a high dive.

Ino grabs an ice cube from the freezer, holding it loosely between his fingers as water drips down his wrist. He raises an eyebrow at you, that familiar grin quirking at the corner of his mouth.

You lean back against the couch cushions, heart fluttering with a strange cocktail of nerves and excitement. “Okay,” you say, your voice a little breathy, “just… run it over my neck or something.”

He nods, stepping closer, kneeling on the couch beside you. The first touch is tentative— a glinting cube of ice brushing the curve of your collarbone. The cold shocks you, and you flinch, a laugh bubbling up from your chest.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, “that’s colder than I thought—”

But you don’t tell him to stop.

Ino’s touch is slow, deliberate. The ice trails over your skin in lazy lines, tracing along the dip of your neck, across the slope of your shoulder, and down toward your chest. The air shifts, charged with something unspoken.

“You’re shivering,” he murmurs, watching closely.

“I-It’s cold, idiot,” you stammer, laughing— though the sound catches in your throat when the ice drifts over the swell of your breast.

Your nipples stiffen under the chill, and you feel heat spark embarrassingly low in your belly. You’re not supposed to be reacting like this. This was a joke. A bit.

But Ino notices.

He doesn’t say anything right away— just watches you, his hand pausing for a moment as a single drop of melted ice rolls down your skin, disappearing beneath your top.

“Feels good?” he asks, voice quieter now, teasing— but not mocking.

You swallow. “It’s... weird.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, lips twitching. “Weird like debugging for six hours and finding out it was a missing semicolon, or weird like ‘we probably shouldn’t be enjoying this’ kind of weird?”

You shoot him a look, but you can’t bring yourself to deny it. Your body is betraying you. The tension in your thighs. The goosebumps..

He presses the cube just beneath your breast, not quite touching, just letting the cold proximity taunt your skin. You jolt a little and let out an unintentional noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and immediately slap your hand over your mouth, mortified.

“Sorry,” you blurt out, cheeks blazing. “It just— happened.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then: “That’s... kinda hot.”

You want to sink into the couch. “Don’t say it like that!”

“What? I’m serious,” he laughs, voice a little rough around the edges now. “I didn’t think that was even real. I thought that kind of reaction was like, a porn-only thing.”

“Well, it’s not!” you say quickly, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my god, Ino.”

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking. You peek through your fingers and see the way he’s looking at you, not with judgment. With curiosity. Like he’s just discovered something entirely new.

You're so embarrassed you squeeze your eyes shut, as if that could dull the sensation— but it only heightens everything. Every glide, every flicker of cold across your heated skin feels sharper, more intimate in the dark behind your eyelids.

“Too cold?” Ino’s voice is low and smug, the sound brushing your ear.

“No,” you whisper, shaky. “Just... surprised.”

The ice moves again, circling lazily, spreading cold in soft arcs over your breast. Every motion makes your stomach clench, warmth pooling lower. You squirm under the touch, overwhelmed by how good it feels— how stupidly good.

“Your reactions are way too cute,” Ino murmurs, his grin is audible in the silence that follows.

You peek at him through half-lidded eyes, flushed and breathless.

He just laughs under his breath, fingers still steady, eyes focused entirely on you.

The ice has melted down to a smaller sliver now, slick between his fingers. He trails it over the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your top, and you shiver again, a soft sound escaping your lips despite yourself.

Your thighs shift. You’re hyperaware of everything— his breathing, your heartbeat, the dampness between your legs that has nothing to do with the melting ice.

“I can grab another one,” he offers, voice husky but careful, waiting for your reaction.

You nod again, unable to find your voice. Your skin’s already tingling, every nerve buzzing like you’re standing too close to a speaker. You’ve never felt like this from something so… simple. So stupid. A cube of ice.

Ino returns with a fresh one, crouching between your legs now as he leans forward. “Just tell me if it gets weird, okay?”

You nod a third time, cheeks burning, your breath shaky. “Okay.”

This time, he drags it lower— down your sternum, over your stomach, circling your navel. His eyes flick up to yours, reading your face the whole time, and when you don’t stop him, he tugs the hem of your shirt up, exposing more skin.

“You’re really warm,” he mutters.

“Thanks?” you squeak, trying to joke, but it comes out too breathy to land right.

The ice cube slips lower, tracing the waistband of your shorts. He hesitates, eyes searching yours again. “Still good?”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Yeah.”

His free hand steadies you, fingers splayed warm against your waist. The contrast is insane. Your body tenses, hips twitching the closer he gets to where you really want him.

It’s not even supposed to be serious, this whole thing started as a joke, an experiment. But the way you’re breathing? The heat pooling between your thighs? There’s nothing funny about it anymore.

When he pushes your waistband down just enough to reach the crease of your inner thigh, you tense. It’s instinct, your body coiling with anticipation as cold hits heat again. The contrast makes your toes curl. You suck in a breath and arch just slightly, chasing sensation before you can stop yourself.

The cube dips lower, and your breath stutters.

“Ino,” you whine, voice embarrassingly thin.

The ice finally presses lower, catching against your inner thigh before sliding up to your center.

The second it grazes over your clit, your body jerks, thighs instinctively trying to snap shut— but Ino’s hand is there, steady and careful, holding you open.

You gasp, back arching. It’s too much. Too cold. Too perfect.

And then it happens.

It’s not something you meant to do. It builds too fast, hitting harder than you expect. A rush of warmth floods out of you in a sudden, helpless pulse— and your eyes fly open in shock.

You squirt.

Your body trembles, caught in the aftershocks of this new pleasure, and the world around you blurs as the sensation pulses deep within your core. Each wave reverberates through your fingertips, sending tiny sparks up your arms and into your chest.

The chill of the ice fades, giving way to a warmth that pulls your back into a natural arch— spine curving, chest rising. Your nipples, flushed and tender from the ice, ache with sensitivity, and every subtle motion sends dizzying jolts of pleasure through you.

Your head tips back without thought, throat bare, your whole body aching forward into Ino.

Another moan escapes, soft and trembling, a lot more whinier this time, laced with the neediness building inside you.

Your body shudders, overwhelmed by a rush of sensation pulsing through every nerve ending. Instinctively, your fingers clench tightly beneath you, knuckles whitening as you reach out for something, anything, to ground you.

Sensing your need, Ino’s hand moves without hesitation, slipping gently into yours. His fingers entwine with yours like a lifeline, grounding you, anchoring you back from the overwhelming sense of pleasure.

His eyes flick down, then widen, completely captivated by your body.

The softness of your skin, the heat radiating from your flushed breasts, it’s impossible for him not to get hard. He tries to commit the moment to memory.

You look so damn irresistible, he thinks, heart pounding.

Your breathing comes in shallow pulls, your chest rising and falling as you reel from the intensity. But the high is short-lived. Shame creeps in slow, then crashes over you all at once— your skin burning, your throat tight, your face impossibly hot.

You slap your hand over your face, mortified.

“Oh my God— Ino— I didn’t mean to—”

“No way—” he whispers, pausing. “you just…?”

“Shut up,” you groan, curling into yourself, face burning. “We are never speaking of this again.”

“No, wait, hold on—” He sounds breathless now, stunned. “You—actually—? That’s —holy shit.”

You groan again, rolling onto your side to hide your face in the pillow. “It was an accident! I swear!”

“I’m not— judging,” he rushes to say, placing a hand gently on your hip. “I just… didn’t know it could happen like that. That really fast.”

You nod, cheeks flaming as you laugh nervously, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, right. You’re just saying that to make me feel better. I— I basically just peed in front of you. I want to die.”

But instead of teasing you, Ino’s smile softens into something almost shy. “Honestly? I really didn’t think that could happen… but, uh, it’s kinda hot. Promise.”

You wring your hands, cheeks burning as your eyes dart away, wanting to hide but also craving to hear him say it’s okay, to reassure you.

Ino reaches out and gently brushes his fingers against yours. “Well,” he says, voice teasing but warm, “some guys are into that kind of thing. You’re definitely not weird. So stop looking so miserable.”

You swallow hard, cheeks still blazing, your heart fluttering wildly in your chest— part mortified, part something else you can’t quite name.

There’s a beat of silence. You peek up at him— he looks flustered, pink creeping up his cheeks, eyes glued to where your shorts are still bunched low on your hips.

Then, quietly:

“Can I try again?”

[consultingwives]

As someone who works in the reliability sector of IT I cannot emphasize how much you have to give 0 fucks about professional standards and best practices in order to do something like what Crowdstrike did.

At the company I work for, which you have definitely heard of, there are thousands of people (including me, hi) part of whose job it is to sit in rooms for literal hours every week with the people building new features and updating our software and ask them every question we can possibly think of about how their changes might impact the overall system and what potential risks there are. We brainstorm how to minimize those risks, impose requirements on the developers, and ultimately the buck stops with us. Some things are just too risky.

Many of the practices developed at this and other companies are now in wide use across the industry, including things like staggered rollouts (i.e. only 1/3 people get this update at first, then 2/3, then everyone) and multi-stage testing (push it to a fake system we set up for these purposes, see what it does).

In cases where you’re updating firmware or an os, there are physical test devices you need to update and verify that everything behaves as expected. If you really care about your customers you’ll hand the device to someone who works on a different system altogether and tell them to do their worst.

The bottom line here is that if Crowdstrike were following anything even resembling industry best practices there should have been about twenty failsafes between a kernel bug and a global update that bricked basically every enterprise machine in the world. This is like finding out the virus lab has a direct HVAC connection to the big conference room. There is genuinely no excuse for this kind of professional incompetence.

[missjomarch]

The Distance Between - N. Hischier

Summary: Tomorrow is the most important day of your adult life, but Nico Hischier is 4000 miles away in Denmark. And you've never needed him more than you do right now.

Warnings: a little bit of sadness and tears? Kissing. That's it folks.

Word count: 3,000

A/N: Well hi :) I do still exist and apparently know how to write things? @ladylooch has been hounding me since like...March to write something. When I finally finished school last week she sent in a request to get my thoughts going.

B, I don't think I ever would've returned to writing with your support, encouragement, and a bit of delusion. Not only do you support me in writing, but in life as well. You are constantly listening to my melt downs and complaints about adult life and you give wise advice with grace every time. The best big sis. This is for you. 💜

The apartment greets me with its usual silence, but today it feels like it's holding its breath. Like it's waiting for the dam to finally break. It is almost suffocating, and I can’t stop the sigh that escapes as I abandon my work bag and slump into the nearest chair. The flashcards on the coffee table mock me, looking sturdier than I currently feel. My eyes close involuntarily. 

Tomorrow, I think, tomorrow it will all be over.

After four years of grueling work, tomorrow is the day I defend my dissertation for my PhD. The day before your defense is supposed to be peaceful. The hard part is over, and the reward is on the horizon. But this doesn’t feel like peace. My nerves choke me, sitting thick at the base of my throat, and a heavy feeling of dread weighs on my chest.

I drag my eyes open before I can continue down the path of anxiety and despair that I have spent so many hours on these past few weeks. My work bag taunts me from the corner, holding both my laptop and my phone. 

Both demand my attention.

Neither will get it. 

My advisor basically forbade me from doing any sort of PhD related work today, and insisted I rest and reflect. Solid advice, if I’m being honest. Even if I wasn’t exhausted, I wouldn’t have been able to focus today anyway. My mind is elsewhere. Particularly 4,000 miles away in Denmark. 

In the 8 months I’ve been dating Nico Hischier, this has always been the plan. I would defend in May and he would either be with New Jersey in the playoffs, or with Team Switzerland at Worlds. It hadn’t bothered me at first, but as the date approached a harsh realization struck. I would be doing this alone. My parents were already taking off work for graduation in 2 weeks, so they couldn’t make this trip. My roommate had gone home for the week. And Nico was at Worlds. 

It’s not that I was angry. This was the plan, the expectation. Nico and I haven’t even been together for a year, so I would never expect him to change his annual plans for me. But still, a small kernel of hurt was steadily growing inside of me. One that couldn’t be ignored, and carried a quiet, devastating truth. 

I needed Nico. His strong and steady presence. His gooey eyes and proud smile. Even his corny captain pep-talks would be appreciated right now. 

Nico and I met at a bar last October, after I’d wandered a bit too far from the Rutgers campus. My friends had insisted that we head deeper into the city to avoid the Halloween parties filled with undergrads, and we finally ended up in a dim cocktail bar in Newark. 

Naturally, I ran into him and spilled his drink on my way to the bathroom. After I’d offered him one of my thirteen test tube jello-shots as a replacement and spent fifteen minutes explaining that I was supposed to be a sexy scientist and not a nurse, he asked for my number. 

I’d like to say it was smooth sailing from there, but making time for each other between a grad school schedule and a hockey career proved to be a challenge. It never seemed to weigh on Nico, though. He’d pick me up from classes, let me practice presentations in the car, or take pregame naps at my apartment just to get a few more hours together before a long roadie. 

In the chaos of the past eight months, Nico has been a steady presence. The unmovable rock in the storm of job applications, exams, and defense prep. That’s what makes this so difficult. He should be here helping me through this.

The ringing of my phone breaks me from my thoughts. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but the hope that it's Nico has me dragging myself from my chair to where my bag sits on the floor. When I see his name flashing across the screen, a small smile tugs at my lips and I quickly swipe to answer the call. 

“Hey schatz,” his warm voice lifts a small weight from my shoulders and I can’t keep the smile from my voice as I reply. 

“Hey Neeks,” I spare a quick glance at the clock, “It’s midnight there, why’re you up?” 

“I wanted to check on you before I went to bed. The boys and I just got back to the hotel. You hanging in there?”  

“That sounds fun. Did you guys have dinner with the team?” 

Nico sighs as I dodge the question, but plays along nonetheless. “Yeah. Had dinner at a place down the street with Timo and Jonas. Emma and Nola came too,” he pauses, voice softening. “Made me wish you were here, sweets.” 

His words are soft, but they sharpen the ache forming deep in my chest. I knew the distance was hurting him too, but the clear longing in his voice made it difficult to keep pretending I was fine. 

“I wish I was too. Maybe I can go with you next year since I’ll be out of school. You’ll wish you were able to get rid of me.” 

The rumble of his laugh warms me through the phone, “I would never want to get rid of you. I want you with me all the time. And just think, next year I can parade you around as Dr. Hischer.” 

The possessive tone in his voice is obvious, as is the smirk playing on his lips. I can’t help the snort that escapes me. 

“Hischier, huh? You gonna make me your wife?” 

“Been thinking about it. I want everyone to know you’re mine.” 

“I think you make that pretty clear, even without a ring,” I tease. 

“Still. It wouldn’t hurt. I’d get you a big one too. Something shiny, so men could see it from across the room. Then they’d know your mine before they could even think about walking over.” 

“Mhmm. I’m sure you would,” I grin, “Nice try, Hisch, but your name isn’t going on my degree. I’ve spent too much time and money on it for a man to get credit.” 

Nico pretends to think about it, “Fair enough. I’ll still be the one cheering the loudest when you walk across that stage, though.” 

The playfulness in his tone is replaced by a warmth that squeezes my heart. I have to swallow the lump in my throat before I can speak again. 

“You’ll have to fight my dad for that title,” I manage, but the words are hoarse. I clear my throat in a desperate attempt to stop the emotion clawing its way up. “Fuck, I miss you, Neeks.” 

The admission is no more than a squeak, and then I’m sniffling. I’d been fighting the tears for days, unwilling to let him know just how terrified I was, and how hard the distance had become. But I could never hide from Nico. He saw right through me, recognizing that his absence was unraveling me, no matter how hard I tried to pretend otherwise. 

There’s a rustle of fabric as he shifts in the hotel bed, and then comes his voice. Low, and gentle in a way that breaks me all over again. 

“I know, Schatz. I’m so sorry,” his voice breaks, “I would do anything to be with you right now.”

I nodded even though he can’t see me, a silent tear slipping down my cheek.

When I don’t respond, he continues. “I’m so damn proud of you, you know that? You are the most hard-working and determined person I have ever met. You’ve earned every bit of this recognition.” 

His words send goose-bumps skittering across my skin. The obvious pride in his voice soothes the shadow of doubt I’ve been carrying. It's his unshakeable faith that has me finally voicing the fears I’ve been dwelling on the past few weeks. 

“What if I don’t pass?” 

“Then you don’t pass. And we will deal with it together,” he says, like that isn’t the most terrifying outcome. “But that isn’t going to happen, sweets. You have given everything you have to this program for four years, and you know your thesis inside and out. I think you could defend in your sleep at this point.” 

The thought has a small giggle forcing its way out of me, “I don’t think that would go well.” 

“Maybe not,” Nico agrees, “that’s why you’re going to be up bright and early tomorrow. Coffee in hand, cute outfit on. Ready to girl boss your way to a PhD.” 

“Girl boss? You need to get off TikTok.”

“Nooo!” He protests, “I want to be able to speak your brain rot language.” 

“I do NOT have brain rot. I am on social media a perfectly normal amount.” 

Nico hums like he doesn’t believe me. I roll my eyes, choosing to move on instead of bringing up his Facebook addiction. 

“Speaking of bright and early, can you call me in the morning to make sure I’m up by seven?” 

“Of course, Schatz. We’ll be done with practice at eleven here, so I’ll give you a wake up call at 6:45? I can DoorDash you coffee, too.” 

“That’d be perfect,” I sigh. “Thank you.” 

Nico tells me a bit more about their time in Denmark so far, though it's pretty limited since he’s only been there for 24 hours. I fill him in on my post-defense plans, and soon we’re saying goodnight and ending the call. 

I don’t have the energy to do much else after that. I eat leftovers from the fridge while watching our show. Usually, he’d complain about me getting ahead, but he admitted on the phone that he’d watched an episode on the plane. So really, I was just catching up. 

After dinner, I shower, letting the warm water wash away the borrowed stress of tomorrow. I skip the hairdryer, knowing I’ll just curl it in the morning, and collapse into bed. The sheets cocoon around me, smelling faintly of Nico. 

I’m suddenly glad I didn’t do laundry last weekend, even though it's been on the to-do list for two weeks. My heart lurches, still aching for him despite the hour long phone call we just shared. My anxieties about tomorrow fight to keep me awake, but eventually exhaustion wins out and I drift to sleep. 

…

Nico is annoyingly on time with his phone call. The harsh ring of my phone drags me from sleep at exactly 6:45. My arm shoots out and I blindly fumble for my phone on my night stand. Finally, I grasp it and begrudgingly click the answer button. 

“What?” I slur, sleep still clouding my words. 

“Someone is in a lovely mood,” he drawls, a grin evident in his voice. 

“Shut up,” I whine into the phone, “I’m sleepy.” 

“I know, sweetheart. But todays the big day. Gotta get up.” 

“Mmmmm…no.”

“Take a sip of your coffee and see if that motivates you at all. I ordered your favorite.” 

I frown, still half asleep. “What coffee?” 

“The one on your night stand.” 

I pop one eye open, and sure enough, an iced latte sits on the bedside table. 

“How did you get it in my room?” I ask, suspicious. “I thought you were DoorDashing it.” 

“I gave him the code to your apartment,” a voice answers. Not from my phone. It’s too loud. Too close. 

My eyes pop open in disbelief, and Nico Hischer stands in my doorway. His phone is still pressed to his ear and a shit-eating grin is spreading across his face. 

My jaw drops and a strangled sound between sob and a laugh leaves me as I shoot up from the bed. My phone is left behind in the sheets and his clatters to the floor as I launch into his arms. He catches me, laughing as I wrap myself around him completely. I shake as I cling to him, the adrenaline overwhelming. His arms tighten around my waist as my hands thread through his hair. And we hold each other. Like this might all fall apart if we let go. 

We stay like that for minutes that feel like hours before I’m pulling back to look at him. 

Tears stain both our faces as my eyes meet his, “What’re you doing here-” 

He’s kissing me before I can finish. It is all consuming. Everything I needed wrapped into one touch, one action. One arm releases my waist to thread through my messy hair, pulling me impossibly closer to him, while my hands plant themselves firmly on his cheeks. By the time we pull away, we are both breathing heavily and our lips are plump and red. 

I rest my forehead against his and close my eyes. “You’re here,” I whisper. 

“Of course I’m here,” he kisses the tip of my nose. “I wanted to be here for you, sweetheart.” 

I shake my head lightly, still trying to make sense of him being here. I pull back to look at him. “But Worlds?” 

“Can wait,” he says simply, matter of factly. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

I take in a shuddering breath and rest my cheek against his shoulder. “Even the Stanley Cup finals?” 

A small grin plays at his lips, “Maybe not that. Fitzy would probably kill me. But thankfully, that’s not the case.” 

“Knew you loved hockey more than me,” I teased, nipping at his neck playfully. He chuckles softly and presses a kiss to my cheek. 

His tone is suddenly serious when he responds. “No, schatz. This matters more to me. You matter more to me. More than hockey. More than anything.” 

I pull my head from his shoulder to look at him. Tears well in my eyes once again when I see the gooey, love-struck look in his. “I love you, Nico Hischier.” 

He kisses me deeply before pulling back to mumble against my lips, “I love you, too.” 

Then he’s giving a soft smack to my ass before releasing me from his hold. “Now, let’s get you caffeinated Dr. Almost-Hischier.” 

I give him an incredulous look, “I am neither a doctor nor a Hischier.” 

“Yet,” he smirks. “But you will be one of them by the end of the day.” 

I roll my eyes, “And if I don’t pass?” 

“Then I’m proposing at dinner,” he shrugs, seemingly certain about this decision. 

My cheeks heat at the potential idea of seeing Nico down on one knee, and I have to physically shake my head to clear the image from my mind. I choose not to respond to avoid saying something embarrassingly desperate in my flustered state, and down a third of my coffee instead. 

“Ugh, I love honey lavender lattes,” I groan as I savor the taste.

“I know,” Nico says, taking the coffee and gently pushing me towards my vanity. “Now go get ready.” 

...

The rest of the morning flies by in a blur. Nico makes me breakfast while I curl my hair and finish my coffee. He lets me review my major points as I apply my make-up, helps put on my heels, and ensures my water bottle is full before we leave the apartment. He asks me potential questions on my material as he drives me to campus, and hands me my flashcards with a kiss as he drops me off with a promise to pick me up when I’m finished. 

The defense goes off without a hitch, and by twelve they’re inviting me back in the room to share their decision. The table of advisors looks much less intimidating when I reenter the conference room, despite the fact that they currently withhold the most important decision of my life to date. 

“Congratulations, Doctor!” The chairwoman beams, reaching to shake my hand. For the first time in four years, I take a full breath. 

“We have passed you with no revisions to your thesis. This is incredible work.” 

After much congratulations and thanks, I gather my things and all but sprint to the parking lot. The tears are already falling before I even exit the building, but they only fall faster when I see Nico leaning against his car in the parking lot. 

The clack of my heels against the concrete has his head jerking up from his phone. A brief, concerned look crosses his face at the tears leaking from my eyes, but it disappears as a wide grin appears alongside them. 

“I passed!” I screech, and fling myself into his arms for the second time in 24 hours. 

He pulls me in tight, face buried in my hair, and inhales deeply. “I knew you could do it. Never a doubt in my mind,” he breathes. “Fuck, I’m so proud of you.” 

It’s then I realize that even if I had failed miserably, I would’ve been fine. I already have everything I need with Nico. We could be living in a cardboard box on the street, and I’d still be madly in love with him. 

I pulled back then, grasping his face to force him to look at me. 

“Thank you. For everything,” the tears threaten to choke me. “For being here. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

His gooey brown eyes meet mine, equally as watery. “Always, schatz. I’d drop anything for you. Hockey or not. If you need me, I’m there. You are everything to me now.” 

I melt into his chest, overwhelmed by his admission and the events of the past few hours. We stay there for a moment, Nico swaying us as his hand rubs circles along my back.

“I’m gonna marry you someday, Hisch.” I mumble into his chest. 

He is unphased, still swaying gently as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. His response is certain. 

“Not if I marry you first, Dr. Hischier.”

[phantomrose96]

At this point, after this has happened a dozen times, why the hell is anyone pushing any update that wide that fast. They didn't try 10 nearby computers first? Didn't do zone by zone? Someone needs to be turbo fired for this and a law needs to get written.

The "this has happened a dozen times" really isn't correct. This one is unprecedented.

But yes the "how the hell could it go THAT bad?" is the thing everyone with even a little software experience is spinning over. Because it is very easy to write code with a bug. But that's why you test aggressively, and you roll out cautiously - with MORE aggressive testing and MORE cautious rollout the more widely-impacting your rollout would be.

And this is from my perspective in product software, where my most catastrophic failure could break a product, not global systems.

Anti-malware products like Crowdstrike are highly-privileged, as in they have elevated trust and access to parts of the system that most programs wouldn't usually have - which is something that makes extremely thorough smoke-testing of the product way MORE important than anything I've ever touched. It has kernel access. This kind of thing needs testing out the wazoo.

I can mostly understand the errors that crop up where like, an extremely old machine on an extremely esoteric operating system gets bricked because the test radius didn't include that kind of configuration. But all of Windows?

All of Windows, with a mass rollout to all production users, including governments?

There had to be layers upon layers of failures here. Especially given how huge Crowdstrike is. And I really want to know what their post-mortem analysis ends up being because for right now I cannot fathom how you end up with an oversight this large.

[martybaker]

There was only one couch

Tfw you cannot find the jayvik fic you crave so you write it yourself 🙃

I also gotta preface this with - I cannot write science talk for the life of me, in my defense they are sleep deprived so if it doesn’t make much sense, it’s not supposed to 🙈

—————————

They’ve been stuck at this problem for hours, any potential paths they managed to come up with immediately shattering after but a couple pokes of logic aimed to test the solidity of their foundations. Like bubbles popped by a child’s finger. Like heated corn kernels. Like dreams of making a difference-

Viktor’s too tired to think in metaphors.

He drops the pencil and swivels in his chair, facing Jayce who’s already draped across their shabby sofa, long legs sticking out from one end, head inclined on the armrest on the side closer to Viktor.

“What if we…build an oven?” Jayce says. “Well not like, an oven, but reverse, a device that could contain the energy and…,” he waves his hands in the air as he talks, as if that would help illustrate his train of thought, “…uhhh, we could more safely work on directing the charges? Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”

Viktor chuckles. He doesn’t know why he does, it’s not even particularly funny, the exhaustion must have erased any common sense of his that was left. Yet it’s…comforting to see that same exhaustion mirrored in Jayce. The same dark circles, the same bone deep tiredness weighing him down, the same look of frustration after they’ve been hitting dead ends and running in circles. It’s a shared exhaustion, just like the hard work is shared. Probably should have called it a night hours ago. They both direly need the rest.

“An oven? That would be your hunger speaking, I’m afraid,” Viktor says, reaching for his cane, grinding his teeth to gather the energy to push himself up onto his feet.

“Nah, m’not hungry,” Jayce mumbles. “We had those sandwiches for lunch. Or was it dinner? What time is it even?”

“Too late by all accounts,” Viktor says, taking the few steps towards the couch. He looks at Jayce, who seems glued to the couch and likely is planning to spend the night there. Viktor looks towards the door, but hesitates. The idea of the track across campus to his lodgings really doesn’t sound appealing.

It’s not even that far, the university tried to accommodate Viktor’s needs as best as they could and gave him a room on the ground floor, plus the building is the closest housing to the Engineering department’s laboratories. And yet, today it feels miles away. Damn his leg, damn all the stairs, and damn his hubris for yet again pushing his body beyond its limits, knowing fully well it will backfire ten folds and render him even more useless in the morning.

Jayce notices his hesitation, damn his partner’s bright mind too. He can read Viktor too well, he guesses the reason for his histation despite Viktor’s lack of complaining.

“Oh, do you wanna sleep here? I’ll head home, no problem,” he suggests way too readily, already hoisting himself up onto his elbows.

Viktor tsks and pushes against Jayce’s chest, pushing him back down into the couch.

“Stay,” he hisses. Jayce lives off campus, it would take him much longer to get home. Viktor’s not about to kick him out. And he doesn’t care for compassion either.

Jayce knows this, yet the man cannot help but be kind and caring, and though it irritates Viktor when it's aimed at him, it is also a quality of Jayce’s that he admires. He’s kind to everyone. Meets everyone halfway. Though at times they push too far, and Jayce lets them. Too kind for his own good.

Viktor shakes his head, trying to clean it, the stacked up piles of thoughts seem to have all spilled inside his brain and are rattling around. Rest. He needs to rest.

He looks at Jayce, who is still lying down on the couch, hands raised as if in surrender, big doe eyes staring at Viktor. Was Viktor too cross with him just now? He’s unable to determine. He pats Jayce’s knee in an attempt to smooth over his own prickly temperament.

“I just…I need to take a moment. Before I head out,” he tries. He hopes Jayce won’t insist. He is too tired to come up with reasonable arguments. He doesn’t wanna fight.

But Jayce doesn’t fight, he nods, then he bites his lip and opens his arms.

Hmm.

Viktor considers.

The couch is clearly too small for one grown man, let alone two.

Still it would be more comfortable than the chair.

And Viktor’s not averse to touch. Despite perhaps coming off as such. To everyone, except for Jayce.

It is true that he doesn’t like to be touched by strangers, especially unexpectedly. But he is human and just like anyone else, he has moments when he would welcome touch. Moments when he finds it comforting. And Jayce is a very tactile person. He didn’t hold back from putting a hand on Viktor’s shoulder the very first day they met, and he hasn’t stopped since. Though there was a moment near the beginning of their partnership when someone pointed out Viktor’s (alleged) aversion to touch and Jayce panicked, apologizing profusely for making him uncomfortable, and it took days for Viktor to convince him he really didn’t mind. Because that was the truth, Viktor didn’t mind. Not when it was Jayce.

Of course cuddling on the couch was an entirely different matter.

They’ve never done that before, however, Viktor wasn’t a stranger to the comfort of a warm body next to his either.

From cuddling with his parents for warmth as a kid in one too small bed, to seeking the pleasures of a lover to relieve stress, the warmth of a body next to his undoubtedly had its benefits.

And he and Jayce are friends. It wouldn’t be a big deal.

And so Viktor slowly drops his cane to the floor and lowers one of his knees to the couch, trying to figure out how to arrange himself next to Jayce.

Jayce tries to help but it takes some maneuvering, what with Viktor’s leg and their sleep deprived brains, there are a couple of winces and pointy elbows and just way too many limbs, an “Oof” from Jayce when he earns a knee to his stomach, but eventually Viktor finds himself situated with his back against the back of the couch, his head on Jayce’s chest, right leg on top.

It’s…it’s warm.

It’s nice.

It’s not a big deal.

“Okay?” Jayce checks.

Viktor hums. He can hear Jayce’s heartbeat, feel his breath on his forehead. Smell the musk, the odor of an unshowered body, but he has no right to complain, they both haven’t showered for however many hours or days they’ve been locked in here.

Jayce’s heartbeat and breathing slows, but Viktor cannot slow his racing thoughts. He can feel every point of contact where their bodies are touching. He can feel Jayce’s muscular chest moving under his hand. Jayce’s right hand briefly pets Viktor’s hair before it settles on top of his shoulders. Viktor fights against the urge to burrow closer, to inhale Jayce’s smell, to place Jayce’s hand back into his hair.

Stupid sleep deprived brain. Viktor could have figured such close proximity to a warm body would reduce him to animal instincts. He can only be glad he’s way too sleepy for his nether parts to react as well.

Jayce feels his restlessness. How could he not, pressed so close.

“Viktor,” he whispers, warm breath tickling Viktor’s forehead and despite himself Viktor exhales and melts against that strong chest even more. “You can rest, V, I’ll wake you in a couple of minutes and walk you home.”

My ass you will, Viktor thinks, we’re both gonna fall asleep here, your right side will be completely numb and my back will be killing me tomorrow. He’ll barely be able to stand. But he’s too tired and too comfortable to say any of that now. It’s a Tomorrow Viktor’s problem anyways. This Viktor burrows closer against Jayce’s chest, letting all his worries and all the problems fade, falling into the sweet embrace of sleep.

[itsnesss]

Anthony and Diaz reader having a movie night turned in to smut with Miguel And Sam walking in on them

𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | anthony larusso × fem!reader

summary | during a movie night, you and anthony end up touching each other on the couch, but the moment is abruptly interrupted when miguel and sam walk in and catch you. miguel reacts with fury, while anthony tries to calm the situation with his sarcastic humor

warnings | diaz!reader, smut, explicit content, fingering, caught in the act, humor, awkward situations

word count | 1.5 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The living room is dimly lit, illuminated only by the glow of the television. Outside, the night is calm, and inside the house, everyone seems to have found something to do. It's one of those rare occasions when you have the space and time to be with Anthony without interruptions.

For a while now, they have been cuddled under the same blanket on the couch, sharing a bowl of popcorn while watching a movie that, to be honest, isn't capturing much of your attention. But it doesn't seem to bother you too much, because the company makes everything more interesting.

Anthony is beside you, his arm casually resting on the back of the sofa, which means that every time you move, your shoulder brushes against his. It's a closeness that isn't new, but this time, there's something in the air that feels different.

"This movie is a piece of crap," he murmurs, breaking the silence with a lopsided smile.

You laugh softly. "It was you who chose her."

"Yes, but if I had known it was going to be this bad, I would have chosen something else... or better yet, I would have suggested another plan."

You notice the way his eyes briefly drop to your lips, and immediately, you feel your skin burn. It's not the first time you've felt that there's something between you, but this time there's no one else in the house to interrupt. The idea that you are alone seems to intensify the tension.

"Another plan?" you ask, playing with one of the popcorn kernels between your fingers. "And what would you suggest?"

Anthony doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he raises a hand and gently brushes your cheek with the tips of his fingers, as if he were waiting to see if you pull away. But you don't.

"This," he whispers before leaning in and capturing your lips with his.

The sensation catches you by surprise, but you quickly reciprocate the kiss. It's soft at first, as if you both were testing the waters, but the hesitation doesn't last long. Anthony moves closer, his hand sliding to your neck to deepen the kiss.

You feel his other hand resting on your waist, pulling you gently until you end up half on top of him, your hands tangled in his hair. The movie becomes a distant background noise as your breaths mingle and your bodies align in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.

His lips slowly descend to your neck, leaving lingering kisses that make a sigh escape from your lips. His fingers slide under the fabric of your sweatshirt, caressing the skin of your back with a slowness that feels like a dangerous game.

"Anthony..." you whisper, feeling the heat in your body increase as his caresses become bolder. The skin on your stomach prickles when you feel his fingers caress the curve of your ribs. His hand continues to move slowly downwards, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts, and you have to stifle a gasp when his fingers brush the inner part of your thighs.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, as if realizing he has gone too far. "This is a bit..."

"No," you interrupt him. "It's perfect."

You smile weakly as you press your body against theirs, and you notice their fingers return to explore the curve of your hip.

Anthony's breathing becomes a bit more agitated as his mouth continues to explore the skin of your throat, depositing wet kisses that make you shiver. His fingers continue to caress you with a deliberate slowness that makes your body tense with anticipation.

And then, without warning, his fingers are between your legs, caressing them softly but firmly.

A moan escapes you the moment his fingers begin to gently caress the fabric of your panties. The sensation is so intense that you have to grip his shoulders to keep your balance. His mouth finds yours again, kissing you with an insistence that makes your knees weak.

A finger slips between the fabrics to caress your skin directly, and the moan that escapes your lips makes Anthony pause for a moment. But you don't do it, instead, you move your hips a little more, increasing the pressure against his fingers.

A sigh escapes from Anthony's chest, and his fingers start moving again. He caresses your clitoris with circular movements, just slow enough for you to feel every inch of skin his fingers brush against.

You are about to reach orgasm when his fingers stop. You are panting a little harder now, your fingers gripping his hair as you try to catch your breath.

Anthony leans in slightly to kiss your soft lips, and you can feel the sweat on his skin. "Do you want me to continue?" he asks in a whisper.

You nod, and his fingers start moving again, caressing your clitoris a little faster now. You feel breathless as the sensation begins to grow inside you, but you don't have to wait long for it to finally break, an explosion of pleasure that makes you clench around his fingers.

Anthony stops his caresses after a few seconds, but your fingers cling to his wrist to make him continue. The sensation is too pleasant for you to want him to stop so soon.

Finally, after a few more minutes, your body relaxes a bit, and Anthony withdraws his fingers. He leans in to kiss your lips once more, with a sensual slowness that makes you feel as if you were floating in the air.

You keep kissing him while your hands move towards the buckle of his pants, but before you can do anything else, the sound of the door slamming open shatters the moment like a bucket of cold water.

"What the hell?!"

Miguel's scream makes you freeze.

With your heart about to leap out of your chest, you pull away from Anthony so quickly that you almost fall off the couch. He also pulls away abruptly, but not fast enough for Miguel and Sam not to have seen exactly what they were up to.

The expression on your older brother's face is one of absolute horror. Sam, beside him, looks equally surprised, although her reaction is more one of discomfort than of fury.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Miguel points at Anthony with a mix of disbelief and anger.

Anthony, with his breath still ragged and his hair tousled, blinks a couple of times before raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Uh... watching a movie."

"Watching a movie?" Miguel repeats with a tone that makes it clear he doesn't believe it for a second.

"Yes, brother, it's a tradition." Popcorn, bad movies, intense kisses..."

"Intense kisses?!" Miguel seems about to explode. "You were touching my sister!"

Anthony opens his mouth to respond, but you intervene before the situation gets even more out of control. "Miguel, calm down..."

"Calm down?" "How am I supposed to calm down when I walk in and see Anthony on top of you?!"

Anthony furrows his brow, offended. "Technically, she was on top of me."

"That doesn't make it better!"

Sam lets out a long sigh and puts a hand on Miguel's arm. "Look, I'm also in shock, but shouting isn't going to change anything." Besides, it's not like they were... you know.

Miguel makes a face. "Don't say that!" I don't even want to think about it.

You feel your face burning with embarrassment as you sink a little deeper into the couch, wishing the ground would swallow you up. Anthony, on the other hand, simply sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

"Well... I guess this had to happen sooner or later."

Miguel glares at him. "No, it shouldn't have happened."

Sam shakes his head with an incredulous laugh. "Miguel, you need to relax." It's not the end of the world.

"Isn't it the end of the world?!" It's my sister and—ugh, I don't want to talk about this anymore! Miguel turns around and points an accusing finger at Anthony. "You." Stay away from her.

"I'm going to try, but I can't promise anything," Anthony responds with a smug smile.

"Anthony!" you elbow him in the ribs, although you can't help but let a small smile betray your face.

Miguel, for his part, seems on the verge of a breakdown. Sam takes him by the arm and starts dragging him out of the room. "Come on, come on." You don't want to keep watching this.

Miguel lets himself go, but not before casting one last murderous glance in Anthony's direction.

When the door finally closes, you let out a long sigh and lean back against the couch. "Well... that was horrible."

Anthony laughs and puts an arm around you, still not wiping the mischievous smile off his face. "Eh, it could have been worse."

You look at him incredulously. "How, exactly?"

"They could have come in five minutes later."

Your face heats up immediately and you elbow him again, but this time he just laughs more.

Definitely, you will never live this in peace.

[lovelymindescape]

Fuller , 1955 : Chapter 6: A Night Like This

Summary: At your house, away from judgmental eyes and schoolyard cruelty, a different kind of silence settles between you and Thomas—gentle, honest, and safe. What begins with lemonade and a sketchbook quietly transforms into something deeper. Beneath soft lamplight and shy glances, a fragile trust begins to bloom.

Setting: School / Readers House – Texas, Late Summer / Early Fall 1955

Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), fem!reader,

⚠️Content Warnings: emotional vulnerability, trauma references, quiet intimacy, longing,

E's Notes: English still not my first language, typos are my love language. Please be nice to him or I will cry.

Chapter 5 : Inside the Silence

The classroom buzzes with the usual low-grade chaos of a Friday morning. Chairs scrape across tile, lockers slam, someone in the hallway hollers a curse loud enough to make the teacher sigh before even taking attendance.

You sit in your usual spot by the window, chin resting on your hand. The sunlight creeps in through the dusty glass, casting blurry golden stripes across your desk. You haven’t opened your notebook yet. Because you’re thinking about him.

About the way he sat on your floor last night, fingers curled around a pencil, heart curled somewhere close to yours. About the sketch he left you. The word beneath it.

"Safe."

You touch your chest absently, right where the ache lives. It isn’t a bad ache. Just one that’s heavy with knowing something is shifting. The seat across from you stays empty. It always does—except on test days when someone needs a surface to cheat off of. But then, the door creaks open behind you.

Some heads turn.

Some eyes roll.

You know it’s him before you look. Thomas walks in like he’s made of stone and thorns, his shoulders hunched, the frayed strap of his backpack slipping off one. There’s a new stain on his shirt.

He doesn’t look up. Your heart stutters. He always looks like this at school—guarded and ghost-like. But this time, you know better. You know the warmth behind the silence. The careful way he holds a pencil. The way he squeezed your hand like a promise.The teacher barely glances up.

“Take your seat, Mr. Hewitt.”

Thomas nods once, stiffly, and moves to the back row. But for the briefest second, as he passes you, his arm brushes yours.It’s tiny. Accidental, maybe. But you feel it. And you don’t look back, because you don’t want to embarrass him.

But your whole body is tuned to his presence now.You glance down at your open textbook, pages swimming in equations you don’t understand. And still, you smile. Later, at lunch , you sit outside.

You’re not even sure why you came out here—habit, maybe. Or maybe it’s hope. You bite into an apple, eyes scanning the far corner of the yard where the smokers hang out. You’ve seen him there before, just standing in the shadows, never joining in.

Today, he’s not there. But when you turn, you spot him sitting behind the old gym, half-hidden by the curve of the building. He’s not drawing. Just… there. Knees up, arms folded across them, gaze on the cracks in the pavement.

You walk over slowly, making sure your footsteps are loud enough not to startle him. He looks up. You don’t speak. Just sit beside him, pulling your knees to your chest. A long pause.

This time you give him the note.

"Tommy—if you like, come by after school. I’ll have the movie ready. No rush, just some company.”"

The house smells faintly of fresh bread and wood polish, a comforting scent that wraps around you as you move through the rooms. It’s late afternoon, and the sun’s rays slip low through the kitchen window, painting golden stripes across the checked linoleum floor.

You stand by the stove, the worn enamel kettle whistling softly as the water reaches a boil. Carefully, you scoop popcorn kernels into the heavy-bottomed pot, lowering the lid and setting the heat just right.

Soon, the familiar pop, pop, pop begins, filling the room with a warm, buttery aroma that reminds you of simpler times — Saturday afternoons, family gatherings, and laughter.

Your hands move almost automatically, tidying the living room with gentle care. The lace curtains flutter slightly in the breeze from the open window, the soft clatter of dishes from the kitchen next door filtering through the thin walls.

You straighten the cushions on the couch, smoothing the knitted blanket with a careful hand. The lamp on the side table glows dimly under the shade, casting a soft pool of light over the room. On the shelf nearby, the small movie projector waits patiently.

You arrange the reels in order, their metal cases cool and heavy in your hands. You take a moment to dust the lens, blowing away specks of dust that might spoil the picture.

Finishing your preparations, you sit by the window, watching the street outside. The children’s laughter echoes faintly as they play hopscotch and marbles on the cracked pavement.

Soon, you think. Soon you’ll not be alone anymore.

You hadn’t let yourself hope much after that. It was easier that way. So when the knock comes just past sundown, soft and uneven against the screen door, your heart lifts in a way you weren’t ready for. You open it and there he is.

You didn’t expect him to show up again so soon.

The porch light throws a gold halo over his shoulders, and he looks unsure again—thumbs hooked in his overall straps, head ducked slightly like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

But you don’t. “Hey,” you say, smiling. “You came.” He nods once. You step aside, and he moves into the house, quieter than the evening breeze. You gesture toward the living room.

“I got popcorn, and I picked something not scary. I figured you’ve had enough of that in real life.” He gives a silent breath of a laugh—shoulders twitching just enough to countand settles on the floor again, back against the couch. Same spot as the other day.

You curl up on the cushions behind him, legs tucked underneath. The movie starts. It’s old and sweet and a little bit boring, and you don’t really care. Because most of the time, you’re not watching the screen. You’re watching the soft way his shoulders rise and fall.

The way his eyes dart between the screen and the room, like he’s trying to memorize it all. The way he edges a little closer to the couch cushion every time the movie cuts to black. Eventually, your hand slips down beside him, fingers relaxed but open.

Not touching.

Just there.

You don’t look when he notices. But you feel the moment his hand shifts slightly—so slightly—and his pinky brushes yours. Neither of you moves away. The movie plays on. You think maybe he’s watching it now, but when you glance down, his head is tilted back slightly.

He’s looking up at you.

Not in a way that asks permission.

Just in a way that says he’s still trying to understand why this feels okay. You smile.

“I like having you here.” He blinks. Stares a little longer. Then—without reaching for his notepad, without hiding behind ink or excuses—he nods.

Just once.

And your chest aches in the best way.You both go quiet after that. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… quiet. You finish the movie in silence, pinkies still linked, the rest of your hands barely brushing. It’s the lightest kind of touch, but it feels like gravity.

By the time the credits roll, your eyes are heavy. You shift to lie against the arm of the couch, your head sinking into a throw pillow. Thomas doesn’t move much, just tilts to the side a little until his shoulder rests lightly against your knee.

Eventually, he slides down into a more curled position, back still to the couch, arms loosely folded. You let your hand drift off the edge of the cushion.

It finds his again.

You’re not sure who falls asleep first.

But when you wake sometime past midnight, the room hushed and glowing faintly from the TV’s still running, and Tommy's Head is laying against your leg with your fingers are still tangled in his.

And for once, it feels like the quiet is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

TBC: Chapter 7

Taglist: @dogrrrrr @thewolffairytaler @night-shadowblood-writes2 @iloved1lfs0 @richietoziers-world @reka13

[mlembug]

Firefox started crashing very frequently on my laptop from 2016 and finally discovered why: RAM is broken

too bad, this is one of those "portable" laptops and has the RAM soldered in so I can't replace it

thankfully Linux comes in to the rescue - using memtest86+ I got info on which memory areas are broken and used this information to tell Linux to not use that memory (the "badram" kernel parameter).

I also added the "memtest" kernel parameter so when the computer is turned on it will do a test on its own and mark the RAM areas which are broken and avoid using these. This is to detect potential increase of damaged areas.

Hopefully this will prolong the lifetime of this laptop by at least a year or so.

[techav]

On Celebrating Errors

Isn't it beautiful? The lovely formatted tables of register and stack contents, the trace of function addresses and parameters, the error message ... it's the most beautiful kernel panic I have ever seen.

Why on earth would I be so excited to see a computer crash? What could possibly be beautiful about a kernel panic?

This kernel panic is well-earned. I fought hard to get it.

This kernel panic came from a current NetBSD kernel, freshly compiled and running on Wrap030, my 68030 homebrew computer. It is the result of hours upon hours of work reading through existing code, scattered documentation and notes, writing and rewriting, and endless compiling.

And it's just the start.

As I've said before, a goal of this project has always been to build something capable of running some kind of Unix-like operating system. Now that I finally have all the necessary pieces of hardware, plus a good bootloader in ROM, it's time to give it a shot. I'm not that great with this type of programming, but I have been getting better. I might just be able to brute force my way through hacking together something functional.

It is hard.

There is some documentation available. The man(9) pages are useful, and NetBSD has a great guide to setting up the build environment for cross-compiling the kernel. There are some published papers on what some people went through to port NetBSD to this system or that. But there's nothing that really explains what all these source code files are, and which parts really need to be modified to run on a different system.

I had a few false starts, but ultimately found an existing 68k architecture, cesfic, which was a bare minimum configuration that could serve well as a foundation for my purposes. I copied the cesfic source directory, changed all instances of the name to wrap030, made sure it still compiled, then set about removing everything that I didn't need. It still compiled, so now it's was time to add in what I did need.

... how ... do I ... ?

This is where things get overwhelming very quickly. There is documentation on the core functions required for a new driver, there's documentation on the autoconf system that attaches drivers to devices in the tree, and there's plenty of drivers already to reference. But where to start?

I started by trying to add the com driver for the 16550 UARTs I'm using. It doesn't compile because I'm missing dependencies. The missing functions are missing because of a breaking change to bus.h at some point; the com driver expects the new format but the cesfic port still uses the old. So I needed to pull in the missing functions from another m68k arch. Which then required more missing functions and headers to be pulled in. Eventually it compiled without error again, but that doesn't mean it will actually run. I still needed to add support for my new programmable timer, customize the startup process, update hardware addresses, make sure it was targeting 68030 instead of 68040 ...

So many parts and pieces that need to be updated. Each one requiring searching for the original function or variable declaration to confirm expected types or implementation, then searching for existing usages to figure out what it needs ... which then requires searching for more functions and variable types.

But I got something that at least appeared to have all the right parts and compiled without error. It was time to throw it on a disk, load it up, and see what happened.

Nothing happened, of course. It crashed immediately.

I have no debugging workflow I can rely on here, and at this stage there isn't even a kernel console yet. All I could do was add little print macros to the locore startup code and see where it failed. Guess, test, and revise.

I spent a week debugging the MMU initialization. If the MMU isn't properly configured, everything comes to an abrupt halt. Ultimately, I replaced the cesfic machine-specific initialization code and pmap bootstrapping code with functions from yet another m68k arch. And spent another day debugging before realizing I had missed a section that had comments suggesting it wasn't for the 68030 CPU, but turned out to be critical for operation of kernel memory allocation.

Until this point, I was able to rely on the low-level exception handling built into my bootloader if my code caused a CPU exception. But with the MMU working, that code was no longer mapped.

So then came another few hours learning how to create a minimal early console driver. An early console is used by the kernel prior to the real console getting initialized. In this case, I'm using the MC6850 on my mainboard for the early console, since that's what my bootloader uses. And finally the kernel was able to speak for itself.

It printed its own panic.

The first thing the kernel does is initialize the console. Which requires that com driver and all the machine-specific code I had to write. The kernel is failing at its step #1.

But at least it can tell me that now. And given all the work necessary to get to this point, that kernel panic data printing to the terminal is absolutely beautiful.

[delawaredetroit]

The best lies have kernels of truth in them. In retrospect, Dabi changed his mind because Hawks brought Endeavor. That noumu was clearly picked to set off Endeavor, but it seems as if Dabi wanted to test it on other heroes before setting it loose on Endeavor. He scrapped his plans with Hawks and attacked impulsively because Hawks decided to bring Endeavor.

Undercover villain Hawks was still masked, but in a different way than Hero Hawks. Villain Hawks kept his mouth covered by his costume, while Hero Hawks primarily covered his eyes (Hawks often covered both with the Commission - where he felt he ned the heaviest mask for his own safety).

In their first scene together, both Dabi and Hawks were depicted as burned by Endeavor’s ambition. Dabi as always was covered in burn scars from Endeavor’s eugenics experiment and the flame he lit in Touya. Hawks’ wings were burned by Endeavor’s flames directly because of Hawks’ choice to support his Number One Hero ambitions.

[zzyriphian]

My favorite thing in math is equivalent conditions. Give me a thousand ways to say the same thing please. "Two numbers are coprime if and only if their least common multiple is equal to their product", and "A matrix is invertible iff its kernel has a cardinality of 1" sound so wrong because that's not at all how those two things are defined but they are also provably true.

I got so much extra credit on a linear algebra test once for being able to name almost every equivalent condition of invertability of a matrix we learned over the semester.

[reomikagekin]

UKYO YOURE NEXT 😈😈😋

Ukyo’s favorite food is bread. He loves it. Hell he was shedding actual tears when he ate the bread Francois made.

SO HOW ABOUT THIS HEAR ME OUT SHAKESPEARE

We’re a baker a crush on him, like a HUGE crush on him, Ukyo probably already knows cuz of his stupidly good hearing and is probably like “😳🤭”

So hearing that he likes bread, and know that we have wheat farms, we got to work immediately 💪

We made a bunch of bread, even bread from other cultures thanks to the help of Francois (we love Francois the crowd shouts)

Ukyo is probably nearby though and definitely heard of the plan, so he’s just excitedly waiting with red ears for his favorite food AND his soon to be girlfriend 🤭🤭

(Bonus points if we made him cookies shaped like a submarine)

IM HEARING YOU OUT AND I LOVE ITTTT!!!! i love ukyo so so much, he's my nr.1 favorite character.. so you've blessed me..

Submarines and Sweethearts

The first glow of sunrise shimmered across the wheat fields as you knelt beside your wooden dough-trough. Your hands were coated in cool, sticky dough, fingers folding with practiced ease as steam curled upward from the warm interior. The scent of freshly milled grain mingled with the earthy dew—it was the kind of smell that spoke of life, of warmth, of starting again.

And hope… was Ukyo Saionji.

You blinked against the haze of dawn and thought of him—the gentle precision of his movements, the faint rustle of his uniform when he turned his head, the way his hair swayed with the breeze. You could almost hear him already, the soft padding of his boots, the way he adjusted his gloves in perfect rhythm. There was power in his quiet presence. Kindness too. Your heart squeezed.

Another loaf wouldn’t be enough. You needed more. You needed… everything. You wiped sweat from your brow, rolled your shoulders, and pushed yourself harder.

You’d heard it from Gen, from Chrome, from Francois themselves: Ukyo cried when he ate Francois’s bread. Cried. It wasn’t just a favorite food—it was love in the form of crust and warmth. And if that was how he felt about bread, then you knew what you had to do.

Over the next three weeks, the Kingdom of Science watched as your small plan turned into a full-scale bakery movement.

You woke at dawn with the birds to harvest wheat, cut stalks by hand with Chrome under a blinding sun, testing their dryness between your fingertips. You learned to thresh and winnow the kernels, grind them with water wheels, and sift flour finer than sand. Francois took you under their wing—taught you not just to bake, but to bake from your soul.

You explored breads from every corner of the old world. Sweet Japanese melon pan, soft with sugary crusts. Herbed focaccia dotted with rosemary. Taro coconut rolls wrapped in banana leaves. Dense pumpernickel with cracked rye. You even tried your hand at sourdough, coaxing life from a starter you guarded like treasure.

In your quietest moments, as you kneaded dough with trembling hands, you whispered: “He’s going to love this. He has to.” Your cheeks would heat up every time you imagined Ukyo catching wind of your plan—his hyper-sensitive hearing tuning in to your breathless admissions. You were sure of it. He’d heard. He always did.

“Are you making this for anyone special?” Francois teased one afternoon, as you carefully iced a cookie shaped like a tiny submarine.

Your heart stopped. “No! I mean—what? Why would I—?”

Francois only smiled. “Mm. Be sure to shape the periscope properly. He’ll notice the detail.”

You didn’t ask how they knew.

You made thirty submarine cookies in total. Each one had its own style: a tiny porthole here, a little icing flag there. One had the letters “USS Saionji” written in your smallest possible script. Another said “Loaf you.”

You worked until your hands were raw, until your arms burned, until your whole body ached and smelled of flour and salt. But you didn’t stop. Because this was for Ukyo. Your crush—your full-blown, heart-melting, hopelessly massive crush—and you were going to confess the only way you knew how.

By the time you finished, you had an entire table laid out in the central square: a sprawling feast of golden-brown crusts, soft pillowy buns, braided rolls glistening with egg wash, baguettes with perfectly scored ridges. The submarine cookies sat on a handmade plate at the center, arranged like a little fleet ready to sail.

You had barely caught your breath when you heard the familiar footsteps.

Ukyo moved through the field with practiced calm, bow strapped to his back, pale blond hair tied loosely. His eyes landed on you first, then the table. He blinked once. Then again.

He approached silently, and for a moment, the world around you slowed.

“This is…” he began, voice a hushed breath, “all bread?”

You laughed nervously. “Yeah. I mean, not just any bread. I tried to cover a bunch of styles, you know? Some you might not have had yet. I got help from Francois. They were incredible. I thought… maybe you’d like—”

You didn’t get to finish. Ukyo picked up a boule, tearing it open gently. Steam billowed out, sweet and nutty. He tasted a piece. And then, quietly, his lashes fluttered.

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

You stood there, speechless, as Ukyo—kind, pacifist Ukyo—closed his eyes and smiled.

He wiped his face quickly, almost shyly. “Sorry. I just… This is amazing. You made all of this?”

You nodded, your voice catching. “It’s all for you.”

His ears—already pink—flushed red. He reached for a cookie next. One of the submarines. His thumb brushed over the iced writing. “Loaf you,” he read aloud, with the tiniest smile.

He turned to look at you directly, something soft and knowing in his gaze. “You really… you like me, don’t you?”

You laughed nervously, your heart thudding. “You probably heard me talking about it from, like, a mile away.”

“Only every morning,” he admitted, chuckling quietly. “You mumble when you knead dough. It’s kind of adorable.”

Your face burned. “I can’t believe this is happening. You’re—”

Ukyo stepped closer, eyes warm, posture still gentle. “I never said I didn’t like it. Or you.”

You swallowed hard. “So… you don’t mind that I made a hundred submarine cookies for you?”

“Mind?” he echoed, smiling again. “They’re the best thing I’ve ever been given.”

He took your flour-dusted hand in his own. The touch was warm. Steady. Honest.

“You didn’t have to do all of this to impress me,” he said softly. “But I’m really, really glad you did.”

Your breath hitched. “So… does this mean—”

Ukyo leaned forward, forehead resting gently against yours.

“Yes,” he said. “Whatever you’re asking, the answer is yes.”

And for a while, neither of you moved. The wind rustled the fields, the lanterns above the square swayed. Laughter echoed in the distance. But in that moment, there was only bread, and the warmth between your hands, and a heart that beat a little faster when he smiled.

Later that night, you shared a warm roll under the stars, sitting side by side on a bench near the river. Ukyo broke off half of his cookie and gave it to you wordlessly, his ears still red.

You bit into the little submarine with a giggle.

“You know,” you murmured, “I can make more.”

Ukyo chuckled, nudging your arm. “Then I guess I’m yours for life.”

You blushed furiously, but the smile that bloomed on your lips could’ve lit up all of Ishigami Village.

Bread had never meant so much.