#Countdown timers instructions

[suguryusei]

okay but photobooth date with bf shidou ryusei on your birthday.

warning: shidou ryusei x fem!reader, physical touch, uses of nicknames like 'lover' 'pookie' etc. lowkey embarrassing you, you guys are inside the mall btw :x and shidou paid for the photobooth thingy:p

-

you and the tanned young man are waiting while the other booths are full. as you guys are waiting, you both picked accessories that you can use in the photobooth. "hey, you should wear this!" ryusei suggested. you turn your head around to see a sunglasses that has a 'happy birthday!' on top of glasses. "It's your birthday today, you should wear that!" ryusei insisted, his voice was loud that other people passing by are now looking at you both.

"no, i won't wear that ryu. it's too embarrassing.." you muttered and returned to your original position, looking for better accessories to wear. "c'mon now babe! it looks good on you!" your boyfriend exclaimed, even the cashier is now looking at you both. "Okay then, let's pick other accessories first, okay?" you agreed, seeing your man grinning like a child now. The accessories picked is now in a basket.

the accessories that shidou ryusei chose was a velociraptor headwear, a chainsawman headwear, the 'happy birthday' glasses, a random glasses, and a sign that said "I'm so inlove with her -> ". Whilst you chose anything that was pleasing to your eye:D

When it was you and your boyfriends turn, the cashier instructed the rules of the photobooth. You chose an accessory that you wanted for the first photoshoot, while ryusei chose the velociraptor headwear. Ryusei clicked 'start' at the screen and a timer started to countdown at the screen. You quickly tried to fix your hair while your boyfriend is just looking at you. When the timer went 1 second, Ryusei swiftly held your shoulder and shoved your body on his chest. The camera captured your late reaction, you looked like you were still processing what he did while your lover smiled at the camera.

"why'd you do that, ryu?" you questioned your pookie and saw that there was a timer again on the screen. you didn't have much time to change your accessory and saw ryusei having the sign in his hand, pointing the sign "I'm so inlove with her ->" beside you with the random glasses he chose. You pose for the camera, and it flashed right after you did.

For the third picture, you chose another accessory while shidou chose to wear the chainsawman headwear and helped you wear the glasses that had a 'happy birthday!' design. you kissed his cheek and the camera flashed, capturing the moment.

For the last picture, you chose an another accessory but didn't remove the glasses. You fixed your clothes and hair while ryusei waited for you to get ready. you guys posed, showing a peace sign but at the last moment, your lover kissed your cheek. The camera flashed, capturing the moment once again.

The screen is now loading, you and your boyfriend is now waiting for the picture to print. "We should do this often more, babe." Ryusei suggested. "Mhm, I love capturing our moments." You lovingly replied to him. You and your lover returned the accessories in the basket and got out of the booth once the pictures had been printed.

The cashier has recieved the basket of the accessories you guys chose. "Y'know, you were really cute in that glasses that had a 'happy birthday' on top!" ryusei complimented you while you're just getting embarrassed as people can overhear your conversation and know that it's your birthday today. Ryusei even sang you happy birthday, embarrassing you even more.

"It's your birthday today?" The cashier finally asked you, you were gonna answer but your man cut you off. "Yeah, It's my beautiful, magnificent, gorgeous, smart, and fantastic lovers birthday today!" He was really glad the cashier asked that. "Do you wanna know the story of how me and my beautiful girl met?" Ryusei asked the cashier. "Baby, let's go. I'm hungry" You told him, hoping to leave the poor cashier alone. " I'll tell the story next time. Well then, See ya!" Your lover told the cashier and left him alone.

And now you guys are walking together looking for restaurants around the mall, and he's staring at the picture that the photobooth had taken. He's now smiling, continuously staring at the picture. He loves you very much.

a/n: Hello! another shidou fic :p im sorry again because its not proof read and that it may contain grammatical errors. Anyways, thanks for reading! :P

[curiosityschild]

I did a Deaf Chell Portal playthrough (no sound and no subtitles) and it totally works.

My two questions were 1) would it be plausible for Chell to survive to the end of the game? And 2) would Chell have any idea that GLaDOS even existed at all?

And the answers are 1) Yes and 2) No.

Basically, Portal is a very good game with very well designed puzzles. At no point do you need any verbal instruction from GLaDOS. All the information you need to progress is given by the actual design of the level itself. For instance, the companion cube level. I was initially worried that this level would rely very heavily on GLaDOS's dialogue. I was thinking that it probably wouldn't be obvious to Chell that she had to destroy the cube to move on and that it probably would take her some time to stumble upon the correct course of action while trying whatever she could. But no! The fact that you have to incinerate the companion cube is made very obvious. There's literally a couple of those hazard warnings on the ground in front of the incinerator that tell you to throw the cube in.

IMO it would be pretty apparent to Chell what she needed to do and how to move through the facility. She may not understand WHY but she would know what to do. Even the end of the formal testing part where she is about to be incinerated. I don't know if Chell would know if this part was purposeful or accidental but regardless, she would be able to escape. The long and short of it is at any point in the game Chell's only option is to move forward and there's only ever one way forward.

There is basically no indication of GLaDOS's existence if Chell is Deaf. Here are the clues you get:

-no other humans in the facility

-once or twice the door to a level doesn't open until she's done monologuing at you (Chell of course has no idea she's being monologued at)

-one of the scribbles in Rattmann's hideout says "She's watching you" (Chell would not be too surprised by this. The cameras and observation rooms are obvious)

That's it. That's all you get up until you open the door to GLaDOS's chamber.

And even then! Even then the conclusion she's going to draw won't be more complex than "this computer must be the thing keeping the facility running and it is currently trying to kill me".

Now the GLaDOS fight itself is probably the biggest stretch of plausibility. At first, before the neurotoxin, GLaDOS does nothing that indicates she wants to hurt you. A piece of her falls off. It's pretty obvious that you can pick it up and put it in the incinerator (again, level design) but why? Just to do something? This is the weakest moment in the whole theory. AFTER that though, the continued destruction of GLaDOS makes more sense. Chell sees the countdown timer. She sees the neurotoxin even if she doesn't know what it is and she probably feels it too. There is now one of those eyeball turrets shooting at her. It is reasonable for Chell to draw the conclusion of "this huge robot is controlling the facility" at this point. And if the robot is making things shoot at her it makes sense to destroy the robot.

So she does. And she gets spit up onto the surface with absolutely no idea that GLaDOS had spent the entire time insulting her or even that she was sentient in the first place.

Which is very funny.

[redfilledfantasies]

First Sight (Chapter 3 of 7)

Carmella gripped the barbell with mathematical precision, her fingers positioned at the exact intervals required for optimal leverage. Her mind calculated the resistance, cataloged the muscle groups engaged, measured the angle of her spine with clinical detachment. But as she executed the first repetition, her gaze betrayed her, slipping across the gym floor to where Audrey O'Rourke demonstrated a complex movement pattern to a client, her freckled arms flexing with enviable definition.

"Eight, nine, ten," she whispered, forcing her attention back to her own exercise. The count was a ritual, a familiar anchor in the storm of distraction that had consumed her since first noticing the red-haired trainer. She completed the set with mechanical efficiency, but the numbers felt hollow, the movements perfunctory rather than purposeful.

Her reflection watched her from the wall of mirrors – hair perfectly in place, designer glasses aligned to the exact millimeter on her nose, compression leggings displaying the results of years of disciplined training. The image of control contradicted the chaos beneath her skin, the irregular thrum of her pulse that no amount of focused breathing could regulate.

She programmed her rest interval on her fitness watch – ninety seconds, not a moment more or less. The timer began its countdown, and her eyes, freed from the demands of exertion, found Audrey again with magnetic certainty.

The trainer stood beside a middle-aged woman attempting a kettlebell swing, her hands making precise adjustments to the client's form with confident authority. "Engage your core first," Audrey instructed, her voice carrying across the gym with clear command. "The power comes from here, not from your arms."

Carmella observed the activation sequence of Audrey's own muscles as she demonstrated the movement – the perfect coordination of her gluteal complex, the transverse abdominal contraction preceding the hip hinge, the posterior chain engaging in textbook sequence. The clinical terminology scrolled through her mind, but the appreciation she felt transcended professional curiosity.

Her watch buzzed against her wrist, signaling the end of her rest period. Carmella moved to the next exercise with determined focus, selecting dumbbells with her usual methodical consideration of progressive overload principles. She positioned herself for shoulder presses, carefully aligning her feet at shoulder width, spine neutrally positioned.

"One," she began, raising the weights with precise control. Her eyes betrayed her again, finding Audrey across the gym floor. "Two," she continued, the count barely audible as she watched the trainer laugh at something her client said. The sound carried, a bright note above the ambient gym noise that sent an unexpected tremor through Carmella's usually steady hands.

Audrey moved to assist another client, her tank top revealing the intricate topography of her back muscles. Carmella's brain automatically identified each one – trapezius, rhomboids, latissimus dorsi – the anatomical catalog providing insufficient distance from the aesthetic appreciation that followed. The freckles scattered across Audrey's skin created patterns like constellations, and Carmella found herself mapping them with the same attention she gave to cardiac irregularities on an ECG.

"Five," she whispered, realizing she had lost count. She reset, focusing on the weight in her hands, the controlled movement of her shoulders. "One, two, three…" Her gaze drifted once more as Audrey began her own workout between clients. The trainer selected a barbell, loading it with plates that Carmella estimated at approximately 185 pounds – an impressive load that suggested exceptional strength-to-weight ratio. Audrey approached the bar with focused intent, her posture shifting from trainer to athlete with a subtle but distinct transformation.

As Audrey began her deadlift, Carmella's physician's eye calculated the cardiovascular demand of the movement. Based on Audrey's body mass, the resistance applied, and the visible vascularity that appeared with exertion, Carmella estimated her heart rate at approximately 160 beats per minute during peak effort. The mental image formed with startling clarity – the powerful cardiac muscle contracting with perfect efficiency, chambers filling and emptying in rapid sequence, valves opening and closing with mechanical precision.

Carmella's own heart rate accelerated in sympathetic response, a physiological mirroring that she noted with clinical interest even as she experienced its effects. She placed her dumbbells on the rack, her exercise forgotten as she watched Audrey complete her set, imagining the oxygen consumption, the perfectly optimized blood flow to working muscles, the exquisite coordination of the trainer's cardiovascular and muscular systems.

Her gym bag sat beside the weight bench, the outline of her stethoscope visible through the fabric. Carmella's fingers twitched with sudden urgency, imagining the sensation of the cold metal disc against Audrey's warm skin, the intimate sound of her heartbeat filling Carmella's ears. She envisioned the rhythm – strong, regular, with the distinctive S1 and S2 sounds separated by precisely timed intervals.

The medical fantasy expanded, encompassing detailed measurements of Audrey's cardiac output during peak exertion, her stroke volume, the efficiency of ventricular contraction. Carmella's fingers reached unconsciously toward her bag, the gesture arrested only by her sudden awareness of its inappropriate nature. "Focus," she whispered to herself, the command lacking its usual authority. She returned to the weight rack, selecting dumbbells for her next exercise with less precision than her routine demanded.

The weight felt strange in her hands, the balance unfamiliar. As she attempted a bicep curl, Audrey transitioned to a squat rack nearby, positioning herself beneath the bar with perfect form. The proximity was unexpectedly disruptive, and Carmella's grip faltered. The dumbbell slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor with a sound that echoed through the gym.

Several heads turned, including Audrey's. The trainer's green eyes met Carmella's for a brief, electric moment, a flicker of recognition passing between them before Carmella broke the connection, bending to retrieve the fallen weight with uncharacteristic awkwardness.

Her cheeks flushed with heat that had nothing to do with physical exertion. The loss of control was unprecedented, a data point that demanded analysis but defied her usual methodical approach. She adjusted her glasses, a habitual gesture that provided momentary comfort but no real solution to her disrupted equilibrium. "Do you need a spot?" A gym attendant approached, his concern evident in his expression.

"No. Thank you. Momentary lapse in grip strength," Carmella replied, her voice steadier than her hands. The clinical explanation was accurate but incomplete, omitting the causal relationship between her distraction and the failure of her usually reliable coordination. She completed her remaining exercises with forced concentration, counting each repetition with deliberate focus, though the numbers seemed to slip from her mind almost as soon as they were formed.

Her usual perfectly sequenced routine had transformed into a fragmented series of movements, interrupted by glances toward Audrey that grew more frequent and less disguised as the session progressed. By the time she gathered her belongings, Carmella's workout log showed significant deviations from her planned regimen – missed sets, altered sequencing, extended rest periods that had nothing to do with recovery and everything to do with observation.

The data reflected a disruption more profound than physical – the same precise mind that could diagnose complex cardiac arrhythmias from subtle sound variations now struggled to maintain a simple exercise count under the influence of Audrey O'Rourke's presence. As she left the gym, Carmella's fingers closed around her stethoscope through the fabric of her bag, the instrument both a professional tool and a conduit for fantasies that grew more vivid with each passing day.

The weight of it was an anchor to her identity, even as that identity shifted beneath the force of her fascination. The Manhattan Cardiology Clinic gleamed with sterile precision, the morning light reflecting off polished surfaces and state-of-the-art equipment. Carmella adjusted her white coat with practiced efficiency, the weight of her stethoscope around her neck a familiar anchor to her professional identity.

She reviewed the day's schedule, counting eight patients requiring her expertise, but the numbers blurred before her eyes, replaced by unbidden calculations of when she might next observe Audrey O'Rourke's exceptional cardiovascular performance. She blinked, forcing her attention back to the chart in her hands. Mrs. Abramson, 67, mild mitral valve regurgitation. The data was clear, the diagnosis straightforward, the treatment protocol well-established.

Yet as she made notes in the margin, her pen strayed from its usual precise script, tracing the familiar pattern of a cardiac rhythm strip. She found herself sketching the distinct peaks and valleys of a heartbeat – not Mrs. Abramson's irregular pattern, but the perfect, powerful rhythm she imagined coursed through Audrey's athletic frame. "Dr. Hill?" Her nurse stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand. "Your first patient is ready in room three." Carmella nodded, quickly flipping the page to cover her inappropriate doodling. "Thank you, Gloria." Her voice maintained its professional tone, betraying none of the distraction that had colonized her thoughts.

The examination room was a sanctuary of order – instruments arranged at precise angles, surfaces immaculate, the environment optimized for clinical excellence. Carmella entered with measured steps, her greeting to the patient – a woman in her early forties with complaints of occasional arrhythmia – as practiced as her physical assessment routine.

"I'm going to listen to your heart in several positions," Carmella explained, warming the stethoscope's chest piece between her palms with automatic precision. "Please breathe normally. She positioned the instrument against the woman's skin, closing her eyes to focus on the sounds that would fill her ears. But as the first cardiac tones registered, her mind performed an unprecedented substitution – overlaying the actual sounds with the imagined rhythm of Audrey's heart.

The fantasy was vivid and unbidden – the powerful contractions, the efficient valve closures, the perfect intervals between systole and diastole that would characterize an elite athlete's cardiac function. Carmella opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented by the disconnect between what she heard and what she visualized. The patient looked at her expectantly, unaware of the unprofessional detour her doctor's mind had taken.

"I'm going to move to another listening position," Carmella said, her voice less assured than usual. She repositioned the stethoscope, determined to focus on the actual patient before her rather than the phantom heartbeat that had hijacked her attention. But the sounds merged and transformed again – the patient's mild tachycardia becoming Audrey's powerful rhythm in her mind's ear. Carmella imagined the trainer's heart during peak exertion, the increased stroke volume, the efficient myocardial contractility, the perfect coordination of electrical impulses through specialized cardiac tissue.

"Dr. Hill? Is everything alright?" The patient's voice pulled her back to the present. "Yes. I'm listening for a particular sound," Carmella replied, the explanation technically true though profoundly incomplete. Her cheeks flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature – an involuntary physiological response to her inappropriate thoughts that she recognized with clinical detachment even as she experienced its effects.

She moved through the rest of the examination with forced concentration, her hands less steady than usual as she prepared to take the patient's blood pressure. The sphygmomanometer slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor in a betrayal of her usually impeccable coordination. "I apologize," she said, bending to retrieve the instrument with uncharacteristic awkwardness. "Let me recalibrate this."

The patient smiled uncertainly, the doctor's fumbling at odds with her reputation for precision. Carmella recalibrated not just the instrument but her own focus, forcing her attention to the clinical task at hand through sheer professional will. Her notes on the examination were less detailed than her usual meticulous documentation, the margins once again filling with unconscious tracings of idealized cardiac waveforms.

She prescribed additional tests with mechanical efficiency, her mind already drifting to the next examination even as she completed this one. In the hallway between patients, she heard her nurse's voice from the station. "Dr. Hill seems distracted today." "I noticed," replied another staff member. "She's never like this." Carmella pretended not to hear, though the observation stung with its accuracy. Her next patient – an elderly man with hypertension – received the same divided attention, her assessment technically competent but lacking the focused precision that defined her practice.

"Thank you, Mrs. Turner," she said as she concluded the examination, only realizing her error when confusion crossed the man's features. "It's Mr. Sullivan, Doctor," he corrected gently. Carmella felt a jolt of mortification, the mistake unprecedented in her practice. "Of course, Mr. Sullivan. I apologize." From the corner of her eye, she saw Gloria exchange a concerned glance with the medical assistant, the silent communication more damning than any verbal critique.

By midday, the pattern of distraction had become impossible to ignore. Her usual efficiency had given way to uncharacteristic delays, her documentation littered with absently drawn cardiac rhythms, her diagnostic acumen compromised by thoughts that had no place in her professional sphere. She retreated to her office between appointments, closing the door against the concerned glances of her staff. The space should have provided respite, a return to order, but even here she found no relief from the thoughts that had infiltrated her methodical mind.

Her fingers moved to her keyboard with hesitant purpose, opening the browser with a sense of surrender to the compulsion that had taken hold. She navigated to the gym's website, scrolling through the pages until she found what she sought – Audrey O'Rourke's trainer profile. The professional photograph showed Audrey in her element, the confident stance and assured smile projecting the authority Carmella had observed in person.

The bio listed impressive credentials – certified strength and conditioning specialist, master's degree in exercise physiology, specialized training in cardiac rehabilitation. This last detail caught Carmella's attention with particular force – a professional intersection she hadn't anticipated. She leaned closer to the screen, absorbing each detail with the same intensity she normally reserved for complex ECG readings. Audrey had spent three years working with post-cardiac event patients, helping them rebuild strength and cardiovascular capacity after heart attacks or surgery.

The confluence of their professional interests sent an unexpected thrill through Carmella – a point of connection beyond the physical fascination that had consumed her thoughts. Her hand moved unconsciously to the stethoscope around her neck, fingers tracing the tubing with absent familiarity. She imagined a conversation with Audrey about cardiac rehabilitation protocols, the professional exchange quickly transforming in her mind to something more intimate – discussing the trainer's own exceptional heart function, perhaps offering to perform an echocardiogram to visualize the perfectly developed cardiac muscle that powered her athletic performance.

The fantasy expanded, incorporating clinical details with inappropriate personal interest. Carmella's fingers tightened around the stethoscope, the pressure a physical manifestation of the tension that had built within her. The instrument was both a symbol of her professional identity and, increasingly, a conduit for desires that threatened that very identity.

She scrolled further, finding Audrey's schedule listed on the site – Monday through Friday, with classes and personal training slots clearly marked. Carmella noted the information with inappropriate attention to detail, mentally comparing it to her own clinical schedule, calculating potential overlaps and opportunities. The office door opened without warning, Gloria appearing with a clipboard in hand. "Your one o'clock is ready, Dr. Hill."

Carmella startled, closing the browser with hasty keystrokes that betrayed her guilt. "Thank you. I'll be right there." Her voice sounded strained to her own ears, the professional tone undermined by the flush that spread across her cheeks. Gloria's gaze lingered for a moment too long, taking in the doctor's unusual demeanor, the hand still gripping the stethoscope like a lifeline, the flush that extended below the collar of her impeccably pressed shirt.

"Is everything alright, Doctor?" she asked, concern evident in her tone. "Of course," Carmella replied, rising from her chair with forced composure. She adjusted her lab coat, squared her shoulders, attempted to reclaim the professional demeanor that had defined her career. "Just reviewing some research." The half-truth felt foreign on her tongue, her usual precise honesty compromised by the nature of her distraction. She followed Gloria into the hallway, the weight of the stethoscope around her neck a reminder of the responsibility she bore to her patients – a responsibility increasingly challenged by the obsession that had taken root in her meticulously ordered mind.

Carmella's apartment existed as a monument to control, each surface gleaming with the same clinical perfection as her examination rooms. The kitchen counters reflected the overhead lights at precise angles, not a fingerprint or water spot marring the immaculate granite. She moved through the space with practiced efficiency, selecting vegetables from the refrigerator and arranging them on the cutting board in ascending size order, a ritual as familiar and necessary as breathing.

But beneath this ceremony of precision, her thoughts pulsed with the same disruptive rhythm that had plagued her all day – the imagined sound of Audrey O'Rourke's exceptional heart. The knife moved with mechanical precision, creating uniform slices exactly five millimeters thick. Carmella's hands maintained their practiced skill even as her mind calculated the cardiovascular capacity required for Audrey's training regimen.

Based on the trainer's observed performance at peak exertion, Carmella estimated her VO2 max at approximately 55 milliliters per kilogram per minute – substantially above average for women her age, suggesting exceptional oxygen utilization efficiency. The cutting complete, she arranged the vegetables in the pan according to cooking time, the process as methodical as any surgical procedure.

Her culinary routine allowed for no deviations, yet her thoughts strayed relentlessly to Audrey's physiology – the probable stroke volume of her heart during intense exercise, the efficient ventricular contractions, the perfectly synchronized electrical conduction through specialized cardiac tissue.

"Assuming a resting heart rate of approximately 45 beats per minute," she murmured aloud, the sound of her own voice startling in the quiet apartment, "and observed recovery rate after exertion, cardiac output during peak performance would be exceptional." She caught herself, the clinical monologue an unusual departure from her silent efficiency. The vegetables simmered precisely according to her predetermined timing, but the meal preparation had become secondary to the physiological calculations that consumed her thoughts.

After dinner, consumed without tasting and cleared away with automatic precision, Carmella settled at her desk with the day's patient files. The routine was familiar – review notes, update recommendations, prepare for follow-up appointments with methodical attention to detail. She opened the first folder, Mrs. Abramson's mitral valve regurgitation case, and attempted to focus on the clinical data.

Her pen moved across the page, beginning to note treatment adjustments, but the line quickly transformed into the distinctive pattern of a cardiac waveform – not Mrs. Abramson's irregular rhythm, but the idealized contours she imagined characterized Audrey's exceptional heart function. She stared at the inappropriate doodle, then set the file aside, selecting another with determined focus.

Mr. Sullivan's hypertension case provided no better anchor for her wandering attention. After reading the same blood pressure values three times without retention, Carmella abandoned the pretense of clinical review. She pulled a blank sheet of paper from her desk drawer, allowing the compulsion that had built throughout the day to express itself through her pen.

The anatomical drawing began with clinical precision – the four chambers of the heart rendered with textbook accuracy, each valve detailed with the expertise of a specialist who had examined thousands. Her fingers moved with the same care she applied to delicate cardiac procedures, outlining the muscular walls of the left ventricle with particular attention to detail.

She labeled each structure with exacting terminology – tricuspid valve, papillary muscles, interventricular septum – the Latin terms flowing from her pen with practiced familiarity. The drawing expanded to include the major vessels, the coronary arteries that supplied blood to the cardiac muscle itself, the pulmonary veins returning oxygenated blood from the lungs.

As the anatomical illustration grew more detailed, Carmella found herself enhancing certain features – the left ventricular wall thickened slightly beyond normal parameters, the kind of beneficial hypertrophy seen in elite athletes. The heart on her page was no longer the generic organ from medical textbooks but a specific heart, imagined with inappropriate detail as the powerhouse driving Audrey's exceptional physical performance.

She set down her pen and rose from the desk, suddenly restless. The patient files remained unreviewed, her professional obligations temporarily abandoned to the compulsion that had overtaken her methodical mind. She paced the pristine living room, the measured tempo of her steps providing an inadequate outlet for the tension that hummed beneath her skin.

"In cases of athletic cardiac adaptation," she began, falling into the cadence of the lectures she occasionally delivered at medical conferences, "we observe beneficial structural changes including increased left ventricular mass and enhanced diastolic function." Her audience was imaginary, but her tone maintained its professional authority as she continued: "The subject demonstrates exceptional cardiovascular efficiency, with probable resting bradycardia in the 40-45 beats per minute range and stroke volume significantly above average for her demographic."

She paused, aware that her hypothetical subject had acquired specific features in her mind – red hair pulled back in a functional ponytail, freckled skin with prominent vascularity during exertion, green eyes bright with the confidence of physical mastery. "The athlete's cardiac output during peak performance," she continued, her voice softer now, more personal than professional, "suggests optimal oxygen delivery to working muscles, supporting the observed endurance and strength demonstrations."

Carmella stopped pacing, caught by the realization that her clinical lecture had transformed entirely into a detailed physiological appreciation of Audrey O'Rourke. The professional framework remained, but the content had become uncomfortably specific, crossing boundaries that existed for essential reasons. She moved to the bathroom, drawn by an impulse she recognized as inappropriate even as she surrendered to it.

The space was as immaculate as the rest of her apartment – surfaces gleaming, towels folded with hospital-corner precision, every item aligned at right angles to the countertop edges. Her reflection in the mirror showed a woman still outwardly composed – hair perfectly styled, expression controlled – though her dilated pupils betrayed the internal disruption.

Her stethoscope lay coiled on the bedside table where she had placed it upon returning home. She retrieved it with reverent hands, the familiar weight of the instrument both comforting and exciting as she returned to the bathroom. The metal felt cool against her palm, the tubes flexible between her fingers as she positioned the earpieces.

Carmella unbuttoned her blouse with clinical efficiency, exposing the smooth skin over her sternum. She placed the chest piece against her own heart, closing her eyes as the sound filled her ears – the rhythmic contraction of her own cardiac muscle, accelerated beyond its baseline by the fantasy she was indulging.

But in her mind, the heartbeat became Audrey's. She imagined the trainer before her, freckled skin exposed to her examination, the stethoscope capturing the powerful, efficient contractions of an elite athlete's heart. The fantasy was vivid, immediate – the sound of Audrey's heart filling her consciousness, the imagined warmth of her skin beneath the metal disc, the intimate connection of listening to life's most essential rhythm.

Her own heartbeat quickened further, responding to the fantasy with physiological precision. Carmella noted the acceleration with clinical detachment even as she recognized its significance – increased sympathetic nervous system activation, elevated epinephrine levels, the distinctive physical markers of attraction rendered in cardiac rhythm.

"This is unprofessional," she whispered to her reflection, the words a feeble protest against the tide of her fixation. Her training, her ethical standards, her professional identity all demanded she release this inappropriate fascination with a woman who was, ultimately, a potential patient.

Yet the stethoscope remained pressed to her skin, the fantasy uninterrupted by this momentary acknowledgment of its impropriety. Her eyes closed again, shutting out the accusatory mirror as she surrendered more completely to the imagined examination.

In this controlled environment, with no witnesses to her lapse in professional boundaries, Carmella allowed herself to fully inhabit the fantasy. Her fingers traced the path the stethoscope would take across Audrey's chest – aortic area, pulmonic area, tricuspid area, mitral area – each position revealing another aspect of the trainer's exceptional cardiac function.

The physiological response to this imagination was immediate and undeniable – accelerated heart rate, peripheral vasodilation, elevated core temperature. Carmella recognized these symptoms with the detached precision of her medical training, even as she experienced their effects with unprecedented intensity.

Her clinical detachment, that carefully constructed barrier between observation and engagement, had dissolved entirely in the privacy of her home. The stethoscope, once solely an instrument of her profession, had transformed into a conduit for desire that transcended medical curiosity.

She opened her eyes, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. The woman who looked back was simultaneously the precise cardiologist who had built a reputation on exceptional control and the individual now consumed by fascination that defied that very control. The contradiction should have troubled her more than it did, but as she continued to listen to her racing heart – imagining it as Audrey's – the boundaries between professional interest and personal desire blurred beyond recognition.

The stethoscope captured each beat with perfect clarity, the sound filling her consciousness until nothing remained but the rhythm and the fantasy that had overtaken her meticulously ordered world.

[svtskneecaps]

literally it's 3am where i live and i'm on mobile but FUCK IT i haven't posted any actual writing in like a YEAR on this blog whose description include the words "I WRITE" and i can't tell if i'm even going anywhere with this so fuck it under the cut is the prospective absolute mess of the first chapter of the flipo family time loop fic. (for clarity, flipo family as in slime, mariana, and juanaflippa) this covers loop 0, aka the relevant parts of canon. words: 1630

parts of it i popped off with and other parts i hate; up to you to identify them. also the italics and other formatting got erased when i copy pasted and i'm re-adding all of it by hand so if i missed a spot, no i didn't. if i missed an accent on a letter in spanish that was a typo, if i missed a ¡ or ¿ that may have been on purpose.

oh and for obvious reasons, content warning for mentions and mild descriptions of child death and child murder. no blood, and most of it is a three word mention; i'd say the brief paragraph beginning "Tilín didn't scream" is most of the reason this warning exists.

Charlie Slimecicle stepped off the train.

He’d been hoping for a bright, sunny day to start their vacation, but was sorely disappointed. The portal had apparently taken them pretty far, since they’d gone from noon to night time. Talk about jetlag. They hadn’t even been on a plane.

“What happened to the other guys?” he wondered aloud as he stepped onto the platform.

“Yeah no clue,” Phil said, scanning the empty station. “Thought they’d meet us here.”

“Guys!” one of the Spanish speakers--Vegetta, he’d said, when they’d all met up at the first station--called, from a lectern at the wall. “There is a book!”

They crowded around as he read the instructions aloud--something about pressure plates, Slime wasn’t paying that close of attention. He was a little more preoccupied with making sure it only felt like his brain was dripping out of his ears. That would be kind of embarrassing.

Which was not to say that he wasn’t enjoying the constant onslaught of people talking over each other using words he may or may not understand. In fact, it was the opposite; he was frankly thriving in the absolute chaos that kicked back up around him as a timer appeared in the wrist communicators they’d been provided along with their tickets.

“Como se dice ‘we are going to die now’?” He giggled, chasing Phil and Fit to one end of the station.

“¡Vamos a morir!” shouted Spiderman, echoed seconds later by the black bear in the collared shirt.

Giddy over the high of attempting to use his high school foreign language for the first time maybe ever, Slime absolutely didn’t contribute much to solving the puzzle, and before long the sound of the timer ticking down was accompanied by a loud buzzing alarm.

“It’s been an honor!” he shrieked at the top of his lungs. “It’s been an honor!”

The bear ran past them again, shouting, “I’m going to die!” in English this time.

“Adiós amigos!” Slime yelled.

The countdown ended.

And then his communicator buzzed, and there was a video playing on the screen, showing a cartoonish yellow duck in front of a blurry beach stock photo. He skimmed it absently--some generic welcoming message and another side quest for them--distracted by Maximus audibly losing his shit laughing across the station.

“Come on, I’m trying to take a vacation, I gotta work now?” Fit complained. “This is ridiculous.”

Slime wanted to jump on that bit, but the message cut off with coordinates marred by static and the noise of the emergency weather alert system and he lost his train of thought completely.

“I got the English book!” Spreen called, holding it with two fingers like it had personally offended him.

“English leader,” Vegetta said, seeming to find that amusing.

“English leader.” Spreen laughed and flicked the book away. Slime stepped back but somehow it still nailed him in the chest.

“Guess I’m reading then,” he said cheerfully.

“In Spanish?” Maximus said.

“Um.”

Vegetta called something, backing across the plaza with the book open in his hands. Phil backed up to the wall.

“Here,” Phil instructed, “we’ll read it here.”

“Okay okay.” He flicked it open. “So we have to get water wheel planks--”

Their peace lasted a grand total of thirty seconds as voices suddenly began shouting, overlapping in chaotic chorus.

“What is that?” Fit demanded.

“Is that coming from the other side?” Phil stared up at the top of the wall.

“This is the thinnest thick wall I’ve ever seen,” Slime said, giddy laughter bubbling out of him again. “Is this thing made out of pencil shavings? If I sneeze on it, is there gonna be a hole?”

“Nevermind, we’ll read it over here.” Phil dragged them away again, but the Spanish speakers were dispersing into the trees.

“Forget the book,” Fit said, “follow them!”

(In the end it was explosives that took the wall down, which in hindsight was a precursor to how a not insignificant portion of time on the island was spent. The first day, however, it was just funny, much like everything else.)

(That was to say, the first first day.)

The communicator had indicated that today there was something special planned, so he made an extra effort to wake up.

“Morning Jaiden!” he called to his upstairs neighbor.

“Hi Charlie!” He could hear her farming through the wall. “Glad you woke up on time!”

“Well you know, you know, El Backflipo couldn’t miss it,” he joked, sifting through his backpack. “Got any spare food? I’ll trade you uno backflipo.”

“I have so much toast, come here and get some, free of charge.”

With a quick backflip and some toast to start the day, he popped open the map.

“There’s a lot of people down the wall,” he noted, their green dots so clustered they formed one. “Wanna check it out?”

“Yeah sure.” Jaiden tossed some seeds into a chest. “Do you know what this event’s gonna be?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted cheerfully.

She laughed. “Yeah, me neither. I guess there’s an egg involved, but that’s all I know.”

He dug around in his backpack for a paraglider, nodding along. “Yeah, yeah, un huevo, I get you.” Shuffling the landmine from Vegetta to one side, he yanked out his glider and threw himself out her window. “Let’s go!”

(nothing like getting struck by lightning to wake a guy up in the morning)

Slime fiddled with the communicator as he waited for the line of people to get through the ticket machine; he already had his own, a nice B for Backflipo. The new live translations still boggled his mind. He had to fight the urge to chant weird shit under his breath, just to see what the bubbles would say.

He paid a little extra attention when Mariana walked up to the machine. That guy seemed cool. They’d done that pequeño dormir together on day one, and he had a good sense of humor. Egg parenting would probably be funny.

He was thrilled to see the B for Backflipo on the ticket Mariana stepped away with, even if Mariana was decidedly less so. This was gonna be good.

(it was, and it wasn’t)

So, Mariana wasn’t exactly the coparent of dreams. Then again, Slime was pretty sure Mariana could say the same about him. In fact he was pretty sure Mariana had said the same, but in Spanish, when he wasn’t checking the translation.

It was great. They thought they’d killed a child immediately and then decided to fake their own child’s death to get away with it, and then confessed their sins to a bilingual angel and built a farm and then he buried himself beneath an improvised cross and went into a coma until his sins were forgiven, or something, except his sins weren’t forgiven in time to save his own child’s life.

And then Juanaflippa was dead. Dead at Mariana’s hand.

His bitch wife killed their daughter.

(Everything went faster, after that.)

Slime wanted to kill him.

Slime wanted to kill him for killing their fucking daughter, but of course, Mariana couldn’t even be bothered to be around to take care of her alive, never mind to pay for his crimes when she died by his hand!

(in a better world, his rage started and ended there. in a better world, the anger fizzled out with the lack of a target.

this was not that world)

There couldn’t be an Egg Event with no eggs.

If he killed them all, it would bring her back.

(in a worse world, he succeeded. in a worse world, the Egg Event ended there.

this was not that world)

They held a trial.

If he won, it would bring her back.

(in another world, he didn’t convince them. in another world, they left his daughter in Hell.

this was not that world)

Tilín was still before she hit the ground.

Tilín didn’t scream. Maybe they didn’t have time. It happened so fast. He was sure it happened fast. Almost too fast. But everything went so fast, now, even though Flippa was back. Yet, time slowed down for this, like a rubberneck driving past a highway accident, watching him desperately trying to shock their heart back into motion.

“YOU KILL MY BEST FRIENDS,” Flippa wrote. He begged her to understand. She wrote, “i can’t believe it.”

She wrote, “I HATE YOU.”

(in a better world, the error would have been caught in April instead of July.

this was not that world)

His daughter fell to his bitch wife’s sword. The same way. The next day.

They’d only just gotten her back. And Mariana killed her again.

He only left eggxile for the funeral. She wouldn’t stay dead, but he had to be there.

Time went even faster after that. He was Gegg, or maybe Gegg was him, or maybe Gegg was Gegg, or maybe. . . ?

He went back to eggxile.

He wasn’t leaving without them. Tilín. Juanaflippa. He would do whatever was necessary. He would pray to any higher power. Lil J still owed him a goddamn favor, but the guy wouldn’t pick up his calls. Maybe if he put more shit in the shrine; angels liked shiny shit, didn’t they? He went back to the mine, where the gasses swirled in his head. He built the shrine. He mined. He built the shrine.

He went back to the mine.

He went back to the mine.

He went back to the mine.

“This is where I sit, this is where my bitch wife sits, and this is where my daughter sits, if I had one!”

He’d said that before. No he hadn’t. Yes he had.

No, he just needed to clear his head.

Charlie Slimecicle went back to the mine.

Charlie Slimecicle stepped off the train.

[kadextra]

hiya :3

i haven't been able to catch up the last couple days, would you mind summarizing what happened with the countdown dungeon?

yes anon no problem! :] to summarize all of it:

Jaiden’s cucurucho tasks led her and The Jaidens (cellbit, bbh, foolish) to the “Noise Dungeon,” where they had to fight down 9 levels underground, cleared waves of mobs, ending up at the final room with that red countdown timer. The room being a freezer with 8 spaces/pods(?) in the wall, and the timer counted down for 3 days.

3 days later the “Time’s Up” event began. on this day it was pouring down rain that never stopped (it doesn’t usually rain on the island) and the binary code entity had seemingly hacked into the egg’s daily quests screen. The binary in the quests spelled out “your time is almost up.”

Everyone waited for the timer to hit 00:00:00, and when it did QSMP in chat told everyone online to go to the Noise Dungeon again. A unique screen also played saying “TIME IS UP” that glitched from red to green. back in the dungeon, they once again had to go down the 9 floors and fight through mobs, but now with more people coming along.

However, this time in the final freezer room, the code entity was just hovering there and waiting for everyone. It didn’t attack and simply dropped a book with instructions. It told the group of people to split into 2 teams and each go to different sets of coordinates.

At the coordinates, each team had to reconnect the wiring of two machines that started building train tracks.

Afterwards, everyone heard a loud sound from a train and got a message from QSMP in the chat that said “the train is leaving.” everyone started running asap to the train station and down the tracks. But it was too late, the trains were too fast and disappeared into the now-working nether portals at the end. some people managed to get into the nether but got kicked out right after (in meta admins don’t want them going there yet it’s still being worked on)

To close off the whole event, this image was posted by QSMPGlobal twitter as a teaser of what will come next…! :D

[blu3cl0v3rs]

Day 9: Cookies

“Hey, my mom sent her cookie recipe!” Jay cheered with an open letter in hand.

“Really?” Cole rose with excitement glittering in his eyes.

“Yeah!” Jay pulled out the paper, which had a recipe scribbled out. “I bet we have all of the stuff here. Let’s make it!”

“Yeah!”

The two scurried off to the kitchen. Jay clambered onto a countertop to find the ingredients while Cole went looking for a suitable bowl. Jay hopped to reach the baking powder, and flailed his arms to regain his balance with a yelp. He soon reunited with the floor out of panic.

“Okay, the first step says to preheat the oven to 375 degrees ‘F’,” Jay read aloud. “What’s F?”

Cole cranked the dial on the oven to the marked 375 before saying, “It stands for Fahrenheit. How are you an inventor and you don’t know that?”

Jay stammered, “Wh- I’m nine! And I don’t do temp-a-chur stuff.”

Cole chuckled at him while running off. He returned with two stools, one taller and one shorter. He stood on the short one while asking, “What’s next?”

“We gotta mix three cups of flour, one teaspoon of baking soda, one-half teaspoon of baking powder, and one teaspoon of sea salt,” Jay listed after stepping onto the tall stool.

Cole added the first three into a bowl before hesitating. “Uhhh, Jay, does it matter if it’s sea salt or regular salt?” he asked. “‘Cause we don’t have the sea stuff.”

Jay shrugged. “It’s probably fine.”

Cole dumped in the small amount of salt, then asked for the next instructions.

“Alright, it says to ‘cream’ the two sticks of salted butter, one cup of gran-uh-lated sugar, and one cup light brown sugar, packed,” Jay supplied.

“Lemme see.” Cole put his hand out for the paper.

Jay handed it over, and Cole stared at it. “Oh,” Cole realized, “you mean ‘granulated’.”

“That’s how you say that?” Jay cocked his head in confusion.

“Mhm! My mom taught me it, and she did a lot of baking,” Cole grinned, making his one missing tooth visible.

Cole gave the recipe back before mixing the aforementioned ingredients together in a separate bowl.

The two continued squabbling through the recipe, splashing drops of vanilla extract and throwing small handfuls of extra flour. But, eventually, the cookies were put into the oven. The children leaned against the cabinets in exhaustion, smelling of vanilla and flour, and completely drained of childishly snide remarks.

“Thanks for baking with me,” Cole mumbled. “I haven’t been able to do it since my mom…”

Cole sniffled as his eyes watered. He rubbed a sleeve across his face, gathering the flour in his bangs on the fabric.

“Hey, don’t cry. If you cry, it makes me cry,” Jay said as his lower lip began to tremble.

The two slid closer to each other, Cole scooping Jay into a side hug as they watched the oven timer slowly countdown to zero.

When Wu returned from the markets, he was not expecting the smell of cookies, nor the sight of two trying-not-to-cry children.

“Oh dear, what has happened, young ones?” Wu said as he was about to set his bags down onto the counter he had now noticed was lightly coated in flour, sugar, and the forgotten insides of an egg.

“We were making cookies because my mom sent her amazing, super duper good cookie recipe to me because she knows I love cookies and Cole helped me make them and then he started crying because it reminded him of his mom and I started crying because he was crying,” Jay rambled through sniffles.

“Oh, well we can’t have that, now can we?” Wu said as he swiped a stray tear off Cole’s cheek. “We have cookies to prepare for. You two should go clean yourselves up while I take care of this mess.

The two nodded and walked off in the direction of the bathroom. Wu then swept up the remains of their baking exploit and set out some small plates for the cookies.

By the time the two returned, there were happy smiles on their faces, and warm cookies on their plates.

—

DAY 8 || DAY 10

i think i cooked with this one, pun intended. or would it be baked? 🤔

btw, this is the recipe they used

[psdmonsters]

Moodring Cute Shopify Theme

Our new Shopify theme Moodring is here. 🙌 With a creative design and a cool color-changing background, the theme is sure to wow visitors and make your store stand out! The theme comes with 100 fun icons, 22 quirky background patterns, 19 sections, 4 page templates, 4 menu layouts, Quick View, email popup, and more.

The theme also comes with a ton of options, from changing colors to turning elements on/off, so that you can tweak the theme and get it looking exactly how you want. No templates required! Save time and do all your editing entirely within Shopify's site editor.

NOTE (PLEASE READ): Everything you see on the demo site comes with the theme and does not require any plugins or apps. All colors, including the background, icons, and patterns, can be changed, or you can upload your own custom grpahics. Shopify OS 2.0 compatible. If you want to recreate the demo logo, a free Canva template is included in the instructions. This theme only works with Shopify.

1.3 Update (8/9/23): Added custom font upload setting, added products to the Mega Menu, added latest OS 2.0 features (complementary products, inventory status, display product rating, new filters, etc.), added a countdown timer, added "special instructions" custom field, and fixed iOS 16 menu bug.

1.1 Update (4/7/22): Added padding settings to all sections, added option to turn on thumbnails on product pages, added predictive search, added Featured Product section, added setting to change column number for collections, added control for ticker speed

1.1.1 Update (8/4/22): Added option to upload custom patterns and icons. Added setting to turn header social media icons on/off.

1.2 Update (11/11/22): Added font size option. Download Link: https://psdmonsters.com/moodring-cute-shopify-theme/

[kushblazer666]

CANNING: MEATLOAF

Ingredients:

10 lbs ground beef (aka, hamburg)

3 cloves garlic (do not be tempted to add more because raw garlic when pressure-canned can be overwhelming)

1/2 onion

2-3 T light brown sugar

1&1/4 tomato ketchup

1 plastic package of saltine crackers (buy a box of saltines and use one of the plastic packages inside)

1 T parsley

1 t yellow mustard (powder)

1 t pepper

2 t salt

8 eggs

Instructions:

Prepare your jars and lids and bands per instructions in the above link on canning principles. Keep lids submerged in hot water to soften the rubber seal.

Combine everything in a bowl.

Mix all ingredients well

Pack tightly in clean jars. I like adding a little at a time and stomping to pack tightly.

I used a french rolling pin inside a plastic bread bag (so the wood does not touch the meat)

Leave about 1&1/4 inch headspace. Try to eliminate air pockets as much as you can.

About an inch and a quarter headspace

Wipe rims to make sure no pieces will get trapped between the lids and the rims. Apply the bands just finger tight. This will allow for air to escape but still help prevent liquid or pieces to get through. Too tight and you will prevent air to escape, hence, not creating vacuum. The air trapped may also pose a problem with microbes trapped that will not be heated enough to get killed.

Screw on the bands just finger-tight.

Place in the pressure canner with cold water. This is to prevent shock. Turn on the heat, close the canner tightly without the weight. Once steam escapes, time for 10 mins to help create vacuum in the canner. This allows for even heat distribution.

After 10 mins of steam escaping, you might notice that the gauge shows the pressure going up from 0. Put the weight on the “nipple” to help increase the pressure inside. Steam under pressure will create the right temperature necessary to kill the microbes inside the jars within the specified/recommended time frame.

Let pressure reach 10 psi before turning your heat down. On my gas stove, #4 setting keeps that pressure at this level. If I go down, the pressure might not be maintained. When that happens, the countdown begins anew.

Set timer with the pressure kept at 10 psi for 90 mins minimum.

Once done, turn off the heat and let cool down naturally. Do not remove the weight. I usually go to bed by this time then remove the jars the next day. I wait about 24 hours before testing for the seal. Look for jars that did not seal (the lids are still popped up instead of down); refrigerate these and consume within two weeks. (All of mine sealed properly.)

Test the seal by removing the bands then lifting the jars by the lids. The lid should not come off.

All lids are concave – sealed!

When ready to consume, the juice might have solidified and not allow for easy sliding of the meatloaf out of the jar. Reheat slightly in the microwave or hot water to melt the juice.

The meatloaf shrinks in size so it moves away from the glass jar walls.

This will then make it easy to slide the meat out.

Slides out of the jar if you melt the juice first

You can eat right out of the jar or pan-fry to reheat brown the outside.

Tips: Store these in a dark, cool, dry room. Do not bother to reapply the bands. This will help you spot the bad ones easier because if you improperly have canned this and the Botulinum bacteria survived and thrives inside the jar (because of anaerobic and high pH conditions), they will create gas (no more vacuum), which will push the lid out. However, once you open a good jar and have leftovers, place the lid back on. Consume the leftovers within two weeks.

[sqsupernova]

How to Post your Works to the SQSupernova Collection!

That’s right - it’s almost time for Authors and Artists to put their beautiful works on display! We’ve made our beautiful, wonderful guide to help you post your work successfully - please read it THOROUGHLY before asking questions! We promise we’ve covered almost anything that could cause issues.

The posting deadline for all works is 11:59pm Eastern Time on September 2nd!

(What time is that for me? Or, check out our Countdown Timer!)

For those of you with experience posting to the Swan Queen Supernova collection from previous years, this year’s collection can be found HERE - just hit the ‘post to collection’ button and away you go!

Quick reminder - don’t forget to click POST when you are done formatting your work, NOT ‘save as draft’! We will not be able to see or reveal your work if you save it as a draft, and it will not count as being submitted!

For those of you who need more assistance as you prepare to post, read on for more specific instructions:

All right! For those of you who would like further clarification, your first step will still be to go to THIS LINK and click ‘Post to Collection,’ as seen below.

On this next page, you will enter all of the information about your fic/art - starting with rating, warnings, fandom, category, relationships,and characters. A sample page would look like this:

Please make sure your rating and warnings are accurate to your fic/art. If you think a warning might spoil something for the plot, you can select ‘Choose Not to Use Archive Warnings.’ Do NOT select ‘No Archive Warnings Apply’ unless your fic/art truly does not have any of the warning elements present in it.

The Additional Tags section is a place to put anything else you feel should be indicated about your story/art. Is it a historical au? Does it take place on a spaceship? Is it fluff? angst? crack? These tags are optional, but many people do use them to organize their fic/art or to find new fics to read and art to appreciate.

Next up is the preface section - this is how you introduce your fic or art!

Authors - you’ve already sent us a title and summary, so if those still work for you, go ahead and just copy them right in there! If you’ve changed some things up since that submission, go ahead and put your final version in here.

Artists - whatever title you use, it’s probably a good idea to add [Fanart] or [Art] to the end of your title, and to tag it as such in the additional tags as well - this will help people find art specifically!

Notes can be posted at the beginning of the fic - like if you are thanking a beta, or blaming someone for making you do this, or giving introductory notes to the readers about setting, etc - or at the end of the fic, if your notes might spoil part of the plot. You can also check both boxes and put notes in both places!

Now for the fiddly bits:

The first, and most important, thing to check is that under Post to Collections / Challenges, ‘SQSupernova8′ is selected. This should automatically show up, since you used the ‘Post to Collection’ button, but please check anyway!

You can also choose to gift your fic to someone - authors may choose to gift their fic to their artist, or vice versa. You should have their AO3 name from your match-up email!

‘This work is a remix, a translation, a podfic, or was inspired by another work’ - this will be a handy section to connect your fic to your artist’s art, but you won’t be able to use it until after reveals. Skip it for now and come back to it later, once your partner’s work has been revealed!

‘This work is part of a series’ - if your SQSN was part of a series that you have already begun, you can link it to the previous parts here. Otherwise, skip it.

‘This work has multiple chapters’ - If you’d like to split your work up into chapters, select this option. Once you post the first chapter, you will be able to add additional chapters from the first chapter of your fic/art.

‘Set a different publication date’ - DON’T DO ANYTHING WITH THIS NOW. LEAVE IT ALONE. You will receive instructions in your reveal date email about how to change this date later, to help ensure that it shows up at the top of the Swan Queen tag, so you get the most eyes on it. You cannot change the date BEFORE the date of your reveal, so leave this field alone for now.

You’re almost there! First up are some privacy questions:

These are all options that can make it harder for people to leave mean or abusive comments - but they also make it harder for commenters without accounts to leave feedback, so consider the pros and cons before selecting!

And finally, it’s time to input your fic or art!

For fic - if you are comfortable with html coding, feel free to use the HTML editor button in the top right to switch editing boxes. Otherwise, the Rich Text editor will let you do most basic word editing functions, and will maintain bolding, italics, etc pasted in from Word or Google Docs.

For art, you will need some words in the post itself in order to post, so be sure to add a sentence or two about your work, then select the insert/edit image button:

It will bring up this menu:

Source - this is where you should paste in the url of the image you are hosting on another private site - so don’t publicly post it to your Tumblr! Use a PRIVATE post, at least until reveals are over. For a list of recommended sites, check out AO3′s helpful article on the subject!

Remember that your image URL needs to end in a filetype, like .jpg, .png, .gif, etc etc.!!! IT WILL NOT WORK IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A FILETYPE AT THE END OF YOUR URL. Your image will NOT appear if your link ends in .html, /, or any random numbers or letters.

If you are still having trouble at this step, please consult our Artists' Quick Posting Guide for more info!

Image description - this is very important for people who use screen readers because of vision impairments. Please describe your image as best you can, for example: this is a four-panel cartoon of Emma Swan, a barista, tripping over a chair and spilling hot chocolate down Regina Mills’ shirt. Regina is in a fancy blouse and skirt, and looks very, very pissed off.

Dimensions - if your source image is very, very big, it is recommended that you shrink it down a bit here. You can always come back and play around with the size once you post, so be sure to check that your image isn’t so big it’s hard to see all of it on a normal computer screen.

Aaaaaand, you’re done! If you’re confident everything is correct, you can click ‘Post Without Preview’ (you daredevil, you), but otherwise, click ‘Preview’ and give your story a quick glance over to make sure everything’s in the right place.

Then, once you’re satisfied, just make sure you click POST on the next screen - this is the only way to submit it to us for the collection!

If you don’t click ‘Post,’ your work will stay as a draft and will NOT be counted as submitted! Please make sure to hit POST once you have everything ready.

Once you post your work to the collection, it immediately becomes an unrevealed work. This means that its details are hidden from everyone but you and your beloved mods! Unfortunately, this also makes it a liiiiittle harder to find.

To locate your work once you post it to the collection, go to ‘My Dashboard’ by clicking on the menu that appears when you click on your username in the top right corner of the page, then click on ‘Works’ on the left-hand side.

From here, you can access your hidden work in one of two ways:

Click ‘Edit Works’ on the upper right side of the page. This will let you view all of your works, sorted by fandom, including the one you just submitted to the collection. Click on the title of that work to continue editing it!

Once your work is approved and added to the collection, you can also click ‘Works in Collections’ on the upper right side of the page. This will display all of your works that are currently in collections, sorted chronologically. Your SQSN work should be at the top, with “Unrevealed:” in front of the title. Click on the title of that work to continue editing it!

The URL of your work will also not change once you’ve clicked ‘post,’ so you can also bookmark or save it to come back to at any time.

If you need to add additional chapters to your work, you can do it by going to that URL or locating your fic again as described above, and clicking this link on the first chapter:

Just make sure to press POST on each additional chapter as well! ;D

--------------------

Congratulations! You’ve just Supernova’d! What a rush, eh? Now just lean back, relax, and wait for reveals. Thank you for participating!

Each creator will get an email letting them know the reveal date for each work they have submitted, at least a few days before the date, so that they can prepare and get their friends hyped up for the reveal! If you hear other people getting their emails and you haven’t yet, don’t panic. There are WEEKS of reveals, so some people get emails very early and some people get emails weeks later. We PROMISE everyone will get an email with their reveal date by the time all is said and done!

If you have any questions, feel free to contact us at @SQSupernova on Twitter, or at sqsupernova@gmail.com !

[spectre-requisitions-exchange]

Sign-Ups are Open!

Sign ups for the Spectre Requisitions exchange are now open and you may sign up from January 27th to February 10th. You must fill out at least three unique requests and three unique offers. (Requests and offers do not necessarily have to be the same!).

Important links:

Sign-up Form

Nominated Relationships Spreadsheet

View and search requests in the app

Countdown Timer

A couple of reminders:

Treats are now considered OPT-IN. "Treats" are works that are given to you that are not your main assignment. To opt-in to treats, you will need to enable treats on Ao3 AND declare you are open to being treated. If you do NOT specify treat preferences, we will assume you do not want to receive any treats!

To enable treats: Go to “My Dashboard” on your Ao3 account, select “Preferences” from the sidebar, scroll down to “Collections, Challenges and Gifts,” and make sure that the “Allow Anyone to Gift Me Works” box is checked.

You can use the following template in your sign-up box to state your treat preferences if you would like: Open to Treats: Yes / No Open to Treat types: Fanart, Fanfiction Open to Multi-recip treats: Yes / No If you are open to all types of treats, you can simply say "Treats welcome!"

There is a RATINGS box for sign-ups! The box is not mandatory and non-binding but will help with determining who is or is not interested in smut. If you are open to potentially creating or receiving smut, SELECT the "Explicit" option for that offer/request. Please note that this is NOT a guarantee that you will be matched, in either direction, with someone who has opted into smut; and even if you do match in that manner, you're not obligated to create smut (nor are they obligated to create smut for you).

NOW THAT SAID: SIGN UP! SIGN UP! SIGN-UP! CLICK HERE TO SIGN-UP!

You can go back and edit your Sign-Up Form up until February 10th, 8:00PM EST.

How Do I Sign Up? Instructions beneath the cut:

1) Go to the Sign Up Form at AO3.

2) Start writing in the name of your favorite character/pairing from the nominations. Don’t forget to check the spreadsheet if you need inspiration!

3) The box should start to autofill your pairing as you type (if it doesn’t, that is a known Ao3 bug, and if you type it exactly as it is in the tagset, it will accept it). Select your pairing of choice. You can choose two pairings per request, and may have ten requests total.

The two requests do not need to be related; it is simply a way to try to get around the Ao3 restriction of only having 10 sign-up boxes.

4) Decide whether you would like to potentially receive fanart or fanfic, or both. Check the applicable box(es).

5) The RATINGS box on each request indicates whether or not you are open to receiving smut. The box is not mandatory and non-binding but will help with determining who is or is not interested in smut. Please CHECK the "Explicit" box if you want to receive smut; and leave it unchecked if you do not want to receive smut.

6) In the "Description" box, you MUST include: -Any Do Not Wants (DNWs) for the requested relationship(s). We cannot enforce DNWs that are not contained in your Ao3 signup. -Whether you are opting in to treats or not. If you are opting in, you must say which kind of treats you are open to receiving. If you do NOT specify treat preferences, we will assume you do not want to receive any treats!

You can use the following template to state your treat preferences:

Open to Treats: Yes / No Open to Treat types: Fanart, Fanfiction Open to Multi-recip treats: Yes / No

If you are open to all types of treats, you can simply say "Treats welcome!"

You MAY include: -Prompts, general likes/dislikes -- this is used to help your assigned creator know what sort of gift you would most like to receive!

7) Repeat between 3-10 times, as you like!

8) You may write a letter that goes more in-depth and post it to your tumblr, dreamwidth, public google doc, or another platform, and then fill in the URL in the letter box.

9) Fill out your offers. You must fill out at least three unique pairings you would be okay with writing and can choose one or two pairings to fill in per request.

10) The ratings box on each offer indicates whether or not you are open to receiving smut. The box is not mandatory and non-binding but will help with determining who is or is not interested in smut. Please CHECK the "Explicit" box if you want to create smut; and leave it unchecked if you do not want to create smut.

A BIG WARNING ABOUT USING ‘ANY PAIRINGS’: You may choose to offer ANY, but this means you could be matched to ANYONE who has signed up for the archive. Exchange participants beware of this, do NOT pick Any Pairings if you are not up for a challenge!

The only limits we will allow on "any" requests by are the following parameters:

the category of relationship, eg Gen, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, or Other: you will get a sign up with at least one request of the chosen category. Can be combined with setting.

the game setting: at least one request will be set in Trilogy or Andromeda, depending or your pick; this can be combined with the above, e.g. "Any trilogy Multi" or "Any Andromeda F/F"

ANY Protagonist Shepard pairing: At least one pairing will feature a Commander Shepard (this restriction will not match Hannah Shepard or Clone Shepard.) You may combine this with a relationship category, e.g., "any Female Shepard F/F".

ANY Protagonist Ryder pairing: You will be matched with a sign up featuring at least one sign-up with a Ryder character (this request will not match Alec Ryder or Ellen Ryder requests). You may combine this with a relationship category, e.g., "any Male Ryder M/M".

No other limits may be selected so chose this CAREFULLY.

11) In the notes, please include any notes for the mods that might help the mods in matching you. For example: "I won't write varren fighting" or "Please do not match me to Councilor Udina". These notes are confidential between the mods and you, and are not shared with your match (or anyone else). You don't have to give reasons; just letting us know what your boundaries are is enough for us to hopefully better match you, and we don't share any information given with other people.

12) Click submit! And welcome to the Mass Effect Spectre Requisitions Rare Pair Exchange!

[unassimilatedsoul]

Merely learning that there really are alternate realities is incredible; having the chance to explore one is even more so. Being invited by another version of myself to go to a multiversal conference of alternate versions of me? Now that’s just too weird and fascinating to pass up. Even the simple fact that they somehow tracked me down and sent me an email from another universe has staggering implications.

The invitation came with a countdown timer, and instructions for building a teleportation beacon. It wasn’t easy to build it in time; I hadn’t so much as soldered a circuit together in over a decade. This project was far more advanced than anything I had ever attempted even before I got out of practice with electronics. Still, I found the instructions were incredibly intuitive, lending credibility to the claim that I was being invited by myself.

The morning of the conference, I wake up a bit sleep deprived, but ready to go: I finished the beacon the night before. I strap on my backpack and wait for the countdown to finish.

As the countdown reaches zero, I activate the beacon. Seconds tick by as I start to wonder, did I actually build it right? Is this all just a prank? Did I misunderstand what I was reading?

And about that time is when reality turned inside out.

Next thing I know, I’m lying on the floor and hear a voice, both like my own and not. “Hang on, is that a mammal?”

Sitting up, I look around what appears to be a room in an office building, and a dozen compound eyes meet my gaze. “Something with an endoskeleton at any rate” another voice says, coming from one of the many beetle-like people staring back at me. One of them approaches, and reaches out a hand of sorts. “Are you okay?”

“I think so, just a bit dizzy.” Taking the hand of the beetle-person in front of me, who is dressed in something that looks for all the world like a polo and slacks, I get to my feet. The hand is softer than you would expect for someone with an exoskeleton. “So you’re sure I’m one of you guys? Because seriously, this is-”

“Really weird, I know. But you’re from Earth, the same as the rest of us, just one where evolution took a different path.” The beetle-person steps back, looking me up and down now that I’m standing at my full height. I’m about a head taller than anyone else in the room. “A really different path.”

“But how can we really be different versions of the same person? I mean, no offense, but…” I gesture vaguely towards myself.

“Frankly, the fact that any of us could be ‘alternate versions’ of the same person by random chance is unbelievable. The fact that our worlds have diverged so wildly, and yet converged again independently to form our ancestors and families, to say nothing of cultures and societies that are recognizable across timelines, is statistically so improbable that it shouldn’t have happened even once. Yet it apparently happens all the time. Actually, part of the point of this conference is to try to figure out why.”

Another beetle-person perks up: “You don’t happen to be a paleontologist, are you?”

“No, but I know the broad strokes. I imagine you have a few questio-” is about as far as I get before I break into a coughing fit.

Taking a moment to recover, I now know what it looks like when beetlefolk are worried. “Are you sure you’re okay?” says the one who helped me up.

The comment about paleontology gets me thinking. “The largest insect to ever live on my Earth died out millions of years ago. Some say it could only get that large because there was a lot more oxygen in the atmosphere back then.”

“How big was it?”

“Smaller than all of you.”

I try to focus on how I feel. My throat is tight and scratchy, and it’s getting harder to breathe. I hear the voices of my alternate beetle-selves around me, talking through the implications.

“My Earth has plenty of mammals, it should be fine, right?”

“Yeah, but they didn’t evolve in a low-oxygen environment. That one did. What happens when a mammal gets too much oxygen?”

“I don’t know, but it’s probably not good.”

After a moment’s pause, the one that helped me up quickly backs away from me. “Send it back! Send it back now!”

imagine if you teleported to a big multiversal hub of every version of you from every parallel universe and like 99.99% were just minor variations of some weird beetle alien and it turned out being a human made you one of the zany gimmick versions

[optsigns]

Understanding Traffic Warning Lights 🚦: Keeping Roads Safe

Traffic warning lights are a crucial part of road safety, designed to manage traffic flow and alert drivers and pedestrians about potential hazards ahead. These lights ensure smoother movement, prevent accidents, and promote disciplined driving. In this blog, we’ll dive deep into what traffic warning lights are, their types, importance, and how they help maintain order on the roads.

What Are Traffic Warning Lights? ⚠️

Traffic warning lights are signals placed on roads, intersections, or pedestrian crossings to alert drivers about upcoming road conditions or hazards. Unlike regular traffic lights that control stop-and-go movements, warning lights are specifically used to:

Indicate caution

Warn about specific dangers

Provide instructions to reduce speed or take alternative actions

Types of Traffic Warning Lights 🚥

There are several types of traffic warning lights, each serving a unique function in traffic management:

1. Flashing Yellow Lights 💡

Warn drivers to slow down and proceed with caution.

Often used at intersections where full stop is not required but awareness is critical.

Common near pedestrian crossings, school zones, or merging lanes.

2. Flashing Red Lights 🔴

Act as a stop sign; drivers must come to a complete halt.

Used in situations like railroad crossings or temporary stop zones.

Helps in high-risk areas where full attention is necessary.

3. Pedestrian Warning Lights 🚶‍♂️🚶‍♀️

Alert drivers to the presence of pedestrians.

Often combined with countdown timers to indicate how much time pedestrians have to cross.

Located near schools, busy intersections, or parks.

4. Emergency Vehicle Warning Lights 🚑🚒

Used to alert drivers about the approach of emergency vehicles.

Drivers are expected to give way immediately.

Typically flashing red or blue, depending on the country.

Why Are Traffic Warning Lights Important? 🌟

Traffic warning lights play a vital role in ensuring road safety and efficient traffic management. Here’s why they matter:

1. Prevent Accidents 🚗💥

Warning lights alert drivers early about hazards, reducing reaction time.

Helps in avoiding collisions, especially at tricky intersections or roadworks.

2. Enhance Driver Awareness 🧠

Constant visual cues keep drivers alert and cautious.

Helps manage driver behavior, encouraging safer driving practices.

3. Facilitate Smooth Traffic Flow 🚦➡️

By providing advance warnings, they reduce sudden stops and erratic maneuvers.

Improves overall traffic efficiency and reduces congestion.

4. Protect Pedestrians and Cyclists 🚴‍♂️🚶‍♂️

Special pedestrian warning lights increase safety for non-motorized road users.

Encourages responsible driving around vulnerable groups.

How Do Traffic Warning Lights Work? ⚙️

Traffic warning lights operate based on sensors, timers, and manual controls, depending on their location and function. Here’s a simple overview:

Sensors: Detect approaching vehicles or pedestrians, triggering the lights.

Timers: Control the duration and intervals of light flashes.

Manual Control: Traffic police or road maintenance teams can manually activate warning lights during special conditions like road closures or emergencies.

Benefits of Using Traffic Warning Lights ✅

Traffic warning lights bring numerous benefits to roads and communities. Here are some key advantages:

Improved Road Safety: Early alerts reduce accidents.

Cost-Effective: Automated systems reduce the need for constant human intervention.

Adaptive: Can be used in various conditions — from daily traffic to emergencies.

Easy to Understand: Universal light colors and patterns make it simple for all drivers to recognize warnings.

Common Locations for Traffic Warning Lights 🗺️

Traffic warning lights are strategically installed to maximize their effectiveness:

School zones 🏫

Busy pedestrian crossings 🚶‍♀️

Construction or roadwork sites 🚧

Railroad crossings 🚂

Sharp curves or dangerous intersections 🔄

Highway merge points ➡️

Tips for Drivers When Approaching Traffic Warning Lights 🚙💡

To ensure safety, drivers should follow these simple tips when they see warning lights:

Slow Down: Always reduce speed when a warning light is flashing.

Stay Alert: Watch for any pedestrians, cyclists, or obstacles.

Follow Instructions: Stop or yield if required.

Avoid Distractions: Focus on the road and signals.

Be Patient: Don’t rush through; the lights are there for safety.

The Future of Traffic Warning Lights 🌐🚦

With the advancement of technology, traffic warning lights are evolving:

Smart Traffic Systems: Using AI and IoT to optimize light timing and warnings.

Vehicle-to-Infrastructure Communication: Cars receive direct warnings from traffic lights.

Solar-Powered Lights: Environmentally friendly and cost-saving.

Enhanced Visibility: Using LED and brighter lights for better visibility in all weather conditions.

Conclusion: Stay Safe with Traffic Warning Lights! 🚧💡

Traffic warning lights are essential guardians of our roads, guiding drivers safely through complex and potentially hazardous areas. They help reduce accidents, protect pedestrians, and keep traffic moving efficiently. Next time you see a flashing light, remember it’s a friendly reminder to stay alert and drive responsibly.

Safe driving starts with paying attention to every signal — including those bright, blinking traffic warning lights! 🚦✨

Check out Here!

Business Address: No. 13 YongSheng Rd., ShiFeng Str., TianTai, ZheJiang, 317200, China

Business Phone: +86 180 6770 7638

[aqsazak]

Fast WhatsApp Account Ban Recovery Guide | 2025 Full Solution

Losing access to your WhatsApp account can be stressful, especially when you rely on it for both personal chats and business updates. The good news is, you don’t have to stay cut off for long. With a few simple techniques, you can easily manage WhatsApp Account Ban Recovery and regain control of your account.

In this updated 2025 guide, we’ll explain the most reliable ways to Restore Banned WhatsApp Account, cover why bans happen, and share some handy tips to help you avoid future trouble. Let’s get started!

🔍 Common Reasons for WhatsApp Bans in 2025

Before you jump into recovery steps, it’s smart to understand what may have triggered the ban. In 2025, WhatsApp tightened its security and privacy rules, making it easier to flag accounts for suspicious activity. Knowing the possible reasons behind your ban will help you avoid repeating the same mistake.

The most common causes include:

Sending spam messages or bulk texts to unknown numbers

Using unauthorized apps like GB WhatsApp or FM WhatsApp

Frequently forwarding the same message to several groups

Getting reported by other users for inappropriate content

Violating the platform’s latest terms of service

Now that you know what might have gone wrong, it’s time to focus on effective WhatsApp Account Ban Recoverytechniques.

🛠️ Top Methods for WhatsApp Account Ban Recovery

Thankfully, several recovery options are available in 2025. If your account has been restricted, follow these proven steps to Restore Banned WhatsApp Account and reconnect with your contacts.

1️⃣ Uninstall and Reinstall WhatsApp

One of the quickest ways to start WhatsApp Account Ban Recovery is by uninstalling and reinstalling the official app. Once done, enter your registered phone number and follow the on-screen instructions. In many cases, especially if it’s a temporary ban, this alone can resolve the issue.

2️⃣ Use the In-App Help Section

Another effective approach is contacting WhatsApp support directly from the app. Head to Settings > Help > Contact Us, describe your problem clearly, and attach a screenshot if possible. Many users have reported successful WhatsApp Account Ban Recovery within 24–48 hours using this method.

3️⃣ Send an Email to the Support Team

If the in-app option doesn’t work, don’t worry — you still have other ways to Restore Banned WhatsApp Account. Compose an email to the official WhatsApp support address. Include your phone number (with the country code), device details, and a polite explanation of what happened. This shows your intent to follow the guidelines, increasing your recovery chances.

4️⃣ Wait for the Ban to Expire

If your account was temporarily banned, a countdown timer usually appears when you try to log in. In this case, patience is key. Avoid opening the app repeatedly. Once the timer ends, your account should automatically be restored without any extra action on your part.

5️⃣ Register a New Number (As a Last Resort)

When all else fails, your final option is to register a new number. While this guarantees you’ll regain access to WhatsApp, it also means you might lose old chats unless you had a backup. Use this method only when every WhatsApp Account Ban Recovery attempt has failed.

🧠 Smart Tips to Avoid Future Bans

Successfully restoring your account is one thing, but keeping it safe afterward is just as important. Here are a few smart habits to adopt so you won’t need another WhatsApp Account Ban Recovery session anytime soon:

Use only the official WhatsApp or WhatsApp Business app

Avoid mass-messaging unknown contacts

Enable two-step verification for better security

Forward messages to a limited number of recipients

Follow community guidelines and respect others' privacy

By following these simple practices, you can Restore Banned WhatsApp Account now and maintain long-term access without risking future bans.

While getting banned from WhatsApp can feel disruptive, it’s not the end of the road. With a little patience and the right steps, you can quickly manage WhatsApp Account Ban Recovery and get your account back in no time. Whether you choose to reinstall the app, contact support, or wait out a temporary ban, there’s always a way to Restore Banned WhatsApp Account effectively.

Once you’ve resolved the issue, stick to official apps and responsible messaging habits. That way, you’ll avoid the hassle of another WhatsApp Account Ban Recovery in the future.

[bestjointsupport2025]

The One Joint Supplement That Didn’t End Up in the Trash

Most of the joint supplements I’ve tried never made it past the halfway mark. I’d start with good intentions, maybe take them for a week or two, then slowly stop when I realized nothing was changing. The capsules were huge. The powders tasted awful. Some required two or three servings a day. Even when I remembered to take them, they felt more like a chore than a solution.

Over the years, I tried the usual suspects. Glucosamine and chondroitin. Turmeric with black pepper. MSM in various forms. I even bought an expensive marine collagen powder once because an influencer claimed it changed their life. I’m sure some of them helped a little, but the truth is, I couldn’t stay consistent. Either the format was too inconvenient or the results weren’t noticeable enough to keep me going.

Eventually, I decided to change the way I approached supplements. I stopped chasing products based on flashy marketing and started looking into actual ingredients and how they interact with the body. That’s how I came across something called Joint Restore Gummies.

What caught my attention right away was the delivery format. It wasn’t a pill. It wasn’t a shake. It was a once-daily gummy. That sounded like something I could actually remember to take without rolling my eyes every morning.

Then I saw the formula: Boswellia Serrata and CBC. I already knew Boswellia was used in natural joint support formulas and has a history of research behind it. CBC was new to me. I dug into it and found out it’s a non-psychoactive hemp compound that interacts with the body’s endocannabinoid system. It doesn’t make you feel different, but it may help regulate how your body manages discomfort and inflammation over time.

I didn’t want to order from Amazon or a fake discount site, so I kept digging. That’s when I found what looked like the real product page:

👉 https://sites.google.com/view/best-joint-supplements-for-hum/home

The page was clean. No countdown timers, no “buy now or lose everything” nonsense. It showed real ingredient information, simple bundle pricing, and clear usage instructions. I ordered the three-bottle option to get the best value and started using it daily.

Now it’s been a little over a month. I’ve taken one gummy every day without missing a dose. That’s a big deal for me. I’ve noticed less stiffness when getting up in the morning, especially in my knees and lower back. I’m walking longer, feeling more flexible, and I haven’t even thought about switching products.

It’s not a magic fix, and it didn’t do anything overnight. But it’s the first time I’ve felt like I’m using something that makes sense. The ingredients are solid. The format is easy. And more importantly, I’m actually sticking with it.

If you’ve been through the same cycle of buying bottles, forgetting to take them, and throwing them out a month later, this one might be worth trying. It’s simple, realistic, and a lot more thoughtful than most of what’s out there.