#fast development

[atharvasys]

Why Choose Flutter for Mobile App Development: A Guide

Explore why Flutter is a top choice for mobile app development. This detailed guide covers the advantages of Flutter, including fast development, cross-platform compatibility, and exceptional performance. Learn how Flutter helps developers build visually appealing, high-performance apps for iOS and Android. Discover its unique features, developer-friendly tools, and cost-effectiveness, making it a powerful framework for your next mobile project. Read more about how Flutter can enhance your app development process and save time.

[pigeonphd]

btw guys, ublock and youtube have been in an arms race for the past few weeks so circulating filter lists is pretty useless since youtube gets wise to each one in a matter of days. what you should actually do is remove all your custom filters related to youtube and then force update your filter list whenever you see the anti-adblock pop up again

[marzipanandminutiae]

I hate "it's not trying to be accurate!" arguments for historical fiction or historically-inspired fantasy clothing choices that just. don't make sense logistically

why is that girl in Br*dgerton tightlacing her stays? what is she reducing- her upper ribcage? not only can you not tightlace in those (hand-bound eyelets can't usually take that strain, in my experience), but there's no reason to because your waistline is under your boobs. and unlike most of the series, they actually commit to the empire waistline for the court presentation gowns. small waists don't matter when NOBODY IS SEEING YOUR WAIST

why no chemise, in so many productions? fantasy/lack of concern for accuracy can't make things not chafe. chafing is not a matter of accuracy; it's a physical reality. did a wizard give everybody in the kingdom Anti-Chafing Spells?

just because you don't WANT a linen underlayer beneath a medieval tunic doesn't mean sweat won't get to outer garments and damage them- or make them need laundering, which weakens the fibers -at a time when all clothing is handmade, custom-fitted, and created from hand-woven fabrics and thus a HUGE investment

you're not just throwing accuracy to the winds as a design choice; you're ignoring How Textiles And Bodies And the Realities of Your Technology Level's Fabric and Laundering Capabilities Work

[nerolikestowander]

Ughhhh this has so many flaws but here you go! This song ruined my life 😀

And here are the still versions :(((

[b0tster]

inspired to make this timeline highlighting where bbkart dev is at thanks to this helpful comment i got on twitter

[lynn-tged-posting]

HAPPY HOLIDAYS MERRY WHATEVERS!!! HERE IS THEM!!! I AM NOT LATE WITH POSTING THIS. IT'S DECEMBER 25TH. IT IS NOT TWO DAYS LATER WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

[numbpill]

here's a few ambiguous blinkies, that are most certainly somehow related... mentally ill but has been healthily coping for a good while vibes? certainly..? yea... go wild

(ko-fi)

[iactuallytryingtolovemyself]

like I had this thought!! what if Maomao feelings for Shisui and the aftermath of what happened to her makes her even more hesitant to accept Jinshi's feelings

like if Maomao's love for Shisui didn't save her, one could make the assumption that it wouldn't save Jinshi either!!!

like the love was there but it wasn't enough!!!

It will just reinforce Maomao belief that she as a lowly servant doesn't matter. that her love won't matter. it won't keep anyone safe

and that's what matters more to Maomao!!

she would rather have her loved one's safe than be loved herself

She would rather Jinshi be alive then returning Maomao's feelings and risking him having the same fate as Shisui!!!

keep in mind I've only watched the anime but I know some spoilers from the light novel but I haven't read it.

but like Shisui being self-sacrificial will make Maomao more self-sacrificial in order to protect the one's she loves!!

I LOVE COMPLEX CHARACTERS!!! THIS IS SO JUICY!!!!

[queeniehostapasta]

Whatever. go my broccolini!!!! (About to pass out, look at himmm like stop that…)

Silly animated gif of him, only done three of them so far now, (goku and SSJ4 Veggie if you remember ;3) but honestly might make more, they’re fun when I’m just doing the tail

[diyasgarden]

goddess

"what am i, jesus?" "yeah"

(tashi duncan x f!reader)

The essay is crumpled by the time you reach Tashi. 

The infirmary is a small building; plain and tucked away between some trees at the far end of campus. Simultaneously inconspicuous and irrelevant. At best an after-thought, only identifiable from the words “health center” plastered across the front. 

It’s surprising you didn’t miss it, and you can’t help but feel indignant at the fact that this is where they brought her. But the feeling is quickly washed away with the growing sense of dread that gnaws at your chest. 

Abruptly, you’re hit with the idea that you’d walk in to not find her at all. That there would be no sign of her existence within those four walls. It’s illogical and unfounded, but the thought lingers as you force yourself to the door.

You have a faint memory of meeting Tashi. A blurry recollection of bumping into her at the dining hall and a vague outline of the conversation that followed. The only thing you actually remember are noticing her hands.

It wasn’t anything physical about them that drew your attention. You couldn’t care less about how they actually looked, you were captivated by her movement. Instinctive yet deliberate. As if every action was simultaneously spontaneous and methodical. A dichotomy that gave each motion an innate intensity. A power hidden in the folds of the universe, which only she could reach. 

You didn’t have to watch Tashi play to know she’s special, you just had to watch her hands. 

You knew that from that first moment alone. 

The rubber soles of your sneakers squeak against the tiles as you walk into the room, your breath coming out in short little pants from the run. Your hands flex against the papers in your hands, as a breath of relief slips out upon seeing her. 

Tashi sits on the cot, eyebrows knitted pensively with a frown staring at the brick wall in front of her. Her arms are crossed against her chest, heaving in a melancholic rhythm. For a moment you expect her to scream on the top of her lungs or burst out crying, but she remains stoic.

Her knee is wrapped in what looks to be yards of gauze that is blinding under the overhead fluorescent lights. It beckons your attention with its unsettling glow and you drift to it’s call, your vision flooded with white. 

In the periphery of your view you see a tan movement, followed by the noise of a soft shuffle. Your eyes instantly dart back up to Tashi to see that she is already looking at you, her eyes slightly red and swollen.

Your heart drops. 

You want to carve your knee from its socket with your bare hands and leave it beside her. Give it to her as a replacement. If you could, you’d do it. Maybe give her your whole leg if that is what she wanted. It’s not even a question.   

You told Tashi you’d be late earlier in the week, during one of your yoga sessions. An important part of her routine she roped you into. And while you had no real interest in yoga, you also had no interest in ever denying her. Struggling through asanas was unimportant.

“He said he wanted me to stay a bit after class to talk about my paper,” you explained, voice somewhat strained from holding your breath and hands slightly trembling from trying to keep yourself in downward dog. 

She came down onto the mat beside you, releasing the position into a sitting one. Her hands moved to your waist, gently coaxing you into the proper formation and you exhaled instantly at the contact. “He didn’t say about what?” she questioned absently, preoccupied with your pose.

Your professor had a tendency to be vague via email, one of those people who never truly started trusting the internet. As a result his emails were brief and unintentionally ominous. This one simply read: 

Hello,  Please stay after next class to talk about your mid-semester paper.  Sincerely,  Professor Thatcher

“Just that he wanted to talk about my paper” you responded as her hands moved away from your body, a sense of loss pooling in your stomach. “I’ll just be a bit late to your game,” you frowned, coming down onto your own mat to sit beside her. 

Tashi shrugged, as she moved her foot to rest on the opposite thigh. “You’ll come after?” she said, adjusting her other leg in the same way, settling into the lotus pose. 

“Of course,” you responded without thought, and caught her eyes flick up to yours with a half smirk on her lips before falling back to your lap. Her hands reach towards you and she begins to move your legs as well.

“What class is it again?” she asked, also contorting you into a lotus. A futile effort, although that doesn’t deter her. 

“Asian religions"

She hummed, getting you halfway into the pose. Her gaze pulled away from your lap back up to your face with the same half-smirk. “I swear you do more for this elective than any other class,” she remarks amused.

“Who realized religion is complex?” you sarcastically retorted, a smirk on your own lips now. She laughed in response and little wrinkles formed at the edge of her eyes, the sight turning your smirk into a soft smile. It dipped to a frown as soon as you remembered what the conversation was about in the first place.

You were flippant with routine. Always eager to skip a class and never the one to follow your parents to mass every weekend. But you were always consistent with her games. Routine was only mundane without her.

Tashi’s hand reached to push a lock of hair behind your ears. “It’s only one match,” she whispered looking into your mind. You took in a deep breath and met her gentle eyes, the disappointment morphing into a knot in your chest. The sense of dread lingered as she smiled softly. “How interesting can playing Pepperdine be anyway?” 

The dramatic irony isn’t lost on you, it’s just too tragic to acknowledge. 

You should have taken the knot in your chest as a premonition. 

Her hands tremble. A small, involuntary motion that makes you feel ill. 

You’re seated across from where Tashi is on the cot. You ache to be closer, but the only seat next to her is already occupied by Art. Somehow having wormed his way into a place he doesn’t deserve. 

Like always, his presence and proximity bother you, but there is also a small joy in the fact that it is only Art. Tashi had told you Patrick was visiting for the game, but at the moment was nowhere to be seen. You don’t ask about him either, not one to question small blessings.

Only the sound of breathing fills the poky space. Art is watching you, probably as vexed by your presence as you of his.

(Sometimes you wonder if all the Apostles quietly despised each other as well. You’d understand why.)

You don’t have to turn to already see the impassive expression on his face, so your eyes remain glued to Tashi’s hands. Watching the little erratic tremors as you bit back nausea. There is no fluidity to the uncontrolled movement. It’s just hollow. 

“What’d he say?” Tashi suddenly asks, breaking the unnerving silence. There is an inflection in her voice which is both bitter and pained, an aftertaste of the day’s events. There is nothing to indicate the tone is directed towards you, but you flinch anyway. 

“Huh?” you mumble, not having processed her words. 

“Your professor,” she starts with an exhale. “What’d he say about your paper?” 

Your eyes dart down to the wrinkled papers on your lap, thumb pressing down on one specific crinkle in the vain attempt to straighten it. It feels insignificant. The essay. The professor. Pointless to even think about, much less discuss. 

When you look back up, you see Tashi is looking at you with a desperate wide-eyed interest. She bites the inside of her cheek in unsettled anticipation and it dawns on you that she is trying to fill the room with something besides the obvious torment. Without much of a thought, you murmur “Something about nuance.” 

“Nuance?” she questions, a vain attempt to continue the conversation. 

You nod in response. The interaction is blurry, the moment charged with the desire to leave the game and the memory clouded with the panic of finding out about the injury once you did. But you remember him mentioning nuance. “He told me I needed to be more nuanced,” you repeat, with another small nod in her direction. 

“What was the paper on?” Art asks, also picking up on her need for a distraction. 

You swallow, pushing some hair back from your face, “the living goddesses of Nepal.” 

Kumari was the actual term. A connection between humanity and the divine was how Professor Thatcher described them. “An incarnation of the celestial for a few years,” he said in lecture, although you didn’t catch anything after that. Drifting off by then, your mind already thinking of someone else. 

You’re grateful that Art doesn’t probe on why you chose the topic. Although, you’re sure he would have understood.

You think anyone who knew Tashi would. 

You told her once. 

“You’re like god,” you whispered to her drunk in the living room of Kappa something, too drunk from whatever concoction made by the frat brothers for their Halloween party. You were dressed as a cat, fallen to the ground while dancing inebriated, and clinging onto the soft, white fabric of Tashi’s angel costume as she tried to help you stand. You looked up to her, blinded by the flashing lights of the room and her radiance, and whispered those three words like a prayer. 

She had no verbal response, just pulling you up with a small smile and soft laugh. Her hands moved from your arms to your cheeks, gently cupping your face and tilting it.

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

The infirmary has settled into another, heavier silence. There is no sound loud enough to fill the space. None of you try. 

Her hands still tremble. 

The paramedics arrive eventually, whisking Tashi off to a proper hospital for examination. You take the name of where she’s gone and walk to your dorm, using your essay as a stressball as you plan on how to visit her the next morning.

A wave of exhaustion hits you the minute you cross the threshold into the room, and you walk straight to the bed. The tiredness sinks into your bones when you sit down. The day's events smothering you at once as your fingers play with the corner of the page.

You look down at the shriveled papers in your hand and take your first proper look at it all night. Red pen scribbled all throughout, little notes on grammar and word choice, but at the heading in all caps is written WHAT ABOUT THE AFTER?

Oh right. That’s what he said.

“It’s an informative paper, just…” Professor Thatcher started when you went up to him after class. His voice trailed off as he debated the right word, finally deciding, “just a stale one.” 

“Stale?”

“You lack nuance,” he clarified, with a flick of his wrist, looking back down to the red marking on the paper.

Your eyes darted to the clock on the wall and then back to him. “I mean…how much nuance is there…” you said with a forced smile, a weak attempt at a joke to resolve the conversation and leave for the game.

If he noticed the attempt, he made no comment. “You don’t consider the after,” he remarks, looking back up to you. His eyes narrowed as you snuck another look at the clock. 

“The after?”

“Yes,” he reiterated. “The after.”

“What... after?” you asked, eyes flicking to the clock once again.

“Well you mention how they lose their status after puberty, but don’t actually talk about their life…sans godhood,” he explained, watching you carefully. Daring you to look back at the clock.

You weren’t present enough in the moment to process what he was saying, but felt the need to defend your work anyway. “Well..when you’re worshiped like that…i don’t think you can just let it go…it’s what everyone knows you for”

“Exactly.”

You waited for him to say more, but were only left with an awkward silence. Your eyes darted to the clock once more, and heard a scoff like noise from his direction. He pushed paper into your hands and with a hint of irritation said, “Just re-write it based on the feedback I wrote. Give it back to me next week.”

You left the next second without a second thought.

WHAT ABOUT THE AFTER?

The words are a taunt.

You put the paper down on the bedside table and let your exhaustion carry you to sleep.

The hospital is a bus-ride away from campus. You’re on it by the time the sun starts to rise, trying pointlessly to distract yourself with the sky’s pinkish hues. 

It’s a large hospital, but it doesn’t take much to find Tashi. You tell the lady at the front desk her name, and her face flashes with recognition. She points you in the direction to go and sends you off. 

Three minutes and an elevator ride later, you stand in front of her hospital room. You knock on the door out of courtesy, but quickly push yourself in, unable to handle the distance anymore. 

Tashi is laying on the hospital bed looking out the window. There are dark circles around her eyes and her lips a fine straight line. Her head shifts to acknowledge your presence, before she turns back to the window. 

You don’t move a muscle. 

Your mind goes back to when she kissed your forehead at the Halloween party. She spun you after that, dancing to the music with her in your arms. You clung onto her to keep yourself upright. 

If it wasn’t for her, you would have fallen. 

“They took a couple x-rays” she begins, finally breaking the trepid silence of the room with a low, solemn voice. She looks away from the window in your direction, without properly looking at you. 

You inhale apprehensively, swallowing slowly before you speak. “Yeah?” The question you can't bring yourself to ask lingers in the air.

She turns back to the window, watching the sun finally reaching its rightful place in the sky. Her eyes go distant and you wait for the words you fear. 

“They said I might not play again,” she whispers, eyes still on the sun. Her finger imperceptibly pulls at the sheet on the bed. Your focus is on the subtle motion, watching the way she pinches it between her thumb and index. “I might never play again,” she repeats, her voice louder as if properly hearing herself for the first time. Her brows furrow as she confronts the possibility, trying to reconcile it with everything she’s known.   

Her hands move to push back her hair in a swift, intuitive motion.

“It doesn’t change anything.” 

She lets out a shaky, humorless laugh, before turning to face you. This time your eyes lock and she gives you a small, sad smile. 

She knows what you mean. 

You both know it’s true.

authors note: about a month ago in the midst of Navaratri a frat boy ran into my friend's "Religions of Asia" class and rolled down the lecture hall as if acting out the "Jack and Jill" nursery rhyme. the incident was so off-putting to the professor he decided to turn the entire class virtual from that point on. as a result, my friend now plays his lecture videos while we eat together each Wednesday and this idea was conceived during one of those lunches (so thank you frat guy ig?). this is more experimental than anything else i've written, so i am very curious to know what you all think. i hope you enjoyed it, or at least understood what I was trying to say lol

art credit: taken from the French poster for Satyajit Ray’s Devi

[bumblingbabooshka]

Ocampan babies should be able to walk like a day after they're born. They still look like little babies, not toddlers, but they're walking around on two legs no problem.

In the old days infants could communicate with their parents through telepathy but since that's unavailable in modern Ocampa society, they can only communicate through verbal-physical means like pointing or shrieking. Most Ocampa can remember this stage of life, to varying degrees. Most begin speaking within days. Ocampan weekolds often go through a phase where they feel the need to get out there and explore and so they form groups and run off for some amount of time. People often find mates through this process but it's not the intended purpose - it's like when you're in college and want to find yourself. Some come back within a few days, some don't come back until adulthood. Weekolds might find their backs and hands itching or the skin feeling tight. Eventually it'll peel off to reveal a new layer of skin which feels different from the rest. Ocampan fullgrowns usually settle back down into the community and begin vocational school for a job they desire. Because they learn very quickly, this usually only takes a few days. The Caretaker provides for them all but there's still things the Ocampa have to do themselves to care for the community. It's not unusual for people to pair up at this age but there's no requirement for any Ocampa to ever do so since the Elogium doesn't kill you like the pon farr. The Ocampa don't get married and would find the idea 'a bit paranoid'.

[sunlight-shunlight]

my personal headcanon is that after flemythal uses the well's power on my lavellan for the first time, it sort of forcibly readjusts her accent when speaking elvhen, from "reasonably fluent modern dalish" to "crisply upper-class ancient arlathan". and she doesn't actually notice this at the time, bc by the time it happens, she's already Experienced Crestwood, and doesn't speak elvhen often otherwise.

but the next time she talks to solas and drops in a word or phrase in (stilted and unhappy) conversation, he very much does notice the shift, and feels a sense of palpable horror that she's already been a bit changed.

[newtid]

drew these two days ago but i'm a forgetful andy so pretend that i made that other post today ok cool thanks

you guys really like bugs. it's like i lifted a rock out here

[etz-ashashiyot]

People will sometimes reblog things from me or my old blog about the current leftist antisemitic meltdown that I'll see and be like wow! I was just thinking about writing something like this, but I already said it better then than I would now.

I feel like I really have said everything I can possibly say about this and I really do not like repeating myself.

I just don't know how to keep saying that you should treat my people like human beings. Yes, all of them. Even the ones you don't like. Even the ones who are objectively terrible people. Having to continuously argue for your people's basic humanity is legitimately soul-crushing.

Which is at least in part why I stopped.

Anyway.

Tell me how you treat Jews facing any particular given issue, and I'll tell you how you really feel about that issue.

[imheretoreadafic]

Crack fic idea I'm trying to get out of my brain and into a word document but keeps fighting me:

Bart Allen still has his baby teeth because as it turns out, your body does weird shit when it speed grows. Max is faced with the dilemma of "Do... do I have to do the tooth fairy? No, no, he's 14 that's insane! Bart is... sort of insane, though...?" Helen is attempting to tie him down and study his teeth because she's a dentist and all dentists turn into freaks when given a client with something rare or weird (at least in my personal experience). Bart suddenly understands why little kids cry all the time because this shit SUCKS. Carol has a goddamn heart attack when he casually pulls a tooth out of his face one day.