#there was so much visual trash in that folder

[faytelumos]

Me: Time to move all of my notes I've made on this one story over the last five years into a new folder because they're now completely useless to me. :D

*starts selecting the documents and folders of more documents for this single story of a trilogy*

*click, click, click, click, click—*

52 items selected

Me: ಥㅎಥ It's okay, babies. I still love you. *sets them gently into a folder I know I'll barely ever open again*

[schismusic]

Æon Flux and the end of all things

I don't remember the first time I heard of Æon Flux but I sure as hell remember the first time I watched it, and it wasn't too long ago which would technically not warrant the level of obsession I have for that shit, but here we are anyway.

I was knocked the fuck out on painkillers, two of my wisdom teeth freshly removed, not even remotely worried about the exam that I had coming up in like two days from then. So I was barely moving away from my swivel chair and sleeping on a whole ass armored pillow to prevent from tossing and turning and shit felt so surreal to me. It was like the eating chair from the last Cronenberg movie. So I delved into Æon Flux essentially blind and bingewatched the shit out of it. Twice. Ended up downloading the whole thing from some sketchy ass 1080p remastered torrent, rewatched it again, and spread it around personally in a more cauterized Google Drive folder (so if you guys got a nasty ass virtual STD from it, my bad I guess), not even a month after watching the series. Shit was fucked, in short, and every rewatch just fueled this obsession even further.

(image taken from Episode 1, Season 1)

One thing about me: when I obsess over stuff I want to draw something at the very least inspired by it. Happens to me a lot with Autechre, who are actually one of maybe three bands I would not hesitate to call my favourite based on an absolutely objective principle which is absolutely not up for discussion and which might be the object of a future post at this point. But the point is fucking Æon Flux is essentially impossible to replicate because Peter Chung's character designs are so recognizable that you start seeing them in literally every other movie that came out in the late '90s/early 2000s - and for reference, Æon Flux was brought to an end in 1995. Consequently, all attempts at drawing Æon Flux-inspired stuff end up either feeling very derivative or looking like fucking trash. Artistry is a weird thing because sometimes it inspires other people, other times it just inspires man-slaughtering rage.

Somewhat many of my friends are or have at one point tried to be accomplished visual artists. Some have made it to professional/teaching level, some others have an art school diploma or degree - and I'll be using this space to shout out @coto-letta aka V., who has recently rejoined Tumblr after years of absence. We met on here, when her handle was much different, and I mistook her for an ex of mine (whom, surprisingly, we are still on relatively good - if quiet - terms with) so I slid into her DMs as you do, and she was like "yeah actually I have no clue who the fuck you are I just think your blog is neat and dropped a follow" which was quite a fundamental moment in understanding that while my life was written like a dodgy soap-opera, that didn't mean I was the centre of the entire world. Anyway, the reason I'm shouting her out is because sometimes something deeper and older than you remember has a way of finding you again when you least expect it and that's what happened when in January 2023 (after V. had left Tumblr for at that point about two years and we had exchanged Instagram accounts) I somehow ended up on her Insta and found out she had been tagged in a picture taken somewhere that looked suspiciously like my university's conference hall and I could not fucking believe she was in my city. I slid into her DMs again, as you do, and found out that no, that wasn't my uni's aula magna, but yes, she was in fact relocating in my city for her master's. So we met up after maybe seven years of on-and-off Internet friendship. It's a neat story, sure, but how the fuck do we tie it into Æon Flux?

(image taken from Episode 3, Season 2: Leisure)

Not trying to be overly dramatic here, but Æon Flux to me is just about a condensation of everything that "art" can mean. Not just visual flare or style, not just deep meaning or interesting ways of putting across one or more questions and never a definitive answer to any of them (more often than not, it's sets of possible answers - usually two, neither of which ends up covering the whole array of possibilities, both of which actually leave a lot to be desired in a number of different ways), not just this insane fucking music that toys with everything you expect from animation courtesy of Drew Neumann who may just rank as one of the best soundtrack artists ever in virtue of this single work. It's the whole package. You would think it'd work taken in pieces, and it does, no objection to that: but it works even better as a whole package. If the moral questioning (and the philosophical musings of season 3, which is unjustly underrated because "it's too normal" by hipster wannabe critic dilettantes who like to think that they could do better than that. Everybody else on the other hand is generally able to stop pull their head out their own ass and recognize, at the very least, the excellent craftsmanship and talent that went into the ten long episodes) wasn't accompanied by the weird fetishistic sex it'd be somewhat less impactful, almost like a cauterized Tenshi no tamago made into a series for mainstream late-night TV audiences. The twist was that MTV's executives, at the time, "didn't understand [the double entendres], they didn't even notice them. So, we were okay", in producer Japhet Asher's own words in the short documentary Investigation: The History of Æon Flux. The network was, in fact, trying to break into the mainstream - they simply couldn't keep their creatives at bay. No wonder they turned to Jersey Shore as they went along.

(image taken from Episode 5, Season 3: The Demiurge)

Even just the main characters' purported edginess, clearly something "of its time", is never played entirely straight. Both leads are way too complex, and very clearly presented as such, to be just summed up by "Æon Flux is an anarchist/Trevor Goodchild is a dictator". Both of which are true, by the way, they're just one part of a full picture. Even within the context of its necessary linearity - this is still an animated short and as such moves only in one direction, even though a number of episodes (specifically Mirror and Chronophasia) deliberately fuck with the viewer's perception of times on varying degrees of diegesis and extradiegesis - the series could be perceived as, indeed, a sandbox: consequently, the viewer could set sail and explore it. This is further encouraged by the series's active weirdness to whoever would want to try and make sense of the world's story. There is no history, there is just the story at hand: an eternal present which you can't understand ("un eterno presente che capire non sai": Ferretti knew his shit, regardless of how it went after CCCP) and which Æon and Trevor are not interested in even trying to contextualize. Not a surprise then that they'd be into each other: their closeness in body and heart doesn't exist at the mind's level, and the whole thing falls apart miserably every time it looks like they could be finally let their weapons down. But as Æon completely understands, and as Trevor seems to actively try to ignore, the fight is already the whole point: star-cross'd as they may be, the entire act of playfully hunting each other for sport both in the bedroom and on the battlefield is what Trevor Goodchild and Æon Flux thrive on. Trevor wants stability but an Æon who doesn't fight back is simply not Æon; Æon does not want the stability, but she definitely likes Trevor to an extent and finds more in common with him that she would probably be willing to admit (I would like to thank Tumblr user @brw on thons very good analysis of the episode A Last Time for Everything, which heavily inspired this section of the post!). In short: if Trevor seems to embody Pier Paolo Pasolini's idea that "there is nothing more anarchistic than power" ("non c'è nulla di più anarchico del potere") then Æon flips the statement on its head: "there is nothing more powerful than anarchism". That is, of course, until we once again confront my signature ad-hoc elephant in the room that this statement just summoned.

(Image taken from Episode 1, Season 1)

No spoilers intended, but if you so much as google the name of the series you will easily find out that Æon Flux dies a whole lot throughout the series*. Season 1 and all the shorts from season 2 end with her dying ungrateful deaths and a couple of the long episodes leave much to be desired in the way of positive closure, with Ether Drift Theory representing a peak in bleakness for season 3. Most of the shorts where Æon dies imply that either absolutely nothing changes in the world around when she's lost or that Trevor Goodchild literally just succeeds in all of his goals (see Season 1's finale), and one could make a case that even if she did carry her missions through there would be absolutely nothing to show for it: somebody goes up the chain of power, everything is restored, there is one more tyrant to murder. Not to be that one guy who quotes Nietzsche about everything, but the eternal recurrence of the same is the first thing that comes to mind when watching Æon Flux, especially exemplified and even literalized by the episode War, possibly the best of the short ones: it's the same fucking story four times over a five-minute run time and nothing ever gets better for anyone. The body count in the episode is unquantifiably large - every one of the fallen a potential new Æon Flux or Trevor Goodchild. But this, in a way, implies that Æon keeps being reborn, and one could argue that the act of capturing a fly with her venus-fly-trap eye could simply be her coming back to life, as it were; stopping the most evident sign of decay, turning her eyes outward yet again, to face the eternal return of the same again and again and again…

(Image taken from Episode 8, Season 3: Ether Drift Theory)

You can find Æon Flux for free on the Internet Archive.

*as I was discussing the final draft of this post with my friend @oldshittydog we had a pretty interesting discussion which I thought should be added here for an even clearer, fuller picture:

[fuchsiamae]

🦤 or 🦅

🦤 a quote you had to delete :(

ohhh yknow what? how bout a cut portion of ch1, which I decided was too distracting, but is so cute. this would have been right after her first "testing" scene, alternate way to get to cave's cryosuite.

(link to fic)

Fortunately, that line of thought is interrupted as Blue and Orange tap into her remote frequency, chirping for her attention. Poor little idiots. She still sends them on mission after pointless mission down into the catacombs of the old facility, but doesn’t bother monitoring them anymore. The trove of history she’d hoped for is nothing but an empty husk. Most of the old wings are impassable, and they scoured the rest ages ago, finding nothing but outdated files, obsolete experiments, and decades of dusty human junk. But the bots are little better than junk themselves, useless for testing, so she lets them excavate the humans’ trash.

In response they chirp again, which answers exactly nothing. Why did she even give them voiceboxes when they can’t speak anyway? She taps into their visual feed and sees through their eyes as they look up at the old service elevator.

“You want to come back up?” More chirping, but now they nod as well, giving her an actual answer this time. “You know, it would be much easier for me to just disassemble you. Why should I waste my time and energy bringing you back in one piece?”

With this chirp, Orange holds something up for her to see — a cardboard box filled with dusty junk they’ve scavenged from the old offices. At first glance she spots a paperweight, some file folders, three coffee mugs, and a tacky desk toy.

“You’ve brought me more garbage? Is that it?” Orange nods again, entirely too pleased with itself. “Well, you’re not human, so I don’t need to stroke your egos with false praise. But I suppose I could take a look — just because I feel sorry for you,” she adds, as both bots chortle happily. “Go ahead, show me. One at a time.”

Piece by piece they hold each object up to their optics for her to evaluate. First comes the desk toy. They look rather pleased with it, chittering as they press the cat’s little plastic head. On the base is a sticker, which she reads aloud. “I’m Only Human. Only it’s not human. It’s a cat. Maybe its owner was only human, but without context it makes no sense. And even with context, what’s the point of it? Is it a display of the human acknowledging its flaws? It should say, I’m Not Immune to Neurotoxin.” She sighs, already bored of this. “Put it down. It’s garbage.”

Next are the folders, the coffee mugs, the cheap-looking Lucite paperweight. “Garbage, garbage, garbage…” A little ceramic figure of a goggle-eyed fish saying Make Every Day a Splash! “Ugh. Garbage.” A nearly toothless plastic comb. A framed photograph of two little girls and a dog. Some scattered pencils at the bottom, one of which has bite marks in it.

“And garbage,” she finishes, as they drop the last item back in the box. “Congratulations. It’s worthless.” Her view shifts as the bots look dejectedly at the floor. “Next time don’t bother me unless — ”

But something near their feet catches her attention. A loose slip of paper — it must’ve fallen from one of the files they collected. “Pick that up. Let me see it.” Blue bends down to grab the scrap and holds it up to its eye.

To: Gerald Hoffman, Junior Sales Rep From: Stephen Doyle, MD-PhD Date: 4/11/85 Re: Transplant Request Regretfully, I must inform you that your request has been denied. Company health plans no longer cover procedures outside testing; to accept your daughter as a patient, we would require payment up-front for the full cost of treatment, and as we have discussed, the organ cloning process costs far more than your available budget. I will remind you, however, that experimental procedures are free of charge. If you wish to enroll Millicent in the testing program, complete and submit the attached application to Test Subject Processing.

She reads the memo in a fraction of a second. Before the rest of the second has passed, she has an idea.

“Drop the garbage. I have a real job for you.”

[the-fiction-witch]

That'll Work P1

Media Pistol

Character/s Malcolm & Vivienne

Couple None really [There will be later ;) ]

Rating Flirty

Concept New job

I admit I was nervous but I suppose it would be bad if I wasn’t. I walked down the street, the road full of cars scampering up and down the streets. Trash bags piled almost as high as the shop windows that lined the street. I had my folder from class in my hand as I carefully stepped around people to avoid getting shoved and pushed to the side. I saw the bright pink exterior of the shop I was looking for but I stopped short before reaching it, honestly too nervous to even approach the door wondering if I should just turn around and go home. But I held my breath using the next-stop window to fix a stray hair back into my bun and wipe the lipstick from my teeth. Before I headed inside immediately being intimidated by the racks of explicit images on shirts, the latex and other such intense stuff. A bed in the middle of the shop, graffiti across the walls, and a jukebox in the corner. 

A thin woman at the counter in a well-laddered pair of tights, a tight tiny red plaid skirt with cut-outs and chains across it, and a long sleeve shirt with various cut-outs across it, almost platinum blonde hair spiked and sprayed so much so you could smell the hairspray from here. 

Immediately I felt so out of place, and I think she knew it. 

“Can I help you?” she glared 

“Ohh uhhh I'm here to see Malcolm" 

"About?"

"About a job"

"A job? This is my shop" she says 

"Ohh well I was-" I began

"Malcolm!" She yelled and a thin man emerged from behind a curtain in leather trousers and a sleeveless white shirt with one of the more… explicit images of two men dressed as cowboys naked from the waist down touching the tip of their cocks together, he had dark hair in tight curls and seemed tried at the meet mention of his own name 

"What?" He asks leaning against the doorframe 

"A young lady here to see you" she snapped "about a job"

"I'm not offering any jobs?"

"Be that as it may she's stood here" 

He then actually looked at me giving me a glance up and down a few times and not seeming overly happy or impressed "And you are?"

"Y/n" I answered "I was told to come today and see you" I explained

He stood blankly a moment before he rubbed his face with one hand and sighed "ohh you're Mark's kid aren't you?" He complained 

"He's my stepdad but yes" I nodded 

"Fuck" he sighed "I forgot about that" 

"Excuse us," she says grabbing him by the ear and taking them both into the corridor I nervously looked around the shop trying to pretend I didn't hear every word of their conversation "What is this about?"

"Christ Viv I forgot alright"

"Forgot what?"

"We've been short the last two months you know that, Mark wouldn't give me the goods"

"So what's that got to do with this chick?"

"I made a deal I'd give his stepdaughter a job and he'd clear the account"

"And you didn't consult me!"

"Kinda hard when you were here and I was there, you'd have kicked my arse if I hadn't come back with your precious product"

"Well we don't have a job for her"

"Don't you think I know that?" 

"Then get rid of her"

"I get rid of her we have three months of unpaid invoices on our account and Mark’ll have both our heads" 

"Fine you find something for her to do" 

They then returned and I just stood sheepishly

"So y/n, what can you do?" 

"I'm good in a retail setting, I have admin experience"

"Fascinating" Viv sighed fixing her nails 

"Well I'm studying fashion and music at college" 

"Alright" Malcolm smirked Coming to lean on the counter giving Viv a look that she didn't seem to respond to "Can you play?"

"Piano, and violin"

"AHH… can you sing?"

"Yes,"

"That'll work, I may just have a job for you" he smirked 

"Are you serious?" She glared and he shrugs "Do you have a better idea, Vivienne?"

"She's hardly what we're looking for"

"Visuals can be changed, we need a voice," he told her giving her cheek a kiss 

"Fine" she sighed "you comfortable playing shows?"

"Absolutely"

"Would you be willing… to give us full creative control?" He smirked at me 

"How so?"

"We pick what you wear, how you do your hair, that sort of thing."

"Well I… I guess so" 

"Lock the door Viv" he smirked and she went and did so leaving the three of us alone, They then circled me like vultures leaving no part of me unchecked 

"Take off your dress," she told me 

"Ohh I uhh-" I stuttered in shock

"To change"

"Oh," I gulped glancing at Malcolm

"It won't be the last time, go on," he told me 

I set my folder on the counter and nervously did as they asked "Size?"

"Ohh uhh 10"

"12" Viv snapped back going to the counter to flip through my folder 

Malcolm went to the racks and fetched me some items I tried on the first even if I nodded his help to zip up the back of the black and red latex dress but the moment I had it on

"No," Viv snapped 

"Here," Malcolm says undoing it again

'Thank you" I smiled slipping off and changing into the next item some black skintight jeans and a shirt covered in buckles like a straight jacket

"No" she snapped 

So I began to change again as Malcolm went to stand with her checking my folder

"These aren't bad"

"I've seen better," she says "A child of divorce I'm assuming"

"Yes" I nodded 

"You see your father?" Malcolm asked 

"No, he moved away I don't know where" I answered as I changed into a long printed shirt 

"Definitely not" she snapped so I began to change again "Marks a bit of a cunt isn't he?"

"Oh uhhh" I began

"I mean he's pretty anal not sure I'd -" Malcolm began before I noticed her physical then his head towards me "oohhh" 

And it was then I realised what they were looking at, 

"That wasn't all Mark," I told them "Some of that… was me"

"Why pet?" She asks her tone softening more than ever 

"Life sucks I suppose" I shrug

"That'll work" he smirked 

Viv then left the counter She went putting the clothes I tried back and returned with some more which she helped me into, a latex pleated skirt, some thigh-high ripped socks, and a white t-shirt with chaos across the front, she helped me into a leather harness type thing that had straps and buckles over my shoulders and around my chest with a corset style around my waist with a few chains hung from odd places, and she pulled the tie from my hair letting it fall freely before she went to the counter leaning there beside Malcolm who seemed to smirk at me "I like it" she says 

"It works" he nods "What makes you angry y/n?" He asks pacing around me

"Ohh uhhh… nothing really"

"Really, no cause you feel you can stand behind?"

"I don't think so no,"

"So you'll stand behind what we tell you to?" He smirked 

"I suppose so"

"Good" he smirked grabbing something from a display coming up behind me and putting in a rather tight black choker with a padlock at my neck which he happily clicked closed "Any political affiliation?"

"No no I don't even vote"

"Good girl" he smirked leaning back on the counter as they looked at me 

"Are you queer?" She asks 

"Uhhh… well, I'm bisexual," I told them and they both perked up

"That'll work" he smirked "What do you think?" He smirked taking my hand and turning me to the mirror 

"I uhh I do" I smiled 

"You think you can do what we're asking?" She smirked leaning her elbow on my shoulder

"I think so" I nodded 

[selphplusplus]

I don’t even write anymore

The constant over the shoulder

has ruined the ONE outlet

that was keeping me together.

There is no more therapeutic tool for me.

Perhaps you can’t appreciate that.

But what the fuck did you think I was going to turn to to cope

with shit life throws us!?

The healthy outlet I replaced

all this whatever the fuck I’m doing now

has been unappealing entirely.

Eyes on the screen.

At a whim.

So you feel safe knowing what I’m doing.

I’m gonna continue to fall apart

again and again.

And again.

My words are gone.

A wounded muse

i curated and resurrected from the pain

My demons and traumas

I’d started overcoming.

Progress.

And yet.

you slaughtered it

Right in front of me.

Slowly.

And all I could do is watch.

Revert to the part of me that learned to mask the pain,

because you knew

You’d setup a perfect catch22

only too late

and after it was too late to apologize.

Broken trust. With a dash of selfish justification.

I’d have forgiven it.

But to lie for so long.

Avoid having the conversation hanging in the air

about what I’ve been going through

visually deteriorating

in front of the fucking people

who are supposed to love me.

Hmph. Go find your proof in the trash.

Or you could have just asked directly

and pushed because let’s be quite Frank, it’s not like the signs weren’t there.

So what used to be the only fucking tool that was healthy

An outlet to expel the temptations

Deliver me of my own evil

when I got so in my own mental umbra.

“That underneath shit”

As the folder rabbit hole starts.

Me?

I’m very very buried. 6‘ x 6’ x 6’ deep.

I’m tired. I don’t know that I have the energy

to resurrect again.

Why are we expected to resurrect Lazarus

again and again

into the phoenix?

If it’s only purpose is to burn into another oblivion.

The only words

that want to write any more

are full of hate

Wrapped in rage

And augmented with an avalanche of

anger.

//Stop talking,

interrupting me.

you do that dumb shit

enough the rest of the fucking time // comment mine

The hatred and anger.

That’s not my muse.

And all I see is what have you done to her?

The weight she bore,

anymore she can’t carry.

And I have no poems these days

to sustain the beauty in the darkness

I managed to find despite losing odds.

Now I just want darkness.

No. A deeper order. The exact opposite of divine.

Chaos.

Pure unrelenting chaos.

The eternal paint thinner

stripping away the remaining emotions

until the words on the walls themselves

fade to actions

Self slaying sinful suicidal acts

worse than the darkest blackness.

Void.

空

Relase、

Suffering to sacrifice to slayer of the sun itself.

What’s the opposite of starbirth?

The dark heat death of your universe

flame to embers to not even smoke anymore

火の世界をすいてじゃないなの.

No, now sleep,

Or much longer

Slumber eternal

One of the better ideas

今は抜いてそう今言葉電話がいいですよね

それーーーお前は火ジーJっっっーーっっみ　

//Please what!? Shut the fuck up.

[sleepyowlwrites]

Sleepy! :D :D Happy STS! I have two questions for you!

I know you don't really plan too much, but I gotta ask, partly out of curiosity and partly because I'm totally down for tips: how do you keep track of all the details concerning all your OCs? How do you build each of their storylines and flesh them out so well? (Also, do you keep notes in docs just for OCs, or do you just sort of keep details about them spread across posts? Like, in general, how does your track-keeping work?)

Feel free to ignore this one if you prefer keeping your original fic and fanfic separately, but you mentioned Power Rangers fic?? 8) Which seasons and what about? (Miiiiight secretly be trash for specific seasons myself, haha.)

oh breezy. you're such a treasure. I love you.

question 1: I have a few methods and they all work together in a chaotic way.

first of all, I have a really good visual memory. when I combine visual and kinesthetic together by typing down information, I can keep it in my brain pretty easily. I also combine the rubber duck method and explain my character facts and arcs to my purple walls and whatever actor has been in whatever thing I've most recently watched. sometimes my mom, but she can't remember whatever I told her last time, so it's not super helpful. I also tell writeblr friends, like you, or Dreamy when she's like "Sleepy don't you have any new tidbits for me about Jet pretty please" and I'm like "I guess I can come up with something" and then I remember even more.

second, I use scrivener, and whatever info I come up with either during ask games or randomly, I just stick it in the folder for that. youth story, anxiety story and rain story have their own docs. summon, magick and city are all in another doc (but this hnnnng...might change soon) and there are folders inside folders. here is the current state of affairs:

I don't always label everything the same, but I could, if I took the time.

third, I sometimes write up character stats by hand to help with memory, too, and sometimes write down ideas or snatches of scenes or sketch maps and stuff. writing and typing have there own spaces in the brain, apparently, so they sit different. in my current writing journal, I have a whole bunch of summon story notes, meta-portal character stats, scenes from youth story, poetry that I was writing from memory, and random sentences.

fourth, I have character tags, and if I've put any kind of details about a certain character in a post, I'll tag it accordingly. we all know tumblr's searching function is bunk, but if I click the tag c: zan, then I will see all the posts that relate specifically to him. I just detailed a bunch of stuff about Moss for Dreamy, and tagged the ask so I can find it again when I'm trying to remember if I ever told anyone that Moss likes to do crossword puzzles.

fifth, there is no fifth. my main method is the first one. I just retain information the best if I repeat it to myself out loud and then also write it down. so that's what I do. same as at work. if I want to remember something, I repeat it out loud several times and then also sometimes write it down on my hand for later.

you gotta find what your learning type is and allow yourself to find methods that utilize and benefit from it. I'll never be able to glean information from audiobooks or podcasts, but I can watch video essays and learn a lot. because I'm visual, and secondarily kinesthetic, so I work with that. do what works for you!

question 2:

I had planned on writing for all the episodes that were most beloved to me in a whole bunch of series, but ultimately, the only fic I've written to vague conclusion (it's still unfinished at 7K) is for Power Rangers Samurai. I wrote it out of frustration and spite because I was so underwhelmed with the writing of that season/set of seasons. also I don't think Mike was anyone's favorite character but he was mine, so I did my usual "insert oc to make canon characters confront their feelings" thing but I don't think I'll ever finish this one. I'd like to get around to writing stuff for the other series like Ninja Storm, RPM, Wild Force, Dino Charge and Time Force. nothing can make me write fix-it fic for Mystic Force, though. even the franchise refuses. we've done dinosaurs FOUR TIMES NOW and we still can't get a magic power ranger do-over.

my favorite series is RPM, if you're curious. wait, not only do I have to write the mercenary wip for you, but I have to write power rangers fic for you??

I'd do it, though. you know I would. do you know? I'm am externally motivated. if I want to be internally motivated, I have to create external stimuli. that could be you.

oof, why do I have so many stories? the people who can write one thing at a time are champions of this sport.

thanks for dropping by, Breezy! take some waffles to go!

[pukcomics]

I’ve been working on a game as of late. It’s called ‘Cleaning Out The Junk Drawer’. It’s exactly what it sounds like. It’s a point-and-click game where you get files from the drawer, you open them, and you organize the items that pop out into their designated places. Your goal is to find 52 playing cards.

The game board looks like this:

At the moment I have the core functions of the game working. Folders will spawn, you can open them and items pop out, you can move said items along the desk, cards go into the deck, and trash goes into the trash. I also have the game tracking how many cards you get and how much trash you’ve thrown away. At this point it’s about adding more game play loops and events to flesh the game out some more. Then there’s the task of making things visually appealing.

Ever since I’ve started making Junk Drawer I’ve been looking at the games I play differently, trying to think about how certain games have their effects and features.

Game development has also made me realize how much I don’t pay attention to the world around me. Same thing happened when I tried my hand at 3D modeling too. There are all these details I never thought of before are now something I have to consider when making something. I feel like it’s a lot for one person to manage. It’s strange to think that all the technology that we use, that’s around us at this very moment, has so many parts to it that it had to be designed and programmed in a particular way in order for it to work properly. Several hundred people, if not thousands, were making sure that these hundreds of thousands of pieces work and function properly. Thomas Edison invented the light bulb, but he wasn’t hooking up the wiring for it to work nor making sure the mainframe was equipped to handle said light bulb. It’s funny how that’s taken for granted nowadays.

One of the first things I’m gonna work on this weekend is animations for different elements in the game and then see about sound effects. Maybe I'll show footage of it working on the next update.

For now, take care.

Jeff Rodgers (11/16/23)

[techcloudsproinfo]

[Step by Step] How to Make Your Mac Faster than Before?

If your MacBook is slowing down and not processing things as it should then you are in the right place. We are going to provide solutions to the most commonly faced issue by Mac users.

If you are still wondering that your Mac book would not need a clean-up in 2023?

Well, you are not thinking straight…

There is no doubt that owners of the Apple brand often have high esteem and absolute confidence in the quality of products & customer experience.

Despite the fact that the founders Steve Jobs and Wozniak and their incredible marketing skills have made Apple a great brand today but it is good not to rely too much on the Mac OS blindly. It is better to keep an eye on things that are slowing down your mac.

4 main Mac maintenance issues that are faced by Mac Users:

Mac is too slow

Mac with virus

Disk space problem

Memory problem

How to Make Your Mac Faster than Before?

Step by Step Guide on How to clean Your Mac Efficiently?

Let’s have a quick tour of steps to keep your mac healthy.

Regularly update OSX (be careful, because different versions of MAJ versions that may create compatibility issues with your software).

Get rid of unnecessary and unused softwares – Make some free space on your hard drive. To do this. Remove files from your desktop, from your trash, your download file, your documents, images, emails, videos … and remember to empty your trash once done!

Erase your temporary files using Clean My Mac. You can also read Clean My Mac Review here

Limit the number of apps that automatically start at startup. To do this, go to your system settings> Users and Groups> Opening

Disable features you do not need such as visual effects and some of the preferences available in the system settings.

Optimize your Finder and Safari. Launch Safari and go into the preferences to access advanced extensions and settings. Enable the expand menu options in the advanced settings to have more control over your safari options (such as the ability to manually flush its cache). Launch your Finder and go to the preferences so that any new Finder does not open on your folder with all the files!

Disable services that you do not use such as Bluetooth, all that stuff that is useless, unnecessary languages, voice recognition, Siri.

[tablejust]

Mysql workbench for mac

MYSQL WORKBENCH FOR MAC FOR MAC OS

MYSQL WORKBENCH FOR MAC MAC OS X

MYSQL WORKBENCH FOR MAC CODE

Delete all app-related files and folders.Search for any files containing either MySQL Workbench in their name in these locations:.Open the Finder and select the Go to Folder… option from the Go menu.Right-click, and select Move to Trash / Drag it straightly into Trash on Dock.Simply locate MySQL Workbench in the Applications folder.In a pop-up window, click on the Quit button to confirm the action.Click on the All Processes tab and select processes associated with MySQL Workbench.Open the Utilities folder and launch the Activity Monitor.In a pop-up window, select the app and click on the Force Quit button.Quit MySQL Workbench or force quit it by pressing the Cmd + Opt + Esc combination.Click the target’s setup on the top left corner, and choose Quit MySQL Workbench ( Commend+ Q).Right click on the MySQL Workbench on the Dock, then choose Quit.First completely quit MySQL before removal

MYSQL WORKBENCH FOR MAC FOR MAC OS

To uninstall MySQL Workbench for Mac OS X, easily use the traditional solution by drag & drop in Applications folder to remove MySQL Workbench.ĭo this to remove MySQL Workbench: 1. if you are searching for the best solution to remove MySQL Workbench, then you’ve been the right place, read more to completely uninstall MySQL from macOS. MySQL Workbench is available on Windows, Linux and Mac OS X. MySQL Workbench provides data modeling, SQL development, and comprehensive administration tools for server configuration, user administration, backup, and much more. MySQL Workbench is a unified visual tool for database architects, developers, and DBAs.

MYSQL WORKBENCH FOR MAC MAC OS X

Comment Below if any of one solution worked for you.Remove MySQL Workbench Completely from Mac OS X Comment below Your thoughts and your queries. Hope this above all solution helped you a lot. So it’s all About All possible solutions.

For me is not working the last release 8.0.23, but works ok 8.0.22 in Big Sur.

Version 8.0.23 did not work on my macOS Big Sur 11.1.

Version 8.0.22 works on macOS Big Sur 11.1.

the latest version of workbench has a bug.

That’s why You just have to downgrade your MYSQL Workbench Version to version: 8.0.21. MYSQL Workbench has a Bug in their latest Version in 8.0.22. So You just have to downgrade your MYSQL Workbench Version to version: 8.0.21. Question : MYSQL Workbench Quit Unexpectedly on MAC OS Big Sur 11.1Īnswer : MYSQL Workbench has a Bug in their latest Version in 8.0.22. Here is I am Adding All Possible solutions that I have tried to Solve This Error. Thread 0 Crashed:: Dispatch queue: -thread

MYSQL WORKBENCH FOR MAC CODE

Termination Signal: Abort trap: 6 Termination Reason: Namespace SIGNAL, Code 0圆 Time Awake Since Boot: 7700 seconds Time Since Wake: 2000 secondsĬrashed Thread: 0 Dispatch queue: -threadĮxception Type: EXC_CRASH (SIGABRT) Exception Codes: 0x0000000000000000, 0x0000000000000000 Exception Note: EXC_CORPSE_NOTIFY This is the error I get: Process: MySQLWorkbench Path: /Applications/MySQLWorkbench.app/Contents/MacOS/MySQLWorkbench Identifier: Version: 8.0.23.CE (1) Code Type: X86-64 (Native) Parent Process: ? Responsible: MySQLWorkbench User ID: 501ĭate/Time: 08:21:33.443 -0500 OS Version: macOS 11.1 (20C69) Report Version: 12 Bridge OS Version: 5.1 (18P3030) Anonymous UUID: 36AA1C89-5799-157D-2CB8-D2DF0B83C543 I have tried to re-install, but still cant open workbench. I have Already installed MYSQL workbench in my MAC OS Big Sur 11.1.

[uwuwriting]

Having a girl with an aesthetic w/ Shinsou, Aizawa and Bakugou

Request: Shinsou with an e-girl gf, Aizawa with a dark academia wife and Bakugou with an angelcore or cottagecore girl, please and thank you. - anonymous.

Yall, dark academia is my best friends’ and mine aesthetic and its so pleazing. Like god damn. Angelcore is amazing so soft and uwu. Do I even have to say anything fir e-girls? No, I would just do them an injustice. Love ya and sorry for the inactivity. 

masterlist 

rules

warnings: none I think. 

Shinsou Hitoshi 

-Yall match. 

-Like he wears dark brooding colors, mainly shades of purple to match his hair and maybe some greens while you on the other hand always have a black and red combo or some sort of stripped item of clothing. 

-You share beanies. 

-It has become an unspoken rule that you two will always go for beanie shopping every october. 

-Your style kinda changes according to the month. 

-Like during september you wearing mainly greys to match your sour mood bc school, during october since its spooky season you wear oranges and purples matching your boyfriend perfectly while January and December are red months. 

-Those are his favorite. 

-Red brings out the color of your lips making you look even more fearsome and badass, turning him on in the process. 

-Yes I said it, Shinsou will beg for red lipstick. 

-He’s semi worried for your hair. 

-You keep changing it and he doesn’t mind when you cut it, oh no he finds your bangs or pixie cut adorable. 

-He is worried when you change colors like you chnage clothes. 

-He liked all your phases. 

-The skank stripe and half-half ones  being his favorites but he will ask you to tone it down a bit give your hair some time to rest and regain their strength. 

-Yall paint your nails. 

-You will spend endless hours in his room just painting each others nails and doing face masks. 

-It brings out his edgy lord side, the nail polish. 

-As if the dark circles and that constant ominous look on his face doesn’t do it. 

-But you love it. 

-He looks so content when you two are just sitting there listening to trash rap songs and taking care of each other. 

-He loves it when you wear skirts with thigh highs. 

-Actually you can’t wear those anymore bc once he sees you you can’t really walk anywhere afterwards....

-He is all about your chains and chokers. 

-Like give him some he is jealous. 

-Baby really be thriving while dawning those fake silver chains. 

-If you are interested in more intracate make up he loves being your test subject and just lets you transform his face into whatever deity you want. 

-Tends to scroll through your tik tok because its full of witch toks and very very interesting cosplays and makeup stuff. 

-Somehow he found himself into anti trump tik tok and he cant get out..... then his fyp shifted to draco tok and he just gave up. 

- “Are you cheating on me with Draco Malfoy?”

- “Baby-”

- “Because I don’t blame you.” 

-Deadass has a whole folder on his laptop with couples outfits he wants to recreate at some point. 

-He’s just so wholesome. 

Aizawa Shouta 

-He really can’t understand how he managed to get such a fashion icon of a wife. 

-I mean have you seen the way this man dresses? 

-Head empty just Aizawa with pink sweatpants.

-Yeah so he really doesn’t get it how he managed that but he isn’t complaining. 

-I mean have you seen the dark academia aesthitic. 

-It gives Maraurders vibes and we stan. 

-He loves it when you wear long coats and those scarfs.

-They make you look like such a lady and so sophisticated and he lives for it. 

-He really likes the plaid skirts and pants, makes him think that he is living with an English lady or maybe a philosophy teacher. 

-Have I mentioned how much he adores your vintage book obsession?

-Going to old bookstores together and just browsing through the poetry books or the fantsy novels has become one of his favorite past times. 

-He tries to somewhat keep up with you but he struggles. 

-He really has no fashion sense but he wants to try for you. 

- “Honey you don’t have to dress up for me! I love you just the way you are.” 

-He loves you so much like omggggg!!!!

-Anyways. 

-Rainy days have become book dates where you just snuggle up together on the couch in a large fluffy brown blanket and you both have a book in your hands reading away. 

-He loves the little expressions you make when you are reading something interesting or staright up crazy. 

-He bought you your very own round -Harry-Potter-style glasses for your birthday. 

-You had been going on and on for some months now about how you wanted to go and buy a pair but you never got around to it. 

-Being a teacher at UA and a hero is kinda hard and a busy job so we get you. 

-You were so excited when he gave them to you. 

-Um for Halloween you two went as James Potter and Sirius Black. 

-He has the hair, okay maybe he is lacking that care free and cocky attitude but visually he does a good job.

-Seeing him in that suit oh boy. 

-Really your realationship is just full of Harry Potter references since you are kinda obsessed with that Era, especially the Marauders. 

-Hizashi is lowkey jealous because he could never get AIzawa to dress nicely. 

-You are special though!!

-You are the wife

-He does what you tell him to in reality. 

-He’s kinda wrapped around your finger. 

Bakugou Katsuki

-He gets flustered so easily.

-Like your aesthetic is so soft and angelic and compared to him people think you have a corruption kink. 

-He kinda feels bad bc when you dress like something god sent it because painfully clear how opposites you are. 

-He sees his rough edges and rude behavior more than usual and he may become self concious. 

-You will have to reassure him and remind him that this is a facade and that he knows your true evil nature. 

-You are a true menace.

-ANyone trying to fuck with your friends or your boyfriend? 

-They are getting round house kicked and yeeted out a window. 

-Back to your aesthetic. 

-Whenever he seas something pastel or colorful he wants to immediately buy it. 

-Especially pastel stuff.

-Pastel is your whole thing. 

-Pastel pinks, blues, purples, and greens. 

-He will buy anything, from a headband to a purse to a very very cute plaid skirt. 

-Kirishima and Denki are always so confused when he comes back to the common room with a few bags from womens’ clothing stores. 

-He never answers their questions of course. 

-He likes watching you make mood boards and create matching outfits. 

-Trying clothes in fornt of him is a must, a small fashion show taking place in your room every Friday night. 

-He likes to believe that you truly are an angel. 

-Your aesthetic is a combination of angelcore and cottage core so your room is split into two sides.

-One side full of plants while the other had pastel mood boards. 

-So pleasing. 

-You tried to shift him into your aesthetic once. 

-AND IT WAS ATRAUMATIZING EXPERIENCE.

-He looked so good in white and soft yellow but his mood was so so foul.

 -He had made you agree to never a) bring this up and b) try this again. 

-You have taken some photos though so not eveyrthing was lost. 

-You will never tell him that you have evidence of his cottage core moment. 

TAG TEAM AY:

@iwaqchan​ @the-arcana-fan-fic​ @angelwritings​ @axerrri​ @reinyrei​ @dnarez-mangetsu​ @bemorefiction​

[rhysismydaddy]

Prisoner's Game Pt. 3 (Rowaelin)

~Aelin~

There was something decidedly pleasant about sneaking out of prison.

It was the thrill, she supposed.

She'd always been a bit of an adrenaline junky, and there was nothing that matched up to the excitement of breaking out of a maximum security prison with no one being the wiser.

Aelin ran through the tunnel, her steps sure and soundless, a smile blooming on her face. What she was doing shouldn't give her such joy, but along with being a thrill seeker, she'd always been just a little bit vindictive.

Or maybe a lot.

The map of the tunnels was still crystal clear after all this time, and she had it memorized down to the number of steps it took to get to the right turn.

It was a three hour run. Two underground, then one through the city out into the suburbs.

While the first two hours were definitely not fun, it was the last hour that was tricky.

Avoiding cameras, not drawing any unwanted attention, dressing so no one could see her face without looking too much like the criminal she was.

It was also more exhausting.

It was an hour of sprinting across rooftops, sprinting through town, then sprinting some more.

It was a little funny to her that the journey to where she needed to go was more difficult than actually breaking into the building.

She had a set of scrubs stored in a nearby lockbox, along with a wig and a few prosthetics to make her look more like Ansel, one of the nurses working the night shift.

The security guard, Shelly, was prone to reading romance novels during her shift and never questioned why she occasionally thought she saw two of the same person wandering around.

It was no different tonight.

Once she had everything in place, Aelin strode confidently through the halls, grabbing charts and nodding like she knew what the hell she was looking at.

No one stopped her, no one questioned her.

When she got to the room and chart she wanted, she slipped inside soundlessly and crept up to the bed.

Despite the ever-present urge to hurry things along, she stuck to her plan and kept the dose the same.

The person on the bed never woke up, never noticed her slip an extra drug into the IV bag hanging on the wall.

Silent, efficient, traceless.

Just like she'd been taught.

Leaving was even easier than entering.

She waited until real-Ansel had been out of the guard's sight for a while, then walked out the back door of the facility like she hadn't just committed a felony.

One of the few crimes she actually deserved to be in prison for, ironically.

Then she ran back, hiding in the traffic camera's blind spots and ditching the wig along the way.

It was a little stupid and drawn out to do it this way, not to mention unbelievably cruel, but Aelin had always had a flair for the dramatic.

Plus, like she said: exciting.

~Rowan~

Doubt is a strange emotion.

It starts small, so small you hardly even realize it's there.

And then, over time, it grows and grows like a fungus, eventually becoming something that you think about all the time. Something that kills you.

Rowan didn't believe in doubt.

His problem had never been with not believing in himself, it'd always been with the opposite affliction: over-conviction.

He believed things so fully, so deeply, it was hard to see it any other way.

It was what made him such a good lawyer. As the top public prosecutor in the city, he had a reputation for being impossible to win against.

He convinced himself of the defendant's guilt so completely, the jury had almost no option but to believe him.

He hadn't always been that way, he didn't think. Argumentative and stubborn, sure. His mother could attest to that. But never so unflinchingly self-assured. So alright with deceiving himself if need be.

If he had to guess, he'd say it'd started two months after the day of Aelin's trial.

He hadn't been lying to her four days ago; every word had been the truth. He'd worked his ass off all those years ago, trying to find something that would help him either clear her name or at least fucking sleep at night.

He'd given himself a timeline, deciding that if he couldn't find a single lead in two months, there probably wasn't one. Two months, and then he'd let it go.

He didn't regret stopping his hunt--he'd seen what an obsession could do to someone.

And when that day had come, he'd thought he was ready. He'd exhausted himself working both her case and the ones he was assigned, burning the candle at both ends and sleeping in the office more nights than his own bed.

There'd been nothing to be found. The evidence, the testimonies, the medical examiner's reports... they'd all pointed to Aelin.

So eventually he'd forced himself to stop looking.

But the sight of her swinging between the two court police officers, fighting for just one more second with him with a desperation he'd never seen from her... he hadn't known how he could just forget something like that.

The image followed him, haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw hers. Lined with tears and disbelief and so much hurt he felt like invisible hands were wrapped around his neck.

So he'd hardened himself against it.

He'd repeated the pieces of evidence against her, told himself she was guilty until the words were easy to say, forced himself to visualize the crime scenes of her victims whenever he thought of her.

Piece by piece, he'd swapped out the months of positive memories they had with stone cold facts.

And it had worked.

After a month, he could sleep again. After a year, he hardly thought of her and when he did, it was with disgust.

Yet now, over eight years later, he found himself with just the slightest amount of doubt again.

It was the same nagging, incessant feeling he hadn't been able to shake eight years ago. Back for round two, apparently.

At first, he'd played it off as nerves from their conversation. She'd worked him up so much he'd admitted how much he'd once loved her and said things he shouldn't have.

His body was reacting to the sadness in her eyes, the surprise that had bloomed when he'd told her he'd fought for her. It was emotion, nothing based in logic, that made him want to start looking again.

At least that's what he told himself.

But four days later, he found himself on the couch--he really did need to give up and just buy a new bed--staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep and not being able to.

Because... well because what if she was telling the truth?

Why else would she have told him that story?

What had he missed during all those late nights spent hunched over her folder?

The questions grew and grew, until that once-little shard of doubt started to slowly drive him mad.

The uncertainty, no matter how small it had begun, had grown to be almost irritatingly large and unavoidable.

He couldn't stop thinking about what she'd said. The breadcrumbs that apparently only he could find.

What did that mean?

And why couldn't he just let it go?

"Fuck!" he yelled, throwing his blanket off and storming to the closet.

Like a love-struck idiot, he'd kept a box full of the stuff she'd left at his apartment during their relationship. The stuff that wasn't evidence, at least.

If it was something only he could find like she'd said, it was probably something only he had access to.

He dropped the box on his kitchen table and opened the lid.

Then cursed when the first thing he saw was a pair of red lace underwear. That was the last thing he needed to be thinking about and remembering.

Especially when he'd barely been able to resist the temptation to kiss her in that interrogation room.

Something about the way she'd looked at him after he'd told her he'd fought for her all those years ago had rattled the grip he had on his control hard.

She'd seemed so... sad. So hopeless. It had brought out the urge to comfort her in whatever way he could.

Hearing about her childhood and how she'd been raised by Arobynn Hamel hadn't made it any better. Truthfully, it'd broken something inside of him.

She'd always been so positive around him--a ray of light he'd felt was put on this earth just for him.

And all the while, she'd been forced to live with and work for one of the most notorious crime syndicate members of all time.

He'd always known she hadn't had a good childhood, but there was a difference between foster care hell and an actual house of horrors. Rowan couldn't even imagine the things she'd seen. Been forced to see, to do.

She made it out, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath.

But had she?

If what she'd told him was true, she'd killed those people because she'd been forced to.

It hadn't been her choice.

But there was something else about her, something he couldn't stop thinking about.

The secret she'd eluded to, the one that apparently only he had the key to solving.

A secret she'd promised would explain everything.

He tossed the underwear on the table, vowing to ignore them.

Then threw them in the trash a minute later when that became impossible.

You're such an asshole, he told himself, shaking his head. It's been eight years.

Even if that part of their relationship was most definitely memorable.

"Jesus," he laughed, running a hand over his face. Why was he even thinking about that?

Maybe it was the look in her eyes four days ago, or maybe it was simply that Aelin had been an important part of his life. He'd never forget the connection they'd had. Maybe it would always be a part of him.

But that was ridiculous, because he'd been connected to plenty of women since. Plenty of gorgeous brunettes and redheads.

For some reason, he hadn't been able to date a blonde, but that didn't mean anything.

He was over her.

Obviously.

Forcing his thoughts away from Aelin, he grabbed the next thing in the box.

Her address book. Maybe she'd left a note in there?

He flipped it open, scrolling through blank page after blank page. Her cousin's address and phone number were there--both of which he confirmed with police records--but other than that, it was blank.

The next thing he found made the ache in his chest expand to a soul-sucking hole.

It was a travel brochure for Aruba.

The edges were frayed from how much she'd flipped through it, and notes in her handwriting were scribbled throughout the pages.

He remembered this, all right.

He'd woken up one morning, a morning that seemed like a lifetime ago, to find her laying on top of him, leafing through the travel pamphlet with a huge grin on her face.

"We're going to Aruba," she'd whispered in lieu of a greeting, leaning down to press her lips to his.

"Why?" he'd asked back between kisses.

"Because it's the perfect place to hide from your real life," had been her laughed response.

She'd planned a trip for them at Christmas. Their very first trip together.

Every time they saw each other, she'd shown him a new page or told him about a new activity she wanted to do.

In general, she was a happy, excited person, but he'd never seen her so thrilled over anything like she was that trip.

He'd hidden it better, trying to play it cool, but he'd been excited, too.

He'd pictured her on the beach, running in the sand and smiling and laughing and drinking from a coconut. He'd imagined sneaking to the beach one night and making love to her in the ocean.

He'd imagined getting down on one knee and asking her to be his travel partner for life.

She'd been arrested two weeks before they were supposed to leave.

He tossed the little magazine back into the box, shaking his head to clear it of the memories and long-lost dreams.

The only thing left in the worn box was books.

Aelin had volunteered at a publishing house, trying to get hired as a fiction editor, and she'd always had a book in her ridiculously heavy pocket book.

She'd given him a few of her favorites, claiming that if he ever wanted to know the "real her," he had to read them.

A statement that made a lot more sense now than it used to.

He grabbed the one on top and leafed through it, going through the pages and scanning.

When that didn't yield anything, he flipped to the back of the book and looked at the inscription she'd written him.

March 1

Rowan,

I know you're not a fan of fiction, let alone romantic, feminist fiction, but I hope you'll read this and fall in love with Elizabeth's character like I did.

Aelin

He turned the book over and looked at the front again, then flipped through it again, then went through the whole process again.

Why did he feel like something about this didn't add up? And why was this, of all things, what she'd left as a breadcrumb?

He didn't figure it out until he reread the inscription for the fifth time and realized the date she'd written.

March 1st.

It was wrong; she'd given him this book on his birthday in February. He remembered because he'd laughed about her giving a grown man a romance novel for his birthday.

Why had she put March 1st? And why did that date stand out in his mind?

Stomach dropping, he finally figured out why that date was so important. It was the date of the first murder.

Maddison Kliff, a state senator who controversially wanted to fund renewable energy in the upcoming year, had been murdered the morning of March 1st eight years ago.

Breadcrumb.

He grabbed the next book from the stack, Wuthering Heights, and flipped to the end.

Almost the exact same inscription, except the date was April 13th, and the inspiring character was Linton Heathcliff.

April 13th was the day another victim died.

Rowan's heart started pounding, so hard he thought he was going to either pass out or go into cardiac arrest.

What was the connection between these dates, characters, and victims? Rowan could feel it in his gut that this was what she'd been talking about. It had to be.

He flipped through the books again, looking for something else, but there was nothing there. Nothing was underlined or highlighted, and the books were all in brand-new condition, no pages were bookmarked.

"What are you trying to tell me, Aelin?" he whispered, rubbing at his temples.

He made a list of all the dates and characters, stared at it until he thought he'd go blind, and tried to think like her.

Except her mind was a complex puzzle he'd never quite solved, so that didn't give him anything besides a headache.

He looked in the box again, hoping to magically find another note or something that explained everything in simple, idiot-proof terms.

But all that was there was that damn Aruba magazine.

It's the perfect place to hide from your real life.

The words came rushing back to him, so suddenly and violently it was like his subconscious had been shouting it for a while.

Was that it?

Maybe the connection wasn't only between the dates and characters, but it also had something to do with Aruba.

Maybe that was where this secret, whatever it was, was hiding.

Knowing he was probably grasping at straws, Rowan grabbed his phone and called the one person who'd help him.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I need a favor, Gavriel."

He heard a heavy sigh. "Like a we've been friends for twenty years favor or like an I'm the Chief of Police favor?"

"The latter," Rowan answered.

"Dammit, Rowan, you're going to get me fired one day." That was what he said every time. There was a long pause, then, "What do you need?"

"Flight manifests from Rifthold to Aruba from ten different days eight years ago."

Gavriel caught on quickly. "This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with a former flame of yours, would it? One currently serving time for ten murders from eight years ago?"

"Of course not," he lied, knowing he was busted.

Another sigh. "You need to let this go, kid."

Rowan ran a hand over his face, knowing that wasn't possible. Not when, for the first time since he'd been assigned this God forbidden case, he had a lead.

"Can you help me or not?"

"I will, as long as you promise to drop it once whatever you're chasing ends up to be yet another dead end."

Knowing he didn't have another choice, Rowan agreed.

Gavriel told him he'd send them over, then said softly, "I know you loved her, Rowan, but it's time to move on."

It's not that easy, he thought, thinking once again of Aelin sitting in that tiny cell, skin pale and hair too long.

"Thanks for your help," he said instead, hanging up before the lecture could continue.

A few minutes later, he was printing out the passenger lists from all the Rifthold to Aruba flights on each of the ten dates.

Starting with August 1st, he went through, passenger by passenger, and looked for an Elizabeth.

There'd been three direct flights to Aruba that day, so by the time he found it, his eyes were so tired he almost missed it entirely.

But there was a name that stuck out, one that was straight out of his copy of Pride and Prejudice.

Seat 14C had been occupied by Elizabeth Darcy, and she'd flown directly from Rifthold to Aruba on August 1st.

Rowan's jaw damn near hit the floor.

His hands shook as he highlighted the name, writing the victim's name next to it to keep it straight in his head.

His mind whirled with possible explanations, but he didn't let himself think about anything except the next date.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, he went through the passenger list for April 13th.

And sure enough, Linton Heathcliff was on one of the flights. In the same damn seat.

"Holy fuck," he whispered, grabbing the next sheet of paper.

He went date by date, flight by flight, and by the time he'd located every character, he was sure of what he'd found. What she'd left for him.

It wasn't a breadcrumb, it was the whole goddamn loaf.

Rowan barely made it to the kitchen sink before his stomach emptied as an explanation of what had really happened eight years ago started to form in his mind.

He didn't have all the pieces, but the ones he did have made him literally sick to think about.

Her insistence on being innocent, her begging him to look again, telling him only he could find the clues... it all made sense.

The doubt he'd been struggling with for eight long years suddenly disappeared, replaced by a certainty so swift and thorough and all encompassing, it almost took his breath away.

She hadn't been lying.

She hadn't killed those ten people.

She couldn't have, because...

"They're still alive."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

dun dun duuuuun

part 4 out next Friday (sorry for the slow updates I'm in summer school)

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[milenadaniels]

Carve It Into Stone, 1574 words - Buck/Eddie + Chris, Sleepy Sickfic

(AO3 link)

Caught in the rhythm of routine, Eddie remembers a few moments too late that he’s meant to be entering quietly when he gets home from work. Or: a self-indulgent Buck and Chris napping together fic because of this post.

Caught in the rhythm of routine, Eddie remembers a few moments too late that he’s meant to be entering quietly when he gets home from work. The deadlock has already been turned but, wincing, he slides his key back out gently and palms the doorknob deliberately to prevent the familiar squeaks from reverberating through the house.

Once inside, he guides his duffel bag to the floor, not letting the strap clatter down as he usually would, and takes care as he bends down to unlace his boots and toe them off before padding into the living room, following the low sounds of the television.

On Thursday, Abuela asked for help figuring out the new tax software she wanted to use this year — it was very user friendly but she was very much in her 80s — and instead of subjecting Christopher to an entire afternoon and evening of boredom, Eddie asked Buck to pick him up from school and hang out until he could join them. He hadn’t known at the time that Christopher was sent home with a note saying he’d been sniffly and should be kept home until he felt better: new protocols in the mid/post-COVID-19 world.

Buck immediately got him a rapid test for COVID-19 and it was ruled out, and it didn’t present like a flu, it was just a hell of a cold. Mild fever, runny nose, body aches — the works. And Buck, who had been exposed for hours at its peak transmission period, did not escape it. Which made it handy when Eddie needed a sitter on Friday and Buck naturally had to call in sick himself.

Buck was sending him text updates all throughout his shift but they stopped suddenly a couple hours ago, so Eddie is not at all surprised to find them both out for the count.

Still, he’s not prepared to take in the sight of Buck stretched on his back, somehow fitting his 6’2 frame between each arm rest, and Christopher tucked snugly along his side, more on top of him than in the wedge between Buck’s body and the back of the couch. One of Buck’s hands is curled up by his face, while his other arm is holding Christopher to him as if there was a risk of falling. Christopher’s arm is tucked into his chest, and his head is resting against Buck’s collarbone, nearly tucked right under his chin and Eddie…

Eddie pauses.

He pauses and grapples with this picture of strength and fragility juxtaposed and blended together. Buck, built for strength and power, tenderly cradling his young son. Both of them unstoppable forces of energy and unrestrained joy, both cast down together by germs they just have to weather.

Both of them here, recovering together, safe under Eddie’s roof, under Eddie’s watch now.

He feels suddenly like he’s walked blindly into a moment in the course of his life whose significance he can’t yet pinpoint and he thinks if he just stays here, quiet, still, he might be able to reach out and understand it.

Christopher’s glasses are on the table nestled between a tissue box and two empty glasses of water, indicating one of them knew they were headed towards an extended nap before they settled in and somehow that detail tugs at his heart fiercely. To imagine Buck watching Christopher get sleepier and sleepier, carding his fingers through his curls fondly, and gently lifting his glasses off to make him more comfortable. Was he already settled against Buck by then? Or were they sitting upright until Buck started to lose his own battle with fatigue and rearranged them like this? Indulging both their need for cuddles when they’re feeling low?

It doesn’t matter, but Eddie wishes fiercely that he knew.

They’re both breathing easily enough, like most of the congestion has lifted, though he can tell by the amount of crumpled up tissues that missed the trash can Buck must have brought into the living room that they had a hell of a day with it. Their cheeks are a little flushed with fever still, and Eddie wants to check but doesn’t dare touch them for fear of disturbing them.

Instead, he takes in their pale skin, their dark curls, and their unguarded faces in sleep and marvels for the hundredth time at how improbable it is that they could look so alike and how strangely happy he is about it. By now he’s used to the guilt that accompanies this thought, and as always, spares a thought to Shannon, but then he lets himself linger on it like he doesn’t usually have the luxury of doing.

Usually their similarities strike him at the worst times: when he turns around in line to catch them making faces and laughing at being caught, and Eddie has to pretend to be grumpy and turn back around to play into their game; when they’re ordering ice cream and Eddie asks for strawberry and they both turn to look at him with identical expression of disappointment because fruit isn’t a treat even if it’s fake fruit; when he has to take a call from Carla as they’re walking into the museum and catches up to Buck and Chris just in time to hear the ticket taker say “you and your dad have fun!” because she has eyes and anyone on Earth would have assumed the same. These are moments Eddie has to let lie and move on from quickly. Moments he only gets to revisit when he’s laying in bed at night, trying to conjure up the visuals exactly as they were to reproduce the tightening in his chest he keeps experiencing, but failing every time.

But now, here, he can linger.

No, he can do more than linger.

Moving slowly as if any sudden movement could break this tranquility, Eddie slips his phone out of his pocket and double-taps the power button to bring up the camera.

He takes a single, wide-view shot of the whole couch, and admires it for a moment.

Then he zooms in on their sleeping faces and takes two more.

Three new pictures to add to the overflowing folder of pictures that will never go on Instagram.

He quickly sends Carla the wide-view shot because he feels the need to share what he’s come home to and she’s the only safe option. The only one who won’t read more into it than Eddie’s comfortable addressing.

Though if Eddie’s being truthful, he knows she’s just the only one who’ll keep it to herself until he’s ready to hear it.

Carla sends back three red hearts, and Eddie can’t help but agree.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and makes room to sit on the coffee table.

Buck’s hand is right there, open, palm facing up, waiting.

Eddie reaches for his shoulder instead, though he slips up and instead of jostling him gently like he meant to, his hand curves around his shoulder and his thumb glides back and forth against his shirt until Buck is snuffling and blinking awake.

“Hey,” Eddie says, smiling when Buck remains half-asleep, his body as relaxed as it was in sleep.

“Hey,” he croaks, gently clearing his throat and casting a nervous eye to Christopher who makes nothing of the disturbance.

“How are you feeling?”

Buck seems to mentally assess himself. “Fine, just crazy tired. Our little man here was a trooper, but he conked out a couple hours ago. Aw, shi--oot,” he looks at the television, “I was supposed to pause it when he fell asleep. I don’t remember which episode we were on.”

Eddie smiles. “He probably won’t even remember the episodes you did watch. You can start over when you’re both back on your feet.”

“Mm,” Buck hums, his eyelids already growing heavier again. “‘K.”

Eddie watches sleep take over Buck, until those tired lids are pried apart suddenly with mild alarm.

“D’you want m’to put him to bed?” Buck slurs. “Be more comfortable?”

Eddie shakes his head with a fond smile. “He’s just fine where he is.”

Buck’s eyes grow vulnerable in a way he’s been trying to hide lately when he’s in full control of his faculties, and the corner of his lips tugs up into a shy smile.

“Go back to sleep,” Eddie says, his voice pitched low to be soothing.

Buck obeys and within a couple of minutes his face is slack and peaceful, his breathing evened out, but some stray impulse shifts his hand away from his face and off the couch entirely to hang in the space between them.

Can Eddie really be faulted then for taking it in his hands and holding on for just a second — feeling the slight heat from the fever seep into his skin, feeling the curl of mildly calloused fingers against his, feeling the weight of it between his palms and deciding that he likes it, a lot?

He guides Buck’s hand back to its original resting place and doesn’t give in when his fingers want to explore the ungelled curls resting against his forehead.

He lingers, again, just one more time, and lets the knowledge that Carla’s talk will likely be coming sooner rather than later wash over him.

And by the way he only barely makes it to the kitchen before thumbing open his gallery and reviewing the three pictures he took, he figures he may just be ready for it.

[mimzy-writing-online]

How To Clean Your Room When You Have ADHD

A huge problem for people with ADHD (or any neuro-divergent condition or physical disability really) is not knowing where to start. You have this big project in front of you and you have no idea what to do first.

This is a guide based on the years of practice I’ve had learning to clean my room even when my mental illness and chronic fatigue is trying to ruin my life (and failing.) These are the steps I take, what helps me best.

This guide is designed to give you a chance to make a large, effective change in your room that positively helps your mental health. You are not expected to be perfect, you are not expected to do everything if it’s outside of your limitations, just do your best (and don’t push yourself too much... but I never listen to that self-advice, oops.)

Most important step: eat breakfast and take your meds. Trust me when I say this will keep you going, both in the energy and focus departments.

Next, try to recruit a friend or family member to help. By help I mean asking them to keep you company and keep you on track. Talking them will help keep you going, and give you someone who can offer an idea or suggestion if your ADHD gets you stuck.

Calling a friend over the phone is a good substitute if you don’t have someone to be in the room with you today.

Music is a good alternative to keep you moving if that’s all that’s available but trust me when I say having another friend with you helps a lot.

Supplies:

Trash bags

Empty hampers

Ideally access to a nearby washing machine and dryer

Micro-fiber clothes

Long duster

Prep:

Open your curtains (ideally) for the vitamin D and focus. Or turn on a lamp with a light quality/intensity you find comfortable.

Strip your bed. Take pillows, blankets, sheets, and pillow cases off. 

Washing sheets and pillow cases is mandatory because 1) it’s sooo so nice to go to bed at the end of the day and smell clean sheets, and 2) clean sheets are good for your skin, especially clean pillowcases if you have problems with acne.

Washing blankets, comforters, and duvet covers are optional. You should do it from time to time, but it’s not a priority like sheets and pillow cases. Some comforters and blankets can only be washed under specific conditions, or possibly only when absolutely necessary (because like, you stilled coffee or soda on it or your pet did something rude on your blankets.) Check wash requirements on the tags.

You can still probably ignore it unless you really want to. Again, this is about making a sizable change that positively affects you, not being perfect.

Put your sheets in the washing machine and put the rest of your bedding back on your bed and leave it there until you’re ready to put the sheet back on.

Next is laundry. Pick up every item of clothing off the floor or on nearby furniture. Every item. Even if you think, “I only wore this for a few hours the other day and there are no stains.” Wash them. 1) they smell like your floor, and that’s not a nice smell, and 2) trying to separate cleanish from definitely dirty is pretty demanding on mental focus spoons.

Just shove all those clothes in a hamper. It’s quicker that way. You’re going to wash them after your sheets.

Next clean up all the trash on your floor. Take a trash bag but don’t put in a trash can. You’re going to be dragging it with you while you work from section to section.

Food trash must go. 

Packaging and plastic wrap must go. 

Old school work can stay if you’re still taking the class or especially proud of that project, but otherwise just toss it. Find a folder or drawer for what’s left and store it away for now.

Start throwing trash on surfaces like desks, nightstands, dressers, and bookcases away.

Do not try to organize the inside of your drawers unless you’re planning to get really thorough. But that’s not today. Today you’re getting the basics done as efficiently as possible so you can feel better in your environment.

Take glasses, plates, mugs, and silverware into the kitchen.

Start working on cleaning up clutter on your desk and nightstand first. Next is dresser and bookcases. 

Use the micro-fiber clothes to pick up dust as you go. It keeps it from piling up, does not brush dust into the air, and goes quick this way. Dust tv and/or computer screens.

Pick non trash or clothing items off the floor. Try to find a permanent spot to either store or display it. If you can’t, maybe find a box to put those items in and revisit this problem later.

By now your sheets should be washed. Throw them in the dryer and wash your blankets if you’re ambitious. If not, wash your clothes next.

Take a break and have a snack, drink some water, maybe have a caffeinated drink.

Look at your room and feel proud, but also a little overwhelmed because it’s not done yet, but it’s getting there. Don’t worry. You can do it, I believe in you.

Procrastinate getting back to work. That’s okay. You have an hour before your sheets are clean, now is a good break time. Set an alarm for when your sheets should be dried and do whatever you want.

Alarm goes off, break over.

Dust the corners and tops of your walls to get rid of cobwebs. Having a taller or sighted person if this task is out of your ability (like it is for me on the eyesight front).

One last check for any dust around your bed. Move drinks away from your bed, nightstand and nearby surfaces.

Sigh, feel tired, and go grab your clean, warm sheets. Move your clothes or blankets from the washer to the dryer.

Come back, push all the blankets onto your (mostly?) cleaned up floor. Put the flat sheet on.

Feel tired and collapse on the covered mattress for a moment. You’re doing so good, and you’re almost there.

Make the rest of your bed.

Be very proud of yourself because you got a fucking lot done and I am sooo so fucking proud of you dude.

Optional things you can after this step:

Fold and put away laundry. This is a little concentration heavy. Make sure your friend/family member is nearby to help you stay on task. 

I highly recommend Marie Kondo’s folding method personally, saved me a lot of space in my dresser. Developing a set method for folding clothing makes it a lot easier to fold and put away in the future because your subconscious brain learns the motions and can practice them without you having to think too closely on it.

(She has several videos on YouTube, shorter than five minutes mostly, very visual with clear instructions, so it’s ADHD friendly, though not super blind friendly)

Now that your room looks a lot better, try putting those items that didn’t have a set place before. Your brain is probably seeing it like a whole new room and feeling refreshed.

That’s it, you’re definitely done now. Rest and relax. 

Turn on your favorite music, start doing your favorite task if you have the spoons, take a nap if you don’t have the spoons. Feel proud of yourself because you did a good fucking job.

It’s like... midnight now, and I’ve been up for two days, (because my ADHD brain was too loud last night to let me sleep. Mood? Mood.) I’m maybe a little too tired to edit this coherently, but you know writing these guides and posting them with minimal editing is so very on brand for my original posts.

Goodnight guys, I am off to bed!

I hope this helps <3 please leave me a comment in the replies or tags because I love going back to see what you guys left on my posts (believe that that I absolutely do this to my How to Write a Blind/Visually Impaired Character guide any time it gets fresh activity.)

Good luck, take care, and goodnight <3

[mulderist]

Five Times Mulder Got Scully Coffee, And One Time He Didn’t

MSR || 2k words || @today-in-fic

A/N: I wrote this on the fly based on a post about types of intimacy including knowing your partner’s coffee order.

1 “we leave for the very plausible state of Oregon at 8 a.m.”

It was her first assignment with Spooky Mulder; a crisp Wednesday morning in September. From the backseat she checked her boarding pass once more while the taxi arrived at Dulles International. The red-orange sunrise broke through the distinct wing-like architecture of the main terminal building. The driver idled then popped the trunk and hoisted out her carry-on letting the wheels click to the pavement. She knew she over packed. She thanked him and adjusted the strap on her leather satchel as the cab pulled into the congested river of departure drop-offs. 

The sliding doors opened with a breeze of recirculated air and she paused to let a cluster of businessmen pass by. She scanned the corridor and saw Mulder hovering near the escalators, a duffle bag at his feet. He was wearing a smart light blue shirt with a striped tie. She grinned at the fact that his dark grey suit jacket didn’t fully match his lighter dress pants. On her approach she noticed a particular boyish charm to the curl of his hair. He caught her eye and gave a wave. She quickly smiled and shifted her shoulder bag once again while she pulled her carry-on behind her.

“Good morning sunshine,” he stated while balancing two cups in a flimsy caddy, “I hope you don’t mind but I grabbed some coffee.”

“Thank you, Mulder.” She was genuinely surprised. He set the caddy down on the lid of the square trash can and pulled out a cup, handing it to her.

“How do you take it?”

“Uh, just cream and sugar.” Mulder fished around in the middle of the caddy and found her accoutrements. She slowly removed the lid and doctored up her drink. 

“Not too early for you is it?” He asked after taking a sip from his cup.

“Reminds me of residency,” she said, shaking her head with a smile and pouring a splash of cream. “The line between late night and early morning was pretty hard to differentiate at times.”

“I find it’s when I’m my most productive. However the T.V. choices leave a lot to be desired,” he said with a shrug, reaching down for his well-travelled duffle bag. He unzipped it and pulled out a folder.

“Is this my debriefing?” Scully asked.

“A little light reading for the flight,” Mulder replied, watching her tuck the documents in the pocket of her shoulder bag. “C’mon, looks like we’re at the C gates.” She followed him down the corridor and to the entrance of the shuttles.    

2 “I’ve heard the truth, Mulder. Now what I want are the answers.”

He offered to drive her home. She was exhausted but insisted she was fine. He squeezed her hand when she left to go find her car in the hospital parking deck. 

Restlessness had set in when he arrived at home. Eyes darted to his cell phone on the desk, making sure he hadn’t missed a call. She’d call if she needed to. He shuffled through a stack of files he took from the office, looking for a particular case that matched a tip from Frohike. He flipped it open and returned to the computer keyboard, adding to the paragraph he was working on. The TV droned on in the background, coffee finished its brew cycle in the tiny kitchen. 

Three taps on the door. He turned down the TV and listened then heard three more. He walked across the room and peered into the peephole then quickly flipped the lock and opened the door 

“Hi,” she began, “I’m sorry I didn’t call.” She sucked her lower lip. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Come in,” he said stepping aside. She exhaled and slowly entered his apartment, brushing a wave of hair behind her ear. He quickly stacked his work and moved the pillows on the couch. She took a seat, fingers knitted tightly together in her lap. Her eyes closed as she climatized to his space. He gave her a minute and stepped into the kitchen. When returned she had pulled her hand away from her face, gracefully dabbing at her eye with her knuckle. He set two mugs down on the table and joined her. 

“If you want to talk..”

“I don’t,” she said curtly, not intending to sound that short with him. “Not..not yet.” Her anger was still fresh. She was a raw nerve. He pressed his lips together and was patient. He had all the time in the world for her. Another slow exhale to steady herself and she reached for a mug. Cream and sugar. Warmth from the ceramic radiated against her hand; she felt another wave ready to break. He saw the downturn and gently took the mug from her, placing it next to his. She fought so hard but reluctantly crumbled. He embraced her; a shelter from the storm.

3 “Oh I don’t know Mulder, some things are better left unexplained.”

“So tell me more about this talking doll you found,” Mulder stated. Scully swallowed her bite of food and blinked at him.

“I never said it was a talking doll, Mulder. And besides, that was weeks ago, why are you still hung up on it?” He tossed the brown end of a french fry back into the bag and licked the salt from his thumb. 

“Color me jealous.” 

She stuffed a napkin in the empty fry container and added it to the trash on the table.

“Please tell me this hasn’t kept you up at night.”

“Not more so than usual,” he said with a shrug collecting their fast food wrappers. They left the outdoor seating area and started to walk down E Street. The lunch dates were a little more frequent than before. Her remission and recovery brought them closer together. Scully didn’t want to assume he missed her when she took a well-deserved weekend to herself but Mulder was shit at hiding how clingy he could be. It was all part of the process. He tapped the back of her arm and pointed at a coffee shop window. She agreed and he held the door. The wonderful aroma of roasted beans and steamed milk hit her senses. She peeked at the bakery case as he went to place their order. Mulder soon presented her with a cafe au lait and a wink. Her lips pursed as she blew on it. His gaze shifted to the perfect “o” of her mouth complimented by a subtle glossy lip tint. He then proceeded to burn his tongue as he eagerly went to drink his Sumatra roast, snapping him back to reality.

4 “Get over here, Scully”

The lights in the office were dim. He had set-up the slideshow reel to provide visual aid to a fairly vague case detail. However the only detail he was concerned with at the moment was the taste of her lips. A hint of honey from her lip balm, the whisper of milky coffee. Their cups grew cold and lonely sitting on his desk while they turned up the heat hiding amongst the shadows. 

She was needy and pulled no punches. Hand rested firmly against his cheek as tongues danced and twisted. His stubble coarse against her fingertips. Last night at the ball field had ignited a spark. Remembering the feeling of his hands on her hips, cheek to cheek in the cool night air. His weight against her with each swing of the bat. He held her close once again; entwined together in a dark corner of the basement office.

“Remind me to bore you with slideshows more often,” he said, catching his breath. A warm smile crossed his face as he admired her. 

“Shut up, Mulder,” she said before kissing him once again.  

     5 “What if there was only one choice and all the other ones were wrong?”

Three weeks had passed. Scully discovered she was leaving small items behind; a toothbrush, a sweatshirt, a travel sized hairbrush. Evening was still the preferred time of day. Dinner, maybe a beer or a glass of wine followed by ignoring the T.V. Mulder knew just the right amount of pressure to put on the tired muscles of her neck. A rush of circulation flowed through her. She leaned back against his chest and his hands wandered followed by his lips. She loved how he tenderly nipped at her earlobe, He was hard against her lower back and she worked her advantage between his legs. Clothes were shed like new skin. He was swift to carry her from the couch into more comfortable surroundings. 

The linens held her scent, the walls held their cries. Deep and passionate. Primal. Two become one. He broke first and she was quick to chase him down. Chest heaving, muscles aching in the best way. They lay together as heart rates slowed. He traced her jawline, a thumb laid claim to her full lower lip. Lust-laden eyes blinked heavily. She decided to stay. Naked, satisfied, and loved.

Morning arrived with a deep yellow glow. She slowly shook off her slumber and reached beside her, feeling an empty bed. Her ear perked up listening for the shower but heard nothing. She slid to his side of the bed and glanced at the clock. Two hours before work. Her hand clutched the bedclothes to her chest and she heard keys hit the wood table in the other room. Mulder nudged the bedroom door open. Scully smiled and ran a hand through her hair, sitting upright. 

“Morning,” she said. He approached and kissed the top of her head. 

“I got us some coffee. Cream and sugar, of course.”

“You’re too good to me,” she said before realizing it. There was always so much unspoken between them. Affection was a given but rarely vocalized; arousal and desire usually won out. They operated well without words. She blushed and swung her legs over the edge of the bed tucking the sheet closer. 

“Hey. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said. 

6 “We will find him -- I have to.”

She needed an out. It was too much too fast and the fuel from her anger was on fumes. Scully dried her hands on the edge of her jacket and stormed down the corridor towards the elevator. That might have been the first time she actually threw a drink at someone. A bit dramatic but she would deal with that later, right now she needed to leave. 

   Her cell phone chirped and she promptly ignored it. The car shuddered as it idled in the parking deck, her head lay back against the headrest, a hand on her belly. She fought against an angry sob. The caller was persistent. She tried to collect herself. Another series of rings and she finally answered.

“Agent Scully? It’s Skinner.”

“Sir?”

“Where are you right now?”

“I’m on my way home. Is something the matter?” she questioned.

“You tell me,” Skinner replied with concern. She closed her eyes and slowly caressed her belly once again. He was the only one she could trust right now. He was trying to be a friend. She exhaled and asked if he could meet her in Georgetown.

Scully sat down at a familiar cafe with small outdoor tables nervously fidgeting with her phone. She didn’t want to deal with the questions, she just wanted to find him. She wanted to talk to him about what was going on and they could figure things out together. She needed to find him. Her attention shifted as a couple walked past with a friendly golden retriever. The animal bumped its nose into her leg then happily licked her hand before it’s owners chuckled and led him back down the sidewalk.

Skinner arrived and set down two cups of coffee along with a handful of sugar packets.

“I got you decaf.” he said sincerely as he took a seat, “hope that’s alright.”

“That’s fine. Thanks,” she said, reaching for the cup then removing the lid and adding half a sugar packet. Her heart ached and she was sure Skinner could see it. He was quiet, not wanting to overstep his boundaries.

“I uh, I just want you to know that I’m your ally in all of this. And if you need to talk…” he trailed off when he saw the change in her expression. She pressed her lips together.

“That means a lot, sir. Thank you.” She brushed away an errant tear and swallowed hard. They had much to discuss.

[sazandorable]

how did you find the Choice Of script? did you look into anything else, like Twine or Inky before settling on it? as someone interested in these kind of games, i'm v interested in your thoughts given the scope of what you pulled off here. pass on ur lessons to the plebs pls. (when you have time and spoons)

(Context: this is about the Magnus Archives dating sim game I made, and ChoiceScript is the free-to-use programming language used for the ChoiceOf games)

how i found it:

So the dumb story, as I recall it, is that years ago I stumbled on the Choice of the Dragon dragon-simulator, and that was just exactly my jam xD (Another big one published since then is Choice of the Cat!). And then I found out that the code was open for use and that there was an active community of casual game-makers, and it sounded really fun, and I tried my hand at making a couple little games over the years (only really finished one silly one, though, as a gift for a friend).

why that one:

I have been dabbling in making small games, mostly for myself or for friends, for a while; I’d attempted Ren’Py back in the days, of course, but I was just a teen and didn’t have enough coding knowledge at the time (nor enough artistic or writing skill) and was very confused, so it’s likely that this bad old first experience played a role in scaring me away from that software (though I still have it installed...). I also hyperfixated on RPGMaker for a month or two, a couple years ago, but nothing has come out of that yet either.

The biggest reason why I latched on to CS was the fact that unlike Ren’Py or RPGMaker, it was conceived for text-only games (though you can insert pictures). It’s perfectly possible to get really complex and long and do it all yourself even without any visual artistic skill, it’s all just writing!

I don’t know of Inky, but I have played quite a few games made with Twine, though I haven’t tried making anything in it. I know it’s very popular because it’s free, accessible and easy to pick up, and there’s lots of little indie games about queerness or mental illness floating around, I just... never quite got it even while playing it (I don’t see the point of hiding text?). It obviously has a lot of potential and I’ve seen interesting stuff, but it just didn’t really grab me as something I wanted to try out. I’m not sure how well it would suit for a dating sim? Branching, for sure, but I’ve only seen very few games actually make use of variables?

Meanwhile Owen makes their CYOA TMA games in Google Slides which is absolutely fascinating and has lots of very fun mechanics too (though you couldn’t pay me to actually sit down and try doing that, holy heck)

Anyway, I mostly used CS this time because I already had experience with it, and had had a lot of fun. So I was already familiar with what that would entail and what options I had to make the gameplay interesting, and whenever I daydreamed about making a Magnus dating sim it was the obvious choice I had in mind as something I, personally, could reasonably achieve on my own in a few months.

how to:

So CS is completely free for use. There is a wiki that details every function rather clearly, and forums with a reasonably active community. And critically, there is the CSIDE application which makes writing and testing and debugging so much easier and streamlined (though it’s not necessary and I started out with just a text editor and manual playtesting. that was not fun tho). Finally, Dashingdon is a platform one dude set up to host in-progress and non-official games.

A finished game consists of just a folder with .txt files (plus illustrations if you wish), and you upload that to Dashingdon (or host it somewhere else) and you get a link and you’re good to go! Dashingdon even handles the save file plug-in script.

I have found it all extremely easy to use, although the start always takes some getting used to and, as for a lot of things, I recommend making a trash first game just to explore what you can do (and playing other games for examples), before you start on your real project with a bad basis.

It DOES require the basic understanding of how coding and algorithms work, but the language itself is extremely simple, the syntax is all pretty transparent, and CSIDE makes debugging very easy too. All in all it is intended to be usable by people who are writers first and not programmers, and imo it achieves that.

For fun, here’s what (a neat-ish-looking part of) my project looks like in CSIDE:

Most of my bugs are "i can't read" or "ah i forgot to edit this copypasted line" issues.

in conclusion:

All in all, ChoiceScript might not be the best suited ‘platform’ for every sort of game (Twine seems good too, and a classic dating sim in Ren’Py with character sprites and emotes and CGs would obviously be hilarious), but I definitely recommend CS to anyone passingly interested in choice/branching games and telling interactive stories.

I think it’s a good and accessible starting place especially for beginners, but it’s a robust tool for experienced game-makers too, and I definitely personally really like it, even after a few years of messing around with it.

/o/

[liquorisce]

Hey I just found out about your fics! I love it. Are you still going to write some EM fics? You're awesome!

Anon thank you so much for reading my beloved eremika stories! i am so glad that you enjoyed them. there are so many versions of eremika that take up space in my head - childhood em, high school em, eren-is-a-screwup-modern-au, vamp-au em, gosh i can go on forever. 

tbh i really really do want to still write em. especially now with snk getting more and more exciting with every chapter the EM feels are STRONG. but basically i fell prey to some writer anxiety and some “my fics are so shitty compared to other awesome authors” bs and i kinda stopped for a bit. 

but 2020 has been good to me and i am back. and because i am so grateful for your readership and support (and all the others who have been so lovely about my work), i wanted to share this recent excerpt from my wips folder. i have no idea if its just trash, but is completely self-indulgent, dramatic and angsty, and features eremika +arumika so my fav kind. here you go ~

rating: m

parings: eremika / arumika [shingeki no kyojin]

words: 1070 ish

"You never told me," he says, his voice faint from the corner of the room, where he leans against the wall, his golden hair bathed in the pale moonlight. 

"Armin," Eren exclaims, startled, "I didn't see you there." He's just out of the shower, hot beads of water growing cold on his skin as he sees the strangest expression on his best friend's face, blank and somewhat stony, something he has never seen before. 

"Anyway," he teases lightly, "what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with Mikasa right now?" 

"I don't know." Armin has never sounded this far away and it scares him. He shouldn't be here, standing so eerily in the corner like a ghost, with that haunted look in his eyes... on his wedding night.

"Why didn't you tell me Eren?"  

A cold dread sweeps through him. Had Mikasa told him after all? Had she decided the extent of their debauchery was too dirty a secret to keep from her husband?

It’s the darker voice in his mind that wonders, had she told him how many times he had taken her that night and how much she had loved it, how many times she had screamed his name?

His cheeks burn at the memory, a scarlet visual that he cannot bring himself to regret, for he does not regret anything more than the fact that he could not make her his, that this illicit liaison of theirs was one that would never happen again, that her touch, warm and passionate that it was, was something he would never have the pleasure of experiencing ever again. 

Even now when Armin stands in front of him asking him questions that he probably shouldn't, and there is guilt, true and justified on his features, guilt that he deserves to feel, the smallest fraction of his heart throbs with remorseless sorrow because the woman he loves would never be his. 

Because that one day, and night, those precious hours Eren had spent with her in his arms were as good as an illusion. She had made her choice, and it wasn't him. 

But he feigns ignorance anyway. "What are you talking about? Are you okay?”

“Me? Today I married the girl I’ve loved my entire life,” the sarcasm dripped right through, “… I’m great!”

He can’t stop the bitterness that creeps into his voice. “I thought everything went really well today, didn’t it? Everyone was gushing about what a perfect wedding it was… what a perfect bride.”

“She really is, isn’t she?” Armin’s voice is cold, his ice-blue gaze unflinching. "I’m sure you thought so. As for the wedding… it’s not exactly perfect when the best man spends the entire evening staring at the bride." Armin's laugh is harsh, forced, seeking humor where there is none. 

"It's not normal when the man who's giving her away holds onto her so tight, like he never wants to let go." 

"I'm not stupid, Eren," his voice cracks a little, hysterical with the weight of truth that he has seen on his wedding day. 

"You've never been stupid Armin," Eren says quietly, the oppressive feeling of guilt now unlocked from its cage consuming him entirely. 

He looks at his best friend, still fresh in his wedding suit, neat bow and everything, hair swept back, shoulders broad and tall. he sees the despair etched on every single one of Armin's honest, beautiful features, tearing at him from within. 

He’d just said his vows to the girl he always dreamed of marrying, and never ever had Eren seen anyone more miserable. 

So he does his best to crack up a smile. "It's not that big of a deal, you know," he says lightly, "besides, we would have been terrible together. Too much fighting." He crinkles his nose in mock disgust. 

Armin doesn't look convinced, he looks the same, desperate, guilty, like he's the one who's done something wrong, and it kills Eren.

It slays him. Because never, not for one second has he been even one tenth of the friend that Armin deserves. Especially not yesterday, when his hands had been so greedy to cover every inch of Armin’s now-wife roaming, kneading their way to her pleasure.

"If she had known, maybe..." 

Maybe she would have changed her mind, is what he wants to say but the thought chokes in his throat. But Eren knows what he's thinking and he's quick to reassure him. "She wouldn't have chosen this life if she didn't love you." 

But It isn't love for me when she looks at you the that way, the same way you look at her, like everyone else is just background noise, he thinks, but he doesn't say it because he knows the truth in those words, and fears it will only amplify when spoken out loud.

There is no more of this that Eren can bear, this self-righteous guilt and sadness and despair flowing out of Armin. He's tried to be happy for him, and her, because this will keep them inside the walls, or at the very least within the realms of society as they knew it… a life far safer than the journey he would set forth upon. 

It killed him when he had to see Armin kiss her, hesitant, soft, the lightest smile playing out at his lips and answering breath from hers, but he forced himself to watch. 

He had forced the spears further into himself untill he had thought he would be sick, sick with hatred and jealousy and all things impure. 

But he had watched faithfully and tried to work up a smile because this was the happiness of his two most precious people and he would protect it. 

And now Armin stood in front of him, miserable, as if he were ruined, as if the one person he had desired above everything was taken away from him. 

It was something that Eren could not bear any longer. He would tell Armin all of this, if he had thought it would bring him peace but it wouldn't, it would just shatter their relationship and everything it meant to him. 

So he turns away, signalling an end to this conversation. 

"Go to your wife," and the bitterness is loud, screaming in Eren's words, splintering harshly. "She's probably waiting for you."