#its very unpolished

[sleeping-willows]

How a shitty perm inadvertently changed SY's life

SY, being SY is absolutely fed up with a cosplayer because their LBH cosplay isn't perfect. So, he leaves a 3k word scathing comment on their post pointing towards all the things they fucked up.

the cosplayer's only words to it are "do it urself then lol"

So SY, of course, does

But SY wants it to be absolutely perfect. No amount of wig styling can match the beauty of LBH's natural curls!

Cue to SY, who (for my convenience's sake) already has long hair, deciding that, if he already said he's not going to use a wig, why not get a perm to match LBH's hair?

He goes out and gets the perm with his sister's hairstylist. A picture of LBH in tow, for reference.

He lowkey thinks its ugly after getting it, but oh well, he's committed to the bit this much already, might as well continue.

SY continues with his cosplaying endeavors and enlists his mom to help him learn how to sow. He'd never disgrace LBH with a store bought cosplay! No, it has to be handmade.

A few months have passed and his perm has settled. It almost looks as good as LBH's now! He's pretty much done with the actual cosplay now too, clothing-wise. Now all he has to do is learn cosplay makeup.

Uh. Yeah. Makeup.

He swallows his pride and asks his little sister for help with that, too.

It isn't actually that bad, if he's being honest.

He takes a few more weeks to work on his cosplay (lets pretend makeup is really easy for SY to learn idk) and then he's done!

He takes pictures in it and goes to a con to show off his work.

Cue a confused Luo Bing-ge, who, having just transmigrated to the modern world, is wondering how, exactly, there's a double of him.

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

Maybe I'll write a part 2 tomorrow? I've no idea

[kagoutiss]

green beetle black beetle

[suddencolds]

insatiable appetite [1/?]

sooo... this is one of the thirstiest things i have written—and also one of the only times i've written a character with the kink, ever T.T warnings in advance for mess, character getting sneezed on, implied contagion, possible ooc-ness, & me writing this entirely with my d instead of my head

ivan and till are from al//ien sta//ge (a very fun watch which will only take 30 mins out of your life; i really recommend it!!). that said, this fic takes place in a modern au setting, so feel free to read it without any prior context :)

special thanks to @6pmsoup for sending me a very cute alnst doodle of these two which altered my brain chemistry permanently

—

Summary: Till shows up to a dinner outing with a brewing cold. Ivan suffers. (est. relationship, kink!Ivan, ~2k words)

—

For all Till tries to hide it, Ivan can tell immediately.

There’s this: Ivan has been paying attention to Till for most of his life. A full decade before they’d gotten together officially, and some more—this is how long Ivan has had to observe his tells. Always from the sidelines, always with a detached air of indifference that, in reality, was anything but.

All the signs are there the night before. Till, turning up the thermostat a couple degrees higher than he usually keeps it. Spending a little too long in the shower and using up almost all of the hot water. Clearing his throat one too many times in the morning before Ivan leaves for work, his smile distracted, the rasp of his voice nearly indistinguishable—but only nearly.

Now, Till is here for dinner—it’s a dinner they’ve had plans for a couple weeks now, at one of the nicer restaurants downtown, in celebration of Till’s recent promotion. Ivan had booked the reservation a couple weeks in advance.

When Till arrives, stepping out of a taxi cab, he’s wearing a scarf, even though the weather is too warm for it. Ivan steps up to meet him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Till says. “Traffic here was the worst I’ve ever seen it, swear to god.”

“Was it cold outside today?” Ivan asks, a little pointedly, tilting his head towards his scarf.

Till looks at him, his expression unreadable. Then he nods. “Colder than usual, for this time of year.”

“Strange,” Ivan says, just to be difficult. “But the weather forecast says it’s the same temperature today as yesterday.” 

“It’s probably just windier today,” Till says, readjusting his scarf around his neck. His face is a little flushed.

“Your voice sounds a little off, though.”

Till clears his throat with a scowl. “You must be imagining it,” he says. “It always sounds like this.”

No admission, then. That’s fine. Ivan will get the truth out of him at some point. He lets Till guide him into the restaurant.

It’s a nice restaurant—worth the hassle of the reservation, Ivan thinks. Each table is set with flowers arranged tastefully in long glass vases, empty wine glasses turned on their heads. The server—who leads them to their table in a small, private booth—is wearing a suit.

It’s a shame, really. Ivan has a feeling that he won’t be able to pay attention to any of that tonight.

They sit. Ivan looks down at the menu, picks out something at random in a matter of seconds. Truthfully, he can hardly think of anything less worth his attention right now. He turns his attention to Till instead—Till, who’s seated directly across from him, the scarf still around his neck, obscuring the lower half of his face. 

Till sniffles, reaching down to turn the page, and oh. The sniffle is terribly liquid—has he been sniffling like that all afternoon? Perhaps it’s a good thing that they work at different offices—Till at a law firm, Ivan as a senior manager at a consulting company—because Ivan certainly doesn’t think he’d be able to get any work done with Till sniffling like that. 

It’s not two minutes later that Till is reaching up to wipe his nose against the back of one knuckle. All in all, it’s discreet. Just a quick brush of the fingers against his nose, which is still hidden under the scarf. Though, the look of sheer ticklishness that passes over his features for a brief moment there is...

“What are you thinking of ordering?” Ivan asks.

“I can’t decide,” Till answers. He turns the page again. “It’s between the ribeye steak and the… snf! The pork belly. Is this the kind of place that skimps on the portion sizes?”

“Not from their Yelp reviews,” Ivan says. “You know, if you really can’t decide, I can flip a coin.”

“I’ll pick,” Till says. “Why? Hungry already?”

He looks up, now. His eyes are a little watery. There’s a faint flush over the bridge of his nose. Ivan thinks that if he reached out and touched him, he’d probably be running warm. The thought is almost unbearable.

“Your taxi did take forever to arrive,” Ivan says, by way of explanation. 

“Did you really wait that long?”

He looks uncertain, for a moment. Ivan says, “Not at all. But you know, I’m always impatient when it comes to you.”

Till rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “There was a meeting that ran late. I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Is that also a part of your new position?” “I guess so, yeah.”

“I can see why they were eager to promote you, then,” Ivan says. “How productive can late afternoon meetings be, anyways?”

Till snorts. “Not that important. It definitely could have been an email instead. I was about ready to doze off.”

He sniffles again. “Okay. I think I know what I want.” The way he says know betrays the slightest hint of congestion. 

“At long last,” Ivan says, just to be a little bit of an ass. “I’ll call over the waiter.”

He flags their waiter down, waits for Till to order first.

“A spiced apple cider,” Till adds on, at the end, with the slightest of coughs. “Hot, if you can.”

That’s new, too. Till seldom orders hot drinks at restaurants, though he’ll drink tea without complaint if it’s offered. Perhaps his throat hurts, then, from the cold that has clearly started to settle in his system. Subtle, still, but Ivan is familiar with colds like this. He knows it will probably only be a few hours before this deceptively “small” cold turns into…

Ivan orders, too, and thanks the waiter, who leaves with a curt nod. When he looks back over to Till, there’s a… strange something to Till’s expression, a slight distractedness. Irritation.

Ivan swallows hard. He should look away. 

He should, but then, Till’s breath hitches. He pulls the scarf higher over his face preemptively, as if he anticipates having something to have to cover for. The sharp intake of breath that follows is breathy, though Ivan can hear Till’s voice in it. He should really look away.

Instead, he takes the scene in, painstakingly, little by little, as Till’s shoulders jerk forwards. As Till presses a hand to the scarf, presses the fabric closer to his face, to muffle a sneeze into his fingertips:

“hhH-Ih!! hiHH-’IESCHH-eew-!”

God. It sounds utterly miserable, the harsh release of it scraping against his throat, the spray tearing into his scarf. It’s the kind of cold sneeze that is undeniably telling: this is going to be one hell of a cold. It’s not very quiet, either, even muffled into the fabric.

For more reasons than one, Ivan is glad they’re in a private corner of the restaurant, not somewhere more public.

“Bless you,” he offers, once he can trust himself to speak. It’s a good thing that Till is too distracted to look up at him right now. Ivan isn’t sure he can keep what he’s feeling off of his face.

Truthfully, he isn’t sure he’s going to be able to endure a whole night of this.

The problem here is that Till—Till, of all people; Till, who Ivan has been pathetically in love with for almost as long as he can remember—has no idea about Ivan’s… relatively niche interests. That is to say, he has no idea what effect it has on Ivan when he does that.

“Thanks,” Till says, a little stuffily. He sniffles again, lowering his hand. 

Ivan can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t pursue this line of questioning, but he can feel his self-control dwindling by the second. “Don’t you think it would be better to take off your scarf, now that we’re inside?”

Till freezes. “Y-You know what,” he says evasively. “It’s pretty cold in here.”

Ivan tilts his head in question. “And just how do you plan on eating like that?”

“I’ll take it off when our food comes.”

“I can ask the waiter to turn the temperature up, if it’s a problem,” Ivan says. 

“It’s not a problem.”

Ivan rises from his seat. Till watches him, perplexed, as he heads to the opposite side of the table, where Till is seated.

When he gets there, he stops. Stands, unmoving, so he can study Till from above. 

“What are you—”

Ivan reaches out, settles his palm across Till’s forehead. As expected, it’s warm. Not quite feverish, which is a good sign, but warm enough to be notable. 

“Just how long were you intending to hide this?”

Till stares back at him, wide-eyed. “Hide what?”

Shouldn’t it be obvious? “The fact that you have a cold.”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” Till says, slowly.

“Hmm.” Ivan drops his hand to his side. He is a little concerned, now. “We could’ve called a rain check.”

This time Till really does roll his eyes. “For the reservation we planned weeks ahead?” he sniffles again. “That just sounds completely and utterly unnecessary. Are you the type of person to call things off just over a little cold?” 

Ivan leans over, tugs down the edge of Till’s scarf. Till bats his hand away just a moment too late, cups his other hand over his face to shield his face from view. For a moment, he looks faintly mortified.

Then his expression settles into something more disgruntled. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

So uncooperative. “Let me see,” Ivan says. Slowly, gently, he pries Till’s hands away from his face, and then—because the restaurant is dimly lit—tilts Till’s face up slightly so that it catches more of the overhead light. 

Till’s nose is redder than usual. He’s probably been rubbing it all afternoon, if the redness that percolates into his cheeks is any indication. There’s  a damp, liquid sheen on the underside of his nose.

“What’s there to see?” Till says, a little crossly.

“Your face, since you’ve been so intent on hiding it under that scarf,” Ivan says, leaning in to get a better look.

Till scowls at him, but there’s no heat to it. “You see my face every day.”

“On the contrary, I don’t see it nearly enough,” Ivan says. “And you hardly ever get sick. Is it so wrong for me to be concerned?”

Without looking, he reaches behind him with one hand to grab a couple cocktail napkins. The other hand he keeps held up to Till’s cheek. 

But then, Till’s breath hitches. “Wait,” he says. Panic flashes through his face. “Ivan, move, I—”

Oh. Well, seeing as there’s no way he’ll be able to get the napkins over in time, it looks like he’ll have to improvise. If Till wants to cover, Ivan can help with that. He moves his hand to cup it loosely over Till’s mouth. Not a second too late, it seems. Till jerks forward unceremoniously, his nose twitching, his eyes squeezing shut.

“hHheh-! HHh’EIITShHh’yYiew!” he gasps sharply. Two? “Hh-! hHiiH’DSSCSSHh-IIew!”  

The jolt of the sneezes is practically electrifying—all of that force, brought to an abrupt halt behind Ivan’s waiting palm. He feels the expulsion of air against his skin, the warmth of Till’s breath, feels the slight dampness behind his hand as the spray mists over his fingertips.

Ivan swallows, hard. Thank god it’s so dark here, otherwise Till might notice what this is doing to him. 

“Bless you,” he says, withdrawing his hand at last to wipe it on one of the cloth napkins. It comes out slightly raspier than he intends it to, though perhaps it’s a miracle that he’s still able to talk at all. “Some cold, hmm?” Belatedly, he hands Till the stack of napkins.

Till practically snatches them from him, turns aside to blow his nose wetly into the top few. The way he sniffles afterwards suggests that his nose is still very much running. 

“Do you have no self preservation? It’s as if you want to catch this,” Till says, drawing back with another sniffle.

Oh, Ivan thinks, fighting back a shiver. That would be far from the worst thing.

[predninja]

I've been sitting on this so long its not even funny... but the dialogue options as a dragonborn to a kobold are xD

[lollytea]

Imagine if Willow sprinkles Hunter with pixie dust, and she's about to explain he needs to think happy thoughts to fly, only to see he's already floating off the ground.

"Whoa, what happy thought were you thinking?"

"Well, nothing really, I was just listening to you."

Her just being there is his happy thought.

[Now on AO3]

"It doesn't work on me," He claims, like the Know-It-All he is.

Willow is already coaxing a daisy into existence as he says it. It pokes through the forest floor, unusually exuberant for dusk hours, dimly illuminated by a fairy's magic touch.

"Are you calling my dust faulty?" She scoffs, plucking the flower out of the ground and twirling it teasingly beneath her chin. "How presumptuous."

"No," Answers the pirate. If you could even call him that right now. He's shed his immaculate gold coat and that large and ridiculous (but oh, so funny) hat of his.

He's taken every measure to be as inconspicuous as possible. Nobody aboard that ship can know about his little late night rendezvous with a fairy. Especially not if he doesn't intend to bring her back in a jar.

He has long since retired that ambition.

"It's no different than any other fairy's dust," He says, slow and cautious. "The crew has....obtained it a few times in the past...."

Willow doesn't say anything but her presence still makes him squirm. She already knows what becomes of fairies that pirates get their hands on.

"And it doesn't work on me...." He concludes.

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not."

He's a liar, among other things.

Willow opts to not mention how transparent he is in his longing to get tangled up in the stars, to test the feel of foamy cloudstuff in his hands, to soar the way the Lost Boys do.

He's so enraptured with winged creatures, she notices.

This boy wants to fly. This boy wants to become Lost in a way that matters on this island. And the only thing stopping him is his own stupid heart.

He's my uncle, he had whispered the last time she begged.

"I refuse to believe you're immune to dust," Declares Willow. "You are no different from any Lost Boy."

She means that in more ways than one. He even looks like one tonight. Young and sloppily dressed, his bare hairless face spotlighted by the fat silvery moon hanging overhead.

It bothers him that it's so difficult to grow a beard. It makes her heart sink a little every time he laments how impatient he is to grow up.

"I'm nothing like a Lost Boy," He retorts for the billionth time.

If she felt a little more argumentative, she'd ask him to state their exact coordinates on the map. And he'd flounder for an answer, because he's never been in this part of the island before. Willow led him into the depths of the forest by the hand in the dead of night.

He's a boy.

He's lost.

It would make him all mad and huffy if she pulled that on him. Which would be funny. But she doesn't want to make him mad and huffy right now.

Willow shimmies closer, rustling the leaves underneath her. "I think you just never learned the trick of dust. It's not like fairies to give the secret away to just anyone."

He's not looking in her direction. Which is annoying. She could get drunk on how it feels to have his eyes poring over the sight of her.

It was once an impish sort of delight. A delicious satisfaction that he found her such an irksome creature yet he was unwillingly attracted to her shape, to her smile, to her eyes.

It's different now. Less unwilling on his part. And at some point or another, she found herself blooming pink roses beneath the skin of her cheeks when he looks at her like that.

She likes being looked at. But she now understands that she likes being looked at by him. She wishes to hear the thoughts in his head as his eyes hang off her bare shoulders.

"So..." Willow croons, her fingers finding the sharp bend of his jaw. She brushes the skin, gingerly avoiding the sensitive edges of his scars.

"How about...." her palm connects to his cheek and she still marvels over how perfectly fitted her hand is for cupping his face. She guides his gaze towards hers. The eyes that she finds pretty to settle on the face that those eyes find pretty.

"You trust me on this...." Her soft spoken utterance is emphasized with an affectionate rub of her index finger on the sweet spot behind his ear.

He likes being touched there. She found out back when he was trying very hard to not like her.

Once his eyes are set on hers, confused but hopelessly soft, Willow lifts the daisy to her lips and blows.

A string of glowing pollen rises from the buttery pistil and drifts in his direction. It's as though it already knows tonight's assignment is proving a Know-It-All wrong. It's the only way to needle a big pretty smile outta him.

Willow is gonna get that smile, whether he likes it or not. She's a rascal like that.

Dust clings to his cheeks, spilling down his neck and sinking under skin.

"I promise you're not immune to dust," Says Willow, because she won't allow him to be. If he wants to fly, he'll fly.

He's staring at her with wild eyes now, every blink an agonizing interruption of his beholding.

She hasn't realized until now just how close their faces are. Nose to nose.

Feeling the tickly heat of his breath makes her smile.

"All you have to do is..."

He gasps.

Willow gasps.

They are no longer nose to nose because he is jerkily rising off the ground.

Amusingly, once he's a few inches into the air, he awkwardly tips forward and his feet continue to ascend. He's floating upside-down now, startled and confused yelps erupting from his throat. Willow stands up, trying to swallow her giggles as he desperately stretches his arms out to claw at the ground for some sort of anchor.

He's wobbling further and further away from her now and with a flutter of wings, she rises to meet him by the heads of the trees.

"Hiiiiiii~" She singsongs in an imitation of something he said to her so very long ago when things were so very different.

His flipped body has caused his shirt to hitch. It hangs in a baggy pool at his armpits.

Willow cannot help herself. She pokes his bare belly with a silly sounding "boop!" making him squeak ("Willow!") and scrabble to yank the fabric back over his figure. His legs are kicking erratically, attempting to put himself to right.

She doesn't indulge in the antics for much longer, instead opting to take pity on him. Lost Boys are like this sometimes too. But only in those first few minutes before they realize that they're perfectly safe, just a little inexperienced.

"Don't you worry," Says Willow, taking him by the waist and flipping him rightside-up. "You just haven't got your sky legs yet,"

She lets go of him once his position has been righted but he is not having it. Willow lets out an embarrassing noise herself as a pair of arms awkwardly throw themselves around her. His breathing rattles in her ear, his heartbeat a thick pound against hers.

Willow blurts out the first thing she can think to say. "First time?"

"Obviously!" He snaps, though there's a tremor to his tone.

She laughs to hide her brain's stubborn fixation on how defined the arms around her are.

"Hey now, I gotcha," She says comfortingly. With a bit of effort, she manages to rearrange their entangled bodies so it's not so...so much.

They now float at the respectful distance of any two teenagers having their first dance, complete with his arms loosely looped around her neck and Willow's hands rested against his hips.

Hm. Well. It's no longer so much but...

Now it's not enough.

To right that wrong this instant, Willow hums mischievously. "After all...."

Those respectful hands slide up his sides,

"I finally got my diabolical little fairy hands on a pirate."

They linger on his ribs.

His breath gets caught.

"I'm not gonna let him go."

They travel back down to his hips.

He's frozen in the way he tends to freeze, but it doesn't deter the heat. It blotches his face, his ears, even seeping down his neck.

He used to slap her touch away when she got playfully handsy with him. That stopped a lot time ago.

Instead, his grip around her tightens, though his gaze falls bashfully.

Willow grins.

He liiiiiiiiiikes it.

"How does flying work?" Asks the pirate.

"Well, it basically means not being on the ground," Answers Willow intelligently.

"No. I mean....why am I flying right now?"

Oh.

Right.

She had forgotten that he went blasting off before she could even explain the trick of it.

He looks troubled, a little bit on the scrunched up side. She expects that the reality of his situation will sink in sooner or later but...he needs answers first.

He's wanted this. He's wanted to fly. But it isn't like him to be satisfied without knowing the How and Why.

"Well," Says Willow. "What were you thinking? Before you began to fly?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "I-I wasn't thinking anything specific."

He's out of his depth and it's making him panic.

"Why? What was I supposed to be thinking?"

She smiles. "Your happiest thought."

"Oh...."

"Why?" She asks, leaning into his space. "What were you thinking?"

His brain is bizarrely shaped and she's obsessed with the idea of rummaging around in it.

She likes it when he allows the makings of the contraption to sputter out through his lips.

What are your happy thoughts, pirate?

But he never gives her an answer.

He doesn't need to.

What that boy does instead is give her a look. It's a strangely quiet look for such a loud face.

She can't gather together the words to describe that look because it feels too much like a secret. What she will say is that it's hers. It's all hers.

Her secret pirate.

His secret fairy.

"Oh..." She doesn't like how her voice shakes but what can she do?

He makes her feel so very fragile sometimes.

It's happening.

Aw thorns, it's happening.

Willow's wings speed up without her say-so and the two bodies shoot higher into the sky, the pirate howling in surprise.

She laughs. What else can she do but laugh?

But now that she's laughing, it's very difficult to stop. It's getting to the point of hysteria.

She's his happy thought.

She's his happy thought.

She's his happy thought.

And you know what? He might be hers too.

The sudden lift has made him lose his grip on her and he's now paddling through the sky, reaching out his hand to hers.

Willow takes it.

And while she's at it, she takes his other hand and gives him a giddy twirl.

He's accustomed enough to the weightlessness by now that he doesn't react with horror. But rather, it surprises a giggle out of him.

Terribly encouraged by the bubbling sound, she spins him again and he laughs harder.

He makes those dumb snorty noises.

She's going to spin him unconscious if he keeps doing this to her.

It's in his eyes now, she can see it. Something is beginning to kindle, the realization that this is it.

He can fly.

He can fly.

He can fly.

His smile is gold.

She never would have taken the air above the forest for a dance floor but there's nothing conventional about anything she does with this boy.

Their bodies rotate across the stars, like the little dancers in that music box she found once.

They try to imitate the grown-ups in those books he likes to show her. It's his idea.

Two hands, one small and round with short fingers and a cushiony palm, and one long and narrow, fingers all lean and knobbly. They find each other and the mismatched fingers intertwine.

Willow's other hand is on his shoulder while his is on her waist. It's loose, no longer fearing his life up here.

He can't dance while standing on the ground, so he certainly has no footing in the sky. But that's alright, floating and touching is enough.

He tells her stories.

She listens.

She flirts and she jokes.

He blushes.

Sometimes he responds with something just as immaculately phrased.

She blushes.

Her cheek is resting against his chest when she utters the words. "Guess what..."

"What?"

"There was a fairy ball tonight."

She wasn't supposed to tell him that.

The subsequent silence leaves her to wonder why she told him that.

"So why are you here?" He asks, which is even worse.

Willow doesn't give him an answer.

She doesn't need to.

It's her lips buttoned in an pointed 'You know why' sort of way that spells it all out. As wrung tight with nerves as she is, her lips quirk up with amusement as that heart of his begins to riot against his ribcage.

"Oh..." He says.

"Oh..." Willow responds.

The night dances on. The stars observe with indifference.

Neverland itself doesn't care if a fairy waltzes with a pirate.

Its only those with a pulse that take issue.

He doesn't say the words. Not exactly.

Instead, he says "Willow. I think...I think there might be a problem...."

The warmth of his body is soaking into her. It's making her sleepy.

"And what's that?" Willow asks, looking up.

After a moment of contemplation, she adds "Hunter,"

The pirate's name is Hunter.

She likes that his name is something that's allowed on her tongue.

She feels his shoulder stiffen beneath her hand at the mention of that name. It seems to tangle up the words he already had on the tip of his tongue.

She squeezes the spot she's holding, hoping to relieve a little of the tension.

"I..." The hand holding hers is damp. She can feel it tremble. "I don't think I can get down,"

"Is that so?" She teases with a tilt of her head.

Like she's forgotten. He's her happy though. It's so cute she almost wants to let loose an undignified squeal.

But the lines of Hunter's face only tighten. Every worry etched into his features is naked underneath the moon's glow.

"I don't think I can ever get down again," He states, simple and soft.

His eyes are on her and they burn like always. She doesn't know what kind of fire Hunter was born in but his eyes never stop burning.

Willow's mischievous smile dips as his words pierce her through with the viciousness of a dagger, yet her stomach doesn't fill with blood, but warm liquid gold.

You don't fall in love in Neverland.

You don't fall at all.

You fly.

[pushing500]

Your stories make me want to play more n more interesting forms of Rimworld. I’m pretty scared to leave peaceful mode most of the time though! I’m a sandboxier, not a ‘risk the lives of these characters I’m attached to’-er. How do you manage the power creep of enemies with so few colonists (for the mechinator story)?

Gotta be honest, I do panic a little bit when I get big raids, or mech raids, or cultist chanters or whatnot. I often just pause the game and make some tea or snuggle my cats for a bit before I come back and try to think of the best ways to deal with the situation without getting my best mechanitor bois killed in the process.

The killbox has definitely helped despite its architect being a bit of an idiot (that's me, by the way), and it's nice to know I can throw the mechs at any baddies as a distraction and resurrect them later if things go sideways.

Also, I'm comforted in the knowledge that I can call XiaoLiang from Arwell if I need a convenient Man-In-Black; he's only, like, a half day's walk away and (so far) doesn't seem to mind being summoned on a whim.

I confess I have reloaded a save now and then, but it's a single-player game, and in the end, it doesn't matter what you do as long as you're enjoying yourself. My favourite difficulty setting is "Adventure Story" because it has enough danger to make for interesting plots and drama, but also plenty of room for character development and silly colonist interactions.

[zeta-in-de-walls]

Hey friends, I've mentioned I have this little Pokémon fangame project titled Pokémon Fairytale.

I think the 1st chapter is ready for playtesting!

Would anyone be willing to try it out? I would really appreciate it! Basically play the game and give me feedback and if you find bugs then let me know. It's meant to be a fun little lighthearted game that's hopefully pleasant to play. Enjoy all the snarky dialogue.

If you're willing, join this discord I set up where I can explain downloading and you can give feedback.

[reiverreturns]

ripping up parts of this wip because turns out i hate writing past tense but here's a lil not-so-bad snippet to prove i tried. slight nsfw vibes but nowt explicit.

[gentil-minou]

When I was deep in a feverish haze all I could think about was Wei Wuxian's first illness post golden core transfer because cultivators never get sick so when wwx does for the first time he's absolutely awful at it.

Like he's walking around lotus pier trying to pretend he's fine but he's stumbling into walls and almost walks off the deck into the lake at some point. And of course everyone just thinks he's drunk or something cause cultivators don't get sick and wwx goes with it and laughs it all off, pretending he's hungover and absolutely fine, until he ends up shivering in bed until shijie brings him soup with a concerned look in her eyes he refuses to acknowledge.

When he gets better he cracks jokes and pretends it was nothing and hides his lingering cough in his sleeve.

With the Wens it's only a little bit better bc they do know about his core and Wen Qing is a doctor and can help him, but you see wwx can't lie down and rest how can he when there's so much he has to do?

He works as hard as he can, making sure to lift everything for granny even though his body aches and using all his energy to keep A-Yuan happy and distracted, in between moments of clearing resentment, all until he passes out in the middle of an empty path with no one around to see him fall.

Eventually Wen Ning finds him and carries him back wei wuxian wakes up to Wen Qing forcing some awful broth made of scraps of meat and yelling at him to go to sleep and rest. But of course the moment they're all asleep for the night he goes back to work. He can't rest there's no time, even as his head pounds and his body screams and the sickness eats away at his insides as the resentment does the same. There's no time for rest.

Post canon the first time Wei Wuxian gets sick he falls into a old habits and doesn't tell anyone, just continues puttering about and acting fine, distracting the juniors during their lessons and hanging off Lan Zhan's shoulders to tease him while he works.

But of course Lan Wangji notices the way his husband sways more than just with his usual dramatic swagger, and how he keeps shoving his favorite foods away saying he's not hungry as he rubs at his throat.

The final straw is when Wei Wuxian says he's too tired for their everyday but then plays it off as a joke at the look of concern Lan Zhan gives himso they do it anyways. And even tho Lan Zhan is tender and slow tonight Wei Wuxian still passes out from shear exhaustion before either have even finished

Lan Wangji has a moment of panic, thinking he broke his husband but then connects the dots...

When wwx wakes up he's smothered by their warmest blankets and wearing lwj's softest underrobe (because when A-Yuan was sick he liked to wear the robe too for the comforting smell and warmth). He looks around groggy and half asleep calling for his Lan Zhan, feeling bereft and confused.

He's about to get up and find him himself, even though the thought of getting up makes him feel dizzy when lwj comes back and glides to wwx's side with a bowl of congee that has just a hint of red in it. Wei Wuxian teases him about "there must be a rule about breakfast in bed Lan Zhan" and tries to get to his feet, but Lan Wangji pushes him down gently murmuring, "Rest, Wei Ying."

And suddenly its like the Jingshi has melted away replaced with the jagged stone walls of a familiar cave because Wei Wuxian you see he can't rest, there's things to do and people need him and he has to be strong he can't just rest he isn't allowed and what about the Wens he needs to get up he cant just lie here he needs to save them and he cant breathe and his head is going in awful circles and it feels like something is clawing its way out of him and he has to go do something and fix something, until Lan Wangji pulls him onto his lap and starts humming their song as he rubs soothing circles along wwx's back. And even though wwx's breaths are still coming out in terrified waves as his eyes dart around for some unseen threat, despite it all he starts to relax little by little to the sound of his Lan Zhan’s familiar baritone.

When he finally calms down enough he realizes he's been crying, blubbering like a baby leaving disgusting snot stains in the illustrious Hanguang-jun's robes and he tries to wipe them them away before Lan Zhan sees but lwj just holds his face between two hands with the most softesr care, his expression open and honest in a way it only ever is for Wei Ying, and he just keeps humming nonsense and nursery rhymes as he kisses wwx's tear tracks away. And tho wwx still can't stop crying lwj doesn't say anything, doesn't chide or lecture or tell him anything, just holds wwx and lets the smell of sandalwood wrap a comforting and warm embrace around wwx.

Eventually wwx does drift off and he comes to still huddled against lwj's chest, a lovely spot of drool right over his husband's brand and heart, as he reads a book about dual cultivation. It's past midday now and wwx asks about Lan Zhan's duties, fiddling with the edge of his forehead ribbon.

But Lan Wangji simply says, "Wei Ying is most important" and kisses his forehead and goes back to his book.

And Wei Wuxian burrows back into his husbands chest as if he tried hard enough he could carve a hole and bury himself besides Lan Zhan's heart forever, and pretends the flush he feels is from the fever.

They spend the next 2 days like that, with lwj guiding wwx back down to rest whenever the anxiety tries to make him feel bad and then comforting him through it all, kindly never pointing out the way every so often tears start to fall silently down wwx's face when he gets to thinking too much and even more kindly not pointing out the awful inelegant sound of wwx's honking wet coughs.

At some point Sizhui even visits, bringing an attempt at lotus rib soup using what Wen Ning remembers. It's not quite the same but it's more than enough and finally Wei Wuxian feels his shivers subside completely.

When Wei Wuxian wakes up on the 3rd day, well rested in a way he's never felt after being ill, he immediately jumps his husband and smothers his face in exuberant kisses that make Lan Wangji smile his special Wei Ying smile.

And although no one says anything Wei Wuxian knows deep within his gifted bones that from now on whenever he falls ill, there will always be someone to catch him.

(Orignally a threadfic here)

[serpentmessmer]

FLESH WORLD FLESH WORLD give me stuff about the magazine. What John's ads are like, what Dean's photos are like, what kinds of letters they get back, which ones Dean responds to, which ones they don't like, anything. ANYTHING FLESH WORLD

HEHEHE SO AS I SAID, I'M ALSO GETTING THIS POSTED TODAY BC IT'S @deanwinchesterpregnant'S BIRTHDAY

Flesh World posting: Viril e twenty-something seeking a good time, interested in free use at your discretion. No limits, call me and I’m yours. 5’ 10” 160 lbs. Phone + photo required for meet up, willing to travel under the right circumstances.

Response Ficlet under the cut

Dean flopped down in the chair diagonal to his dad, ripping open a letter messily. “Lotta responses to this one, what did you put?” A photo fluttered out as he unfolded the coarse thin paper - legal pad. The guy had to be in his 50’s, shaved head, leather vest, and chaps. Nothing else on. He could feel his ears turn red as he stared at the picture, just seeing John turn his attention to him as he stared.

“You and your girl mentioned free use, threw that in there,” John said as he pulled a drag from his cigarette, leaning back in the chair to watch Dean. “Read it out loud.”

“Dad this is-” Dean paused to find the right word, “extra filthy. You sure.” “Read it out loud.” Each word clipped, the tone of a command. 

“Yes sir.” Dean squirmed in his seat as he cleared his throat to start. “You sure look like a treat, would love to ge-” he stuttered, gulping down on his embarrassment. It wasn’t like dad hadn’t said shit like this to him before, though not this wordy, and usually when he was buried inside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see John doing the ‘keep going’ motion with his hand. “Would love to get to put all your gorgeous holes to the test.” Dean fluttered the tip of his tongue over his lips as he looked up from the letter to stare at his dad across from him.

John’s empty hand was at his crotch, rubbing roughly over his stiffening cock as dean read. “Keep going,” he said with a smirk, “I can see through that paper, there’s more.”

He nodded, fingers shaking as he gripped the paper and leaned in to continue. “When can we meet up? You’re the perfect little fuck toy to use up for a night, waiting at full mast for a response.” Dean tossed the letter down on the table, showing that beyond that was just physical description and phone number.

“Good boy,” John said as he leaned in and mussed Dean’s hair, “you wanna do this one?”

[theamalgaverse]

Boy does the cat have a handful of crystal wounds! Look at your own risk

“So mind telling me what you were going to say again? Didn’t quite get that.”

The jester does not like eavesdroppers or blabbermouths. If you insist on spilling what they don’t want in public air, you won’t feel the same.

[the-ghost-king]

it's going to be a few hours still but I do actually have something for solangelo week for today

[multidimensionalmusicalmess]

I find it quite funny how many people still insist that the 2014 production of Heathers is the superior version when compared with West End and the West End revival, when it... is not. I think what remains of the fandom may have some nostalgia bias problems.

[goldrushzukka]

god i wish i could let u all into my notes app. some truly obscene stuff in there tn

[ahomeboylives]

they changed how private newsletters work so if u wanna request a subscription to brodiesletter i believe u can do that now <3

[puphoods]

lush... puberty 2... bury me at makeout creek... retired from sad... be the cowboy... laurel hell... IN that order !