WangXian Pokemon Au!!!

If SVSSS was a AO3 fic it would be very difficult to tag for because, as one example, it doesn't have necrophilia but it does have a guy using a corpse as his emotional support body pillow for 5 years in a tragic display of devotion that makes everyone around him deeply uncomfortable

And there really isn't an adequate tag for that

Uploaded this one to twitter yesterday now its here because i can

Shizun! Shizun! Shizun!!!!!!! 😘😘💕✨

SeriRei Week 2020 extremely late day 2: touch

sfkdghksjlf I have dumb bitch disease, I thought I already posted this. I’m not going to do all of the prompts but uhhhhh I can’t NOT draw at least some of them

also I FINALLY found a website with some good free textures and now I’m going to use them for everything

Have you ever just given up? Yeah me too

MXTX Side Characters Tournament

Su Minshan / Su She from from MDZS

Submission 1: Idk I just kinda like him

Submission 2: Look at him having his own life and grudges and friendships and priorities completely unrelated to the main characters! He was so right to curse Jin Zixun 

Tianlang-jun from SVSSS

Submission: Incredible character who does it like him 

["Anti-Propaganda" that attacks other characters is NOT allowed. Please only give reasons to vote FOR a character.]

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

Scum Villain’s Self Saving System AO3-Fics

Bingqiu

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

a certain something certain

A Pairing of Souls

Anew

a second chance for a sinister person full of resentment

A Willing Wager

Behind Closed Doors

Bend, So I Don’t Break

Beyond heaven, above hell

Buttermilk

Day 21:Angry Sex

Deluxe System 2.0: Co-op Mode!

Dew Over

dragonfly

Dying Caws

Follow Me (back pls)

fool’s gold

Forever, as he had promised

forever hold your peace

found you

Guys My Age

heart got teeth

High Mountain, How I Long

honesty is such a lonely word

How to Forgive Your Shizun with the Power of Hindsight

In My Defense, I Was Left Unsupervised!

Kiss it Better

let me be at ease

Love You Tomorrow

Luo Binghe in a Leather Jacket is Illegal!

night of yearning

No heart for me like yours

Obedience

Of The Ones Who Lead

Option Three for Easy Mode

Peerless_Eats

Proud Immortal Demon Way of the Househusband

Reclaim Your Crown

Say “I love you”

shen yuan and original luo binghe’s epic adventure in the modern world

Shizun is Drinking Vinegar

Snake Charmer

speak no evil

system failure

System Restore

The Qi Deviation

The Red Carpet In-Between

The Shizun Motivational Rewards Programme

the taste of blood, the claim of love

This Is Me Trying

To Inure

trial and error

two point perspective

What You Will

white amaranth, purple eggplant

Without a Clue

With You on Rainy Days

Wrap Me In Your Arms Tonight

You Reap What You Sow

Bingliushen

something you don’t give much attention

Stay the Night

the story unfolds in your touch

The Things We Wish For

where will we see this moon next year

Moshang

a cold bath is good for the heart

Adding frost to snow

A Dubious Defection

a heart so cold

a hungry heart

A King and His God

And You Are Smiling Back At Me

An Exchange of Many Things

AN IDIOT’S GUIDE TO A HAPPY MARRIAGE

Another Year, Together

a rose by any other name

A softer touch

as snow

baby, don’t you worry

Baring My Soul To You

Borealis

call and response

Courting of the Consort

darkness unknown to thee

desert without rain

dreams that had never come true

Fates We Saw in the Water

friendly takeover

galvanized fealty

Hairpins

heart’s bane

here, again

How to Panic Your Demon King

i can’t believe you bought that

If Not You

In My Defense, I Was Left Unsupervised!

lately, all I feel is bad and bruised

lost my head inside the dream

mirrors

My Roommate Is An Ice Dragon?!

Never Let Me Go

(not) a silver lining

Not the Blade that Kills

One Last Time

pass in a hurry

Performance Appraisal

protection

Quick, Easy Steps To Realizing You’re The Queen Consort

rosewater

safest in the shade

so you have a bad day

spambot

Stone Cold

sunbeam; flaring

system reboot

the ache for home lives in us all

The Coffin Scene

The Shang Qinghua Effect

tips for a healthy marriage

two steps forward

under a wicked star

until the sea returns you

waves of cold

we carried it all so well

winter’s gale

Won’t let go

先来后到 ⃒ first come, first served

you still eat away at me

Just in case you forget this exists.

It exists.

june 2020

a force that can’t be heard / coming in louder than words

closeups under the cut

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