mimikusu
mimikusu
The Sickness.
684 posts
30+ he/they 🏳️‍⚧️, aro (fray) This is a fetish blog! Please proceed with caution! 🔞⛔��� (commissions/asks are always appreciated)
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mimikusu · 2 months ago
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mimikusu · 2 months ago
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Fic: Washed Up
Inspired by this excellent scenario of @mimikusu's about noir settings, laundrettes, and handkerchiefs. And also by Raymond Chandler - whose writing is easy to imitate and impossible to surpass. Featuring a hard-boiled detective last seen here.
[An aside, this is set c.1945 and obviously I got half way through before I checked when the invention of the coin-operated laundry was. It's 1957. I was so annoyed...]
I got two things from uncovering which of the clerks at Bristowe, Gardner, and Long was siphoning away money from the client account: a cheque large enough to cover my rent and expenses for the next six months, and a lousy head cold.
I got two things from uncovering which of the clerks at Bristowe, Gardner, and Long was siphoning away money from the client account: a cheque large enough to cover my rent and expenses for the next six months, and a lousy head cold.
A head cold is almost inevitable if you’re stupid enough to pursue a suspect thigh deep into the Los Angeles river in the dead of night in November, which I was. If the clerk had drowned himself in the river, they’d have been no way of retrieving what was left of the clients’ money, and my money depended on at least some of that money being found. I wasn’t going to let my payday float into the Pacific along with the rest of the city’s dirt, and cold was hardly the worst thing that I’d been left with after a job.
Give old Herb Bristowe his due, he sent his private doctor over to see me the next day. The quack drove a Rolls that had clearly never before been driven onto the same page of the city map as my apartment; he kept glancing out of the windows in between taking my temperature and listening to my lungs to check that his prized possession was still waiting for him.
“So how long have I got, Doc?” I croaked, as I buttoned up the pyjamas that I hadn’t bothered to change out of. “Don’t sugar coat it; I can take the bad news.”
“Not long, I imagine, in your line of work.” He managed to tear his eyes off his car long enough to cast a meaningful glance at the bottle of cheap scotch that stood open, and next to an empty glass a good while before noon. “Even less, if that’s your usual breakfast fare.”
“Only when I’m dying of cold. No use wasting the good stuff when my head is as congested as the freeway.” I blew my nose to prove the point, and Doc winced. Clearly, the more money that doctors earned, the less illnesses they saw.
“Dying – probably, but not of your cold. I’m just amazed that’s the only thing you caught from your swimming expedition. Do you know how filthy that river is?”
“I try not to think about it,” I said.* “So you’re gonna give me something to cure it?” He laughed out loud at that one. Really ought to have put some work into his bedside manner. “Surely Bristowe’s paying you enough for this visit.” 
“Now I’m here, I’m not convinced that he is.” The doctor began to pack up the instruments with which he’d been prodding me like a Christmas ham. “Even if he was, there’s no cure for a cold at any price. All I can recommend is rest, aspirin, and camphor rub.”
“hht’JISHhhhuu!... hh���YISHH-uuu!”
 “And plenty of handkerchiefs,” he added, as I clutched the one I had to my nose, like a life-raft in a shipwreck.
I didn’t bother seeing him out.
The doctor might have been a rude son of a bitch, but he wasn’t wrong about the handkerchiefs. Perhaps to remind me, as though I needed it, that no good deed goes unpunished, this cold wasn’t the type that you could ride out quietly in a feverish and semi-drunken haze. Not the type that lets you gently lose half a week to the strange state between sleep and wakefulness, to pulp magazines, and chess problems. And not the type where you can pass unnoticed as a visitor in the land of the sick as you visit drugstores or Italian delis or the medicine shops of Chinatown for whatever cure-all you choose to put your faith in this time around.
No, mine was the type of cold that was going to make itself known - to me and any other poor bastard that happened to cross my path.
My nose was either leaking like tenement faucet or stopped up like a wine bottle. I’d found some camphor rub at the back of a bathroom shelf, but it didn’t help much. By the second day, the congestion was so bad that speaking more than a few words set me coughing. So I saved dialogue for essential matters, like telling Bristowe’s secretary where she could mail my check when she rang to confirm the details.
“Oh, you poor dear,” she said, pity oozing down the telephone line. I remembered the shade of scarlet on her fingernails, and I thought about how her pretty hands might look feeling my feverish brow. Probably not as lovely as that sort of thing did in the movies. Besides, the noise she made when I sneezed into the receiver as she confirmed the street name suggested that her sympathy operated best at a distance.
And it was the sneezing that was the worst of it. Mostly because it didn’t stop. With a head cold, there’s a level of sneezing that’s almost satisfying; a set every couple of hours that mutes the buzzing behind your sinuses, and lets you breathe though your nose again. But this wasn’t like that. I sneezed when I woke up, when I got a glass of water to take the aspirin the doc had recommended, and when I changed one sweat-soaked undershirt for another. I sneezed six times between my apartment and the bodega on the corner when I went to buy canned soup – a trip I immediately regretted. I sneezed when I tried to forget my cold by reading a novel, and sneezed when I gave up because I couldn’t concentrate between the sneezes. And when I wasn’t sneezing, I was fighting off sneezing, or noticing that I hadn’t sneezed for half an hour – a thought that was guaranteed to leave me crumpled into my handkerchief, smothering another fit of two, or three, or four.
Considering I’ve seen newsprint thicker than my apartment walls, my neighbours must have wondered when the fusillades were going to end.
It wasn’t surprising, then, that on the third day, after waking up – and sneezing – I reached for a clean handkerchief, and realised that it was the second-to-last one I had left.
I’d never before considered that handkerchiefs could be a finite resource, like gold bullion, or a woman’s patience. God knows I lost enough of them – to preserving evidence, binding wounds, and widows’ tears. But there always seemed to be enough to throw them with the weekly laundry that I dropped off with Hector Benitez at his serviced laundry on 59th and State, and collected a few days later. Hector was the only proprietor who never complained about the blood stains. They got replaced when I bought new shirts, and that has always been enough, until this cold had gotten me sneezing a hurricane that seemed in no hurry to pass over.
By my calculations, these two handkerchiefs would be useless by lunchtime, which was not enough time for Hector to do a service wash, even if I trusted myself to drive the fifteen minutes to his joint, which I didn’t. I needed something faster and closer, and preferably as devoid of life as the tar pits by Hancock Park. I remembered a self-service laundromat two blocks away.
“h’Djhh’Shhhuu!-h'Djhhh'shhhuu!!... hhhT'SHHhheuh!!”
The sneezes made up my mind for me. Grabbing the laundry bag, I headed down to the street.
As always, my timing was impeccable. Seconds after I walked out the front door, the rain came down with such viciousness that it seemed like a punishment. I hadn’t brought anything as useful as an umbrella, so my hat had to do its best against raindrops that pummelled me like a heavyweight who wants to finish it in the ninth. My coat faired even worse. Turning the collar up did nothing to stop the rain from soaking into the suit that I’d put on to face the outside world. The water on the pavement soaked through the shoes that I should have got resoled before winter began.
I smothered another heavy hhh’RRrUshhah! into the sodden sleeve that clung to my wrist, hoping that at least the handkerchief I’d placed in my trouser pocket would stay dry. The only bright side was that I couldn’t catch my death of cold when I’d already got it.
The laundromat was a block further than I remembered, but it was open and, better than that, it was empty. It was one of those coin operated ones where the owner cases the joint twice a day to collect the takings – never the same time, in case the petty thieves get wise – and so there was no one behind a counter to comment on the way that my damp hair clung to my forehead, or the squelching sound when I threw my useless overcoat onto the bench. 
“h’hhh… hh’uh’uh-Tschhuu!!”
My last handkerchief had survived the rainstorm, but it probably wasn’t going to survive my cold for long. On top of that, the joint had no heating because the dryers did that for them, and because they didn’t want people hanging around. I had no intention of doing that. I walked over to the nearest machine and started to empty my bag. I’d finished loading and was walking over to the detergent dispenser, when the door opened, and a dame walked in.
Of course, she’d remembered an umbrella, so when she lowered it, the blonde waves of her set were still perfectly preserved. They glimmered in the halogen strip lights as she placed a small leather suitcase next to the central bench and surveyed the scene – which included me. I nodded a greeting, trying not to sniffle.
This Madonna of North Hollywood took in my powder-blue suit, darkened by the rain at the collar, cuffs and turn ups of the trousers, and my hair that was still dripping down my neck, and she smiled. On another day, I might have been pleased to be the person she was smiling at, but even in my cold-fogged state, I could tell the difference between pleasure and amusement.
“All right,”  I said, wincing at how thick my voice sounded. I tried to clear my throat. “Whatever joke you’ve got, get it over with.”
“No joke,” she replied, though a glint in her ice blue eyes said otherwise. “Just wondering why you jumped in the river on your way to the laundromat.”
“You’re a funny girl,” I told her, turning back to the soap dispenser and fishing in my pocket for a dime.
“That’s what they tell me,” she said. Her eyes fell onto an empty machine, and she picked up her suitcase, adding, “But you really ought to take that jacket off before you catch a cold.”
I must have turned the dial of the dispenser with a little more force than necessary, or perhaps the machine had been jammed, because the soap flakes hit the bottom of the paper cup hard, and a puff of soap powder rose upwards like a ostrich feather, right underneath my nose. A nose that was as twitchy as a snitch in a cell block, and needed no excuse at all to make its presence felt.
Pressing my cuff to my septum bought me enough time to place the cup on the dispenser and stop myself from spilling soap flakes when the sneezes struck.
“hTschhh!’uhTSchhh!’UHH’tschhh!!!” They crashed out of me like machine-gun rounds. My eyes were watering too much for me to see anything, but I could hear the blonde stop loading her laundry. Doubtless she had paused to look at the spectacle I was making of myself. “yiih’Dsjhhh!’Djishheuu!!” Turning my back to her and steepling my handkerchief over my nose, I steeled myself and forced in a deeper breath, hoping that a stronger sneeze give me the relief I wanted. “hh’hh!...hhrrh’TSCHhheugh!!”
The sound rattled against the metal of the machines and echoed off the tiled walls and floor, painfully loud even to my own ears. But it did the job. I blew my nose and took a tentative breath in.
“Jeepers! Bless you!”
Reluctantly, I turned back to her. She had, indeed, stopped half-way through her laundry to appraise my sorry state. Maybe it was because I was looking over at her through eyes blurred with tears, but she almost looked sympathetic.
“I guess it’s too late for you to avoid a cold. Didn’t your mother tell you to always carry a umbrella?” she asked.
“She also told me to stay away from beautiful women,” I replied. “I guess I’m not great at following her advice.”
She smiled knowingly before turning back to her laundry. For a moment the damp seemed to lift from the wool of my suit. And then I sneezed again.
“That’s come on awfully fast,” she said, not looking up from the clothes she was sorting into whites and colours. From over my handkerchief, I watched the folds of fabric slip through her painted fingertips: a pale pink blouse, a cotton nightdress, an artificial silk slip.
“It’s not from the rain.”  I poured the soap flakes into the machine, and tried not to breathe in as I did so.
“Sure… You just happened to get soaked to the skin and start sneezing your head off all at the same time.”
“No, it was just like you said – I jumped in the river. ”
That did get her attention. Even if it meant that she looked at me like I was crazy, as well as sick.
“Now you’re being funny,” she said.
“Scouts honour. Spent last Friday night up to my waist in it. Not an experience I’d recommend.” I sniffed, only little theatrically. Maybe she was the type that wanted to play nursemaid. Some dames were like that. If so, it wouldn’t hurt to play things up a little. Not that I could look much more pitiable – soaking wet, with red eyes and nose, sneezing like it was going out of fashion.
“Why would smart guy like you do a thing like that?” she asked. By way of reply, I reached into my pocket and handed her a business card.  “Christopher Sidney, Licensed Private Detective,” she read. “And that’s you?” I nodded. “Christopher Sidney. It doesn’t sound like a PI’s name. You don’t look like one either.”
I could see what she meant.
“I don’t always have a… hdj’USHHhhhuuh!... Have a head cold,” I replied. The odds of my handkerchief lasting the hour were getting slimmer by the sneeze.  
“You outta sit down,” she said, more kindly than she might have done. “And then you can tell me all about how you ended up in the river.”
In fact, once I’d filled her in with the barest facts about the clerk and the safe-switching, and the showdown in the river, she was the one who did most of the talking. Probably she realized that my voice wasn’t up to it. I didn’t mind. As it turned out, she was a funny girl. Her name was Gloria. Like every other blonde in Hollywood, she was an actress, though she was currently playing the part of an operator at the telephone exchange. She told me about her roommate, and their landlord, and the girls at work, and the men they were dating. It was nice to hear a few stories that didn’t end up with someone dead and someone else in prison, as most of mine did.
“I hope you’ve got a spare one of those,” she said, nodding towards my handkerchief, as I sneezed for what must have been the fiftieth time since she’d arrived. She was right; it was in almost as bad a state as I was.
“Thad’s – hdjtshhh’UUuu! – why I’m here.” I nodded towards my laundry, which was spinning a tornado in the dryer. “Ran out of handkerchiefs this morning.”
“Well you should have said something.” She rose from the bench and crossed back to the purse that she’d left on her machine. Freeing the clasp with a click that echoed off the tiles, she reached inside and pulled out a folded and pressed, white cotton, men’s handkerchief. “Here you are.”
I must have been giving that handkerchief the same look that a man lost in the Sahara Desert gives to an oasis. I wanted it to be real, and I couldn’t understand how it had appeared from nowhere.
“You were just carrying this?”
“Belonged to an ex of mine; he left it when he did. I keep it in my purse for emergencies, and this seems like an emergency. It’s clean,” she added, because I still hadn’t let myself reach for it. “Take it, won’t you? No use making your poor nose any more red than it is.”
I hadn’t needed to sneeze until I held it in my hand. But the relief that promised in its thick, soft folds was too much for my nose to resist. The instant I had it, as though I'd needed to sneeze all day - the buzzing that starts at the corners of your eyes, creeps down the back of your nose like a trailing vine, until it consumes you, and you're unfolding the handkerchief like a prayer book, and gasping for air like a drowning man.
"hehh!he-eh-eh... eh'hh!-Djjishhhh!...eh'hhh-DjjIShhhh!!... heht'SHHHEUHh!!!"
“There you go,” she said, with another one of those smiles that could make a man do dangerous things. “And now you’ll have to track me down to return it. Think you can do that, Mister Private Detective?”
As it was, she found me – in my office, five days later, where was I shaking off the end of the cold and shaking down some clients who were late to pay.
“You come back for your handkerchief?” I asked, as I brought her through from the waiting room.
“I’d forgotten all about that.” Her voice was more hesitant than I remembered, and her gaze less steady. “Is your cold better?”
“Pretty much, thanks for asking,” I told her, though the roughness of my voice said otherwise. “So what brings you here, if you’re not recovering your property?”
Her hand shook as she drew back the chair in front of my desk, and it continue to shake as she clutched her purse in her lap. I reached over for the decanter of whiskey on my desk; she looked like she needed to calm her nerves.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” she began. “But I can’t get it out of my head – what I heard on Thursday night, I can’t get it out of my head. And I know the police won’t believe me, and you were the only other person I thought might be able to help.”
“Help with what?” I asked, pushing the drink towards her. She took it, drained the glass, and then looked me straight in the eye.
“Mr Sidney,” she said, “I think I overheard a murder.”
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mimikusu · 2 months ago
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Thinking about someone in a noir-ish setting with an awful headcold that did consume almost all of their handkerchiefs, using a coin laundry to get them cleaned.
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mimikusu · 3 months ago
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hej!! I just quckly wanted to say that I'm sorry for being so absent and thnx again for everyone who commissioned! 💕 I really really appreciate it and I hope you're all having a good time these days. 🫂
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mimikusu · 3 months ago
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Did someone read Lem's Star Diaries? Especially the 7th Voyage, where Tichy is stuck in a time loop with various versions of himself? This. But with a cold!
The first encounter being with the several days old version on peak of an awful cold. Catching it from their future self and blaming them for it. And when they reach this very version, they're so grumpy and angry about the younger version being so undisturbed by this cold, yet, that they almost deliberately pass it on.
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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You know what I don't see enough of (or utilize enough in my own fics, tbf)? Someone sitting hunched over a bowl of hot, steaming water with a towel draped over their head, trying to ease the congestion in their sinuses.
I know a shower is probably more practical in a modern setting, but listen, it's not nearly as romantic. Or as redolent of misery.
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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Have a short little one for @shamefilledsnzblog's OC Perry! Thank you so much for the comission, your trust in having me handle your OC and the sweet kindness with which you comissioned me! It was a delight! 😊
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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@thedevillionaire was so kind as to comission a short comic for this lovely fire and ice ficlet, which of course I was very happy to do! I love them both and I love working with you as always!! Thank you so much for your patience, trust and listening to my useless rant about details. 🥲
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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I had the utmost and absolute pleasure to work with @spring-sniffles on something for her OC Archie.
Thank you so much for the commission, your time and patience! It was really nice working with you. I love him and I loved doing this! Big fan of the freckles! 💕 And his taste for style and oldfashioned clothes.
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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I fully assume this is a niche fantasy, but, yeah, curious
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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I love Gabriel and Liam!🥺 if you're in the mood to torture fessor could you write something where he starts feeling ill but thinks it's one of his usual colds and then it turns out to be something serious?💞
mannnnnn this is old but I suddenly got Fessor brained today and need to torture him. Hope you're still around anon.
~~~~
"Gabriel are you absolutely sure..." Liam had to pause as Gabriel sneezed again, "It's only a cold and not something worse? You said the flu was going around at Davenport."
Sniffling, Gabriel ran his handkerchief over his nose before his face slacked once more causing him to muffle another congested sneeze into it. "Yes dear." Was all he could retaliate it with as he sat on the bed, glassy eyes staring unfocused off into the distance.
Liam folded his arms. Yes, it did appear to only be a cold. A bad one yes but definitely had all the normal symptons of one. Gabriel had come home with it a few days ago. He assured Liam it wasn't anything terrible. The flu was going around campus but he'd gotten his vaccine. It was a cold, nothing more, nothing less.
However, something wasn't sitting right with Liam. Maybe it was how pale he had begun looking, the vacant stare in those beautiful eyes, the non stop wet sneezing which exhausted his boyfriend. He couldn't put his finger on it but something about this truly made him believe it wasn't simply a cold. He didn't believe Gabriel had the flu tho, he still didn't have a temperature and his love always got above 100° if he'd caught it.
Gabriel sneezed twice more, letting out a tired sigh as he blew his nose. Liam winced at how congested he sounded. Pulling open the draw he grabbed a few more handkerchiefs so Gabriel could have a clean one. It didn't last. Almost as soon as his pale hand took it, it was back over his nose and mouth, covering a sneeze.
"I'll make you some tea alright?" Liam said, kissing the top of Gabriel’s head. The professor made a low noise of approval.
Downstairs, away from Gabriel, Liam texted Dr Gladstone hoping he was free after the clinic to stop by.
Maybe I'm just being paranoid but I don't feel this is just a cold.
Liam typed out Gabriel’s symptoms as well. Before the kettle had whistled, he got a reply. The good doctor would make a house call, which alleviated a bit of Liam’s anxiety.
Back upstairs with a mug of lemon tea, Gabriel continued to zone out as Liam told him how he'd made arrangements with the doctor to come check up on him. At one point Liam wasn't even sure Gabriel had heard anything but finally his boyfriend blinked as he looked up at him.
"Oh...alright." He rasped as he drank his tea.
****
Gabriel fell asleep after which gave Liam a chance to get out some of his pent up anxiety by listening to ambient water flowing and doing laps around his sitting area.
He hadn't even noticed the time when there was a knock at the door.
"On call house call." Gavin said from behind the door letting Liam know it was him.
Relieved, the writer dashed to the door. "I can't thank you enough." He said as Gavin walked in. "You know I try not to bother you, especially after work but Gabriel’s just been really bad the past few days and he keeps saying it's only a cold and I should believe him because it really does sound like one but I...I dunno something in my guy you know? I just feel..."
"Liam, Liam, look at me." Gavin said grabbing him by the shoulders. "Take a deep breath."
Liam blinked for a moment and then became aware of how fast his heart was racing. "Sorry...sorry." He looked down.
"It's fine. Take a breath."
Liam did, he ended up taking three before the doctor let go.
"Better?" He asked as they began to the stairs.
"Yeah, thanks. I've been trying to stay calm, but it's been hard." Liam lowered his voice as they climbed, worried Gabriel might overhear him.
Gabriel was awake but from the blank look on his face, Liam did not need to worry about him hearing anything.
"Hey Gabe." Gavin said as he sat down on the bed, "Liam tells me you have a bad cold?"
"Yes...I...I...d..." Gabriel turned away, sneezing harshly. "I do. You didn't need to come by simply for this." He added before blowing his nose.
"Well let's just make sure. Even then maybe I can prescribe something stronger." Gavin examined Gabriel’s glands, took his temperature, everything a normal visit would entail.
When he felt Gabriel’s face below his eyes, Gavin's brow crinkled. "Hmmm that's very swollen."
Gabriel winced in pain, "Yes...it's tender." He rubbed his nose against his handkerchief.
"Probably your cold has developed into a sinus infection which would explain what. Have you had a headache at all?" Gavin asked.
Gabriel nodded.
Pulling out his phone, the doctor typed in some notes. "I'm sending an antibiotic to the pharmacy, they'll deliever when ready. It might be tomorrow as it's late." He looked up Liam who gave an anxious nod. "For now keep giving him decongestants and maybe a warm cloth for his face, if he can manage that." Gavin stood up.
"If it gets worse or doesn't begin to clear up in a few days let me know." The doctor smiled at both of them. "Hope you feel better, Gabe."
"Many thanks, doctor." Gabriel managed a half smile.
Liam returned a few minutes later after walking Gavin to the door.
"Hopefully the pharmacy delivers early tomorrow. I hate you have to go another night without any relief." He sat on the bed and took Gabriel’s hand in his.
"Apologies dearest, I should have listened to you." Gabriel’s eyes remained downcast. "I didn't want you to...worry." He sniffled hard.
"It's alright love, I know. I dealt with it. At least now you can get better." Liam leaned forward and kissed Gabriel’s cheek.
~~~~
and now back to you regularly scheduled jayvik posting xD
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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Hi hi!
I'm a tiny bit shy about this, but rn I'm trying to safe up some money for my top-job and I thought why not offer some commissions and finally make a price-chart for that.. Prices are not fixed, but rather dependent on how big, complex and specific your idea is and how much time and effort I'll estimate for doing that. I think we can work out both, price and scope to satisfaction before I get to work on the comission.
I don't have a strict list of things I'd rather not do (except maybe kinks I'm not into myself). However, you can just hit me up if you have anything specific and we can check if we can make it work somehow.
If you have any questions, just ask. I'll try to answer the best I can!
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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Have a quick follow up. 💕
Can I request chibi Simon 💜
Of course you can! 💕 Anything for you, love!
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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Can I request chibi Simon 💜
Of course you can! 💕 Anything for you, love!
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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Cruising and a cold is something I'm very weak for.
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mimikusu · 4 months ago
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I've been sitting on this draft for ages...
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mimikusu · 6 months ago
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Their re-enactment looks like a very weird fetish-party. Omg... I'm not essentially sure what it is that you need from me. 😅 It's nothing new, it's just a very very weird way of picturing it. Basically the stuff that looks like a car cleaning is supposed to be the hair and the pink ones are representing the nose cleaning itself by the use of mucus... They can get rid of the pepper, which is the little monster they're shooing out by themselfs... The omnious one waiting in the back is supposed to be the trigeminal nerve which is the 'security guard' and responsible for triggering a sneeze.
They then explain what the trigeminal nerve is and how it can be triggered by light as a photic sneeze reflex. After that, they use snuff to trigger a sneeze. Because the hair is not helping, the pink ones are waking the nerve to help them out. The nerve is sending the information to the brain, which is coordinating reflexes, pictured by the call-center.
First it's calling the throat, to close up then the muscles which contract the diaphragm and finally the lungs to expand. The throat is opening up and the diaphragm will decontract and the lungs release the air (... or so... don't judge me on my english when it comes to this stuff...)
Calling my German snzfckers!
Who can help me translate this?
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My toddler German knows what’s going on, but I’d love if some you could help with the details and nuances. Please? 🙏🏻
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