Oh hey I'm putting three games on sale this Friday fornItch Creator Day. It's my three releases from this year:
Transgender Deathmatch Legend - A hexcrawling beat-em-up for 2 players using playing cards.
Forecaster: The Body You Share - A game of plurality, magic and growing. Draw your opponents from a deck of card and fight them in a trick taking game.
Fear the Taste of Blood - An asymmetric game of classic movie monsters such as Dracula and the Wolfman, based on the rules of Beyond the Rift. You'll play a wretched monster, the survivors facing them, and the night you all suffer in.
They'll all be half price.
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Hello Tumblr!
Do you like bookstores? Do you like unions? Do you like bookstores having unions?
Answer yes to any of those questions, and boy howdy, do I have a call to action for you.
Half Price Books employees at several locations across the country have organized and, after months of being dehumanized by corporate lawyers, have finally reached the financial part of their contract! Hurray!
Except not hurray, because they are refusing to even budge on giving anything more than a pathetic 1% increase. And what’s worse, is the offer is actually a thinly veiled 6-7% pay cut, due to taking away quarterly bonuses that make up so much of the employees’ income.
There’s thankfully something you can do about it though! The unionized workers are partnered with UFCW, and they have made a website that has made it super easy to tell Half Price Books that you think their employees deserve a living wage.
The company has proven that it cares a great deal about its image, so any public support can give the bargaining employees a lot more power over their contracts. It only takes a couple minutes to fill out and any and all help is greatly appreciated.
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Thinking about Firefighter!Price.
Imagine him coming home after a long, exhausting day of working, keys jingling as he unlocks the door at some ungodly hour of the night, footsteps falling heavy against the floor as he walks inside, exhaustion and fatigue lingering along his form.
He's still dressed in his station wear - a fitted, navy blue t-shirt with Station 141's logo printed onto the front of it, small, right on the right side of his chest, and a pair of trousers in the same color to match, hanging loosely onto him.
He should take a shower, he knows he should. He smells of sweat and sulfur, the scents clinging to his clothes and skin like a second skin, and he know that the two of you'll have to wash the bedding come morning.
But god, the sight of you in bed, dressed in a loose pair of your own shorts and one of his spare shirts, face smushed against one of the pillows as your breathing comes slow, in and out, steady - it's far too enticing to pass up so easily.
So he unbuckles his belt in a daze, stripping off his shirt, undershirt and trouser, tossing the articles haphazardly onto the floor (he tries to toss them towards the hamper, but he knows he misses, given the way his belt buckle clanks loudly against the hardwood floor of the bedroom, but, honestly, he could care less).
And he gets right into bed beside you, fingers grazing lightly over the exposed skin of your thighs, traversing upwards, fingers splayed as his palm travels over the fabric of your shorts, sneaking their way under the loose shirt of his that you wear, hand pressing against your tummy as he pulls you close.
He presses his nose into your shoulder, eyes fluttering closed as he deeply inhales the scent of your body wash, softly shushing you as you start to rouse, the way your body gently begins to shuffle as you let out the softest, sleepiest yawn, listening as he grumbles softly against your skin.
"Didn't mean to wake you, love. Go back to sleep."
His voice is so hoarse, so strained and rough from the events of the day - yelling and barking out commands to the firefighters within the ladder and engine crews that he guides - but, at the same time, it's runs smooth like honey, settling just right in your sleepy, hazy mind.
He hugs you tighter, pressing your back flush against his chest as he curls his body around you in a subtly protective manner, littering tender kisses against your neck, trying to coax you back to sleep as he lets out a soft sigh, infatuated with the way your body molds perfectly into his.
"Mmm... s'fine, John. Wha... what time s'it?"
"None of your business, that's what time. Go back to sleep. I'll be here in the mornin'... promise you that. Okay?"
He doesn't let you ask your questions. If you try to think, he knows you'll wake up, and he already feels guilty about waking you up in the first place, so he doesn't even entertain your sleepy question, giving you a promise - two, technically. That he's here now and that it'll stay that way until the two of you wake up in the dawn.
"Stubborn..."
"Always. We c'n talk in the mornin'. Sleep."
"Mmm... glad you're back home safe. Love you."
"Love you, too."
But by the time he says the words, you've already fallen back asleep, and a deep, rumbling chuckle erupts from within his chest, amused, pressing one last kiss to the corner of your jaw before letting himself fall asleep behind you, his breaths, his heartbeat falling into sync with your own.
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Freezing
Its a rotten Winter here in the Uk. As a result the heating is really gobbling up the juice. I need help to afford the heating. Commission me, or donate me if you feel you'd want to.
I'd be more than happy to work for it
Art Commissions
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