#Erin was written to be unlikeable

[morganprentiss]

🔥hot take🔥

Erin >>> Aaron

[qveerthe0ry]

What Means to You, What Means to Me

Summary: Max Phillips changes everything. Written for @perotovar 's offering of Frith Word Count: 8,046 Pairing: Max Phillips Loki (The Trickster God of mischief and chaos) x afab! NB! Bisexual! Reader Rating: 18+ mdni Warnings: smut, talks about gender non-conformity, talks about gender dysphoria as it relates to sex, GENERAL GENDER FUCKERY Beta: My sweet angel @for-a-longlongtime of course A/N: Under the cut

Author's Note: First of all, I just want to thank Erin for putting together this writing challenge and sharing SO much about Norse Paganism. The effort you put into this, from the moodboards to educational resources is incredible. And the fact that you've shared something so close to you with all of us made this writing challenge feel like getting a warm hug <3

Second, see the author's note I wrote at the end (as to not spoil the story) if you want to know the ways Loki ingrained himself in this fic.

_

You’ve heard of this queer club before, but you’ve never been inside. You’d thought the descriptors were exaggerations, but you find out quickly that you were wrong. 

Security is tight at the door, and they ask you questions as they scan your ID that sound like small talk but are a bit more probing once you think about it. Your pockets are patted down and you walk through a metal detector before you even breach the front door. 

You’re wondering if it’s even worth all this. You’re by yourself, no one’s meeting you here, and you don’t plan on going home with anyone. 

Really, you’re just bored, in a fairly new city with no one familiar but your new co-workers to converse with; those are the last people you want to be around on a Friday night after a long work week. 

So you’re here. Are there a dozen other queer bars you could have gone to on this rainbow-lined street? Yes. But none of them really feel right. So you’re here, finally in clothes that you feel comfortable in, around people who aren’t going to make you feel uncomfortable in them. 

And its reputation precedes itself. 

Gaudy. Over-the-top. 

There’s three floors, the top two cut out to overlook the dance floor in the middle of the ground level. There’s chandeliers everywhere, far too ornate for a fucking nightclub. Candelabras litter every tabletop with flaming wax that you’re sure is a fire hazard in an establishment like this. There’s fuzzy, cozy-looking lounges and really hot people walking around serving complimentary waters on gold trays and maybe it was a mistake, coming here. 

But you’ve already been through the TSA of nightclubs, and so you might as well grab a drink while you’re here and make the uber ride home worth it. 

At least the drinks seem to be cheap. You take too long staring at the specialty cocktail names when a bartender asks how you’re doing, and end up ordering your favorite drink anyways. At least they seem nice, unlike some of the bars you’ve been to at the not-mandatory-but-suggestively-obligatory happy hours after work. 

You sit at the bar, a little intimidated by the fancy decor and skilled dancers that overwhelm the club. 

The music is unsuspecting, something soft and melodic that you only realize is live music when your eyes settle on her. 

Her fiery red hair cascades down her shoulders, igniting all the skin exposed by her backless dress. She’s sitting at the piano in the middle of the dancefloor, obscured by couples and others dancing around her. 

She’s everything. The most gorgeous woman you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Her nose is strong and her jawline juts and contrasts with those soft brown eyes. You’re yearning before you can even realize it, a kind of consumption that leaves you breathing heavier than normal as you sip your drink probably way too quickly. 

You focus on her long, nimble fingers, painted red at the nails and fluttering so skillfully over the ivory keys that it makes your cheeks feel hot. 

The ringing of the keys doesn't register over the thumping of your heart and the blood rushing in your ears, which feel like molten lava. Perhaps that’s why you don’t notice she’d finished her set until she’s a foot away from you, placing an order you’d only know if you were able to read lips.

Christ, her lips. Plump and painted in the same shade of red as her hair and nails, they purse as she sips from a champagne flute. She’s so dainty, and poised, everything you’ve never had the desire to be. 

And she’s staring right at you. 

“See something you like?” 

Your breath gets stuck in your lungs and your heart flutters in a medically dangerous way. 

“You’re incredible.”

The words roll off your tongue without any go-ahead from your brain. 

She laughs anyway, with her head thrown back, and the sight of her throat elongated makes your own go bone-dry. 

“If I had a nickel,” she jokes with a wink. 

Your half-melted brain scrabbles for something to say so you can be graced with her presence for even one more second. 

“How long have you been playing?” 

She quirks her perfectly shaped eyebrow at you, and she smirks, and something about the way she can see through you like cellophane turns you on and it makes you feel wicked. 

“You don’t really care, do you?” 

From your peripheral, you see her long, toned arm inching closer to yours on the bar. Her fingers touch yours, feather-light, and you shiver before you freeze in place. 

“I— No, I do.”

You can barely hear her low chuckle over the house music that’s started to play in her absence, but you do, and it sounds like heaven and hell all at once. 

Slowly, torturously, she leans closer to you, and her bubbly breath ghosts across your cheek, your jaw, and then gusts in your ear. 

“Don’t lie to me, handsome.” 

Her tone is teasing, sing-songy in a way that might be annoying if you weren’t so aroused. 

Your fingers clench around the glass you’re holding, and her own do the same over yours. 

“What do you want me to say?” 

You don’t know if you’re more scared, horny, or irritated. They’re all three tied for gold, at this point, with tipsy coming in second and way too warm bringing up the rear. 

And the pure audacity this woman has is impressive, as she places her lips so so lightly under your earlobe. You hope to god her lipstick stains. 

“Ask me if I wanna get out of here.”

Your lungs inflate too quickly, and your eyes close, and you lean into the touch of her lips. 

“Where would we go?” 

It’s a stupid question. Why in your right mind do you give a flying fuck? She could drag you to the DMV and you’d happily follow like a pup. 

She stands from the barstool, tall, taller than you realized, and the proximity puts her between your spread legs. 

Your thighs flex involuntarily, and your fingers twitch and ache to touch her. 

“I know a place. If you want?” 

Her eyebrow is quirked at you again as she leans back. You can’t find your words, so you stand in answer, and now you’re too close. Every delicious curve of her body is pressed against your front and you unhand your drink to dig your nails into the top of the bar. 

“Please.” 

Her grin is so mischievous that it startles you, those sharp canines on full display. You think about how they’ll feel against your skin as she nods her head and prompts you to follow her. 

You might as well be wearing a leash, the way you trail her so closely. You twist your fingers as the nerves start to pick back up, and all of a sudden you’re in front of some elevator doors with a very huge and intimidating bouncer guarding the buttons and staring you down. 

“Before we head up, just so you know, I’m working with a… different set of equipment than you might expect.”

You nearly ask her to repeat herself, a bit too overwhelmed with the eyes on you and the situation you’re about to get yourself into. But your brain plays a game of catch-up, and somehow this little fact makes you feel more comfortable. 

“That’s cool— me too. I mean, maybe? I don’t know what— uh, what you’d expect me to have, but… yeah.”

Your voice trails off as the big burly bouncer chuckles at you, and your face could probably melt off of your skull with how hot it feels, but then she grabs your hand and squeezes to tug you into the elevator with her. 

The club sounds are nearly all drowned out now, and you’re certain she can hear your heartbeat in the silence as she crowds you against the back wall. 

“My name’s Max,” she says, speaking all breathy and low against the skin of your neck. 

You shiver, barely eke out your own name as her body presses against yours. 

It’s heavenly, the way she feels against you, but the way she teases your earlobe between her dark cherry lips feels hellish. You still haven’t touched her, even though your hands are burning to feel the silk of her dress over her waist. You’re intimidated and horny and mentally working yourself up to do anything on your own without her giving you direct orders.

There’s a ding, and all momentum is lost when she turns away from you to enter the snow globe of a penthouse beyond the open elevator doors. You follow eagerly.

“This is your place?” 

Your voice is awe-filled as you look around. The walls are just windows, and the city lights and the last few minutes of sunset brighten all the dark wood and leather around you. 

“Yeah, so’s the club.”

Her tone is nonchalant, and you gape at her as she steps out of her strappy, expensive-looking high heels. Maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised. She has all the confidence of someone who owns the world, and her cockiness is reflected in the ostentatious nature of the club and her penthouse. 

But you’re still shocked. Maybe you’re shocked because she’s chosen you, out of every other patron, to come up here with her. 

“It’s nice— the club. And here, too.” 

She chuckles and shrugs but she thanks you as her bare feet bring her close to you once more. You feel your hackles raise as she approaches, along with your heart rate, but she walks right past you. 

“Follow me.”

As if you’d dream of doing anything else. 

Her bedroom is all windows, too. The bed is huge, much bigger than a normal king, and the space itself is fairly empty of any personal touches. It suits her mystique. You feel like you have a million unanswered questions, but none of them matter when she shoves you down onto the mattress and straddles your thighs. 

Your mouth drops open, but she steals the words from your breath when she grabs your hands and places them on her hips.

Finally. 

Fuck, she feels incredible under this silky dress as you squeeze her waist and arch your hips up into her. 

You tell her as much, and get another one of those cocky chuckles that goes straight to your center. 

“Do your worst, handsome.” 

And maybe you’ve never been the best at getting into someone’s bed, but you’re certain you’re the best once you’re between the sheets. 

It’s no exception, with her. You’re so eager to please. You worship every last inch of her body once it’s revealed to you. You take note of all the places you kiss and lick that make her breath hitch, you tease her until her cock weeps, and you take her so far down your throat that tears sting your eyes. 

Her nails dig into your scalp, and you feel like the cocky one when she begs you to pull off, when she tells you that you’ve damn near sucked her soul out through her dick. 

Your clit is throbbing and you’ve soaked through your underwear by the time she hastily pulls them off of you. She kisses you breathless and bites your lip with her sharp teeth as you roll the condom down her length. The way she whimpers when you finally straddle her sends you reeling. Your hand finds her tit, and your palm rolls against her taut nipple as you finally get her cock to slide through your slick folds. She arches into your touch and she begs and there’s no force powerful enough to keep you from giving in to her pleas.

Her face twists up so fucking beautifully as you impale yourself on her. Inch by inch, so slowly, teasing her like she’d teased you earlier in the night. You feel satisfied and hungry at the same time when you’re flush with her thighs. Her hips buck when you pinch her nipple, and she hits the perfect spot, and neither of you have any resolve leftover. 

It’s a give and take that lasts too long and is over far too quick. You ride her, and she thrusts up into you, back and forth until you both crumble at the same time, blinding and intense and loud. 

You might black out. 

One moment you’re stroking her skin with your fingertips and thanking her over and over, and the next you’re sitting up against her headboard with a glass of water in one hand and her fiery hair in the other. 

She’s sighing in your lap, nuzzling into the heat of your thighs with her aquiline nose. 

“You’re incredible,” you say for probably the millionth time that night. 

She chuckles again, just like she did when you first told her, but her pretty brown eyes shine when she looks up at you. 

“You’re not so bad yourself, handsome.”

Your face gets all hot again, and you feel shy, eyes darting around the room to focus on anything but the gorgeous woman resting on you. 

“Does it bother you when I call you that?” 

You huff. 

“Not at all.”

“Are you trans?” 

You huff again. 

“No. I— I don’t know. I’m just… me. In-between. I don’t really feel like I fit any one description.”

She hums and presses a kiss to your mound through your underwear.

“I understand.” 

“I’ve always been like this, you know? Before I knew what it was. I just didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin. Not in an insecure way. Just that it didn’t feel right.” 

“Do you want a dick?”

Her bluntness makes you laugh. 

“Sometimes I do.”

She nods, and the way her silky hair feels against your bare thighs makes you shiver. 

“It’s actually kind of awesome, I’m not gonna lie.”

She laughs with you. 

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I’ll rub it in if you give me another five minutes.”

She does.

You fall asleep in her arms, exhausted and sated and happy.

She’s gone in the morning. All the shades are drawn, those same hazardous candles from the club lighting the apartment dimly. Your clothes are dry cleaned and hanging in a bag you’re certain costs more than your entire outfit. There’s a note next to your half-empty glass of water on the nightstand.

See you around. 

Except you don’t. 

You wait eight whole days to go back to the club. You wear something nicer, go through the tight security, and saunter up to the bar with much more confidence than your first visit. You wait for her. You drink one too many and hope to find her walking around or playing the piano. 

A few people come up to you and ask you to dance, and you refuse each one with the bitter taste of irony on your tongue, and then you go home alone after last call with a headache and queasy stomach. 

Maybe she’s just out of town, you tell yourself. She owns an entire nightclub, she’s clearly a very important woman, probably quite busy, too. 

You go back the next weekend, and the next, and you don’t see her once. 

So after a month, you go again and this time you accept the offers to share a dance, grind against people with a weird confidence you know comes from the woman you hope to see tonight. You share meaningless kisses and buy a few people drinks but refuse an offer or two to ‘get out of here.’

You start to lose hope when the dim lights flicker brighter and last call is announced. But as you bid goodbyes to a group you were hanging with, that very large and scary bodyguard from the elevators is walking towards you, and this time his presence is more exciting and less intimidating. 

“Max would like you to come upstairs.”

And while it’s kind of annoying, and seems pretentious— why didn’t she come down here and tell you herself?— you follow. Eagerly. Once again. 

He lets you take the elevator up by yourself, and this time the anxiety is more anticipation than it is fear. 

Though, when the doors open, you’re face to face with a guy.

He’s got a familiar cocky smirk on his face, messy gelled hair, and he’s leaning up against a wall with his arms crossed. 

Panic, is what your body tells you to do, leave, run. But you’re frozen under his thick gaze. 

The elevator doors start to shut, and you take a step back when he moves to hold them open, but he chuckles. 

A cocky little chuckle. 

“Who are you?” 

“I’m Max.”

“No you’re not.”

“C’mon, handsome. It’s me.”

You shiver when he calls you that, but not in the same way you did when she said it. 

“Is this some kind of joke? Listen, she didn’t tell me she was exclusive with anyone—”

He cuts you off by saying your name in a pleading tone. 

“Come in, please, just give me a minute to prove it to you.”

Panic. Run. Leave.

You ignore every instinct to finally step out of the elevator. 

“You told me, last time, that sometimes you wished you had a dick. Right?”

You nod before you can think better of it. 

Who is this guy?

You’re no stranger to genderfluidity, the way a haircut or makeup or different clothes can drastically change someone’s look— but this isn’t that. This can’t be that. While they have similar features, her sharp noise was still softer, her eyes were less crinkled at the edges, her brow bone was much less prominent. If this is smoke and mirrors, she’s one hell of a magician. 

“Do you wish you had one right now?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess. Are you guys twins or something? What’s going on?” 

He chuckles again, and you have to say, it’s much less arousing coming from him than it was from your Max. He reaches out to touch your arm, and you want to shove him away, but you can’t.

Your body feels frozen, again, but not from fear. There’s a strange sensation that courses through you, some unexplainable energy that makes your bones feel like they’re vibrating, makes your blood feel thick and heavy in your veins. 

It scares you, but the newly soft look on this Max’s face is just comforting enough to keep you from a full-fledged panic attack. 

That, and the fact that it’s over just as quick as it started. Your body loosens back up as Max’s hand on your arm rubs reassuring circles. 

But then you feel weird. A strange turning low in your gut, kind of like arousal, but not quite. And your pants feel tighter, more constricting than they did earlier. 

You look down. 

There’s a bulge in your pants, like there would be if you were packing. But you’re not. You’re certain you made the decision to leave it at home when you left earlier in the night. 

You look back up at him. He’s smirking. 

“You can touch it.”

You do, despite your brain screaming how weird it would be to touch your crotch in front of a man you’ve never met before. 

You have a dick. 

You feel it now, and while the feeling of it in your hand isn’t foreign to you, the fact that it’s sensitive and fucking actually attached to your body is. 

You pull your hand away like it’s been scalded. 

“What the fuck?! How did you—“

You stare at him open-mouthed and terrified and maybe a little bit turned on.

“Does it matter? I gave you what you’ve always wanted.” 

He looks from your face to your… dick, and back again, smirking, admiring, like he’s just finished an art project.

“Will it… Will it go back?”

“Do you want it to?”

“I— I don’t know.”

Max chuckles that damn chuckle, all full of himself. But this time, it’s her. You know it is, now. As crazy as it sounds, it’s the only thing that makes sense. This is your Max. 

“Why don’t you take it for a test drive? If you don’t like it, I’ll change you back.”

You gape at him. It’s all clicking. This is your Max, and they’ve listened to you and done something so fucking weird but so fucking sweet. You don’t know how, and you honestly are starting to care less and less the longer Max keeps staring at you like he’s proud. Of you or himself, you’re not so sure, but it’s working. 

“It’s— it’s you, isn’t it?” 

“I told you so.”

“Fuck,” you sigh, “where have you been? I came back. Every weekend.” 

Max hums. 

“I was a little caught up. Got into a bit of trouble, as I do. But I’m back, and I wanted to see you. I’m glad you came.”

“Are you— I mean… you look a lot different?” 

He shrugs. 

“Do you still think I’m hot? I can change back—”

“No! No, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I was just confused. You’re still—”

“Incredible?” 

You huff a laugh, and finally relax for the first time since you got into that elevator. 

“Yeah. Incredible.”

His cocky demeanor falls to the wayside to make room for something more sincere. He takes a few steps until you’re face to face with him, and places a suspiciously cold hand on the back of your heated neck. 

“I missed you,” he mumbles. 

“I— I missed you too. That night… I’ve thought about it so much.”

“Mmm, yeah? Me too.”

You kiss the stupid smirk off of his face. 

He tastes the same as you remember before, like champagne and sweet mint and her. His teeth are just as sharp, scraping your tongue as it explores every bit of his mouth. 

His free hand grabs your hip and pulls you even closer to him and fuck, that feels better than it has any right to. Your cock stirs in your pants and you buck your hips again, fiending for this new type of friction. 

“Come to bed with me?” 

All you can do is nod and follow. 

The bedroom looks just the same as it did last time, but the lack of sunlight makes everything feel quieter tonight— slower, more serene. 

He turns down the covers slowly, and you stand at the foot of the bed, extremely uncertain about what happens next, even though your dick throbs with anticipation. 

“You still into this?” 

Max’s voice startles you out of your own head. 

“Yeah, sorry. Nerves.”

He hums and steps closer to you. 

“Nothing to be nervous about, handsome.”

You nod and let your eyes trace up and down his body, noting his broad shoulders in that crisp white dress shirt and his thick thighs under the satiny sheen of his slacks. He’s still just as gorgeous in this masculine form, and it’s as irritating as it is enticing.

“Do you wanna fuck me?” 

“Shit.” 

His words go straight to your cock, and you’re unashamed to palm it in your hand and press and curse at the completely new sensation. 

“I’m assuming that’s a yes,” he chuckles. “Do you want my ass or my pussy?” 

Your hand on yourself stills. 

“You— you have a pussy?”

“I can.”

And it shouldn’t surprise you, after everything else that’s happened in the last ten minutes, but it still does. Your breath stutters in your chest and your dick fills out even more against your hand and you distantly wonder how big Max made it, if it’s exactly what he wants. 

“Can I— Will you show me your pussy?” 

He leers at you when you ask, and it only turns you on even more. 

“I was hoping you’d go for that.”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt, but this whole mad situation has you feeling much more comfortable, in a fuck it kind of way. You step into his space and work the buttons free, and follow with your mouth. His skin is cold under the heat of your lips, and by the time his shirt hangs free from his shoulders you’ve made it your personal mission to warm up every inch of him. 

It’s easy to work his belt open, undo his fly and watch it open to a thick thatch of pubic hair. You pause to press your lips to his again, to reach around to cup his pert asscheeks as his slacks fall to the floor. 

You can’t stop grinding against him, even as you press him back and down onto the bed. You just follow, fully clothed, hesitant to deny yourself this new heady feeling of pressure to your cock. 

It’s only when he suckles your top lip and reaches down to palm you that you realize you’re teetering on the edge of embarrassing yourself. 

Your hips jolt away from him and it hurts a bit when you rip your lip out between his teeth, but all the better to take your mind off the intense, heavy arousal in your gut. 

“Okay?” 

He asks it with a smirk, like he already knows the answer, so you don’t give him one. You just stare down past your heaving chest to see the damp spot on your pants and start to unfasten them to relieve some of the pressure. 

“You’re gonna want to chill out. Refractory periods are annoying with those things,” he warns. 

You huff. 

“That’s kind of you,” you joke. 

It’s better, just in the thin fabric of your underwear, less resistant. You want to take them off too, but you’re afraid that the euphoria from seeing yourself with a dick will really conflate the issue at hand. 

So you shuffle down the bed a bit, and press your lips to Max’s flat chest, to his nipples that are half the size they were last time. They pebble quickly under your attention, and you bite down on one when you accidentally drag your cock along the mattress. 

He groans and arches into you, goads you on with a hand on the back of your neck. 

“Are you as good at eating pussy as you are at sucking dick?” 

It’s almost comical, the way he applies pressure to urge you further down his body. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You nip at his sparse happy trail as he pushes you down with his large hand on your shoulder and delight in the way his muscles twitch under your mouth. 

“Some time this century, yeah.”

You hum, nose at the wiry curls on his mound and grab the wrist of his hand that’s still pressing on you. 

“You’re not very gentlemanly,” you tease.

He laughs as he stares down at you with his dark eyes. His hand moves to cup your jaw and you let it, let him trace your bottom lip with his thumb. 

“Is that what you want? A gentleman?”

You suck his thumb into your mouth as you shake your head, grinning around his knuckle. You bite down a little harder than you mean to and he hisses. He yanks his hand from your mouth to grab the back of your head and tug until your face is buried between his thighs. 

You relent, breathing in the scent of him, bypassing any preamble to shove your tongue inside of him. The way his hips buck into your face makes you smirk into his folds and dig your nails into the skin of his thighs. 

He still makes the most beautiful noises, when you get down to it. Desperate, hungry, eager. For as cocky as he is, he sure writhes against you like a shameless whore as he whispers curses into the dark room. 

You savor the taste of him, the warmth and tightness of him around your fingers, the scratchy feeling of his bush tickling your nose. The way his strong thighs tense and relax under your grasp makes you want to feel them do the same around your waist. 

You look up when he starts clenching around your fingers like a vice, and the thought of that feeling around your new dick makes you whimper into his pussy. You focus even more on the way you suckle and flick his clit, to try and set the arousal aside so you don’t come before you can even slip into him. 

He’s got his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his back arched off the bed when he finally shudders and comes. You work him through it, lapping at his dripping hole, letting him grind against your tongue until he’s squirming away from your touch. 

You’re dragging this out. Stalling. You press little biting kisses to his thighs and his mound as he’s coming down. Maybe if you just worked him through one more, you’ll be calm enough to—

“C’mere already.”

You roll your eyes at him as he tugs on you, but you go willingly to hover over him and let him lick his taste from your mouth. His hums are lower and more subdued in the aftermath and they rumble deep in your chest as you try your hardest not to grind into him. 

It doesn’t matter. 

His free hand wraps around your cock and the feeling turns you on so much that you almost feel nauseous. You can feel all five of his fingers there, even with how big his hands are. He’s around you, and the familiar sensation on the inside mixed with the foreign sensation against your skin is a bit confusing but so hot. He squeezes and you jolt, bite down hard on his lip, but it only makes him chuckle. 

“That good, huh?” 

You groan into the crook of his neck in answer, completely at a loss for words. 

“I’d like to say the novelty wears off, but I haven’t found that it does.”

You feel like you’re on fire, honestly, like you’re trapped in a burning building with no way out. It’s hard to speak or breathe or think with his hand wrapped around you over your underwear. You can’t even begin to imagine how good his skin is going to feel against yours. 

“C’mon, handsome, lie back for me.”

You do, with his help, reclined back against his decorative pillows. Your breathing is ragged as he takes his time getting your shirt off and pressing surprisingly sweet kisses to everything revealed to him. 

You ground yourself by petting his hair, coarse and a little sticky from hair gel but thick enough to be extremely satisfying to card through. For a moment you’re able to focus on the feeling of it slipping between your fingers instead of the throbbing of your prick. 

But then his thick fingers find the elastic waistband and creep underneath. It shocks you out of your false sense of security. When your panicked eyes meet his, they’re so warm and soft you think you could maybe cry a little about it. But he speaks up instead. 

“Are you still okay with everything going on?”

And you are, even though you’re hanging by a thread and preemptively embarrassed by what’s about to go down; you want it so bad. 

So you nod. 

“Words, handsome.”

You huff. 

“Yes, Max. Please.”

He hums and smiles. 

“Good boy.”

You’re engulfed by embarrassment when your cock jumps dramatically at his words, right beneath his hovering face. You feel even hotter when he huffs out a laugh.

But then he’s pulling your underwear, and it’s there, in plain sight, a gorgeous cock. It’s perfect, it’s how you’ve always imagined yours would look if you had one. Like Max knew, somehow, was inside your brain and could see the same fantasies that you could. 

It jerks again in the cool air. You can feel the blood rushing there, a powerful gush that makes it twitch when you think about how it’s your dick, on your body. He hasn’t even touched you yet and you can feel pre-cum dripping down your shaft. 

“Can I taste?” He asks. 

You nod, then remember your words. 

“Please.”

You can’t produce more than a whisper as you watch him lean forward, like slow motion, with his tongue hanging out dramatically and his eyes locked on yours. 

The first touch of his tongue against your skin has your hips flying off the mattress at a speed that you’re sure defies laws of physics. 

He just looks so fucking gorgeous with your prick eclipsing the middle of his face. Your prick looks so gorgeous. God, you’re starting to understand where cis men get their audacity from. 

You tighten your grip on his hair for no other reason than you need something to hang onto or you might just float off into space. He teases you with more kitten licks, up one side, then the other, and you watch in awe. You can’t take your eyes off it, even though it may delay the inevitable if you could. 

He kisses the head of it, and his tongue does something wicked right underneath it that makes you tug his head back by his gelled locks. 

“Too much?” He asks, even as he winces at your tugging. 

“You’re teasing, and all that’s going to lead to is disappointment on your end.”

God, why do you sound like you’ve just run a marathon?

“I’ll never be disappointed by making you come, handsome.”

He’s so fucking annoying. You want to fuck his face just to shut him up, but you know that would only last about ten and a half seconds. 

You curse and close your eyes and dig your head back into the pillows. He must take it as a signal to continue, because bright, staticky stars burst behind your eyelids when he takes you into his mouth for the first time. 

Fuck. You’re inside him. It feels hot and wet, kind of squishy, but so tight when he sucks and sinks his mouth down even farther. 

You yell. The dramatic noise is ripped from your vocal chords without your consent, and your eyes fly open to look down at him. Those plush fucking lips look so goddamn good wrapped around you, all wet and red and swollen. You squeeze his hair in your hand. You’re so torn between wanting to chase the warmth of his mouth and wanting to arch away from it. 

Then you feel it, that familiar twisting deep and low in your gut, only it’s ten times as intense as it usually is. You start to panic. 

“Max! Max, please, I’m—!”

He pulls off quickly, and squeezes the base of your jerking dick. It kind of hurts, and you hiss and watch in horror and wait for something to come out. But it doesn’t. It’s so weird, the way he’s manually shut down your orgasm with one touch. Completely different than the way you would have had to hold back without this new dick. 

“That’s—”

“Incredible, right?” 

You huff in the midst of catching your breath. You still feel like a hair trigger, but without someone’s finger hovering over it now. 

“Oh my god,” you sigh. 

He laughs and lets go of you. You watch him wipe the corners of his pretty mouth and distantly think that you can’t wait until you get used to this, so you can make him gag and watch his drool and your cum seep from it. 

Your dick jerks at the thought, and it’s strange to have the evidence of your arousal be so obvious. It’s like a damn car alarm. 

“Wanna fuck me now?” 

You laugh, delirious. 

“My new nickname’s gonna be One Pump Chump.”

He slithers up the bed to lie beside you. 

“It’s totally understandable. Normal, even.”

You raise your eyebrow at him. 

“How big is the sample size?”

He shrugs and smirks but his eyes focus on the bedsheets between you. 

“I know I seem like a douchebag, but I really just wanna help.”

You pout at him, but fix your face before he looks back up at you. You run your hand through his hair, gently this time, and something about this whole situation is making your heart feel all gooey. 

“You only seem like a little bit of a douchebag.”

He grumbles at you but smiles. 

“Besides, there’s like, a billion things you’re gonna want to try with that thing. You’ll get practice.” 

That thing suddenly doesn’t feel as pressing anymore. You’re still hard as rock, but it finally feels like it would take a little more than a gentle breeze to make you spill. 

“Let me fuck you, then.”

“Yeah?”

You nod and smile; and some of that eagerness comes back to light up his devious eyes. He reaches for the condoms in the bedside table and you admire all of the taut muscles under his tan skin. 

“You want help with this?” 

You roll your eyes, but it’s kinda sweet. You’ve never actually put one on at this angle before. So you get between his thighs when he lies back and let him roll it on you. 

“You can definitely get someone pregnant with this too, so… be warned. Don’t sue me about it, it won’t go over well in court.”

Your dick bobs in his grasp as you laugh. It feels so weird and fascinating.  

“Noted, thank you for the disclaimer. And sorry about the lawsuit?” 

He squeezes your prick around the condom and smiles up at you. 

“No worries, that was decades ago.”

You laugh until the words catch up with you. But you don’t have time to question it much, because he’s lying back and spreading his thighs for you, getting a pillow under his hips so his glistening pussy is tilted perfectly. Your mouth waters at the sight of him so aroused and ready for you, and at the thought of how much more wet and tight and hot it’s going to feel compared to his mouth. 

You sigh and play with his little clit, still wet from your saliva. He keens and seeks out more friction and you have to fuck him. His pussy is even more enticing now, knowing you can slide your prick inside. 

You shuffle closer and try to remind yourself to take your time. You purposefully glide your hands up his thighs, feeling the way the hair gets more sparse and fine the further up you go. You’re delighted by the little goosebumps that form under your fingertips and the way he sounds so relaxed when he sighs. 

Shuffling even further now, you settle those thick thighs over your own and let your knees cage his slim hips. When you look up, he’s watching you through hooded eyes with his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You really are gorgeous,” you tell him, softly, afraid to disturb what’s becoming a very peaceful calm before the storm. 

His breath hitches a little and you see it as it ripples his chest. 

“You really are handsome,” he winks back. 

Your hand wanders up higher, across his ribs, and your thumb presses against his stiff nipple and rolls it. You feel the small noise he makes under your palm and smile. 

Your other hand grabs the base of your cock, sure to keep the base of the condom from slipping down. The subtle move kind of makes you feel like a pro, and you’d snicker about it if the euphoria that flooded through your body didn’t overwhelm you. 

It’s kind of like an out of body experience. But you’re also painfully aware of your body and this new appendage and the way the feeling of it is wreaking havoc on your entire being. 

You slide your cock through his wet folds and even just this feels incredible, the way every bit of him feels rubbing against your sensitive cockhead. You can’t drag it out any longer, you know. 

“Are you ready?” You ask him hesitantly. 

“Are you ready?” 

You snort and roll your eyes and pinch his nipple. His back arches and the movement makes your dick slip down, press just barely against his opening. You suck in a breath and it takes every ounce of willpower not to shove yourself inside to chase that wet heat. 

“Okay, okay, I’m ready. Just fuck me already. Gonna feel so good.”

For him or for you, you’re not sure which he means, but it doesn’t matter. 

You try to take your time. You really do. But as soon as the head of your prick slips in it’s like you have no self control. 

You chase the warmth, plunge all the way into him, and stay. 

Oh my god. 

“Oh my god.”

Max chuckles at you and you can feel it. You’re so fucking wrapped up in him. Every little move, shift, clench, it surrounds you and overwhelms you. 

“You feel so fucking good, Max.”

You’re sure you look absolutely wild. Your jaw is permanently dropped, eyes wide as you try with all of your might to hang on. 

“Ditto,” he breathes. 

His eyes look dark and intense, when your eyes can finally focus in. 

“Do you— did you make it exactly how you like?” 

It’s so stupid to be asking questions right now but it’s the only thing you have to keep you somewhat composed. 

“Yeah,” he admits, a little breathless. 

“You get off on that?”

You know he does before he answers, can feel him clench and contract around you. You muster up the dexterity to find his clit with your thumb and press. 

“I do! I do, fuck.”

You finally start to inch out of him, slowly, afraid that too much friction will send you over the edge. 

“Are you using me like a toy?” 

He whimpers, and the sound alone makes you snap your hips back into him. 

“No, no, that’s not it.”

Your brows rise up in question, and you pull out again as you wait for him to explain. 

“It’s— I dunno. I like that you… hah, shit, like that, don’t stop.”

You feel smug that you’ve derailed his thoughts by starting to fuck him with a slow rhythm, if only because he’s derailed yours a million times in the two nights you’ve shared. 

You circle his clit and groan at the way his pussy squeezes you. It’s hard to even pull out of him, it’s like he’s sucking you right back in. 

“You were saying?”

And it doesn’t sound smooth coming from your mouth, your breathing labored and your voice strained. 

“I like that you’ll think of me when you fuck. I like knowing I made you like this for me even if others get to enjoy it. I like knowing— shit— I like knowing I’m the one that makes you feel good.”

You balk at his confession. Such a beautiful explanation for something so possessive. From anyone else it would sound so objectifying. But with this strange relationship the two of you have, it makes your entire body burn. 

You collapse on top of him once the words really sink in. You hide your face in his sweaty neck and begin to rut into him with the knowledge that you’ll probably crumble far too quickly, but you don’t quite care. 

“You do, you make me feel so good,” you tell him. 

He whines and works his hips against yours to meet your frantic thrusts. You grab his hair again and bite faint marks into his neck that make him writhe and squirm against you. 

“You do too— harder, please, fuck me harder.”

Man, your hips are starting to ache, just like with your strap, but this time the sensation of feeling him wrapped around your very real cock keeps the discomfort at bay and it’s just pure bliss. 

So you double down, raise back up to put more of your back into it. Your sweaty hands slip against his skin as you try to grab his hips for leverage. 

“You gotta touch yourself for me,” you pant. 

The way he scrambles to comply just turns you on even more, gives you one more tick in the ‘power tripping’ column. He looks so fucking beautiful under you, back all arched in pleasure, his face scrunched up in concentration. His bicep is bulging as he slides three fingers back and forth across his clit, so frantic but so practiced. 

You fuck him and try to think about anything other than how good he feels. You’re plunging into the world’s softest, warmest hole and he’s moaning for you, you’re making him feel just as good as you do, and you’re going to lose it. 

“Gonna come, Max. I can’t—”

“Do it, come for me. Wanna be the first.”

Your hips stutter as the wave finally, finally crashes over you. You try so hard to fuck through it, try to make him come again, but as the first shock of your orgasm spikes up your spine, you can’t think to do anything but try to bury yourself as far as you can into his tight cunt. 

You know he’s saying something encouraging by the tone of his voice, but his words go in one ear and out the other as you grind into him and rest your sweaty forehead in the middle of his chest. It feels so good you could cry. 

Your fingertips dig into the flesh of his hips as you ride it out, and your chest starts to burn and your throat starts to ache and your eyes start to burn.

You are crying. 

“Shit.”

It comes out as a broken sob, muffled into his chest, and he starts at the sound. 

“Hey, it’s okay. Just breathe.”

You shake your head against him. 

“I’m fine.”

“I know, just breathe though.”

The breaths you suck in are all shuddery and stilted, and there’s snot, and it’s so embarrassing but comforting all at once. 

He urges you to slip out, and he even holds the condom for you, pulls it off, and ties it while you try to reel yourself in.

You don’t, not right away at least, because once you get over the crazy rush of endorphins and serotonin and dopamine or whatever that’s flooded your body, you start feeling extremely self conscious about the whole sobbing during sex thing, and the fact that he didn’t get off, and—

“Come snuggle?” 

You’re not sure when he got up, but he’s holding up a robe for you in one hand, and cradling your head in the other, and ushering you out into the living room. His fireplace is on now, and there’s a tall, snobby glass bottle of water on his end table. 

You’re tired, now. Like, bone-deep exhaustion. You slump into him where he’s sprawled out on his leather couch and close your watery eyes. 

“I’m sorry.”

He shushes you gently, pets your head that’s on his chest that definitely has your dried snot on it still. 

“Don’t be sorry. As long as you feel good, I feel good.”

You nod, and taking a deep breath comes easier to you this time. You brave a look up at him, and his eyes are warmer than ever as they reflect the orange-yellow flames.

“Thank you.”

He smirks then, and you feel the tension in the room shift. 

“So how was it?”

You grin and hide it in his pecs. You’re hyper aware of your spent dick lying soft and sticky on your thigh. You’re so much more tired than you ever usually are after an orgasm. It was all so different, every little bit of it. And there’s this calmness you feel now, after all the commotion, and it hits you all at once that it all feels right. 

There’s no cleaning your strap, putting away your toys, no sliding on your underwear to hide the thing that just gave you pleasure. There’s no awkward dissonance. It’s just… normal. Normal in a way it’s never been before. Effortless bliss, like a sensory deprivation tank. Nothing. 

“It was everything.”

-

Author's Note: I wanted to share a bit about what really resonated with me as I learned more about Loki. The one thing that stuck with me throughout this writing challenge is that Loki is not a bad guy. I will be honest, the only thing I knew about Loki before this was from the MCU, which to me seems like an oversimplification of the norse god from everything I've learned about him. Erin provided me with this very thorough video that analyzes Loki and his myths. To me, he seems like someone who liked to 'stir the shit' for the sake of curiosity. I didn't find much ill will at all in these tellings of his trickery, just a guy who wanted to fuck around and find out about things, someone who did more than just wonder what would happen.

Second, Erin said he's Like a fun older brother. Very playful and mischievous. Very straight-forward. Protector of outcasts; lgbtq+ folks, disabled people, neurodivergent people, etc. This was another driving force behind this fic. It wasn't a coincidence that Max met reader their first night at the club, they founded the club for the sole purpose of creating a safe space for queer people and takes an active role in making sure their patrons feel like they belong.

Lastly, Erin said their pick for me would be Max / Loki because of the gender fuckery, which excited me as much as it made me feel honored. When watching the aforementioned video, I learned about Loki turning himself and Thor into a bridesmaid and a bride, respectively. Loki himself was unrecognizable and was the exact image of a woman. However, Thor pretty much just looked like himself in a dress (this is paraphrasing.) I loved the idea that Loki's shapeshifting could not only be directed toward other people, but could vary in vagueness. These undefined rules for Loki’s gender felt like how I personally view gender in general, as well as how I relate it to my own identity, and I really took that idea and ran with it.

Anyway, thank you again @perotovar for this writing challenge and the piece of yourself you shared with all of us. I love you so much! <3

[book--brackets]

Note: Good Omens is by both Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, it just doesn't fit in the character limit lol

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern (2011)

The circus arrives without warning. No announcement precedes it, no paper notices plastered on lampposts and billboards. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not.

Within these nocturnal black-and-white-striped tents awaits an utterly unquie experience, a feast did the senses, where no one can be lost in a maze of clouds, meander through a lush garden muse of ice, stare in wonderment as the tattooed contortionist folds herself into a small glass box, and become deliciously tipsy from the scents of caramel and cinnamon that waft through the air.

Welcome to Le Cirque des Rêvez.

Beyond the smoke and mirrors, however, a fierce competition is under way—a contest between two young illusionists, Celia and Marco, who have been trained since childhood to compete in a “game” to which they have been irrevocably bound by their mercurial masters. Unbeknownst to the players, this is a game in which only one can be left standing, and the circus is but the stage for a remarkable battles of imagination and will.

As the circus travels around the world, the feats of magic gain fantastical new heights with every stop. The game is well under way and the lives of all those involved—the eccentric circus owner, the elusive contortionist, the mystical fortune-teller, and a pair of red-haired twins born backstage among them—are swept up in a wake of spells and charms.

But when Celia discovers Marco is her adversary, they begin to think of the game not as a competition but as a wonderful collaboration. With no knowledge of how the game must end, they innocently tumble headfirst into love. A deep, passionate, and magical love that makes the light flicker and the room grow warm whenever they so much as brush hands.

Their masters still pull the strings, however, and this unforeseen occurrence forces them to intervene with dangerous consequences, leaving the lives of everyone from the performers to the patrons hanging in the balance.

The Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss (2007-present)

My name is Kvothe.   I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep.   You may have heard of me.

So begins a tale unequaled in fantasy literature--the story of a hero told in his own voice. It is a tale of sorrow, a tale of survival, a tale of one man's search for meaning in his universe, and how that search, and the indomitable will that drove it, gave birth to a legend.

Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo (2015-2016)

Ketterdam: a bustling hub of international trade where anything can be had for the right price—and no one knows that better than criminal prodigy Kaz Brekker. Kaz is offered a chance at a deadly heist that could make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. But he can’t pull it off alone. . . .

A convict with a thirst for revenge A sharpshooter who can’t walk away from a wager A runaway with a privileged past A spy known as the Wraith A Heartrender using her magic to survive the slums A thief with a gift for unlikely escapes

Kaz’s crew is the only thing that might stand between the world and destruction—if they don’t kill each other first.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman (2001)

Days before his release from prison, Shadow's wife, Laura, dies in a mysterious car crash. Numbly, he makes his way back home. On the plane, he encounters the enigmatic Mr Wednesday, who claims to be a refugee from a distant war, a former god and the king of America.

Together they embark on a profoundly strange journey across the heart of the USA, whilst all around them a storm of preternatural and epic proportions threatens to break.

Scary, gripping and deeply unsettling, American Gods takes a long, hard look into the soul of America. You'll be surprised by what - and who - it finds there...

The Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyer (2012-2015)

Humans and androids crowd the raucous streets of New Beijing. A deadly plague ravages the population. From space, a ruthless lunar people watch, waiting to make their move. No one knows that Earth's fate hinges on one girl. . . . 

Cinder, a gifted mechanic, is a cyborg. She's a second-class citizen with a mysterious past, reviled by her stepmother and blamed for her stepsister's illness. But when her life becomes intertwined with the handsome Prince Kai's, she suddenly finds herself at the center of an intergalactic struggle, and a forbidden attraction. Caught between duty and freedom, loyalty and betrayal, she must uncover secrets about her past in order to protect her world's future. 

The Princess Bride by William Goldman (1973)

Westley ... handsome farm boy who risks death and much, much worse for the woman he loves; Inigo ... the Spanish swordsman who lives only to avenge his father's death; Fezzik ... the Turk, the gentlest giant ever to have uprooted a tree with his bare hands; Vizzini ... the evil Sicilian, with a mind so keen he's foiled by his own perfect logic; Prince Humperdinck ... the eviler ruler of Guilder, who has an equally insatiable thirst for war and the beauteous Buttercup; Count Rugen ... the evilest man of all, who thrives on the excruciating pain of others; Miracle Max ... the King's ex-Miracle Man, who can raise the dead (kind of); The Dread Pirate Roberts ... supreme looter and plunderer of the high seas; and, of course, Buttercup ... the princess bride, the most perfect, beautiful woman in the history of the world.

S. Morgenstern's timeless tale--discovered and wonderfully abridged by William Goldman--pits country against country, good against evil, love against hate. From the Cliffs of Insanity through the Fire Swamp and down into the Zoo of Death, this incredible journey and brilliant tale is peppered with strange beasties both monstrous and gentle, and memorable surprises both terrible and sublime.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl (1964)

Willy Wonka's famous chocolate factory is opening at last!

But only five lucky children will be allowed inside. And the winners are: Augustus Gloop, an enormously fat boy whose hobby is eating; Veruca Salt, a spoiled-rotten brat whose parents are wrapped around her little finger; Violet Beauregarde, a dim-witted gum-chewer with the fastest jaws around; Mike Teavee, a toy pistol-toting gangster-in-training who is obsessed with television; and Charlie Bucket, Our Hero, a boy who is honest and kind, brave and true, and good and ready for the wildest time of his life! 

The Infernal Devices by Cassandra Clare (2010-2013)

Magic is dangerous--but love is more dangerous still. 

When sixteen-year-old Tessa Gray crosses the ocean to find her brother, her destination is England, the time is the reign of Queen Victoria, and something terrifying is waiting for her in London's Downworld, where vampires, warlocks and other supernatural folk stalk the gaslit streets. Only the Shadowhunters, warriors dedicated to ridding the world of demons, keep order amidst the chaos. 

Kidnapped by the mysterious Dark Sisters, members of a secret organization called The Pandemonium Club, Tessa soon learns that she herself is a Downworlder with a rare ability: the power to transform, at will, into another person. What's more, the Magister, the shadowy figure who runs the Club, will stop at nothing to claim Tessa's power for his own. 

Friendless and hunted, Tessa takes refuge with the Shadowhunters of the London Institute, who swear to find her brother if she will use her power to help them. She soon finds herself fascinated by--and torn between--two best friends: James, whose fragile beauty hides a deadly secret, and blue-eyed Will, whose caustic wit and volatile moods keep everyone in his life at arm's length . . . everyone, that is, but Tessa. As their search draws them deep into the heart of an arcane plot that threatens to destroy the Shadowhunters, Tessa realizes that she may need to choose between saving her brother and helping her new friends save the world. . . . and that love may be the most dangerous magic of all.

Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman (1990)

The world is preparing to come to an end according to the Divine Plan recorded in the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch (recorded 1655). Meanwhile, a fussy angel and a fast-living demon have grown fond of living among the earth's mortals for many millennia and are not looking forward to the apocalypse. If Crowley and Aziraphale are going to stop it from happening, they must find and kill the Antichrist.

Coraline by Neil Gaiman (2002)

In Coraline's family's new flat there's a locked door. On the other side is a brick wall—until Coraline unlocks the door . . . and finds a passage to another flat in another house just like her own. Only different.

The food is better there. Books have pictures that writhe and crawl and shimmer. And there's another mother and father there who want Coraline to be their little girl. They want to change her and keep her with them. . . . Forever.

[bonefall]

as someone who has not read DOTC (and treasures my sanity too much to read it) i cannot fathom how people read clear sky as a hero, hes even written with the descriptions the erins love to give their villains! prowling, sneaking up behind people to say ominous lines, standing partially in darkness, having an utterly pathetic lackey kissing his ass at all times, even the territory expansion thing was like, explicitly bad when tigerstar did it in arc 1. i'm convinced these people havent actually read this arc??

It's because, I CANNOT make this up, he says sorry after he kills 3 people and causes the death of like a dozen at this big Murder Party he throws. A bunch of ghosts say he was just scared, Gray Wing swoons that he simply needs to learn how to delegate, and then Clear Sky says "haha woops :P"

After that, everyone who ever says, "Hey, I don't trust the physically abusive dictator or his intentions" is treated like an unreasonable idiot, a simple personality conflict, or an active villain. Thunder literally gets revictimized and undergoes emotional abuse a SECOND time and Gray Wing gets a scene screaming at him to get the fuck over it.

These WOULD be interesting characters if this was intentional, if the writers had gotten their heads out of Gray Wing's brother-loving ass to realize that Clear Sky is not redeemable. Gray is denying reality and letting people get hurt so he can cling to a beloved memory, and it doesn't matter if it was accurate then, because he's KILLING PEOPLE NOW.

But the arc is bullheaded in its simplicity: Clear Sky was not born bad, so he is not fundamentally bad. Unlike Slash and One Eye, evil through and through.

It's painful. Incredibly painful arc.

[pacific-rimbaud]

Hi! I’m such a fan of your work. I saw your post about waking up to write in your notes app (relatable by the way) and wondered if you could share a little bit about what your novel is about? If someone has asked or you’re not able to share, no worries ❤️ I would read anything you write. Happy Friday!

Yes! I can share a bit, thank you for asking. I'm currently swept up in something unlike anything I've written or really experienced as a writer before, which is exciting and a bit terrifying and mostly makes me wish I'd bothered to learn to type properly so I could get it all down faster. It's a portal fantasy with world building that intrigues and excites me, and characters that are jumping off the page shouting over each other in distinct voices to tell me their backstories and hopes and dreams. What's really different for me is I don't have any kind of outline. I've never done discovery writing before, but it's working well so far. Wild times! I don't want to share too much until I have it further underway, but it has doors to other worlds, a young woman who cannot be anything but Entirely Herself and is dying to get some space from her fathers, an over-involved house, and a too-charming rogue who crashes foot-first through their front door clinging to a length of sawn-off rope (geometry gets complicated). Right now it feels like something for people who like Susanna Clarke, Terry Pratchett, Erin Morgenstern and Dodie Smith, only obviously I'm not that brilliant lol. Here's a tiny snippet:

“It's perfectly normal to fall in love with the aesthetics of other people's religions,” said Marinette defensively. “What matters is how you behave about it.”

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Erin Reed at Erin In The Morning:

Over the last week, conservative influencer accounts have ignited a firestorm over cisgender boxer Imane Khelif, alleging that she is actually a “man” and suggesting she might be transgender. This is despite officials confirming that Khelif was assigned female at birth and has competed as a woman her entire life. The controversy has led to statements from Donald Trump, J.D. Vance, and anti-transgender influencers, who are using the boxer’s participation to target transgender athletes. Now, the Boston Globe, a major American paper, has published and circulated into print the false claim that Khelif is transgender. The title reads, “Transgender Boxer Advances.” The headline was placed on an AP article written by sports journalist Greg Beachem, who asserts, “That's not my headline. That word isn't in my story. My stories are syndicated worldwide, and customers are allowed to write their own headlines.” The use of alternate headlines is a common practice for wire services. The word “transgender” does not appear once in the story, which was printed on August 2, 2024.

There is no evidence that Khelif is a transgender woman. Although transgender women are allowed to compete in the Olympics, there are no openly transgender women competing this year. Meanwhile, International Olympic Committee President Thomas Bach has confirmed that Khelif is a cisgender boxer, calling disinformation about her gender “totally unacceptable.” Khelif’s family shared pictures of her as a child, as well as identity documents showing her assigned sex at birth. Notably, gender transition is criminalized in Algeria, making it extremely unlikely that transgender people would be allowed to transition in the country.

The original claim about Khelif’s sex eligibility arose when the scandal-plagued International Boxing Association (IBA) ruled her out of competition, alleging she failed an unspecified gender test after defeating an undefeated Russian boxer. Notably, the IBA is presided over by Umar Kremlev of Russia, an associate of President Putin. In 2023, the International Olympic Committee voted to derecognize the IBA due to concerns about corruption, governance, and judging controversies.

[...] Update: The paper has issued a correction and apologized. “A significant error was made in a headline on a story in Friday’s print sports section about Algerian boxer Imane Khelif incorrectly describing her as transgender. She is not. Additionally, our initial correction of this error neglected to note that she was born female. We recognize the magnitude of this mistake and have corrected it in the epaper, the electronic version of the printed Globe. This editing lapse is regretful and unacceptable and we apologize to Khelif, to Associated Press writer Greg Beacham, and to you, our readers.”

The Boston Globe should be ashamed of themselves for inaccurately describing Imane Khelif as “transgender”. The paper did later, apologize for the insensitively bigoted headline but not the trans community as a whole.

[somefanficrecomendations]

Author Spotlight: CatSteppingOnAKeyboard!

Introducing. . . author spotlight! This post will be a roundup of my personal favorites written by this author, instead of a traditional roundup with fics by multiple authors.

Ambrosia and snake oil are sold by the same vendor The Penumbra Podcast, (multi), 180k, Humor, Action & Adventure “Twirl for me, Juno.” “I’ll do it if you close your eyes.” Nureyev takes his hand and makes Juno twirl. The rainbow skirts of a summer dress flare, a yellow cardigan snapping about him, his gold sandals flashing. The effect is of a rainbow octopus flashing its warning colors on the end of Nureyev’s arm. Nureyev catches Juno by the waist “You look splendid.” “I look like I run a mommy-blog.” “I think that’s the point, Juno.” Juno Steel is a lot of things. A happy home-maker ain't one of them, but hey, how hard can it be to play nice for a bit, especially if it means uncovering a source of the cure-mother? Except it's not that simple because nothing ever is in Juno's life. Suddenly he and his family are poised on the verge of an intergalactic conspiracy that pits Juno against old friends and enemies, while the fate of a dying species hangs in the balance. Also some furby nightmare fell out of the vents and Vespa won't let them put it back to the woods.

Ambrosia and snake oil was the best Penumbra fic I had ever read until I read The ballad of Jet Sikuliaq. The combination of action and humor, found family shenanigans, and wacky BAMF's is exactly what got me into The Penumbra Podcast, and it drew me into this fic all the same.

The ballad of Jet Sikuliaq  The Penumbra Podcast, (gen), 120k, Pre-Canon, Heists Before a certain lady detective ever met a certain nameless thief, before a certain mayor ever set a robot plague upon a certain Martian city, there were others being gay and doing crimes in space. Jet; a torn between the cool uncle he is on the inside and the ruthless, blood-thirsty, property-damaging intergalactic criminal with a wicked drug dependency he is on the outside. Buddy; the victim of his most recent bout of impulsive destruction. To compensate for what Jet has done to Buddy's reputation, Buddy recruits Jet for a singularly difficult task: either he kills her father, a notorious prison baron and jackass, or Buddy kills Jet and displays his remains over the counter of her bar next to the mechanical trout that sings 'Sweet Caroline'. Nothing goes as planned, least of all the beautiful friendship that blooms out of this unlikely allegiance.

I have a secret love for pre-canon fics and The Ballad doesn't disappoint. The ballad of Jet Sikuliaq is a quintessential heist fic with reluctant teammates, bizarre humor, and that ooey gooey found family goodness. This fic explores a brilliant depth of emotion with discussions of addiction, grief, and mental illness that are a halfway substitute for real therapy.

There are no wolves left in Ireland  Derry Girls x IT, (gen), 70k, The Power of Friendship, Biblical Horror Orla raises her hand higher. “I’ve been possessed.” Erin rolls her eyes. “No, she hasn’t, Sister Michael. Orla was iron deficient last year- she got a swimmy feeling in her head every time she stood up and she thought that was demons.” “It was demons.” says Orla, evenly. “Oh, and iron tablets made the demons go away, did they?” Her cousin shrugs and thumbs the side of her nose. “Well, I felt better after I took ‘em, didn’t I?” Another Derry, another time, same old Pennywise. Armed with friendship, faith, an encyclopedic knowledge of Catholic heresy and a pitchfork one of them got out of the garden shed, the Derry girls do battle with a clown who really should have known better than to try this shit in Northern Ireland.

This was the fic that got me into the source material. I actually read the first chapter of this fic and then put it down to watch the first episode of Derry Girls. Hilarious, horrifying, and heartwarming, this fic has it all! A definite must read, you only need the bare minimum of familiarity with Derry Girls and even less knowledge of IT to enjoy this fic.

[kittykaspbrak]

Someone recently asked me why I enjoyed Final Destination 3 so much, and I accidentally wrote a mini-analysis so here you guys go. (I didn’t proofread it so I hope it makes sense)

Well, where do I even start. First off, the characters are extremely well written and easy to connect with, unlike any of the other movies (besides the first one).

The acting is absolutely phenomenal and the pure fear Mary Elizabeth Winstead (Wendy) managed to portray is actually mind boggling. I will admit Lewis (Texas Battle) was poorly written, being a stereotypical black jock never really plays well. But the other characters have their own uniqueness to them that we didn’t really see in some of the other movies. Ashlyn (Crystal Lowe) and Ashley (Chelan Simmons) were stereotypical “mean” girls but they were actually extremely nice and sweet in the movies, just girls who were kinda airheaded. Frankie (Sam Easton) was a weird ass pervert, but you have to admit his character was extremely (and sadly) realistic. Ian (Kris Lemche) and Erin (Alexz Johnson) were teenage dirtbag assholes which really balances out the ditzyness and almost airy feel of the other characters. Ian being super smart was honestly a refresher in the series, because not many people did try and apply other “laws” and “theories” to the equation. Julie (Amanda Crew) was that asshole teen little sister who acts like a brat but truly isn’t, which (if you’re a sibling) is so easy to relate and connect to. Kevin (Ryan Merriman) was a jerk in the beginning, but as the story went on you could kind of see him change and feel for him and his situation (at least I did. I know not many people can, but that’s cause of trauma for me…) And the little screen time we had for Jason (Jesse Moss) and Carrie (Gina Holden) made viewers feel torn about their death. With the 10 minutes they had, they were SUCH sweethearts and it breaks your heart to see them die like that especially knowing Wendy tried to get them off.

The plot itself is amazing, a control freak who now has the knowledge she isn’t even in control of her own life and death, as well as trying to stop everyone around hers demise. It adds a more realistic level to this that wasn’t portrayed in the others. She wants to be in control, but she can’t because that’s not the way death works. The clues being in the photos rather than in visions is genuinely so cool, although it was a bit of a reach at times. I found that it being a group of people who already know each other rather than strangers really drives the message further and makes the audience have a deeper reaction to the movie. The deaths itself were the best in any movie by far, and there’s no arguing on that. The tanning beds, the weights, the nail gun, the flag pole impalement, even the premonition Wendy had at the end that maybe (probably definitely) did happen with the train. Each death in this movie was beautiful, and the editing and everything about this movie is just gorgeous.

I think what worked for it was the fact it’s. Stand-alone, and not a continuation of the first two movies. Also, they had a lot more cool features than the other movies, like that whole “choose their fate” thing in the DVDs (I think). This movie is straight up just fun and a refresher from the others. The only movie I would consider being better than it is the 5th one, but that’s simply cause of the plot twist at the end and the cool thing they added with the “take a life, earn a life”

Anyways I hope this makes sense please tell me it does 😭

[therumpus]

The Strangeness of Fiction: A Conversation with Scott Guild

By Elizabeth McCracken

When I first spoke to Scott Guild on the phone, it was in the wake of a terrorist attack: I was calling to offer him a spot at the New Writers Project, and it happened to be the day that the whole of Greater Boston—where he then lived—was shut down while police looked for the Tsarnaev Brothers after the Boston Marathon Bombing. I was delivering good news at this strange time; we joked a little but also talked about the utter strangeness of the moment. That conversation now seems from the world of Scott’s fiction: surreal, terrifying, full of suspense, thousands of people in their homes holding their breath. 

As a person, Guild is modest and self-deprecating—knowingly, comically self-deprecating—but as an artist he’s astonishingly ambitious, a virtuoso. Plastic (Pantheon Books, 2024) is a book, an album, a project like no other. How can a book be about plastic figures, sentient waffles, and a miniature Jesus who comes off His crucifix to be a song-and-dance man be so deeply human and humane? 

Scott Guild is a musician, writer, and teacher whose first novel and first album—both called Plastic—were released this year. He’s a professor at Marian University in Indianapolis, and for many years has been an advocate for prison reform. Though Scott and I have had many conversations over the years in person and on the phone, including in front of audiences and over guacamole salad, we conducted this interview over email.

***

The Rumpus: Plastic is both a high-concept novel, and profound, so intricate and strange that I find it hard to describe. I just want to insist that people read it. It's full of strange concepts and yet it's not about them. I guess I mean that largely the characters are plastic, but the novel doesn't stay with that initial question, “What if plastic figurines were sentient?” (Let's call it The Toy Story level.) It's interested in much more complicated questions. How do you describe the book to people? And what do you think it's about?

Scott Guild: You make an excellent point here, which is that the characters never discuss the fact that they’re plastic figurines—this is just their normal reality, walking around with their hinges and hollow bodies. Unlike Toy Story, there’s not a world of flesh-and-blood humans in contrast to them. I think this gets at a part of the book’s meaning: We all live such strange lives now, immersed in our technologies while the natural world crumbles around us, but more and more this just feels normal, the state of existence we’ve all accepted. 

I wouldn’t want to define what it “means” that the characters are plastic figurines: I’d love for readers to interpret that for themselves, and it’s meant different things even to me in the years of writing the book. But when I look at the way we live now, and then think about how we would appear to people from a century or two ago, we probably would seem as alien to them as plastic figurines, at least in some ways—living so far from nature, completely surrounded by our inventions and the narratives they give us. 

In writing the book, a main goal was to capture something of what it feels like to be alive right now, and—at least for this novel—I couldn’t seem to do that with more traditional narrative forms, which seemed rooted in a different era and type of cognition. The form of my book had to take on the story’s themes; it had to inflect how the story itself was told. I tried writing Erin’s story with a limited third person voice, then with a first-person voice, but this always fell short of what I hoped to evoke. The novel only started to work when it was written as a TV show, when we saw Erin’s life through the filter of the media to which she’s addicted. Similarly, it was only when I gave the characters plastic bodies that their world felt right to me.

All that being said, this isn’t how I describe the novel when someone first asks! I mention that it’s set in a world of plastic figurines, but then also that it’s a love story, and a story of a person trying to reclaim her humanity in a violent, chaotic world. Erin exists inside many layers of alienation, but her personhood and spiritual growth always feel like the heart of the book to me (even if her chest is technically hollow). 

Rumpus: I feel like you and I have talked over the years a lot about the uses of strangeness in fiction. You talk about it a little here from the point of view of a writer—by making the world stranger, you can also write about our own world, a kind of pinhole camera—and I wonder if you can talk about what strangeness means to you.

Guild: This is such a fascinating question, and it gets me thinking about what strangeness is in art. When something is "strange," this means it has swerved from our expectations, that it has somehow defied a normal or typical pattern in its genre. It's funny, because there are whole genres—like surrealist fiction, which I write—where strangeness itself is the expected pattern, and therefore not "strange" at all! 

To be truly strange in surrealist fiction, with all its genre expectations, I think you need to zag at times in the opposite direction, to go for realism when the reader expects the bizarre. This was part of my hope with Plastic: to write a surrealist novel that also has the intimate, personal stakes of traditional literary fiction, so that the two different genre patterns would keep subverting each other, creating a tension that matches the tensions in Erin's world. Just when you think you're in this zany, wacky metafiction novel where the characters get "Brad Pitt's Disease," here comes the section where Erin cares for her father as he dies of BPD—far more Alice Munro than Thomas Pynchon. 

This connects to what I was saying in the last question: my desire to capture something of what life feels like right now. Seeing Trump high in the polls, seeing our eco-crisis ignored, seeing a global rise of fascism, many of us feel like we're trapped inside a satirical metafiction novel (and not a particularly well-written one!). But this doesn't change the depth of our connections to each other, or the inner depth of our emotional and spiritual lives.

 And this leads to another thought: what is the point of strangeness in fiction? Why seek it at all, as a writer or reader? To my mind, when something is truly strange—and strange in a way that's satisfying—it's because it finds a new way to render experience, a shift in form that gives a new window onto our personal or collective existence. In the 1740s, when Samuel Richardson pioneered detailed character interiority in Pamela, this gave readers a very strange and new literary experience, but one deeply rooted in their own personhood. Three centuries later, nothing could be more expected in a literary fiction novel—detailed inner lives are the definition of normal. Though a little less common, the same point can be made about Virginia Woolf's stream-of-consciousness or Kafka's dream logic narratives: innovations become widely-used craft techniques, and these techniques no longer startle us. But these formal innovations were effective at the time, and continue to be effective now, because they train their gaze on something crucial about the human experience and can still speak to us centuries after their strangeness has worn off. 

Rumpus: I love this answer so much, from Pamela to notes of Alice Munro in Plastic. I wanted to ask you about the visual in the book. One of the things that struck me is how clearly I saw some of the things in the book (things that don't exist in our world, like sentient anthropomorphic waffles), while at other times I didn't need to see things in great detail because I was so busy listening: to monologues, song and dance numbers, et cetera. Even though I read the book on the page, it's somehow a real multimedia experience. Maybe my question is just, “How'd you do that? And what do you see when you write?”

Guild: This is all so wonderful to hear. In many ways, the true setting of the novel is Erin's mind, and it's a mind immersed in visual media—particularly television, which she uses to escape her traumas. When Erin looks out on the world, she sees it as close-ups and wide shots, as scenes in front of an imaginary audience; her own thoughts feel to her like a confessional to a camera in Reality TV. Like so many of us today, she's deeply disassociated from reality—all of life feels like a screen—and I wanted this type of cognition to come through in the form of the book, to immerse the reader in this space as well.

In the early drafts of Plastic, when I was writing in limited third person, I always felt like I was telling the reader about Erin's mental state, from the safe remove of a more traditional narrative form. When I began to write the book as a TV show, suddenly I could see the plastic world through her eyes and the distance between us vanished. It's incredible how evocative language is: When I'd write, "the camera zooms in on Jacob's face," or, "the camera pans across the room," it felt like this whole other visual part of my brain switched on, and I could write (and see!) the setting in much more detail. And I had to admit how steeped I am in this media myself, that a few phrases about a camera could do this!  

I didn't realize it until later, but I think I cribbed some of my formal approach from Joyce's Ulysses—I should give credit where it's due! So much of Ulysses is told through the lens of his era's dominant media—as a play, as a series of newspaper stories, as an academic text, depending on the section—and Joyce wants us to remember that we receive our whole sense of the world through these rhetorical structures, that there's really no such thing as "objective" perception. But the experience of Ulysses is one of continuous fragmentation—a major Modernist theme—and I wanted the form of Plastic to feel fluid and seamless, in the fluid way that visual media tries to present the world. 

Rumpus: You are also a musician, and have released Plastic, the album. Is it a companion piece? An essential part of the experience? 

Guild: Thanks for asking about the music! I do think of it as essential to the experience because it takes you directly to one of Erin's most important mental spaces: a space of song. Erin slips into surreal musical numbers throughout the novel—usually at her times of peak emotion—and the album is a way to experience these moments in full, with melody and arrangements for her lyrics in the book. The songs on the album are also chronological, so you can experience the whole story in about 40 minutes of music. 

The album didn't feel like an "adaptation" of Plastic—the way a movie or a musical would—but an expansion of a space already in the book. It lets Erin step from the pages and continue her story in a different narrative structure, with the amazing singer, Stranger Cat, giving her voice. I love the music videos we made as well, and what these add to the storytelling experience.

Rumpus: I know that you worked on this book over years—I saw some early iterations and was always surprised by how much changed from draft to draft. You ended up with a book that was both different in nearly all its particulars and yet at its heart, the same book, undeniably. The same in its soul, and its ambitions, and life force. How did you keep the book from seizing up as you worked on it? I suppose this is another way of saying, “How did you keep it alive, and yourself interested? How does it feels to have it out in the world and done?” 

Guild: I suppose the easy answer to this is Erin herself—staying close to her as a person through the years. (It’s been a long time since I thought of her as “fictional,” though I suppose she’s technically not alive!). With each new draft, I felt like I was coming to know Erin better, slipping more fully into her world. 

Everyone writes and develops their fiction differently—there’s no one correct way—but I usually need a feeling of discovery as I work, a sense that I’m arriving at the truth of the characters and the world, rather than “making things up.” Learning that Erin is plastic, that she breaks into musical numbers, that she gave her father hospice care, that her sister is a terrorist—all these were discoveries while I was deep in the drafting process, and then I’d get excited and start reshaping the book around them. It would take months, or in some cases, years, and I was lucky enough to have brilliant readers like you giving me feedback and guidance along the way. But it was always grounded in Erin, and in becoming more in touch with her mind and heart and world. That often changed the book formally as well, which was a fun surprise of its own—as I mentioned before, her story only made sense to me when it was written as a TV show.

I made the album for many reasons, and I can see now that a major one was spending more time with her! We’d been together for so many years, and I wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet: I started to work full-time on the songs once the book was completed. Now that the book and album are out in the world, and people are reading her story and hearing her songs—it’s a feeling beyond words, letting go of the person who meant so much to me all those years, seeing her leave and have a life with others. In some ways it’s very fulfilling, but I also miss her! Luckily, we still get to bring her alive at all the book-and-music events around the country. 

[felicitysmoaksx]

Hi everyone! Thanks so much for sticking with this story! Not much to say except this is one of my favorite chapters I've written and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed it coming together. Remember, comments fuel the author!

Rating: Mature

Summary:   Her eyes squeezed shut before she dropped her head. Borrowed time. It was meant to be her…It was meant to be-

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings:  mentions of a little bit of everything in this chapter. Nothing goes to horribly into detail besides Sarah's grief following Camilie Voight's death. But here's a list of everything mentioned in this chapter. Please take care of yourself. (Suicidal thoughts, PTSD, grief, cancer, survivor's guilt.)

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“Sarah, it’s starting to feel like you’re auditing a class again.” Dr. Richardson tried to gently goad the other woman into saying…something. Anything. Like the first time, but unlike that time, the brunette just kept silent, staring resolutely at the wall. 

“We don’t even have to discuss why you’re here in this session. That can come later. We can talk about something else.” Dr. Richardson offered.  Anything to get the ball rolling. Her patient remained staring at the wall. 

“Okay…let’s try this. Who is Hank Voight to you?” 

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Hank studied the man who had brought his daughter to her physiatrist appointment. A man he hadn’t known about until he had sat by her side while she was in the hospital. The man who had come to his son’s service and memorial to support his youngest daughter. The same dark-haired man looked like he wanted to say something right now.

“You got something you want to say to me?” His daughter’s boyfriend looked up, startled at Hank’s question. Hank shrugged, “I’ve been a cop for over twenty years, I know what someone looks like when they want to say something.”

“It’s just…don’t you think you’re pushing therapy on Sarah a little too soon? For the record, this isn’t me against her seeing someone, but It hasn’t even been a month yet. Maybe you should’ve given her some time to grieve?”

A ballsy move from his youngest daughter’s boyfriend, whether he knew it or not. 

“How long have you been dating my daughter?” Hank asked, after sucking a breath through his teeth. 

“Six months,” the words were said confidently and Hank found himself sitting in surprise, though he didn’t show it, because he had only clocked Sarah having guy troubles the day before everything happened. It was unusual. When his youngest was in a relationship, like Erin, he could usually tell. 

Hank nodded like he already knew this piece of information and asked, “Has she ever told you about my late wife?”

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“What?” Sarah shifted her gaze to Dr. Richardson, her resolve to not speak, breaking because she had been expecting questions about Justin…what was going on with her life. 

What she hadn’t been expecting was her psychiatrist to question Hank’s place in her life. 

“Who is Hank Voight to you?” The older woman smiled placatingly. Only instead of soothing her, Sarah felt herself stiffen. Because she was a psych resident and was quickly approaching her final year of residency. She knew what Dr. Richardson was trying to do. 

Just like she knew calling the older woman out on her tactic wouldn’t help. If anything, it would make her seem defensive, and closed off. More unstable than they probably already suspected to be. After all, that’s why Hank pushed, prodded, and nagged her into therapy again.

“You already know who he is,” Sarah said with a shrug, “I’m sure Erin’s already told you who he is and what he did for us.”

“From Erin’s perspective during one of her sessions, not from yours.” Dr. Richardson corrected gently.

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“Some, not a lot. She said she seemed like a superwoman when she was sick.” Connor told him feeling slightly confused at the way this conversation had pivoted. He couldn’t see what the police sergeant’s late wife had to do with him pushing therapy onto Sarah so soon.

“The first time, yeah.” Sarah’s dad nodded. Then the older man sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. A heaviness filled the air. Even Connor could feel it as Hank continued in a quiet tone, “The second time... Not so much. The cancer was more aggressive or her chemotherapy was too strong. I’m not sure anymore, considering we put her oncologist in jail about two years year back now.” 

“You put her oncologist in jail?” 

“Her oncologist was Dean Rybole,” Hank answered, a dark look crossing his face. 

“Fuck,” Connor breathed before he thought better of it because he recognized the name of the doctor that had dosed multiple women with chemotherapy and radiation that didn’t even need it…And he remembered the day of the trial. Peter Kilmiec had talked to him, Will, Ethan, and Nat because they might be called in to testify about their patient’s cases. 

…And he remembered Sarah looking haunted that day, less put together, almost like a shell of herself. Like his mother…in some ways. The lights had been on in Sarah’s head, but that day, no one was home and she was a million miles away before she left work early. (None of the ED doctors had been called to testify after all, so they hadn’t seen Sarah sitting in the court gallery, clutching both Erin’s and Hank’s hands so tightly that her hands had been turning white and when Hank was on the stand, Alvin had been there, holding Sarah’s hand so she wouldn’t pick at cuticles till they bled because anxiety that the brunette hadn’t felt since Camile’s death and had pushed it down, down, down was manifesting itself once more. ) 

And he was ashamed to say that though he noticed, Connor hadn’t checked to see if she was okay because his ability as a doctor had been in question at the time.

“Hindsight now, I probably shouldn’t have let Sarah go with her to as many of her chemotherapy or radiation appointments, but we had medical bills we were still paying for from her first round of chemo, and the new chemo bills. On top of our other bills and I didn’t want Camillie to be alone…” the older man said, bringing Connor out of his thoughts.

Hank Voight shook his head again looking at his hands, “But Camille passed eight months after battling cancer for the second time and nearly took Sarah with her. Sarah just stopped…She became a shell of who she was. She didn’t do anything. She stopped going anywhere, including school, didn’t eat, or sleep, and dissociated more than normal for her. She didn’t even speak anymore. That should’ve been our first warning sign.  I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but when Sarah feels out of control, the first thing she does to try and gain control is stop talking…But I wasn’t thinking straight. I thought it was normal. She was grieving. She needed time. Everyone did. But then one month became four and she still wasn’t doing anything.  She wasn’t getting better, she had lost weight and the only reason she ate at all was because we made her. Her hair was dull and starting to mat and fall out.”

And that in itself was telling enough, because as much as the brunette complained about the amount of time her curls took, she took care of them. She said they felt weird and greasy if they were left too long without maintenance. 

Connor didn’t remember much about his mother's passing. He was ten after all, but he didn’t remember stopping like Hank was describing Sarah did, so much as the world stopping around him. It stood on its axis as he figured out what life looked like without his mom.

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“What does it matter?” Dr. Richardson considered Sarah’s question as she took note of the brunette’s rigid posture. The blank mask on her face. 

The psychiatrist shrugged then, feigning a nonchalant reaction to ease Sarah. But the strategy didn’t work as well considering the patient was also a psychiatrist herself. “At the beginning of this appointment, you said you didn’t want to be here. But you were here because Hank asked you to be-to talk to someone about Justin Voight’s passing.”

And there it was. The slightest flinch. Justin Voight was one of her trigger points. Maybe the trigger point. But the older psychiatrist knew from treating both Sarah and Erin Lindsay, that they couldn’t just dive into this trigger point. They had to ease into it. So Dr. Richardson pivoted. 

“Okay, we don’t have to talk about Hank. Then what about the other person in the waiting room? The one who brought you here. Who’s he?” 

“You mean Connor?” 

“Connor,” Dr. Richardson agreed with a nod of encouragement. Then she added, “Last time, I saw you, you were still dating Joey. Is that still not going on?”

Sarah slowly shook her head, “We stopped dating about ten months ago. Like I thought, he couldn’t handle that I didn’t want to go into pathology.”

“And Connor? Is he your boyfriend?” The psychiatrist asked. That’s what it seemed like with how his arm was wrapped around her waist and his lips pressed to her forehead in a tender kiss. 

Which was vastly different from Sergeant Hank Voight’s kiss to the top of her head, which screamed father energy, if the older woman could even use that expression. 

“No,” Sarah shook her head slowly once more, “Connor is…Connor. We’re not dating but…I guess the most clinical term would be friends with benefits? For the last six months?”

Dr. Richardson made a note. Then her gaze found Sarah’s again. “Is it a healthy relationship in your opinion?”

Her patient merely blinked at her. 

“It’s a legitimate question,” the older woman reassured her, “Not sarcasm or a snide comment.”

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There was a beat of silence as everything sank in. Then Sarah’s boyfriend asked, “How did Sarah recover? From her grief the last time?”

“Justin. You think I’m tough? You should've seen my wife and Justin has-had just enough of my wife in him to realize that just leaving her be, wasn’t working.” Hank explained and he couldn’t help the bittersweet smile that overtook his lips. Folding his arms, the sergeant shrugged, “He took matters into his own hands, and granted, he gave her full warning before he did it, but one day, he dragged her into the bathroom fully clothed and turned on the shower. Then he told her she was going to take a shower because they were getting out of the house.”

“Some tough love.” The younger man remarked, and when Hank nodded he continued, “Sarah did say he was her brother, protector, bully, and best friend rolled into one.” 

“He was, and when Sarah declared she was going to medical school to become an oncologist…He stood up for her. Erin and I didn’t take it well,” he explained, seeing Connor’s confused look, “We thought it was a reaction to Camilie’s death.” 

“It probably was,” Connor remarked quietly. Hank nodded in agreement as he said, “It’s not that we didn’t want Sarah to be a doctor. But we didn’t want Sarah to always try to save Camille with each patient. But it was Justin who pointed out, that at least she was trying to do something productive. Instead of wasting away or getting drunk every day.”

Sarah's boyfriend mirrored his bittersweet smile, “That seems to be a pattern with your daughter. We had a resident who threw himself off the roof. Since then, Sarah’s been trying to make a conscious effort to be the thing that pulls people away from that edge.”

“Everything feels like it did before. The only different thing is her anger at what happened. She told me she was the reason Justin was killed.” Hank sighed, bringing it back to what they were originally talking about. He shook his head, “And I am the kind of father that would step on a landmine if it meant his kids would land on their feet. But I can’t do that for Sarah. I don’t know how to stop her from slipping. And my son…isn’t here to pull her out of it. So even though it’s probably a little too soon for therapy, I don’t see any other way to prevent her falling into that state again.”

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Sarah bit her lip as she thought about the question. Justin asked her something similar before about Connor too. She nodded her head. “It’s actually the best relationship of my adult life. Compared to all of my past boyfriends…It’s almost like he’s Prince Charming.” 

Dr. Richardson hummed, writing down a note. “But he’s not you’re boyfriend.”

“No, it’s-he just got out of a serious relationship and after Joey, I didn’t want to date for a while either.” Sarah started fidgeting with her fingers. 

“How did it happen?” the older woman asked. The curly-haired brunette shrugged thinking about how to answer.

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“Are you married, Reese?”

Sarah moaned as he continued kissing his way down her neck. It was a tease because there wasn’t enough suction to leave a mark, (Did she even want him to mark her?) but just enough to rile her up in all the right ways. Not that someone would’ve heard her with the way his lips moved to hers and swallowed up the sound of her pleasure. Her stomach clenched as a warm hand drifted down her stomach, he slipped a hand under her shirt.

Sarah felt herself blink, standing up a little straighter. It was an unexpected, unusual question. Still, she answered, “No. Came close to it, but never made it down the altar.”

“Dating someone?”

Another unexpected question. Though the brunette probably knew it had everything to do with her former relationship with Joey because it hadn’t quite hit the Med gossip mill yet, so many people assumed they were still together. 

“Not anymore.” She told him with an air of finality. 

She whined as the lips left hers before she blushed deeply, feeling slightly embarrassed at the noise and how loud it was. But he just grinned and continued pulling her shirt up. Then he was on his knees in front of her, kissing his way down her stomach. 

Blue eyes seemed to twinkle then as they eyed her from head to toe. Then he cocked his head to the side with a slight smile, almost a smirk on his lips. The smirk that probably had charmed everyone he used it on. “Then do you want to get a drink? Drown both of our long days in alcohol?”

He pulled away and the brunette whined again. Her shirt fell back against her skin. But the man in front of her merely chuckled as he stood up, but there was a dark undertone to it that made her shiver in anticipation. They started walking backward, lips locking once more. He sucked on her bottom lip and Sarah-

[line break]  [line break] [line break] [line break] [line break]

“Sarah?” She blinked out of the memory. She straightened up as her psychiatrist eyed her, “You went somewhere just now? Where?”

Sarah was well aware that she had a flush running up her body that grew more the longer the older woman stared at her. She felt the heat flood her body. God, she probably looked like a tomato right now. 

“A memory,” Sarah answered. 

“A good one?” Oh, it was very good, but the curly-haired brunette wasn’t about to tell her that. Instead, she just gave her a polite smile. 

“I’m sorry, what was your question from before?” 

“How did you come to be in a friends-with-benefits relationship?” 

“Organically, I guess? Is that a valid answer?” 

Dr. Richardson shrugged and asked, “Do you feel like it’s a valid answer?”

She honestly didn’t know, but she was saved from answering by Dr. Richardson’s alarm going off, signaling the end of the session. 

“Okay,” the other woman smiled warmly, closing her notebook. Then she stood and held out her hand to the curly-haired brunette, “This was a really good start, Sarah. We’ll continue this next week?”

It didn’t feel like a great start and Sarah wasn’t sure she wanted to continue these sessions. But instead of saying that, she tried her best to smile politely and said, “Sure. But I didn’t really talk that much.” 

“You didn’t during your first session either.” Dr. Richardson reminded her, “Neither did Erin. You and your sister are like onions, you have layers and that’s okay. And besides that, you’re actively grieving. You should be treating yourself with extra care right now. It’s okay that you didn’t talk because this was your first session.”

[line break]  [line break] [line break] [line break] [line break]

His youngest daughter’s boyfriend didn’t have much to say after Hank laid it out for him. The bad and the ugly. But that was probably a good thing because about five minutes later, the door opened and there was his youngest daughter with Dr. Richardson following closely behind. Both men stood up simultaneously. 

“Everything go okay?” Hank prodded gently. The brunette shrugged her shoulders in response in answer to the question. “I went to therapy like you asked.” 

That really didn’t tell him anything about her appointment and how it went, but his youngest daughter had already turned to her boyfriend.  “I just got to use the restroom and then we can go.” 

The dark-haired man nodded, pressing his lips to Sarah’s head. Hank watched her leave, watched how Connor Rhodes lingered, holding his daughter’s hand until she disappeared around the corner. 

Hank turned to face the psychiatrist, “Doc? Can you give me anything?” 

“You know I can’t tell you anything about our sessions, but she’s not suicidal from what I can tell. I don’t perceive her as a threat to herself.” The older woman reassured him, making the other man whip around to face him with wide sapphire eyes. (Connor knew Sergeant Voight was worried and now that he knew Sarah’s past with grief, he couldn’t deny that he had that right to worry. But he didn’t even know suicidal thoughts were a concern to be had.)

“But?” Hank pressed. The woman shrugged as a sad empathetic smile crossed her lips. Hank Voight wasn’t the first worried parent she had to deal with and he surely wouldn’t be the last, but it never got any easier. 

“Hank, you’ve been a police officer for over twenty years,” the older woman explained, “We didn’t even talk about anything significant but when I tried to broach certain subjects with her, her body language and reactions told me a lot. My best guess is that Sarah is dealing with heavy survivor’s guilt. Most likely post-traumatic stress as well and I’m sure you’ve seen how quickly that can manifest into those kinds of thoughts if left to their own devices in victims you helped.”

“She doesn’t sleep much most nights.” Connor inputted and when the woman turned to look at him, he offered his hand, “I’m Connor Rhodes. Sarah’s boyfriend. She’s been staying with me and usually anymore, I wake up and she isn’t there. I usually have to coax her back to bed.” 

(Connor didn’t understand the quizzical look that crossed Dr.Richardson’s face when he introduced himself.) 

[lightphieric]

Did I ever tell y'all that I was like. Weirdly into the cartoon Ed Edd n Eddy in high school? TIL that the grown woman who does Quark's English voice played Nazz and best girl May Kanker. I've been sitting here for three years completely unaware that two of my life-defining hyperfixations have shared this random voice actor. The emotions this inspires are... I don't even know?

Incidentally I learned this while cross-referencing the Zero Escape cast with the Trigger Happy Havoc cast, because I want to play that game with English voice acting for the first time. The only three names I recognized were the unlikely duo of Sean Chiplock and Keith Silverstein (which I've been over before, peace and love on the planet Earth), and Erin Fitzgerald herself who... sigh... played Junko and Genocide Jill. Two excellent cases of neurodivergent representation! /s

Of course, May Kanker wasn't exactly tactfully written but she was still a highly relatable problematic girlfailure I loved in spite of it all just like Toko so I guess Erin has a type here.

[artemis-entreri]

Hello! I am super new to the Forgotten Realms and very happy to have found your blog. I'm currently going through your posts like daily reading material :) I was wondering if you happen to have a recommendation of a sort of "people, places, customs" book or site for a beginner like me (wiki has honestly been a bit overwhelming) and also which true-to-character Artemis books you would recommend outside of the Sellswords trilogy. Thank you!

[[ Greetings and well met!

I feel that the best way to get to know the Forgotten Realms is to start small. I've found that to truly get a feel for what a world is like, one should get to know those who give it life: its inhabitants. There are over 300 novels published in the Forgotten Realms setting, I would suggest finding something you're interested in and starting from there. You might not be getting the broad strokes right away, but it's a lot more personal and interesting this way, as reading sourcebooks can be horribly dry. 😜

A lot of people who start their foray into FR novels with Drizzt find other drow-related novels the easiest to branch out into, so if you like drow, the War of the Spider Queen series is a suitable second step. There are some issues with that series, but it's mostly lore-related so I won't delve into them here. For an FR beginner though, it also lets you experience six different authors' writing styles, and if you especially like any particular author, you can look up what other novels they've written in the Forgotten Realms to read next. An author who didn't write any of the WotSQ books but who nonetheless is a must read is Elaine Cunningham, whose Starlight and Shadows trilogy bring more life and nuance to the drow than any Drizzt book does, which is saying a lot given that there are only 3 drow-centric books by Elaine compared to ~40 Drizzt books (and counting).

If you don't care much about drow, Azure Bonds by Jeff Grub and Kate Novak is a good place to begin. It is the first of The Finder's Stone trilogy, so you can continue the tale if it interests you, but Azure Bonds also works well enough as a standalone if you're not interested in continuing. More often than not however, many find that three books is not enough and wish for a continuation of their story, but sadly there are not more books continuing that tale.

The Ed Greenwood Presents Waterdeep series, which consists of six stand-alone novels, is also something I'd recommend for expanding your knowledge of the Realms. Like WotSQ, it's penned by six different authors, but unlike WotSQ, each book tells a separate story, all set within one of the most well-known and iconic cities of the Realms. So much about Waterdeep is so representative of the feel of the world in general that it's no wonder that a lot of FR products visit the city, such as the 5e adventures Waterdeep: Dragon Heist and Waterdeep: Dungeon of the Mad Mage. Some of the books in the Waterdeep series spin off into their own series, so if you liked any of them it might be possible to continue. For those that don't have spin-offs, their authors have published other books in the Realms, so you can follow those for new reading material.

Other FR series that are regularly praised are the Erevis Cale books by Paul S Kemp and the Brimstone Angels books by Erin M Evans. The Erevis Cale books follow a morally gray protagonist and in general feel more mature than some of the FR novels. Brimstone Angels feature a pair of tiefling sisters and contains a lot of dragonborn lore. I enjoyed both sets of books well enough, but I'm mostly recommending them because a lot of other people enjoyed them. I personally feel that the Brimstone Angels books are wordy and juvenile, reminiscent of some books I read in middle school called "Sweet Valley High", but a lot of people absolutely love them. Elaine Cunningham also has books aside from the Starlight and Shadows trilogy that are very good as well; I wholly recommend all of her books. Elaine's book on Waterdeep, penned together with Ed Greenwood (and not part of the Waterdeep series) does start off somewhat slow, but grows into a deep, compelling, and moving work, in other words, Elaine's signature type of writing.

My personal favorite trilogy in the Realms is Blades of the Moonsea by Richard Baker. It is set in the 4e era of D&D, which is a very unpopular edition due both its rulesets and what it did to the setting. I love it because it embodies through and through what made me fall in love so hard with the Realms. The protagonist, Geran Hulmaster, is just your average Joe in the world. Sure, within his own circle he's got some traits that elevate him from his peers, but he's far from the all too often trope (especially in the Drizzt books) of competing to be the biggest Mary Sue he could be. It's easy to slip into Geran's shoes and experience the problems that, for him, are bigger than the world, but in the global scheme are barely a blip. I find this sort of scenario really relatable because in real life, all we can do is strive to do the best that we can with what we're given, celebrating our accomplishments even when they aren't world-shaking, and enduring our failures even when they aren't world-breaking. Not everything is nor has to be, "And the whole world will never be the same again", and it's really not much different in a high fantasy world with tons of magic. Worlds are made of individuals, and there's no better way to understand it than seeing the world through the eyes of those who live within it.

If reading a bunch of novels don't appeal to you, video games are another good way to get to know the Realms, for the same reason of starting up close and personal. The classic games are definitely a step up in difficulty compared to modern games, for instance the original Baldur's Gate games will absolutely murder you if you go into them unprepared. Neverwinter Nights 1 and 2 aren't as bad in terms of difficulty, but they start slow, and definitely show their age to those who are accustomed to modern games. Sadly, there aren't that many options as far as modern FR games are concerned. Baldur's Gate 3 looks extremely promising, but it isn't complete yet (and I've not played the beta to know how complete the story will be upon release). Sword Coast Legends had good voice acting but was a big flop otherwise. Neverwinter Online is a pay to win MMORPG that requires as much understanding of the lore as it gives (which is to say, not a lot). I do mention Idle Champions on my blog, but it isn't really an interactive game as it belongs to the "idle clicker" genre that differs a lot from what most people would consider gaming.

If video games also do not interest you and you just want a general overview, a good starting sourcebook would be Ed Greenwood Presents Elminster's Forgotten Realms. For disambiguation, it's the one that looks like this:

Please note that it is dry if not paired with a narrative. The 3e Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting is also good, but is more suitable as a step 2 after Ed Greenwood Presents Elminster's Forgotten Realms, for it is a bigger scope. Both of these resources are several editions out of date, but it is unfortunately the case that the current edition (5e) has all but reduced the Realms to only the Sword Coast, and not a really deep coverage of it at that. 3/3.5e was really the golden era for FR, and with 5e all but resetting everything back to what it was then, it's almost never wrong to pull a 3/3.5e sourcebook for some deep lore delving.

I realize that I've probably beaten the dead horse to a pulp about this 😜, but the best way to get to know the Realms is really through the novels. I personally had a lot of fun looking up things I'd encounter in the novels that I didn't understand at the time on the FR Wiki. It totally isn't necessary to do so, that was just my personal approach; you learn a lot about the world just reading the books and enjoying the journey they take you through. Depending on what kinds of creatures/characters/subjects/areas you're interested in, I can point you in all kinds of directions on what to read.

As for Artemis, I would say that Night of the Hunter would be the last book in which his characterization is consistently true (even if the back side of the cover shows him as a white guy yet again 😑). The first dramatic decline of the quality and consistency of his characterization is in the Homecoming Trilogy, with the final book ending in what I felt to be the worst of all time in those regards. That, however, was before the Generations Trilogy came into being, and performed what I didn't think was possible: the worsening of Artemis' characterization than in Hero. The current The Way of the Drow Trilogy feels very much like RAS is taking a stance with Artemis the way that he did with Wulfgar post-reincarnation: He has no idea what to do with him but includes the character for old time's sake, then moves him around without putting any thought into if it makes sense and/or is consistent with his past development. RAS might not have ever been the pinnacle of literature, but he has demonstrated the ability to write quality that isn't the trash that he's been putting out recently. I continue to read each book hoping that things will improve, or at the very least go back to the quality that they were in the past. It might be a foolish endeavor, as those older books were written by a man who still knew humility and humbleness, but at the very least, I want to know what's happening to the character that I love, if for nothing other than to figure out sensical ways to reconcile what's being done to him with what's going on in the wider world and what would be reasonable/sensible. ]]

[unhingedhearties]

When External, Real Life Reasons Affect A TV Show’s Writing

I’m going to be serious for a moment.

I’m not going to post screenshots as examples because I see a ton of Hearties on both sides bringing this up and I don’t want to pin it on just a few, specific people. 

A lot of Hearties are complaining about how TPTB said there were real life reasons for why they wrote Season 10 the way that they did. They didn’t specify what those reasons were and people are naturally speculating. Some people are getting really vicious with their speculations so I want to take a moment to talk about another TV show that had it’s story drastically re-written because of (at the time) vague real life reasons.

Babylon 5 was a TV show that aired from 1994 to 1998. It was created by J. Michael Straczynski (JMS). Unlike most TV series, JMS plotted out the entire show’s story and planned for it to be told over 5 seasons. After the first season, the lead actor Michael O’Hare left and was replaced. No reason was given besides some vague “it was mutual and we’re all on good terms” and O’Hare still did some convention appearances for a few years. 

Some fans were understanding, some were furious. Some people who worked on the show had nice things to say about O’Hare, some had stories about how terrible his behavior was. Some fans who saw him at conventions had positive things to say, some fans who saw him at conventions said that he seemed drunk and rude to fans.

Michael O’Hare died in 2012 and almost a year later, in 2013, fifteen years after the show ended, JMS finally spoke about what happened and why the lead character of his show had to be replaced. While filming the first season Michael O’Hare began to show severe mental illness and had paranoid delusions and hallucinations. JMS offered to put the show on hiatus so he could get treatment, but O’Hare didn’t want to risk the show being canceled before it even aired and risking everyone’s jobs, so he held on as best as he could and finished the first season and JMS wrote him out. JMS kept his illness a secret from everyone so that it wouldn’t affect O’Hare’s career and said he’d take it to his grave, but O’Hare said he didn’t need to do that and after he died JMS could tell the fans. You can watch JMS finally tell this story here and see how chocked up he gets:

Do I think the reason they broke up Elizabeth and Lucas is as serious as this? No. Maybe it was something boring and mundane like a contract or pay dispute. Maybe one of the actors requested less screen time. Maybe Lindsay really was a secret Team Nathan fan that wanted to destroy the greatest love story ever told or Erin just wanted to kiss other men like what a certain ragepig idiot I’ve featured on here insists.

Or maybe someone involved on When Calls The Heart is going through a personal tragedy that they can’t or won’t talk about publicly and they don’t want to cost people their jobs. Maybe that’s something to keep in mind when you’re hurling insults at people on their social media pages. Maybe that’s something to keep in the back of your head before you tell the cast and crew that you hope they lose their jobs.

I don’t know. None of us do. We weren’t told. And maybe there’s a reason we weren’t told. When Calls The Heart is a show about Faith. Maybe it's time to start having some.

[nailsinmywall]

Fantasy rec?

Well, I don't know if you like magical realism (or if it counts, but this one is so magical), but The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern is one I'll never stop recommending! It's set in the 1800's and it's about an ethereal magic circus and a secretive competition between two young magicians who have been raised to fight each other since they were children.

It's beautifully written and unlike anything I've ever read before. So yeah there's my two cents!

Sounds intriguing:) I haven't read any newer fantasy novel yet that I really enjoyed (i'm a bit picky about prose) but i'll give this one a try! Thank you!

[henrybelly]

it drives me crazy to think about what a terrible choice it was to pair up Thornclaw and Blossomfall, even setting aside their age gap and ... thornclaw's vibes as a person

the erins have written themself into the proverbial Incest Corner by pairing Blossomfall with Thornclaw and having them have kits, because now two-thirds of ThunderClan is in some way directly related to the litter of Thornclaw, Brightheart, and Brackenfur.

ThunderClan cats as of Shadow: 45

ThunderClan cats not descended from Thornclaw/Brightheart/Brackenfur*: 16

ThunderClan cats not descended from T/B/B who aren't the mates of cats descended from T/B/B**: 11

ThunderClan cats not descended from T/B/B who aren't mates of T/B/B descendants and who are still potentially likely to have kits***: 5 (Bumblestripe, Mousewhisker, Stormcloud, Twigbranch & Finleap)

*or who are not Thornclaw/Brightheart/Brackenfur themselves

**therefore, will have kits that are descended from T/B/B (Birchfall isn't descended from them, but his kits with Whitewing are. Same for Sparkpelt, Blossomfall, Fernstripe, and Lionblaze). Dewnose & Sorrelstripe, and Spotfur & Stemleaf get extra inbreeding points for both being related to T/B/B and having kits together.

***eliminates cats that are old enough that they're very unlikely to have more kits (Daisy, Squilf, Bramblestar) or because of their rank (Jayfeather and Alderheart are probably not getting illegitimate kids)

--

So, of our non-T/B/B potential progenitors, we have three toms without mates, and a pair of cats with SkyClan blood who have already gone through a whole character arc about not having kits together.

And what does this have to do with Blossom/Thorn?

Blossomfall has outsider blood (and isn't related to T/B/B), and the Erins gave her four kits. MOUSEWHISKER WAS RIGHT THERE. He's only related to Berrynose's offspring, so you've already got WAY less incest going on if you mix their family trees. Thornclaw is the worst imaginable choice, not just because she's younger than his grand-niece--nearly the age of his great-grand-nieces Ivypool and Dovewing--but because his kin is already all over ThunderClan.

Now Stemleaf, son of Thornclaw, has kits with Spotfur, granddaughter of Brackenfur, further spreading their genes. At least Shellfur has Fernstripe, but their kits will also be descended from T/B/B. Mousewhisker and Blossomfall's kits could've introduced so much variety into the gene pool.

😭 WHYYYY Thornclaw?! WHY? so unnecessary. and now look what you've done. the family tree is a fusing into an incest bush.

[dangan-ronpa-imagines]

Not gonna bother asking for you to crop me out unlike last time, but heyo its me, former Mod Masky of the blog that was ran by you-know-who. Saw this place was active again and wanted to give a quick wave! I'm glad to see you've been doing good, Erin! I've missed the good times we had as fellow mods and friends, especially on the old Discord server. But, just like you, I think about her quite a bit, especially because I was developing a crush on her, er, who I thought she was, at the time... I even saw she still had some of my old work on the blog she ran, and it's impressive how much I've both improved but also regressed when it came to my skills. (I've not written in a long time due to life, and have only recently gotten back into it. Yes, it was SMUT writing btw. That still hasn't changed.) I too can only hope she learned her lesson and finally took some steps to improve herself, both mentally and as a person. I don't think I'll ever forgive her for what she did... I'll end off by saying somethings to address and update people who may happen to remember me. I left that blog because of what you-know-who did, but she deleted my departure note, as it also called her out. I was considering joining this blog, but declined due to the slight trauma I gained from you-know-who, and to also put my full focus into college. Also, I'm really not active here anymore, but still like to view and browse. You can find me primarily on Twitter/X now. Lastly, I'm married now to a wonderful man! ;D Have a wonderful day/night! And sorry for the long ass ask!

Actually forgot to respond to this but everyone say congratulations!!! Life seems to be good to you according to instagram lol and I’m so happy for you!! Honestly it kind of went downhill after that whole incident and I think after a while I didn’t care so much for the series!!! Don’t get me wrong I’m still a big fan but I’ve moved onto other things as people do!!!! Like my second playthrough of Baldur’s Gate 3 I don’t have much time for writing cause working saps all of my energy away and I’m planning on going back to school so who knows!!! Regardless I wish you and your husband all of the happiness in the world ❤️ thank you for the time you spent with us!!! ~ Mod Eri